Grandma Sallie's Jack Pies

Fried pies taste like an old-fashioned slice of home. They have been a Southern staple for generations and can be found all across the South, from North Carolina to Texas. Unlike a slice of pie that requires a plate and fork to eat, these little hand pies are easy to hold and delicious. They are every bit as comforting as a standard-size pie and feel like a warm hug from your Mom or Grandma.

Fried pies are half-moon shaped pies crimped along the edges with the tines of a fork, filled with dried fruit, and pan-fried. The dough can be pie dough or biscuit dough, and the filling can be apple, peach, or sweet potato. While the exact origin of fried pies is unknown, most people agree that they originated in the Appalachian Mountains (The Charlotte Observer). Historians believe they were inspired by the English Cornish pasty, a hand pie filled with meat and vegetables on one side and a sweet filling on the other. Over time, as the English and Scots-Irish settlers made their home in the South, the hand pies took on a completely sweet form with dried fruit fillings (Saveur.com).

In North Carolina, there is a type of fried pie that is especially popular: fried apple pies. I've noticed that fried apple pies are often called "applejacks" or "apple jacks" here in the tar-heel state. When I searched for the term online, nearly every blog using "applejacks" was written by someone from North Carolina. Even flipping through old church cookbooks, I found them listed as applejacks. But in my family, we have our own name for them. My great-grandma, Grandma Sallie, didn't call them fried apple pies or applejacks; she simply called them jack pies. My Mama, uncles, grandpa, and even my great-grandpa Abihue called them that, too—and that's what I call them. It seems that Grandma shortened "apple jack" into "jack pie," and the name stuck!

Grandma Sallie in the 50s

 Grandma Sallie made jack pies often and kept them on her kitchen table. Mama says they were a special treat and a favorite among the family. So today, I wanted to share the story of how she made the jack pies, just as Mama shared it with me. The process started long before the dough was rolled out. First, the apples had to be picked, peeled, sliced, and dried. In the late summer, Mama remembers walking outside with Grandma Sallie to gather apples, picking them fresh from the trees. Grandma grew Stayman and Winesap apples in her backyard, along with Golden Delicious. My uncle told me that the Stayman and Winesap apples have a little tang, and they were the best for jack pies.

Mama remembers watching Grandma Sallie dry her own apples in the sun, letting the hot Southern sun do its magic. There was no fancy dehydrator—just patience and a belief in doing things the old-fashioned way. Grandpa Abihue played his part too. Not only did he help peel and slice the apples, he made a makeshift drying table. He went to the shed, found a piece of tin, and set it across two ladder-back chairs in the front yard. Then, Grandma spread out a clean white linen tablecloth over the tin, carefully arranging the apple slices on top. "That was my favorite part," Mama said. "I enjoyed helping her spread out the apples."

Throughout the day, Grandma would check on them, flipping the slices when needed. If the weather was warm and sunny, they took a few days to dry. "We picked up the edges of the tablecloth and bundled them together, kind of like when you scoop something up in your shirt to carry it, and took it inside the house," Mama recalled.

When it was time to turn those dried apples into jack pies, Grandma Sallie reconstituted them on the stovetop. She placed them in a pot, covered them with water, and let them simmer until they softened. To enhance their natural sweetness, Grandma stirred in just the right amount of sugar and a touch of cinnamon. Once the apples had softened and cooked down, she placed the filling into her special 'apple bowl'—a white bowl decorated with a pattern of red apples and green leaves. Today, that same bowl sits in our kitchen. It is a cherished reminder of the days when Grandma Sallie would make those unforgettable jack pies. 

The Apple Bowl

After the filling was finished, Grandma made her dough. "She made the dough just like she did for her biscuits—with flour, lard, and buttermilk." Mama said. Grandma pinched off small balls of dough, rolled them into circles, then spooned a generous heap of the apple filling onto each one. With a steady hand, she folded the dough over into a half-moon shape and pressed the edges together with the tines of a fork, sealing in that filling. A few small holes were poked in the top to let the steam escape, and then they were ready to go to the skillet.

Once a good dab of lard had melted in the old iron skillet, Grandma laid each pie into the pan, frying them until they puffed up and were golden brown. "Me and Grandpa could hardly wait for them to cool down so we could eat one. They smelled so good, it just made you hungry, " Mama told me with a smile. 

