Getting good clay is the main thing. You just don’t get good clay hardly anymore because [it’s almost all been taken]. We get the clay in the [Catawba] River bottoms. We’ve been getting it in the same place for years and years. Two kinds of clay, blue clay and pipe clay, are mixed together. You’ve got to dig real deep to get the pipe clay and it comes from a different place. And we do not tell; we don’t give the secret away of where we get it. And we don’t show how we mix that clay.
That stuff is hard to dig out. A woman just couldn’t hardly dig the clay. It’d take a good man to get down there and dig. [My sons, my son-in-law, and my husband] have all went and helped. Sometimes maybe there’s two or three different families might go. We dig the hole [for the clay] and then when we’ve got all we need, we fill that hole back in with dirt. Then we bring home five or six bushels, lay it out in the sun and let it dry, so when we’re beating it up, see, it’ll be little small chunks. When we put water in that dry clay, it’s going to melt up. Then we can just work with it in a tub and it’ll get real thick like syrup. Then pour a little more water to it so it will run through a screen wire onto a cloth. Then I let it dry [until the clay is a workable texture]. Then I’ve got to put the clay in a plastic bag or plastic bucket to keep it damp so I can work with it.
PLATE 158 Tools Nola uses to shape and burnish her pots and to etch designs.
PLATE 159 Nola rolls the clay out into long cylinders and sets them aside. The base of the pot is then prepared from a ball of clay pressed into the shape of a saucer.
PLATE 160 The cylinders are added to the base one row at a time until the desired height is reached. She secures the rolls together with her fingers by a process she calls “clinching,” and uses the lid of a tin can dipped in water to smooth the inside of the pot.
PLATE 161 She uses a rectangular piece of tin to smooth and shape the outside of the pot.
PLATE 162 Now she makes another cylinder of clay to use for the rim of the pot. She fastens its ends together to form a ring and then works the ring to fit the diameter of the mouth of the pot.
PLATE 163 She clinches the rim to the mouth of the pot, shaping it into waves and curves if desired. Then she sets the pot aside to stiffen before burnishing.
PLATE 164 She also makes two varieties of ducks. One is hollow, its wings and tail shaped by trimming the clay with a dull knife.
PLATE 165 The other is solid.
PLATE 166 After the clay has dried and stiffened somewhat, the surface of the jug or pot is scraped. Here, she works on a wedding jug. “I’d rather make them than scrape them and rub them and finish them up. That’s the part that’s tiresome to me. I have to scrape a few and then do something else.
“I scrape my pots with old wore-out kitchen knives or pocket knives. Then after I scrape them, they sit and dry some more. Then I wash them down with a cloth.”
PLATE 167 “Then I take a rock or something else smooth and rub them. Rubbing makes the pots slick. I also use a little piece of deer antler that my husband cut for me. It’s real slick. I rub in all the little places and up under the handles of the pots with it.”
Here, she burnishes the handle of a small Rebekah pitcher.
PLATE 168 “I make peace pipes, ducks, turtles, pitchers, wedding jugs, crimped bowls, vases, Rebekah pitchers, gypsy pots. These styles are traditions that the Indians have made up from history, way back. They tell me that in the olden days, they made the pots and other utensils they cooked in. The ones that I make can be used to put flowers in or just set up to look at and have around. They’re pretty.”
These pieces have been scraped and burnished and are now drying before being fired.
PLATE 169 Before firing, Nola bakes the dried pots in her oven to make sure all the moisture is evaporated out of the clay. She said, “I put them in the stove for four or five hours to heat them so they can stand the fire. They get really dark when they’re ready, and you can smell them all over the house. It’s just like wet dirt when it rains. When I started making pottery, we had to use the oven of a wood stove.”
PLATE 170 While the pots bake, Nola’s husband, Willie, removes the debris left in the pit from previous firings.
PLATE 171 Then he splits wood for the firing. Nola said, “I think the wood we use determines the color of the pots. If we throw pine bark in on them, they spot and have (different colors). You don’t know what they’ll look like until they come out.”
