Appalachian Lifestyles

Folks Are Talking

2012-01-04T13:38:00.001-05:00

A former feature writer and columnist on the Bluefield, W. Va., Daily Telegraph has released a double CD of oral histories titled “Folks Are Talking” from men and women he interviewed for the newspaper in the 1970s.

Garret Mathews, who moved to Evansville, Ind., in 1987 to write the metro column for The Courier, retired in 2011 after penning more than 10,000 articles on a variety of subjects from a 91-year-old female bootlegger in Princeton, Ky., to the members of a snake-handling church in Jolo, W. Va.

Mathews selected 28 of his early Daily Telegraph stories for “Folks Are Talking.” They include an early United Mine Workers organizer, a horse trader, survivors of coal mine explosions, coal camp baseball players, a child born during the deadly flood of 1977 and a female furrier who carves muskrats while eating peanut-butter sandwiches.

“These men and women are from a bygone era and most are long dead,” Mathews says. “I wanted to record our time together as a way of keeping their stories alive.”
Music evocative of the region that includes southern West Virginia and southwest Virginia is included on the double CD.

Copies of “Folks Are Talking” will be furnished to public and school libraries in the two-state area as well as to historians and colleges and universities that offer Appalachian studies.

“It’s as I point out in the introduction: You just don’t find these folks any more,” Mathews says. “What they shared with me, I want to share with future generations.”

“Folks Are Talking” was featured on a recent interview segment with Joe Dashiell on WDBJ-TV in Roanoke, Va. Selections from the double CD are also being played on the public television station in Roanoke.

The double CD costs $17 plus $3 shipping and handling. Checks should be sent to “Folks Are Talking,” c/o Garret Mathews, 7954 Elna Kay Drive, Evansville, Indiana 47715. For more information or to listen to four of the tracks or to order online, go to www.folksaretalking.com

Second Edition of "Goin Up Gandy" Now Available

2011-08-29T18:56:00.004-04:00

It has recently been brought to my attention that one of my favorite books, "Goin' Up Gandy" by Don Teter has been reissued into a second edition. Loyal readers of Appalachian Lifestyles may recall the mention of "Goin' Up Gandy" in an old post about The Wreck of the Dry Fork #4. After reading that post, "Goin' Up Gandy" author, Don Teter, contacted me and let me know that the long out-of-print book was soon to be reissued in a second edition. That time has now come. I highly recommend the book and urge all readers of this blog to consider picking up a copy of this remarkable book while it is still available. It is perhaps the single best source of local history for the Dry Fork region and the surrounding areas of West Virginia.

Here is the Press Release:

"Don Teter of Monterville, West Virginia, and McClain Printing Company of Parsons, announce the release of a second edition of his book Goin’ Up Gandy, A History of the Dry Fork Region of Randolph and Tucker Counties, West Virginia.

The 135 page history was first published in 1977, but has been out of print for nearly 30 years. The new edition includes a 20 page index. The book details the history of the settlement of the area, the Civil War period, and the boom times of the logging and railroad industries in the Dry Fork, with extensive footnotes and numerous photos. A map of the area “In the age of steam” is included.

A 1969 graduate of Elkins High School, and a 1973 graduate of Davis and Elkins College, Mr. Teter holds a B.A. in History and Political Science. He has been a West Virginia licensed professional surveyor since 1982, serving as president of the West Virginia Society of Professional Surveyors in 2001, and editing the quarterly publication The West Virginia Surveyor for ten years. Don has done extensive land surveying and consulting work for the Rich Mountain Battlefield Association, the Staunton-Parkersburg Turnpike Alliance, and Historic Beverly Preservation. He is currently on the History Alive! roster of the West Virginia Humanities Council, portraying writer, artist, and Civil War topographer Porte Crayon.

Copies are available from local bookstores, McClain Printing Company in Parsons, or directly from the author at:

Don Teter
HC 86 Box 32
Monterville, WV 26282

or by e-mail at: teterdon@frontiernet.net

When buying directly from the author the retail price is $26.42, plus $1.58 sales tax (total $28.00). When the book is mailed an additional $3.00 is charged for shipping and handling for a total of $30.00."

Belvedere

2011-02-09T15:13:00.006-05:00

When I was growing up, I was considered by my family to be the pet pig. This was because I was the baby of the bunch, and for 12 years I remained that. During this time, I was doted on and given free reign of the place, and I got by with a lot more than I probably should have.

Me at age 2. Those pants prove I was at the height of fashion.

I’m pretty sure that I was my granddaddy’s favorite grandchild, and I could get anything out of him or do anything and it’d be just fine. He was so proud of me, he’d tell people, “That boy can drive hen shit to gunpowder.” That’s how good I was.

Now this isn’t to say that the other kids, including my brother who is only 18 months older than I am, were slighted in any way, I’m just saying that I got by with more than my fair share because of my pet pig status.

I remember one time when we lived on the farm, I got a BB gun for my birthday. I was out playing in the side yard and my brother was in the upstairs window, making faces at me. He apparently thought he would be safe from my vengeance, but I proved him wrong when I shot at him through the window. He dodged to the side, but I waited until he poked his head back in front of the window to see if I was still outside. When he did, I fired again, and just like that, another windowpane bit the dust. This continued until I had shot every windowlight out of that upstairs bedroom. As soon as I’d shot out the last one, Jason hollered out, “Mom…Matthew’s outside shooting out the upstairs windows with his BB gun.”

Mom then came outside and investigated the situation and took my BB gun away, and told me I was going to have to pay for those windows, and she was taking by $2 allowance to do so. It wasn’t but maybe a half hour later, and after a long talk with my granddad, that I got back my BB gun. He also gave me $2 and told me not to shoot out anymore windows...and not to tell mother about the money!

Me, my Granddad and my Uncle Tom in 1986. Notice my beaver-teeth pose!

I remember how I used to stay overnight with my granddad and we’d go riding around in his huge red International station wagon named “Belvedere”. Belvedere had a front seat, a back seat and an enormous back end that usually was filled with kids and chainsaws. I know those two don’t mix, but I remember always hating to have to find a seat bakc there so you wasn’t riding up against a chainsaw chain.

One time, when I was about 5 years old, just me and my granddad was coming back from Riverton in Belvedere (by now you’ve probably realized I never missed a trip to the store). At that time, I only knew my numbers up to 100, but the speedometer in Belvedere registered up to 120 miles per hour, so of course I wanted my granddad to sink the needle in the straight stretch going out through Germany Valley so I could see it. However, since I didn't know how to say, “a hundred and twenty”, I instead said to my granddad what I knew, “Go Twelve-O, granddaddy, go twelve-O!”

Well, Belvedere might have registered 120 mph, but it certainly couldn’t go that fast, looking back I doubt that it could have went 120 mph if it was falling straight down a well. Granddad used to have a saying about how much power Belvedere had, he would say “This ol' car couldn’t pull a sick woman off of a shitpot”. I believe that says all you ever need to know about Belvedere!!

Let’s suffice it to say that Belvedere never did go “Twelve-O”.

The Erl-King

2010-10-30T22:44:00.003-04:00

This is one of my very favorite poems. I can just imagine my German ancestors living in fear of the Erl-king. What better way to celebrate All Hallows Eve than with the German folktale/song/poem, The Erl-King?

Der Elrkonig (The Erl-king)
by Johann Wolfgang Von Goethe

Who's riding so late through th' endless wild?
The father 't is with his infant child;
He thinks the boy 's well off in his arm,
He grasps him tightly, he keeps him warm.

My son, say why are you hiding your face ?
Oh father, the Erlking 's coming apace,
The Erlking 's here with his train and crown!
My son, the fog moves up and down.

Be good, my child, come, go with me!
I know nice games, will play them with thee,
And flowers thou 'It find near by where I live,
pretty dress my mother will give.

Dear father, oh father, and do you not hear
What th' Erlking whispers so close to my ear?
Be quiet, do be quiet, my son,
Through leaves the wind is rustling anon.

Do come, my darling, oh come with me!
Good care my daughters will take of thee,
My daughters will dance about thee in a ring,
Will rock thee to sleep and will prettily sing.

Dear father, oh father, and do you not see
The Erlking's daughters so near to me?
My son, my son, no one 's in our way,
The willows are looking unusually gray.

I love thee, thy beauty I covet and choose,
Be willing, my darling, or force I shall use!
Dear father, oh father, he seizes my arm!
The Erlking, father, has done me harm.

The father shudders, he darts through the wild;
With agony fill him the groans of his child.
He reached his farm with fear and dread;
The infant son in his arms was dead.

Marked?

2010-07-22T19:53:00.004-04:00

It all began on that night so long ago. It was hot when it happened, it was sometime way down in the summertime. I remember it was about the time the crickets start to hollerin’ but before the nights start to get chilly. I remember that I was wide awake that first night because it was too hot to sleep. Me and brother slept upstairs in the little bedroom, and it was there that I first seen it. I was lookin’ out the window upon the moonlit night and watched as it casted shadows over the trees whenever a cloud happened to pass by. It was then that it happened, I see them start to crawling. It was snakes, lot of ‘em, and they kept crawling and writhing all around the sill and even tried to get traction up on the glass. Then a giant yellow snake appeared in amongst all the rest of them and it was clear to me that he was the snake king. I took to hollerin’ for Maw and Paw and soon enough they come runnin’ to find out what was the matter. By that time, brother had run over to the top of the steps as if that in some way would speed up Maw and Paw. When they finally got to me, I told them what I seen, Maw just grabbed me up in her arms and started bawlin’ and mumblin’ out loud about how I was marked. Her baby was marked. That night and every night after that I kept seeing them snakes and they kept comin’ back to the window night after night.

Maw did what she could to keep them snakes away from the window, she put little pots of mint out on the window sill, and she would hang dried snake root inside of the window from the curtain rod. I think she knew that what she was doing was going to be of no use since they were spirit snakes, but she done it anyway. Every morning when we’d get up, those little pots of mint would be knocked out onto the ground below the windowsill, and the pots busted. The snake root would be all dried up and shriveled, and would be as black as coal. After a few nights of this, Maw talked to Granny about it because that was the only person she trusted with this information. If people were to find out that I was marked, I would have a hard row to hoe.

Granny said it sounded to her like I was witched, and that we should see Bromie, the old woman that lived way up on the mountain. It was rumored that she was marked as a child and that she was forced to live up on the mountain, out and away from everybody else, because people was afraid of her and thought her to be evil. Granny told us to go right away because she’d always heard that spirit snakes would keep coming night after night until eventually they got inside and then I would be in real danger. Granny took out a handkerchief and put all manner of stuff in it and tied it up, and said to give it to Bromie when we went to see her.

We left that day about noon and it took about an hour to climb up the ridge to Bromie’s little house. As was expected of callers, Maw started calling out Bromie’s name long before we got to her house so as to let her know we was coming. By the time we got to the clearing that led to Bromie’s front door, she was sitting there waiting on us.

Maw made the appropriate niceties to Bromie and gave her the tied up handkerchief that Granny had prepared for her. Maw explained to Bromie how she thought I was marked and how the snakes was coming to me every night. Bromie, with her eyes slightly squinted, looked at me and then back at maw and said, “Nothin’ much to worry about, as long as they ain’t a yeller one in amongst them.” I blurted out, “there is a yellow one, he’s their king.” Upon hearing this, Bromie looked a bit shocked and muttered, “They must be at it again…”

Trying to be polite about it, as quickly as she could, Maw asked if there was anything that she could do to help me. Bromie explained, “Snakes come to youngin’s a lot, especially in the heat of the summer. They sense a pure heart and if there’s one thing snakes don’t like, it’s that. But that yeller one is what bothers me. That is the boy’s soul snake. They say that everybody has a soul snake out there, but it’s seldom that the soul snake finds its match. When it does it means one of two things, either the soul snake will keep on trying to get to its match until the match dies or the match will be marked as a snake witch.”

I remember being scared to death at what Bromie told us. Maw was too, but she was also smart. She asked Bromie was there anything that could be done to stop it. “Sure is,” Bromie said, “but it ain’t an easy thing to do. You need a snake witch to stop that yeller snake.”

“Ain’t you a snake witch, Bromie?” I piped up.

Blood drained from Maw’s face when I said that, she was just sure that I had offended Bromie by calling her a snake witch.

“I was marked years ago. Young man, I’ll help you because you are pure of heart and I know you mean well. I wouldn’t wish this life on my worst enemy. Besides, I reckon I owe your Granny a great debt for all that she has helped me with over the years. I reckon I would have starved to death long ago if it hadn’t been for her leaving me jars of food and sacks of dried apples and such out in the woods where I could find them.”

“I didn’t know Granny knew you,” I said.

“Nobody knows it. Your Granny does things for me that nobody knows, for if they did, your Granny would be an outcast, too.”

“She’s a good woman, that’s for sure,” Mama said, “I know what people say about you and I knew you lived up here but I never did think about it. I always reckoned you lived up her because you wanted to.”

“I live up her because this is the only place I can live. I can’t live anywhere that would make my life an easy one, for that is when the snakes would return,” Bromie explained.

“What causes this sort of thing. Why are the snakes bothering us my boy?” Mama asked.

“Because they can. You see, somebody long ago witched this whole mountain, and everybody who lived on it and everyone who would ever live on it. At any given time there has to be a marked snake witch that lives on it. There can only be one snake witch at a time, but there is always going to be one that lives here on this mountain,” Bromied added.

Mama asked, “But you said that you were a snake witch, and since you already live here, then why are they bothering my boy?”

“I reckon we both know the answer to that,” Bromie said softly. With her eyes cast down and the gray strands of hair poking out of her old worn-out sun bonnet, “The good book says we don’t know the hour nor the day, but I reckon I’ll come closer to that than most. To be honest, I welcome the death angel even though I wouldn’t wish this life on anyone else.”

Bromie added, “Here’s what we’ll do, you’re going to have to leave the boy with me tonight, you can stay here to if you’d like, but you can’t interrupt anything or say anything once the sun goes down. Now I mean that, you don’t know the things I know so I’m only going to tell you once that if you stay, you can’t do or say anything once that sun goes down until the sun comes up tomorrow morning.”

“I understand,” Mama affirmed, “but I would like to stay with the boy. I’m going to have to go down and tell everybody where I’ll be staying tonight so they won’t worry, but I’ll be back long before dark.”

“Just leave the boy with me,” Bromie stated, “we have work to do anyway.”

I was scared to be left there with Bromie, but I trusted her. She knew my Granny and that meant a lot in my book. We watched as Maw made her way down the path on the ridge, and when she was out of earshot, Bromie turned to me and said, “Young Gentleman, what you say we get to work.”

From an old pasteboard box up on a shelf, Bromie took out a little black book. “This here is the Sixth and Seventh Books of Moses. It has everything we need to stop these snakes. Now, I’m going to have to make you sleep in a burlap sack but we need to keep it covered with a quilt at all times. I know it is going to get powerful hot under there, but that is what we need to do. I promise I won’t hurt you and I’ll do my best to see that those snakes don’t either.”

It seemed like a short time when Maw came walking back up the ridge. I reckon it seemed so short to me because me and Bromie had been making plans for that night. She read the books over me, and did some chants, and she tied some roots onto a piece of twine and told me to hang it around my neck. She told me to take off my shoes so I’d be more comfortable, and she took them from me as I pulled them off my feet. It wasn’t long after Maw got back that we ate a bite of supper and waited on darkness to arrive.

That night it was dark. Real dark. There was no moon at all, and there was no breeze to speak of neither. It was stifling. Bromie said, “Yep, they ain’t going to make it easy on us.”

Bromie told Maw to settle in somewhere in the room and to stay put, and remember what she had told her earlier.

Bromie put me in the sack, only my shoulders and head were out of it, and she covered that with a big, heavy quilt. “What keeps out cold will keep out heat,” she said as she prepared me for bed. “Try and get some sleep if you can. It’d be better if you didn’t know what was going to happen anyway.”

I was tired from walking so far that day, and the heat just took it out of me. As uncomfortable as I was, it wasn’t long before I was fast asleep. Maw stayed awake and heard Bromie praying over me, and watched as she opened all of the windows and the door and welcomed in all spirits that was seeking me. Maw said she seen it with her own eyes, it wasn’t long after Bromie started calling up the spirits that a giant yellow snake poked it head in the door from out in the darkness. It looked around and slithered in and toward the bed where I lay.

Making slow, deliberate movements, Bromie made her way toward the open door and she quietly shut it, and one by one, she closed the windows. Then she picked up a large clay pot and loudly started chanting in a tongue Maw had never heard. When she started that chanting, Maw said that ol’ snake just froze in its path and turned and looked at Bromie. She kept right on singing and slowing lowering the pot down to the snake. Just then, the snake reared up on its tail and swayed back and forth. Bromie paid it no mind and kept on with her chanting. The snake began to coil and strike out at the darkness, but Bromie continued her chanting. Then, the snake turned toward the bed where I lay and started coming closer and closer. Bromie kept right on singing, though now a little louder and with more feeling. Maw said she could tell things was getting very tense. Maw said that snake laid its head right down on the foot of that bed but then turned back toward Bromie and that clay jar. Then in one fluid movement, it made a great lunge at Bromie. Just as quickly, Bromie threw up the open jar in front of her and the snake went right into it. Bromie quickly put a lid on it, and with seemingly otherworldly skill, she grabbed up a bundle of herbs of some sort and lit them and threw them into the pot, and then she sat down on top of it.

