Appalachian History

So everything went along pretty calm, until Thursday of the third week. It clouded up to rain; the thunder cracked and the lightning flashed. Afternoon recess came and we were going strictly on schedule: afternoon recess at two-thirty. I heard those wagons coming up the road and I saw these big girls: one of them was Mr. Taylor's girl and the other one was named Annie. And they giggled at each other, and shook their skirts and yonder they went through the woods to those wagon drivers.

I built up a pretty good head of steam after I pitched one inning for the ball team; I went and rang the bell. No girls appeared. The other children: "Miz Graham, didn't we have our fifteen minutes play period?"

I said, "No, we're going to have eight minutes of it the next pretty day. We have to get our lessons over with now, because it looks like it's going to rain and get the river up and wash away all of the footlogs. We have to hurry and get home before it rains. We have to have spelling."

So I marched the little children in and I had Fourth Grade spelling and we corrected the papers. No girls appeared. Fifth Grade spelling; no girls appeared. Then it was time for Seventh Grade, and they were Seventh Grade spellers, because I didn't have any Sixth Grade. Here they came in, just a struttin' and a giggling, and a shaking their skirts and a laughing and twisting.

I said, "Where have you girls been?"

"Heh, heh, heh, heh, heh."

I said, "Look a here, didn't I tell you not to leave this schoolground without permission?"

"Huh, I go where I please, when I please, and Pappy don't allow no schoolteachers to scold me."

Boy, believe you me, they'd just as well have lit that chip on my shoulder right then. I grabbed one of those dogwood switches and I went for her and I cut her shirtwaist on the bias. I don't know how I did it; but the switch did it. I was putting every bit of pep I had…now if those two girls had double-teamed on me they could have probably pitched me out of there. Maybe, I don't know. But, I whipped that girl.

Rural One-Room School, P. R. Young and pupils, Transylvania County, NC, 1903, right half of photo.

I just kept saying, "Sit down, sit down, sit down," like a needle in a broken record of a phonograph, "sit down, sit down." When I wore out one switch, the little children began running under the benches and trying to hide, because pieces of that switch were flying all over that room.

I reached for another dogwood switch, and boy, she sat down. I sat down, too. I waited until I could get my voice absolutely calm before I opened my mouth, because at St. Catherine's we had been taught, besides carrying a book on your head without dropping it, because you walked properly, that if you controlled your voice, you controlled the situation. That you could not control the situation and you should not speak until your voice was absolutely its normal self.

So I sat there about four or five minutes and got calm again. I said, "Now look a here, I told you girls not to go through the woods to meet those wagon drivers, and I'm going to stay up here these five months, and you're going to obey me, and everybody else is, that comes to this school, and when you don't, I'm going to give you a whipping, and you'd just as well know it."

I said, "Annie, come up here."

"You ain't a going to whip me like you done her!"

Annie came at me like a piledriver, sideways. She was going to knock me off my feet. I just very gracefully stepped aside and let her just about take the whole end out of that building, because she landed against it with every bit of power she had. All of the power that she had intended for me. She was a great, big, tall albino girl; one of the few albinos that I've taught: absolutely white hair, white skin, almost white eyes.

She flew at me like she was going to skin me. I just grabbed her and began to whip her and I repeated the same thing: "Sit down, sit down, sit down," because all teachers had been taught to treat them alike, and I said the same thing. Well, I didn't hit her but five licks until she sat down, and that gave me the right to quit.

I said, "All right. Now I want you girls to get ready to write your spelling, but remember that I'm boss here for five months."

So I gave out spelling, and when I dismissed that school every child cleared out every article that he’d owned that was in that building. Everything went home.

Finally, one little third grader that had charge of the home-made baseball and the home-made ball bat (that was all that we could afford then in the line of athletic equipment) was standing there knocking the ground with that ball bat. "Miss Graham," he said, "you know how to shoot. Now, I know you do. I done heard about it. Go over yonder to Mr. Kelly's where you board and get your gun. Champ Taylor will be down here directly and he'll want to cut you up with that old hawkbill knife of his, and the thing to do is to kill him."

Story continues here (go to p. 48)


Daintry Allison
(b. 1896 in Old Fort, NC)
Interviewed July 24, 1975
Southern Highlands Research Center
Louis D. Silveri Oral History Collection,
D. H. Ramsey Library Special Collections,
University of North Carolina at Asheville



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Part 1 of 2

Five miles out from Old Fort, up near Catawba Falls; that was my first school. No teacher ever stayed there five months. Usually, they'd stay five or six weeks.

All right. The regulations were that your dress had to come down to your ankle bone. That's what you had to wear while you taught. I made me three of those happy little items, and I wore them in time of school just like stage clothes, and then when I got out of there and went over to my boarding place, I put on my regular clothes, which barely covered my knee caps, and I dressed like I was clothed and in my right mind.

There was one man in there that tore up the school every year. People put a chip on my shoulder and they just as well put a rich pine on there when I first went in there. "Don't you talk to his children."

Now I'm not going to call that man's name. I’m going to call him Champ Taylor, because that wasn't his name. "Don't you scold Champ Taylor's children. You be good to them. Kinda pet 'em along. Maybe he'll let you stay the five months. We like you; we like this school. We don't want you to have to go away."

"Well, what does Champ Taylor do to the other teachers?"

"He comes with his old hawk bill knife and makes them run back to Old Fort, and they have to get out of here. Why, that there man last year, the last time they sent a man in this school he was the third teacher they'd sent, and he had to leave his suitcase back there in my back bedroom where he boarded here, and leave out of here and have the man that runs the river barn in Old Fort come back up here and get it; Champ Taylor had him on the go."

They said, "He had to run out of here in the dark."

Rural One-Room School, P. R. Young and pupils, Transylvania County, NC, 1903, left half of photo.

And people would say to me, "Miss Graham, when Champ Taylor gets after you, air you gonna run? Watcha gonna do? He don't let no teacher say in here no length of time."

I said, "Oh, I don't know. I'm no good at running. Maybe I'll have to wait and see what I'll do. I just don't know, but I'll meet that situation when it comes."

Right up the road above the school house there was a sawmill. The year before that, four of the bigger girls had got pregnant with illegitimate children, supposedly by those wagon drivers that were comers and goers, and they were driving wagons out of there to haul that lumber to Old Fort for sale, for shipping on the railroad.

I laid the law down the first day of school. I said, "Now, let me tell you: nobody's going off of this schoolground after you get here until time to go home. You've got to wait until three-thirty before you leave here. Nobody is going to that road to talk to these old wagon drivers, and if you do, I'll thrash you."

We thought a switch was good for everything but the toothache, then, and we didn't hesitate to use them. I had three, already dried, that my Committeemen furnished me, and put them up in the schoolroom; up in one corner. They were dogwood. So we weren't "Woodman spare that tree" people then. Things went along calmly.

Teachers had to spend one night in every home that sent them children. I wondered what I'd do when it came to going to Champ Taylor's, but I figured that if that was part of the prescription, I'd take it. So I began to visit every Tuesday night and every Thursday night, but mostly on Tuesday night, because on Monday I walked up there from Old Fort, and on Friday I walked back home those five miles after teaching all day, so visiting was confined mostly to Tuesday and Wednesday nights.

I divided it up and made my list, so that the children knew when I was coming to each home. They kept saying, "Are you going to Peachy Carson's house?" That's another name I've changed. "Teachers never did go up to Peachy Carson's. They don't stay here long enough to get up there. Peachy lives in the very last house, way up Carson's Flats.

Peachy, by the way, had a beautiful peaches complexion. One of the most lovely that I ever saw, but here hands were terrible. She hoed. She had the awfullest corns on her hands. They felt like somebody's that played golf eighteen rounds every two hours.

But Peachy could pick up a hundred pounds of cottonseed meal and just toss it into a wagon as easy as I could pick up ten pounds of sugar. Peachy's house was way back. Well, I didn't know whether I was going to get to Peachy's house or not, but I firmly resolved that I'd go there, and I left it for next to the last place. Champ Taylor's was the last place on my list. I was going there last of all.

End of part 1
Continues tomorrow


Daintry Allison
(b. 1896 in Old Fort, NC)
Interviewed July 24, 1975
Southern Highlands Research Center
Louis D. Silveri Oral History Collection,
D. H. Ramsey Library Special Collections,
University of North Carolina at Asheville



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A great many people in Ekeyville owned their own small boat, a skiff or johnboat. The johnboat is a flat bottomed affair with one set of oar locks and square in the stern. The skiff comes to a sharp bow and a gradual tapering to the stern and generally has two sets of oar locks.

There were many versions of these boats tied along the river bank, all being homemade.

"Drifting" on the Ohio River was a great pastime for those who owned a skiff or johnboat. There was always something floating down stream. In the early days many things of value could be caught, logs, railroad ties worth a dollar, new sawed lumber, boat and barge planks, frames of small buildings. If there came a sudden raise in the river - the better the drifting - for people up stream lost things that were not securely tied up or nailed down.

Usually two men would go together, one to row the boat the other to stand up in the boat with the spar pole to spear the objects floating, fasten a rope securely and then tow to shore.

Example of a johnboat. Caption reads: "Clarence Sidney Willis rows a johnboat on the Licking River [KY], with Mae Martin and another woman, Sept. 14, 1919"

Ed and Dave McCoy were a team to drift. During the Depression when there was no work and plenty of time many men worked at the drifting. Some of them were Lou Thomas, Charlie Dunlap, Andy Prosko, Wilber Ekey, Frank and Shorty Byers.

John Ekey was a qualified drifter. He could tell at a distance of 10 to 15 ft. if the object was worth towing to shore. In his younger days he often took a younger man or teenager with him to manage the boat. Captain Ekey held a pilot's license for more than twenty years for the river district between Pittsburgh and Cincinnati. Gilbert VanDyne always had great pleasure and fun going drifting many trips with Cap Ekey.