PLATE 172 Teresa Wilburn, a granddaughter, helps put the first layer of wood in the pit. Nola explained, “We have to lay four sticks of wood down, and that’s where the pots go.”
PLATE 173 A layer of newspapers or pine needles is added over the wood.
PLATE 174 Then Willie removes the heated pots from the oven.
PLATE 175 While still hot, the pots are placed on the layer of paper in the pit.
PLATE 176 When all the pots are in the hole, they are covered with a layer of newspapers or pine needles.
PLATE 177 Now the firing process begins. “I take my dry wood and little dry twigs off a tree and put them in there first. Then I set the paper and twigs on fire and they’ll catch up. Then I lay my green wood on that and it’ll start burning.”
PLATE 178 As each layer of oak on top begins to burn to coals, Willie adds a new layer, gently positioning the pieces with a shovel. Nola says, “We just go out there and keep adding wood until I think I’ve got three good fires burnt down on it.”
PLATE 179 Nola and Willie relax as they put the last layer of wood on the fire. “After I burn them three or four hours, I know they’re ready.”
PLATE 180 “I’ll leave them in the hole until after the ashes get burned down pretty low. If I don’t, and the air hits them while they’re hot, boy, they’ll pop in a minute! I let them cool off before I try to handle them.”
PLATE 181 After being removed from the pit, the pots are ready to be rubbed with a rough towel to clean off the ashes.
PLATE 182 A fired snake pot and wedding jug.
THE JUD NELSON WAGON
Though we have published several short wagon-making features in the past [Foxfire 2, pages 118-41, for example], we have never attempted anything about that subject that comes close to being as comprehensive as the following chapter.
For this section of Foxfire 9, David Brewin, a young professional blacksmith who was a member of the Foxfire staff at the time, spent three months with Jud Nelson, a master mountain blacksmith/craftsman, and followed him through and photographed the entire process of making a complete farm wagon. David was there when Jud selected the chunks of raw white oak for the wheels’ hubs from a neighbor’s pile of winter wood; and he was there when a commemorative brass plaque was attached to the bed of the finished wagon prior to its being transported from Jud’s shop in Sugar Valley, Georgia, to the Foxfire complex in Rabun County where it is now part of our permanent collection. In the interim, David transported students back and forth between the two locations so they could help him photograph the construction process.
With over 160 plates, this chapter emerges as the longest one we have ever undertaken in the documentation of the making of one item by a single craftsperson; even at that, it is incomplete. The entire story would fill this book. What’s here, however, will give those of you who are unfamiliar with the process involved a rare glimpse into a formidably complicated—and yet once commonplace—task.
Why do we bother?
Well, for starters, the importance of having a man like Jud in a community seventy years ago—a man who could build or repair a wagon—was exactly analogous to the status we would give today, were there no assembly lines, to the only man left in our region who could design and build and/or fix a car.
That’s part of the reason. Another has to do with the fact that Jud is one of a rare breed. John Conley and Will Zoellner, his counterparts who were interviewed for Foxfire 2, are both dead now, and they were rarities when we interviewed them years ago.
PLATE 183 Jud Nelson standing in front of his sh
op.
And another is rooted in our continuing desire to help young people around here understand that despite the almost brutal harshness of a self-sufficient lifestyle, artists lived who lay to rest the stereotype of the insensitive mountain hick.
The chapter begins with Jud telling about his life. The remainder is made up of photographs and diagrams made, for the most part, as the wagon was being built. However, a number of the diagrams and some of the information in the captions were taken from an extraordinary book called Practical Carriage Building.* Should any one of our readers out there actually plan to go beyond simply appreciating the following material and try to build a wagon, this book will prove to be indispensable. Instead of being the work of one author, the book is a compendium of the opinions of a number of different professional blacksmiths of the time regarding nearly every step in the process of building both wagons and carriages. It’s an invaluable document, and the Early American Industries Association is to be highly praised for reprinting it.
Meanwhile, we hope you’ll agree with us in our estimation that the space devoted to Jud and his wagon is richly deserved as a part of Foxfire 9.
