“Dewey fixed me a new carbide light—took it right out of the box and filled it up with carbide. As I got down to this schoolhouse where that swinging bridge is—well, fact is I guess I’d passed it about a dozen yards—and if you’d a-throwed a thousand feet of dry lumber on the bridge it wouldn’t a-made no more racket. I walked back and throwed my light from one end of the bridge to the othern, but that bridge was just like it had always been, just like it is today. Wasn’t nothing bothered. It made me kinda study, like anybody would I guess, about what could the racket have been.
“Sonny Nunn and Tom Trosper night-watched at the Ritter Lumber Mill when it was first set up there in that bottom. Tom told me it’d go like ever piece of that lumber in the yard would fall. He’d grab his light and go see, and when he got out there, why not a piece of it was bothered.
“Sonny said he’s watching one night and laying beside a boiler to keep warm and he said right on the other side of that boiler was the purtiest music he ever heard in all of his days. He said it played for something like ten or fifteen minutes before it stopped. He said it shore was purty music.
“Tom stepped out one night from the mill just a little way. The fact is he stepped out in the bushes to squat and do his business. He pulled down his pants and squatted down. He said he’d swear it to his dying day that something blowed its breath right against his butt—and there he was squatted with his pants down.”
At this point Grandpa came back into the house and chuckled as Dad finished his story about Tom Trosper.
“One time I’s out on a trip; come in and unsaddled my mule,” Dad said. “The moon was shining bright, and I didn’t need no light a-tall. I had a little crib with a door about halfway up the side of it. I had to stoop over to get corn out to feed the mule. I heard a racket, and as I raised my head up I saw a big cat go down the hill a-playing with a bind of fodder. It made enough racket that I raised up and looked. It went right through a house wall I’d started to build. It looked like a cat about the size of a small dog. A big cat. It was big enough to handle a bind of fodder and make enough racket that I paid notice to it. It was walking on its hind feet and playing with the fodder with its forefeet, tossing it up and catching it as it come back down. It never paid no attention to me. The bind of fodder looked like gold—except it rattled, like dry fodder will. The cat was black and it had big, bright eyes, almost as bright as lights. But it never did pay no more attention to me than anything. I shore was glad of that!
“Nowadays, you don’t hear nobody talking about seeing or hearing things, and it’s hard to understand why. There’s nothing like they was in them days. It could be there’s people so thick-settled now and they don’t pay no attention to it.”
That morning I spent with Grandpa and Dad became a treasured memory. Later on I transcribed the tapes and later still had the reel-to-reel transferred to cassette tapes.
Grandpa had mentioned that when his father was just a boy, he and another boy slipped off from home and walked to London, Kentucky, to see the first trains. I wanted to hear about that.
“Grandpa, will you come back tomorrow and talk some more about haints and things like that?” I asked. “I also want to hear about Uncle Milt Simpson. Will you come with him, Dad?” They promised to come the next morning. The sun was high overhead when they left for the post office.
The next morning I had coffee and doughnuts ready for them, and the tape recorder set to go. They again sat near the heating stove.
“Grandpa,” I said, “I also want to record the story about a trip your pap took into Virginia.” Dad chuckled and settled down to listen.
The First Trains of London
“When Pap was a boy,” began Grandpa, “the first train that ever come to London, why him and one of them Bingham boys slipped off and went to London to see the train.
“They lived right here on the head of Left Fork, and they slipped off and walked plumb to London to see the train. Well, he said they got there—I don’t remember how many days he said it took them to walk thar—but anyhow he said they got down there and watched the trains going and coming till it’s dark, you know, and neither one of them no money and didn’t know where to go to spend the night.
“Well, he said, they started out walking, said they looked out in a bottom, seen a light and said they took a notion to go and see if they could stay all night there, you know, it’s gettin’ dark. Said the man told them, ‘Yeah,’ when they told him what come them there, and he said, ‘Yeah, come in and stay just as long as you want to.’ I reckon they stayed three days and nights with him to watch them trains, and their parents not a-knowin’ where in the world they’s at; just slipped off like two crazy boys will. Now what about crazy boys now drawing up that idea to go that fur to git to see a train!”
