Cora Wilson Stewart had a dream to eliminate illiteracy in one generation.
If she failed to completely eradicate illiteracy, she did make an important and long-lasting contribution. Playing a critical role in the development of adult education, she is now considered a pioneer in the field of literacy training.
1. Ida Clyde Clarke, “Moonlight-School Lady,” Pictorial Review, January 1926.
2. Yvonne Honeycutt Baldwin, Cora Wilson Stewart and Kentucky’s Moonlight School: Fighting for Literacy in America (Lexington: University Press of Kentucky, 2006), 42.
3. Baldwin, Cora Wilson Stewart, 45.
4. Baldwin, Cora Wilson Stewart, 42–45.
5. Baldwin, Cora Wilson Stewart, 46.
6. Baldwin, Cora Wilson Stewart, 188.
Fact or Fiction?
HISTORY HAS “STORY” AT ITS CENTER. Narrative is assumed—a beginning, a middle, an end. And yet, while reading historical fiction, a reader has every right to wonder where truth ends and fiction begins. Cora Wilson Stewart’s story was indeed factual and, I hope, her personality and determination were accurately represented. While the characters surrounding her (Lucy Wilson, Angie Cooper, Brother Wyatt, Finley James, and the others) were fictitious, I tried to remain true to Cora Wilson Stewart’s spirit as I wove a story about her.
Mollie McGlothin, the elderly mountain woman, was also factual. There were three aha moments with mountain people that provided Cora Wilson Stewart with the inspiration for her life’s work. Mollie McGlothin was the first incident and, most likely, the most profound. Mollie brought her daughter Jane’s letters to Cora to read and to answer back. There came a day when Mollie told Cora that she no longer needed help. She had bought a speller for herself and had taught herself to read. For Cora, Mollie’s accomplishment turned upside down the current academic presumptions of adult illiteracy. Academics assumed there was a window for a child to learn to read, and once that window was shut, the opportunity was forever lost. Inspired by Mollie McGlothin, Cora Wilson Stewart proved them wrong.
FACT: Singing school masters and shape note notation. Similar to itinerant preachers, these singing school masters would stay in a location for a while to teach a singing school. The first singing schools began in New England in the early 1700s as a means to spread the use of written music. The tradition caught on quickly in the rural South, including the use of shape-note hymn singing.
FICTION: Miss Norah and a handful of other teachers weren’t enthusiastic participants in the Moonlight Schools campaign.
FACT: Right from the start, all the teachers under Cora’s management were loyal to the campaign, extremely supportive. It was entirely a grassroots movement, made up of volunteers. Many years later, one teacher said it was the highlight of her life.
The teachers were her strongest supporters, but she did not know if they would be willing to give up their evenings to teach adults after they had dealt with children during the daytime. She decided to appeal to their basic self-interest: she told them that teaching the parents would encourage interest in the public schools. If parents were interested in the schools, they would see that the children attended during the day, and they would support the county schools. With this inducement, the teachers volunteered without exception to teach the night schools.1
FACT: The speedy educational progress of Finley James in a month’s time. According to Yvonne Honeycutt Baldwin, a highly motivated older student, in those days, could sail through grades.
BOTH FACT AND FICTION: The superstitious beliefs held by the mountain people. One example in the book was Lucy’s father’s reaction to boots on a table top as a sign of coming death. Odd old traditions, as illogical as they may be, are hard to let go of.
1. Baldwin, Cora Wilson Stewart, 35.
Recommended Reading about the Life of
Cora Wilson Stewart
Yvonne Honeycutt Baldwin, Cora Wilson Stewart: Fighting for Literacy in America (Lexington: The University Press of Kentucky, 2006).
Willie Nelms, Cora Wilson Stewart: Crusade against Illiteracy (Jefferson, NC: McFarland, 1997).
