Aunt Dee

The following is a poem I wrote about my great aunt, Dora Elizabeth Biddix Williams, affectionately known as Aunt Dee.  Dee was born June 26, 1919 to Robert Marion and Melissa Ardella Lowery Biddix in the Altapass community of North Carolina.  She developed cancer (lymphoma, I believe) and the battle was rough.  One night, my mother and I went to the hospital in Asheville to see her.  Her husband, Jack was with her and she had already lost her hair - the ravages of the beast of cancer had taken its' toll on her body.  She still sat and talked to us... asking questions about US!  In the middle of the biggest fight of her life, she was concerned with us.

I can't count all the visits I had with Aunt Dee but that one night in her life left an indelible impression on my life and I will never forget it.  I was in my early 20's and there weren't enough seats in the hospital room for Jack, Dee, Mom and I so I sat in the floor at her feet.  She gave me her recipe for peanut butter pie that evening and told me it was really easy and I should make one.  Aunt Dee was famous - at least in our circles - for her peanut butter pie.

During the visit, it began to storm.  Lightning streaks and booming thunder that we could hear in her hospital room.  We watched the rain pour down the window.  As mom and I got ready to leave, she said, "well, children... it's mighty bad out there and y'all have to drive home.  Let's have a word of prayer.  She led us in prayer.  SHE led.  In the middle of pain... most likely dying... hair gone... in a sterile hospital room... Aunt Dee prayed... for all of us.  She prayed for our travels... for safety... for the needs of others... so many needs that she brought before the Lord.

I have no idea how many times I had heard her pray but that one prayer still sends chill bumps down my spine.  Dee went to church... Dee knew ABOUT religion... but it was way more than that.  Dee KNEW God.  She talked to him like He was a friend.  It's because He was.  He was the dearest friend she had.  She talked to Him about everything and even in death, there was no more rational a response than to "have a word of prayer."  It was deeply embedded in who she was as a woman.

That was the last time I ever heard her pray and that was the last time I saw her alive.  Some folks believe she lost her battle with cancer on February 29, 1992.  I believe that there was no greater rejoicing than the day she received victory over cancer... over loss... over heartbreak... over death... the day that she met her dearest friend face to face.  I cannot even fathom the shouting she did on that side of glory!  I wonder if she accidentally caught herself saying, "now children" to the angels.  Some time after she went home, I sat down and reflected on that day in her hospital room and I wrote these words... they were intended to be a song and someday, that may happen.  For now, it is the greatest gift I can give to her legacy and memory... except for the day that I enter heaven and say, "now children.... WHERE is my Aunt Dee?!?!?!?"  I imagine on that day that, "children, let's have a word of prayer" will be replaced with talking face to face with HIM.  I cannot even imagine!

Sitting in a little chair
I can see her sitting there
A linen wrap that covered up
What used to be her hair
She knew her days were numbered
Her smile reflected pain
But in her eyes, pain could not disguise
The peace she had inside
As she said...

Children, let's have prayer
Let's come before the throne
Lord, we need you now
This day has been so long
Give us rest this night
and guide us with Your light
Lord, help us bless some other soul
For it's all to you we owe

I'd heard it for so many years
Those words upon her lips
Uttered from that chubby frame
With an apron 'round her hips
She always called us "children"
Though we weren't all by blood
But we knew that when she prayed for us
We could feel that cleansing flood

Many years have come and gone
Her memory still lived on
We talk about the meals we ate
In her modest little home
The pictures lining every wall
In the living room and hall
But the legacy of prayer she left
Is still embedded in us all

Mee Maw Talking About Her Father, Marion Robert Biddix

The following is from an interview on October 3, 2003 that began at 8:06pm.  My grandmother, Marion Ardella Biddix Hall (born 1927) was talking about her father, Marion Robert Biddix.

Papa (Marion Robert Biddix) wasn't old enough to be hired on the railroad as a hired hand when it was coming through Altapass so he carried water to the working men.  He worked his way up to Section Foreman and was over a crew.

Papa drove a rail car and smoked "the gentleman's tobacco" (my note:  I believe this was Prince Albert Tobacco in the can).  He had a telephone down the rail line that they would call him on every morning to tell him what time the train would be coming so he could be off the tracks.  Papa worked on the railroad from the time I was born and we lived in the railroad house the whole time I was home.  The railroad decided it was costing too much money to keep the houses up and pay the taxes so they tore them down - the section foreman's house (our house), lineman's house, boarding house and a brick house.

The brick house was for the night crew workers.  Joe Fouch lived there and my brother, Carter, worked with him.  The train would come in and the crew would spend the night in the boarding house.

Joe and Carter would keep the engine "hostled up" (fired up) since it was cool and to keep it ready.

The night Joe was shot in the depot, Mr. White was on duty.  Carl Letterman was the depot agent.  Neither Carl nor Joe were supposed to be there.  Joe had given me an orange earlier that night so I think it must have been around Christmas time.

Joe and Carl had been at odds because Carl said Joe had buried dead goats near the reservoir for the boarding house.  They were both in the depot and got into it and Joe cut Carl's throat.  Then Carl shot and killed Joe.

Carl said it was self-defense in the trial and he never served time.  Carl's wife rushed him to the Marion hospital where he had to have blood.  He lived.  That was the first murder I remember.

The night Joe was killed was also the night the diesel engine rolled into Altapass.  I remember going out to see the engine for the first time.

When they had the shooting, Joe's wife came running to see what was happening and nearly got hit by the train while running across the tracks.  It might have been the diesel train that she ran in front of.