Dad chuckled, and both men were quiet for a minute. “Pap, remember the time when Uncle Eli lived in Virginia and Grandpa went to visit him?” Dad asked.
“Yeah, I remember Pap talking about that,” Grandpa said.
“Tell me about it,” I said.
Going to Virginia
“Uncle Eli lived in Virginia,” Grandpa began. “He come out here, and then Pap went back with him. It was election time and they just fared best in the world ever where they asked to stay all night, they would say, ‘Yeah, come in.’ And jist soon as they got in the house Uncle Eli’d find out how they was—you know—Democrats or Republicans, and ever how they was, why that’s how he was. So Pap said they made the trip plumb through and it never cost them one penny.
“Well, Pap said he got out there and hired out to a man and stayed the next summer. Then Uncle Mike, he come out to Virginnie and begged Pap to come back to this country with him.
“Well, he said, they hit out, and he said not a place could they git to stay all night. Election time was over. He said he remembered them places him and Uncle Eli had stayed; but when they would call, the answer was, ‘No, full up; can’t keep you.’ Finally one man told them he was crowded in the house but they could sleep in the barn loft. The man had a bulldog that he turned loose at night. Well, he said, long about midnight that dog found them out in the barnloft. He said right thar they had to stand. Every time the dog jumped, he hung his forefeet on the edge, and they would kick him off. About eight o’clock in the morning the man happened to hear the dog, and come out and called him off.
“Yeah, man! He said they couldn’t git nothing to eat; people wouldn’t sell them a thing. They starved three days and nights. Finally they looked out and seed a little old log cabin. Pap said he told Uncle Mike, ‘Right thar we’re goin’ to git somethin’ to eat.’ He seed an old-like woman settin’ on the porch. Said he walked up and asked her, said, ‘Aunt, how about gettin’ somethin’ to eat here?’ She said, ‘Yes, honey, come in, I’ll fix ye somethin’ to eat.’
“Well, he said, they went in, said she flew right in, wasn’t jist a few minutes till she had a good dinner fixed. He said when they sot down he happened to cast his eye up and seed some middlings of meat hanging from the rafter. Said he told her, ‘Aunt, how about bakin’ us a pone of bread and cuttin’ us a piece of that meat to take with us?’ She said, ‘Yeah, honey, that’s what I’ve got hit fer, to sell.’ She baked them a big pone of bread, then went to that meat and sot her knife right middleway and she jist split it open and wrapped it up and give it to them. They asked her, ‘How much do we owe you?’ and she said, ‘Oh, I reckon about fifty cents.’
“He said they had plenty to eat from thar on home. Brought some of the meat home with them. They walked all the way from West Virginia to Foresters Creek, Kentucky, up on the Cumberland River.”
“Grandpa,” I said, “I’ve heard Dad and Granny Brock tell tales about a man they called Uncle Milt Simpson. Did you know him?”
“He was my age,” Grandpa said. “I didn’t know him as a friend. But I knew some of the tricks he pulled on people.”
Uncle Milt Simpson
“He was sure a slick, sharp man. One time he boasted
to Uncle Larkin Howard that he could steal a sheep from him and tell him about it. He said Larkin would never know it.
“One night, it’d been drizzling rain and was a dark foggy time. He went down and knocked one of Larkin’s big black wethers in the head and laid it across his shoulders and walked right through Larkin’s yard. Called out to Uncle Larkin, ‘Go home with me, Uncle Larkin.’
“‘No, come in, Uncle Milt,’ said Larkin.
“‘No, I’ve got to go home, the wether’s dark and heavy.’
“Uncle Milt picked out dark, foggy weather to steal Uncle Larkin’s wether. Later he told Uncle Larkin about it.
