The following recollections are stories from my childhood growing up each summer with my grandparents, Robert and Betty Ashbery. The latter of which has been purported to be an “ungodly witch.” While that characterization is patently wrong, she was an accomplished rootworker. I hope in sharing my memories, you will come to know Betty as I did– a loving grandmother and a brilliant medicine woman. Read on to learn more of her Ways and “Witchings.”
In the early summer of 1969, the Devil rolled a heat through the top of Appalachia and settled His tired bones in West Virginia’s open embrace. Preston County turned swampish in the coming days. The mosquitos devoured my young legs, freshly sunburnt from an afternoon spent down on the water. I was eleven and unstoppable, my reign mighty among the kingdom–Granny and Pap’s backyard. Their sprawling acres were my fairy village, the winding river at the bottom of the hill my mermaid cove, and our wooden cottage my safe haven.
Pap and I were collecting the mason jars for firefly homes on this evening. The ceiling fan on the back porch moved thick air down the nape of my neck. A cool breeze was a luxury we wouldn’t be able to afford until September when holy Mother Nature deemed us done cooking in the oven. Right now the Devil had us, but with the sun down and Him sleeping in the earth, we could sit on the back porch and carve holes in jar lids and shove grass, sticks, Mountain Laurel, and wild strawberries in the glass containers. Nevermind that Granny was saving these for canning in the autumn. They were clearly needed for the fireflies. I took the extra time to make sure each jar got exactly three strawberries. Unless they were too small, and in that case, they got four. Nevermind that fireflies can’t eat strawberries. You try telling that to an eleven year-old.
One particularly fat and lazy firefly bumbled right past my head as if curious about the jar’s contents. I took that as a sign— this lil’ buggy wanted a new home. I bolted upright on stubby dirt- stained feet and took off across the porch after my hopeful new tenant. I was blissfully unaware that Pap hadn’t sanded the deck down the past few summers. Rough wood on soft child feet.
As I reached the firefly, I slid forward on my left foot, reaching high for my little friend, only hope and summer joy set in my sights.
Suddenly, a sharpness ripped through my sole. I crumbled down to my knees. Heat and fury shot through the soft underbelly of my foot. I let out an involuntary yelp and groaned at the sight of a large chunk of deck wood protruding from my foot. This was no mere splinter. I’ve carved those out of my finger pads with Mama’s sewing needles, burned them through with lighters I shouldn’t have messed with. This was a shard. A stake.
At the sight and realization of my error– really, at the sight of the blood breaking around the wood in my foot, I began to cry. I let loose big, walloping sobs interspersed with the hyperventilation of a scared child.
Pap, ever keen on my young needs, was already at my side, cradling my bad foot in his hand. He cursed the deck–cursed it to Hell and back–under his breath, as he wiped the tears from my ruddy cheeks. He assured me it would be okay, everything would be okay.
He told me to take a deep breath, and on the count of three, exhale loud and hard. In between my jagged sobs, I inhaled as much as I could and counted.
One.
Two.
Three.
On the exhale, Pap pulled the wood from my sole, and I stifled a mighty caterwaul into his shoulder. Fresh, new tears welled up and soaked Pap’s t-shirt, but relief soon followed.
In all my own commotion, I didn’t notice Granny joining us on the porch, but Pap transferred me into her lap and I wailed freely onto her cooking apron. She smelled of cinnamon and butter. Apple pie. A familiar smell.
Granny rocked me back and forth, shushing and cooing. “We’ll get you all taken care of, honey. Don’t you worry.”
I nodded, unable to open my mouth in fear of more sobs escaping.
“You’re gonna feel a little pressure on your foot. Don’t fret. It’s gonna help.”
Seemingly from nowhere, Granny produced a muslin wrap with a smear of wet herbs in the center, and wrapped it snug around the length of my foot. There was pressure– but nothing like the stake wedged in there moments before.
Pap picked me up then and carried me inside to the couch. I was getting too heavy for him to lift, but he didn’t so much as groan when hoisting me into his arms. I stayed in his lap indoors for the rest of the night watching the fireflies flicker on around the porch past the sliding glass door.
The next morning, Pap sanded down the wood and sealed it in beeswax while Granny doctored my foot once more. She was careful to take the muslin off gently and underneath, the open wound was already puffily sealed shut. A pink pucker line stretched down from the ball of my foot to my heel.
Granny kissed the top of my head, and we said a prayer in thanks together.
If you find yourself with a particularly nasty wound–on your foot or elsewhere–I learned the recipe for Granny’s wound poultice and recreated it here:
- Combine your dried or fresh Alder bark or leaves, Comfrey roots or leaves, and Yarrow blossoms in a
mortar and pestle until the blend is uniform (alternately, they can be diced finely)
- Add a small amount of clean water to make a pasty consistency.
- Spread paste on an unsoiled cloth, such as a muslin, and apply directly to the wound.
- Secure the poultice fabric with a bandage or tie tight, if the wounded part of the body is amenable to that
(like a foot, hand, or limb).
- Leave on undisturbed for at least thirty minutes (the longer the better). Replace every few hours or when
the poultice dries out and becomes flaky.