Blind Pig & The Acorn

Comin' Round The Mountain

It’s been over a year since I first became acquainted with Brian Blake of Shelton, Connecticut. Blake discovered the Blind Pig & The Acorn Blog while researching Appalachia for Under Brilliant Stars-a biography of his great-grandfather.

Brian Blake’s grandfather, Colonel John Y.F. Blake, 1856-1907 was a celebrated commander of the Irish Brigade in the Boer War. John Y.F. “Beau” Blake’s father, born in East Tennessee in 1813, was a woodsman.

Last spring, Brian Blake asked me to review “Comin’ Round the Mountain,” an excerpt from the forth coming biography which deals with his family's history in Appalachia from Daniel Boone through the War of 1812. I was thoroughly impressed with the excerpt; it left me wanting to know what came before in the Blake Clan's history-and what came afterward as well. I was tickled pink when Blake said I could use the excerpt as a giveaway here on the Blind Pig.

Information about the Biography in Blake’s own words:

Acclaimed as “Liberty’s Champion,” Colonel Blake’s inter­national career span­ned the Wild West and the Age of Imperialism. Placing this intrepid adventur­er in perspective, Brian’s book surveys England and America from 1262 to the Edwardian Era, with twenty generations of the Colonel’s forefathers as a common thread. His family chronicle from Colonial Virginia to Frontier Texas is the saga of America. This sketch of the life and times of our country’s pioneer ancestors should appeal to all who wonder who we are and how we got that way.

Under Brilliant Stars was begun in 1984 for our author’s now-grown son, and is due for completion in 2012. For genealogists seeking to swell the parade, an appendix will list over sixty related families. Our Comments Prize pamphlet includes a page of “Family Thoughts,” the book’s table of contents and foreword, and a recipe for hellfire stew, that staple of the Confederate Army in the Civil War.

Now retired from a career in banking and finance, Brian is a director of the New York Society of the Founders and Patriots of America, a Vietnam veteran, and a graduate of Harvard University. I’m sure you, too, will enjoy “Comin’ Round the Mountain” when she comes.

Brian P.T. Blake

While I'm sure the entire book, Under Brilliant Stars, will be a fascinating read; I feel positive anyone with an interest in Appalachia will more than appreciate the excerpt "Comin' Round the Mountain".

Leave a comment on this post to be entered in the giveaway. (The giveaway ends on Sunday April 15th )

Tipper

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Mama And The Splinters

Today's guest post was written by G.W. Newton. It's been over a year since GW first sent me the story about his Mother. After reading it, I immediately identified with her fierce determination-with her make do attitude-with her practical nature of just doing what needed to be done and not complaining about it. See if you do too. She reminds me of the strong women I've been blessed to know in my life.

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Mama And The Splinters written by G.W. Newton.

(The log cabin in GW's story after it was moved to its present location in 1999.)

The log cabin I was born in has a long and varied history. It was built by my Grandma's Papa in 1887 and used as a one room home, later as a Primitive Baptist church, and then moved three miles by my paternal grandparents for their first home.

After they built a new home, it was used as a makeshift jail when Grandpa was Sheriff of Colquitt County in the 1890's, a corn crib one season, and then moved across the field to the hill where it sat for the next ninety-nine years.

The cabin served as a home for several tenant families before Papa purchased it along with one hundred acres from his Papa shortly after he got married in 1935. Even after our family left the cabin, it stayed there for 65 more years, used for tenant farmer's homes, as a tobacco pack house, and then sat empty until 1999 when it was moved to a new location.

When Papa brought Mama to the "new house" in 1935 she was a young and blushing bride, who knew little to nothing about home making and less about house keeping. Raising children was not her mama's strong suite, so Mama, Miss Opal, was left to her own devices to make a home.

Papa's Mama, did not approve of the tenant farmer's daughter he married, and she did little in those first years to help or guide Mama. There is more to that story, though, for as Grandma saw what a good woman my Mama became, she became her best friend and supporter. Grandma told me that it was because of her prayers and Mama's goodness, that her son, David, turned out to be the man he became.

The cabin had a main room that served as living room, bed room, and parlor, with a fireplace for heat, and one light hanging down in the center of the room after the R.E.A. brought electricity to the farm in 1938.

Behind the front room was the small kitchen with a wood stove which had one light and off to the side was a back porch where we took our baths in a #3 wash tub. To the right of the main room was another small room that served as a bedroom for us four boys.

The cabin didn't have a ceiling in the kitchen and back room and the only heat was from the fireplace and the cook stove. Funny thing, I don't remember ever being cold in that house. Childhood memories are that way I guess.

The cabin was set inside a fenced clean-swept dirt yard, to keep the chickens, cows, hogs, mules, and horse outside. To the north, the chickens had their own house and yard out past the privy by the Yellow Plum Orchard.

Just outside the front gate was the wood pile where both firewood and stove wood were piled. There was usually a fat lighterd stump or jump-butt (cat face) out there for splinters used to start fires.

Papa was not a happy farmer in those early years. He was the youngest of nine children, raised by his five sisters and his mama as the "Little Prince", so when he decided to marry, against everyone's wishes, he suddenly had to learn the "cold hard facts of life".

Mama quickly found that to be David's wife, and by then pregnant with her second child, she had to make do just to survive those first years. Many quiet wagers and prayers were made during those years that when her sharecropper Daddy moved on to another farm so would she.

Papa tried to be a good husband but his happy boyhood memories kept getting in the way of the reality he faced, of suddenly being a poor dry land farmer. That was the price he paid to earn his independence from his father who only wanted his son to become a good farmer, husband, and Christian.

Mama learned that keeping a fire going was a lot easier than trying to start a new one before each meal. But it was just about a full time job to keep a few hot coals in the stove.

Getting Papa to keep a pile of stove wood split was near impossible. He left the house early, came back in from the fields late, and was usually angry about something so his mind was on other things than the wood pile.

Mama learned to split the pine logs and chop the stove wood. But many times Papa forgot to replace the fat lightered stump for splinters and the often damp stovewood was impossible to light without kindling. Then one day, as she was chasing a hog out from under the house she discovered “King Midas's treasure!"

The cabin sat about thirty inches above the ground with the new front porch on brick pillars. BUT, the main cabin rested on the original pillars from 1887 and they were of hand-hewn heart pine, which is pure LIGHTERD!

Never again was she troubled for splinters. She went to the wood pile when there were lightered stumps to be used, but if there were none, she and her trusty hatchet went to work on the pillars. Papa was never the wiser.

In 1999 when the cabin was torn down to be moved for the last time, the workmen commented on the pine pillars that had so many chipped and odd shaped corners. None of us children knew why so we asked Mama.

She was almost defiant as she described how she had out-smarted our father so many years ago. She said, "That old sow did me the best favor of my young life when I chased her out from under the house, for I discovered that every pillar under there was pure lighterd. All those years when David was so mad at the world, I just got my splinters the best way I could, and didn't bother him. But just to stay out of trouble, I would spit on some dirt, and rub it on the fresh chop marks, so they didn't show. David never did find out."

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I hope you enjoyed G.W.'s guest post as much as I did. The story of his Mother making do with what she had-of doing what she had to do-of keeping it to herself all those years really stirs my heart. I don't in any way think I'm as strong a woman as she was-but I want to be.

