Appalachian History

We need to be less aware of the picturesque, amusing or distressing differences, and more keenly conscious of the kinship of the mountain people with their kind elsewhere and everywhere. Otherwise we shall bring to noble effort in the mountains a certain disabling attitude that is fatal to success.

And so over against the types we find in the pages of Craddock, Fox, Kephart, and the rest, let us set the mountain people as they are related to the civilization of which they are a part. I therefore urge upon your attention the fact that they are not more poverty-stricken, nor more lawless and violent, nor more unorganizable than the democratic mass in rural North Carolina.

In the first place and quite contrary to popular notions, our mountains are not a region of widespread poverty. In per capita rural wealth Alleghany is the richest county in North Carolina. Among our 100 counties, five highland countines, Alleghany, Buncombe, Ashe, Henderson and Watauga, rank 1st, 5th, 6th, 13th and 14th in the order named, in the per capita farm wealth of country populations; and two more, Yancey and Transylvania, are just below the state average in this particular. The people of these counties are not poor, as country wealth is reckoned in North Carolina. They dwell in a land of vegetables and fruits, grain crops, hay and forage, flocks and herds. It is a land of overflowing abundance.

A view of West Jefferson, NC circa 1920.

It is not easy for such people to feel that they are fit subjects for missionary school enterprises. As a matter of fact, they need our money far less than they need appreciative understanding and homebred leadership. Their wealth is greater than their willingness to convert it into social advantages. They need to be shown how to realize the possibilities of their own soils and souls. Mountain civilization, like every other, will rise to higher levels when the people themselves tug at their own bootstraps; and there is no other way.

It is true that three of the poorest counties in the state in per capita country wealth are Graham, Cherokee, and Swain---counties set against the steeps of the Great Smokies. They rank in this particular 92nd, 94th, and 96th respectively; but their poverty is duplicated by that of Moore, Brunswick, Carteret and Dare---four counties in our coastal plain. The rank of these eastern counties is 93rd, 95th, 97th, and 98th in the order named. The two poorest counties in North Carolina in per capita farm wealth are in the tidewater region, not in the mountains.

Approaching the poverty of our mountain people from another angle, let us consider indoor pauperism in 11 mountain counties that maintain county homes or poor houses. The 1910 census discloses an average rate for the United States of 190 almshouse paupers per 100,000 inhabitants. In North Carolina the rate was 96; in these 11 highland counties it was only 79. Six of the mountain counties make a far better showing than the state at large. Buncombe with a rate of 125 and Watauga with a rate of 139, the two highest rates in the region, make a better showing than all the North Atlantic and New England states, where indoor pauper rates range from 153 in New Jersey to 447 in Massachusetts.

But we may make still another and better approach to the subject of poverty in our mountains by examining the outside pauper rates; better, because outside help is less repugnant to the feelings than residence in the poor house. In 1914 the state rate for outside pauperism was 234 per 100,000 inhabitants. In 12 highland counties the average rate was 205. Seven of the counties have rates far smaller than the state average, ranging from 35 in Mitchell to 184 in Cherokee; three are just below state average; and only two, Buncombe and Clay, are near the bottom.

It ought to be clear that poverty in the mountains of North Carolina is actually and relatively less than elsewhere in the state. Here both indoor and outside paupers in 12 counties in 1914 numbered only 559 in a population of 209,000 souls.


---excerpt from “Our Carolina Highlanders,” by E.C. Branson, professor of Rural Economics and Sociology, University of North Carolina, in the July 1916 UNC Extension Bureau Circular No. 2
www.archive.org/details/ourcarolinahighl00bran

It's September; time to head back to school.

Here's an outdoor class being held at the Othello School in Cherokee County, GA, circa 1925. The teacher is believed to be Miss Corine Pace. Third student from left is Glenn Hubbard. This one room schoolhouse probably went out of use around 1938, and is no longer standing.

Happy Labor Day!

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 story of the dramatic crash of the airship USS Shenandoah in southeast Ohio on September 3, 1925. At 3 A.M. a storm began to brew in the northwest, and a few minutes later Commander Zachary Lansdowne, the skipper of the Shenandoah, was back in the control car. The Shenandoah was making little progress against a strong head wind. Lansdowne ordered the man at the elevator controls to bring the ship down to 2,000 feet, in an effort to find a hole in the wall of wind. It was useless.

We’ll pause in between things to catch up on a Calendar of Events in the region this week, with special attention paid to events that emphasize heritage and local color.

Next let’s follow the Keil family as they emigrate from Charleston to what was then the farthest wilderness of Upland South Carolina. The family’s farm is significant as an example of the evolution of an antebellum farmhouse from the mid-nineteenth to the early twentieth century, and also symbolizes the role that a German immigrant family played in the settlement and development of Walhalla and Oconee County in SC.

“Wealth, great wealth, is now collectively possessed by the people of Tazewell,” observed William Cecil Pendleton in his ‘History of Tazewell County and Southwest Virginia: 1748-1920.’ What would they do with it, he wondered? Would the generation then coming of age be taught that money, position, power, idleness, and luxury are the prime essentials of an advanced civilization?

Before the organization of the Diamond Match Company in 1867, there were in existence throughout the United States over thirty match factories, several of which were found in Kentucky and West Virginia. The typical match factory consisted of anywhere between one and a dozen workers, often children, making matches entirely by hand in cramped and poorly ventilated conditions and for a very small wage. Soon after the turn of the twentieth century public concern nationwide was aroused over the health menace created by the manufacture of matches from white phosphorus.

Huntington, WV born Tom Kromer dedicated his novel about the Great Depression’s suicidally down and out to "Jolene, who turned off the gas." Kromer refused to romanticize the life of the hobo who had to hit the rails. “Where are they going? I do not know. They do not know. He hunts for work, and he is a damn fool. There is no work. He cannot leave his wife and kids to starve to death alone, so he brings them with him. Now he can watch them starve to death.”

We’ll wrap things up with an 1881 article from Cumberland MD’s ‘Evening Times’ about a famous local incident. We already know from the name of the mountain outcropping how the story will turn out, but nonetheless the stirring romance between settler Jack Chadwick and a beautiful young Indian woman makes the ending of “Lover’s Leap” that much more heart wrenching.

And, thanks to the good folks at the Digital Archive we'll be able to enjoy some authentic Appalachian music by Adam Rennie and his dance band in a 78 RPM recording of “Scottish Reform.”

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.

At 3 A.M. a storm began to brew in the northwest, and a few minutes later Commander Zachary Lansdowne, the skipper of the dirigible USS Shenandoah, was back in the control car. The Shenandoah was making little progress against a strong head wind. Lansdowne ordered the man at the elevator controls to bring the ship down to 2,000 feet, in an effort to find a hole in the wall of wind. It was useless.