After a few minutes, and much thrashing about inside of the clay jar, Bromie turned to Maw and said, “I believe that will do it. You can speak now.”

Without saying a word, Maw just lay there, and remained silent. Bromie repeated herself but Maw again ignored her.

Morning came in a few hours and the light of day brought with it some remarkable sights. Bromie was sitting on the front stoop when Maw walked outside. “I reckon you seen things last night that you never hoped you would.”

“Yes,” Maw said matter of factly. “I don’t reckon there is much any of us can say about that.”

“I’m glad you remembered what I had told you. You see, when that soul snake went in that pot and I threw the burning brand in on him, part of that spirit went into me. That is why I am marked,” Bromie continued, “all snakes great and small, spirit or living, can share my body. I wish it wasn’t so, but it is what it is. If you had of answered me or made any movements, that spirit probably would have attacked you, and there wouldn’t have been anything I could have done.”

“Can you tell me why that snake went for you instead of the boy on the bed, since it was the boy it was seeking?” Maw asked.

“Well you see, while you were gone, I had the boy take his shoes off and give them to me. I put the shoes down in the clay pot. I knew that soul snake would get the scent of the boy from those shoes. Of course,” Bromie added, “the boy still had his scent on himself, that is why I gave him a charm to hang around his neck that kills scent, and I had him sleep in a burlap sack that I had gathered chamomile in last month so the burlap also hid some of his scent. The quilt on top is the one I use to lay out my drying herbs in the sun. I never use it so it wouldn’t have people scent on it. That helped cover up his scent even more, and it would have protected him had the soul snake tried to attack him.”

She continued, “I reckon you heard that singing that I done. It is part of being a snake witch. What I done was use those words to put that soul snake into a trance. One it was in the clay jar, I threw in the cleaning herbs which ridded this world of that spirit. You’re boy will not be bothered by snakes again. I just want you to know that what I done wasn’t evil, what I done is straight out of the good book, from the Sixth and Seventh Books of Moses. Most people just don’t know where to look for those books. I don’t want you thinking that I was witching the boy.”

“Bromie,” Maw said, “I want you to know that I will forever be indebted to you for what you have done. I don’t think you are evil and I want you to know that you are welcome to visit our home any time that you want. You will always find a plate set at our table for you.”

“Oh no, you mustn’t do that, people will shun you as they have me,” Bromie pleaded.
“I reckon I can invite to my home whoever I want to” Maw replied. “Besides, Granny must set a great store by you to have helped you out all the years as you said she has done, so you must be a good person. I reckon between me and Granny, we can set the old gossipmongers to packing should they ever utter a bad word about you in our presence.”

“I’ll not hear anyone speak ill of you in my presence.” Maw added, “You’ll find that I am loyal to those that are loyal to me and mine, and what I seen you do last night was far above and beyond what I have ever seen anyone do for us. So if you ever find yourself down on our property and see something you want, why you just take a share of it and all will be well. That way, you can still live the way you must and we will be able to begin to repay you for all that you have done for us.”

Bromie just said, “I’d appreciate it. I reckon now that I have done what I done, the snakes will rethink their plans about replacing me with somebody younger. I suspect they’ll come around and aggravate me for some time to come but nothing I ain’t used to. I’ve been marked now, oh, going on 70 years. That’s why I reckon I done what I done. I couldn’t bear the thought of that youngin’ in there having to live like I’ve had to live all these years. Like I said before, I wouldn’t wish this life on my worst enemy.”

Jack Learns a Lesson

2010-06-24T10:59:00.007-04:00

With apologies to the "real" Jack Tales of Appalachia...

Jack Learns a Lesson in Honesty
by Matthew Burns

Did you ever hear the one about Jack getting a lesson in honesty? No. Well then, it’s about time you hear it then don’t you think? You see, one time, I always heard it was up around Helvetia or thereabouts, there was a boy named Jack. Well, Jack wasn’t quite a boy but he still wasn’t no man either, he was at that age when he was caught somewhere in between the two. Jack was the oldest boy of the family, some would say the man of the house since his Daddy got kilt in a log jam back a few years before. As you might imagine, the family was pretty poor, as the old saying went, “they didn’t have a pot to go in, nor a window to through it out of.” The family still had a few acres of rocky ground, poor land though it was, almost too poor to even raise a fuss.

Well one day, Jack’s mama looked into the gaunt faces of her children and knew she had but one option. She was going to have to sell the family cow. She loved that cow, having raised it up from a calf, but them was better times in better days, and even though the family would be at a loss for milk, there just wasn’t no way around it. They needed flour and meal and salt and sugar and maybe even a little coffee if they were to get through the coming winter. So it was with a heavy heart and a troubled mind that she gave Jack instructions to take the cow down into a nearby town and try to get as much out of it as he could, and she give him a list of foodstuffs to buy while he was in town. She told Jack not to take less than fifteen dollars for the cow, for if he couldn’t fetch that price he might as well bring it back home and they would keep it and make due the best they could.

Well, ol’ Jack was about a sharp as a box sled, though he fancied himself an intelligent person. He reckoned he could fetch a big price for the cow if he could figure out a way to talk the cow up to prospective buyers. He studied on this as he began the long journey down to town.

On the way, he stopped in the creek at the foot of the mountain, and while holding the halter on the ol’ cow, he clenched handfuls of white sand off the bottom of the clear stream and scrubbed that cow down from head to hoof. He then fashioned a comb out of a hickory limb and combed the cow, freeing her hair of briers, sticks and mud. Jack stepped back to admire his handiwork and reckoned that it would at least double the value of the cow. Jack was stepping mighty high as he led the cow on down the path toward town.

They weren’t long on the path until they came upon a pine grove. Jack was happy to see it for the path under the pine grove was shaded and cool, and it had been a long trek off of the mountain. Jack noticed that several of the pine trees had great balls of sap welled up on their bark. He touched one of them as he passed, and found it to be very sticky. He rubbed his fingers together to free his hands of the sap, but the more he rubbed his hands, the more he spread the sap around. Soon though, the path came upon another creek and Jack was able to scrub the sticky sap from his hands.

After the few minutes it took for the cow to drink its fill, they were again on their way, and quickly passed out from under the shade of the pine patch. As he walked out into the bright sun, Jack gasped as he saw his hands and forearms where the sap had been, they were literally shining in the sunlight. So using his vast intellect, Jack quickly came upon another idea, he would mix some of the runny sap with water and he would rub the cow down with the mixture to make her extra shiny and appealing. She’d be the best looking cow in town after he shined her up. After much deliberate trouble, Jack soon had the cow shined and spiffied up, never had he saw a cow look so good as the old family milk cow.

It was nearing mid-afternoon when Jack led the clean, curried and shining cow into town. He was walking with his head heisted high like he was leading a fine stallion. He began announcing as he passed townspeople, “Cow for sale. Make me an offer. Ain’t she a beauty. Fattened on mountain pastures. She’s a fine milker. There ain’t another cow like this in all of town. Make me an offer.”

Jack saw a few men loading their wagon by one of the stores in town. He slowly passed them, making sure to give them his sales pitch. One of the men there asked him, “How old is that cow?” To which Jack answered, “Not a day over three years, sir. As you can see, she still has her youthful shine about her.” The man, as it turned out, was the store keeper in town and though not fooled by Jacks spit-and-polish antics, told Jack he could see that the cow had been well cared for, and since he was in the market for a good cow, offered Jack twenty dollars in cash or thirty dollars in credit at his store.

Jack looked quite indignant at the offer, “Sir, surely you can’t expect me to part with this fine animal for that paltry sum. Surely this cow is worth much more than you offer.” The storekeeper merely replied, “That’s what I can do on her,” to which Jack responded, “Then I shall bid you good day, sir.”

As Jack made another round through town, he remembered his mother had told him to take no less than Fifteen dollars for the cow, but he reckoned with all the improvements he had made to the cow, she was worth at least Fifty Dollars. And by the way the townspeople were looking at his fine cow, he was sure that his mother would agree.

It wasn’t too much longer that Jack came upon a man and wife, coming out of an attorney’s office. Jack started announcing his sales pitch again as he passed, “Cow for sale. Make me an offer. Ain’t she a beauty. Fattened on mountain pastures. She’s a fine milker. There ain’t another cow like this in all of town. Make me an offer.” Finally, the well-dressed man said to him, “Hold up there son, that’s a mighty fine looking animal that you are leading. I heard you say that she is for sale. How much, might I ask, would it take for me to take her off your hands?”

“Why sir, I can see that you have a good eye when it comes to livestock,” Jack said, “there’s not another cow such as this in all of the county. What would you offer for such a one of a kind animal?”

“Well young man, my wife and I are new in town. We hail from Old Virginia, and I haven’t seen a cow shine so since I left my home in Chesterfield County. I don’t know the going rate for cows in these parts, but I will make you an offer of Fifty Dollars and a fine meal in exchange for that cow.”

Pausing while he pondered this offer, Jack reckoned he’d better not take the first offer the man gave him, he reckoned he had heard a hundred times from countless people to never take the first offer someone makes you for anything. With this in mind, Jack politely said, “Sir, it is true that your offer is above what cows generally cost in this county, but surely you would agree that this isn’t just an ordinary cow. You said yourself that she shines like a low country cow. I’m afraid I just can’t let her go for a mere Fifty Dollars.”

“I understand your hesitation, young man,” said the man, but as I said, my wife and I are new in town. I have just opened up a law firm here, and I don’t feel comfortable investing more than that into a milk cow at this time. I’m sorry we couldn’t do business.”

“Well, thank you for your time, sir,” Jack responded, “have a good day, but I must bid you goodbye since I must find a buyer for this fine beast before nightfall.”

Jack made a few more rounds in town, but by that time it was beginning to get late in the afternoon and the town was starting to clear out. Though disappointed, Jack wasn’t too very concerned, after all he had already gotten two offers for the cow, and it was only the first day. He reckoned if worse came to worse, he could always come back tomorrow to make a deal. He reckoned after the storekeeper and the attorney slept on it, and had the idea of owning this fine animal fermenting in their minds, they’d gladly meet his price. It was clear after a few more minutes, it’d be best f he made his way back out to the creek that he had crossed over on the path into town earlier in the day so the cow could graze and drink her fill at the creek. After arriving at the creek, Jack began looking for a good place to make camp, and he settled on a quiet spot just off the main path, under a big pine tree with grass and a small stream nearby. He quickly make a crude camp, pulling dry grass for him a bed and building a small campfire to keep away any roving night critters and biting insects. As the evening gave way to night, Jack waited until the cow bedded down for the night before feasting on cornbread and sweet milk, which he had freshly milked a few minutes earlier. After he ate, he began to thinking again of his cow. He reckoned tomorrow he wouldn’t take a penny less than One Hundred Dollars for her, fine animal that she was.

The next morning, Jack was awakened by the gentle sounds of the cow grazing nearby. He looked over at her, and was shocked by what he saw. The dampness of the night had caused all of that pine resin he had rubbed her down with the previous day to form little balls and it was all matted and caked in her hair. He then noticed that her whole one side was coated with pine needles where she had bedded down under the pine tree. All of a sudden, anger washed over him and he started screaming at the cow, calling it stupid, and telling it how it was a worthless animal that didn’t have sense God gave a goose. He swarped for a good ten minutes at the beast who calmly continued to graze on the green grass.

After he calmed down, Jack knew the only thing he could do was try to clean the cow in the stream. He soon found the task to be nigh on to impossible. You see, the dried and matted pine resin just repelled the water, and the cow wouldn’t allow him to try and brush the hardened beads of it out of her hair. He did manage, however, to get most of the pine needles out of the mess.

The thoughts of all that lost money weighed heavy on his mind as he made his way back into town. This time, rather than parading through the streets trying to make a sale, Jack decided to approach the attorney to see if the Fifty Dollar offer that had made the day before was still good. As he walked into the office, the attorney quickly recognized him and bade him a good morning. He half-jokingly asked Jack, “So young man, are you here to settle up on a land deal that you have made with all the money you surely derived from the sale of that fine cow.”

“No sir,” replied Jack, “I came to see if your offer of Fifty dollars still stands.”

The attorney looked upon Jack, quite puzzled, “But young man, what has changed between yesterday and today? Surely the cow didn’t lose value overnight. Perhaps we should take a look at the beast to see if there is a problem.” Jack assured him that it was the same cow that he looked at yesterday, but told him they had spent the night camped out by yonder creek, so she might not look as fresh as she did yesterday, but indeed it was still the same animal. The attorney said he’d like to take another look if he was to pay fifty dollars for a milk cow. Jack reluctantly took him to the cow, which had been tied out back of the office.

“What is this!” exclaimed the attorney.

“Why it is my fine cow that you looked at yesterday,” Jack calmly replied.

“But what is this…” the attorney inquired, touching the gummy substance that was matted in the cow’s hair.

“Nothing more than some pine resin,” said Jack. “She bedded down under a pine tree last night and it must have dripped down on her as she slept.”

“But her shine, it is gone. What happened to your beautiful cow’s sheen?”

Jack didn’t have an answer, but the attorney quickly figured it out. “Young man,” he said, “it appears that you have tried to take me for a fool. This cow has no shine to her coat, it appears you were trying to make her appear more vigorous than she really is. Furthermore, it appears you are trying to take advantage of a stranger to this land. I’m sorry young man, but I will not be doing business with you, and I can only offer you some advice, never come to me asking me a favor for I will not be so kind at our next meeting. Good day to you.”

Jack was dumfounded. He still felt he had done nothing wrong, he was merely trying to make the cow look her best so she could fetch a better price. He thought the attorney was just overreacting so he decided to call upon the storekeeper to set about making a deal.

Jack made his way to the back of the store, and tied the cow in an out of the way area. He entered the store, whereupon he was immediately greeted by the storekeeper, “Good morning young man, did you ever pawn that played out milk cow off onto anybody?”

Incredulously, Jack responded, “What do you mean, sir, my cow is a vision of vim and vigor.”

“Young man, I’ve seen every trick in the book come through here, although I must admit, yesterday was the first time I have ever seen someone fool enough to rub pine resin into the coat of a milk cow. My guess is you never sold the cow yesterday and this morning you found all that resin balled up in little pellets? Am I close?”

“Well sir…,” Jack stammered, until deciding to come clean, “Yes sir, but I didn’t mean no harm by it, I was just trying to fetch a good price for our cow because mama told me to try and get as much out of it as I could.”

“So you’re mama put you up to doing it?”

“No sir. Mama don’t know nothing about what I did. That is all on me. She just meant for me to not get taken advantage of.”

“But it was alright for you to take advantage of others,” questioned the storekeeper.

“I didn’t mean nothing by it, I swear I didn’t.”

“Young man, I knew that you were trying to put one over on some unsuspecting victim yesterday when you turned down my offer of twenty dollars cash or thirty dollars in goods. Around here that is a fortune to get for a cow. I offered you that amount because I admired your initiative. I just never knew how greedy you were until you declined my offer,” the storekeeper chided him.

“I’m awful sorry about that, sir. I do apologize.” Having taken enough of this tongue-lashing, Jack decided it was best if he just left, “Now, if you’ll excuse me, I guess I’d better be heading back home.”

“Hold up, young man,” interrupted the storekeeper, “Did you come in here to try and sell me the cow, again.”

“I did, sir, and again, I apologize, but I can tell you are no longer interested in buying the cow.”

“Then let that be a lesson to you. Twice you tried to take advantage of me, and twice I forgave you.” The storekeeper continued, “Now young man, if you are through trying to take advantage of me, then I really am interested in buying that cow.”

“Really, sir,” Jack questioned, “For the thirty dollars in goods?”

“No boy, that was yesterday’s price. Let’s go have a look at the cow and we’ll try and settle upon a fair price.” As they were walking out to see the cow, the storekeeper asked Jack how many siblings he had.

“Four,” answered Jack, “but I’m the oldest.”

“Let’s see then. Five youngins and selling the family milk cow. Things must be pretty hard for your family,” the storekeeper commented.

“Yes sir, they have been since my paw died. Mama didn’t want to sell our cow but we need other things worse, I reckon,” Jack confessed.

“That’s mighty noble of her. I’ll tell you what, I’m not going to buy your cow, but I would like to accompany you back home to meet your mother.”

Jack didn’t know what to say except, “it’s a far piece, it’ll take the better part of the day.”

“Well then young man, just let me tell my assistant and we will be on our way.”

That evening when Jack arrived back home with the cow in hand, his mama looked very forlorn and defeated about his returning without any foodstuffs. He was only beginning to tell her about his trip when she saw the strange man coming through the yard gate.

“Jack, who is that?” his mama asked.

“Mama, this is the storekeeper for in town. He said he wanted to talk to you about something. He wouldn’t tell me even though I told him I was the man of the house.”