There were four times in Cap Ekey's life when the object caught was a body - and this was unpleasant.


source: "The Stratton Village [OH} Story/A Community History 1880-1976," by Mary Ekey Robinson, published by the Stratton Village Bicentennial Committee, p. 53, at www.digitalshoebox.org



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Moore Hollow boomed during 30's and 40's

By Lois Kleffman
Jackson County Sun [KY]
Date Unknown

What was it like in Moore Hollow after the mines got started?

Luther Powell of Sand Gap says, “It was booming. New York didn’t have any more business than Moore Hollow. You could sell any piece of coal you could get out. There was plenty of coal, there was plenty of work.”

Luther started working in 1933 first for the Penningtons, then the Sand Gap Coal Company, then the Jackson County Coal Company whose owner M.K. Marlow bought out Scrivener and Moore. At the peak of production in Moore Hollow, Marlow ran three shifts averaging about 3,000 tons per day, and trucks would be lined up from the hollow clear to Sand Gap waiting to be loaded.

Powell walked every day from Kerry Knob to earn $1.50 per day as a weigh man. He says, “Everyone came to the Gap and Moore Hollow to loaf on weekends and evenings.”

Odis Isaacs of Sand Gap recollects, “You could get anything there from whiskey to a woman."

The Little Brothers and “Boss” Marcum had licenses to sell alcohol in the Gap and there was a bootlegger in the hollow.
Odis remembers the pool hall and restaurant run by John Johnston. He remembers that little Johnny Johnston would “spit your eye full of tobacco juice and he smoked cigars when he was five or six years old.”

The larger mines paid their employees with scrip good for buying at their company store. Odis still has a copper scrip coin issued by the Jackson County Coal Company in 1939 that was “payable in merchandise only “ at the company commissary.

Odis started working for the mines when he was 12 and worked in Moore Hollow until Howard Smith got killed in Marlow’s mine in 1946. Smith ran a motor in the mine when the accident happened and Odis was coupling at the end of the cars that Smith was pulling.

This 1935 pie chart from ‘Geology of Kentucky’ indicates leading Kentucky coal producing counties. Harlan, Pike, and Letcher Counties lead the pack. At the other extreme counties Boyd, Breathitt and Magoffin each produced about 1/2% of the state total that year. Jackson County, for all the hustle bustle of this article, is not even on the chart!

It was the last trip of the day and Smith wanted to get out as much as he could so he was pulling 22 cars, which was way too many. Coming down a hill, apparently the hot sand that was used to slow down the motor couldn’t do the job and Smith hit a snag with so much speed that the motor and seven cars jumped the track.

Odis remembers Smith as a “fine man.” That day Smith had given Odis a ham sandwich for his lunch. After Smith’s death, Odis left Moore Hollow and went to Travis Creek.

Where did the miners live when they came to Jackson County from Manchester, Hazard, Beattyville and other places?

Outside of Moore Hollow toward the Gap, there was a group of two and three room, flat roofed plank houses called “Slack Town” because the slack coal, too fine to sell, was dumped there. In Sand Gap there was another shantytown near the sand bank.

And right in Moore Hollow, in 1934 Caroline Isaacs kept boarders in a big boarding house built by her brother Charley Pennington on his property, which was like a bunk house. Mostly Caroline cooked for the truck drivers and miners for two years there.

Then N.U. Bond built a modern motel in the hollow in 1939 and Caroline ran it for him. The motel had a lobby downstairs and a big long dining room and it had hot and cold running water. The motel averaged 11 boarders full time and kept five reserved bedrooms for truckers from out of town who would spend just one night there waiting to get their trucks loaded.

It is rumored that women visited the men in their trucks at night, but Caroline maintains that no women were allowed with the men in the motel.

“I never saw any fights,” she says. “The miners were very good people. There never was a truck driver that came here that was out of the way.” Sheriff Joe Pence searched the drivers to see if they were bringing whiskey in or out of the hollow.

And according to Caroline, “The men were just as clean as they could be, they never went to bed without taking a shower. One man tried to sleep with his clothes on and I had to get rid of him.”

Caroline remembers that “the roads were awful. We had to cover the plates to keep the coal dust off. We had the front and back porches screened but the dust still came in.”

The saddest remembrance of her experiences in the hollow was an accident on Big Hill in which Johnny Brockman, a truck driver, was killed. Earlier in the day, Johnny had ordered eggs, bacon and country biscuits from Caroline and told her “Lady, I haven’t got any money to pay for this.” Caroline said, “Well you eat this, you looked tired.” Caroline feels that his death taught her “to be good to people.”


sources: www.rootsweb.ancestry.com/~kycoalmi/coalTOWNstory.html
‘Geology of Kentucky,’ by Arthur C. McFarlan, University of Ky, 1943



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Aunt Clarice was an excellent cook. I'm sure she and my mother got their special culinary education in French cuisine from their mother, Maria.

Since my Uncle Augie was a company man and wasn't on a time clock for the Rolland Glass Plant, he had an hour for lunch at noon. The glass plant was only a few blocks down the street, so he came home for lunch every day. I was frequently invited to join them for lunch, which I often did. My father was a glass cutter at Adamston Glass Plant and was paid for each piece he produced; his time was of the essence. He carried his noon meal to work and took only 1/2 hour for lunch. Hence, we had our big family meal in the evening when my father returned from work.

I have always been at least a few pounds overweight---I presume my weight problem started during these early years, when I ate a big meal at noon at Aunt Clarice's and another big meal at home in the evening.

Clarissa Amelia Caussin (1889-1948) and August Aristide Malfregeot (1885-1950).

At one of these noon meals with Aunt Clarice and Uncle Augie, I had my first encounter with frog legs. The dish in the center of the table was a turkey platter heaped high with frog legs.

As I watched the muscles of the frog legs contract and appear to jump in the pan, I was quite reluctant to try them. However, being aware of just how delicious everything that Aunt Clarice cooked was, I did relent.

I don't remember that you could buy frog legs in grocery stores in those days, but I do remember our fathers and uncles going out at night to "gig" frogs.

We always had lettuce salad with our big meal and after the lettuce was washed it had to be dried so the dressing would cling to each leaf. There was a small porch off the Malfregeot kitchen door and Aunt Clarice could frequently be seen standing there shaking water drops in the grass below as she swung the wire basket to and fro.

Turtle soup was a monumental French culinary delight. The men in French families often "felt" for snapping turtles in local streams. "Feeling for turtles" simply meant that you waded in the stream as you felt beneath the water for submerged turtles. The only problem was that on occasion one might grab at the wrong end of the turtle and encounter a vicious and sharp beak.

On one such outing, Uncle Augie raised his hand from the stream, a huge snapping turtle hanging from one of his fingers. There was an old wives’ tale which proposed that if a snapping turtle bit you, it would not let go until the sun went down. Imagine my chagrin when I contemplated Uncle Augie with that ugly beast holding onto his finger until nightfall. Many of the turtles I saw were large, ugly, vicious and very frightening to a child.

I often watched as my father and uncles cleaned snapping turtles in the basement of our house. First they teased the turtle with a stick until the turtle latched onto it with fury, then the holder of the stick stretched the neck out while someone else chopped off the head. The turtle was then skinned in much the same way as the hide of wild game is removed from the body. After the ordeal, when my father carried the meat to the kitchen, the meat was a pinkish white and looked very much like chicken. It was delicious, either fried, or cooked in soup.


Olga S. Hardman
Clarksburg, WV
source: www.olgaswritings.com/ClarAug.htm



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We post a new episode of Appalachian History weekly podcast every Sunday. You can start listening right away by clicking the podcast icon over on the left side of your screen. If you'd rather grab the show off itunes for later listening, click here.

We open today's show with WV evangelist John William Harris’s account of his first time at a summer revival in 1897. Revival organizers had warned attendees to be alert to horse thieves on the grounds. Sure enough a group of them descended on Harris’ horse and buggy. Hiding in a cluster of nearby bushes, the young, slightly built man managed to project a menacing voice at the gang, which scared them off and surprised Harris no end.

Byron Herbert Reece never did graduate from Young Harris College in North Georgia because he refused to take mathematics or French. That didn’t hinder him from going on to a successful writing career that included 4 volumes of poetry and 2 novels. But the same dark shadow that haunted his parents haunted him, and he chose to end his life at the age of 41.

Actress Tallulah Bankhead was no stranger to politics. As you’ll hear in this next piece, she says “There were Alabama Bankheads in one or another of the houses of Congress for sixty consecutive years.” She uses her considerably barbed wit to skewer candidate Thomas E Dewey in a 1948 political rally speech for Harry Truman.

Until Earl Shaffer actually did it, experts believed that a hike of the entire Appalachian Trail in one continuous trip was impossible. 

On July 10, the Smithsonian's National Museum of American History opened "Earl Shaffer and the Appalachian Trail," an exhibition that focuses on the fulfillment of Shaffer's childhood goal of hiking the Trail. We’ll give you a quick preview of the exhibit, which runs through October 30.

The Wheeling, WV native was the most celebrated American soprano of the 1940s and 1950s. But one of Eleanor Steber's most important contributions to the world of opera was to commission and bring to life a 16-minute song that luxuriates in the calm of an earlier America, a contented, rocking-chair America. Composer Samuel Barber adapted the text for “Knoxville: Summer of 1915” from the introduction to A Death In The Family, James Agee's Pulitzer Prize-winning autobiography.

We’ll wrap things up with the love story of a young couple in Scott County, VA at the turn of the 20th century. It seems the girl’s father wasn’t in favor of this romance. More than once the young man came to her home in order to ask her father for her hand in marriage. The old man always spied him coming from a distance and managed to make himself unavailable. The course of true love never did run smooth.

And, thanks to the good folks at the Digital Archive we'll be able to enjoy some authentic Appalachian music by Jimmy Smith in a 1926 recording of ‘Mountain Blues.’

So, call your old blue-tick hound up on the porch, fire up your corn-cob pipe, and settle in for a dose of Appalachian History.

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They first met at the Point Truth Primitive Baptist Church near Nickelsville, VA. Charles Nickels was the clerk there, and Mary Louvinia 'Lula' Burke came up on Sundays from her family's home in Grassy Creek, just across the Russell County line.