For an hour and a half the slender airship struggled westward, drifting first to port, then to starboard. At a few minutes after 5 A.M., E. P. Alien, the elevatorman, turned to Lansdowne. "Captain," he said, a slight undertone of nervousness in his voice, "the ship has started to rise."

"Check her," said Lansdowne.

Alien turned the big elevator wheel clockwise to drive the ship down. It was obvious that the Shenandoah was not responding to the controls. Sweat covered Alien's forehead. "She's rising two meters per second. I can't check her, sir."

Lansdowne ordered engines 4 and 5 speeded up. But despite the increased power, the ship continued to rise.

"I can't hold her down," said Alien. There was a note of panic in his voice now. He started to pull the wheel even farther over.

Lansdowne stopped him. "Don't exceed that angle," he said in a calm, confident voice that reassured everyone in the cabin. "We don't want to go into a stall." He ordered Rudderman Ralph Joffray to change his course to the south.

Joffray tugged his wheel counterclockwise. He had to put his whole body into the effort. "Hard over, sir," he grunted, "and she won't take it."

"I've got the flippers down and she won't check," said Alien, his voice rising again.

"Don't worry," said Lansdowne, as if there were nothing to fear.

In spite of rudders, elevators, and motors, the ship continued to shoot up, tail elevated about fifteen degrees, and to head relentlessly westward, directly into the storm. The dirigible was rolling now like a raft in the sea.

The situation was more serious than the Shenandoah's crew, at least for the moment, suspected. Down on the ground, in a little Ohio town called Caldwell, a man awakened when the wind slammed the furniture around on his front porch. He went outside, looked up at the sky, and spotted the giant airship. Directly above it was a dark cloud that seemed to be in a great turmoil. It looked to him, he later told friends, "as though two storms had gone together." And in Ava a woman, seeing the same cloud, called her husband out into the yard. "Come out and see the boiling cloud!" she cried.

What they saw was a line squall gathering directly above the ship. Formed by a clash of opposing winds---one moist and warm, the other dry and cold—such a squall was capable of seizing the Shenandoah, twisting her in different directions, and wringing out her light metal frame. The ship's rise was carrying her right into the squall.

CLICK PHOTO TO SEE MORE DETAIL. The Navy dirigible USS Shenandoah left Lakehurst, NJ, on September 2, 1925, at approximately 4:00 P.M., headed for St. Louis and Detroit. Lieutenant Commander Zachery Lansdowne was in charge, with approximately 36 men on board.

They were traveling over southeastern Ohio when they flew into a severe electrical storm, at approximately 4:00 A.M. The crew changed course almost a dozen times — moving between altitudes of 1,800 and 7,000 feet. However, the air pressure and twisting were so great that the ship broke. The control car that was attached to the underbelly of the airship fell to the ground. Fourteen people died, including Lansdowne. This panorama shows the nose, which continued its flight for 12 miles, landing in Sharon, OH.


---excerpt from 'Death of a Dirigible,' by John Toland, American Heritage Magazine, February 1959, Vol 10, Issue 2
full article continues here

A GREY HUNTER
Cumberland [MD] Evening Times, May 18th & 19th, 1881

"Jack Chadwick lived in the wild country near Negro mountain with his mother and little brother Jesse. He was a great hunter and feared nothing. In one of his excursions he came across an Indian chief, who lived in the break in Will's Mountain a mile or two up the creek with his white wife and daughter, the latter just blooming into womanhood.

"The chief had sided with the whites against the protest of his tribe, and they forsook him. He took up his residence in the hollow. Jack fell in love with the daughter and it was reciprocated. But the chief wanted her to marry an officer at the fort and told Jack he was too poor. Disheartened but still determined, Jack left for his home. Stopping at a spring to drink he turned over a stone and uncovered a glistening ledge of rock, which he found to be rich silver ore.

"Returning to the home of his love, he told the chief what he had found, and proposed to show him the mine if he would give him his daughter. The Chief agreed, the silver mine was shown him, and the young man went home to prepare for the wedding. Returning, he brought his brother with him. The Chief, however, had changed his mind at the instigation of the officer of the fort, and declined to give his daughter to young Chadwick.

From: "Feldstein’s Top Historic Postcard Views of Allegany County," 1997.

"All day Jack protested, but the old chief was obdurate, and finally the lover seemed to acquiesce and asked for a few moments talk with the maid, which was granted.

"Sauntering among the trees and talking of the harshness of the parent, the lovers finally agreed to make for the fort and get married, and soon they slipped out of sight of the old home. The old Chief was watching, however and when he missed them he went in pursuit, overtaking them back of the cliff. He was very angry and attacked Jack with a club. The latter threw a stone at the Chief and unfortunately killed him.

"The daughter loved her Indian parent dearly, and amid her wailing declared she could die with Jack but could not live with him, now that he had killed her father. 'Then let us leap off the cliff yonder together and end our trouble,' said he. She consented, and arm-in-arm they walked to the cliff, where they clasped hands and leaped off together."


source: http://archiver.rootsweb.ancestry.com/th/read/MDGARRET/2001-09/0999818266

The Keil Farm is significant as an example of the evolution of an antebellum farm house from the mid-nineteenth to the early twentieth century, and also symbolizes the role that a German immigrant family played in the settlement and development of Walhalla and Oconee County in SC.

John Henry Keil, Sr. (1817-1900), was born Johann Heinreich Keil, in Stotel, Germany, and spent almost 10 years in Charleston after migrating there in the late 1830s or early 1840s. He was listed as a grocer in the City of Charleston directory in 1842. His naturalization papers also list this occupation. He and his family were members of St. Matthew’s Lutheran Church of Charleston. Keil married Margurethe Henrietta Sahlmann in 1847 there, and all of their three children (Katherine Sophia, born July 24, 1848; Johann Heinreich Keil, Jr., born June 12, 1850; Gessina Sophia, born September 21, 1852) were baptized there.

The German Colonization Society of Charleston, led by John A. Wagener, purchased a large tract of land from Col. John Grisham of West Union and laid out the town lots and agricultural area of Walhalla in 1850. Getting to the frontier of settlement in Oconee County (then part of Pickens District) in 1852 from Charleston required a seven hour ride on the SC Railroad to Columbia, another long train ride to Honea Path or Anderson, and finally a seven or eight hour carriage ride to Pendleton and Walhalla.

John Henry Keil and family, about 1853, took up residence in the Bear Swamp area of Wagener Township. In 1857, he purchased 203 acres of land in the Bear Swamp area from J.F. Leopold for $1,015. Part of this purchase contains the current property. Keil, his family, and their pioneer friends initially must have labored in near isolation in the area in which they settled.