“Ma’am,” The storekeeper formally greeted her. “Might I have a word with you,” she nodded to the affirmative and invited him in to share the meager meal she had prepared for Jack.

Jack was just sure the storekeeper was going to tell mama about what he had done, and he knew she would be so ashamed of him and she’d probably wear him out with a cornstalk. It seemed like hours before the storekeeper came out of the house, when they did all Jack heard was the storekeeper telling his mother to send Jack down to the store tomorrow.

Jack also heard his mother tell the storekeeper that he was welcome to stay the night, but the storekeeper declined, saying he’d best on his way before more daylight was lost.

After the storekeeper left, Jack asked his mother what they had been talking about, and what was meant by the storekeeper telling her t send him to the store tomorrow.

“Well Jack. Never underestimate the kindness of strangers. That kind man just offered to buy all the butter, cheese and eggs we can supply him with, and he is offering us good prices for them, too. He said he knows how hard it must be for us, because his mama brought him up without a Daddy and he remembers how they went without food many a day. He’s offered to give us an advance that will cover our corn and salt and whatever else we need, and he said as long as we treat him fairly, he will treat us fairly.”

She didn’t mention anything about his deceitful plans in trying to sell the cow. Jack reckoned it was his punishment that he had to carry the guilt around inside of him. When he thought of it, he had to excuse himself for a few moments by saying he’d better go check on the cow. He didn’t know what to think about the opportunity that had just presented itself to his family, all Jack knew was he had certainly learned a valuable lesson over the past two days.

West Virginia: Land of Tomatoes?

2010-04-22T13:23:00.005-04:00

It's getting to be that time of year again. Time to be getting your tomato plants out into your garden. It seems that everyone I know has a few varieties that they swear by and plant year after year. Many people prefer to buy their plants every year from local greenhouses, since that is often the most convenient way for them to do it, however, many "tomato purists" prefer to grow their own plants from seed, especially if they have their own tomato secrets.

The flavor of a tomato will vary greatly based on variety and soil. So if you grow an Old German tomato in Cabell County, WV, it will likely taste somewhat different than one grown in Pendleton County, WV. Not better or worse, just different.

With all of the recent interest and popularity of heirloom tomatoes, I thought I'd do a little research on West Virginia Heirloom tomatoes. I was aware of a few varieties of West Virginia Heirloom tomatoes before starting this research, after all, my family has long sworn by the merits of West Virginia Centennial tomatoes because of their resistance to blight, and for flavor, nothing can even begin to come close to the Old German. Regardless of the variety you choose for your garden, remember, heirloom varieties are usually more flavorful and unique than hybrid varieties commonly found in greenhouses of the region.

I recall that my granddad always grew Early Girl tomatoes (a hybrid) because they ripened the earliest in the season, but he would always back up his Early Girl's with a more flavorful variety, usually Old German's. It was always sight (and sometimes a smell) to behold when visiting his house in the late summer heat. Nobody I knew had air conditioning then, so we would all gather on the front porch. Incidentally, this was also the location where Granddad would store all of his ripe tomatoes. He had a huge shelf at the end of the porch, right beside of the porch swing, where he would place nearly ripened tomatoes. In the late afternoon, the yellow jackets would be attracted to the sweet smell of the ripe tomatoes, and it seems we were always swatting them away. Nobody ever did anything about removing the tomatoes from the front porch, so I suppose dealing with the yellow jackets was all part of the experience of tomato time at granddad's house.

I asked my granddad one time, why did he pick the tomatoes when they were nearly ripe and sit them up to ripen, when he could just as easily let them ripen on the vine. Chickens, he said. Chickens will peck a ripe tomato faster than a flea will jump on a dog's back. So to protect his tomatoes, he would always pick them, and sit them on the porch shelf to complete the ripening process. Fencing the garden to keep out the chickens was unheard of, this was just how things were done. Then you had personal preferences coming into play, some of the family liked firm, tart tomatoes, so they would choose from the bounty, the newest specimens, as they were still not quite fully ripe. These tended to be firmer. Other family members preferred "mooshy 'maters", those were the quite often, over-ripened individuals that were almost ready for the slop bucket. Many days, i'd see my mother make herself a mooshy 'mater sandwich and watch the juice drip from her elbows. The tomatoes would be that juicy and ripe. When the tomatoes became over ripe, even past the "mooshy 'mater" stage, they would end up in one of the slop buckets around the corner of the house. Every morning and evening, my granddad would inspect his bounty and pick out the worst of the lot, and off they'd go to the hogs. I should also mention that the tomatoes on the porch were also home canned and put up for winter, but as anyone who grows tomatoes will know, when you are blessed with a bounty of tomatoes, they will cover you up.

No matter where you live, and whether you prefer hard, meaty tomatoes or mooshy 'maters, I urge you to consider planting a couple of varieties of West Virginia Heirloom tomatoes in your garden this year. I'll think you'll be happy you did.

Below is a list that I have compiled of West Virginia Heirloom Tomato Varieties, it is not a complete list, and if you know of others, please let me know. To obtain any of these varieties, a simple google search will locate a retailer who will be happy to hook you up, and remember, if you save a few of your West Virginia Heirloom tomato seeds after this growing season, you can plant them again next year. Who knows, perhaps someday, you will have developed an heirloom variety of your own.

West Virginia Heirloom Tomato Varieties:

1884

Akers WV

Armenian

Belgium

Big Sandy

Bilder

Bowers

Cindy's West Virginia

Cornish

Cosner

Dr. Suds Capon Bridge

Germaid Red

Gallo Plum

Giant Syrian

Golden Ponderosa

Hillbilly

Homer Fike's Yellow Oxheart

Irish Pink

Kellogg’s Breakfast (there is some dissent on whether this is actually a WV Heirloom, but we’ll claim it as one of our own).

Mortgage Lifter

Mountaineer Mystery

Mountain Princess

Old German

Paw Paw

Striped German

Tappy’s Finest

Toensfeldt

Transparent

Watermelon Pink

West Virginia

West Virginia 63

West Virginia Centennial

West Virginia Penitentiary

West Virginia Straw

West Virginia Yellow

Yellow Cookie

So which West Virginia Heirloom varieties would you like to try this year? Have you tried any of them in the past? What were your experiences with them?

I'd better end this post quickly, suddlenly i'm feeling the need for a great big "mooshy 'mater" sandwich fresh from granddad's front porch.

Hope in the Redbud Trees

2010-04-08T13:17:00.002-04:00

I was looking at the blooming redbud trees up on the mountain
And eating what was left of my chocolate Easter rabbit,
When mama came running out of the kitchen door, hollering about how
There was something going on down at the mine.

Mawmaw jumped in the car, and drove us down to the mine.
She kept repeating over and over, “My baby, my baby...”
I ran after mama and mawmaw as they made their way to a crowd,
Who were gathered near the mine gates.

Some woman in a loud, white Pontiac pulled up.
Her radio was playing a Patsy Cline song.
Tears had cut through the make-up on her face.
She carried with her a picture of her husband, who was in the mine.

Some miners came around, telling how there was an explosion,
They just shook their heads, and said it was bad. Real bad.
Mama began to pray aloud, and the crowd hushed with bowed heads.
I just watched the mine and waited for Daddy to come out.

More people gathered around. Rumors ran wild.
The air was tense; strangers cried on each other’s shoulders.
Fire trucks and rescue squads arrived, some from places I’d never heard of.
But no news from the company ever came around.

The news people came with their lights and big camera’s.
They were trying to interview people for the evening news.
They were looking for answers, just like everybody else.
With melted chocolate covered hands, I waved to them.

A preacher went over to the camera people,
He asked them to leave the families alone for awhile,
On TV, he asked viewers for pray for the miners and their families.
The news people went away, out to the road, and stopped people to talk to.

Word came around that seven men were dead.
More were trapped inside. Nobody knew exactly who or how many.
Everybody waited for news and for the company to update them,
And they clung to hope as the evening slipped into night.

Some men from a rescue squad came over.
Many of them were crying, but more of them were trying not to cry.
They shared some of the names of the dead they’d seen on a list.
The names of the dead went through the crowd, repeated from every lip.

When the names reached mama, she let loose a cutting scream,
And mawmaw fell to the ground and sat there holding her head in her hands.
With forced strength, mama whispered to me, “Baby, your daddy went with Jesus.”
Through my tears, I saw the blooming redbud trees up on the mountain.

A Look Back at Bee Tree Creek

2010-02-25T11:57:00.008-05:00

Samuel Paris McKinney (1822-1898)

The following story is about my wife Shirley's great-great-great grandfather. This story has been handed down for several generations, and was shared with me. Now I am sharing it with you.

Samuel Paris McKinney was born in 1822, and he lived most of his life in the rugged, wild mountains of Wyoming County, West Virginia. He received a land grant on Barker's Ridge where he made his home, but more often than not, could be found near his favorite hunting spot on Bee Tree Creek (which borders present day Wyoming and Raleigh counties). In Samuel Paris' days, there weren't many people in the Bee Tree Creek area and the hunting was excellent, perhaps even the best in the region. It was also considered so wild of an area that many men avoided it. People told tales of ferocious animals, evil spirits and even wild Indian hold-outs when speaking of the area. The tales grew even more frightening when they spoke of the great laurel thicket, a defining feature of the area. Samuel Paris liked it when he heard these stories; to him as long as people were afraid of the area it would remain wild and free of settlement. Taking advantage of the situation, he was often alone when he hunted, trapped and spent a great deal of time along Bee Tree Creek even though his official home was on Barker's Ridge, several miles away.

When Samuel Paris hunted, he carried with him a pack bag typical of men of the time. By his side was a mountain rifle and a tomahawk. His rifle was so long that many men found it nearly impossible to hold because the barrel was so long. There were newer rifles available to him, but his daddy had given him his rifle and it was a good rifle so he saw no need to "upgrade". He was known to be quite fearless in his exploits, taking chances that many deemed unnecessary but to him they were just everyday actions of living. Samuel Paris was known throughout the region as one of the first to raise hunting dogs, and his dogs were considered to be among the best bred and most well-trained in the region. Men would come from miles around to trade or buy a pup off of him, and it soon came to pass that having a good hunting dog by your side was essential to every hunting man in the area.

One time over on Bee Tree Creek, Samuel Paris had his favorite dog with him, and it wasn't too long until the dog picked up the trail of a great bear. When the bear realized it was being trailed, it broke into a full run right into the great laurel thicket. He had trained his dogs never to go into a laurel thicket after a bear because more often than not that action was a death sentence on the dog and quite often the man, too. But this time and against all its training, his favorite dog found a low trail and went into the laurel thicket after the bear.

Since this was his favorite dog, Samuel Paris saw no other option besides to go in after the dog. If it hadn't been his favorite dog, he probably would have just made camp and hoped the dog returned out of the thicket, but he just couldn't wait and hope when it came to his favorite dog. So against his better judgement he entered the laurel thicket after the dog. He planned on just retrieving the dog and getting out as quickly as possible, and his decision was justified after he entered the thicket. The laurel grew so thick that he was forced to crawl in many places, and seldom was there an area where a man could even stand upright. He was about a hundred yards into the laurel thicket when he located the dog, but soon realized that simply retrieving it wasn't an option. You see, the great bear had the dog penned up in a corner between two vertical cliffs on Bee Tree Creek, and was slowly closing in on it.

At this point, Samuel Paris was crawling along through the thicket as quickly as he could manage, trying to get to an open area where he could raise his gun. As it was, there was no chance of getting off a shot at the bear since he was practically dragging the rifle alongside of his body. He finally made his way into Bee Tree Creek, where the flowing water offered a slight opening in the laurel. But as he raised his rifle to shoot the bear, the bear had moved in so close to the trapped dog that it was impossible to get a shot at it for fear of hitting the dog.

Quick thinking coupled with the inherent and passionate bravery of a mountain Scotsman, Samuel Paris McKinney instantly came upon a plan. Without a moment's hesitation, he pulled out the tomahawk from his belt, ran up to the bear and grabbed the great beast by the hair on the nape of its neck, quickly and deftly swung the tomahawk once and split the bear's skull wide open, killing it instantly. For years afterward, stories were recounted about how Samuel Paris McKinney had killed a bear with only a tomahawk and in the process had saved his favorite hunting dog, all without getting so much as a single scratch on him.

In the years following this account, progress inevitably took its toll upon the region, and the great laurel thicket was cut down and the area along Bee Tree Creek was settled. Later, coal mines dotted the landscape. As the area grew in population, Samuel Paris began to stay on his land high up on Barker's Ridge, and in his last days raised and sold hunting dogs to make a living. Men would come from miles around to buy his dogs and hear him regale his tales of yesteryear. The time of the rugged mountaineer had come to an end and those times were now found only in story form. And oh what great stories Samuel Paris McKinney told.

Times Up On Pinchgut

2010-02-10T15:16:00.009-05:00

The wind come a-whippin' around the corner of the house last night about midnight with such ferocity that it brought to mind the time me and Vern Cassell was coon huntin' up on Pinchgut. Pinchgut, you ask? Well Pinchgut was a holler that was so steep that the only way to get to the head of it was to go right up the crick bed or else you'll give out. It was up on the mountain from where we lived and it was so steep that nobody could ever farm anything up in there. It was almost too rough to even hunt in, and most people avoided it like the plague.

It was almost midnight, as I recall, and was gettin' down in the fall of the year and me and Vern was out coon huntin'. We'd only been out for a few minutes when we heard the dogs and knew they was on the trail of a coon. We took up the ridge after them, figgering they'd go out toward the spring and the persimmon grove. It wasn't long after being on their trail that we seen they was headin' up into Pinchgut. We knew we was in for a time right then and there, but we also knowed that if we didn't go in after the dogs that Ol' Mag, the lead hound, would stay on the trail until she dropped dead right in her tracks. They wasn't no callin' her off the trail once she was on it, either. Well, we started up into Pinchgut, making our way through the laurel thickets and acrosst downed tree's, until we got right near the head of the holler. We stopped for a minute and listened for the dogs, and wouldn't you know it, halfway up the hillside stood Ol' Mag and the rest of the dogs baying at a big oak tree. We knew they had something treed and we knew we had to try and get up there to them, or else they'd stay there until they barked themselves hoarse or something worse.

Well, me and Vern started up the hillside, grabbing onto saplings to make our way, and having to stop ever so often to catch our breath. That hill was so steep that at one point we noticed we was climbing down the hill but still having to hang onto the saplings to keep us from falling off of it. After about an hour or so, we finally come up on Ol' Mag, and she looked at us like we'd abandoned her because it took us so long to get up there to her. But all was forgiven, all the way around, when we seen what Ol' Mag had treed a big she-coon, she must have been about 50 pounds if it was an ounce, and it had its 8 twenty pound pups with it. Vern got the monkey trembles, he was so excited at the prospect of all that coon, that he lost his balance and took to falling up and down the hillside. He caught hisself about 50 yards down. He told me that I'd better go ahead and shoot 'em down since he didn't think he could make it all the way back up to the tree. So I up and shoot, and dang if that wasn't the steepest tree I'd ever seen, 'cause my shot just went up halfway and got lost, and come peppering back down on me. I tried again and the same thing happened. Then I took to studying on the situation and figgered the easiest way to get the ol' she-coon and her pups out of the tree was to cut the tree. I reckoned I'd chop down that big oak tree and send it ball hootin' down into the holler where we'd collect the coons. I had my hatchet for just the occassion, and I soon set to work gnawing at that tree like a beaver.

About halfway through chopping it down, Vern hollered up the hill at me and asked me if I heard that. I stopped and listened and heard one of the most God-Awful sounds a-comin up the ridge, sounded like Beezlebub hisself a-comin. Then we seen it, it was a white mass of wind a-tearin' out trees and stumps and lifting up leaves and swirlin' them around like you ain't never seen. Me and Vern figgered it was one of them tornadeys like we'd heard about from out west. People had been sayin' that so many people had been going west that the tornadeys was being pushed out of that country and had nowheres else to go but to come back east. Yessiree, it was one of the tornadeys and it was snow white and it was a-bearin' down on us. When that thing got to the mouth of Pinchgut, it cut up in the holler, right along the same route that me and Vern had took earlier. Well, that Ol' tornadey soon figured out that it made a big mistake because the hillsides up in Pinchgut was too steep for it to climb so it stayed right in the crickbed. It made it up to the head of the holler and then it spotted us and took to comin' at us like a banshee on the warpath.

Vern braced for it, but I took to hacking at that tree like nobody's business, and just in time I hollered "TIMBER" and watched that old oak tree fall square on top of that ol' charging tornadey. Yessirree, it killed it deader that 4 O'clock, it did. Thing of it is when that tornadey got kilt, it dropped all that dirt and all those rocks that it had been haulin' inside of it, and it filled in the whole of Pinchgut, I mean to tell you that ol' tornadey quit blowing just like somebody put a warshtub over it. By the time it got done filling up Pinchgut, poor ol' Vern was standing knee deep in prime Kansas cropland.