If you'd like to read more about G.W.'s childhood-you're in luck. He has just published a book: A Bunch Of Wiregrass. For more information you can contact him at the following address

GW Newton 476 Jewell Mason Rd. Blairsville, GA 30512 or you can email GW at: gwnewt1@netscape.net

Leave GW a comment and I'll make sure he reads it!

Tipper

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Appalachia Through My Eyes - Hazel Creek

This time of the year, the 8th grade students at The Learning Center!start looking forward to their annual field trip to Hazel Creek (an area where people were displaced both by a TVA Dam and by the formation of the Smoky Mountain National Park). 8th graders study NC History-and the school makes every effort to focus on history close to where the students actually live. A trip to Hazel Creek fits perfectly into that effort. The school practices cross curricular teaching-so after the trip the students are required to write a fiction essay based on the trip to Hazel Creek.

Some of you may remember, when Chitter and Chatter were students at The Learning Center! I made a partnership of sorts with the school. They allowed me to publish the best essays written about Hazel Creek as part of my Appalachian Writers series and as a way to encourage the students to keep writing. (if you missed it you can go here for the details)

One chilly day last November we packed up the students and headed for Hazel Creek-only to be turned around by the first snow of the season when we reached the gap above Topton. Since the ferry rides across the lake stop during the winter months it was Spring before the trip could be re-scheduled-and unfortunately I didn't get to tag along on that day. But the students had a great time-and learned a lot about the area and the people who once lived there.

There was only one essay submitted for me to publish from the trip. It was written by Will Coleman and is pefect for my Spooky October Series.

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A Trip To Hazel Creek And Beyond written by Will Coleman

It was a cold and foggy morning, like something out of a horror movie; we were heading to the displaced community of Hazel creek. I hadn’t quite been feeling myself as of late, sometimes I would forget what I was doing, or just fade in and out of consciousness. I kept telling myself I was just tired but that didn’t seem right, and this trip was about to give me the most confusing piece of reality I'd ever encountered.  

As we cruised towards Hazel creek I saw a faded, almost ghost-ish vision of the other pontoon boat flipping on a rock, I shook my head and it was gone. As we neared the muddy beach, laden with bleached white rocks, I thought I saw a little kid up in a tree, I blinked hard and he was gone, I must have gotten less sleep than I thought.

As we got off the boats and they left I saw another ghostly apparition of the water flooding in and covering the entire muddy beach. The class started off down what seemed to be an old road, there were bricks, and stones and oddly enough a Gator 4X4. Sam and Patrick tried to start it to no avail, my classmates then suggested hotwiring, but no one knew how, so we abandoned the useless machine were we found it. Walking farther down the path I saw two small stones standing vertically, it was the unmarked Indian grave, then I could’ve sworn I saw a woman with a feather in her hair, weeping over the grave and being carried away by a large man in a feather headdress. I nudged Masen and asked him if he saw what I saw, but I got the "what are you talking about?" look and I dismissed the whole thing. The Calhoun house was cool, but I kept seeing little kids running around and whenever I would ask someone about them or try and talk to them they would just disappear. That’s when we set off for the Proctor/Farley cemetery, things were about to get very, interesting I should say.

The trail to the graveyard was a tell-tale sign of the area, we climbed a steep hill, which then dipped down and then bolted up again. On the gentle descent down I wondered how far the graveyard was, a voice responded to my question, "Not much farther, just up the next hill" I bolted upright, no one was close enough to have said it that gently. I didn’t recognize the voice, but in another odd sense I knew it better than I knew my own voice, now I knew I was going crazy. So I kept walking, but this time in the company of Masen. We walked into the graveyard and looked at the graves, graves of young children, many who hadn’t lived a day, laden the cemetery. I came upon the grave of a man named James E. Russell, August 20th 1912 - June 5th 1937; he was 25 when he died. I felt kind of attached to him, like I knew him, as I walked away something pulled me back towards the grave. Next thing I knew I was unconscious, or was I?

I felt weird, I didn’t feel any pain, but I felt the grass brushing against my feet. Odd I was wearing shoes before things went dark, and my clothes didn’t itch. Then something like sunlight at the end of a long dark tunnel appeared. Then I was immersed in sunlight, enough to blind a man, soon things came into focus. I was sleeping in a sort of sitting position, my back against a tall tree, head cocked downwards. I stood up and stretched, I was wearing an itchy rucksack vest, some poorly sewn, dirty, holey jeans, and I didn’t have any shoes. I looked around, I was in the woods, then something rustled behind me, I pulled a large knife from a concealed pocket on the inside of the vest. A small boy, probably about eight or so walked towards me, not even flinching. He had an old wicker basket; it was half filled with cheap bread, berries and some stringy meat.

"Breakfast is served" He exclaimed and made himself a sandwich. I kept the knife firm in my hand,

"Who are you?" I asked. With a mouth full of food he replied

"Who else am I Todd? I’m your brother, duh."

I stood my ground "My names not Todd, its Will."

"You ok Todd? You never turn down squirrel and berries on bread, now put your knife away and sit down"

"For the last time my names NOT Todd, and I don’t know you!"

"Maybe you should go down to the river and get a drink that might help clear your head."

I walked down to the river, I wasn’t sure how I knew where it was, but I did. The water was clear and cold, moving swiftly downhill, going who knows where, doing who knows what. I stood up and started thinking, when I walked back up the trail I was greeted with a firm slap on the back and what the boy had called, squirrel and berries on bread.

"You feeling better now? Have some, you caught and skinned the squirrel yourself, enjoy."

I sat down hesitantly and tried the meal, it wasn’t half bad.

"What’s your name again?" I asked

"Its James, duh, you really must have hit your head hard yesterday. Maybe I should take you to Doc Simmons."

"Ya, maybe you should, James."

As I faked a limp, things became clearer, I had somehow traded places with someone from 1920; I saw a barbershop, a fully stocked café, Movie Theater, and a train depot. Off in the distance I saw a school, Ball Park and a sign that read, Town of Proctor, Population 1000. As we walked into the doctor’s office I heard a toilet flush, then a skinny man with wire rim glasses appeared from behind a door drying his hands with a hand towel.

"Hello boys, how can I help you?" he said in a surprised tone

"Well Doc. . ." James started, but the good doctor interrupted

"I told you James, call me Mr. Simmons"

"Sorry, Mr. Simmons, Todd hit his head yesterday and thinks his name is Will"

"Amnesia, give it time, he’ll come to"

We walked out of the office; I decided to just roll with the whole amnesia thing. We started walking through town; James tried to "remind me" of who I was by showing me the town. He actually was helping me build a profile of his brother Todd. I thought the two of us were very similar, we liked a lot of the same things, and I started thinking that we would’ve been good friends had we not lived nearly a hundred years apart.

On our way back to what I assumed to be the Russell house, several people stopped us to ask how I was doing after my fall. Every time James would reply in a hushed tone, "he has amnesia" they would put their hand over their mouth and with tender eyes look at me with pathetic sympathy. When we walked into the house, the sun was rolling behind the beauty of the Great Smokies. A woman stared us down with a predatory gaze, then yelled in an embarrassing motherly tone,

"Where have you two been?! You had me worried sick, and what’s this about Todd hitting his head and getting amnesia?!"