Isaiah 'Zur' and Sarah Burke didn't encourage their daughter's budding romance. Charles and Lula were not allowed to be alone while they were courting. They had to sit in the room with her parents, but occasionally managed to hold hands when the older folks weren't looking.

Charles Franklin Nickels (1881-1948)

On a number of occasions, Charles rode to Grassy Creek with the intention of asking for Lula's hand in marriage. Having figured out the young suitor's intentions, when Zur saw Charles coming, he would feign a headache or some other ailment so he could go in the house and avoid talking to Charles.

Charles Nickels was not a wealthy man: he was a traveling photographer by trade. He'd begun to operate The Rural Studio in 1903 while still living at his parents' home. Charles traveled as far as Georgia to take pictures. When he returned home, he developed the negatives and printed the photographs. His cameras used negatives made of glass coated in various chemicals to obtain the image, and so developing the final image was a rather tedious and dangerous procedure. Finally he printed the picture on a penny postcard and mailed it to the customer. All of this for a dollar!

Mary Louvinia "Lula" Burke (1887-1962)

Could Charles Nickels' humble profession have been a contributing factor to Zur Burke's reluctance to encourage the couple?

On the third trip to Grassy Creek, Charles called out after Zur that there was no use going inside, because this was going to be the day he asked for Lula's hand. Finally the old man relented and gave his permission for them to be married. Charles was so excited he wrecked his buggy on the way home.

Charles and Lula were married on January 12, 1907 in Scott County, VA. They went on to have 9 children together—Pearl, Gilbert, Blanche, Madge, Mary, Henry, Jim, Charles Harold, and Mildred. All reached adulthood except Mildred, who died at just over a year old.


source: www.clinchmountainhome.com/Nickels/charlesbio.html



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Until Earl Shaffer actually did it, experts believed that a hike of the entire Appalachian Trail in one continuous trip was impossible.

On July 10, the Smithsonian's National Museum of American History opened "Earl Shaffer and the Appalachian Trail," an exhibition that focuses on the fulfillment of Shaffer's childhood goal of hiking the Trail.

Featured items on display in the Albert H. Small Documents Gallery include Shaffer's trail diary from his pioneering hike, photographs he took along the trail, the maps he used and the boots he wore. The documents and artifacts will be on display through Oct. 30.

Earl Shaffer had no expert advice, no previous footsteps to follow, or even guidebooks to help him. He started his walk in April 1948 at Mount Oglethorpe, GA, and completed the Trail four months later at Maine’s Mount Katahdin. Shaffer kept a diary, along with photographs taken along the way, to prove to skeptics that he had really accomplished what he claimed.

Except for occasional times when Shaffer joined another hiker or group, he walked alone. Stopping to camp at night, his only companion was his "little black notebook."

Shaffer used the diary to record his progress, detail animal and bird sightings, talk about people he met, vent his frustrations and errors, and jot down poetry.
When Shaffer began his hike, his only maps were the road maps issued by service stations. The Trail itself was often obscured by natural growth, and trail markings were often faded or missing, forcing him to bushwhack through overgrown areas.

Shaffer's diary describes frequent episodes of taking wrong turns and going miles off course. His supplies were minimal, and he even mailed his tent home only a few days after starting out. "Most people," he wrote, "never in all their lives sleep under the open sky, and never realize what they are missing."

Shaffer at trail's end, atop Mt. Katahdin.

Shaffer completed two more hikes of the Appalachian Trail, the last in 1998 at the age of 79. After his pioneering walk in 1948, he devoted much of the rest of his life to activism on behalf of the Appalachian Trail and of parks and wilderness areas.

Earl Shaffer went on to write books and poetry, present slide lectures about his experiences, and help with the physical maintenance of the Trail. His advice remained popular and valued among would-be Trail hikers. In possibly the greatest homage to Earl Shaffer's historic feat, hundreds of hikers every year repeat his Appalachian Trail journey.


source http://americanhistory.si.edu/documentsgallery/index.html



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"I sweated over my introduction, rewrote it ten times. When I had finished, this, in part, was the text:

"There were Alabama Bankheads in one or another of the houses of Congress for sixty consecutive years. My father was Speaker of the House for four years, served with that body for twenty-five. My grandfather, John, sat in the Senate for thirteen years. My Uncle John spent twelve years of his life in the Upper House. They all died in harness. I would be outraging their memories, I would be faithless to Alabama, did I not vote for Harry Truman. Yes, I’m for Harry Truman, the human being. By the same token I’m against Thomas E. Dewey, the mechanical man.

"Mr. Dewey is neat. Oh, so neat. And Mr. Dewey is tidy. Oh, so tidy. Just once I’d like to see him with his necktie knotted under his ear, his hair rumpled, a gravy stain on his vest, that synthetic smile wiped off his face. It seems a great pity to risk exposing Mr. Dewey to the smells and noises and ills of humanity. Far better to leave him in his cellophane wrapper, unsoiled by contact with the likes of you and me.

"Mr. Dewey is trim and neat and tidy, but is he human? I have my doubts. I have no doubts about Harry Truman. He's been through the wringer. And by the wringer I mean that 80th Congress. That 80th Congress which ignored his passionate pleas for veterans' housing, for curbs on inflation, for legislation to aid and comfort the great mass of our population.

"Mr. Truman has made errors, even as you and I. Mr. Dewey makes few errors. Why does Mr. Dewey make few errors? Because, to borrow a phrase from baseball, he plays his position on a dime. He ignores fielding chances unless the ball is hit right at him. He's a stationary shortstop. Not so Harry Truman. Like all winning players he tries for everything. He ranges far to his right. He ranges far to his left (Careful there, Tallulah!) He races back for Texas Leaguers. He races in for slow rollers. Truman is a team player. Dewey is playing for the averages. Harry Truman doesn't duck any issues.

"What is Mr. Dewey for? Well, he has come out for one thing that, by his standards of caution, is revolutionary. Again and again he has said that he is for unity. Will all the candidates for disunity please stand?

"Come, come, Mr. Dewey. Act like a grown-up. The next thing we know you'll be endorsing matrimony, the metal zipper and the dial telephone. If Mr. Dewey has any genius it lies in his ability to avoid expressing an opinion on any controversial subject. Mr. Dewey is the great neutral. Harry Truman is the great partisan---the partisan of our troubled millions.

"In my lifetime I've enjoyed many thrills. I'm about to enjoy the greatest one. For now I have the distinguished honor to present to you the President of these United States."


---excerpt from Tallulah: My Autobiography, 1952, Reprint, Oxford: University of Mississippi Press, 2004.


Huntsville, Alabama-born actress Tallulah Brockman Bankhead (1902-1968) was a staunch Democrat and campaigned for Harry Truman's reelection in 1948.



Tallulah+Bankhead Alabama+politicians Huntsville+AL appalachia appalachian+history history+of+appalachia

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Labels: Alabama politicians, appalachia, appalachian history, history of appalachia, Huntsville AL, Tallulah Bankhead

He was at work in the field. The sweat ran in trickles down his back and cascaded from his eyebrows into his eyes. The world was still and bright and fiery in the blaze of a July noon. He rested between the plow handles behind the mare. Sweat traced little rivers down the legs of the mare and dripped into the damp new-plowed ground between the corn rows.

The blades of the corn waved a little at the height of the mare’s back, they moved a little to the wind that came through them, diluted by each row of corn as it crossed the field. The wind was as active as a young pup in the sedge at the field’s edge. By the time it reached him it was like the warm and fetid breath of a dying animal.

As if it were the appointed time for her to come he looked up and saw Old Nance, his mother’s friend, hurrying toward him from the road. She came with her old ambling gait toward him down a corn row. He began to unhitch the traces. It seemed that he would faint from the heat and lie on the cool earth where the plow had turned up the dampness that dwelt below the surface of the soil.

He would escape the news bearer from the road. Old Nance, Old Nance who had been with his mother lying sick in her room. But he took the mare by the bridle and met her on the way.

From "Better a Dinner of Herbs" by Byron Herbert Reece

Byron Herbert Reece was born in 1917 at the foot of Blood Mountain in North Georgia. In 1935 he was admitted to Young Harris College, about 18 miles from his home, but had to leave to help out on the farm. When admitted he had already had some success publishing poetry in national publications. He attended sporadically from 1935 until 1940, but failed to graduate because of his refusal to take either mathematics or French.

He returned to the farm and wrote more poetry with increasing success in publication. In late 1943 Dutton agreed to publish a volume of poetry titled "The Ballad of the Bones." By January 1946, the book was in its third printing and the mountain farmer found himself in increasing demand as an author. From 1946 until 1954 he published 4 volumes of poetry and 2 novels.

Byron Herbert Reece's health began to fail and with it went much of his desire to write. The farm that was so central to him when he was younger became a burden, and he became ill with the tuberculosis that plagued his parents.

He entered a sanitorium in 1954 to control the TB, creating additional financial and emotional hardships. He relied on Guggenheim Fellowships and other grants to writers to cover his expenses rather than farming. He turned to teaching as well, spending terms at Emory, UCLA and finally returning to Young Harris College, too ill to continue to support himself by farming.

On June 3, 1958, with his final papers graded and neatly stacked and Mozart’s Piano Sonata in D playing on the phonograph, Reece shot himself in the diseased lung. He was not yet 41 years old.


source: http://library.yhc.edu/WebReece/Biography.html



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Labels: appalachia, appalachian authors, appalachian history, appalachian literature, Byron Herbert Reece, history of appalachia

It was in the summer of 1897 that I heard of one of these outdoor meetings and decided to attend for two or three days. I was driving a horse hitched to a two-wheeled cart. Arriving late in the evening and tying the horse to a sapling, I entered the preacher's stand just as the announcement of services was being made.

In the course of his remarks, the speaker said that there had been instances of stealing from the vehicles on the grounds and that other mischief had been done by hoodlums. It was stated that if such activities continued officers would be called to police the ground and catch the offenders.