We was so dumbfounded by this that we had nearly forgot about the ol' she-coon and her pups, but I heard a rustlin' in the leaves and there she stood, grinnin' at me like a kid at a carnival. She knew as well as I knew that after what we had been through together, there wasn't no way neither me or Vern was gonna hurt her, so I just says to her, "Ol' Mother, you'd better get. Ain't nobody here gonna harm you." I do believe that ol' she-coon was dancin' a jig as she walked with her pups out on that new plowed dirt that we got from the dead tornadey, she only stopped to pick up a giant ear of corn, courtesy of some unknown Kansas farmer.

Now you might ask, what ever happened to Ol' Mag? Well, I was saddened to see her get buried in the aftermath of the dead tornadey, but you know what, about a week later she dug her way up out of that holler, up through all that loose dirt, and took out on the trail of that ol' she-coon. I ain't seen her since, but I reckon she's still somewhere up on the mountain trailin' that ol' coon 'cause Ol' Mag never was a dog to give up the trail.

Now that was something, I ain't never seen nothin' like it since but I reckon that wind last night come close to it. Good thing I built me a nice sturdy house out of good oak, or else I'd likely have been tryin' to hang onto the side of Pinchgut holler again instead of sittin' in here by the fire in a fine house on the best farm in Pendleton County.

Winter Sets In

2010-01-21T12:06:00.007-05:00

The slate gray abyss presses down upon
my mountain home,

It forces an uneasy feeling upon us
And causes Maw to snip at us.

“Was you born in a barn?”

“Don’t track in that mud!”

“Deed in God, ain’t you got a lick of sense?”

My wisecracking brother can’t help himself and responds:

“I don’t know, Maw, was I?”

“If they ain’t no tracks, how will it find its way back outside?”

“I reckon not, why do you keep asking?”

A glance out the kitchen window confirms
what is already known. The cold spell isn't letting up.

“I sure wish this ol’ weather would break,” Maw says,
as she returns to kneading her bread dough.

Camp Chase

2010-01-13T10:52:00.007-05:00

Today finds me thinking about my gr-gr-gr-gr-grandfather, Joseph Lantz, and the horrors he must have witnessed and was subjected to while in the Confederate Service. He was a Captain in the North Fork Militia,and was in active during the Battle of Riverton.

The Battle of Riverton site.

Captured near the end of the War Between the States (or as some of us were brought up hearing, "The War of Northern Aggression") my grandfather was held prisoner in Camp Chase Prison in Ohio. What pure hell this must have been for him and his companions. Camp Chase Prison was opened in May 1861 and remained open throughout the War. It was located about 4 miles from Columbus, Ohio. The prison held a large population of men from the mountains of West Virginia. For these men, their world must have been turned upside down. Not only were they prisoners, but they were prisoners in a foreign land. To these men of the rugged mountains, I’m sure Camp Chase was like a foreign country. Even today, when I am out of my mountains, I feel a great unease and get the feeling that if only I could get back into the mountains, then all would be right with the world. How these men must have gazed and wished for the mountains that they knew lay far to the East.

My gr-gr-gr-gr-grandfather, Joseph Lantz.

Growing up, I heard stories from the older folks about the living conditions at Camp Chase Prison. Of course, they had heard these stories from their elders, and theirs before them. A few former prisoners from Pendleton County described Camp Chase prison as a big mud hole. They said the water was dirty and the food was wormy. They told of how the men would sit around and tell stories of home and what they were going to go when the War was over. I recall hearing a story about how one man in Camp Chase prison had made a pet out of a big rat, and one time the rations were so scarce that a bunch of his cohorts killed the rat and made soup out of it.

One of the best Camp Chase prison recollections, to me, was recorded by the Hammons Family titled, “Camp Chase”. At the beginning of the track, Burl Hammons talks about stories that he grew up hearing about Camp Chase. He talked of how the men were mistreated at the Yankee prison and how the prisoners simply wanted to go home, so much so that it consumed them. The story continues with how the Yankee captain liked fiddle music and told his Confederate captives whichever man played him the best fiddle tune, he would set that man free. If this is a true story, can you imagine how much heart and soul went into this fiddle contest, these men would have been playing for their very lives. As the contest progressed, one man played a tune that absolutely floored the Yankee captain, because it was just that good. For all the people who like fiddle music, they know how the fiddle puts lyrics right into the tune and that the tune tells the story. Well, after the contest, the Yankee captain lived up to his word and gave the man his freedom, but before the man left the captain asked, “What was the name of that fiddle tune?” to which the man replied, “It’s a tune that I came up with, and the name of it is “Camp Chase!” I don’t know of the Hammons story is true, but I do know that I can’t listen to the tune, “Camp Chase” without hearing the suffering of the prisoners, and hearing the hopes of freedom and home that these men held so dear. I can sympathize with these men who longed for the mountains for Camp Chase would have been both a physical and mental Hell for them.

I’m sure my grandfather tried for the rest of his life to forget Camp Chase, but at least he got to return home to his beloved Germany Valley after the War. So many prisoners died at Camp Chase and are buried there.

Camp Chase Cemetery. Courtesy of Wikipedia.

Here's a Youtube video of Betty Vornbrock doing a great version of "Camp Chase".

Wintertime Realization

2010-01-08T10:34:00.003-05:00

Germany Valley, Pendleton County, WV. Photo courtesy of R. Jason Burns.

"These Dark & Dreary Days"

by Matthew Burns

These dark, dreary days of winter,
Press down upon my soul,
And leach the life from me,
Like a succubus in the night.

Once I was like a seed in the ground,
Waiting, germinating, hopeful.
But the bitter, lifeless days have surrounded me.
And cloaked me with their siphoning darkness.

The light on my path is extinguished.
I realize now with maudlin clarity,
It was these dark, dreary days of winter,
That incubated my soul.

Wordless Wednesday

2009-12-30T15:52:00.004-05:00

Diet Pepsi or Pepsi Cola?

2009-12-18T14:25:00.008-05:00

“Diet Pepsi or Pepsi Cola”, Grandmaw Ev hollered as she saw our truck pull into her driveway.

All of us kids hollered back, “Pepsi Cola!"

Granddad Opie and Grandmaw Ev

I remember we used to go visit Grandmaw Ev quite often when I was a kid. Her real name was Eva Lena, but everyone called her “Ev”. She was really my great-grandmother, but since her daughter (my grandmaw) died when I was really little, Grandmaw Ev became my only Grandmother on that side of my family. I remember her as being really loud. Grandmaw Ev only had one volume to her voice, gentle talk or whispering were not in her repertoire. It didn’t matter if she saw you in a crowd of a hundred people, she’d holler out at you at the top of her lungs and come and discuss some recent event that she just had to tell you about. People said that’s where we Burns kids got our big mouths, that when we got to going, we were almost as loud as Grandmaw Ev! In retrospect, I don’t reckon we were any more or any less loud than any other passel of kids, unless you count the fact that most times, people heard us coming long before that saw us.

I suspect that’s how Grandmaw Ev knew we were coming, she heard us coming up the ridge long before we wound our way around the mountain road to her house. She always made sure she had pop to give us, and she was a Pepsi drinker. I remember how she used to look at the bottles of Pepsi Cola and say, “I have sugar so bad the doctor won’t let me drink real Pepsi anymore, that’s why I have diet.” Even at my young age, I found this funny since Grandmaw Ev would say this while drinking a Diet Pepsi and eating a big piece of chocolate pie.

My Dad lived with Grandmaw Ev and Granddad Opie up until he was 10 years old. That’s when Granddad Opie died from an accident while working on the State Road Commission. So my Dad had a special place in Grandmaw Ev’s heart, and since I was his child, I reckon I got some special attention from her as well.

Grandmaw Henry

I remember one Christmas, it was right after my Grandmaw Henry died (Grandmaw Henry was Grandmaw Ev’s daughter), we went to visit Grandmaw Ev. I can still remember as plain as day us pulling up in that old truck and seeing Grandmaw Ev standing there in an old cotton dress with her hands on her hips and hollering, “Well, if it ain’t the Burns family. Diet Pepsi or Pepsi Cola?” It was never, “Hello” or “How do you do?” it was Grandmaw Ev’s way to just cut right to the meat of the matter with “Diet Pepsi or Pepsi Cola?”

I recall as we got out of the truck bed (yes, even in the wintertime, we traveled in the truck bed) she gave all of us kids a hug and a kiss, and told us to go on into the kitchen and get us something to eat. I suspect Grandmaw Ev knew we were coming for a visit, but I don’t know that for sure. In any case, she had her kitchen table plumb full of cakes and cookies and pies, and bottles upon bottles of Diet Pepsi and Pepsi Cola. After talking outside for a few minutes with my Granddad, my Dad and my Mom, Grandmaw Ev came into the kitchen and she had tears in her eyes. All of us kids looked at her, kind of puzzled-like and wondering what was the matter, but she reassured us by saying it was just because she was so happy to see us all. I reckon it was probably more like she really missed her daughter Bunny, as this would have been the first Christmas since she had passed away.

Winter in Germany Valley

All of us kids were really laying our ears back eating all of those cakes and pies and cookies that Grandmaw Ev had made, and we had all had at least two big bottles of Pepsi by then, when Grandmaw asked us all to come into the living room. We did, of course, and I remember Grandmaw Ev grabbed me up and carried me in since I was the youngest. In the living room, around her little cedar Christmas tree with the handmade ornaments, she had a gift for each of us. Well, we thought we had all died and went to heaven, because even though Grandmaw Ev was so nice to us, she had never gotten us anything for Christmas before this. I now know she probably didn’t get gifts for her grandchildren because there were simply so many of them and you couldn’t very well get one something and not all of the others.

Grandmaw Ev went to the presents and picked them up one by one and handed them out to each of us kids, telling us to wait until everyone had their present before opening them. Soon, all of the presents were handed out and she gave us the go-ahead to tear into them, and soon our vision was obscured by a massive cloud of floating paper and ribbons.

To our surprise, in each of the packages was a little bag of loose candy. Various flavors of hardtack, peanut brittle, circus peanuts, little caramels with cream in the middle, filled candies and the like filled each bag. Even I understood what this meant, this wasn’t meant to be just a bag of candy, it was Grandmaw Ev’s way of reminding us that my Grandmaw Henry was still with us. You see, every year for as long as any of us could remember, Grandmaw Henry would go down to Rig, West Virginia, at Dick Riggleman’s store and she would buy all different types of loose Christmas candies to give to the kids as a gift. That wasn’t part of her gift, that was her whole gift, and everyone loved it. And this year, even thought it was our first Christmas since Grandmaw Henry had passed away, Grandmaw Ev’s thoughtfulness reminded us that Grandmaw Henry would never truly be gone from us as long as we remembered her. Looking back, that little sack of candy may have been the best Christmas gift that I ever received, and to think of it still reminds me of the kindness and love that Grandmaw Ev had for all of us kids.

Christmas Day at the Burns household.

So this Christmas, I wish you and yours the very best of the best, and I hope you will take a few moments to ponder on the past and count your blessings. I, for one, will be remembering Grandmaw Henry, Grandmaw Ev and all of those who have passed on since them, and when the family is gathered together on Christmas Day, I just may rekindle more memories by shouting, “Diet Pepsi or Pepsi Cola”?

Review: "Beyond The Grave" by Granny Sue

2009-12-08T12:40:00.005-05:00

Seldom does excellence get captured on a CD. However, I recently had the extreme pleasure and delight to come across such a recording. It is titled, "Beyond The Grave: Ghost Stories and Ballads from the Mountains" by Susanna "Granny Sue" Holstein.

From start to finish, this CD held my attention and I sat on the edge of my seat waiting for what would next transpire. I wanted to coin this CD as "raw perfection", but there is nothing raw about it. It is simply perfection. The recording quality is excellent, Granny Sue's voice is excellent, and this is obviously a masterful collection of stories and ballads as told by the master.

The depth of this recording is outstanding. The gentle, soothing voice of Granny Sue immediately transported me across time and space to my granddad's house, when storytelling of this caliber was commonplace. Sadly, many of the old-timey storytellers of my youth are gone, and with them many of the stories they kept alive with each retelling. I am grateful to have found a recording that captures that mountain excellence that I had long thought was lost.

From the opening story of "Wizard Clipp" to a soulful acapella version of the Appalachian power ballad, "Pretty Polly", Granny Sue keeps listeners spellbound. As she works through "The Holly River Ghost" and on into "Sidna Davis", you become one with the stories and, I assure you, you will be hanging on every word. This wonderful CD closes with a version of "The Greenbrier Ghost", perhaps the most famous of all West Virginia ghost stories, that will draw you in so completely that you will begin to believe that Zona Shue is the girl next door.

The Appalachian Storytelling on this CD is second to none, the traditional mountain ballads are sublime. One can clearly tell after listening to this offering that Granny Sue has spent countless hours honing her craft and forging into existence a powerful recording which captures the true essence of Appalachia. I cannot say enough nice things about this masterpiece.

At the very reasonable price of $14.95 (shipping included), I urge everyone to take advantage of this exquisite work of art.

I highly recommend it to the readers of this blog, it is quite simply Appalachian Storytelling at its best.

Visit Granny Sue's Storytelling Store for ordering information, you'll be glad you did.

http://storytellingstore.blogspot.com/

Walking with Dad

2009-11-20T09:24:00.004-05:00

Every year about this time, I head for the mountain for a week with my family and doing a little hunting. My Dad and I traipse all over the old farm where I grew up, supposedly looking for our furred quarry. Often times we just look over the old place and remember.

We inevitably work our way over to the far corner of the farm, where the crows alight in the tree's and notify all creatures great and small of our presence there. We don't mind, we like the crows and watch their antics with awe. The far corner of the farm is the most inaccessible part of the property, and it is here that unwary passersby report strange happenings. People witness everything from Ol' Fon, the goat man, to catching a fleeting glimpse of a mountain lion. Dad and I usually see sign of the big, lumbering bear which makes its home in this part of the farm.

To get to the far corner of the farm, we walk through the enormous open fields, long ago cleared of rocks. These rocks were hand-picked by countless hands. Gigantic piles of rocks can be found at regular intervals throughout the fields. We remember our great-grandfathers, Fon Lawrence and Alfred Kile, who worked this land. We know that their hands toiled this farm into prosperity. It is good to remember.

In between the fields there is a low place, an almost holler that hasn't quite made it there. In this sheltered spot, an apple orchard was planted generations ago. Here, the fierce mountain winds don't reach, and it is noticably warmer than on the hilltops on each side of the almost holler. The apple orchard still produces though it has been years since it has been tended to, only now the deer and other wildlife enjoy the harvest. We still find a few late season heritage apples still clinging to the tree, which we pick and eat. The apple have a wonderful flavor and we comment how these apple taste so much better than those old hybrid things that we are forced to purchase in the grocery store these days. We recall some of the old ways and try to remember more.

Further up on the mountain, in the highest meadows, just below the jutting out of the North Mountain rocks, there is a little glen too far above the frost line to produce agriculturally but still fertile. It is here that the tree's grow to enormous heights, and it gives the impression that you are walking through forests of yesteryear, before they were logged off to fill the coffers of some far-off corporation. Probably only the inaccessibility of these forest giants saved them from the axe. They are quite a sight to see, some of these behemoths would take 7 or 8 men, linking hands with arms outstretched, to reach around them. Dad and I talk about what a terrific crash this forest giant must have made when it fell to the ground. We wonder if it was old age or a great storm that brought down this King from his forest crown. It must have been huge, because the tree's around it still haven't managed to reach the size of other tree's nearby, undoubtedly their growth was suppressed by the massive crown of the giant. We try to remember when all of the forest in these hills rivaled these remnants of history.

Finally, as we start to walk off the mountain, we see this lone tree stump in a grown over meadow. Apparently cut down a few years back, this hollow stump is now the home of a tree gnome. What? You don't believe in tree gnomes? haven't you heard, the hills of my home are magical! All we have to do is remember.

One Day in October

2009-10-28T10:45:00.003-04:00

I took a walk in the woods...

And I wished you were there with me.

The First Snow

2009-10-19T15:27:00.007-04:00

Though every year it comes back anew,
And wears out its welcome all too soon.

Something magical begins to take place
That rekindles memories across time and across space.

There's nothing like it so far as I know,
That wondrous sight of the very first snow!

===================================

Special thanks to Cousin Heather for sharing these photo's with us.

The School Halloween Party

2009-10-15T14:09:00.006-04:00

I remember growing up, we always had a Halloween Party at school every year. It was always held on the Friday before Halloween. The school was Kindergarten through 12th grade, all in one building. The party started around noon and parents and the community were welcome and it always drew a big crowd. Prizes were given for the best costume, the scariest, the funniest, the prettiest, etc. It was quite the honor for students to win a prize at the annual Halloween Party, and us kids usually went out of our way to come up with a good costume so we could win. There was also lots of food to eat (cakes, cookies. etc.) and lots of candy. The community really came together to celebrate the occassion.