When the family moved to Walhalla, they began by 1855 an active association with the newly formed St. John’s Lutheran Church. The family was active in Sunday School and Keil Sr was active as a vestryman from 1878 until his death in 1900.

J.H. Keil Sr planted a variety of legumes and vegetable crops as well as having "milch" and beef cows, swine, and sheep.

Economic resources diminished during the Civil War and during Reconstruction, but by the turn of the century, conditions had improved to the point where the residence had been expanded from its original 700 square feet downstairs and another 400 feet in the loft to usable space measuring over 2000 square feet downstairs and 1000 feet upstairs.

The initial expansion, sometime between 1894 and 1900, was an addition to the west and south of the original house. It provided additional bedrooms and expanded the dining area. The final addition came about 1900 in the form of a large parlor and entrance hall. By that time, J.H. Keil, Jr's family had taken over the house and farm from Keil, Sr. The elder's wife had died in 1884, and he had already moved into his town house, which he had purchased in 1879.

John Henry Keil, Jr. died in July 1914 after a team of mules dragged him across a field. His widow, Margaret Jane Keith Keil, took over active management of the farm until her death in 1939. Her records contain agreements with sharecroppers William W. Brewer and Winfield Morton dated 1884 and another with Isaac Allen dated 1887.

The Keil Farm tenant house, also known as "Merrit's House" in the 1930s and 1940s, was likely used for the purpose of providing housing to sharecroppers and may date to 1884 or before. Margaret J.K. Keil's records contain a receipt for a new buggy purchased in 1905 for $80. As late as 1940, a buggy shed stood several hundred yards from the main house.

By the Depression, John & Margaret's children had moved away from Walhalla. But when hard economic times spread throughout the country, the Keil Farm provided the haven to which many of these children, spouses and their children returned, for various periods of time.


From National Register of Historic Places Registration Form, 1998
http://www.nationalregister.sc.gov/oconee/S10817737013/S10817737013.pdf

IT IS NIGHT, and we are in this jungle. This is our home tonight. Our home is a garbage heap. Around us are piles of tin cans and broken bottles. Between the piles are fires. A man and a woman huddle by the fire to our right. A baby gasps in the woman's arms. It has the croup. It coughs until it is black in the face. The woman is scared. She pounds it on the back. It catches its breath for a little while, but that is all. You cannot cure a baby of the croup by pounding it on the back with your hand.

The man walks back and forth between the piles of garbage. His shoulders are hunched. He clasps his hands behind him. Up and down he walks. Up and down. He has a look on his face. I know that look. I have had that look on my own face. You can tell what a stiff is thinking when you see that look on his face. He is thinking he wishes to Jesus Christ he could get his hands on a gat. But he will not get his hands on a gat. A gat costs money. He has no money. He is a lousy stiff. He will never have any money.

Two hobos walking along railroad tracks, after being put off a train. Unknown date, unknown photographer. Library of Congress.

Where are they going? I do not know. They do not know. He hunts for work, and he is a damn fool. There is no work. He cannot leave his wife and kids to starve to death alone, so he brings them with him. Now he can watch them starve to death. What can he do? Nothing but what he is doing. If he hides out on a dark street and gives it to some bastard on the head, they will put him in and throw the keys away if they catch him. He knows that. So he stays away from dark streets and cooks up jungle slop for his wife and kid between the piles of garbage.

I look around this jungle filled with fires. They are a pitiful sight, these stiffs with their ragged clothes and their sunken cheeks. They crouch around their fires. They are cooking up. They take their baloney butts out of their packs and put them in their skillets to cook. They huddle around their fires in the night. Tomorrow they will huddle around their fires, and the next night, and the next. It will not be here. The bulls will not let a stiff stay in one place long. But it will be the same. A garbage heap looks the same no matter where it is.

We are five men at this fire I am at. We take turns stumbling into the dark in search of wood. Wood is scarce. The stiffs keep a jungle cleaned of wood. I am groping my way through the dark in search of wood when I stumble into this barbed wire fence. My hands are scratched and torn from the barbs, but I do not mind. I do not mind because I can see that we are fixed for wood for the night.

We will not have to leave our warm fire again to go chasing through the night after wood. A good barbed wire fence has poles to hold it up. A couple of good stout poles will burn a long time. What do I care if this is someone's fence? To hell with everybody! We are five men. We are cold. We must have a fire. It takes wood to make a fire. I take this piece of iron pipe and pry the staples loose.

This is good wood. It makes a good blaze. We do not have to huddle so close now. It is warm, too, except when the wind whistles hard against our backs. Then we shiver and turn our backs to the fire and watch these rats that scamper back and forth in the shadows. These are no ordinary rats. They are big rats.

But I am too smart for these rats. I have me a big piece of canvas. This is not to keep me warm. It is to keep these rats from biting a chunk out of my nose when I sleep. But it does not keep out the sound and the feel of them as they sprawl all over you. A good-sized rat tramps hard. You can feel their weight as they press on top of you. You can hear them sniffing as they try to get in. But when I pull my canvas up around my head, they cannot get in to me.


Waiting for Nothing, by Tom Kromer, Alfred A. Knopf, 1935
http://xroads.virginia.edu/~ma01/White/anthology/kromer.html

Huntington, WV born Tom Kromer dedicated his novel about the Great Depression’s suicidally down and out to "Jolene, who turned off the gas." He never completed another book.

The extremes of wealth and poverty do not now exist and have never been existent in Tazewell. There are many comfortably wealthy men in the county; and, perhaps, half a dozen millionaires. But, with a population of 27,840 souls in the county, as shown by the census of 1920, there are only 53 paupers here.

The paupers are of a class that are unable to work on account of the infirmities of age, or other physical causes, and mental deficiency. Fifteen are entirely dependent and are maintained at the county farm, while thirty-eight are partially dependent and receive aid from the public funds.

The county owns a valuable farm, situated one and a half miles east of the county seat, its estimate value being seventy-five thousand dollars. During the fiscal year which ended the 1st of July, 1919, the products of the farm amounted to $4,890; and the live stock on hand at that date was valued at $8,760. The annual expense for conducting the farm and maintaining the paupers is, approximately $6,000.

Friends at Wardell, VA, August 1911.

As long as present conditions continue society here will be contented and prosperous; and, apparently, it will be best for the county to remain, as it always has been, primarily an agricultural community. Adherence to this system will give comfort and security to the energetic worker, and will not furnish asylum to the idler.

God forbid, that Tazewell shall ever have a system with paupers at the base and idle rich at the top of the social scale. May its social system never be like that of modern England, of which Matthew Arnold affirmed: “Our inequality materializes our upper class, vulgarizes our middle class, and brutalizes our lower class.”

