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Poet
Juanita Brown Tobin
1915-2007
High
Country poet and personality Juanita Rose Brown Tobin died this past
Monday. Services will be held in Boone on February 11th. Photo
courtesy of The Blowing Rocket
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By Jeff Eason, The Mountain Times, January 26, 2007
 The High Country lost one of its literary lighthouses this week when Juanita
Rose Brown Tobin died Monday afternoon at the Davant Extended Care Center in
Blowing Rock. She was 91.
Tobin was a registered nurse but was best known in the High Country as a
published poet and writer of a regular column in The Blowing Rocket. She was
also an active member of the High Country Writers Association and the Boone
Unitarian Universalist Fellowship.
Ms. Tobin was also the namesake for the JuanitaJuanita Coffeehouse and Assemblee,
a monthly showcase of local musicians, poets and storytellers in the High
Country.
“Juanita’s work chronicles the voice and history of this region of Appalachia,”
said coffeehouse organizer Earl LeClaire in June 2006 when the Assemblee first
opened. “Her work also deals with the human condition in this, our 21st
century.”
Among Tobin’s published books of poetry are the titles Under the Crooked Pine
and The Ransom Street Poems.
Tobin’s final poem was written in haiku form and reads:
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nothing
happens
almost nothing
a leaf falls
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Surviving are one son, Paul Tobin and wife Judy of West
Jefferson, three grandchildren; Chris Tobin of Mebane, NC, Mark Tobin of
Philadelphia, PA, and Suzanne Tobin of Greensboro; two step-grandchildren; Matt
Silverberg of Boone, and Jill Tohber of Santa Monica, CA, and two brothers of
Trenton, FL and Frank Brown of Auburn, AL, and one sister-in-law, Monnye Brown
of Trenton, FL.
Services for Juanita Tobin will be conducted on Sunday, February 11th at 11
a.m., at the Boone Unitarian Universalist Fellowship.
A Day in the Kitchen
I have a pot that trembles
when the water boils.
I blanch peanuts and pinch
the ends to get the sheaths off.
Green coffee is roasting
in the pie pan.
Every once in a while
I shake the pan around,
even taste a grain or two
and after it is parched,
grind it course in a mill.
While the bread is rising,
I shell the butter beans.
I can feel the dough rise
under my hands and turn it
to rise again, slap it down
and feel puffs of air on my stomach.
I am dressed in my hair.
Simon says it's the prettiest
dress I ever wore.
Also see her
"Fond Mountain Memories" article
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