"Love you too mom" James responded casually, he walked into another room and sat beside a burly man listening to the radio, I assumed it was Mr. Russell. He sat beside his father listening to what seemed to be the News. After a fantastic meal of chicken and corn Mrs. Russell rushed us to our rooms and threatened us with gardening should we ever scare her like that again. As I drifted off to sleep I realized I hadn’t seen anything weird the whole day, and that was weird in of itself.

The next morning James and I rushed out of the door after enjoying a quick breakfast of fruit. As we ran by the Calhoun house I saw little kids running around, they were mirror images of the ghosts I saw, what had seemed to be, the day before. As we crossed the bridge leading to the ball park I noticed the river was higher, and more turbulent than usual. James didn’t seem to notice; I quickly caught up to the energetic eight year old. He had told me over breakfast that every Saturday, which it apparently was, that the field was lit up by ten large luminous lights so bright they could blind ten men in one shot. So as we rounded the bend behind the ball park and saw that no one was setting up we became suspicious, entering the locked gates with ease we snooped around. As I entered the announcer’s booth I noticed a few barrels that had an orange and red flammable sign on the side of them, James being his irksome self decided to investigate the incendiary tanks. To his disappointment they were empty, In his absence I fashioned a piece of malleable metal into a cross and found some twine, that’s when I saw something that was not for my eyes, something that could change history.

Judiciously I grabbed the concealed knife and nonchalantly walked out of the ball park, James and his guileless self hadn’t noticed my departure. I rushed impatiently towards the clearing; I stuffed the cross into the knife pocket, moving as stealth-fully as I could. As I came upon the clearing I hid behind a large oak, catching my breath, holding the knife tightly in my hand, I peered into the clearing. A large Native American man stood over a lifeless, bloody, scalped body, holding a large knife, and what I presumed to be a scalp. I gasped, and the man turned around quickly, I sized up my knife to his and as he silently crept around I prayed to God I was doing the right thing.

I caught the man by surprise, his back was turned to me and I was able to sink a good portion of my blade into the back of the arm holding his knife. He collapsed and grabbed his arm; he let out a twisted, blood curdling shriek. Then he turned towards me and fixed me with a Bilious, crude, almost predatory gaze. He tackled me easily, but I had the upper hand, I still had my knife. I jabbed it into his side, again he shrieked in pain, but he still would not relinquish his grip on me. It was starting to become hard to breath, he was crushing me. I viciously stabbed at his unprotected back, nothing changed. Then someone leaped from a tree and pulled the man off of me.

Yet another and another suddenly there were near ten Cherokee all surrounding the man. He was bleeding from multiple small, skin deep wounds on his back, a larger, more gruesome slice bled balefully from just above his pelvis. He picked up his knife and stood his ground, an eleventh man came over to me and helped me up. James suddenly rushed into the crowded clearing, terror filled his eyes, and he ran away. A young Cherokee woman went after him, and then a loud, distressed shriek came from behind me. A pregnant woman stood over the dead man, she wept feverishly over his body. She fell to her knee’s sobbing, yet another Cherokee man came over and helped her up and walked her intentionally by the man who I had attacked. I then became aware of a crowd forming on the edges of the forest, people whispering, fantasizing, and guessing. I walked by a couple of large Cherokee men, my direction was right towards the killer, he was a criminal, I’d seen it in his eyes, he was an animal who needed to be stopped and put down. As I barreled towards him a large, strong, hand caught me by my arm and lifted me into the air. I was jerked back, like someone suddenly slamming the brakes and being caught by the seatbelt. The large Cherokee man who had helped the pregnant widow up was holding my arm with a firm grip. He fixed me with a paralyzing stare, he didn’t blink, he just spoke in a deep rough tone, and sorrow dwelled in every word he spoke.

"Are you with, or against my brother?"

"Your brother?"

"The dead man! Did you help kill him, or try to stop it?!" the burly man was on the verge of tears

I shakily responded

"I saw he was in trouble so I came to help him, but when I got here it was too late, I’m sorry"

"Thank you for trying, and I respect your courage, but if we had not showed up when we did, you would have been killed"

I was trying not to think about that, then again maybe that’s how I could get home. I forbid my mind from dwelling on the morbid thought of me dying, the tall man, still fixing me with his powerful eyes, had an entire conversation in one look. He took the bloodied knife from my hand, I did not try and stop him, I turned my head and walked down to the crowd of people, to quell the rumors and tell the truth. As the mob of people surrounded me for answers a terrifying scream skipped across the Great Smokies, and justice was served. I walked back up the bank, the only one brave enough to venture up, I found three things, a motionless body, my knife stuck in a tree trunk and a hand stitched headband hanging above it. I pulled the knife out, grabbed the head band and asked for strong stomached and strong bodied men to come up and assist me with something. I motioned to the dead man and told them to dig a grave; after he was buried I place two semi-square stone at the head and foot of the grave.

As we walked into town you could feel an atmosphere of respect and idolism, as well as envy and hatred, directed towards me. I didn’t care I had learned all about the unmarked burial grave, I only had one more thing to take care of. I walked into the Russell house, as I stepped over the threshold, the house went dead silent, ironic I thought. James walked over to me, Mrs. Russell’s hand on his shoulder, Mr. Russell standing with his hands in his pockets; a smoking wooden pipe protruded from his lips. James then spoke in a disturbed voice.

"Your name really is Will isn’t it? And you’re not from here are you?"

"No James sadly I am not, but I wish I was, this is a beautiful house, you have a loving mother and a strong willed father."

"I know, can you tell me just one more thing, when is Todd coming back?"

It was then I said something I had no knowledge of, "When you all wake up tomorrow, I will be gone and Todd will return from the west, carrying squirrels. He will have no recollection of what has happened, only tell him of a brave boy, similar to him coming and saving the town from a murderer. And should anyone ask, I was your cousin, not a hero."

They all stood in silence, not able to say anything; they all went off to bed. I walked into James’s room; fast asleep I left the metal cross necklace I had made while in the Ball Park on his bedside table. As I walked out of the front door I mumbled to myself, "I’m sorry; I wish I could warn you. May God protect you."

I walked westward into the moonlight; I was flooded over with the same feeling as when I arrived. Next thing I knew I was laying down on the bench at the cemetery. The rest of the day became very fuzzy, I was deciding whether what I had just lived was real of not. As we passed a falling chimney I saw Mr. and Mrs. Russell standing at what would have been the door. Then they disappeared, as we passed the burial grave I looked at the tree where I had found the knife, surely enough, just a couple inches from where the knife had been in 1920 there was a deep gash in the tree bark. I reached into my pocket and pulled out the head band, the colored beads glittered in the sunlight. Finally as we boarded the boat and headed back to one of the Fontana docks I sat down and laid back my head. That’s when I heard a familiar voice, one that scared me in the most pleasant way. It was James and he cheerfully exclaimed, "Bye Will!"