Hearing this, and knowing that my few belongings were in a suitcase in my cart, I slipped out and hid under a thick bush where I could see my vehicle by the reflection of the light and also hear the preaching at the same time. I was only a few minutes in that place of concealment when I began to detect that some persons were bent on mischief. Soon I saw some young men searching in a wagon. Next they came to my rig and began to search it. In a loud gruff voice, I asked them what they were after. They peeped around to see where the voice came from, but could not see me for the thick underbrush. They turned back to the cart.

Again I asked them what they wanted in that rig. They replied they were after water. I asked them if such a place looked like it had any water, and then ordered them to make themselves scarce or they would find something they were not looking for.

All the while, I kept in the dark so that no one might see how young or small I was. They quickly left to other parts of the ground. Several gangs of hoodlums were around that night, and it was well that I took it upon myself to police my vehicle.

The Harris family.

In two or three days after I came the meeting closed with a number of conversions, some sixty in all. On the closing night there was a testimony service. It was suggested by one of the preachers that only the converts in that meeting were to testify, and each was to tell whom God had used in bringing him to Christ.

Among the Christians present was a little, sweet-faced girl about fifteen years of age, who was very timid. Yet of the sixty that testified that night this little girl was given credit for more than half of the number, the balance being divided among other Christian workers.

The preachers, some six or eight, had about a dozen to their credit. Thus, we see that when the heavenly record is opened at the rendering of rewards, many who credit themselves with so many converts will be crestfallen as they hear the judgment of justice at the great tribunal of God and find that they have gained only a small increase for the amount that the Lord has invested in them. Ministers should be very careful about stringing the fish that others have caught.


---excerpt from TEARS AND TRIUMPHS, The Life Story of a Pastor-Evangelist, by John William Harris, Louisville KY, Pentecostal Pub, 1948

John William Harris (1870-1960) was a widely traveled evangelist. His ministry began in 1896 and it flourished at the turn of the century. He held meetings primarily in Ohio and surrounding states, including Kentucky, Michigan, Indiana, and Illinois. He also ministered extensively in Kansas and Texas. He settled his family in Hinton WV.


sources: www.voiceofthenazarene.com/pdfs/h-folder/HDM1864.PDF
http://mountolivetcamp.ratcliffs.net/olivetpart1.pdf

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Labels: appalachia, appalachian history, Hinton WV, history of appalachia, religion in Appalachia, Rev. John William Harris

We post a new episode of Appalachian History weekly podcast every Sunday. You can start listening right away by clicking the podcast icon over on the left side of your screen. If you'd rather grab the show off itunes for later listening, click here.

We open today's show with a story set in Havana in 1899. Mrs. R. A. McFerrin, of Oliver Springs TN, was visiting her son, who commanded a detachment of the 4th Tennessee there during the Spanish American War. She befriended and shortly after decided to adopt a young girl who’d been orphaned because of the war. Just as they were about to board the boat headed back to the States, a bureaucratic nightmare threatened to completely undo the adoption.

Charles Howard Hopkins’ family moved to Berea KY in the early years of the 20th century. His father, who was in the oil business, worked many states away for months at a time. And Hopkins’ mother had a kidney condition that was worsening all the time. The young schoolboy found a way through it all by shining in the school spelling bee.

Have you ever had to take the fall because you crossed swords with a higher up you caught doing wrong? Did they ever fire a gun directly at you? Did they send minions to ransack your home in the middle of the night? William Henry Jenkins’ family had to endure every one of these things all because his dad volunteered to be a deputy sheriff in Norton, VA.

Today, Ruby Falls, inside Lookout Mountain, TN, is the largest underground waterfall open to the public in the United States. Leo Lambert, who discovered it in 1928, did so completely by accident. His construction crew was digging out an opening for an elevator shaft to connect one section of the Lookout Mountain Cave to another when one of the men noticed air rushing up through a small crevice. We’re glad they thought to investigate further.

We’ll wrap things up with a tall tale told by one Mrs. Judge Downing Baugh of Athens OH in 1899. Seems the Ransoms and the Wilsons of Round Bottom just couldn’t get along. One of the townsmen dreams he died and went to hell. The devil himself had some lively comments about the Round Bottom feud.

And, thanks to the good folks at the Digital Library of Appalachia we'll be able to enjoy some authentic Appalachian music by Don Pedi and Tad Wright in a 1979 recording of the traditional fiddle tune ‘Bonaparte Crossing the Alps’.

So, call your old blue-tick hound up on the porch, fire up your corn-cob pipe, and settle in for a dose of Appalachian History.

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"During the early days of Norton in Wise County [VA], most of the 4th of July Celebrations were either in Norton or Big Stone Gap. As a general thing when the celebration was in Norton, some of the higher up men and wives would come down, get high and take over.

"So the mayor and the council of Norton decided that they would appoint deputy town policemen to help the regular policemen keep things down. Dad was one of the deputy policemen appointed, and also Mr. Joe Dollyhide, and probably some more but I can’t remember who.

"As usual one of the Wise citizens, one of the higher up and up citizens at that, came to Norton and began to shoot up the town. I don’t know how many times, but I have been told by Dad that several times he and Mr. Dollyhide would take his gun away from him and place him in jail. Each time after staying in jail a while, the mayor Mr. John Dixon would turn him loose.

"Mr. Dixon ran the livery sable just across from where the Coca Cola plant is now. Just before dark, Dad and Mr. Joe Dollyhide was upon him again with a gun shooting, and they had a plan to take his gun away from him again. They did not quite get to him and he began to shoot at them. Dad and Mr. Dollyhide backed away from him to the sidewalk, which at that time were board sidewalks in Norton, and they had to step up at the end of each intersection.

"Dad told me that every time the Wise man would shoot he would shoot at the blaze of the pistol. Evidently they hit him several times because he was considered in serious condition. As soon as the shooting was over, Dad and Mr. Dollyhide knew that the Sheriff and his deputies from Wise would be down after both of them for shooting up one of their distinguished citizens.

"He and Mr. Dollyhide went to the mountains to hide until things could settle down. I can remember very distinctly the night of the shooting, the Sheriff and the Deputy Sheriffs came to our home on the south side to get Dad, who was gone. They looked under the bed. I remember them pulling the covers from off me and looked in the bed and all around the house and anywhere they figured Dad would be, but failed to find him.

"After a few days or soon after the shooting, Uncle William (Bill) Jenkins, who at that time was an attorney, advised Dad and Mr. Dollyhide to come in and he would go with them to Wise and make bond, which they did.

"When the trial was set, Uncle Bill and Dad and Mr. Dollyhide had to hire--did hire--some extra help, a Wise attorney to defend them. They were both exonerated from on account of the shooting. However, Dad and Mr. Dollyhide were out a considerable expense as the Town Council refused to pay the attorney fee. I think that was the last time that Dad ever accepted an appointment as a Deputy Policeman in Norton."


William Henry Jenkins
(1892-1988)
http://vagenweb.org/wise/WmJenkinsLetter.html

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Labels: appalachia, appalachian history, history of appalachia, Independence Day celebrations, law enforcement, Wise County VA

Two other families came into the [Round Bottom, OH] neighborhood. One's name was Ransom, the other Wilson. These men got into trouble with each other, some of the neighbors took part with one and some with the other. I have heard my mother, and her brother and sisters, talking about this trouble.

They said there was a man that came there be name of Simons. I think from the way they talked about him that he was a bachelor. He was a wag, always having some witty expression to suit every case.

While this trouble was going on this man Simons dreamed a very singular dream. He dreamed he died and went to hell. Soon after he got there he met the Devil, who began to ask him questions. After some questions he asked him where he was from. He told the Devil he was from Round Bottom, Round Bottom -- as if he was in study.

"Why, there is where Ransom lives -- what's he doing?"

He told him that Ransom was dead. The Devil called to his boy and told him to saddle his horse and bring it to him immediately, that he must go to Round Bottom, for Ransom was dead and the people have peace there now.

After this he thought of Wilson. On being told that Wilson was still there he called the boy back saying, "Never mind, Wilson is there and will do just as well as if I were there myself."

Athens [OH] Messenger
Sept. 7, 1899

FAMILY RECOLLECTIONS OF MRS. JUDGE DOWNING BAUGH
(nee Mrs. Sophronia Davis)


Source: http://galliagenealogy.org/History/fam_recollections.htm




appalachian+humor Gallipolis+OH Ohio+River appalachia appalachian+history history+of+appalachia

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Labels: appalachia, appalachian history, appalachian humor, Gallipolis OH, history of appalachia, Ohio River

Part 2 of 2
Continued from yesterday...

"It was a trying hour indeed," said Mrs. McFerrin. Lorena learned of their predicament, and fearing that she would be permanently separated from her kind friend, trembled with emotion, saying in Spanish, "Do not leave me! Please do not leave me!"

The situation was explained to the officer in charge of the health office, with an earnest appeal to give Lorena a good health certificate, as she had not been exposed to small pox. "No, she must be vaccinated; and she cannot be vaccinated until office hours, 2 to 4 p.m.," was the stern reply. This would be two hours after the departure of the steamer.

Mrs. McFerrin learned of a mission home in Havana. She hurried with Lorena to the home. Here arrangements were made to have the child vaccinated and remain there until she could be sent for. It was all made clear to Lorena and Mrs. McFerrin bade her an affectionate farewell and hurried to her steamer, not expecting to see her again for several weeks.

That dear little orphan girl should not have been separated from her loving protector. We sometimes find foolish rulings, with fools to execute them-fellows that will strain at a gnat and swallow a camel. If the official who refused to issue a good health certificate to Lorena had been a broad-gauge man he would have ignored the fool rules, precedents and red tape and given her a good health certificate; and if that were impossible, if he had been a sympathetic and resourceful man--a man big enough for the place--he could have put the child in a big basket, covered her over with the stars and stripes, and had the basket and contents carried on board the steamer.

But all's well that ends well.