The Burns kids usually won for our costumes, primarily because Mom would help us make them. She told us we won because we had homemade costumes. I'm sure this was just her way of re-assuring us that our costumes were as good as everyone else's, who usually had store-bought costumes. Mom would let us decide what we wanted to dress up as for Halloween, and then she'd give us idea's on how to make that costume the best it could be.

I especially remember one year, I was probably in 2nd grade, and I couldn't make up my mind what to be for Halloween. I wanted to go scary, but the year before I was a vampire, and I didn't want to repeat that one two years in a row (although I made a fairly decent vampire).

Me as a vampire, a few year after this story took place.

My aunts told me to dress up like some movie star, primarily because they were all in love with Don Johnson and whatever the flavor of the month happened to be at that time. My Uncle Tom wanted me to be a motorcycle driver, because he was going through that phase and for some reason constantly watched "Any Which Way You Can" on our old disc player. Everyone I asked for help with coming up with an idea seemed to give me idea's that I just didn't care for.

When the annual Halloween Party was growing close (only a week away), there had been some commotion at school. My Aunt Aim had gotten into a fight with another girl and Mom and my granddad had to go into school to meet with the principal about it. Well, we Burns' have always been clannish and when one of us were in trouble, all of us were in trouble. When the time of the appointment came around, and we knew Mom and my Granddad were at the principal's office, all of us kids just walked out of class and right into the school office where the secretary was located. We were all going to attest that the fight was not my Aunt Aim's fault. Of course, all of our teachers were right behind us. Me, always being the mouthy one, and because I was the pet pig, said to my teacher when she kept telling me to return to my classroom or face the consequences, "Why don't you go somewhere where somebody wants to see you." Well that just threw the fat in the fire. That teacher started yelling at me, but my Aunt Tam quickly came to my rescue. She told my teacher, "He ain't a damn dog and you aint gonna talk to him like one." Well that just further infuriated the teacher, to the point where she was so mad that she was shaking. The school secretary knew us and how we were really good kids at heart, and knew that we were all there simply to take up for our Aunt Aim, told the teacher, "Why don't you go on back to your classroom and I'll have the principal take care of this." Well that got the teachers off our backs, and the secretary told us to have a seat until the meeting was over. Well, we didn't wait, we all barged into the meeting in the principals office and all started telling how that other girl was always picking on my Aunt Aim and how the other girl threw the first punch, and it wasn't my Aunt Aim's fault that she had "cleaned up on the girl who's mouth overloaded her ass". (Those were my Aunt Tam's exact words...we found out long before that you couldn't get in trouble for cussing in the principals office). Well, Aunt Aim was exonerated but the rest of us got sent home for the day so the teachers could cool off a bit, which was fine with us because we had all planned on returning home with Mom and my granddad anyway. What we didn't figure on though was the teachers that we had ticked off were also the costume judges at the Halloween Party!

Me, my brother and Dad, about the time this story took place. As you can see by our dirty shirts, "We played hard."

But it wasn't long before one of us did think of this, and we all figured we wouldn't win anything at the Party. Especially considering word got around that the teachers had made their brags that none of us would win anything at the Halloween Party. When we went home and told everyone, we were all in a huff. Then, my granddad struck on a great idea. Mind you he wasn't much of a provider, but he did know how to get things accomplished when times called for it. He came up with a plan to scare them into letting us win. His plan involved scaring, but not necessarily threatening, the principal who lived just down the mountain from us. The principal loved to ride his horses out on the road every evening around 6 O'clock, and we all knew that. Furthermore, my granddad remembered how the principal's horses were scared of his loud truck (it really was a rattletrap), so much so, that the principal had asked my Granddad a few weeks before if he would turn off the motor of his truck when he passed them along the road, so that the horses wouldn't get so frightened by the truck. But, now that all of us kids were facing some culpability for our wayward actions, all bets were off. That evening around 6 O'clock, my granddad took a drive down the road, and sure enough, there was the principal riding along on his ol' skittish mare. Seizing the opportunity, my granddad raced alongside of him, revved the engine of the old truck and that mare took off like a bullet. Granddad said she took to bucking and kicking and that the principal eventually ended up laying in the side ditch. Granddad stopped and helped him up, and said to the principal, "It'd be a real shame if my kids and grandkids don't get a fair shake at that Halloween Party next week." The principal agreed that it would be, but nothing else was said between them.

As the party neared, I had fianlly decided on a french clown costume, Mom sewed me up one out of spare cloth, and she came to school and painted my face before the judging. Oh, but the teachers gave us all some drop-dead, dirty looks, but it was obvious to everyone with a set of eyes that the Burns kids really did have the best costumes of anyone there. We overheard the teachers (judges) talking amongst themselves and several of them were still not going to allow us to win anything over what we had done the week prior to the party. Then the principal walked over to the judges, and whispered something to them. My teacher got so mad that she stormed off and refused to take part in the judging, but when the winners were announced, every last one of us Burns kids won some sort of prize!

As I recall, the prize for winning was a goodie bag and bragging rights. We all looked like cats who swallowed the proverbial canary when we lined up for photographs. Soon after being announced winners, Mom said it'd probably be best if we all "got out of Dodge" so we loaded up into the back of granddad's old pickup truck and made our way back up the mountain. I can still remember my granddad saying to me as we walked by the group of judges as we were leaving, "I reckon we showed them, didn't we Hackey?"

Whew! It's no wonder I was meaner than a striped-eyed snake!

The Eighth Circle of Hell

2009-10-06T13:21:00.007-04:00

This post is vastly different than my usual posts, but I feel compelled to tell about my experiences this past weekend. This post isn't fun, homespun or quaint, this post is about a great tragedy that is currently happening in our mountains.

Photo by Matthew Burns

I have been to the Eighth Circle of Hell and have returned to tell the tale. Just as Dante’s “Inferno” detailed the conscious fraud and treachery in the Eighth Circle of Hell, those same vices could be used to describe the Eighth Circle of Hell that I visited this past weekend. In case any of you are wondering, the Eighth Circle of Hell is not a place of mythology; rather, it is located just outside of the modern-day community of Sarah Ann, West Virginia.

But one can clearly recognize the community of Sarah Ann was not always this way. It is readily apparent that it was once a nice little community full of people who cared about each other and the land. It is also a historical location, as it was home of the Hatfield Family of Hatfield-McCoy Feud fame. The patriarch of the Hatfield family, Devil Anse Hatfield, is buried in the family cemetery nearby. But decades of fraud and treachery by a roughshod coal industry has laid Sarah Ann low. Sarah Ann is a prime example of the lost potential of a people and community that must forever remain a black eye upon the coal industry as a reminder of its inherent deceptiveness!

Photo by Denny Tyler.

As my wife and I were driving down Route 44 through Logan County on our way to Iaeger in McDowell County, I witnessed poverty like I had never before seen. Everywhere there were remnants of a once thriving economy that had long since vanished. Crumbing homes with broken windows, horrible roads crisscrossed by abandoned rail lines, and countless boarded up stores and businesses. I couldn’t help but notice the irony. Around every bend in the road there was another coal facility, just bulging with the wealth of the mountains. How could this be? How could there be so much obvious wealth in one place with so very little of that wealth benefitting the very location from which it was being exploited? Then, I looked up on the ridgelines and mountaintops that surrounded the roadway, and I saw the problem…mountaintop removal.

Photo by Denny Tyler

While the mines that pervade the area are producing as much coal as ever, these mines no longer require manpower to extract the coal. Though the current stock prices of coal companies indicate that the industry is booming (despite what we hear on the news), it is in fact, a jobless coal boom. Only the coal companies are making any money off of the coal these days, and the people of the coalfields are once again left out in the cold. The people of the southern coalfields are not the types to just sit around and wait for a hand-out, and on our trip you could tell that the people we encountered were hardworking people who have simply fell on hard times. But with only ONE option for employment, where do these people go when that option is no longer available?

Photo by Denny Tyler

The “lucky” few who do manage to find a job on these large equipment intensive mine sites are still faced with the no-win situation of destroying their communities in order to work there. Just as was the case 100 years ago, when the UMW was trying to organize coalfield workers, coal was not then, nor is it now, a friend to southern WV! Whenever I see a bumper sticker that reads, “Friends of Coal,” I want to ask the person driving the vehicle, “Do you by any chance remember Cabin Creek? Paint Creek? Matewan? Blair Mountain?” Now, I don’t know about you, but I tend to reserve my friendship for people who deserve it, and I typically don’t befriend inanimate minerals. I can’t help but wonder if the whole Friends of Coal campaign is merely a means of mass communication among the ignorant? Obviously the people who carry this message are ignorant of their history, their heritage and their future!

Photo by Denny Tyler

However, like many who are opposed to MTR, I am not diametrically opposed to coal mining. In fact, I realize that it is a fact of life in the monoeconomies of the central Appalachian coalfields and that, in fact, it would be immoral to stop all coal mining in central Appalachia. Still, I will say it just makes good sense to obtain the coal from underground and not by mountaintop removal methods. There is a readily available workforce just waiting to again be employed by the coal industry. If Coal really is good for West Virginia, as the industry and the bought-politicans readily tout, then the mining of coal should be conducted in such a way as to maximize the employment of West Virginians. Only in this manner will coal revenue truly increase the tax base and improve the standard of living for the average West Virginian.

Photo by Denny Tyler

You might ask, “But what can be done?” “Is it fair to judge the situation at face value?” Is it fair to say, “If you don’t like it, then leave” as so many coal industry advocates spout? I ask you this, why should someone have to leave their ancestral home simply so that someone else can draw a paycheck from its destruction? Only in central Appalachia can the victim be made out to be the villain! Why should corporate interests be given superiority over the value of human life and individual property rights? I recently heard someone say, “We don’t live where you mine coal, you mine coal where we live. We were here first.” That statement is so very true. A real mountaineer will recognize the problem and fight to make it better instead of cutting and running, like the perpetrators of MTR do.

Photo by Denny Tyler

The majority of problems currently associated with mountaintop removal are clearly human rights issues, as it is chock full of violations on that front. So why do so many see mountaintop removal only as an environmental problem? Is it because it is hard to paint human rights violations when they primarily involve poor, white families, or is it simply because it is easier to villainize “environmental extremists”? If it is the former, that white people are not poor, or cannot be discriminated against, then I invite you to visit the southern West Virginia communities that I visited this weekend. You see, the social justice issues in the coalfields are not racially motivated, but rather, they are based on simple economics. We’re poor, so we don’t matter. Yes, class warfare is alive and well in the central Appalachian coalfields.

But all is not hopeless, I did see a few glimmers of hope on my trip through the coalfields. For example, in Gilbert, West Virginia, I saw a few brave citizens trying their best to break the stranglehold of the monoeconomy perpetrated by the coal industry by taking up the banner of tourism. These people were trying their best to cater to the influx of visitors to the Hatfield/McCoy Trail. In spite of all the efforts there, I see one big catch-22, a community cannot have a tourism industry when mountaintop removal is destroying the very thing these people are coming to visit…the mountains. Now I know the claims, that the Hatfield/McCoy trail is partially built on old strip mines and without the coal industry leaving this abandoned mine land to the state, the trail system would not be possible. That is a faulty argument and is the equivalent of saying that Coca-Cola wouldn’t exist without obese people to drink it! There is already more than enough abandoned strip mines in southern West Virginia to have 100 Hatfield/McCoy trails.

After my visit to the coalfields, the bottom line of the matter is the residents of these communities desperately need roads, and they need them yesterday. I know we’ve all heard the line from, “O Brother, Where Art Thou?” where George Clooney comments that the little town he was in was a geographical oddity because it was 2 weeks from anywhere. Well, many of these little communities share that geographical oddity because they are 2 hours from anywhere. A successful community has a solid infrastructure. Good roads are the cornerstone of this infrastructure. For businesses to excel, there must be a good tranpsortation system. While these tourism entrepreneurs in Gilbert are laying the foundations and hedging their bets that a new day is dawning in the coalfields, it is up to the rest of us to demand that funds be allocated to advancing the economic conditions of the coalfields. Without good roads and the economic diversification that comes with them, these citizens of the southern West Virginia coalfields will remain virtual slaves and a captive workforce for the coal industry that continues to use fewer and fewer workers.

Photo by Denny Tyler

But don’t be mistaken. These are not a broken people, and to realize this one but has to look into the eyes of the children. For too long, these areas have remained forgotten and the people written off as lost causes. The children tell a different story. These kids truly are the hope of the future, but they must be encouraged when they are young. The inquisitiveness and intelligence of these children rival any in the nation, but without nurturing these hopes will die. There is a stark difference between the hopes and dreams of children in the coalfields and the twenty-somethings that remain in this area. I have seen this firsthand, and it made me wonder what went on in that space of time to completely eradicate that optimism? Could it be the 130+ years of oppression wrought by the coal industry? Continually being told (and shown) that you and your land are good for nothing except coal mining, and then being told that you need to keep your mouth shut if your opinions differ from those of the coal industry, has to take its toll on any human psyche. For far too long, the people of the central Appalachian coalfields have been America’s forgotten people. It is shameful that the very people who have sacrificed the most (and continue to sacrifice) for the prosperity of the United States, have received so very little.

Still, the seeds of oppression have sprouted into the flower of discontent, and the southern West Virginia coalfields now finds itself at a crossroads. No longer will it depend on a one resource economy. No longer will it rely on corporate politicians. No longer will its citizens sit idly by and watch their heritage be destroyed for the benefit of some faraway place. No longer will we accept being second-class citizens. Standing with us at this crossroads are the spirits of mountaineers long since passed; from Simon Kenton and Daniel Boone; to Michael Stoner and Mitchell Clay; from Devil Anse and Smilin’ Sid Hatfield; to Mother Jones and Governor William C. Marland. Their presence strengthens and unites us, and they root us in the knowledge that we are as much a part of this rugged land as the coal that is being ripped from the mountaintops.

Photo by Denny Tyler

Let’s stand together on this issue of economic diversification in the coalfields and demand better of our elected officials. No matter where you are from, contact your elected officials by email or letter, better yet call them and tell them your mind! If they continue to refuse to address this grave injustice, then I ask you to join me in actively campaigning against them (regardless of political party) in the next election. The coalfields are at a critical point in its history, and a changing of the guard may be just what is needed to save the coalfields from the coal industry.

Photo by Vivian Stockman

Come Visit October

2009-10-01T10:48:00.003-04:00

"October" by West Virginia poet, Grace Yoke White, from her 1953 book "Unhoarded Gold".

What does it matter if my house is not swept,
Or my beds placed to air in a hygenic way?
For in through my window a birdcall crept,
And a red-throated songster hopped near to say:

"Come, share the joy of the fine autumn weather;
The goldenrod gleams near bypaths and roadways;
While tall, flaming asters, like purple heather,
Keep time as they nod at the birds through the day."

Come stand 'neath the trees, let the leaves drift around you--
The red and the brown, the crimson and gold;
Come, roam out of doors, in the sun and the dew;
Come, forget that time passes, that days will grow cold.

Come out in the sun and the soft autumn moon;
Let's enjoy the bright days and nights as they pass;
Come, gather the beauties that fade all too soon;
Come out in the open while the season lasts.

Granddaddy in the Timber Camps

2009-09-15T11:22:00.004-04:00

In the 2nd row (just to the right of the tear) is my great-great grandfather, Charley Burns, who worked the timber camps around the turn of the century.

I grew up hearing about the timber camps ever since I could remember. I heard stories about my Granddaddy Don, who filed saws in the timber camps. I heard stories about Don's father, Charley Burns, who worked in the early timber camps of the region. I heard stories about my Aunt Mid who worked as a cook in the timber camps out in Bemis, WV. So, as you can see, I have heard alot of stories about the timber camps that were set up when the vast forests of the Potomac Highlands were cut.

In the early logging days there were quite a few men who wandered from timber camp to timber camp looking for work. Some of these camps were several miles apart so these men, having no other family or home, would stop at various homesteads between the camps. None were never turned away and they were all given a meal to eat and a place to sleep, but the faces that kept turning up on a regular basis were figured out to be men who weren't necessarily looking for work in the timber camps, but rather just trying to get by without having to go to the camps. You see, up until the time that the timber barons came in and set up these camps, there was no such thing as wage labor in these mountains. People would just barter for goods and services, and they would sell surplus farm goods or animal hides for cash. Hired hands were paid with a place to live and food to eat, so wage labor was an entirely foreign concept for some of these men. That isn't to say they were lazy, not at all, it is just they were brought up in a society where people worked until a job was done, and not when someone in authority told them when to begin work and when to lay off work. Before the coming of the timber camps, these men worked jobs that the seasons and weather necessitated! In addition, many of these men didn't take well to instruction and orders either, but after the timber companies came in and bought up so much of the land, a large contingent of these folks were left without a home, work and a means of support. That is why some of these men would walk the countryside, pitching in here and there and doing whatever needed done in order to stay out of the timber camps.

My granddaddy Burns would talk about how rough these men were in the timber camps, and how dirty some of them would become. Granddaddy told that it was expected of men to bathe only one day a week, and that was after work on Saturday (bathing more frequently than that would reportedly make you sick). Granddaddy said they worked six days a week and 10 hours a day, so you can begin to imagine the smell. Granddaddy said that the bunkhouses where these men lived would make a mans eyes water whenever you would walk in the door.