And right before my eyes he went from the eight year old I had left behind, to a twenty five year old man, he winked then dived into the icy waters of Fontana. When I returned home later that day I did some research on James E. Russell, I remarkably found a record saying he drown in the lake, saving what he exclaimed to be his good luck charm, a twisted piece of metal on string, the piece of metal was described to be in the shape of a cross. The one I had put on his bedside table before I left, my first reaction was that I had killed him, but then I remembered, I had saved him from being murdered at the ball park when he was eight. He had one daughter and a beautiful wife, which would never have happened had I not gone back, that night I slept soundly, knowing I had done a good deed.

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I hope you enjoyed Will's story as much as I did! Wow does he have an imagination or what-leave him a comment and I'll make sure he reads it!

Tipper

 

Appalachia Through My Eyes - A series of photographs from my life in Southern Appalachia.

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The Summer Daddy Found The Spring

 

The Summer Daddy Found the Spring (A True Story Remembered) written by Ethelene Dyer Jones

It was a hot dry summer, much like this one has been. Water was scarce, and crops looked pitiful in the fields. To complicate matters, our well went dry. What were we to do for drinking water?

I don’t remember the exact year, somewhere in the ‘30’s after the economy, too, had fallen in the crash of October, 1929. Times were hard, and to have the well go dry was adding another angst to the already long list of woes the farmers in Choestoe Community faced.

I was old enough to remember, and to think of how serious was our situation. I remember my father, J. Marion Dyer, praying that he could find water as he went on his search.　

Remembering this incident, I thought it quite strange that he went out to one of the peach trees near our garden and looked until he found a branch. He cut it, and in his hands he held a "y"-shaped limb.　

With the limb in one hand and a shovel in the other, he went walking down the dirt road by our house. I was following close behind him, full of curiosity. When he got to the trail that angled up on the bank, the trail on which we drove our cows daily to pasture, he turned right. I followed right behind him, stepping fast to keep up with him and see where he was headed.

We had a v-shaped walk-through entrance in the fence leading to the pasture where people could enter but where the animals could not get through. Dad went through this entrance, and there I was, following not far behind him. He propped his shovel at the fence and moved on.

He proceeded on through the pasture, and after descending the hill we were in sort of a little valley, with a stream, now only a trickle from the drought, providing the only water our cattle had to drink, since our well was dry and we could not fill the watering troughs at the barn.

Daddy made a right turn again, and walked a distance into the glade. On each side of the now nearly-dry stream elder bushes grew. These too, looked skimpy in that hot, dry summer heat. Even in the mountains of North Georgia, the weather was unseasonably hot.

I saw my father grip the peachtree limb by its forked prongs, holding it out before him.

In my childlike way, I wondered what he was doing with the limb and why he held it at an upward angle out in front of him as he walked. On he went, gripping the limb and looking carefully down at the ground. He seemed to be concentrating in a very concerned way, and I kept very quiet, not daring to break his reverie or interfere with his strange actions.

He walked on in the low place in our pasture, many paces, the peachtree limb held upward as he gripped its forked prongs in both his hands.

Then, amazingly, the limb tipped over as if by magic, as if pulled by a gravity that defied reason. Daddy let the limb down to mark the spot where some force had pulled it. Leaving the branch on the spot, he went back to the fence to retrieve the shovel he had left there.　Bringing it to the location of the peachtree limb, he began to dig.

I stood watching as he lifted shovelful after shovelful of dirt from the ground. He had dug down, maybe a foot or more, when, miraculously, a gushing stream of water came forth, bubbling like a fountain.

He had found a bubbling spring, buried underneath the soil right in our pasture. It was not long until water was flowing out. He dug deeper, smoothing and making a circular opening, and also digging a trench for the water to run away from its bubbling source.

Daddy had found a source of water. Most of that day was spent digging the spring deeper and shoring up this marvelous watering place, building a rock wall around it on three sides. He also went back to the house to get some lumber. He built a large spring box over the stream that flowed out from the bold spring. This spring box would be our "refrigerator" in the days before electricity came to our farm, the place where we would place our jugs of milk to keep them cold. Later, he would replace the temporary "spring box" by a springhouse, a more permanent building with space to set butter and other items, as well as the milk we needed to refrigerate. The water bubbling out from this marvelous spring was cold and clear, tasteful and pure. I had heard the story of how Moses in the long ago wilderness wandering days had struck the rock and water poured forth. My Daddy had dug into the earth at a certain spot and water bubbled forth.

Another necessary job was to erect a strong fence around the area of the spring so that the farm animals that were pastured in the same vicinity would not break through and trample on or otherwise molest this source for family water. As the summer moved along, he made the new spring an oasis, a beautiful place to go to fetch water, and a quiet, cool place apart where we could go and rest awhile from field labors.

When rains came again to water our valley, our well was restored to its former productivity. We no longer had to carry water in buckets the half-mile from the spring in the midst of the pasture to the house for our daily use. But we kept up the spring, kept the foliage trimmed from around it, and kept the springhouse as the place for our refrigeration until electricity finally came to the valley later on.

Today, with many seasons having come and gone since that bubbling spring was discovered that summer day in the 1930’s, I’m not sure if it still bubbles forth in the midst of that little dell near the elder bushes in our old pasture. In fact, the land has changed and been developed since those long ago days when a family was desperate for water.

In memory I think back to that day when in wonder I followed Daddy as he held his peachtree limb in front of him, and with a prayer on his lips went forth to find water. There was a name for the peachtree limb:　it was called a ‘witching stick.’ And the person who held it just so to find water was called ‘a witcher.’ Thinking about it, it doesn’t sound so good, as if the person endowed with such a gift would have some power of a darker nature as bestowed by witches or seers. This method was also used to detect water deep beneath the ground as folks in our community sought to find the right spot to dig a new well. Whatever the power, whether of gravity working on the chemistry in a peachtree limb, whether coincidence, or whatever, it seemed to work.

Now there are technological imaging devices that declare a source of water before well drillers take their machines and quickly get to the source of water. But back in the days of our forefathers, they used what they knew in the ways common to their culture. And, miraculously, these ways seemed to bring the desired results. After finding the spring, we didn’t take water for granted any more. We thanked God for clear, pure water.

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I hope you enjoyed Ethelene's guest post as much as I did! Yesterday, as we enjoyed the first real soaking rain we've had in weeks-it felt like I could hear the waters of the deep being replenished. I know many people's Labor Day plans were rained out-including the rest of my bunch who wanted to go to the big Labor Day race-but I enjoyed a day of being indoors listening to the rain and thinking of those waters of the deep.

As I listened I thought of how thankful I was for the rain-especially for the folks with dry springs or wells like Ethelene's family experienced so many years ago. Today as the rain levels continue to rise and creeks are beginning to flood I find myself thinking of the Poor Man song-remember it? If you don't just click on the words for a listen.

Don't forget to leave Ethelene a comment-and I'll make sure she reads it!

Tipper

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Appalachian Writers

 
Launch party for Women's Spaces Women's Places. (Celia Miles is in the middle of the front row)

I've been a fan of Ceila Miles for several years. I believe it was Glenda Beall who first introduced me to her writing. I recently had the opportunity to ask Celia a few questions.

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Did you grow up in Appalachia?