Fortunately the steamer was detained as stated above, and Lorena received a vaccination certificate in time to join her protector before her departure. I shall never forget, and the passengers who witnessed their meeting and greeting will never forget, how this affectionate and appreciative Cuban child threw her little brown arms around Mrs. McFerrin's neck and shed tears of joy--tears that were more eloquent than words.

The above narrative was written in May, 1889, after my return from Cuba for an Ohio journal. This summer I sent a copy of the narrative to Mrs. McFerrin and wrote to her making some inquiries about the little, dark-eyed Cuban damsel. The answer follows:

Oliver Springs, Tenn., July 31, 1906.

"My Dear Mr. Mann:--Of course I remember you and have often wondered if I should ever again see any of those who came over from Cuba with us, and can assure you I was so glad to get the copy of the newspaper article you sent me.

"Yes, Lorena is still with me and she is considered one of the most beautiful girls in our village, and she is as good as she is beautiful. Her devotion to me is truly lovely; but I will lose her now, as she recently married Mr. John C. Walker, a corporal in the Tenth Infantry, United States Army. So you see Lorena is 'under the flag of her lovely beloved America.'

"After I brought Lorena home, she said: 'Mama, America dead," (You know it was a late spring, and the trees were dead so far as the leaves are concerne,d especially to Lorena, coming from a tropical and always green island). 'No", I said, 'America is not dead, but sleeping.' A few weeks later she ran into the house and said: 'Mama, America waking up, come and see,' and she pointed to the trees which had begun to put forth their green leaves.

"I do wish you could see her, Mr. Mann. We would be glad to have you repay us a visit. This is a beautiful wild country and you could find much to interest you; so just pack your trunk and come down. We will give you a hearty welcome. Come soon, as Lorena leaves in a few weeks for Chattanooga.

"My son, Colonel H. Hannah [torn] of Tennessee I enclose you a photograph of Lorena. It is not as good as it could be, but I send it to let you form some idea of how she looks. Will send you a better picture as soon as we can have some taken. Also send you a clipping from the Nashville Banner. You will see by the engraving that I am veteran of two wars. My husband wore the gray, my son wore the blue; and I thank God there is no South nor North; no West nor East, but one great America, and I pray it may be so forever.

"Hope you are well, and with best wishes for your success, I am you friend,
Mrs. R.A. McFerrin."

Colonial Hall, Oliver Springs, TN. In this house, Elizabeth "Lillie" Gerding Hannah raised her two sons, Harvey Horatio and Gerald (by her first husband, Maj. John Hannah), her daughter, Bernice McFerrin (by her second husband, Dr. R.A. McFerrin), and the orphaned Cuban girl, Lorena Maria Lacarada Paidrone, whom she brought from Cuba following the Spanish-American War.


http://www.roanetnheritage.com/research/np0006.htm



Spanish+American+War Roane+County+TN Elizabeth+Gerding+Hannah appalachia appalachian+history history+of+appalachia

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Labels: appalachia, appalachian history, Elizabeth Gerding Hannah, history of appalachia, Roane County TN, Spanish American War

Romance of the War.
Cuban Girl Who Was Brought to Tennessee by Gen. Harvey Hannah's Mother.

The Rockwood Times, Rockwood, TN
Thursday, 13 Sep 1906, Vol. XXVI, No. 34.

The steamer Whitney left Havana harbor April 6, 1899, for Tampa, FL. The boat was advertised to leave to 12 p.m., but did not leave until 6 p.m. The delay was caused by the late arrival of the Fourth Virginia Volunteer Infantry. A government official had secured transportation on the Whitney for the Virginia regiment. There were also several squads of Ohio soldiers returning home on the vessel.

The steamer was anchored in the bay and all passengers were brought to the Whitney in big row boats and small tugs. I was with the returning Ohio soldiers and was standing on the upper deck of the vessel watching the landing of the delayed Virginians, when I noticed a little Cuban girl in a row boat, accompanied by a lady and an oarsman.

The little girl was clapping her hands and throwing kisses to someone on board the steamer. An American lady who was standing near me was waving her handkerchief at the little girl while tears were rolling down her cheeks. When the Cuban girl and the American lady met on board the steamer they hugged and kissed each other and both were weeping--an unusual sight--an American woman and a Cuban girl fondly embracing each other and both shedding tears. What did it mean?

Loading camp supplies at Tampa, 1898. The scene must have looked quite similar from the Cuban dock as Mrs. Hannah embraced the young Lorena on the USS Whitney’s deck.

The lady was Mrs. McFerrin of Oliver Springs, TN. Her son, Col. Harvey H. Hannah, was Lieutenant Colonel in the Fourth Tennessee and commanded a detachment at Sancti Spiritus, Cuba. Mrs. McFerrin had been visiting her son. The Fourth Tennessee was stationed at Sancti Spiritus and Mrs. McFerrin occupied a tent in the camp. She was now returning to the United States on board the Whitney.

The little girl's name was Lorena Marie Lacarada Paidrone. She was the daughter of a Cuban patriot. Her home was at Sancti Spiritus (City of Holy Spirits.) Mrs. McFerrin told me that when she arrived at her son's quarters at the camp of the Fourth Tennessee regiment at Sancti Spiritus she "found this sweet, sad-faced child in the camp."

Through an interpreter she learned that the little girl's father was a Cuban soldier who died from the effects of a wound that he received in battle; that soon after father's death her mother became seriously ill. Lorena went to the soldiers to get a candle--the light of fate—to offer her dying mother, but when she returned with the candle her poor mother was dead.

Mrs. McFerrin became interested at once in the child and tenderly helped the little orphan and did all she could to relieve her distress. Lorena soon began to love the kind American woman and Mrs. McFerrin loved the Cuban dearly. Love begets love. She wanted to adopt her, and as Lorena had no home she shared her tent with her for two months.

On March 29 Mrs. McFerrin left the camp of the Fourth Tennessee, taking Lorena with her. She was going with her adopted child to her Tennessee home. At that date before leaving Cuba one had to go to the board of health and get a vaccination certificate. Mrs. McFerrin did not learn of this until she arrived at Havana the morning of the day she was to leave on the steamer. Her vessel would leave at noon.

She went at once with Lorena to the health office and was told that the child could not leave for the United States until she was vaccinated. Mrs. McFerrin was exempt, having been vaccinated just before coming to Cuba. Tickets had been purchased for passage on the steamer Whitney and the arrangement for their departure had been made in such a way that it could not possibly be postponed without considerable additional expense and great inconvenience to others.

The boat was soon to leave, and the Cuban girl who had learned to love this kind American woman, could not leave because she had not been vaccinated. What was the poor woman to do?

Part 1 of 2
Continued tomorrow...

Source: www.roanetnheritage.com/research/np0006.htm



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Labels: appalachia, appalachian history, Elizabeth Gerding Hannah, history of appalachia, Roane County TN, Spanish American War

There was virtually no work to be had for Papa in Berea, KY, so he had to remain behind in Lee County as long as his job lasted. But at no time, then or later, did he fail to provide for his family, as best he could. Mama, especially, bore a heavy burden, trying to provide shelter and sustenance for her children, while coping with an increasingly serious problem with her left kidney.

When we first moved to Berea, the best affordable housing Mama could find was a flat above a shop a stone's throw or so away from the public school. Life was hard for Mama there, but convenient for us children.

For the first time, Ralph had excellent teachers. Donnie quickly made a lot of friends, and developed here his ability for "horse trading." On one of his trades, he came into possession of a decrepit Barlow knife, and thru a series of trades, wound up with a dismantled bicycle, which he put together, and learned to ride. In all his trades, he somehow managed to make his partner believe that he was getting the better of the deal, and left him feeling happy.

Ruth's inclination toward scholastic achievement took form here. My own proclivity toward prowess in spelling reached fulfillment with one of my teachers. She had weekly spelling bees, and I quickly climbed to the top of the line, and held onto it for so long that she had to make a ruling that after two or three times, the head person got demoted to the foot of the class, and had to start over.

The extended Hopkins families in Kentucky. Not dated.

It usually didn't take me more than one session to work back up to the head of the line. One time the boy next to me tried to bribe me to misspell a word so he could be top boy, but I somehow just couldn't make myself do it. That love for spelling went back to my second grade teacher, who singled me out and gave me such a superb start.

Two of the huskier boys in the school used to get on one of the playground swings, facing each other, and pump up momentum until, with one super surge, they would go up and over the top bar. They tried to get me to do it also, but I didn't figure I had the weight - or the guts - to do it, so I declined. They later became daredevil riders on the bobsled and motorcycle riding in a dome.

I only completed the seventh grade there, and my teacher persuaded me to take the county exams for graduation that were held in Richmond. I passed them, and so went to the [Berea College run] Academy the next year.

Around the time I entered the Academy, the family moved to a ramshackle house on the east side of town. It belonged to a friend Mama made in the church, and she made it affordable for us. It was two story, with outside plumbing, and we had to get our water from the pump of a house two doors north.

But it had a nice woodshed, and a fenced lot where we could raise chickens. The owner had a son my same age, and we became the fastest of friends. While we lived in that house, Papa lost his job, because the oil field in Lee County was playing out.

Uncle Charlie, Aunt Emma and Grandma had left for a new oilfield in Wyoming, so Papa came home long enough to size up his chances in Berea, and finding nothing there, tried to persuade Mama to move with him to Wyoming. But Mama could not have endured another move of that magnitude even if she had wanted to. And she didn't want to; she had assured her children the opportunity for a good education, and adequate medical care for herself. So Papa went off to Wyoming alone.

Meanwhile, Mama had obtained a part-time job as housekeeper for the Churchill family, who had moved to Berea from British India, and established a weaving establishment, The Churchill Weavers, using the high-speed hand looms that he designed and patented.

Not too long afterward, Mama's kidney problem got so bad she had to go to the hospital and have it removed. The doctor said he almost had to cut her in two to do the job, and there was an anxious week or two when we didn't know whether Mama would survive. All the time her only concern was, "what will become of my children?" But she survived, and so did we.