Wealth, great wealth, is now collectively possessed by the people of Tazewell. What will they do with it? Under the spell of modern civilization, shall the rising generation be trained to place a negligible value upon the instrumentalities of civilization that were recognized and utilized by the pioneer fathers; and be taught that money, position, power, idleness, and luxury are the prime essentials of an advanced civilization? This is the gravest question the Christian world has to solve.

What part will the people of Tazewell enact in its solution? Shall civilization continue to advance here on definitely true lines, or retrograde into a refined barbarism? Shall we continue to teach but neglect to practice the great social and political truths of Thomas Jefferson, embodied in the Virginia Bill of Rights and the Declaration of Independence?


History of Tazewell county and southwest Virginia: 1748-1920, by William Cecil Pendleton, W.C. Hall Printing, Richmond VA, 1920

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 the story of siblings Molly and Harry Dotey. They came from one of the richest families in turn of the century Stuebenville, OH. She married a German baron; he idled away days collecting art and nights at the opera in Pittsburgh. She ended up in a WV poorhouse, he in the Massillon Insane Asylum.

We’ll pause in between things to catch up on a Calendar of Events in the region this week, with special attention paid to events that emphasize heritage and local color.

Scholars and archaelogists have been duking it out over the authenticity of the Grave Creek Stone since it first surfaced in 1838. Local amateur archaelogists in what was originally called “the Flats of Grave Creek” and is today Moundsville, WV reportedly found the stone during the first recorded excavation of Grave Creek Mound, and the arguments began immediately.

By the time 31 year old Loraine Wyman made her way to Kentucky in 1916, she already had a strong training in, and knowledge of, many of the original English folk songs that Kentucky's early settlers had carried in with them. Wyman, accompanied by Howard Brockway, a composer and arranger, was among the first persons to systematically search for folk songs in the Southern Appalachians.

Next, a letter written by former Chattanooga resident George A. Barrows captures perfectly the gold fever that swept the region and the nation shortly after the yellow nuggets were discovered in Alaska's Yukon. News reached the United States in July 1897 at the height of a significant series of financial recessions and bank failures, and held out hope for adventurers willing to try their luck. In this letter Barrows describes the mishaps that struck when he lit out for the gold fields.

After seeing and hearing the squealing pigs, bawling calves and cows, the preaching, string music, black faced comedians, political speeches, humorous conversations and crying babies, you could not come away without a lasting impression of first Monday, an open air farmer’s market in Scottsboro AL that started up in 1918. Sue Williams, of the WPA Alabama Writer's Project, describes her impressions 20 years into the market’s existence.

We’ll wrap things up with a look at an old African American funerary practice in North Carolina---the creation of memory jugs. It's easy to conclude that memory jugs existed as inexpensive memorials for poor families who couldn’t afford headstones for loved ones. But that explanation too easily overlooks the influence of Africa’s Bakongo culture on slaves brought to America.

And, thanks to the good folks at the Digital Library of Appalachia we'll be able to enjoy some authentic Appalachian music by Walter Ford in a 1991 recording of the traditional mountain tune “Cherokee Shuffle.”

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.

Here's a memory jug from the collection of Melver Jackson Hendricks (1867-1933) who served in the North Carolina House of Representatives in the early 1920's. Memory jugs made from bottles, urns, bowls and other vessels have been found on graves, particularly in the South, and almost always on African American graves. Often they are decorated with trinkets including seashells, glass shards, jewelry, coins, mirrors or other visual reminders of a loved one.

The memory jug shown here is currently in the North Carolina Museum of History. The museum's information on the provenance of the jug is a bit sketchy. Its creation date is estimated at about 1900, probably because of the gray salt glaze used on it and the specific items attached to it, and the museum assumes it was local to Davie County, where Hendricks lived.

It's easy to conclude that memory jugs existed as inexpensive memorials for poor families who couldn’t afford headstones for loved ones. But that explanation too easily overlooks the influence of Africa’s Bakongo culture on slaves brought to America.

The Bakongo culture believed that the spirit world was turned upside down, and that they were connected to it by water. Therefore, they decorated their graves with water bearing items such as shells, pitchers, jugs or vases, which would help the deceased through the watery world to the afterlife. They also adorned graves with items such as crockery, empty bottles, cooking pots and/or personal belongings of the deceased that he/she may need in the afterlife. Items were placed upside-down, which symbolizes the inverted nature of the spirit world.

Items were also broken to release the loved one's spirit and enable it to make the journey. The fragmented possessions, reconformed in the memory jug, paid homage to and simultaneously appeased the spiritual beings, encouraging them not to interfere with the lives of the living. The container could be placed on a grave or held in the home to contain the unquiet spirit.

A memory jug can be any type of vessel or container that has first been covered with a layer of adhesive, such as putty, cement, or plaster. Then, while the adhesive is still damp, a variety of objects are embedded into the surface, including beads, buttons, coins, glass, hardware, mirrors, pipes, scissors, seashells, tools, toys and watches. The endless variety of adornment causes the surface to take on such importance that the form becomes secondary. Memory jugs are also called forget-me-not jug, memory vessel, mourning jug, spirit jar, ugly jug, whatnot jar, and whimsy jar.

A grass-roots revival of 'Memory Jug Making' swept through Appalachia and the African-American south in the 1950’s and 60’s.

See also Blue Bottle Trees


Sources: www.americanmosaics.org/pdffiles/GL_V1I4_Winter2000.pdf
www.palmettoroots.org/Tombstones.html
http://infosys.murraystate.edu/KWesler/Student/research/South-Price,/Tammy/Paris/Landing/SP/Bradford/Cemetery.pdf

Loraine Wyman, accompanied by Howard Brockway, a composer and arranger, was among the first persons to systematically search for folk songs in the Southern Appalachians.

The musical adventurers traveled hundreds of miles on horseback and on foot through an inaccessible world to which radios, roads and cars had not yet come. They made friends in isolated log cabins, and transcribed some 200 song treasures, some of which they published in complex arrangements in two books that are now out of print and rare: Lonesome Tunes: Folk Songs from the Kentucky Mountains (1917, New York), and Twenty Kentucky Mountain Songs (1920, Boston).

"In publishing this collection of Folk Songs, we wish it to be primarily an impression of Kentucky music," says Wyman in the preface to Lonesome Tunes, "that is to say, songs reproduced as nearly as possible as we heard them sung by the people, regardless of their extraneous origin or defects. To correct these melodies and to perfect the poetic versions would give them a totally different character. Our main effort has been to give this volume the simplicity and the naivete which is the great quality of these mountain songs."