Definitely. I was born in Jackson County and until I finished the sixth grade lived “back of Dillsboro” on what we called The Bard Hill (for no reason I could ever determine). We walked to the school on Scotts Creek (black and foamy from the Mead Paper Mill in Sylva) through my fifth grade; when it was condemned we were bused to Sylva. After a year and half in Burke County, we moved to Canton where my dad worked at Champion. Except for a year in MA and one in VA, I’ve been in Western NC ever since. Of course, I didn’t know I was growing up in Appalachia!

Did you want to write as a child? What were your writing influences?

Would the Bobbsey Twins, Nancy Drew, Trixie Belton and the Campfire Girls, Black Beauty, Little Women count as influences? I read those, plus the thick little books that were mostly westerns. My mother read the confession magazines occasionally and subscribed to the Doubleday Book Club, so there was reading material around and I was the “reader” in the family. I remember writing a novel during high school, set in some faraway place with a most romantic man…beyond that I can’t recall the plot and luckily don’t have the manuscript. Two books that must have influenced me: The Reckless Seven (I wish I could find it again) in which seven children had to survive after a shipwreck, and Before the Sun Goes Down, written by Elizabeth Metzger Howard in 1940 about a small town with all its conflicts, class, racial, etc. I still recommend it.

What was the first piece you ever had published?

At Berea College I published in the student creative writing magazine, then at Brevard College I had a piece in the faculty journal entitled “The Use of Quotation Marks in Virginia Woolf’s To the Lighthouse.” Now I have to think: who cares! While teaching for almost four decades, I didn’t write much (except in red ink) until the 1990s when I began taking creative writing classes “to open up the right side of my brain.” My Mattie’s Girl: An Appalachian Childhood resulted from those first classes and learning “to write the natural way,” which is not necessarily the English teacher’s way. The vignettes were bases on fictionalized events, vague memories, stories—all authentic to my growing up in the 1940s though not “the story of my life.” It’s now on Kindle.

I know your writing crosses several genres-are the books about Appalachia closer to your heart than others subjects? Is it important to you to write about your heritage?

I call myself “a nicheless author” because I have written in various genres: for the confession market (yes, I wanted to see if I could do it and did), poetry (not much), college textbooks, woman’s fiction (Journey to Stenness), short stories, and historical fiction. Sarranda tells the story of a woman (and most women) born in time to marry and endure the hardships that the Civil War brought to the mountains. Writing with an Appalachian flavor is my strong point, I think, but I’ve sort of resisted “being typed” as Appalachian, which I certainly am—and now proud of it.

 
(to purchase book or for more information visit celiamiles.com)

You’ve been involved with several anthologies here in Western NC. Has the writing scene changed since you first become involved with it?

The three anthologies I’ve co-edited with Nancy Dillingham of women writers from western NC—Christmas Presence in 2008, Clothes Lines (2009) and one this spring: Women’s Spaces Women’s Place, have given me a tremendous appreciation for the work of women writers in the region. Certainly in the past ten-fifteen years, our area is turning out high quality fiction and a great deal of it. This area is now the “producing place,” I think, for American fiction: think Charles Frazier, Ron Rash, Fred Chappell…Kathryn Magendie, Joan Medlicott, Heather Newton, Sara Gruen, Elizabeth Kosova, Ann Ross. The variety is infinite. Now there are magazines that promote high quality writing by women and men. Western North Carolina Woman was among the first; Fresh is a more recent literary magazine. In the last decade, more outlets have opened up and writers are producing—in print and online, for standard and self publishing venues.

Where can folks find your books and find out more about you?

My books and the anthologies are in the independent bookstores around Western NC; they haven’t found their way into the big chains and that’s okay with me. I hope readers patronize stores like City Lights in Sylva, the Curiosity Shop in Murphy and Andrews, Blue Ridge Books in Waynesville, Highland Books in Brevard, Accent on Books and Malaprops in Asheville—and gift shops such as Mountain Made in Asheville’s Grove Arcade and Pisgah Inn on the Parkway. These and many others are the places to find good regional writing. I have a website: www.celiamiles.com and books can be ordered from me: 104 Clubwood Court Asheville, NC 28803.

Is there anything else you’d like to share with the Blind Pig readers?

I encourage any writer to write and then, if getting an agent, finding a big name publisher is too difficult or distracting, to consider self-publishing. I chose to stop writing query letters and stop thinking “if not New York, not at all,” and go the self-publishing route and I have not regretted it. It is now quite “acceptable,” and is satisfying and gratifying.

Can you sum up what Appalachia means to you?

To me, Appalachia is quite simply “home.” I don’t want to live anywhere else…well, maybe the Scottish islands!

Appalachia has become both a geographical reality with real people and a contrived (by earlier local color writers who created a land populated by people in dire need of salvation and modernizing) literary/mythical arena.

Appalachia is a term fraught with contradictions: outsiders tend to think “quaint” (dulcimer music and old ballads) or “low-down sorry” (moonshine, feuding, ignorance)—and those born here know the region is neither one nor the other. Now, thankfully, writers are knocking down the ridiculous stereotypes and showing the reality of a culture coming to grips with a necessary blending of “us” and “them,” then and now, truth and fantasy. It’s a good place to be.

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I hoped you enjoyed the interview I did with Celia-and if you missed her guest post here on the Blind Pig last December-you should for sure go read it-one of the best Christmas stories I've ever read.

Tipper

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The Last Tall White Pine From The Cross Tie Hollow

Today's guest post was written by Eva Nell Mull, Ph.D.

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To recall the visit of my mother and father, Martha and Joe Mull and their 11th child, David, to Tennessee in the month of July, 1961, brings back many precious memories for me. Never before had they been to the 'secret city' and they were there especially to visit us and 'view' our first newborn child, James Seymour Wike, Jr. You might be wondering, "What has Joe and Martha's visit to see their new grandson got to do with tall white pines?"

Well Sir, I'll tell you right now. It is quiet simple actually. If you knew my Daddy well, you would know that he knew all about 'new ground' and how to fix it. And that is exactly what our little acre needed-FIXEN! That being because it had been a cornfield before it became our very own 'barren' red clay yard.

After admiring our Jimmy and visiting a spell, Daddy was ready to 'make tracks' as he often described his departure. His parting advice was, "Honey, I do believe you need some white pines planted around your new house to kind of cool it." Air conditioning was neither in his repertory nor in our budget. Having watched all the good red clay fast washing off our yard I knew my Daddy was right. He said "When you get able to travel, you come over and we'll get a few white pines from the Cross Tie Hollow for you to plant." Then they were gone.

In the winter time of '61 we made our journey back to the Cove to visit Mamma and Daddy and show off our Jimmy to everybody. Just before we were getting ready to 'make tracks' back across the mountains, Daddy very carefully placed a big toe-sack filled with five saplings in the trunk of our car. Closing the lid carefully he said, "I do believe these white pines will all make it! Just don't plant them too deep." By golly they did! ALL FIVE! Just like my Daddy had predicted.

The years passed and Jimmy grew tall. But so did the white pines. Of course I had planted several of the pines too close to the house (to cool it) and in time we had to cut them down-one at a time over the fifty years-until now there is only one remaining. The last white pine left standing in our yard is scheduled to be cut down in the next few weeks. It will be a simple matter for the tree cutters. But the Lord only knows how precious those memories are regarding those white pines my Daddy dug so long ago.