Charles Howard Hopkins
(1907-1999)
http://home.comcast.net/~adhopkins/dadhist.htm



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Labels: appalachia, appalachian history, Berea KY, Churchill Weavers, history of appalachia, spelling bees

We post a new episode of Appalachian History weekly podcast every Sunday. You can start listening right away by clicking the podcast icon over on the left side of your screen. If you'd rather grab the show off itunes for later listening, click here.

We open today's show with a piece by guest blogger Tipper Pressley, author of the widely loved blog 'Blind Pig & the Acorn.' She looks no further than her own backyard to illustrate 3 or 4 common plants that have a long history of medicinal uses in Appalachia.

Dr. William Glass of Sissonville, WV braved snowstorms, muddy roads and flooded river crossings to ride by horseback up into the hollers to reach his patients. In this oral history segment he shares some harrowing incidents where he and his horse were nearly swept away and drowned.

‘Musty’ is one of those old-fashioned words you don’t hear used much anymore. You might on occasion refer to a damp basement that way, and that’s about it. But in the late nineteenth and early twentieth century the word struck fear in the hearts of mountain folk. We’ll take a look at the connection between musty corn and the disease pellagra.

“While I am not one of the people about whom I write,” novelist Will N. Harben told a reporter in a 1905 interview, “my childhood and most of my life was spent amid such scenes as I have attempted to portray. Those people and the customs and conditions of their lives are as real to me as your own family life is to you.” Harben goes on to share with us the methods he uses to develop his characters.

Some of the engineers and conductors, when talking in private, predicted all sorts of doom and destruction due to befall the railroad now that the Virginia and Southwestern had hired a woman---no, a girl---to handle routing and sidetracking orders for the trains. But 17-year old Georgia Harmann, the first telegraph operator hired by that railroad, proved them quite wrong in the end.

We’ll wrap things up with a 1976 article by Carl Freeman. His father ran a typical country store in North Carolina at the turn of the 20th century, and Freeman opens the old accounts books to us. The books tell quite a bit about people and the times. Changes in attitudes, customs, dress, and even the thinking of the people in a given community can be plainly detected and charted from those old transactions.

And, thanks to the good folks at the Digital Archive we'll be able to enjoy some authentic Appalachian music by Ernest Thompson in a 1924 recording of "Red Wing", a turn-of-the-century sentimental popular tune by Kerry Mills.

So, call your old blue-tick hound up on the porch, fire up your corn-cob pipe, and settle in for a dose of Appalachian History.

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"It is really surprising how much old account books can tell about people and the times. Changes in attitudes, customs, dress, and even the thinking of the people in a given community can be plainly detected and charted. For example, my father's old account books, for the period April 1904 through January 1923, tell me there was but little money around, barter was the usual way to procure everyday necessities, and most of the people did their trading with the local merchant. There wasn't any running into town to pick-up an item or two needed at the moment.

"With the prevailing roads and means of conveyance, going to town was an all-day exhausting task for man and beast. No credit cards during that period, much of the business with local merchants was on credit, but credit was a far cry from the credit of today. Credit in those days was payment when the crops were sold, and without interest and carrying charges.

"My father's old account books tell me who in the community bought on credit. That is, who made arrangements in early spring to be "'run" for the crop year. They also tell me who paid their accounts well ("were good pay"), who paid their accounts reluctantly and had to be prodded ("were poor pay"), and who did not pay at all ("were bad pay"). Naturally the "'bad pay" were refused the next time around---the next crop year.

"These old account books tell me the various items people bought and the quantities bought along with the prices paid for each item. Prices have gone up considerably.

"They tell me who paid in cash for everyday necessities (mostly groceries) and who traded eggs, hams, side-meat, chickens, beeswax, corn, and even huckleberries (in season) for them. Barter was the usual way for obtaining flour, sugar, pepper, salt, molasses, coffee, snuff, and tobacco until about 1918, when money became more plentiful and the "due bill" business almost disappeared.

"Those old account books reveal the kind of clothing the women wore and the kind of shoes (mostly "Brogans") the men wore; who sported supporters, "galluses" to hold up their "Sunday pants," and sleeve holders to keep their cuffs in place, also on Sunday (bib overalls was the week-day wear for men); which women bought the calicos, the ginghams, the silks, and the satins; who wore frilled and beribboned shirtwaists; and--sort of on the secret side-"whalebone" corsets.

Mast General Store in Blowing Rock, NC was founded in 1883, and still retains the old 'general store' atmosphere to this day.

"Women wore "side combs and back combs" in their hair and beaded pins, ten or twelve inches long, in their hats; men wore celluloid collars. Men's work shins were made from "'shinning" and "shantung" and sheets were made from "yellow cotton." Little boys, like little girls, wore dresses until school age.

"A woman would not wear a shoe larger than size five-and-one-half, therefore many dainty toes got squeezed and corns grew rampant while "high-top button" shoes, with extra sharp toes, were in fashion.

"Hats were cheap, but that didn't make much difference with the women because country women wore home-made bonnets, except to church. Bonnets were fine for the "fair sex." They kept the sun off, completely. That is why so many novels, in past years, referred to women with "au lait" complexions.

"They tell which men "chawed Red Apple and Brown's Mule" and who smoked "Duke's Mixture or Green Frog" and which women used snuff-"Railroad Mills," sweet or strong, "weighed-out" from a "'bladder." A further revelation, among the men, was who bought whiskey, until the advent of the 18th Amendment placed it in the secret class.

"My father's country store was a typical country store. In present day language the term for it would be, "he sold everything from toothpicks to tractors." The prices for which most items were sold today's young people would call ridiculous, but they were high for those who had little or no money.

"Some of the family names have gone. Some of the habits and customs have gone, and most of the business establishments my father dealt with have gone. But their story is still there in those old, tattered and worn, and most revealing accounts books."


Source: The State / Down Home in North Carolina, "Story Told by an Old Account Book," by R. Carl Freeman, April 1976, Vol 13, No 11, p. 31-33; edited for this blog post
Located at http://tobaccodocuments.org/nysa_ti_s1/TI54850987.html



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Dr. William James Glass, Sr. (b. 1879) owned about twenty-five saddle horses. He made an effort to buy the very best. The average horse he bought would last about three years, but he had a few wonderful horses that lasted him much longer. Prior to 1916, he used the horses year around.

Following that time, he used them only in the winter when the roads were impossible for a car. In October, he would bring the horses in from the farm where they had been on pasture all summer. It was usually the first of June before the roads dried up sufficiently to use the car.

Dr. William J. & Pearl Milam Glass in an undated photo.

During the active part of his career he would ride a horse on the average of 25 miles a day, often in the mud and very frequently in the ice and snow. It was not unusual for him to swim a horse across a high river. He had only one horse that was such a good swimmer that he could get up in the saddle and not get wet. Once while Dr. Glass was returning from the Frogs Creek area, the stream became so swollen that he couldn't get across. After he'd waited an hour or two, two men living near the stream advised him that it had fallen sufficiently to ford.

He started across on a high spirited horse. When the cold water and chunks of ice began to hit the horse's side, it apparently became excited and starting lunging down the stream. Both went under, but after a short time, Dr. Glass pulled the horse onto the bank where the horse was able to get a footing.

Both of the men who had advised him to cross had already stripped off most of their clothes in anticipation of going in after the doctor, who was clothed in everything from arctics to a full length sheep lined overcoat.

On another occasion when Poca [Pocatalico] River was a little too high to ford, he was going around a steep bank across the river from Fisher Chapel Church when the bank gave way. His horse, saddle bags, and himself slipped into the river and went under. He scrambled out and ran down the river to catch his saddle bags.

Mrs. Mable Lanham, who lived six miles above Sissonville on Poca, had typhoid fever when she was eighteen years old. Her father came after Dr. Glass one summer day and said she was hemorrhaging. At that time, the doctor owned a beautiful red roan horse that was very fast. He saddled the horse and reached the Monk residence in about thirty minutes. Apparently the horse was so overheated that a few days later it developed pneumonia and died.

He had a few horses that never seemed to tire. One was a large mare named Minnie. She was an intelligent horse that needed very little urging and scolding. She was a beautiful bay with a black mane and tail, had a good running gait, and could cover a lot of ground in one day.

The Pocatalico River on a foggy morning, near Sissonville, WV.

Another was a dun horse with a black mane and tail that Dr. Glass bought from a man who couldn’t handle him. The man shot the horse once through the neck with a .38 pistol to control him. Through kind treatment, such as giving the horse a little bit of candy every time he saw him, Dr. Glass was able to tame him and make a very useful horse of him. He was a beautiful horse and well gaited. No matter how hard he was ridden during the day, he would kick up his heels, neigh, and start running when Dr. Glass came in sight of the stable.

The best horse he ever owned was a large chestnut sorrel mare named Gert reared at Maysville, KY. She was deep chested, had tremendous endurance, seemed to never tire, was high spirited, and extremely gentle. She was the easiest riding horse he ever had, that is, he tired less riding her than any other. She had a running gait and a trot. She could cover a tremendous amount of ground in a day. He acquired her when she was ten years old and kept her longer than he did any other horse. He sold her at the age of twenty and learned that she was still going good at the age of thirty.


---Excerpt from 'The Dr. Will Glass Story,' from Sissonville, A Time to Remember, compiled by The Sissonville (WV) Historical Awareness Committee of The Sissonville Village Association, 1988
http://www.rootsweb.ancestry.com/~wvkanawh/Sissonville/hphphp87.jpg



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Post News
Kingsport, TN
May 26, 1977


APPALACHIA, VA---Miss Georgia got aboard the Virginia and Southwestern train headed for Daniel Boone (then known as Albert Yard.) The year was 1907.

She showed her pass to the conductor, Captain Folmsbey. He snorted “Hmmmph. We’re going to have women operators on this line?”

“Yes,” she said and took a seat by the window of the passenger car.

Captain Folmsbey was later to become a great friend of the 17 year old wisp of a girl who boarded the train that day on her way to becoming the first woman employee of the Virginia and Southwestern Railroad.