By the time 31 year old Loraine Wyman made her way to Kentucky, she already had a strong training in, and knowledge of, many of the original English folk songs that Kentucky's early settlers had carried in with them.

Wyman was born in Evanston, IL on October 23, [1885?]. When their parents separated, Loraine and her sister Florence accompanied their mother's move to Paris. There she studied singing with Blanche Marchesi. Wyman spent much of her adolescence in France, and there began her career as a professional singer, studying voice with Yvette Guilbert. She developed an extensive repertoire including classical and romantic lieder and chansons, opera and English and French folk songs.

Around 1910, Wyman moved back to the United States and became a popular recitalist, giving performances in New York, Chicago, Montreal, Cleveland, Newport and many other cities. By 1916 she was eager to expand her repertoire, and Kentucky beckoned. Wyman and Brockway only spent a total of 6 weeks gathering Appalachian songs. But in doing so and publishing and performing the results, they helped the world see the value of preserving these amazing songs, many of which might otherwise be lost to subsequent generations.

Here are the lyrics of "William Hall," a typical song from Lonesome Tunes:

I
As William crossed the briny ocean
And landed safe on the other side,
Says “If Mary’s alive and I can find her
I’ll make her my lawful bride.”
II
As I went walking up Cold Iron,
There my mind was on my girl;
Cool drops of rain fell as it happened
My true love I there did meet.
III
“Good morning to thee pretty fair one
And how would you like to fancy me?”
“O my fancy’s placed on a brisk young farmer
Who has lately crossed the sea.”
IV
“Come describe your sweetheart unto me,
Describe your lover unto me;
Perhaps I’ve seen some sword pass thro’ him
On the ground your love did fall.”
V
“He was both tall, both neat and handsome
And he had pretty blue eyes withal,
O he had black hair and he wore it curly
And his name was William Hall.”
VI
“I saw a French cannon ball shot thro’ him,
Upon the ground your love did fall;
O he had black hair and he wore it curly
And his name was William Hall.”
VII
She wrung her lily white hands saying
“Lord have mercy, what shall I do!”
“O now to prove my story to you,
Here is the ring that I gave you.”

http://www.folkharp.com/product_info.php/cPath/22_56/products_id/755
http://dl.lib.brown.edu/bamco/bamco.php?eadid=mswyman

It has been a custom for more than twenty years to have trade days in Scottsboro on every first Monday in the month; this is also when Probate Court meets. This custom was started by the business men of the town to stimulate and encourage business and it really has had the desired effect as it is almost impossible to get along the streets, and during noon hour it is extremely hard to enter a restaurant or cafe as they are so crowded.

The crowd starts assembling early in the morning, coming in wagons, cars, riding horses, mules and in most every conceivable manner. People coming from all parts of Jackson County, the adjoining counties and adjoining states, bringing with them anything they wish to exchange. You would find almost anything here on these days that is grown in the country.

On one side of the courthouse square you would find the horses and mules and cattle, along with these you would find hay and straw in large quantities. There is some real horse trading and trafficking going on here. Some men make their living in this manner sometimes starting out with a worthless animal of some kind and by a series of good trades, they come out the winner; on the contrary if you are not a good judge of stock you are likely to get gyped.

Main Street, Scottsboro, AL. The postmark date on the back of this postcard is November 20, 1917.

On another side of the square you find the pigs and hogs and it is not an uncommon sight to see a man meandering across the courtyard with a squealing pig in his arms, or you may see them leading dogs around trying to exchange them, and then you see men carrying old guns of various makes and calibers, hunting a trade of some kind.

There are vendors of all kinds such as fruit, vegetables and home made chairs. In one corner of the court yard you find a crowd gathered to hear a preacher (probably Holiness) preach from a truck bed and again you will find the same preacher in a different part of the yard preaching.

In one corner you find a black faced comedian attracting a crowd for a medicine show. More than likely you would find a few darkies scattered around the town well, which is located on the square, strumming on their banjoes and guitars. You would be sure to find string music and singing of some kind on the street.

If during some political campaign you will be certain to hear some speeches, as all the candidates make it a point to be in Scottsboro on first Monday. The crowd starts breaking and going home about three or four o’clock in the afternoon, as some of them have a long distance to travel and some of them may have a difficult time in getting home some of their newly acquired possessions.

After seeing and hearing the squealing pigs, bawling calves and cows, the preaching, string music, black faced comedians, political speeches, humorous conversations and crying babies, you could not come away without a lasting impression of the first Mondays.


Sue Williams, WPA Project
Bridgeport, AL
Jackson County
Oct 5, 1938
WPA Alabama Writer's Project Collection/Alabama Department of Archives and History

Here's a letter written by one George A. Barrows to a Lewis ______ (perhaps Coleman) in Seattle, Washington, dated June 16, 1901. It's from the James B. Frazier Papers Collection in the University of Tennessee Special Collections Library. James Beriah Frazier (1856-1937) was admitted to the Tennessee bar in 1881, and began his practice in Chattanooga. This partially explains the presence of this letter in Frazier's possession: Barrows (1863-1909) got his law degree from the University of Pennsylvania in 1885, and during the next three years practiced law in Chattanooga. So they traveled in the same circles, and clearly were friends.

"[Barrows] was also largely interested in real estate matters in that city," says his obituary, "but with the decline in prices in 1888 disaster overtook him and many others, and he returned to Philadelphia."

Frazier & Barrows must have remained in contact after Barrows left Chattanooga in order for this letter to find its way back to Frazier after Barrows died. But we don't know the identity of 'Lewis,' the letter's recipient, and his connection to the other two men.

Why is this letter relevant to Appalachian history? It captures perfectly the gold fever that swept the region and the nation shortly after the yellow nuggets were discovered in Alaska's Yukon. News reached the United States in July 1897 at the height of a significant series of financial recessions and bank failures, and held out hope for adventurers willing to try their luck.

Barrows first lit out for the gold fields in May, 1899 with a government expedition, under Captain E. F. Glenn, to Cook Inlet, Alaska. By that point in his life he'd left the law, gone back to school and become a doctor. The following November he sailed for Nome as a surgeon on the Laurada. The ship sprang a leak in Bering Sea and went to pieces on St. George Island, but everyone on board was rescued.

-----

Dear Lewis: Many thanks for your long and very interesting letter. I am very glad the news personal to yourself is so good. A man of family, of position and of aldermanic proportions, you are certainly in luck. May all sorts of good fortune continue.

Klondike prospectors, no date.

I hardly know how to start to tell you of my very eventful career during the last few years. I have not time now to write a book, so will send you my diaries of '98 and '99 wherein you will see among other things how I was twice wrecked at sea, on one occasion being cast away on an island in Behring [sic] Sea.