Granddaddy said there was always laughter and some running jokes going on in the timber camps. He told that one of the best tricks some of the older wood hicks would pull on the new boys just coming into the camps was to pull the humongous gray lice out of their beards and hold them between their fingers and talk to the lice like they were a favorite dog. They'd pet the louse, and talk to the louse, and then reach it out to the "green" boy like they expected him to pet and talk to the louse too! When inevitably the newcomers would shy away from the huge louse, the old wood hick would stick it back in his beards and tell the louse to "not pay any mind to people who didn't know any better." Granddaddy said they pulled that trick every year and it never did get old!

Speaking of the big gray body lice that were common in the timber camps, Granddaddy told of how some of the men would put a big louse under the glass face of their pocket watch just for the novelty of it, and they would keep the louse that like for months. It was a thing of pride to have the biggest louse!

Granddaddy Don said the roughest place that he ever worked was in Davis, WV, for the West Virginia Pulp & Paper Company. Granddaddy would tell us that "the fastest way to get to Hell was to go through Davis." He said the men there would just as soon shoot or stab you as to look at you, and the management of the company didn't try to stop the violence because having the workforce constantly in a state of fear kept down wages. Granddaddy said that one time a bunch of them were playing cards while riding the train from Davis to Dry Fork, and that a man who was known to be unruly was playing with them. Granddaddy told us that the game was going fine until the man started losing, and he said to everyone playing in the game that "the next damn man who wins a hand against me is going to bust Hell wide open before they get a dime out of me." Well, the men didn't pay much mind to him because after all, it was a card game with timber men so you kind of expected rudeness and rough talk. It just so happened that Granddaddy Don won the next hand of cards and as he started reaching for the winnings, he saw the man going for the pistol that he had tucked in the belt that held up his britches. Granddaddy said he never was so scared in his life but he done the only thing he could do, he jumped off the train! He said the fall just about killed him because he landed in some cut down tree-tops about 4 miles outside of Dry Fork. Scraped and bruised pretty bad but luckily with no broken bones, Granddaddy walked alongside the tracks into Jenningston on the Dry Fork line where he got on the train headed back to Davis. But he learned his lesson, he never again played cards with that man.

Granddaddy worked in the WV timber camps until the timber was cut out, and then he started his own small timber company and hired some of his friends to work for him. They cut timber for a few years on the old Fredericksburg battlefield in Fredericksburg, Virginia, but Granddaddy lived longer than the timber boom so he went out of business in the early 1940's. He then decided to go to Baltimore, MD, like so many other men who had worked the timber camps of the Potomac Highlands, and he found work in the Glenn L. Martin airplane factory, which was booming because of the War Effort. Granddaddy worked there until he retired in the early 1960's, at which time he returned back home to the old Burns homeplace on North Mountain, where he lived out the rest of his days.

Poor Ellen Smith

2009-08-26T13:19:00.006-04:00

The 19th century popular murder ballad, Poor Ellen Smith, recounts the tale of a woman named Ellen Smith, who was shot through the heart by a former lover. When Ellen was found, her ragged clothes were scattered all about the ground around her body. A group of townspeople got together and began a murder hunt which led to the apprehension of the murderer, Peter DeGraff, who was captured while he was loafing around the area.

As is the case with many Appalachian Mountain Ballads, "Poor Ellen Smith" is based on real events. In this case, the locale was Mount Airy, North Carolina. In 1894, a town drunk and ne'er-do-well named Peter DeGraff had an ill-fated love affair with Ellen Smith, who reportedly may have been mentally challenged. After a few months of the affair, Ellen Smith became pregnant by DeGraff, who then wanted nothing to do with her. It was said that Ellen could not understand his rejection of her. Their baby died at birth, and Ellen soon after took to following DeGraff around town.

After a few months of this, DeGraff sent Ellen Smith a letter that asked her to meet him in a secluded area where they could talk. The letter was worded in such a way that Smith reportedly believed that DeGraff wanted to reconcile with her, and she was elated at the prospect. However, when Ellen arrived at the designated location, DeGraff pulled out a gun, shot her through the chest and left her alone where she bled to death.

It was later reported that Degraff confessed to the crime while awaiting the gallows shortly before he was hanged for the murder of Ellen Smith. During the confession, when asked if Ellen Smith had any reaction to being shot, Degraff said that she looked stunned and that she looked at him and said, "Lord have mercy on me" and then fell to the ground where she later died.

As with most Appalachian folk ballads, there is more than one version of the song. I'll include the words to two different versions of the story.

Here are the lyrics to the first version.

Poor Ellen Smith

Poor Ellen Smith how she was found
Shot through the heart lying cold on the ground
Her clothes were all scattered and thrown on the ground
And blood marks the spot where poor Ellen was found

They picked up their rifles and hunted me down
And found me a-loafin' in Mount Airy town
They picked up the body and carried it away
And now she is sleeping in some lonesome old grave

I got a letter yesterday and I read it today
The flowers on her grave have all faded away
Some day I'll go home and say when I go
On poor Ellen's grave pretty flowers I'll sow

I've been in this prison for twenty long years
Each night I see Ellen through my bitter tears
The warden just told me that soon I'll be free
To go to her grave near that old willow tree

My days in this prison are ending at last
I'll never be free from the sins of my past
Poor Ellen Smith how she was found
Shot through the heart lying cold on the ground

And here is the second version of the ballad. As you will see, this version is more sympathetic to Degraff than the first version.

Poor Ellen Smith

Come all kind people, my story to hear,
What happen'd to me in June of last year.
It's of poor Ellen Smith and how she was found,
A ball in her heart, lyin' cold on the ground.

It's true I'm in jail, a prisoner now,
But God is here with me and hears every vow.
Before Him I promise the truth to relate
And tell all I know of poor Ellen's sad fate.

The world of my story's no longer a part,
But knows I was Ellen's own lovin' sweetheart.
They knew my intention to make her my wife,
I loved her too dearly to take her sweet life.

I saw her on Monday, before that sad day
They found her poor body and took her away;
That she had been killed never entered my mind
Till a ball through her heart they happened to find.

Oh who was so cruel, so heartless, so base
As to murder poor Ellen in such a lonesome place?
I saw her that morning so still and so cold
And heerd the wild stories the witnesses told.

I choked back my tears, for the people all said
That Peter Degraph had shot Ellen Smith dead!
My love is in her grave with her hand on her breast
The bloodhound and sheriff won't give me no rest.

They got their Winchesters and hunted me down,
But I was away in ole Mount Airy town.
I stayed off a year and I prayed all the time
That the man might be found whut committed the crime.

So I could come back in my character save
Ere the flowers had faded on poor Ellen's grave.
So I come back to Winston my trial for to stand
To live or to die as the law might command.

Ellen sleeps calm in the lonely church yard
While I look trough the bars --- God knows it is hard!
I know they will hang me --- at least, if they can,
But I know I will die as an innocent man.

My soul will be free when I stand at the bar
Where God tries his cross, then, there, like a star,
That shines in the night, will an innocent shine
Oh, I do appeal to the Justice of Time!

So which version do you like best? Do you have another version that you like better?

Here is a Youtube video of "Poor Ellen Smith" being performed by a distant cousin of mine, Wilma Lee Cooper, star of the Grand Ole Opry.

Old Time Ways

2009-08-17T10:26:00.009-04:00

I thought I'd share a little bit from the book "Our Roots Are In The Mountains" by a distant cousin of mine, Jocie (Thompson) Armentrout. The book details the local heritage and early customs of Pendleton & Randolph Counties in West Virginia. This little book has so much information in it, you won't be sorry if you can find a copy of it.

Page 21 "Note on Customs of the Period"

"In the pre-Civil War period and long afterward doctors were not required to register births. Folks sometimes neglected to name their babies for a long time, even as much as four or five years. They just called them "Sonny" or "Sissy"."

This was the case in my family as well, only it was long after the Civil War period. My grandfather, Richard Henry Burns, was one of these babies who wasn't given a name until he was the age of 5. My granddad just went by "Baby" Burns, or sometimes "B. Burns" on records of the time. His parents were waiting until he grew into a name, and since they lived way up on the mountain, there really wasn't any pressing need to name him. When my granddad was five years old, the county forced my great-grandparents to name their son, but only because my great-grandmaw was pregnant again and they could only have one unnamed child at a time. So, they studied on it, and named my granddad Richard (nobody knew where the name came from) and they gave him the middle name "Henry" after his great-uncle Henry J. "Uncle Sonny" Burns. I got my middle name from my granddad, so by diffusion I got my middle name from Uncle Sonny as well. I often wonder though if anyone ever called Uncle Sonny "Sun Burns"?

Also, why did my great-grandparents, after having 5 years to come up with a name, hang the name Richard on my granddad? With the last name of Burns, you have to be careful what name you give a child (we all know Dick is short for Richard). But it didn't stop there, oh no, my Dad was also named Richard (Richard Junior Burns) but he goes by Jake! Then, my mom and dad named my brother Richard Jason who goes by Jason. So none of the three generation of Richard Burns' were ever known as Dick Burns though; they went by Rich, Jake and Jason, respectively. I suppose I am fortunate to have been the 2nd born and got the middle name of of my grandfather rather than his first name. To think, all of these names are simply the result of the county forcing my great-grandparents to name their 5 year old son!

"Our Roots Are In The Mountains" continues on page 20 with:

"...money was so scarce and all kinds of merchandise was so difficult to obtain that "trades" were often made that would amaze us today. One small farm in Pendleton County was traded for a jacket pattern, and a larger farm was once paid for with a rifle gun."

Again, I can relate this to my family. Family stories maintain that my great-great-great granddaddy George Burns was land rich but money poor and would "sell" land for whatever he needed or wanted. Land was seen as an inexhaustible resource. It is told that you could stand up on top of North Mountain and as far as you could see down in the valley was the land belonging to George Burns. Stories tell how he sold the back side of North Mountain (about 500 acres) for a horse and buggy, and how he traded the North Mountain flats, known as Buffalo Bottom (about 200 acres), for a bottle of whiskey! All of this land now sells for at least $1,000 acre, and a great deal of it is now part of the Monongahela National Forest.

Times sure were different then. I'd like to find some land deals like that now.

I hope you all enjoy hearing about some of the information found in "Our Roots Are In The Mountains" by Jocie (Thompson) Armentrout as much as I did. You can expect more posts based on this wonderful book in the future.

Jack and Jenny

2009-08-12T13:46:00.006-04:00

I remember when I was growing up on the farm that we had two old donkey’s, a jack and a jenny, which we gave the ever-original donkey names of Jack and Jenny. We only used them to plow up the garden in the springtime so most of the time they pretty much just wandered about the farm whenever and wherever they pleased. I remember they were inseparable, and they would stand for hours along the fence line out by the house and just nuzzle one another. Being meaner than a striped-eyed snake, I’d sometimes get so annoyed by them that I'd sneak away from everyone and throw rocks at Jack and Jenny just to get them to move. They’d just look at me with those big ol' sad donkey eyes and walk off to a more secluded location where they’d again nuzzle each other.

Cows on the farm.

Nobody ever knew where Jack and Jenny came from, they were on the farm when we moved there several years before. Mom and Dad asked the man who owned the farm about to how old Jack and Jenny were, and he said he didn’t know. He said he was 45 years old and from the time he was a kid, he always remembered Jack and Jenny being there. I also remember in the building out from the house, near where we had a doghouse for our Saint Bernard named Tuffy, there was hanging on the wall two old leather harnesses. The leather was cracked and the metal tarnished but I recall that someone, probably my granddad, decided to oil up the leather and clean up the tarnished metal so we could use the harnesses on Jack and Jenny. Well, when they were cleaned up, the metal turned out to be brass and boy did those harnesses ever shine. Even I realized just how pretty Jack and Jenny were in those harnesses, to me they seemed to step a little higher and seem a bit more regal whenever they wore them.

The building where the harnesses were found was near here.

But like I said, Jack and Jenny led a pretty good life on the farm, but Lord could they ever get on your nerves with the incessant nuzzling of each other. It was day in and day out, every time you'd see them, they’d just be standing around nuzzling each other. I remember complaining about them to my Granddad, and he would just tell me, “They’re old. It’s hard to tell how long they’ve been here. Just let 'em be.” They weren’t any fun to aggravate anyway so aside from the occasional thrown rock, I typically ignored them. That is until the one day when we found Jenny laying dead in the road. Jack was standing beside of her and was nuzzling her.

Well as you might imagine, moving a dead donkey is a chore. Whenever a large animal would die on the farm, we’d get the tractor and using a chain, we’d drag the carcass back into the woods to an out of the way location where the foxes and possums and buzzards would clean it up. We never buried the large animals, probably because have you ever tried to bury a cow or a donkey? But it just so happened that the part of the road that Jenny died in was in part of the road that we couldn’t get around with the tractor. And to get to the place back in the woods where we dragged the dead carcasses to, we had to go down this road. But it was blocked. The road was narrow there, and one side dropped into the holler and the other side was a steep hillside so there was no way to get around it. My granddad thought he could drive the tractor over Jenny but us kids wouldn’t hear of that, so he had to drive the tractor all the way to the other end of the farm, then down the main road to the gate at the end of the farm road that led up into our farm…and back to the spot the road where Jenny lay dead. It was about a 4 mile trip to go around the farm just to return back to nearly the exact same spot that you had just left.

The old farm road.

But that done, a chain was quickly hooked to Jenny’s carcass and it was dragged back into the far corner of the farm woods. Jack closely followed along behind, head hanging low the whole time. Of course, we felt sorry for the old feller, but to us kids, this was prime entertainment so we followed along behind Jack and the tractor and thus became a makeshift funeral procession for a dead donkey.

After reaching a secluded spot back in the wood to leave the carcass, it was quickly unchained and left there. A few of the kids jumped on the tractor for the return trip, and the rest of us walked back. But everyone noticed that Jack was not accompanying us back home, he just remained there beside of Jenny’s carcass, nuzzling her.

The far corner of the farm woods.

The next morning, Jack didn’t show up for his morning bucket of oats, so we all figured he was still back in the woods with Jenny’s carcass. Mom told us to take the bucket of oats back to him and let him eat, and she told us to get a halter and lead him up to the pond for a drink of water. She reminded us to be gentle with Jack because as she put it "ol’ Jack is probably going to worry hisself to death." Well, us kids took off up through the meadow by the house, which was a shortcut to the far corner of the farm woods, and we made our way back to the spot where we figured Jack would be. Sure enough, we found him standing there beside of Jenny’s now bloating carcass, still nuzzling her to get up. We hollered for Jack to come and eat, and we waved the bucket of oats in the air for him to see. Jack turned to look at us, and even took a couple of steps toward us, but then he turned back to Jenny’s carcass, nuzzled her, and then just collapsed. We then took off running to him, hollering like a pack of banshee’s, but as we found out when we reached him, Jack was dead.

The old farmhouse.

We ran home and told Mom what had happened, and she didn’t really believe us, I reckon she figured that Jack probably just fell over from exhaustion or something. But she and Granddad got in the truck and drove back to the far corner of the farm woods, where she discovered that Jack was indeed dead, and he had fell right beside of Jenny. Mom was quick to point out to everyone how Jack and Jenny’s muzzles were touching. Mom stated matter-of-factly that Jack had grieved himself to death, and she commented that old people are like that too. She told us that when an old man or an old woman dies after they have been married for a long time, the other one would soon follow them to the grave. She continued with how it just seemed like old people can’t get along without each other, and that they seem to lose their will to live. Then she looked back at Jack and Jenny and sadly said, “Jack just didn't want to live without Jenny. Well anyway, they are better off now.”

Thunder in the Eleventh Hour

2009-08-10T10:01:00.005-04:00

The Eleventh Hour Thunder

by Matthew H. Burns

I was awakened by thunder in the Eleventh hour.
I opened my eyes to a wondrous new world.
The air was crisp, and a bird was singing
A song I had never before heard.

The scent of Calla Lilies permeated my bedchamber
Carried by a gentle breeze through my open window.
The eiderdown pillow beneath my head
Was fluffed to perfection and beckoned me to rest.

Though the taste of regret lingered upon my tongue,
It was overshadowed by the perfection of the moment.
The sweet solitude of calm and relaxation
Came upon me and granted a long-sought gift.

Had it not been for the thunder of the Eleventh hour,
I would have been asleep when the lightning struck.

Logan's Lament

2009-08-05T13:39:00.005-04:00

Today I am reminded of Logan, the Mingo Indian leader who once called these hills of West Virginia home. His certainly was a tale of woe. I've always thought of Logan as a decent man, and one who was but a victim of his times.

Many locations throughout West Virginia, Kentucky and Ohio bear his name, but I wonder how many remember the man?