Discussion Questions
Cora Wilson Stewart was an unsung hero, a woman ahead of her time. The facts surrounding her life were all true—she was raised in Rowan County, she became the first female Superintendent of Education, she was divorced three times (twice to the same man), she created the Moonlight School campaign, and she had a remarkable, purposeful long life. What aspects of her life or personality did you find most inspiring?
How do you respond to Brother Wyatt’s provocative question: “If it’s not wrong, does that make it right?”
Cora, who did not have success with marriage, held a calling to a life’s work in higher regard than matrimony. She gave Lucy a warning about men. “A man like Andrew Spencer has the looks and charisma that can hide flaws. Like soft spots on a seemingly perfect apple. You don’t realize they’re there until you bite into them.” What is your reaction to Cora’s advice?
Brother Wyatt divided Almighty into two words. All Mighty. Mighty over all. He said it made a difference. How so?
Sally Ann Duncan told Lucy, “Sometimes you have to give something up to make room for something new.” How many times did you notice that adage coming true in this story?
“Try to picture,” Cora said, “what life is like for one who must get all his information by ear. If a man cannot read or write or vote, he cannot speak. He is mute. He is forgotten. You might think it’s a pity they cannot read, but the real tragedy is they cannot speak.” Put yourself in the place of an illiterate. What privileges would you be missing?
Lucy’s father was unlikable and likable, both. He lived by a basic philosophy: “Better to face forward in life, not backward.” Given the circumstances of his life, from growing up in Rowan County, to losing his wife and daughter, what are your thoughts about his mantra? Was it a coping mechanism? Or wise counsel?
Put yourself in Lucy’s polished boots. How would you have handled her discovery of Angie’s identity? Do you think Lucy made the right decision? Explain.
Finding a life of purpose is a central theme in this novel. Lucy Wilson found purpose in Rowan County. Or . . . did purpose find her?
One
A YEAR HAD PASSED since Luke Schrock’s exile from Stoney Ridge began. A very long year. He’d been in and out of rehab twice. Wait. Hold on. Make that three times. He’d forgotten the three-day holiday weekend he’d checked himself out and went on a bender.
The bus swerved and bumped on the country roads, stirring his stomach and ratcheting up his anxiety. The bus was stuffy and hot; it made him long for fresh air and cold, all at once. He was on his way back home.
Home. Luke had a feeling he couldn’t name exactly, but one he’d never had in relation to home before. It used to mean security, belonging, unconditional acceptance. What he felt now contained that, all that, but to today was added a hint of desperation.
This was a bad idea. A terrible idea. He’d never intended to return to Stoney Ridge. The counselor had strongly recommended that Luke find sober, supportive living arrangements. What could be more sober than an Amish farm? he asked Luke.
Uh, well, that depends. Luke had been living among the Amish as he developed a dependency on alcohol.
But then David Stoltzfus, his bishop, agreed with the counselor. He had told him to stop running away from his problems, that coming home again was the only road to manhood.
He recognized the fork in the road that would lead the bus straight into Stoney Ridge. Pulling the cord to hop off the bus seemed like a very appealing option. He could head right toward Lancaster, rather than left to Stoney Ridge. He could do it. He should do it.
But he didn’t. The bus zoomed left.
David had promised he’d be waiting at the bus stop. Luke held out a sliver of hope that his mother might be there too, and maybe his younger brother Sammy. There was no chance that Galen King, his mother’s husband, would be there. No chance. Not after what had ha
ppened to Galen’s prized horse. Nope. No chance.
When Luke had asked David what he would do with himself once he was back in town, the bishop was vague. “One thing at a time, Luke. Let’s get you home first.”
Luke had wanted to ask him if home meant the Inn at Eagle Hill, where his mother and brother and stepfather lived, or if he was using “home” as a metaphor. But something inside held him back from asking, partly because he had a feeling David didn’t know the answer.
David Stoltzfus had gone above and beyond the call of duty for Luke this last year. He’d come to visit him regularly, even when Luke told him not to bother. But David did bother, over and over again. He brought books to read, for he knew Luke loved to read. He read them too, and then they would discuss them. Conversation grew easier between them. Those visits, they meant a lot to Luke, and he hoped David had some idea how much. The reason David had never given up on Luke was, he said, because God never gave up on people.