As soon as I stopped keeping a diary I stopped getting ship wrecked. Last summer I was Ship Surgeon on a large Steamship--the "Oregon"--running between Seattle and Cape Nome. A great deal happened then but I have no record of it and it would take too long to tell.

Since last Fall I have been teaching Obstetrics and Diagnosis of diseases in an Institute here; but this job is now over - for the summer vacation - and we are "up against it" again almost as badly as when we struck Seattle. I hoped to get the "Oregon" again this summer - but a doctor who is a great friend of the owner has thus far euchered [sic] me out of it.

You see I am as far off as ever from my "Four Million," although the experience I have had may sometime help me to get it. I know Alaska pretty well and how they work the ropes there, very well. The country is full of gold and if we are ever so fixed that we could get there - with the means to stay a year or two - I believe the "Four" would be on the way.

One must winter there in order to get a chance at new diggings before news of them reaches the States. Before the rush of people to Nome got there every valuable claim had been taken up by men who had wintered up the Yukon.

The Laurada in 1896, courtesy of Illustrated American Magazine.

People who are not Capitalists who go in for the summer, invariably, are sorry -- others too, for that matter, who lack necessary knowledge and judgment. This is a great country out here. You ought to take a long vacation sometime and come out and see what God’s country really is like. Magnificent scenery and climate, living cheap, things civilized and a bracing move and get-up to affairs that would make the effete East hold its breath. Let me hear from you soon. No hurry about returning the diaries.

Your sincere friend Geo. A. Barrows. 16 June 1901.


Sources: James B. Frazier Papers / University of Tennessee Special Collections Library at http://idserver.utk.edu/?id=200800000003486

OBITUARY RECORD OF GRADUATES OF YALE UNIVERSITY DECEASED FROM JUNE, 1910, TO JULY, 1915, No. i of the Sixth Printed Series, and No. 70 of the whole Record at www.archive.org/stream/1910t15obituary00yaleuoft/1910t15obituary00yaleuoft_djvu.txt

The Calvin B. Doteys, a wealthy and greatly respected family, had a very fine old home with spacious grounds on South Third Street. Old Mr. Dotey made his fortune in, and was president of, the Jefferson Iron Works in the lower end of town. He had a daughter Molly, who became the one and only titled person in Steubenville. Long before I was born, it was said a German, Baron Lagerfelt, came to town and married Molly. Only a few months later he left his bride and skipped to parts unknown, taking with him most of his wife’s fortune. He never returned, and so far as I know, all the Doteys, probably Baroness Lagerfelt included, felt it was good riddance.

Another child of the Calvin B. Dotey family was Harry. He wore his hair long, played the piano and pipe organ, and never worked a day in his life. He left the Episcopal Church and became a devout Roman Catholic. Among his many eccentricities was his adoption of the name Harry Linwood Marie Dotey y Carr. He wore gaudy scarves and ascot ties, pink shirts, flashy suits, and always carried bright yellow gloves. A large Catholic medal on a heavy silver chain hung ostentatiously from his neck. With very large jeweled rings on both fingers and thumbs and heavy bracelets with lockets, he attracted attention wherever he went.

It can well be imagined what a stir such a person created in a small sleepy town over sixty years ago. He loved to ride for hours on the old streetcars engrossed in reading books and magazines. A great student of art and an accomplished musician, when grand opera came to Pittsburgh, Harry Dotey always bought two seats and appeared at every performance. He placed his hat, gloves, coat and cane on the adjoining seat. Music lovers in the city of Pittsburgh wondered who the strange man was sitting alone on the aisle.

Both he and his sister, the Baroness, did a tremendous job at squandering the money which their father had worked so hard to accumulate. The walls of the old house on South Third Street were hung with rare paintings, and the home was filled with priceless objets d’art. Most of these treasures were bought from the Wunderly Brothers of Pittsburgh, who for generations have owned an epecially fine art store. One of the Wunderly Brothers told me years ago that Harry Dotey’s knowledge of art was amazing. He bought extravagantly and was notorious for never paying his bills. About the time the Wunderlys felt forced to bring suit against him, he would come into the store and pay a long outstanding bill. But, according to Mr. Wunderly, when he left the Gallery he invariably had bought additional treasures, and owed the Wunderlys an even larger amount than when he came in.

At Christmas Harry and the Baroness sent the most elaborate and expensive presents to all their friends, including my father and mother. They were always beautifully wrapped and tied with wide satin ribbon in tremendous bows. For many years a framed picture of a nude was turned to the wall on the floor of our bedroom closet. Harry and the Baroness had given it to my father and mother, but my parents immediately relegated it to the darkness.

Unfortunately, old Mr. Dotey made my father guardian of his two spendthrift and eccentric children. Father had a terrible time with them. Harry could have made a little money by playing the church organ for pay, but he pretended righteous indignation when any such degrading suggestion was made to him. The Baroness finally died, and poor Harry lived on for several years in the Massillon Insane Asylum, which while he wasn’t actually insane, seemed a more suitable place for him to end his days than in the Jefferson County Poorhouse.

When Baroness Lagerfelt signed herself in to the poorhouse, it made national news. Here’s a June 17, 1909 writeup from the New Orleans newspaper L’Abeille de la Nouvelle-Orleans.

Father, who was the epitome of generosity, preached economy to us incessantly, and frequently held Harry Dotey and his sister, Baroness Lagerfelt, up to us as horrible examples of what happens to people who spend more than they should. The Dotey family’s going from riches to rags and the Poorhouse was a shocking example. Father told us that when the old Dotey home was dismantled, the third floor was filled with the most expensive and beautiful toys which Mr. and Mrs. Dotey had bought for Harry and Molly when they were children. This great store of playthings, any one of which would have made some child happy, was allowed to accumulate dust over the years. The old colored man who spent his life working for the Dotey family had many children of his own, but in the end Harry Dotey stood adamant over him and watched closely to see that every sacred article which he had enjoyed in his childhood was burned, so that no lesser child could defame it.


Father and his Town A Story of Life at the Turn of the Century in a Small Ohio River Town, by Wilma Sinclair LeVan Baker, Three Rivers Press, 1961

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 guest post from bloggers Roger and June Lowe, a writing/photography team in Bluff City, TN. Appalachian history can be found in the oddest places and attached to the strangest things, they tell us. A cookbook, for example, can dish up a nice serving of history in addition to recipes. Especially a book published in 1890 and passed down from mother to daughter through the years.

We’ll pause in between things to catch up on a Calendar of Events in the region this week, with special attention paid to events that emphasize heritage and local color.

In our next piece, Georgia storyteller Chuck Larkin will try and bend your ear with a shaggy dog story about his Uncle John and Aunt Irene in the Georgia mountains. Seems their place was hot enough one August day to actually melt a hog. “I know you may not believe this but I do not have any reason to lie to you,” winks Larkin. “Oh I might tell you something seven or eight different ways but I wouldn’t lie.”