Her name was Georgia Harrman but she married Dr. William B. Peters in October of 1911. Mrs. Georgia Peters is 87 years old and lives in Appalachia, VA, the last place she worked as a telegraph operator for the railroad.

Miss Georgia at her desk, Intermont Office of Virginia & Southwest Railroad, Appalachia, VA, 1911.

Miss Georgia had always wanted to study telegraphy. Her brother, Jr. R. Avent, was a dispatcher for the railroad.
“He helped me a lot when I took the telegraphy course,” she said.

When the train pulled into the Albert Yard that morning in 1907 the sun had not been up long. As a relief Telegraph Operator she was to work from 7 a.m. to 7 p.m., a shift that seemed a bit long for a 17 year old girl. She would spend all the daylight hours indoors on the second floor of the tower that served as an office.

“They had a semaphore that I had to pull down with a rope,” she said. “If the train saw a red light he stopped and picked up his orders. If there were no orders he didn’t stop.”

Railroad men drifted in and out of the office as the 17 year old girl they to learn to call “Miss Georgia” took her place at the telegraph key. There was skepticism of course. And there is little doubt that some of the men, when talking in private, predicted all sorts of doom and destruction due to befall the railroad now that the Virginia and Southwestern had hired a woman---no, a girl---to handle routing and sidetracking orders for the trains.

But the men quickly learned that Miss Georgia did not make mistakes.

“Some of the men wondered about it,” she said with a smile. “I think they wondered whether I would be a good operator, but all the railroad men were real nice and did anything they could to help me.”

It is not hard to understand why the men, particularly the engineers and conductors, were a bit wary. The operator took their routing orders.

“You really knew you had a particular job. If you made a mistake you could cause a head-on collision. You had to be careful,” she said.

It was an education for a young girl. An education in responsibility. The pay was not fantastic. Even though she made the same salary as the new male operators it still amounted to about $40 a month.

“I enjoyed the work. I learned a lot about people because I came in contact with so many different types,” she said.

In a year and a half Miss Georgia worked relief in the Bristol Yard office and the telegraph office at Benham. She was then transferred to the newly opened Glenita office (now known as Natural Tunnel.)

View from window of Intermont Office of Virginia & Southwest Railroad, Appalachia, VA, 1911

If nothing else, if the hours were long and the pay short, Natural Tunnel was a beautiful place to work. The rock and laurel were stacked in front of the office window like a screen for nature’s own television program.

“When I was working at ‘the tunnel’ people from Bristol would come on a passenger train and have a picnic between the two tunnels. They would take another train back in the afternoon,” she said.

In 1910 Miss Georgia got her last transfer, to the Intermont office in Appalachia.

“I enjoyed my work at Appalachia best,” she said. “There was heavier traffic here. But I only had an 8 hour shift. Everywhere else the shifts were 12 hours.

“It was interesting work. I don’t see why more women didn’t go into it. It was a big responsibility then. At that time it was harder for a woman to get a job. It has to be easier for them to get a job now.

“I miss riding the trains,” she said glancing out the window at the mountains. “I wish we had them like we used to have.”


source: Post News, Kingsport TN, May 26, 1977; This version edited; original at: http://news.google.com/newspapers?id=3GcPAAAAIBAJ&sjid=ZIYDAAAAIBAJ&pg=4033%2C1790763



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‘Musty’ is one of those old-fashioned words you don’t hear used much anymore. You might on occasion refer to a damp basement that way, and that’s about it. But in the late nineteenth and early twentieth century the word struck fear in the hearts of mountain folk.

One of the great comforts of jokes is that they help us live with life’s terrors. Defang a fear with laughter, as it were. My grandmother Pauline Winifred Tabler, who was born in 1901, told us kids a story involving mustiness which she thought uproariously funny, but which made our eyes roll every time she told it again. She knew something about mustiness that we’d never have to experience, however.

Pauline loved to bake cakes, did so frequently from scratch, and was quite proud of her culinary ability. One fine summer morning her friend Hattie Rakestraw dropped by when Pauline had just finished baking. They got to chatting over a cup of coffee while the German chocolate cake cooled on the open windowsill. Finally they cut a few slices to try. Hattie, an inveterate trickster, stopped chewing mid-forkful and looked Pauline dead in the eye. “Pauline,” she said slowly, “this cake is musty!” She carefully set the plate down and stepped back.

Pauline panicked. “How could that possibly be?? Hattie, I swear to you I was just to town the other day to get all the ingredients fresh."

Hattie was known to gossip, and the last thing Pauline needed was to be the local pariah, the hostess who poisoned her guests.

"You know that cake couldn't possibly have mold---you saw yourself it came straight out of the oven!” She was very near tears.

Hattie struck a long theatrical pause.

After watching her mark squirm sufficiently, she swooped back to table edge, grabbed the fork and pronounced “I MUST have another piece.” And they both broke down laughing in relief.

When Pauline and Hattie were both growing up, musty corn (and any food containing contaminated corn products) was thought to be the cause of the life-threatening disease pellagra, a condition that we understand today results from a lack of niacin. Mountaineers of that era noticed that it struck in the winter season. And of course for families who relied on the store of dried corn to make it through the winter, it must have been a daunting choice to either eat corn that had gone musty, risking pellagra and death, or go without, risking starvation and death.

Here’s an article from the July 14, 1910 issue of Kentucky’s “Springfield Sun,” which discusses the scourge of ‘the dread pellagra.’

"Perryville, Ky., July 14.---After a careful examination attending physicians announced yesterday afternoon that Laura Bottoms, colored, of this city, is afflicted with pellagra, a disease of comparatively recent origin, which became more or less prevalent in the southern States. This is the second case to have developed in Kentucky, the other having resulted in the death of a lady at Nicholasville last fall.

"Photographs were taken of the patient this morning and they will be sent to the medical journals to be used in a scientific study of the disease, which has puzzled the medical specialists of the nation. The disease, which is not considered infectious, is said to be caused by the eating of foods made from musty corn products. Scales develop on the body of the patient and the results are similar in some respects to leprosy.

Unidentified family, all suffering from pellagra, c. 1920. Photo from National Library of Medicine.

"Among its first symptoms is usually a kind of ‘sunburn’ of face, chest and hands. This is followed by skin rash, catarrh of stomach and intestines, feverishness, lassitude and weakness, and as the trouble recurs in spring and autumn, year after year, the weakness increases and often leads to lunacy and death.

"Believing the disease to be infectious, Dr. J.J. Wolfe, of Durham, NC, has been lately seeking its organism in pellagrous blood and has obtained some spherical bacteria, without certain evidence that they are the cause of the disease. He has found a similar organism in a culture from damaged Indian corn."


sources: Springfield Sun, Wednesday, July 20, 1910 at Kentucky Virtual Library http://name.kdl.kyvl.org/spr1910072001



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Please welcome guest blogger Tipper Pressley, author of the widely loved blog 'Blind Pig & the Acorn.' Tipper says she's "a mother, wife, daughter, sister, artist, and hopefully considered a friend to many. I consider myself a mountain girl (even though my husband, The Deer Hunter, likes to remind me the mountains here are not nearly as big as the ones he came from a whole three counties away.

When my girls were small, one of their favorite bedtime books was about a little old lady who went out into the woods to gather plants to use for medicinal purposes. Oh the girls didn’t really care about the gathering part-it was the interesting characters the little lady ran into along her way they liked.

As I’ve begun the busy task of preserving our garden bounty for the coming winter months, my mind has drifted back to the little lady in the book. Truthfully-I’m thankful I don’t have to add gathering medicinal supplies to my already too full summer schedule. But my wandering mind would not rest until I made time to research the subject.

My two favorite research sources for Appalachian Culture are interviewing elders in my community and consulting the Foxfire Books. I decided to concentrate on the plants that I'm familiar with-the ones that grow plentifully around my house this time of year.

Jewelweed grows in a ditch at the bottom of my driveway. Generally the plant grows in shady damp places and can reach 2-3 feet tall. The juice of the plant is a natural cortisone and is an excellent remedy for poison oak, poison ivy, bee stings, and bug bites. Jewelweed is sometimes called Wild Touch Me Not-because once the plant begins to produce seed pods, the slightest touch will send seeds flying in all directions.

Pine trees are common throughout Appalachia. The pine needles can be boiled to make a tea which is good for coughs and colds. Pine resin is said to be good for cuts and abrasions. Although I’ve never used the resin for medicinal purposes-I can promise you it is hard to remove from your clothes or skin-it pretty much has to wear off.

Sassafras trees grow in abundance around my house. They can reach 100 feet in height-which would make it impossible to gather their leaves. Pap said when he was growing up the leaves and roots were gathered from sassafras saplings. A tea was made from the roots and tender twigs of the tree. It was used as a blood builder or as a general tonic to get the body up and running in the spring of the year.

A local lady, Sylvie Lee, shared memories of her Grandmother making a spring tonic each year from sassafras with me. Sylvie said the children were never sick, and the Grandmother retained her smooth fair skin well into old age. Sylvie regrets never taking time to write down her Grandmother’s recipe.

Yellow Root grows along creek banks. It is a low growing shrublike plant which is gathered for its roots. Even though the roots are very bitter tasting, they are used to brew a strong tea which is used for sore throats and stomach disorders, and is said to lower high blood pressure.

Yellow Root is the only old time remedy I have personal experience with. Back in the day when I was a young woman preparing for my wedding I developed horrible mouth ulcers-I’m sure it was due to the related stress and worry of planning a wedding. The pain was so severe I could barely talk-and when I did talk you couldn’t understand what I was saying. As the big day drew closer I began to worry that I wouldn’t even be able to say “I do” clearly. Pap went to the creek and gathered some Yellow Root. We didn’t even brew a tea-I just chewed on those horrible bitter roots. It actually worked, my ulcers began improving quickly.

I enjoyed reading through the Firefox books-searching for information about using wild plants for medicinal purposes. Yet, as I listened to the elders of my community share their memories of plant uses, thoughts of the little old lady from the book grew stronger. She seemed to be telling me the old ways are almost gone and I'd better be finding an apron and bonnet for gathering before next summer. Maybe that’s what my wandering mind was saying all along.



