The Music That Soothed Her

Music has always been a big part of my life.  I have written about my love for the piano, and my parents' sacrifice to buy one for me.  The blog post may be found here:  http://alwaysanxiouslyengaged.blogspot.com/search/label/Music 

I don't believe my mother's side of the family had much talent for music.  Mom had no rhythm or timing when it came to singing, and not very good pitch, either.  But, that certainly didn't keep her from singing her heart out.  I didn't notice anyone else in her family being blessed with musical abilities, either.

Dad was a different matter.  His dream was to always conduct an orchestra.  An elaborate stereo sound system always graced our home, where dad would be playing his "long-hair" music.  

I can remember some girls knocking on our door one evening.  They went to my school, but I didn't know them very well.  When I opened the door, they heard my dad's music and screeched, stating that I was one of the luckiest people they could imagine.

I believe that my dad could have been fine musician, if the opportunity and the resources had been there for him.  But, they weren't.

I recently transcribed my dad's journal, and placed the contents on FamilySearch.  I was reminded of something that he often talked about, and I blogged about on 12 Mar 2013.

"Dad always talked about his little sister, Betty, who died when she was 3 1/2 years old.  

Betty was born when Dad was two years old.  She was the sixth child out of eleven that would come to that family.

One day, older sister Mary was rocking little Betty by a pot bellied stove that had a pot of beans cooking and bubbling away on the top of it.  As she rocked Betty, she would "push off" with her foot against the stove.  Each time she pushed, the pot of beans would move a little closer to the edge.

It eventually moved too close to the edge and fell right on to baby Betty and Mary.  It mostly covered Betty, scalding her severely.

It took Betty three, agonizing days to die from the burns.  What a terrible death!  And, the terrible feelings that Mary must have had running through her 11 year old mind.  The helplessness of her parents hearing her cries must have haunted them throughout their lives.

One of my sisters is named Betty in honor of this sweet little aunt that died so many years ago."

But, I didn't finish that story.  

Dad mentioned:

"...and of course the doctors was not trained to treat severe burns in those days and the most the doctor could do for her was to give her Morphine to ease the pain till she died, We lived on Clark hill at that time, a part of Olive Hill.

 I was in school at that time but I believe my mother told us that after Betty’s burn quit hurting so bad that she was rocking her in that same rocker and Betty started singing a song that we all sang in church and at home from time to time and the name of the song was,

            Heavens bells are ringing and I’m going home

            Heavens bells are ringing and I’m going home

            Heavens bells are ringing and I’m going home, away to beauliland.

That song has come to my mind many times during my lifetime and something tells me that she went right straight to the presence of God, it would be hard to make me believe anything different."

It took little Betty three whole days to die.  Three whole days.  There was nothing they could do but give her morphine to ease the pain.

I, too have lost a child.  He was much older, but still my child.  There wasn't much to comfort me.

But, as I read Dad's journal, I began to think about the words that my grandmother sang to her little girl, probably hoping that the sound of her voice and the words to the song would comfort them both.

I tried to find the song, and I believe it may have been the combination of two songs.  Here are the words:

"Climbing Zion's Hill"

Oh, the heaven bells are ringing and I'm a-going home
I'm a-going home, yes, I'm a-going home
Oh, the heaven bells are ringing and I'm a-going home
Climbing up Zion's hill

I'm climbing, I'm climbing
Climbing up Zion's hill
I'm climbing, I'm climbing
Climbing up Zion's hill

[Instrumental break]

If you don't, my mother, you'll be too late
You'll be too late, you'll be too late
If you don't, my mother, you'll be too late
Climbing up Zion's hill

I'm climbing, I'm climbing
Climbing up Zion's hill
I'm climbing, I'm climbing
Climbing up Zion's hill

[Instrumental break]

If you don't, my father, you'll be too late
You'll be too late, you'll be too late
If you don't, my father, you'll be too late
Climbing up Zion's hill

I'm climbing, I'm climbing
Climbing up Zion's hill
I'm climbing, I'm climbing
Climbing up Zion's hill

And, I was even able to find a recording of a mountain woman singing this song -- probably sounding much like my own grandmother would have sounded.  It's only a couple of minutes long, but if you feel so inclined, please listen to a piece of Appalachian history -- one that my grandmother may have sung to comfort her grieving heart.

http://digital.berea.edu/cdm/ref/collection/p16020coll13/id/500