In August 1931, Jean Thomas found herself invited to the Governor's mansion in Frankfort, KY to discuss the creation of an American Folk Song Society and an annual festival open to the public. How did Thomas get to this point, and why did she call herself the “Traipsin’ Woman?”

Visitors love Chained Rock at Pine Mountain, Kentucky's first state park, established in 1924. But why is there a chain around it? 
Some children of Pineville, goes the story, were having troubles sleeping at night because they were afraid that the large rocks that loomed over Pineville on Pine Mountain would break free, come tumbling down the mountain, and smash into Pineville. Some of the town fathers decided it would be a great publicity stunt to draw tourists if they could bring this folklore to life.

Farm life is never as bucolic as non-farmers imagine. Waucella Gregory of Rocky Gap, VA was milking a cow one morning, when the cow got overly protective of its nearby calf. It kicked Waucella in the face, and then broke her leg. She managed to drag herself out of the barn and across a fence to safety, but still nearly died in the field because no one heard her calls for a long time.

We’ll wrap things up with a selection from a 1901 novel titled “Winning or Losing; a story of the West Virginia hills.” While waiting together under an awning for the rain to let up, two friends get to ribbing one another about the relative merits of each one’s town. Naturally they both have terrible things to say about where the other lives.

And, thanks to the good folks at the Digital Archive. we'll be able to enjoy some authentic Appalachian music by Gerry Dempsey, Ian Jacks and Tom Joad in a 2004 recording of the traditional mountain tune “St. Anne’s Reel.”

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.

Well, a cow had a little calf and I was going to milk them. Had her in the barn. I went to put her in with the calf to let it eat and I was going to finish milking. But when I went to put her out, the calf got out and I went to put it back in and couldn't get it back in so I turned around to fasten the gate of a thing to keep her out of the stall and when I turned around I guess she butted me, I don't know. All I remember is turning around.

Next thing I know I was sitting down. My leg was sticking out. She had already hit me in the face. So she was going to come at me again, knowed I couldn't get up. And the big old doors to the shed had two buttons on it, one at the top and one across. I looked up at those buttons and said, "Oh Lord, help me...." The old cow come at me and them doors flew open as pretty just as you please. No one could open them as pretty as they flew open.

She (an angel) got me on to the outside and old dog heard me holler and he come up there and got her off me and I scooted a long ways. I sit down and scooted a long ways and I climbed up on a rail fence. I looked back and saw both cows and I thought she was going to come after me so I climbed up a rail fence. I don't know how in the world I got up there, but I got up on it.

And I could see our neighbor across the creek, so I hollered and hollered. Pete and Mary was down at the house, they were just little. Charlie Gregory had gone somewhere to walk up the road to feed and I hollered and hollered, no one come. Sat there awhile and saw one of the neighbors that lived on up the road, come through the gate, the yard gate and I hollered. He looked up and saw me and he'd come up there and got me and carried me to the house. They had to call an ambulance to take me to the hospital. Pete and Mary stayed with John and Pauline Gregory. I had to have three or four operations before I could walk.


Waucella Coburn Gregory (b. 1920)
raised down Wolf Creek below Rocky Gap, VA


Source: http://63.160.254.53/wgregory.html
The Bland County History Archives



appalachian+history Waucella+Coburn+Gregory farm+accidents appalachia +Bland+County+VA history+of+appalachia

The August morning was overcast and a drizzly rain was falling. The few men around the courthouse door drew underneath the porch. The group was made up of three or four townspeople and a half dozen male teachers. The acquaintance existing among the latter was limited, or else they did not feel in a chatty mood. At all events they stood idly by, holding their hands in their pockets. One of them was glancing over the legal notices posted on either side of the entrance. Now and then a later arrival would pass over the diagonal path, generally exchanging salutations with members of the group.

On the stone facing of the porch stood Dr. Pellam, his hands in his pockets and a broad smile resting on his features. A short, stout man was approaching him.

"Hello, Doc," he exclaimed. "I see that Irish grin on your face. How are you, anyway?"

"Fine as silk, Tolby."

"The same crackerjack?"

"The same one. And have you come over from Terra Alta to look for trouble?"

"Trouble? How can a man get into trouble in this dry old town?"

"Just cut loose and try 'er on. We'll lay you out every whipstitch. The lockup is on this street and we keep it ready for such heathen as you."

"How big some people can talk," replied Tolby. "What in the mischief would you fellows do if it wasn't for court and one or two other affairs that come around about once every fly time? We let you have the institute this year just to keep you from getting totally discouraged. You have the dullest old shell of a town one can find in a month's drive. You can't even hear a railroad whistle except when the wind is favoring. Where would you come out at, if we fellows from the other side of the river didn't come over here and trim you up once in a while?"

"Now you remember our bargain," said the doctor, "I was to shave off my mustache if you would quit telling yarns for three months."

"Have to tell yarns over here to keep from feeling dead."

"Pshaw, you can't see straight. No stale, musty, second-hand jokes from you Terra Alta fellows. Suppose I would live in that one-horse town of yours, all chugged in among the hills? Just to see a few plow joggers jolt in over your bumpy roads and have to windlass themselves up to get from one street into the next? And when you see half a dozen old broken-down wagons blocking your street, you say business is lively. Why, the snowdrifts lay on your hills over there till the middle of June.

"Well, the rain's let up."


---excerpt from WINNING OR LOSING? A Story of the West Virginia Hills, by Oren F. Morton, Sincell Printing Company, Oakland, MD, 1901

text at www.archive.org/stream/winningorlosings00mort/winningorlosings00mort_djvu.txt



Terra+Alta+WV appalachian+humor appalachia +appalachian+history history+of+appalachia

Visitors love Chained Rock at Pine Mountain, Kentucky's first state park, established in 1924. But why is there a chain around it?

Some children of Pineville, goes the story, were having troubles sleeping at night because they were afraid that the large rocks that loomed over Pineville on Pine Mountain would break free, come tumbling down the mountain, and smash into Pineville.

Well, the parents of these children invented the story that the rocks were chained to the mountain so the children wouldn't worry and would go to sleep. Before long the story of the chained rock spread to neighboring communities, and people started showing up in town inquiring about the whereabouts of the chained rock.

In 1933 50 local citizens, plus members of the CCC, the Kiwanians, and the Boy Scouts, assembled the “Chained Rock Club” with the express purpose of turning folklore into a reality, a publicity stunt they hoped would generate added tourist revenue for the park and town.