The bus hit a pothole and jolted Luke against the window. He recognized the passing farm as Windmill Farm, belonging to Amos and Fern Lapp, and took note of the new mailbox. Not so long ago, he’d put a cherry bomb in their old one and blown it to smithereens.
Why had he done that? It was a circling discussion in group therapy—what were triggers that caused destructive behavior? The counselor encouraged everyone to identify those triggers, so they’d know to recognize them. And then, to redirect thoughts and feelings and behaviors toward something beneficial.
Luke had tried to identify his triggers, tried and failed. Why had he hurt people, like the Lapps, who had been so good to him? He couldn’t find an answer.
For a short while, before blowing up the Lapps’ mailbox, he’d even apprenticed for Jesse Stoltzfus’s buggy shop at Windmill Farm. Like so many opportunities Luke had been given, it hadn’t gone well. The counselor suggested that if anyone got too close to Luke, he would do something to push them away. Translation: self-sabotage. If anything went too well, he would find a way to ruin it. He saw that in himself. What he didn’t know was why.
That was another reason the counselor had consistently encouraged Luke to return to Stoney Ridge. “Find out why,” he’d told Luke. “You’ll never move forward until you find out why.”
“Moving forward.” Translation for counseling code: aftercare. Luke had grown savvy to counselor code. The first time he was released from rehab, he was adamant that he would not return to Stoney Ridge. Moving forward, he was convinced, meant moving on. Make a fresh start.
He tried. He failed. Back he went to rehab.
This time, rehab lasted a little longer. Instead of sixty days, it was ninety days. “Better chance for long-term success,” the counselor said. Not so for Luke. As soon as he was released, he went on that three-day bender. David bailed him out of jail and took him back to the clinic. This time, it lasted more than six months. Now that should give him a much, much better chance not to relapse. Added to that was the warning from David that this was the last rescue. If he relapsed, if he ended up in jail, he’d stay there. Three strikes was the limit, even for David, the most tolerant man in the world.
Luke had to agree with the counselor on one thing: he didn’t seem to be able to move forward. “Why not go back and face your past?” the counselor said. “What do you have to lose?”
Nothing. Absolutely nothing. Absolutely no one. Grudgingly, Luke agreed to return to Stoney Ridge. It was one thing to say no to your counselor, but nearly impossible to say no to your bishop, especially one like David.
After making that decision, he’d had the first good night’s sleep in . . . well, maybe in the entire last year. But that didn’t mean he wasn’t anxious about his homecoming. He was. These Amish, they had long, long memories.
At the turnoff to Windmill Farm, he noticed a woman standing behind a beat-up farm stand. Amos had fine orchards, old trees that had been lovingly tended. Luke remembered that very farm stand, topped with baskets of tree ripened fruit, jugs of cider, and an honest jar. He also thought of how often he used to dip into that jar when he was low on cash.
Ouch. Another stinging memory.
David called those stinging memories one of the greatest gifts given by the Holy Spirit. Convicting memories, David called them. Conviction was meant to turn us to confession. And confession brought us back to God.
Luke doubted David ever had much of anything to confess. If he did, he would know the sick feeling that came along with the stinging memories. The disgust and self-loathing.
The bus jolted again. He squinted, wondering if Fern Lapp was the woman at the farm stand, but quickly dismissed that thought. Fern was thin, wiry—small but mighty. A force to be reckoned with.
This woman looked young. She was tall and held herself erect, like a queen. She wore a Plain lavender dress with a black apron. A blue kerchief kept the hair out of her eyes. Luke leaned closer to the window to peer at the woman as the bus passed by. Who was she? Just then, she looked up and waved at the passing bus, and Luke felt a shock run through him. Izzy Miller. She’d been a patient at the rehab center during his first attempt to get clean and sober. He’d been in a group session with her once or twice. She hadn’t talked much, but he did notice her. Oh yeah, he noticed her all right. She wasn’t the sort of person you’d easily forget. He remembered thinking she was the prettiest girl he’d ever seen. High, wide cheekbones; snapping dark brown eyes; luxurious brunette hair. He also remembered her as being frustratingly aloof; he had tried, without success, to get her attention a few times. Why in the world was she at Windmill Farm, of all places? And why was she dressed Plain?