So, what made Grandma Sallie’s jack pies so special? It wasn’t just the sun-dried apples or the biscuit dough—it was the love she poured into every dish she made from scratch. Cooking was her way of showing kindness, a quiet but powerful gesture that made everyone who sat at her table or stopped by for a visit feel welcome. Whether you were family, a friend, or a neighbor, she made sure you never left hungry. I may not have had the chance to watch Grandma Sallie make her jack pies, but through my mom’s stories, I feel like I have. 

Food has a way of connecting us all. Recipes hold more than just ingredients—they hold memories, traditions, and the essence of those who made them. If you still have loved ones who remember those moments, ask them to share their stories. Write them down, learn the recipes, and keep those traditions alive. One day, you'll be grateful you did—because when someone is gone, those stories and traditions go with them. 

The Forgotten Crayon Portrait

Reading Time: 3 min. 30 sec.

Some discoveries happen when you least expect them.

In the summer of 2023, I found a snapshot taken in 1986 of an old framed crayon portrait hanging on the wall of the old Beaman Homeplace. Someone had taken a picture standing in front of it. You could see the person's reflection and the flash of their camera in the glass. That grainy snapshot was the only photo I had of my great-great-grandpa, John A. Beaman, and Malinda Cranford together. I was grateful to have it, but a question lingered in my mind: Where was the original portrait?

In the 1990s, a fire broke out in the kitchen of the old Beaman Homeplace, spreading quickly and consuming the living room and the upstairs. Only two bedrooms and another small room remained. Had the portrait survived? Or was it lost forever?

Then, on December 19, 2024, I received a surprise that I will never forget. My uncle was cleaning out his attic when he came across something hidden in a cabinet. As soon as he described it to me, I knew—this was it. It was the original crayon portrait. When he brought it to me, I could hardly believe it!

For months, I had thought it was gone forever, lost to the fire. But there it was, waiting all this time to be found. My uncle told me that another genealogist in our family had given it to him a few years ago at a Shiloh reunion. And now, after all these years, it was finally being passed down to me.

The crayon portrait at long last!

So, you may be wondering- what exactly is crayon enlargement? Well, I am here to tell you all about it! Crayon enlargements, also called crayon portraits or solar enlargements, are photographs that have been enhanced with crayon, chalk, charcoal, pastel, or graphite. Popular from the 1860s through the 1920s, they were created by enlarging a smaller photograph onto treated paper using a solar enlarger. This camera projected the image from a photo negative using sunlight. An angled mirror was used to follow the sun’s movement to direct light through the lens (Library of Congress).

However, this process had its flaws. The long exposure time often resulted in images that were too light, blurry, or out of focus, and any imperfections in the negative were magnified. To correct these issues, artists retouched each portrait by hand, using charcoal, crayon, or other mediums. Some were subtly enhanced, while others were so heavily overpainted that they resembled drawings more than photographs.

It’s fascinating to think about how much effort went into creating these portraits so families could display larger images of their loved ones. And now, with just a click of a button, we can capture a photo instantly. Photography has come a long way since those early days. 

Understanding how these portraits were made makes me appreciate the one of John and Malinda even more. It's more than just an image; it's a part of their story and my story. Let's take a closer look at their portrait!

John’s hair is parted neatly to the side, and he has a full beard and mustache. But something doesn’t feel quite right—the strands of his hair stand out, and his mouth appears as a dark, harsh line as if he has no lips. His eyebrows are entirely missing. Were they too faint to capture when the photo was enlarged?

 

Malinda’s long hair is parted down the middle. Her nose looks soft, almost undefined, and her right eye sits higher than her left. When I look at these details closely, I wonder: How much of what I’m seeing is truly how they looked, and how much has been altered? Some parts of their likeness may not be entirely accurate, but that doesn't change anything. 

How old is the portrait? When examining old photographs, clothing often gives us clues about the time period. John is wearing a jacket, plain shirt, and a Western tie with its strings turned up. Malinda's short-sleeved capelet crosses over her dress, though it's hard to tell if her dress has a crisscross collar or if it's part of the capelet. Their clothing reflects their humble farm life—nothing fancy, just simplicity. One of my favorite parts of the portrait is the frame. It's made of plaster, hand-carved with a swirling design of leaves, flowers, and dots, all painted in a rich gold. It looks so elegant!

A closeup of the frame. Check out those details!

Based on these details, I believe this portrait was created sometime in the 1870s or 1880s. Since Malinda died in 1888, it was almost certainly made before then—but exactly when? That’s a mystery that may never be solved.