My mother was born in 1878, in the month of October. Daddy was born in March of 1875. Granddaddy Patterson and [Granddaddy] Nelson were both born in 1840. They had a standing offer [that the one who was still living] when the other one died would build a coffin to bury him in. That was the deal they had, and Granddaddy Patterson built the coffin to bury Granddaddy Nelson. Granddaddy Nelson died in 1908, and Granddaddy Patterson died in 1911, two months to the day before I was born.
I was born in Cherokee County [Georgia] and moved to Gordon County in 1913 when I was two. I’ve lived in this county ever since then except for about four years [when I was in the Navy].
Daddy had three brothers. My uncle John Nelson, Daddy’s oldest brother, was a blacksmith. He had a shop down below Canton. I never did remember seeing him—he seen me when I was little—but they said he was six foot six inches tall and was a real character.
I’ve heard a lot of them say that he was a fiddle player from a way ago. Daddy said he knowed of them a-sittin’ down at night there—start about eleven o’clock—and he’d still be a-playin’ when the sun come up and never play the same tune over. He’d drag that bow! I think he was pretty full of mischief, too. Mean as the devil. Said that some old feller down there—didn’t know him—kept on at him to come out to [his house] and bring his fiddle with him one winter night and stay till bedtime. Uncle John went out there about eleven o’clock that night, and that was late then, and he got his fiddle out and started playing and he was still playing when the sun come up the next morning. That old man never did say no more to him about the fiddle playing after that. He had all he wanted! [laughter]
And I think he could take a piece of wood and carve anything that he wanted to out of it—animals or anything no matter what it was. I heard my sister and them talking about it.
But he was a real Francis Whittaker [one of the finest blacksmiths in the country] in his days from what they tell me. Him and the other man is all I ever knew that could weld a main leaf for a car spring and upset it and retemper it, so he had to be pretty damn good on it, I think. I haven’t tried welding a spring in thirty years. Used to, I’d just try it and think I had it and then it would fall in two. I didn’t do no good! [laughter]
And I heard a lot of folks say that years ago, gun springs would break, and a lot of other blacksmiths could make [them] but they couldn’t temper [them correctly]. And I’ve heard a lot of them tell me that there’d be blacksmiths ride a horse ten or fifteen miles to get Uncle John to temper a spring for them. They’d make it and get it dressed good and then take it to Uncle John. My daddy said he would harden it, and then he used beef tallow, and he’d draw that temper with that beef tallow once it got dry.
Lots of people would try to get him to teach them. My cousin told me once that years ago a blacksmith started out and he went down and told Uncle John that he wanted him to teach him how to forge-weld. Uncle John went down there and the feller had some corn [liquor] sitting there and they got to sucking along on that. Said that old boy got pretty high. He was still pumping that bellows and had [a piece] in the fire ready to weld. Uncle John didn’t say a word to him and that boy took it out and he’d done burned it up. Uncle John said, “Well,” says, “that’s the best lesson you’ll ever learn.” Says, “You’ve got to pay attention to what you’re doing.” Got on his horse and went on back home.
That reminds me of another story! [laughter] Years and years ago, in them Prohibition days, the federal court in Rome [Georgia] picked jurymen from eight or ten counties. One of the jurymen they picked was an old man who went from Canton down to Rome there to serve on the jury. He drove a horse and buggy down there. He had a good friend down there at Rome, and that old man liked to drink in the evenings. The friend knew where they could get them a drink.
You’ve heard the sensible answers a drunk man gives? This old boy was sitting over at the table, his head a-laying on the table. He was done sot. Some man and his wife had separated and everybody was discussing what they’d do if she was a woman of theirs. Said the drunk raised up and said, “It’s a strange thing to me that everybody knows what to do with a mean woman but the man that’s got her!” And plunk, back down went his head. Said that’s all he said. [laughter] Said that’s the sensiblest answer that he had ever heard a drunk say! He never said another dang word. That’s all he said.