Well, well. Luke’s grim spirits lifted considerably. Stoney Ridge was looking better already.
Acknowledgments
INSPIRATION CAN COME in the most unexpected ways . . . if you’re listening for it.
I have a daily habit of listening to a local classical radio station as I write. A while ago, the radio host made a casual remark about this day in history: “On September 5, 1911, the Moonlight Schools began.” The host explained a few brief facts about the campaign and mentioned Cora Wilson Stewart. A shiver went up my spine. I stopped what I was doing to research the Moonlight Schools. I knew I had to tell this story. That very day, I called my editor. Not much later, a contract was in the mail. And . . . if you’re wondering, the answer is yes! I sent a big fat donation to the listener-supported radio show as a thank-you for the inspiration.
Thank you to Dr. Mattie Decker and Dr. Yvonne Honeycutt Baldwin, for sharing their enthusiasm, their vast knowledge on the subject, and their willingness to answer my questions. As Mattie said, “I feel as if Cora is my friend. I know her so well.” Yvonne, whose dissertation about Cora Wilson Stewart was a goldmine of information, could not have been more generous with her time. Her well-researched book provided one dimension about Cora. Our phone conversations brought Cora to life, making her three dimensional. From Yvonne came little extra tidbits, such as Cora’s headaches (possibly migraines), that made this woman so real.
To Rick Charles at the Railroad Museum at Morehead, thank you for your willingness to share your knowledge.
To the oh-so-talented Trent Smith, who answered some questions about the violin and fiddling.
To Lindsey Ross and Meredith Munoz, my first readers, whose input and feedback made this story so much better.
Research is my favorite part of the writing process. I spent long hours studying Rowan County in eastern Kentucky, its history, its topography, and what made it stand apart from neighboring mining counties. I also spent time studying the folklore and culture, the food and the fauna. And then there’s the music! Learning about the tradition of music in Appalachia—fiddling and clogging, shape note notation, singing schools—became one of my favorite discoveries.
A book passes through so many helpful hands before it reaches its final stage. The Revell team are stellar at bringing the best out of a manuscript (first to Andrea Doering’s wise initial editing, then passing it
to Barb Barnes’s eagle eye), gift wrapping it in a beautifully designed cover (Gayle Raymer), and delivering it to the right venues to catch readers’ attention (Michele Misiak, Karen Steele, Brianne Dekker). And there are still others who play a quiet yet vital role: my agent, Joyce Hart, of the Hartline Literary Agency, for one, to whom I will always be grateful for cracking open that first door.
As I’ve studied the impact of literacy for this novel, my appreciation for the Author of language has only expanded. God is a communicator. I’m so grateful for his help to find remarkable people whose stories are worth telling.
Great stories move people. So do great people. I did the best I could in trying to bring to life the story of a significant year in the legacy of Cora Wilson Stewart’s life, arguably her most defining year, and to provide an accurate historical context for the story. But this book is a work of fiction. Any and all blunders belong to me.
Suzanne Woods Fisher is an award-winning, bestselling author of more than thirty books, including On a Coastal Breeze, as well as the Nantucket Legacy, Amish Beginnings, The Bishop’s Family, The Deacon’s Family, and The Inn at Eagle Hill series, among other novels. She is also the author of several nonfiction books about the Amish, including Amish Peace and Amish Proverbs. She lives in California. Learn more at www.suzannewoodsfisher.com and follow Suzanne on Facebook @SuzanneWoodsFisherAuthor and Twitter @suzannewfisher.
SuzanneWoodsFisher.com
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