Legend has it that Logan was a friend to the white settlers, he gave them food and shelter when they needed it, and even went out of his way to maintain peace among the tribes and the white settlements. It was only when a party of white men led by Daniel Greathouse brutally murdered Logan's brother, wife, daughter and other kin did Logan seek vengeance. It is recorded that Logan's daughter was pregnant at the time, and her baby was cut out of her and beat against some nearby rocks, and the men proceeded to torture her to death. They say when Logan found the bodies of his fallen kinsman, he fell to the ground in a dead faint.

Logan proved to be as capable in war as he was a bulwark for peace, and his actions are believed to have been one of the leading causes of Dunmore's War.
However, Logan erroneously thought that Michael Cresap was the man responsible for murdering his family, but it was later discovered that the brutal act was the handiwork of the Daniel Greathouse party.

When the white settlements, seeking protection and revenge against Logan and all the tribes in the region, sought military protection, Logan once again tried to maintain peace. He seemed to be trying to make everyone understand that his actions were his alone and not the concerted efforts of neighboring tribes. I don't know about you but I can hear the pain in Logan's words in this letter directed at Michael Cresap:

"To Captain Cressap - What did you kill my people on Yellow Creek for? The white People killed my kin at Conestoga a great while ago, & I thought nothing of that. But you killed my kin again on Yellow Creek, and took my cousin prisoner. Then I thought I must kill too; and I have been three times to war since but the Indians is not Angry, only myself."

To me, it takes a decent man to stand up in such tumultuous times and claim responsibility for his actions. Especially considering the great hurt and injustice that had been visited upon Logan.

After the blood lust was wiped from Logan and when he believed the deaths of his kin had been properly avenged, Logan once again became a peaceful man and worked diligently to achieve peace in the Ohio Valley. Logan's desire for peace in the Ohio Valley was not achieved in his lifetime, or even within the generation that followed him. Logan was found murdered in his cabin in 1780. He was believed to have been murdered by a Native American who thought him to be too friendly with the white settlers.

Perhaps Logan is best remembered for the following speech, which he gave after avenging the deaths of his kinfolk.

"I appeal to any white man to say, if ever he entered Logan's cabin hungry, and he gave him not meat; if ever he came cold and naked, and he clothed him not? During the course of the last long and bloody war, Logan remained idle in his cabin, an advocate for peace. Such was my love for the whites, that my countrymen pointed as they passed, and said, 'Logan is the friend of the white men.' I had even thought to have lived with you but for the injuries of one man. Colonel Cresap, the last spring, in cold blood and unprovoked; murdered all the relations of Logan, not even sparing my women and children. There runs not a drop of my blood in the veins of any living creature. This called on me for revenge. I have sought it; I have killed many; I have fully glutted my vengeance. For my country, I rejoice at the beams of peace. But do not harbor a thought that mine is the joy of fear. Logan never felt fear. He will not turn on his heel to save his life. Who is there to mourn for Logan? Not one."

I don't know about you, but I still mourn for Logan. I pray that he found peace.

For more information on the events of the times in which Logan lived, along with specific information on Logan himself, I highly recommend the book, "That Dark & Bloody River" by Allan Eckert.

Gardening Folk Customs

2009-08-03T14:23:00.003-04:00

Since harvesting, gardening and preserving the bounty of fruits and vegetables seems to be the topic of the day, I thought I'd post some rather obscure (at least to me) gardening folklore. These beliefs were collected from throughout Appalachia, and while I have heard of some of them, believe a few of them, and even swear by a couple of them--by and large, I had not heard of most of these before.

I have previously posted similar folklore items and the readers of this blog seem to enjoy them, so I thought I'd give it another try.

Here's the list. Do you know of any other folk beliefs pertaining to gardening?

Eat sugar before planting fruit trees to make the fruit sweeter.

Apples with red spots inside means that the tree's root grew into the body of a murdered person.

Drive a rusty nail on the north side of the tree for better yields.

The number of seeds in an apple will be your lucky number.

Whip a poor yielding tree and it will bear better the next year.

Plowing on Good Friday will cause the ground to bleed.

Seeds planted on St. Patrick's Day grow better.

Gardens do better if seeds are planted on even-numbered days of the month.

Don't thank a person who gives you seeds or roots, or the plants will never grow.

Plant potatoes at night so the eyes don't see light.

If you laugh while planting corn, the kernels will have big gaps in them.

Planting peppers when you are mad makes the peppers grow hotter.

If a red-headed person plants peppers, they will be hotter than normal.

For a good crop of watermelons, crawl to the patch backwards on the first day of May.

Put a four-leaf clover in your shoe and make a wish. When you lose the clover, your wish will come true.

A five-leaf clover brings bad luck.

Grass won't grow where human blood has been spilled.

Catch a thistle seed, then blow it into the air. If it doesn't hit the ground before it gets out of sight, your wish will come true, but only if you don't tell anyone the wish.

Crushing rosemary into a glass of wine will boost mental powers.

Make a wish on a load of hay, but don't look until the load is out of sight, and the wish will come true.

Flowers which bloom out of season are evil.

Dreaming of thorns is bad luck.

Bury a hickory stick in a moist place, and it will turn to stone in seven years.

Weeping willows will bring the planter bad luck.

Conduct most of your garden chores during the waxing of the moon. Light nights make light crops: never plant when the moon is full.

All above-ground crops should be planted with the new moon.

Root crops should be planted during the last two days of a full moon.

If you burn potato peelings, your crop won't grow the next year.

Root crops should be planted under the sign of Taurus for quicker growth.

Seeds planted under Virgo will result in many leaves but not much fruit.

Sweet potatoes dug on a dark night will be sweeter and keep better.

It's bad luck to burn wood from a tree struck by lightning.

Planting on Friday is bad luck, unless the zodiac sign is right.

Tomatoes should be planted on Memorial Day.

Friday is a good day to plant crops which dangle from branches because Friday is hangman's day.

Don't plant seeds until after the apple trees bloom.

It's good luck to steal herbs.

Tobacco grows well if planted under the sign of Cancer.

Never plant under a north wind. Trees blossoming twice in a year brings bad luck.

When cutting wood, spit in your palms for good luck.

A snowy winter portends a good year for crops.

A saying for planting tobacco: "Some for you, some for I, some for the devil, some for the fly."

Hang a horseshoe in a fruit tree for a heavy crop.

After planting a hill of beans, press the soil with your foot for better luck.

If you point your finger at a cucumber bloom, the bloom will fall off.

Beans planted on dark nights will grow the best crops.

Plant beans early in the morning if you want to have the crop come in earlier in the season.

For a better cabbage crop, sew the seeds in your bedclothes on March 17th.

Corn should be planted under the new moon so that most of the growing will be done at the tip.

Wood cut on light nights will burn hotter.

Grass seed won't freeze if planted when the moon points down.

Corn planted under the waning moon grows slower but produces larger ears.

If onion bulbs are planted upside down, they will come out in China.

To keep away crows, kill one and hang it from a garden pole.

Onions should be planted in the old of the moon.

Trees are best trimmed in the full moon of February or November.

Peas should be planted as near to twelve noon as possible.

Tie a piece of white string across the garden to keep birds away.

Cut briars and weeds when the moon is waning to kill them.

Plant flowers under Virgo for the best blooms.

Corn should be planted when the dogwoods are in bloom and the poplar leaves
are as big as squirrel ears.

Wheat always ripens in the light of the moon, not the dark.

To make hydrangeas blue, put rusty nails at the roots. Plant watermelons before breakfast for best results.

Cobs from seed corn should be placed in running water and not burned.

If two people's hoes hit together, they will work in the same field next year.

50 word Writers Challenge

2009-07-28T11:19:00.004-04:00

A few weeks ago, Granny Sue posted about a writers challenge where you had to write a story in exactly 50 words, no more, no less. I thought I'd give it a try. Here's my attempt at it:

“Fetch me that least skillet,” Granny said. Nothing made me happier than when Granny made biscuits. I watched with wonderment as Granny expertly worked the dough and placed the cut out biscuits into the little skillet. “You learn by watching,” Granny stated. “Think maybe you can make these next time?”

The Homeplace Remembers You

2009-07-20T11:10:00.004-04:00

The Old Homeplace

A stoic representation of the past

Forged out of the wilderness.

The blood and sweat of past generations

Mixed amid my rocks and soil.

As generations came and went

I generously provided life.

The symbiotic ties strengthened

and bound us as one.

Though I kept you, and you me,

It was not enough to hold you,

When the hard times came

and a new way beckoned.

Now hopes and dreams have all gone away

Fallen by the wayside,

Passed by on the road to progress.

Nothing left here of anyone

Who remember the old ways

In this Eden of the wild mountains.

Though I’m still here and I still remember,

My fields now lay fallow,

And I watch as the cedars reclaim my pastures.

I am but a memory,

Instilled in the flesh of my flesh.

I hold the secrets,

And share them to those who listen,

With each passing season I whisper louder and louder.

But no one listens or seems to care.

I remain it seems,

Forgotten.

A Good Idea?

2009-07-13T09:18:00.006-04:00

I visited home over the 4th of July weekend, and while there I was struck with an idea. That idea was to walk a little of the North Mountain Trail at the top of our mountain. I had been down the trail many, many times over the years, and I remembered it was really pretty, very quiet and a good walk. I asked my Mom and my brother to go with me, and they did.

We walked the trail for about 5 minutes and came to the first overlook, I knew it was a good overlook but I also knew a better view awaited just around the next bend. Still, I was caught off-guard with the remarkable view that lay before me.

As I walked closer to the cliff, this was the vista that greeted me.

There was a nice breeze that day, especially considering the wind coming off of Spruce Knob smashed against the cliffs, creating a great updraft. It was a nice contrast to the nearly oppressive humidity. I looked out over Germany Valley for a few minutes then continued on down the trail to my favorite overlook. Along the way, we picked the ripening huckleberries, they were so good.

Then we arrived at a truly breathtaking sight. The strong mountain breezes slapped me in the face as I looked out over beautiful Germany Valley. The cliffs of North Mountain Rocks were a stark contrast to the lush valley below. The huge oak trees under the rocks looked miniature, and there was at least 100 feet from the cliffs to the treetops. I knew of the view that awaited me, but never have I been able to prepare. To me, this is the most beautiful sight in West Virginia.

Of course, no trip to the North Mountain Rocks would be complete without some mention of Old Fon, the legendary goatman who lures small children up to the cliffs and shoves them off. And then there was the obligatory mention of Der Belsnickle, the mean (or perhaps just misunderstood) German version of Santa Claus who came to these cliffs with my ancestors back in the early 1700's.

We also remembered a little girl named Haddie Whitecotton, a friend of my great-grandmaw Mary, who while helping make hay one day, wandered off up into the mountains, and who was found dead over a month later. She was about 5 or 6 years old. The search party found her body up on top of the mountain near a massive mound of boulders. Nobody could figure out how she would have gotten up there through all the rough terrain. Some figured that a mountain lion had carried her up there since her body was covered with leaves when they found her. Others suspected a giant hawk had carried her up on the cliffs. A giant hawk had been seen in the vicinity carrying off a small calf only a week before Haddie turned up missing. Nobody ever knew for sure, and now a lonely little white cross marks the location where Haddie's body was found 100 years ago.

My family has been on this mountain for so long, it seems that everywhere I look I am reminded of a story about one of them. This mountain has sustained my family for so long, we are a part of it. My blood is a part of this mountain, and this mountain is part of my blood. The mountain seems to remember all of us, and it reminds us when we listen.

So what do you think? Was it a good idea to go for a walk out on the North Mountain Rocks? I think so.

The Mallow Schoolhouse

2009-07-07T10:00:00.006-04:00

When she was a little girl, my Grandmaw Virginia (whom we called Grandmaw Henry) attended school at the one-room Mallow Schoolhouse.

The old Mallow Schoolhouse, Pendleton County, WV.

The Mallow Schoolhouse sits at the top of Bennett Gap near Riverton, and had all grades in the one room with one teacher to teach all the students.

Grandmaw Henry told a story that when she was little, she and her siblings walked to school every day, up the steep road to the top of Bennett Gap. It was nearly two miles from where her family lived near the mouth of the gap. Grandmaw told of how wintertime was the worst for her, she was always a sickly child and no matter how well she bundled up, she was always very cold by the time she got to school. She told of how one time, during a particularly cold spell, she would trudge up the ridge to the school through the deep snow and by the time she got there, her feet would be frozen. Grandmaw told of how the teacher, a kindly old woman, would fear for her safety since she had to walk further than most of the other students, and because she was so sickly. Grandmaw told of how when she'd get to the schoolhouse, the teacher would stand her near the old potbelly woodstove by the door and help her take off the layers of coats and blankets. The teacher would then take off Grandmaw's shoe's and would rub Grandmaw's feet with cool water, and would eventually work her way up to warm water until the color would return to Grandmaw's feet. The teacher was sure that if this was not done, that Grandmaw would lose some toe's to frostbite. This very well may have been true because Grandmaw always said that she'd lose the feeling in her feet by the time she got halfway up the steep ridge that led to the top of the gap.

My Dad & my brother, Jason.

My Dad also has memories of the old Mallow Schoolhouse. He grew up in the same place that Grandmaw Henry did but by this time the Mallow School had been closed and all the children were bussed into Riverton and attended the old Dixie Schoolhouse. The Dixie School was built before the War Between The States, and was used as such until the early 1960's, when it was consolidated with Circleville School. Dad's memories of the Mallow School are of the summertime Bible School that was held there. Dad said that there'd be hundreds of kids all around the school and they'd run and play in the farmlands that surrounded it. Dad said they'd also have bible lessons in the morning and about noon they'd eat big, hearty meals that were prepared by the local farm women. Dad tells that after lunch, most of the kids would walk down Bennett Gap to the North Fork of the South Branch of the Potomac River and go swimming. Dad was usually a ringleader of kids his age but not when it came to swimming, because Dad was then, and still is, afraid of water. One time during bible school, when the kids decided to go swimming, Dad's Uncle Buffy, who was but a few years older than Dad was, decided it was time that my Dad learned to swim. So when they all got to the river, my Uncle Buffy grabbed ahold of Dad and threw him into the deepest swimming hole in the river, and said, "Swim or Drown." Typically, this cruel method of teaching someone to swim will work with kids because natural instincts will take over and the kid will swim to safety, but this didn't work in Dad's case. Dad just kept going under and he kept fighting the water, and eventually Dad went under and didn't come back up. Some of the older kids recognized that Dad wasn't going to swim and they rescued him from the swimming hole and carried him to safety. Dad tells that he was sure he was drowning because he was losing conciousness and everything had already went black when the older kids rescued him. When they got home that day, Dad told Grandmaw about what Uncle Buffy had done, and ol' Buff got a good whippin' and a talkin' to from Granddaddy Thompson.

The meadow in front of the old school.

Nowadays, the old Mallow School sits vacant between two old cemeteries, where it remains a symbol of bygone days when each little community had a school of its own. While I visited there, I wondered to myself just how many of the folks who are buried near the old schoolhouse were once pupils there? I wondered what memories they held of the lone, white building in the grassy meadow? I'd like to think that if one listened closely to the breezes blowing through the grasses, they could still hear the laughter of playing children on the grounds and the various sounds of a vibrant community whose time has long since passed.

The grassy meadow that used to be the schoolyard.

A Handful of Pinto Beans

2009-06-30T12:04:00.011-04:00

Ever since I was a little boy, I’ve always wanted to be a farmer. I can’t ever remember a time when I wasn’t drawn to the soil as if by some unseen power. At an early age, I was told that I had a green thumb and many's the time that people would ask me to plant their gardens, bushes, etc. because they said, “If anybody can get them to grow, Matthew can.”

Milkweed Ladies on the Mallow Farm.

The very first thing that I ever remember planting was a handful of pinto beans. I remember Mom was looking over a bag of store-boughten pinto beans that she was getting ready to cook (looking over them I’m sure you know, means that she was sorting through them and picking out cracked beans and the occasional pebble.) Well, she had a few beans picked out that were unsuitable to be cooked and I asked her if I could have them. She said that I could, but not to eat them because raw beans will give you a stomachache. I said that I wouldn’t eat them, but that I was going to plant them. It was early spring then, way too early to be planting anything on the mountain, but Mom told me to go ahead and plant them but to plant them in the corner of the garden (she told me to put them in the corner because she knew I wouldn’t let them plow it up after I planted the beans, even though they had little to no chance of growing). Well, I remember I went out and poked a hole in the ground with my pointer finger, and dropped a bean into the cold soil. I covered them up the some dirt and I repeated this until I had all of the broken and misshapen pinto beans planted. I checked on them several times that first day, and occasionally over the next few days, but I soon lost interest in waiting to see the first sprouts of the beans that I was just sure would soon pop through the soil. A few weeks later when the garden was plowed up in preparation for the spring planting, Mom noticed that there were five little bean plants growing in the corner of the garden. She called me over and showed them to me, and of course there never was a bean plant that ever looked so good as the ones that I had grown. Everyone was shocked that the plants had grown from the cracked pintos that had been sorted out of a store-boughten bag of pinto beans!