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When The Deer Hunter and I first moved into our house-surrounded by red clay just like Eva Nell's house was-me and Pap walked way up the creek and came home with a bucket full of Hemlock saplings to plant in our yard. Some lived-some died-and over the years we've lived here a few had to be removed for one thing or another. There's only one left now.

I hope you enjoyed Eva Nell's post as much as I did-leave her a comment and I'll make sure she reads it.

Tipper

p.s. Eva Nell provided the photo of the last white pine.

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Reflections On A Schoolyard Day

Today is the first day of Summer Vacation around the Blind Pig house. As you might guess-the girls are very excited and have big plans for the coming weeks. The end of the school year-as well as the beginning-always makes me feel nostalgic. I began to remember the way each made me feel-and the changes that have taken place in the world of public education since I was a student. There is always change-and that change makes each generation's educational experience slightly different than the others.

Today's guest post was written by David Templeton-Reflections On a Schoolyard Day.

 
Photo by David Templeton

Maybe it was because I was always new in school; Mom and Dad moved us just about every time the rent was due and I ended up in a new school and some of the boys would pick a fight with me because there must have been some kind of pecking order to be determined, and sometimes I prevailed, because I was bigger and stouter than most boys my age; still, I got whipped sometimes, too.

Lots of times fights would start over shooting marbles and whether or not it was my turn to shoot or if one of the hit marbles was all the way outside the circle crudely scratched in the dirt. Or, I came to school smelling like Sweetheart soap, which was what Mom bought there for a long time, it’s all I had to wash my face in and some kid would make fun of me and we’d go at it.

I don’t remember that I ever started a fight; I was never inclined to bullying. Most boys were hard as rocks back then and sometimes even boys younger and littler than I was might well whip me. Fights were never any fun and I knew it and it hurt to get a shiner or a smashed lip or a bloody nose and rolling around in near-mortal struggle left scratches and cuts and bruises whether I won or not.

But I remember one school, it was a little one-room schoolhouse just above Cloud’s Ford and it was called Greenvale School and the church nearby was Greenvale Baptist Church, not that that matters but I know when I was there on Sundays I sometimes felt the urge to ask for forgiveness for some of the cussing I did at school when I got in a fight or missed a marble shot or lost my favorite taw. I didn’t pray out loud; I didn’t want my conversation with the Lord to be overheard by my older sister, who thought of herself as my surrogate mother and she would have remembered what I said and she wasn’t as forgiving as the Lord.

I hadn’t been at Greenvale very long and it was hot weather, May maybe. It was first recess and it was over and we were going back in to take our seats and the teacher, Missus McCormick as I remember was her name, but it doesn’t matter, she told me to wait outside the door as all the other kids went on in and then it was just her and me.

Missus McCormick took me off to the side of the schoolhouse away from the door and no one could hear her and she said, "David, you know Joe Tate, don’t you? I said I did, and she said, "Joe is bad about jumping on the other kids. He pushes them, hits them, even spits on them. I could paddle him but I’m not sure it would stick". She went on, "David, if some bigger kid (Joe was in the fourth grade and I was in the fifth) was to see Joe picking on some other kid, and if this bigger kid jumped in and beat the tar out of Joe … why, I’m sure I wouldn’t be around to see what happened and if somebody tattled on that bigger kid, I sure wouldn’t have it in mind to paddle that bigger kid. Somebody needs to teach Joe that he can’t get away with picking on other kids and being a bully. You’re a big, strong kid, David. I bet you could whip Joe … now, I’m not telling you to but if somebody came to me and said you did, well, you know I don’t believe every little thing all the children bring to me; I’d just have to let it go. And, if some kid taught Joe a good lesson, I would be very proud of that kid but you know I couldn’t say so but he would see me smile at him sometimes and know."

And she sent me on in to take my seat and she came on in and taught classes and then lunch recess came and there was always a lot of time to play after we ate and I was down on my knees shooting marbles with some other boys and kind of watching Joe a little bit because I got the distinct impression that the teacher would be real proud of me, but she wouldn’t say it, if I took Joe to task, next time he was picking on another kid.

It was a hot day, the schoolyard was dusty and the grass was yellow and dry and the girls were running all around and laughing and running from whoever was "it". Boys were playing mumbly peg or dropping knives or shooting marbles and not far from where I knelt, Joe was chasing a little girl and he caught her and pushed her down and she was crying.

I believe it was the only time that I was the aggressor in a schoolyard but I ran at Joe and tackled him and we commenced to wallow all around and fight and it was an epic struggle. He was a strong kid and I knew right off that I wished Missus McCormick had picked some other champion, because I was getting slugged, and scratched and nearly whipped but I knew I had to prevail even though I was considering backing off. I did finally prevail however, because Joe quit just before I was about to and he came up confused with big tears welling in his eyes and he said, "What did you jump on me for? I’m going to tell Missus McCormick". I knew that was okay, I was just glad he didn’t have a big brother.

And, I didn’t get in trouble for fighting that day but I never talked about it after that, until just now and I was looking at an old schoolhouse picture and it came back to me. Then I remembered Joe, standing there, hurt, dusty, disheveled and confused and trying desperately to hold back his big, gulping sobs and saying to me, "What did you do that for? I wasn’t bothering nobody, I was just playing."

And lunch recess ended and we went in and took our seats and everybody was real quiet and Missus McCormick told us to take up our books and she taught and the day passed.

Now, many years have passed and I never tried to analyze why Joe was a bully or what else the teacher could have done. If the kids he had been bullying were now free from that intimidation then maybe I can reckon that the means were justified by that end result.

Joe never did bully the other kids after that as far as I could tell, not that May, and school soon let out and it was summer and I didn’t get a bad mark for deportment and we moved somewhere else.

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I don't think today's teachers would instigate a student taking on the bully like David's did-however during this past school year I was made aware of a situation in a local school that is comparable. A small group of students-maybe 3-were continuously disrupting the class by laughing, talking loudly, and just generally goofing off. When the other students complained that it was interfering with their learning-the teacher encouraged them as a group to confront the group and tell them how they felt. Unfortunately the tactic didn't work-the slackers just kept slacking.

I hope you enjoyed David's memory of schoolyards gone by as much as I did. Leave him a comment and I'll make sure he reads it.

Tipper

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On Flying Turtles

Today's guest post was written by Ed Myers.

 

ON FLYING TURTLES

Ed Myers (Bryson City, NC)

My Papaw was an average grandparent from rural East Tennessee, meaning he could spin a tale or two (perhaps even some that were true), chewed tobacco from a pressed plug and steak with a toothless mouth, enjoyed a swing or three on the blue-flaked porch of his modest home…and loved his grandkids without reservation.

He did the usual things such grandpas do. He slipped us pin-knives just about every time we visited (which our mother promptly confiscated and flushed down the toilet). He gave us four brothers a taste of his chaw…ah, the poisonous medicine of childhood. And, he let us sample his once a month veteran’s disability ‘shine…another poisonous medicine not soon to be retaken, thank God!