When I started my genealogy journey, I wondered if I would ever find a photograph of John. I never imagined in four years, I would not only find one but that it would be the very portrait that once hung in the old Beaman Homeplace. And to think, it was sitting in an attic all along, forgotten and collecting dust. There are real treasures in the attic. You may never know what you might find!

Do you have a crayon portrait of one of your ancestors?  I'd love to hear about it in the comments below!

85th Shiloh Church Reunion

"Oh come to the church in the wildwood, Oh, come to the church in the vale; no spot is so dear to my childhood as the little brown church in the vale."

Walking through the doors of Shiloh Methodist Church feels like stepping back in time. The wooden pews are backless and have no padding. There is no hum of heating or air conditioning and no buzz of electricity. Instead, the large-paned windows are opened to welcome the breeze, and sunlight provides the perfect lighting to fill the room. Shiloh is simple, which is at the heart of its timeless charm.

Inside the church.

Nestled in the woods off Shiloh Church Road in Troy, North Carolina, Shiloh Church’s history is rooted in a humble beginning. According to Montgomery County deed records, Joseph Haltom donated the land in 1836, and a log building was constructed near a small spring. Furnished with backless benches and a fireplace, it served as a church and a one-room schoolhouse. In 1883, after a fire destroyed the original structure, the congregation constructed a new building at the present site. In the early 20th century, changes in the rural population affected attendance, and many people left the congregation. Abandoned, Shiloh’s doors closed in 1928. In 1939, former students and members met together at the church. It became known as the Shiloh Reunion, and its purpose was to keep the memory of Shiloh alive for years to come. That purpose continues to this day.

This year’s reunion was on Sunday, September 22. It was a beautiful day as we celebrated 85 years! No matter how often I travel down that long gravel driveway through the woods to get there, I always feel excited. I’ve attended this reunion with my family since I was a kid. The Shiloh Reunion is not just an event; it’s a tradition that carries deep meaning for our family. It’s a tradition I cherish, and I look forward to being part of it again every year. As I walked up the weathered steps of the church, I thought about all the family and friends who had passed through these doors over the years. Many of them are no longer with us, and the crowd grows smaller each year. It’s a quiet reminder of how quickly time passes. This year, we were fortunate to have about 35 people join us, including a lady who attended the very first reunion in 1939!

Page 121 from the hymnal

The service began with morning announcements and a prayer. Then, everyone picked up the Cokesbury Hymnal to sing the opening hymns, “The Church In the Wildwood” and “Revive Us Again.” Thanks to the church's natural acoustics, everyone's voices echoed beautifully. This year, Rev. Jim Hunsucker preached a powerful message from the book of Matthew. As the service closed, we sang, “God Be With You Till We Meet Again."

After the service, everyone gathered around the long concrete picnic table for dinner on the grounds like those early Beamans, Russells, Cranfords, Hurleys, and VunCannons did. The table was filled with the best homemade dishes and desserts. My favorites were mashed potatoes, green beans, beef stew with carrots, and my mom's chicken and dressing casserole.  As I sat down, I was surrounded by laughter and conversation. I enjoyed seeing people I hadn’t seen in a year and talking with them and my family. 

Once I was finished, I walked through the cemetery, filled with my family's history. Many of my Beaman ancestors are buried there—my grandpa, great-grandparents, great-great-grandparents, great-granduncles, and others. This year, my little cousins joined me, their curious questions breaking the silence as they pointed to the headstones and asked about the names carved into them. The 9-year-old asked me, "Why do you like going to the cemetery?" I told her I like to because I am a genealogist. Then she asked, "What's a genealogist?" I said, "It's a person who studies family history. She grinned and said, "That's what you should be!" The moment made me smile, knowing I was passing pieces of our family’s story to the next generation.

Ultimately, I feel a warm embrace and a sense of belonging when I visit Shiloh, no matter the time of year, but it's even greater when I come for the reunion. When September comes again next year, I'll step back in time for a couple of hours at the little brown church in the Wildwood. 

John Armstrong Beaman's Story of Survival

In March of 1863, my great-great-grandfather, a small-town farmer and blacksmith named John Armstrong Beaman, enlisted in the 34th Regiment to fight in the Civil War. His brother, Abraham Jackson Beaman, and local friends Armistead Hurley, James Hardister, Clay Morgan, and Joel Cranford, also joined. These men were a part of Company K, nicknamed the "Montgomery Boys". 

