By Beverly Belcher Woody
Last week, we looked at Daisy’s long career at The Enterprise and her memories of traveling down the River Road along the north prong of the Smith River. This week, we step a little closer to home, taking a look at the family that shaped her life and enjoying more of her wonderful writing.
Daisy Violet DeHart was born on the 7th of October, 1909, to Green Abram DeHart and Josephine Boyd DeHart. She came from a long line of Patrick County families whose roots ran deep in the hills and hollows she would later describe so beautifully in her writing.
Her paternal grandparents were Eleazar DeHart and Mary Houchins DeHart, and her maternal grandparents were Samuel Shephard Boyd and Nancy Ann Conner Boyd. Each of these names represents a thread in the rich tapestry of the community—families who lived, worked, and helped shape the land Daisy loved so dearly.
Looking even further back, Eleazar DeHart’s parents were Aaron DeHart and Tamar McAlexander DeHart. Mary Houchins DeHart’s parents were Abraham William Houchins and Martha “Mattie” Snead Houchins. On her mother’s side, Samuel Shephard Boyd’s parents were John Jackson Boyd and Leatha Pearl Moore Boyd, while Nancy Ann Conner’s parents were David Conner and Susannah Adams Conner. These generations, connected by kinship and place, formed the foundation of Daisy’s heritage.
Daisy was the youngest of her siblings, growing up in a large family that surely shaped her understanding of community and belonging. Her oldest brother was Samuel Adam DeHart (1891–1926), who married Losia Valley Weaver.
He was followed by Ella Victoria DeHart (1892–1994), who married Charlie Matt Hopkins, and Ophus Abram DeHart (1893–1938). Katie DeHart (1895–1935) came next, followed by Ada Alberta DeHart (1896–1989), who married John Albert Wood. They were the parents of the famed Wood Brothers Racing Team of Stuart, Virginia. Go #21!
Ray L. DeHart (1899–1973) married Ella DeHart, who served as a schoolteacher in Patrick County for many years. Paul Arnold DeHart (1901–1963) married Esther Della Pendleton.
In time, the DeHart and Pendleton families would be joined even more closely when Daisy Violet DeHart married Esther Pendleton’s brother, William Calvin Pendleton, on the 12th of February 1938.
Following her story and her roots, it feels only fitting to let Daisy speak for herself. In her writing, we see the very land her family knew so well—the river, the hills, and the quiet beauty of everyday life in Patrick County.
In this first selection, Daisy takes us along the Smith River, where the sights, sounds, and spirit of the valley come alive through her words.
Along Smith River
By Daisy D. Pendleton
It is early dawn of a day late in summer in our valley along Smith River. Most of the birds are awake but have not left their leafy perches of the night. Somewhere, nearby, there is a dry, rustling, scratching sound as a raccoon scrambles into a tree-den after foraging. In a patch of woods, the whippoorwill calls for the last time until it’s evening again. As if an alarm clock had sounded, the crows shout each other awake. A robin sleepily warbles a greeting to the morning and other robins answer. There is a tender, sweet, flute-like whistle from the pine trees. Thrushes, song sparrows, and warblers sing lightly with day-awakening melodies. As the morning opens to the sun, the birds fly away to the berry vines and their songs end. Already the flowers are aflutter with the flashing wings of ruby-throated hummingbirds who have broken their fasts of the night. Chipmunks glide over the rocks, a gray bunny peeks out of the rose brush and slips back again into the brambles. Softly furred and feathered creatures must find protection from excessive warmth by seeking cool, airy, shady places when heat waves shimmer, and sultry air seems to stand still.
The woods, hills, and fields seem hushed and silent as the sun melts the morning. There is little hint of the vast numbers of wildlife finding refuge. But hidden by the lush growth the thickets are alive with new generations of bird and animal life. Birds wing into the deep, cool, shadow of the forest. Goldfinches sail in waves over the lawn to descend on seedling blossoms. They cling to swaying stalks of marigolds, bachelor buttons, and zinnias, and are much more beautiful than the gayest of these. The indigo bunting is seen through the hot months, almost unbelievably vivid in purplish-blue feathers, his beauty and song last throughout his stay. The noontime heat that silences most birds, doesn’t seem to bother him in the least. The towhee is seen scratching at mid-day, but stays silent. The phoebe stays on even the hottest days. July brings the scarlet tanager of limited song and gorgeous color. It is said to sing like a robin.
Butterflies, on angel wings, have no voices but bring heavenly colors wherever they rest.
Summer’s door is closing, but it is not yet time for the birds to gather to make ready for migration. The angle of the sun has shifted, and its path on earth is marked with deeper shadows. The sweet smell of summer is still in the air, mellow apples in the making, pears pendent from a laden tree, spicy pinks blended with petunias.
The sun hastens its journey to the west a little faster each day. Now it seems to rush to drop behind the Blue Ridge Mountains, dyeing the sky red, yellow, blue and green, as if in its hurry, it tipped over paint pots. The Smith River flowing from the southwest turns into a silken, rosy ribbon.