He shared-cropped an experimental farm for the University of Tennessee on the banks of the Tennessee River, not far from his home on what is now the edge of the swankier part of inner Knoxville. He, or rather my Granny, raised eight kids, him being the ninth. And, among other hobbies of necessity to a poor and rich, close and extended family, he, along with my uncles, caught turtles in nearby Tyson Creek. 

They did this by screwing eye bolts spaced about a foot apart into whatever log happened to be laying about, tying strong cord to them along with good stout hooks, and baiting each with chicken necks or other rough meat. They then laid the log across the creek and waited a day to see what came to dinner (ours). Sometimes, their bait would snag a good sized flathead cat, but most of the time, it was turtles, mud or snapping turtles and soft-shelled turtles being what the creek had to offer in abundance.

When the harvest was good, they lay the turtles on their backs, poured scalding water on them to loosen their flesh, chopped off their heads (or was that before the dousing?), and deep fried the meat (yes, it does taste somewhat like chicken, as do many deep fried meats; that is, they taste deep fried). Served alongside boiled corn, homemade yeast-risen dinner rolls, ice-cold watermelon, tart summer pie made from apples picked right off the trees, and other sundries, it made for a fine meal on many a sunny Sunday afternoon.

Sometimes, however, when my Papaw was feeling particularly impish and had a new grandkid/niece/nephew/cousin/what-have-you to impress, he would put back the largest turtle and teach them how to pilot it and fly.

I remember my initiation well.

Again, it was a sunny day, as it always seemed to be when we were with him. The sacrificial turtle was a true monster to a six-year-old’s eyes. 25 pounds of pre-historic fury encased in a huge, rough overlapping shell, dragging a long, scaly dinosaur tale and clawing with claws that would make a bad witch cringe. To complete the picture, add flaming red eyes, a long neck as thick as a small fist that could twist ‘round to the middle of its back and a sneering beak so sharp it could and did break slender sticks like, well, six-year-old little boy bones.

When all this terror could be fully appreciated by his tiny audience, my Papaw began to lie and lie some more, telling us that if a little boy or girl could perch on the turtle’s back, just shy of its snapping head, and hold on for dear life, it could be made to do his or her bidding, including, but not limited to, taking wing (where those were, I never could tell) and flying, carrying its passenger to far off lands (at least as far as the neighbor’s yard, three houses down). All you had to do was reach back and grab that thrashing tail to guide your flight and away you’d go.

Now, even at six, I was not so gullible as to think a turtle could fly, let alone with a boy on its back. But, when I looked into my grandfather’s weathered, sky-blue eyes and heard only his voice guiding me through my fear, I’ll be damned if I didn’t take off and soar.

The ride didn’t last long. The turtle soon tired of digging in the grass and snapping at its burden. The little boy woke from his grandpa’s enchantment, stepped back into the shade of a flowering mimosa and returned to earth.

To this day, I have to ask myself whether it did or didn’t happen, just like I’ve said. To this day, I know it did, and I know it didn’t.

But, Lord, what a wonderful ride!

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I hope you enjoyed Ed's story as much as I did-it reminded me of my own Papaw and Uncles teasing me when I was a kid. Like Ed-I knew I shouldn't believe their tall tales but at the same time I couldn't not believe them either.

Leave Ed a comment and I'll make sure he reads it.

Tipper

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Appalachian Writers

 
Jim Casada often refers to himself as a "True Son of the Smokies" after getting to know him over the last year I believe it's an apt description. Jim was born and raised a hop skip and a jump from here-in Bryson City, NC. I recently interviewed Jim about his career as a writer.

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How long have you been writing? 

Tipper, in one sense at least I’ve been writing since high school. I had a great teacher in the 9th grade who made a comment on a paper of mine (it was on squirrel hunting) to the effect of “This is the type of material, in much more sophisticated form, that the outdoor magazines buy. I never forgot that.

Have you always wanted to be a writer? 

Pretty much, I guess. Certainly that seed sown in the 9th grade is suggestive, and I fooled around with poetry in undergraduate school and beyond. I’ve written consistently for almost exactly forty years. That included several scholarly books and perhaps a hundred scholarly articles during my “professing” days, but well before I took early retirement from the university where I taught, I was writing on the subject areas covered below. 

What genre do you typically write? 

When it comes to subject matter, I’m something of a generalist. Most of my magazine pieces fall into one of the following categories—hunting, fishing, non-consumptive outdoor activities such as hiking and camping, conservation, cooking game and fish (as well as foods from nature), sporting history, the literature of the outdoors, and pretty much all aspects of Appalachian culture. I’ve never done anything in the way of fiction, although I’ll confess to being a fair hand at embellishing when given a chance. I have written a few humor pieces and have won a storytelling contest or two relying on humorous (but true) tales. Mainly though, I stick to factual narrative, and much of my work carries overtones of history.

I know you've used the traditional method of publishing and went the self-publishing route as well. Can you briefly describe the benefits you see with each? 

Up until the appearance of Fly Fishing in the Great Smoky Mountains National Park:  An Insider’s Guide to a Pursuit of Passion, all of my books (and I’ve written, edited, or been a major contributor to upwards of fifty books), were published by commercial or university presses. That book was especially meaningful to me, and frankly, I didn’t want anyone “messing” with it other than from the standpoint of careful proofreading. Also, it was too long, at 448 pages, and too costly (lots of graphs and color photos along with top-quality paper) for most commercial operations. Also, I was pretty sure I could do a sound job of marketing it. Since I’ve got another self-published book with a layout-and-design guy right now, obviously I was pleased. As for the pros and cons—self-publishing is scary because it is all on your shoulders—finding an editor and someone to do the layout and design, the marketing, the storage, the shipping, and most of all the upfront costs. On the flip side of the equation though, all the money is yours.

Commercial presses just pay royalties, usually somewhere between 10 and 17 percent of what they get for each copy they sell (not the list price but what is actually paid to them), but they do take care of all the details. 

The subject matter of your writing is often related to your years spent in Bryson City as a boy-does that make you feel as though you've come full circle? 

You are certainly accurate in suggesting that my Appalachian boyhood has influenced my writing. Both my paternal grandfather and my father were great storytellers, and they gave me solid grounding in that regard. Also, I’d like to think that my devotion to all things “mountain,” along with a lifelong ability to be a pretty keen observer of others, helped me a great deal. You are probably right that I’ve come full circle, although in a lot of sense I don’t feel like I ever left my roots and my grounding. What did happen, and I guess that is the circle, is plenty of formal education, training in how to research, a lot of years in the classroom, and plenty of exposure to other writers active in the fields of my specialization. I have been, at one time or another, president of the Outdoor Writers Association of America, the Southeastern Outdoor Press Association, and the S. C. Outdoor Press Association. I was a founding board member of the Professional Outdoor Media of America. For all of that though, I remain at heart a son of the Smokies and a great deal of my work harkens back to what I now realize was an idyllic boyhood.

Since you first started writing-what effect do you think the Internet has had on writing-especially on newsprint? 