“He’s the awfullest man ever was. Ever word told is true too. He’d get to wanting to buy a certain milk cow off one of his neighbors, and if the neighbor said no, he would slip to the pasture and milk her, at first a little bit, then each day a little more, until pretty soon it looked to the neighbor like his cow was going dry. He’d pass by and say, ‘You ever took a notion to sell me that cow?’
“‘Yeah, believe I will,’ the man would usually say, thinking he was going to pull one over on Uncle Milt. So Milt would git his cow.
“One time he went to another old man’s house, passed by his pigpen, and drove a nail through their foreheads—there’s three of them-while they’s sleeping. He went early next morning to the old man’s house and said, ‘Say, Uncle, all three of your hogs is lying dead.’ The old man thought cholera had killed them.
‘“Well, guess I’ll have to haul them off
‘“Tell you what. I’ll haul ‘em away for you, take them home, and let the old women make them up in soap.’ The old man was glad to get rid of them, and Uncle Milt took them home, cleaned ‘em, and salted them down in his smokehouse.”
“He was a likable fellow, you know,” Dad interjected. “He’d steal from people, then go tell ‘em how he did it. They admired his way of being so slick and usually told him he could keep whatever he stole.”
“One time,” Grandpa continued, “why they’s a young married man come to him and said, ‘Uncle Milt, I have a problem. I have only one hog to kill this year. Several neighbors have give me messes of fresh meat, and when I kill mine they’ll expect a mess of meat back. I won’t have much left.’
‘“Well, son, this is what you do. Kill your hog late in the evening and hang it up outside and let the night air-cool it off while it drains out good. Next day tell the neighbors somebody stole it.’
“The young man did as advised, and that night Uncle Milt stole it. Next day the man rushed to him and said, ‘Uncle Milt, somebody stole my hog last night.’ Uncle Milt grinned and replied, ‘You said that like it was the real truth. Just stick to that.’
“‘But Uncle Milt, somebody did steal it. I swear they did.’
“‘That’s the way, son, say it just that way, your neighbors will really believe you,’ Uncle Milt said.”
THIS TIME THAT DAD AND GRANDPA spent with me is precious to remember. Both are now long dead, but I have their recorded voices talking to me in the mountain dialect we all used.
4
Satisfy Hunger, Tickle the Funny Bone
Midsummer to me is wildflowers—the blue of
chicory, the black-eyed Susan, butterfly weed
flaunting bright orange colors, and lovely white
Queen Anne’s lace.
The kitchen has been the center of most of my family life, just as it was for the first pioneer settlers who built log cabins in the wilderness. The red- or blue-checked tablecloth and curtains, a fireplace, the warmth and smell of good food cooking—these linger in the memories of generations of country people. Thanksgiving and Christmas, fried chicken and homemade ice cream, and birthday celebrations—it all originates in the kitchen. As I look back, I realize how that big, warm kitchen knitted the family together. To my way of thinking, family rooms have never quite succeeded in replacing the kitchen in the hearts and memories of the family.
When mountain people leave home to go “up north” to find work, they take along a very real sense of place. Ask any displaced Appalachian what he or she misses most about being away from the mountains and you will probably hear about soup beans, cornbread, sallet greens, fresh milk and butter, eggs, country ham, and hot biscuits every morning.
Reunions
I think of August as the month that ends summer. And I think of summer as the time of family reunions, although I am sure that reunions are held during other parts of the year.
Almost everyone born in southern Appalachia feels the pull to return to the place of his or her birth. There seem to be ties with the hills that cannot be broken but must be renewed at intervals. Having lived in the mountains, we almost become a part of them, or they become a part of us. Kinship is a strong bond for families from the mountains, even for those that have scattered, and the bonds are nurtured and strengthened when they return.
There is something about my roots in the mountains that never lets me stray from memories of home. Even though I left years ago, my memories of the old houses, one-room schools, decaying barns, and overgrown fields where I spent my childhood linger on.