The birds stir again. The bluebirds and their young line the telephone wire. The cardinals come to the feeders. Bobwhites call to each other. The woodpeckers return to the river trees for the night. Crows patrol the air. We wait for the rabbits who eat grass mightily in the yard. A light breeze rustles the leaves of the trees, crickets, and katydids tune up for their nightly songs. In the tangle of the perennial sweet pea vines, we hear an intermittent bell-like call, think it the trill of a tree frog. The hummingbirds and cardinals stay about the yard until almost dark, all day attracted by perfumed clusters of blossoms, honeybees and bumble bees zoomed in and murmured to themselves about the serious business of gathering pollen and nectar.
We think back over the years we have been blessed to enjoy these wonders of our God and when the tiny stars light the night below, as fireflies flash their lanterns in the tranquility of the summer night we can rest and relax and find it a season of renewal, strength, and a source of courage for the future. It could be a time for dreaming and remembering, maybe a time for forgetting. Certainly, it is a time for appreciation and thankfulness of His blessings and the loneliness of nature for which for a short while we can identify ourselves as one with a bunny in a briar patch, the quail in the fields, or a crow against the sky.
From the quiet beauty of the river and fields, Daisy’s memories turn to the joys of childhood—those simple, fleeting moments that leave a lasting mark on the heart.
In this next piece, she carries us back to winter days at a little country schoolhouse, where laughter rang out, and children found happiness in the snowy hills.
Coasting Down The Hill
By Daisy D. Pendleton
’Twas a little country schoolhouse
Nestled ’neath the rolling hills,
Where I remember many children coasting
Sliding, coasting down the hill.
When winter spread its blanket,
Of snow and ice, as Winter will,
Then began the matchless pleasure,
They were coasting down the hill.
With their old homemade sleds,
Can you e’er forget the thrill?
As they piled on four or five deep
And went coasting down the hill.
Many times that swift glide downward
Ended in a snowy spill,
That, in no wise slacked the pleasure,
Of more coasting down the hill.
In memory I’m always returning
To that little schoolhouse and the hills.
And the happy days of childhood
and brothers coasting down the hill.
With the snow in sunlight glistening
Sun leaving shadows in the chill.
The smell of wood smoke in the air.
But they kept coasting down the hill.
Now with hair as white as snowdrift
Still in memory I can thrill
Remembering that winter fun and frolic
Gliding, Coasting down the hill.
As the years pass, those childhood memories often lead us back to something even deeper—the places we once called home.
In this next poem, Daisy reflects on returning to the old homeplace, where the land itself seems to remember, and where time, memory, and longing gently meet.
Back To the Old Homeplace Once More
By Daisy D. Pendleton
In the golden glow of warming sun,
There it lay nestled down by the hills;
The soft gray shadows fell here and there,
On green meadows and running rill.
I saw flowers of beauty growing there,
Heard the bobwhite and songs of birds;
And at the door where hollyhocks grow,
I heard some welcoming words.
The old home lays fair in the vale,
Where the nightingales trill from the hills;
I listened to the sweet sounds of nature,
Memories entwined around my heart linger still.
We strayed out on the treasured grounds,
The trees stretched their arms to me;
As if they would say, “I remember you well,”
Seemed to whisper these words to me.
You no longer have the hopes of youth,
Your castles have been crushed with life;
And your heart not brave and full of hope,
Since dreams have been crushed with strife.
Life is not fair as in the days,
You started life so sweet;
There are pages of memories, both joy and sad,
In the book that will soon be complete.
But as Daisy’s writing so beautifully reminds us, memory is not only filled with joy—it also carries the weight of loss, faith, and reflection.
In this final selection, she speaks from the quiet places of the heart, where love endures beyond time and where faith offers comfort in life’s most difficult moments.
Life’s Shadows
By Daisy D. Pendleton
There are sacred spots for many of us
Near the aging oaks along the ridge,
Where loved ones sleep until the end of time,
Near the church and silent covered bridge.
Today, I went alone to this lonely place.
With a heavy heart, I knelt to pray.
“Oh! Dear God. I’m so alone.
“Please look down on me today.
“Lift me up above the shadows,
Above my weakness. Give me strength.
Show me the way to go each day.
Walk with me, lest I faint.”
“Let not your heart be troubled”
Are His tender words of cheer.
And remembering His love and goodness
For a moment, I had no fear.
How the world glowed with beauty
While they dwelled in our earthy homes.
But no more their voices we shall hear,
While we listen to the night winds moan.
Sometimes mid scenes of deepest gloom
May have burdens too heavy to bear,
For the ones they loved can comfort no more,
But memories, sweet memories, are everywhere.
Through her words, Daisy Violet DeHart Pendleton gives us more than poetry—she gives us a glimpse into the soul of Patrick County. Her writings carry the sounds of birds along the river, the laughter of children on snowy hills, the warmth of homeplaces long remembered, and the quiet strength found in faith and memory.
Though the years have passed, her voice still echoes through these hills and hollows, reminding us of who we are and where we come from.
And like so many of our Patrick Pioneers, Daisy’s story lives on—not only in records and family lines, but in the enduring beauty of her words. For questions, comments, or story ideas, you may contact Woody at rockcastlecreek1@gmail.com or 276-692-9626.