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We post a new episode of Appalachian History weekly podcast every Sunday. You can start listening right away by clicking the podcast icon over on the left side of your screen. If you'd rather grab the show off itunes for later listening, click here.

We open today's show with a look at the family business of Kentuckians John Wesley & Katherine Langley. Professional politics was their game, and when John was jailed in 1926 for bribing a Prohibition officer, Katherine ran for and won John’s Congressional seat. Several years later when he got out of jail he expected her to turn the position over to him. She wasn’t budging.

In a 1953 speech to the Homemakers Club of Mt Savage, MD, Mary Bowen will take you back to courting days at the turn of the 20th century. Bicycle rides, stopping for licorice at the corner store, and of course the swirl of the local dance floor on Saturday nights. She’ll make you want to fall in love all over again.

Dr. Charles T. Pepper, an ex-Confederate surgeon, opened a successful pharmacy in Rural Retreat VA after the war.
In addition to dispensing patent medicines, he spent time mixing mountain herbs, roots and seltzer into a fizzy brew. But he wasn’t the one who brought the famous soda we know as Dr Pepper to market. And the man who DID bring it to market may have named it after the good doctor, or not.

Next we’ll jump forward to the present. Meredith Doster Edgerton, of Appalachian State University, has received an Appalachian Sound Archives Fellowship at Berea College.

The fellowship program encourages scholarly use of Berea's non-commercial audio collections that document Appalachian history and culture, especially the areas of traditional music, religious expression, spoken lore and radio programs. We’ll have a look at how Doster Edgerton won this honor.

If you’re a lacrosse fan, you’ll appreciate our next segment: a Cherokee fable centered around the game of stickball. A tiny mouse wants to join a team full of animals many times his size and weight. But they scoff at his potential as a player. He figures out an ingenious solution to get around his perceived disadvantages and gets the best of them in the end.

The woods are full of raspberries, huckleberries and blackberries in July. Before the era of plastic containers if you were out and about, and happened upon a stand of berries, you could fashion yourself a bark berry basket from a nearby poplar tree. Let’s find out how they’re made.

We’ll wrap things up with an article written by one C.G. Fennell, in the summer 1930 issue of The Alabama Historical Quarterly. He challenges just how good the so-called ‘good old days’ really were by comparing the difficulty of traveling from Huntsville to Deposit Ferry on the Tennessee River in 1860 to his own day. What had been a full day trip on rutted roads in olden days had been reduced to a 2-hour trip on hard paved roads by 1930.

And, thanks to the good folks at the Digital Library of Appalachia we'll be able to enjoy some authentic Appalachian music by the Six Bits of Rhythm Jug Band in a 1939 recording of “Old Man Moses.”

So, call your old blue-tick hound up on the porch, fire up your corn-cob pipe, and settle in for a dose of Appalachian History.

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Get yourself over to Norris, TN this weekend if you can, and treat yourself and the family to an authentic Appalachian Fourth of July tradition: the anvil shoot.

The Museum of Appalachia will be celebrating the day with an explosion of sound. Says their website: Folks as far as 15 miles away have reported hearing our Anvil Shoot, and certainly everyone gathered for the excitement feels the earth shake under their feet.

Anvil shooting used to be a fairly common way that rural folks celebrated special events--they "shot the anvil" to celebrate the nation’s Independence, Christmas, and even Davy Crockett’s election to the U.S. Congress. A few years ago, two men, each more than 100 years old, watched the Museum’s anvil shoot and recalled this tradition from their early boyhood.

So shooting the anvil has come to be the highlight of the Museum's fabulous July 4th Celebration. Along with the big boom several times during the day, there are patriotic ceremonies and lots of music—the old-time mountain music and folk tunes of the Southern Appalachian Mountains.

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John Wesley Langley resigned from Congress (R., Kentucky 10th Congressional District) in January 1926, after losing an appeal to the Supreme Court of the United States to set aside his conviction on charges of conspiracy to violate the Volstead Act. He'd been caught trying to bribe a Prohibition officer and sent to the federal penitentiary in Atlanta. From his jail cell he made a plea to his constituents to elect his wife to vindicate his name. He claimed that he was 'practically penniless' and that the only hope of saving their home was to send his wife to serve a term in Congress while he sat in prison.

When Katherine Langley (1883-1948) hit the campaign trail that spring, her husband’s conviction was a cause celebre---the feeling was widespread that her husband had been the victim of a political conspiracy. She delivered over 100 speeches, each time glorifying the name of her husband and promising to carry out his goals.

Katherine Langley was well prepared to for the task. She had worked as secretary to her husband during his 18 years in office; was an active member of the Kentucky Republican Party; was the founder of the Women's Republican State Committee; had served as a delegate to the Republican National Convention in 1924; and had served on the Kentucky Railroad Commission. "John Langley wears the breeches," winked one newspaper editorialist, "but the lady has the brains."

Original photo caption reads: Both Once Congress Members - They Celebrate Silver Anniversary; Mr. and Mrs. John W. Langley as they appeared on the celebration of their silver wedding anniversary at their home in Pikeville, Ky. Mrs. Langley is a Congresswoman from the 10th Kentucky Congressional district, having succeeded her husband after he was charged with violation of the prohibition laws. At left is their two daughters, left to right: Miss Susannah Langley and Mrs. Katherine Bentley., 11/29/29.

She won the Republican primary election against a field of seven other candidates, including Andrew J. Kirk, who had been elected to finish out Langley's unexpired term; and that fall she defeated her Democratic opponent to become the seventh woman elected to the House. Because of the growing controversy over Prohibition, her victory attracted wide editorial attention. Most comment was favorable; major Kentucky newspapers expressed the view that Mrs. Langley's election was traceable to "the inherent loyalty of the mountain folk."

Not all her congressional colleagues accepted her, politics being what it is. "She offends the squeamish by her unstinted display of gypsy colors on the floor and the conspicuousness with which she dresses her bushy blue-black hair," one newspaper sniffed. She was also criticized for her flowery oratory on the House floor, a result of her earlier career as a speech teacher. These issues had no affect on the voters she served, however; she was re-elected to the 71st Congress in 1928 by a larger vote than she'd received in her first run.

Mrs. Langley lobbied President Coolidge to grant clemency to her husband, which he did with the understanding that John Langley never again seek office. However, in 1929 Mr. Langley chose to disregard that understanding and announced his intention to regain his former House seat. When Katherine Langley said she had no intention of stepping down for her husband or anyone else, the result was a publicly aired domestic quarrel that doomed the political futures of both husband and wife. When election day arrived, it was Mrs. Langley's name that appeared on the ballot, but many Republicans stayed away from the polls, insuring victory for the Democratic candidate.


Sources: Notable American Women, 1607-1950, by Edward T. James, Janet Wilson James, Paul S. Boyer, Radcliffe College
http://www.runningstartonline.org/young-women/hall-of-fame/katherine-langley.php
Biographical Dictionary of Congressional Women, by Karen Foerstel



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Men of advanced age are apt to think of the Good Old Days only in retrospect, but as a matter of fact, there is no comparison between the conveniences of life now, and those we enjoyed in 1860.

[Back then] the Tennessee River afforded the only means of ingress and egress for a large section of North Alabama, except by crude dirt roads and horse-drawn vehicles. The highway, then known as the 'big road,' was the main artery of commerce from the livestock and fruit growing section of Tennessee and Kentucky to the cotton belt of Alabama and Georgia. This highway led directly from Huntsville to Deposit Ferry.

Large droves of mules, and swine, were driven through the country and crossed the river at Deposit. Facilities for handling large bodies of stock were crude and primitive. Boats were pulled across with oars, and 20 or 25 head of mules made a load. Traders had arranged with farmers along the road to provide food and troughs for mules and horses, and lodging for the drovers. These farms were about a day's march apart, and were known as mule stands.

Where crops were growing, the road was fenced in, making a lane that was of great assistance to the drovers in keeping their mules from straying while waiting for the final load. Hogs were usually fed in the road and they were generally fat, showed little disposition to stray away, but would promptly tumble down as soon as they were fed. One such stand was located about four miles from the river, and another some thirty miles further south, at the foot of Sand Mountain. This road and ferry were kept in use until about 1890, when the county established a free ferry at Guntersville, when the business at Deposit gradually shifted to the free ferry.

The ferry was not free to non-residents, but the old road was always bad, and was worked by the old plan of ten days work for each able bodied man along the route. It was never a satisfactory method, and the road grew steadily worse, until with recent years, the ferry at Deposit has been discontinued. Late in the last century, the long projected railroad from Gadsden to Guntersville was completed and the people of the valley began to think that they had arrived at the zenith of modern progress. Telegraph lines followed the railroad, and it really was a great step forward. Soon thereafter the telephone came, and we knew that our section would be heard from.

After the telephone came the automobile, which was received with many misgivings. It was really a torture to ride in a car on the roads that we had. At first, it was expected that only rich people could afford to own a car, and grumbling was loud and persistent about keeping roads in order for a chosen few. Teams were frightened and many accidents made the auto very unpopular, until the model 'T' put them in reach of all.

Original caption reads: Around 1928, the old Guntersville Ferry is seen crossing the Tennessee River where the Whitesburg Bridge is now located.

Then went up a shout for improved roads, and the shout was heard and road building began on a small scale with county means. This was so satisfactory that bond issues began for road building. The impulse reached the state and adjoining states, and the result is that every man who has sufficient credit now owns a car. Travel has increased from a distance, and cars may be seen now in any town, with tags from Canada to Florida.

The steam ferry at Guntersville has become inadequate, so that now a splendid bridge, the George S. Houston Bridge, spans the Tennessee River at Guntersville. The road from Guntersville south is hard surfaced and the trip that required a day in former years, may now be made in two hours.


source: "The Good Old Days in Marshall County," by C.G. Fennell, The Alabama Historical Quarterly, Vol. 01, No. 02, Summer Issue 1930.



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