To me, there is something mystical about warm rain, early morning dew, the sound of tree frogs and tadpoles. And there is something about the smell of wild honeysuckle floating on air so warm and moist it sticks to our faces and hands. Generation after generation of hill-bred parents know that, no matter where their children may move in the world, their children will come to know “home” as they do. These parents strongly believe, even if they could never articulate it in words, that if they cannot impart this sense of place, then they will have failed their children.
Still, it seems to me that there are not as many family reunions as there used to be, even in the mountains. Should we mourn the passing of family, community spirit, and cooperation? Or are these things being expressed in other ways?
In an unsettled world, with families often scattered north, east, south, and west, coming home always gave me a sense of stability and family unity. And where I came from, most family reunions, barn raisings, and cabin buildings revolved around food, especially for the women. The reunions I remember had no overall plan; nobody told anybody what specifically to bring. When the food was laid out, on plank tables, it was a smorgasbord, country-style. And as the old mountain phrase goes, “They must have put the big pot in the little one,” meaning that everybody brought an overabundance of food.
There was sure to be chicken and dumplings, green beans, corn (both fried and on the cob), and platters of sliced tomatoes. There would be fried chicken, baked ham, cornbread, and biscuits. And you could count on fruit salad, potato salad, gelatin salad, and cole slaw, deviled eggs, and fried apples. For dessert, there would be blackberry cobblers, pans of gingerbread, apple pies, cherry pies, black walnut cake, fresh coconut and chocolate cakes, dried apple stack cakes, lemon pies, and banana puddings. Sometimes there would even be cold watermelon and gallons of homemade ice cream, depending on how far along in the season it was.
Generous as they were, the mountain women I knew were hard put to supply recipes, belonging as they did to the “pinch of this and dab of that” school of cooking. By perseverance, however, and by writing down everything they said about their methods and later carefully measuring just how much a “dab” was or how big is a lump of butter the size of a walnut, I managed to record some recipes for the foods I remember.
The United Methodist Church of Stoney Fork, of which I am a charter member, hosts an annual homecoming the first Sunday in July. Families and friends come from Indiana, Ohio, Michigan, Kansas, Iowa, North Carolina, and other places to renew acquaintances and reestablish old ties. Although we cannot all attend every year, I am happy to know that old friends will be there and that perhaps next July we will see each other again.
Having Fun Together
When I was young, we laughed together whenever there was any kind of gathering. There would be preacher jokes, mule jokes, mother-in-law jokes, and goss
ip jokes. An anecdote about somebody not present would always end with the phrase “bless her [or his] heart.”
We laughed in spite of living in what most people would consider harsh circumstances. At home we sat around the fireplace in the winter-time or on the front porch in the summertime and told each other funny stories, riddles, and sayings. There always seemed to be things to laugh about, and we eagerly sought them. Everyone wanted to be the first with an amusing anecdote, joke, or riddle. Dad and the other men loved to tell about escapades they’d had while hunting, dealing with livestock, or eluding the revenuers.
Later, when I grew up, I learned that when an unsettling undercurrent of today’s reality sneaks in, humor can help. In addition, humor is almost always the best way to battle Appalachian stereotypes.
The Power of Riddles
Telling riddles is both an intellectual exercise and form of entertainment that goes back as far in history as we have any knowledge of man’s intellectual doings. Even the Bible contains riddles. The Anglo-Saxons evidently loved riddles because they preserved many elaborate ones. Down through the years, poets have written riddles in verse. Riddles have been used for various kinds of tests. But the fun of riddles comes from the riddles themselves, not from the discourses about them.
“Riddling” has been a traditional form of social activity in Appalachia; sad to say, though, young people these days know fewer and fewer of the old riddles.
Perhaps the most famous riddle still to be found in Appalachia is the Riddle of the Sphinx, which Oedipus answered in order to become King of Thebes. What goes on four legs in the morning, two at noon, and three in the afternoon? Answer: A human being.
In the mountains the most suggestive riddles—“bad” riddles with innocent answers—always seemed to be the most popular. The shock of the innocent answer added to the overall impact.
My Appalachia Page 4