John in Civil War uniform
(from my own collection)

Two months later, the 34th Regiment fought in the Battle of Chancellorsville in Virginia with General Pender's brigade. On May 2nd, the 34th were at the head of the attack on Orange Plank Road. The next morning, they launched another attack. The attack forced the Union soldiers to retreat.(Taylor, 2004, p. 138). 

That day, the sound of gunfire rang out across the battlefield. The rapid firing of guns emitted such harsh shells that they exploded and set the woods on fire (Taylor, 2004, p. 138). The blazing fire spread, engulfing many wounded and fallen soldiers in its path. Burwell Thomas Cotton, Lieutenant of the 34th Regiment, described the scene as "the most horrible sight I ever saw," and Second Lieutenant Thomas Lattimore described it as "sickening." (Taylor, 2004, p. 139). 

In the middle of the intense battle that surrounded him, I believe John had a moment of realization. Death seemed to be lurking around every corner. Back home in North Carolina, his wife Malinda and three young daughters – Mary Sirona, Eliza Ellen, and Ruth Abigail were waiting or his return. Would he ever see them again? Would his daughters grow up without their father? The thought was unbearable. In that moment, survival became the only option. In quick-thinking action, John made a desperate decision- he ran from the battlefield.

His quick escape did not go unnoticed. Lieutenant Cotton recalled the moment in a letter, "While I was going back John Beamon run by me without hat, gun or anything in the way of accoutrements. I tryed to stop him and got him to stay with me but he said he was afraid of getting killed." (Taylor, 2004, p. 145).  

Old Capitol Prison, between 1861-1865
(Courtesy of Library Congress)

Despite the intense fighting on May 3rd, a number of Union soldiers were left behind in the rear (Taylor, 2004, p. 143). These soldiers, who were stragglers, ended up capturing John and others of the 34th. They forwarded them to Old Capitol Prison in Washington, DC. The prison was infamous for its terrible conditions.

After signing the Oath of Allegiance, John was released from Old Capitol Prison and sent to Petersburg, Virginia, on May 10. He deserted from Petersburg with Joel Cranford, eventually making the trek back to Troy Township. 

John A. Beaman's tale of survival is a reminder of the power of an event and perseverance. An event can be so powerful it can have a different outcome and change the course of history forever. 

Michael W. Taylor's book The Cry is War, War, War was extremely helpful for my research. Reading about John and Abraham Jackson in Lieutenant Cotton's letters from 1863 was so interesting. I learned more about what happened to John to construct this story. The book brings the history of the 34th Regiment to life and has lots of vivid details you can visualize. 

References:

Taylor, M. W. (2004). The Letters of Burwell Thomas Cotton . In The Cry is War, War, War (pp. 138-139, 143, 145). Morningside.

Exterior view of the Old Capitol prison, Washington, D.C. Washington D.C. United States, None. [Place not identified: publisher not identified, between 1861 and 1865] [Photograph] Retrieved from the Library of Congress, https://www.loc.gov/item/2022630588/.

The Album That Started It All

    

Aunt Ephriam (Bea) in the early 1910s

Three years ago, I was cleaning out a cabinet in my grandparent's house when I stumbled upon something I had never seen before. It was a black photo album that belonged to my great-grandaunt, Ephriam Beaman. In my family, we always called her Aunt Bea. It was old, with a leather cover and strings holding the paper pages together.  

As I delicately opened it, I found a collection of black and white and sepia-toned photos pasted on the pages. Some were missing, some had rips, and some were starting to fade. 

   

The Album.

Who were these people? 

What stories did they have to tell? 

What were their daily lives like? 

   

Those questions flooded my mind, and from that moment, my fascination with family history began. I was curious and determined to learn more about my family and the faces in the photographs. I decided to join Ancestry and spent the summer taking the first steps into creating my family tree. 

Flash forward three years later, and I am even more passionate about family history. I'm still adding ancestors to the tree, uncovering new hints, reading books, and searching through documents and newspapers. Each discovery feels like a puzzle piece clicking into place, and there are so many things I have yet to discover. 

 I created this blog to look into the past and the lives of those who came before us in the 1800s and 1900s. My mission is to share their stories and photographs, so they will never be forgotten. If their stories are not shared, if their names are not spoken, it would be like they never existed. Future generations will never know about them. 

Thanks to that old photo album, I found a new hobby that I enjoy, and I couldn't be happier.