The impact has been huge, and for freelancers like me, devastating. At one point not too terribly long ago I was writing weekly columns for five newspapers. Today I do one weekly column and a second one every other week. That’s it, and the other newspapers no longer cover the outdoors in any consistent fashion at all. I do some work for the Internet, but at this point in time I don’t think many folks have really figured out how to earn the same kind of money from web sites (whether personal or otherwise) that newspapers and magazines traditionally provided. My magazine output is down as well, and not by choice. Where for many years I published around 125-150 articles a year, I probably get half that number of assignments these days. Fortunately for me, there are still books, and increasingly that’s the focus of my writing efforts.

Where can folks find out more about your writing? 

The best place to start is my web site, www.jimcasadaoutdoors.com. There they can find information on my current activities, more details on my career as a writer, my schedule of appearances, and the like. Also, I do a free monthly e-newsletter which usually includes some reminiscences, seasonal thoughts on whatever captures my fancy (often nostalgic looks back to youth), some recipes from the cookbooks my wife and I have written, and the bargain of the month (usually a special price on one or more of my books).

Is there anything else you want my readers to know about your writing? 

If I could emphasize anything about the body of my work and the general thrust of my writing efforts, it would be the profound impact that closeness to the good earth in general, and the world of the Smokies in particular, has exerted on me. I love Appalachian ways with an abiding passion, a corner of my soul belongs to the mountains, and I hope that in some small way my devotion to the place of my roots shows through. Beyond that, I guess I should mention that I’ve won a bunch of regional and national awards over the years.

Can you sum up what Appalachia means to you?

I guess I touched on this above, but my roots run deep in the soil of Appalachia, I’m immensely proud (and protective) of my mountain heritage, the region is my anchor, and I personally think some of my finest work has an Appalachian setting. I’m deeply imbued in the history and folkways of Appalachia, have read and studied the region all my life (although it wasn’t my field of specialization as a historian), and my personal library of books on the region probably runs close to 2,000 items.

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I hope you enjoyed my interview with Jim Casada-check out his website-and read some of his writing-I know you'll be glad you did. Jim's book: Fly Fishing in the Great Smoky Mountains National Park:  An Insider’s Guide to a Pursuit of Passion would make a perfect Father's Day gift or a great gift for anyone who is interested in fly fishing or in the park. The book has tons of information about fly fishing in the Smoky Mountain National Park-but it also has quite a bit on the history of the area and some dandy photos are included as well.

Tipper

p.s. Everyone who guessed the caterpillar was on a pocket knife was correct. It's Chitter's own yellow handled Case Knife.
 

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An Innocent Moonshiner

 

Today's guest post is written by Ed Myers (Bryson City, NC)

AN INNOCENT MOONSHINER

By way of background and to establish at least half of my bonifides, I hail from Oak Ridge, TN, a modest little scientific community created by the U.S. government in a previously unoccupied hollow of the southern Appalachian mountain range (is there any other?), and known far and wide (at least to its residents) as Atomic City, USA. To place the place, Oak Ridgers were once proud to be a part of the Manhattan project and number five on the Soviet Union’s hit list.

Still, despite having been raised in this culturally bizarre setting, in my heart, I have always been a mountain boy, one with deep roots and bare feet in Union County, TN, an equally radioactive place in its own right known more for the explosiveness of its shine than its U-235.

My mother’s people were and are from there, and at the age of 12, she introduced me to a few of these proud and crafty miscreants via the unlikely route of the Southern Appalachian Regional Science Fair held, at least then, in Knoxville.

Our junior high school (as such were known in the sixties; never got used to “middle school”) was allowed one contestant for the annual title of “Best in Regional Science”. I was the one selected that year, not because I had any particular scientific bent, but because I could (and as my close uncles did for a living) sell vacuum cleaners and shoes to folks who had yet to join the grid.

My “science” project was The History of Moonshine, which beat out a kid who made a primitive computer by making magnets dance on a red-hot frying pan (go figure). He won the thing the next year with the same project, but in his defense, he didn’t have the opportunity, as I did, to live…albeit all too briefly…amongst a flamboyant tribe of outright and rightly pleasing liars who possessed only a passing familiarity with the law.

So, I won the pre-competition and had to deliver. My father’s people were Church of Christ from middle Tennessee, so no help there. But, my mother’s were straight up hillbillies and artists of liquor-ish ways, as I was to learn only too (alright, not too much “too”) well.

They knew how to make it from potatoes, from store-bought sugar, from molasses, from peaches and plain old bleached flour if need be. But, their open air “secret”, at least in those parts, was to make it from the hardest, ugliest, most indigestible mule corn they could find.  They taught me how.

The long and short of it was you got some burlap bags, soaked them in water and laid them on a single layer of corn, right by a warm place. Then you waited for sign.

Some said it was a hollow moon rising just above the peaks. To others, it was the chirping of spring robins as they gathered on the land to feed. To my people, however, it was the first sign of life, the swelling of the corn until it just barely cracked its shell and its natural sugars were most concentrated. No sooner; no later.

Perhaps this is why some people call moonshine “the breath of life.” Of course, they may be thinking of something else.

When the sprouts had sprung, as it were, you gathered up all the corn, even those kernels that were a little late in the game, tossed them into a hollow log shaped for the purpose, and mashed them plenty with a two-handled hickory maul to make, well, mash.

You then stole your mother’s clay butter churn (for very small batches), put the mess inside with varying amounts of warm water (about a four-to-one ratio), threw in a cake of yeast, covered it up tight (except for a small hole in the lid) and waited…and waited (about three weeks)…for the resulting “beer” to ferment. I well remember the smell of sour yeast and young liquor that coated your lungs and everything else in the neighborhood.

When the yeast stopped digesting all that sweet corn syrup (in the process “making” grain alcohol), you waited some more…and more (again, about three weeks, unless you “clayed” it the fermented beer)…until it settled to the bottom of the churn. Then, you poured off the refined beer on top, strained it through the burlap sacks you used before, and put it in the still.

The other open secret, aside from the use of bastard corn, was to cook the beer under a very low heat so that most of the alcohol vapors rose ahead of the steaming water into a cooling coil and condensed into the bottle beneath it.

At this point, and depending on the skill of the maker, the white liquor was about 160-180 proof. With practice, you could tell the proof by the size and number of the beads that danced on the surface when you dropped a drop, or by just burning it and judging its purity by the color of the flame. Or, you could drink it and hope you survived enough to croak an opinion.

If you were careful, and took pains to sop up the little bead of poison oil that develops on the beer (another secret step that eliminated most hangovers, or so I’ve been told), what remained was a good quart to quart-and-a-half of undiluted zing, or what has justly become known as “sweet white lightening.”

I know, because I did it, fermenting the beer in my mother’s bedroom (which was unfortunate as the churn cracked and we had to keep my grandmother from my father’s side away for a while).

To shorten the tale, I didn’t win the cup, or ribbon, or whatever, but I made the cover of the local newspaper, and my exhibit was by far the most popular in the place, particularly amongst the other contestants who otherwise wasted their time with such endeavors as mapping variable enzyme levels in cow udders.

And truth be told, I have to ask and thereby answer, who needs dancing computers, when you could be the one dancing?

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Now that was a story! Hope you enjoyed it as much as I did-leave Ed a comment and I'll make sure he reads it!

Tipper

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