On June 24, the club obtained an obsolete steam shovel from a Virginia quarry. The machine’s chain weighed 2,500-3,000 lbs. It had to be cut in half before a four-mule team could pull each portion up the mountain in two trips.

When the mules gave out, the Chained Rock Club’s 50 members carried the chains the rest of the way. Atop the mountain, the crew welded the chain back together, and stretched it 101 feet across the abyss. It is anchored at each end with steel pegs 1-1/2 x 24 inches, sunk into holes star drilled by hand.

The publicity stunt was a smashing success; over 6,000 daily newspapers reported the accomplishment of the "Chained Rock Club."

Today the visitor driving through Pineville who looks up at the big rock, 200 feet long and 75 feet wide, can see the chain which "protects the city." A hiking trail within Pine Mountain State Resort Park leads to Chain Rock, which affords a magnificent view of Pineville and the surrounding area.


sources: www.bellcountypubliclibraries.org/pvlhis.html
www.blueridgecountry.com/travel/ky-travel-guide.html



Pine+Mountain+KY Pineville+KY Chained+Rock appalachia appalachian+history history+of+appalachia

The first time I ever visited Georgia was in Habersham County. Uncle John and Aunt Irene had a ridge farm in the Georgia mountains. You may never have seen a ridge farm or if you did you may not have realized how they farm the ridges. You can’t use a tractor. It would roll over on you the first time you tried to turn a row. Folks use mules for the ploughing, planting, weeding and harvesting.

Not my Uncle John, he was a gentleman farmer. He raised razorback hogs, a mountain species of the wild piney wood rooters. The mountain variety have long back legs and long ear lobes with holes in the bottom of the ear lobes. The first time I saw one I thought they wore ear bobs in their ear holes. They are ugly. Their heads look like their necks had barfed. One fell into the pond up in front of the farm house. They had that 550-pound hog out of the water in about five minutes. Aunt Irene told me they had to scum ugly off that pond for a year.

My Uncle John raised that species of mountain, razorback hogs, because of the long back legs. The hogs could root right up the side of a ridge turn around, tuck them long back legs into their ear holes and slide right back down the root path. Then they would turn right around and root their way back up the ridge.

When it was time to plant, Uncle John tied little disks on the hogs’ tails. Disks look like Frisbees and they break up clods of fresh turned dirt. Uncle John would throw table scraps out over the ridge and at dusk turn the hogs loose. By morning the hogs would have rooted and disked the whole side of the ridge. Uncle John would sit on his rocking chair on his back porch with a bag of seed grain and his sling shot and plant the side of the ridge.

When the harvest was ready all he had to do was hit the side of the ridge with a two-by-four piece of wood, wham bam! All the vegetables would roll down off the ridge to the catch fence. I mean that does make farming a whole lot easier.

Uncle John never had to worry about drought and lack of rain like other farmers did. Across the top of the ridge he would always plant three rows of onions and potatoes mixed together. He surely was a smart farmer to have worked this out. You see if you mix the onions and potatoes together at the top of the ridge the onions would make the tater eyes weep and keep the whole side of the ridge irrigated.

The only mistake Uncle John ever made was the summer he planted some of those hot, hot, hot Mexican jalapeno peppers along the catch fence. When those fiery, hot peppers got ripe, they put off an incredible amount of seething heat that just rolled up the side of the ridge. Well that summer, so happened to be a summer so hot that I’ve watched stumps in the pasture tear themselves out of the ground and on their roots crawl underneath the trees to cool off. I have even seen the shade in the middle of the day creep under the trees to cool off. Hot and Dry!

We had the Health Department out to spray the fish in the cat fish pond for ticks. The fish would come out of the pond around noon each day and swim around in the dust to keep away from the boiling water.

Well to make a long story short let me tell you what happened. I know you may not believe this but I do not have any reason to lie to you. Oh I might tell you something seven or eight different ways but I wouldn’t lie. On the hottest day you could imagine coupled with the scorching heat waves coming off those Jalapeno peppers and rolling up the ridge a 465 pound hog got into the middle of the ridge field and flat out melted! That’s a fact. Though I admit some might tend to argue but I was there and I seen it for myself.


Chuck Larkin (1931-2003), self-proclaimed bluegrass storyteller, folk singer, humorist and speaker, was a featured teller at The National Storytelling Festival in Jonesborough, TN and was a charter member of the Southern Order of Storytellers.


source: http://chucklarkin.com/stories/Short_Tales.pdf



Chuck+Larkin tall+tales Habersham+County+GA appalachia appalachian+history history+of+appalachia

Please welcome guest bloggers Roger and June Lowe, a writing/photography team in Bluff City, TN. They travel the highways and byways of the Appalachians searching for descriptive words and photos. Their work appears in several outdoor publications, and at Appalachian Outdoor Recreation Examiner.

In addition to recipes, a cookbook can dish up a nice serving of history. Especially a book published in 1890 and passed down from mother to daughter (and in some cases, grandmother to granddaughter) through the years. Appalachian history can be found in the oddest places and attached to the strangest things.

“My daughter is the fifth owner of this book,” Granny Laura said, tapping the antique book with a finger. “I remember her grandmother getting it out occasionally to look up something. It was starting to fall apart even then and she wouldn’t let anyone hold it. I can’t remember a time while she was alive that I had this book in my hands.”

The book can only be described as deteriorating rapidly. The cover (front and back), along with the first 22 pages and who knows how many back pages, were missing. The leaves, yellowed and brittle, were pulling free from the fragile sewn binding.

“These old cookbooks were way more than just a collection of cooking recipes,” Granny continued. “A book would offer recipes for cooking. Then you’d find a section of hints and tips for many health issues including invalid cooking. The toilet and bath was covered with details for taking care of the skin, hair, and other various parts. And a book always had a section of housekeeping suggestions and tips.”

Leafing carefully through the brittle pages uncovers a wealth of knowledge about how we lived ‘way back then’. For example, details on preparing wild game are presented. Want to know how to prepare Frog on Toast or Squab Pie? Recipes can be found on page 59.

Worried about graying hair? Page 523 in the Toilet section describes one way to cover the gray. The recipe calls for an infusion of butternut (walnut) hulls and daily dampening of the hair with strong cold tea or coffee. Today’s HBA section in the local retail store is much more convenient.

The title of the book “Three Meals a Day” is printed at the top of every left page. Researching the title revealed additional information (along with photos that ascertain this is the same book). “Three Meals a Day” by Maud C. Cooke, copyright 1890, printed in Chicago by ACME Publishing House was sold by subscription only.

Is it a history book? Not by any stretch of the imagination, but insights about the socio-economic standards of the time can be found throughout the book. Old cookbooks—interesting reading.



cookbooks appalachian+foods home+making appalachia appalachian+history history+of+appalachia