Alec was his name and they called him “Square” Alec. He was a-coming in from Canton one morning about sunup and he was cold. Said, “You reckon the old man likes whiskey better than a hog likes slop?” He was coming on out and he met two fellers and a big frost was on the ground. The old man had a brick laying in the floor of his buggy to keep his feet warm. These two fellers had just made their first or second run of whiskey. They had a pint bottle full there with them. They told him, “Well, Square, we’ve been off and made a little run.” Says, “Got a little sample here. Just wondering if you’d like to sample it.”
Said, “Yes, I’d love to sample it.”
They handed him that bottle and he put his thumb down about halfway down the bottle and turned it down and drank till it reached his thumb, and he smacked his mouth. Turned it back up again and emptied that bottle, handed it back to them and said, “It’s just a little bit scorched in the bottom!”
But anyway, later in his life Uncle John went down to Plains, Georgia, and put up a blacksmith shop and wagon manufacture there in 1922. He got damp out there building the shop—took pneumonia and died in about two days. He was fifty-two or fifty-four.
Blacksmithing was one pretty good way to make a living back then, and there weren’t many others. I know there used to be a lot of logging around here. There was [a demand] for crossties. Course, years ago the railroad would take crossties that were hewed [by hand]. You see, they didn’t have to be squared like they’re sawing ’em now. They would just hew ’em with a broadax. Uncle Tom Serritt would get down on his hands and knees [with a] gauge. They’d cut the whole tree down and make four, five, or six ties out of it—whatever it made. They had this gauge that was seven inches, or whatever the thickness of a crosstie was, and they’d lay it down and slide it along and mark the log with an ax. Then they’d [score] the sides about twelve inches apart. [After one was scored], this old man would get down on his hands and knees and take that broadax and crawl down one side and shave it right off the bottom, and then he’d get on the other end and come back and shave it off the other side. He hewed enough of them crossties to lay a railroad from here to Atlanta! He was a character, I’ll tell you!
I’ve seen stacks of five hundred or more hewed ties down here. The railroad would pick ’em up. On these “number ones”—thick ’uns—they give a dollar and fifteen cents. “Number twos,” I believe they said was ninety cents, and “number threes,” they come on down to sixty-five cents. If they got below that, they had to carry ’em
back and burn ’em for firewood. And now then a friend of mine and another feller has bought a hundred thousand [used ties] this side of Carter’s Crossing. The railroad had replaced about two thirds of the ties and they bought a hundred thousand of them old ones and I understand they’re getting five dollars apiece for them! [laughter] So I reckon that’s a deal on it.
My daddy was a neat kind of man. He was a farmer and a fiddle player and a carpenter. He nailed with his right hand and sawed with his left hand! Later on he did a little blacksmithing. But cotton was where we got our money. Hard work but the price would jump to the bottom. He sold one bale for about seventeen dollars. It was five cents a pound and a bale weighed a little between three and four hundred pounds. Daddy had some people who could pick a bale of cotton a day. Then Daddy and my older brother would load up four bales [of cotton], five hundred pounds [to the bale] on a wagon. It had a flat bed and they’d load up four and they’d go into Rome with it. There was a better cotton market in Rome than there was in Calhoun. [They’d do some shopping for the family while they were there.] They’d come back and [we’d] always line up there and [each get a new pair of shoes]. Mother would give Dad the size of shoes [to buy us] but I never did get a pair that fit. They had to swap ’em a time or two. I’d squeeze my toes up and couldn’t get ’em on. I’d get a blister with that. We had them ol’ brogans. Did you ever see any of ’em? Had a brass tip on the toe. Anyway, that was it. But I’d listen for that wagon a-comin’ in at night. That’s when we’d get a hunk of hoop cheese. Cut off a big ol’ slab. And maybe get a little something else that’d be different. If they got a pretty good deal on cotton, we got a little more. If it wasn’t too good a deal, maybe we didn’t get nothing much. Back then, you could buy bacon for thirty-five cents a pound. It come in a half-pound package at eighteen cents. That was bacon at that time. Get a good hunk of cheese for thirty cents a pound. You’d dial that cheese cutter around to what you wanted, pull that knife down and cut off fifteen cents [worth]. Get fifteen cents’ worth of cheese and crackers in the barrel there and Co-Cola and you had you a good meal.
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