We tended to the beans that spring and they were getting up pretty good in size when my family decided to move out of Johnson Holler to over across the mountain to the Mallow Farm. The main reason was because my brother Jason had started to school the year before and Dad would drive him over North Fork Mountain every day to catch the school bus in Monkeytown, and this fall I would be starting to Kindergarten, so Mom and Dad figured it’d be better if we lived on the same side of the mountain as where we’d be attending school rather than risking the trip across the mountain every day all winter. The Mallow Farm was also closer to Dad’s work, it was only about a mile from the gate of the farm whereas Johnson Holler was about 15 miles. The third, but not the least important reason for moving out of Johnson Holler was because we wouldn’t have to pay rent. I remember rent at the old house in Johnson Holler was $50 a month, plus you had to supply your own buckets to catch the water that leaked through the roof when it rained. This was so the water wouldn’t rot out the floors (yes, the house was that good!). But on the Mallow Farm, there was no rent but we did have to tend to the farm. It seemed like a good deal to all of us, we got the run of a 585-acre farm just for taking care of it. I suppose another reason why we moved to the farm was that my Grandmaw Henry had just passed away and Mom and Dad were taking care of five of Dad’s siblings, of which the youngest was just 3 years older than my brother Jason and the Mallow Farm was more conducive to raising a passel of “heatherns” as we were frequently called, than most anywhere else they could think of.

So that was the long way around of telling you that I never got to harvest those first beans that I ever planted. We moved out of Johnson Holler early that summer, and had to leave the old garden behind. I’m sure the deer and groundhogs had a field day with it. Over the years I have often wondered if those pinto beans ever amounted to anything.

Germany Valley...my home.

After moving to the farm, we have plenty of ground to tend to. Since Mom and Dad were raising all of us kids then, our family garden was easily 2 acres in size, one acres of which was planted in potatoes. I remember there were plenty of “garden suppers” as we called them, suppers where everything we had came out of the garden. I don’t ever remember going hungry though. We also raised hogs, chickens, sheep, ducks, guineas, cows and a horse. The sheep, cows and the one old horse were owned by the man who owned the farm but we tended to them the same as we did our own.

We only saw the owner about once a month, if that, except during haying season, during which time he would be over every day cutting this or that hayfield. I remember that he had two teenage sons who were smitten with my Aunts who lived with us then. They were all about the same age, and every day for lunch they’d come over to the house to visit. They said they came for some cool spring water, but they wasn’t fooling anybody, they was a-tryin’ to court my aunts. Nothing ever amounted to their advances, Mom said that the girls were too young to be interested in boys, even though the girls were the same age as the boys. Mom always told the girls not to be a farmer’s wife, because they would work you to death and they’d find themselves broke down with a passel of kids before they was 40. I find it ironic now just how picky Mom was for us all, we really didn’t have a pot to piss in nor a window to throw it out of, but she always expected us to do better for ourselves. From where I’m sitting now, I’d have thought she’d have welcomed one of my aunts marrying up with the farmer’s sons, but she never did. But I reckon it goes back to the days when our family had money, and although the “uppity” customs that went along with the old ways got passed on down to us, the money didn’t. My granny always said we was “poor genteel”.

Late Autumn on the Mallow Farm

We might have been poor as church mice but there were things we done that were atypical of our neighbors in a similar financial predicament, for example, we always had to eat everything with a fork, finger foods were just unacceptable and were considered beneath us…my mother still won’t eat a sandwich! All these years later, I’m still guilty of eating everything with a fork, or at least I have to have a fork in my hand while I’m eating, even if I don’t use it. Another thing was we always had to have clean sheets and pillowcases on our beds. We knew a lot of people who were as poor as we were who didn’t have sheets or pillowcases, and we just thought that was awful. The ones we had might have been worn out, but by crackies we had them and used them! Another thing was our shoes had to be clean. It didn’t matter what we had been doing, we weren’t allowed to go anywhere in dirty shoes…not even scuffed up shoes…for that was a sure sign of “trashiness”. I still find myself now, whenever I meet someone, the first thing I look at is their shoes. I’ve found over the years that this is a pretty good method of sizing people up, although there are some exceptions to this rule.

The farmhouse on the Mallow Farm.

We lived on the farm for several years, and today I consider myself having grown up on a farm even though we moved from it while I was still in elementary school. We moved from the farm because Mom and Dad had bought a house up on the mountain where Dad's family was from. It was originally part of the old Burns property but had been sold off back in the Depression to pay for a store bill. In those days, my Granddaddy didn’t have much but land, so much so that it is told that he sold the back side of the mountain for a horse and buggy, and he sold the land that borders the current Burns property for a bottle of whiskey! I ain’t never for the life of me figured out why he would have sold all the good land on the mountain and the valley below and kept the rockiest part of it. It could be because he couldn’t give away that part of the land, let alone sell it, but at least he kept enough land to give future generations of his family a sense of place and of their heritage. God knows, thats about all we have left! That and a bunch of cousins and relatives who will fight and quarrel over nothing more than a rock, its sad to see that the family has crumbled the way that it has over the past generation or so, it just seems that people don’t want the land but they don’t want anyone else to have it either. I suppose it all happened because Grandmaw and Granddaddy broke the old custom of leaving everything they had to the oldest boy and everyone else just had their lifetime rights to the property, instead of following that custom which had worked for the past 200 or so years, they left their estate to all of their children to be shared equally. The old custom might have been unfair, but the equal sharing way has done nothing but tear the family apart. All I know is that Grandmaw and Granddaddy done what they thought was best.

Remnants of the original Burns homeplace.

So there’s a little dirty family laundry for y’all out there reading this rambling post. Now to continue what I consider the main thread of this story, after we moved up on the mountain, on land that was now ours and ours alone, we found out just how much we missed the farm. While we did still raise hogs and chickens, we didn’t have near the land to grow our garden, raise our stock or just to get out and enjoy. We also didn’t have a big house like we did on the farm and we really had to pare down. We gave truckloads of stuff to my one Aunt who sold a lot of it in a big yard sale. We also gave away stuff to just about anyone who needed something. Probably the two things that most affected me was having to give away a lot of my toys (it took seven pick-up loads to carry all of our toys from the farmhouse, but the new house could only hold around one pick-up load). The other thing was losing our beloved dog, Pete. Pete was a farm dog, and after we moved off of the farm, he pined away for it. One day we noticed Pete was no longer with us, and the next day, the man who owned the farm brought Pete back to us and said that Pete had found his way back to the farm (about 5 miles away). Dad figured it would happen again and told the man if Pete wandered back down to the farm again, to just go ahead and keep him. A few days later, Pete went back to the farm and the man kept him. It was hard letting go of Pete but we knew that is what made Pete happy.

Aside from that, I liked living in our new home, we were located right beside of my Grandmaw Mary, whom I dearly loved, and just under the hill from my Granddaddy’s house. We also didn’t have to walk a half-mile to catch the school bus either. So while I did miss the farm in many ways, I suppose it was for the best. My family had returned home to the mountain that had borne our blood since 1699, and I suspect like the many generations of ancestors who came before, they will remain there for the duration. In the meantime, I am a farmer without a farm but the memories I have continue to sustain me even though in the back of my head I can hear Gerald O’Hara from “Gone With The Wind” repeating “Land, Katie Scarlett, Land. ‘Tis the only thing worth living for, worth fighting for, worth dying for. Land, Katie Scarlett, Land, Why it’s the only thing that matters, it’s the only thing that lasts…”

And to think this all started one early spring day all those years ago with a few old cracked-up pinto beans that weren’t fit to eat.

Come Have a Look

2009-06-24T11:52:00.010-04:00

From "Have-A-Look Poems" by Elkins, WV, native, B. Wees

The Old Store

'Tis three score years and maybe more
Since father started this old store,
A little "shack" not long nor wide--
So folks about the country side
Could "Have a Look."

And to this "shack" planked up and down,
Located seven miles from town;
And from the rail road thirty six--
The folks would come, talk politics
And "Have a Look."

And underneath that clapboard roof
He sold 'em calico's and snuff;
Kentucky Jeans and cow hide boots--
Some with high heels for gay "galoots"
To "Have a Look."

From Webster, through the muddy roads
The good were hauled by wagon loads,
And sold at prices fair and square
So people came from far and near
To "Have a Look."

And there on rainy days and nights
On nail kegs 'neath the smoky lights
Would sit a gang of gray haired boys
And chuckle o'er their old time joys
And "Have a Look."

Then Vig and Amby would come in
And "chune" up the old violin
And play some old toe-twisting tune--
'Twould start a hoe-down might soon
Then "Have a Look."

And old "Black Pete" and old "Black Jim"
Would tell ghost stories, ghastly and grim,
'Til all the gold in land and sea
Would not induce a boy like me
To "Have a Look."

And when the woods with music rang
Aunt Mime would bring a poke of "sang",
A cautious trader was Aunt Mime,
You bet, she always had the time
To "Have a Look."

The old store suited the old ways
But now new people and new days
Demand a store that's more complete
You'll find one here that's hard to beat,
Just "Have a Look."

Summertime at the Sow's Ear

2009-06-08T10:47:00.009-04:00

Always at this time of year, my mind drifts back to those summer days sitting on my Granddad’s front porch. I remember one lazy summer day on Granddad’s porch, I lived up to my nickname “Hacker”. They called me that because seldom was the time when I didn’t have an old hatchet with me. I don’t know why but it seemed that I always had a hatchet. I’d use it to clear brush if I wandered around in the woods, I’d throw it at tree's and blocks of wood to see if I could make it stick, or I’d just hold it above my head and let out a war whoop and make people think I had went off and was going to chop them to pieces. Regardless of what i was doing, I always seemed to have a hatchet with me. Well, on this one day and for some still unknown reason, I took to lightly hacking at my Granddad’s old dry-rotted porch posts. It didn’t take much until the posts simply crumbled away in places.

Granddad's house, "The Sow's Ear".

My Granddad tried to get me to stop but eventually just said, “If you destroy those posts, you’re goin’ to have to cut me some hickory poles to hold up the porch roof.” Well, I continued chipping away at the posts in the middle of the porch, even then I knew that the corner posts would hold up the roof. After I had hacked the old posts away, I went up in the woods and cut and trimmed up some nice hickory poles. I peeled the bark off of them, and they were a very pretty white color. We placed them in the spots where the old posts were, and nailed them up. They looked about a hundred times better than the old posts did, and even my granddad said it was a big improvement and said, “Hackey, I reckon you done me a good deed.”

That was until my Aunt Nawey came home from work. She about had a conniption, and said it looked like a bunch of hillbillies lived there with the hickory poles holding up the porch roof. She marched over to my Dad and told him what I had done, and wanted him to replace the porch posts. As luck would have it, we had a few old cedar porch posts there from where we had recently remodeled our front porch, and Nawey said that would be fine. The next day, me and Granddad put up the new porch posts and all was again right with the world. Nawey threatened to skin me alive if I hacked at the new porch posts! After they passed Nawey’s inspection, my Granddad informed her that he liked the hickory poles better and told her “No matter how hard you try, you ain’t never goin’ to make a silk purse out of a sow’s ear!” (I bet you can’t tell that I could get away with anything with my Granddad!)

In those summer days of my youth, we always seemed to have the same routine every day, about noon we’d go down to Riverton and get a few snacks and to catch up on the local gossip for the day, and then after about an hour or so, we’d start back up the mountain, only coming home through the Bland Hills.

Bland Hills

Bland Hills road was always so quiet and peaceful, and we’d poke along on our way home, stopping to look at anything unusual that caught our eye like grazing deer, an occasional hawk flying overhead, or perhaps some blooming patch of wildflowers alongside the country road. Seldom was the day when we’d pass another vehicle on our trip, and it was because of this that Bland Hills was chosen as the location for my Granddad to let me drive his truck, even though I was underage and still a couple of years away from getting a drivers license.

Looking back, I’m sure that he let me drive coming back up the mountain rather than driving down the mountain was so I couldn’t really let the truck get away from me on the uphill drag. I learned to drive fairly fast, and I had driven our car with an automatic transmission before so that wasn’t an issue for me, but figuring out a clutch was entirely different. It also didn’t help that Granddad’s truck was a 1967 Ford F-150 with a 3-speed transmission on the steering column! I don’t know whoever came up with the concept of a 3-speed transmission, but whoever it was should be dragged out into the woods and shot. As I recall, first gear was way up on top on the front of the column, second gear was all the way down on the front of the column, and somewhere about halfway on the steering column you could, if you were lucky, manage to finagle and contort the belligerent beast into third gear. Reverse was one of those directions that remained a mystery to me in the old truck, it was supposedly somewhere through the magical corridor, down by the magical mirror and was only attainable, I’m convinced, by saying a few quatrains of an old Pennsylvania Dutch hex. Luckily, on Bland Hills road I didn’t have much use for third gear or reverse, so I was good to go. I remember Granddad would drive over toward the backside of Riverton, and pull off the road and let me under the wheel, and I’d take over right at the foot of Dolly Ridge. Try as I might to ease out on the clutch upon taking off, I’d always either lurch forward and kill the motor, or I’d tear out throwing gravels and dirt for several yards behind me. All my Granddad would ever say is, “Take ‘er easy, hackey, take ‘er easy!”

Granddad & my cousin Poodies.

Once I got took off, I was pretty good at it and didn’t have much difficulty in shifting gears since most of the way was in first gear, and once we got up on the ridge, I’d shift into 2nd. Soon after getting to the top of the ridge, we would come to the forks in the road, the left going towards Monkeytown (which was were home was) and the right going back into Brown Bear Lodge.

Well, Granddad would always say, “I believe we’ll ride back this way today and see if anything is different.” There never was anything different back in Brown Bear Lodge, I'm fairly sure that nothing had changed there since the Yankee's marched up Dolly Ridge after the Battle of Riverton way back when the North invaded America. But going right at the Forks did add a couple of miles on to the trip since the road back into Brown Bear Lodge was a dead end and we’d have to backtrack out of there. I remember we’d drive by the old Cunningham Cemetery where two sets of my great-so-many-grandparents are buried, and Granddad would inevitable tell me about them, and tell me about how years ago they had a problem with groundhogs back there, and the groundhogs had gnawed and dug their way into some of the graves and were bringing out scraps of clothing from the graves. Of course, this was very upsetting to the people who had loved ones buried there, and several men set around with guns and waited for hours to shoot the groundhogs. After killing several groundhogs from that spot, then men stuffed rocks into the groundhog holes and covered them over the best they could. He said now people kept watch for any sign of groundhogs returning even though that had happened several decades ago, and no other action was needed. It was almost as if he shared the cautionary tale with me to keep alive an ongoing feud between humans and groundhogs.

The old Cunningham Cemetery.

Eventually, I’d have to turn around, and I had a favorite spot for it, remember how I said I could never find reverse in the old truck, well I got around this by turning around at a wide spot in the road near a big open meadow. It was wide enough to swing the truck around without having to put it in reverse!

This is the meadow that has the wide spot I used to turn around in.

After backtracking the Brown Bear Lodge road, and then onto Bland Hills road toward home, I would creep along ever so slowing, sometimes stopping to see something of interest, and all the while learning how to take off without popping the clutch. I’d drive to what we called the “First Hill” near the main highway, at which point I’d pull over and let Granddad take over the wheel again, and he’d drive us on home.

A typical view in the Bland Hills.

Once we got home we’d sit on the front porch and talk and tell stories, or find something that needed done, like poking around in the outbuildings or climbing up in the attic at Granddad house. It was always an adventure, you never knew what you were going to find. I remember one time we were up in the attic digging out some old boxes of stuff. The attic was but a crawlspace, and you had to be really careful so as to only place your weight on the rafters of the old house. I recall that it was so hot and stifling that you could barely breathe, and I’d crawl around, find a box, and drag it back to the opening of the attic and hand it out to my granddad on the porch roof. I remember one time I kept noticing the electric wire had been gnawed by a rat in several places and I commented to granddad, “If that rat gnaws through the rubber coating of that wire, it’ll have a bad day.” Well sure enough, after crawling further back into the attic, I saw the skeletal remains of the rat, still stuck into the electric wire where it had succeeded in biting its way into oblivion. Really, I don’t know what ever kept that place from burning down with the gnawed electric wires, the sawdust insulation and the wiring system that my granddad figured out and installed.

We’d then dig through the boxes that were placed “overhead” for the past several decades, there’d be old pictures, school papers from the kids, sometimes knick-knacks, and various other items. It really was like sorting through Pandora’s Box. If something caught our eye, we’d lay it to the side so we could take it with us. Everything else was placed back into the boxes and put back into the attic, where those treasures remain to this day. I wonder what I would find if I were to look through those boxes today?

Eggology 101

2009-06-05T12:23:00.005-04:00

The following poem is from the book "Have-A-Look Poems" by B. Wees dated 1946 in Elkins, West Virginia.

Egg-ology by B. Wees

Old Farmer Corn Tassel remarked to his wife,
As he hung up his hat on a peg:
"I'll be jiggered if I can see, for my life,
How a black hen can lay a white egg!"

Said Mrs. Corn Tassel: "Just take my advice,
Your question's both silly and vague.
When you hear the hen cackle, just remember the price,
And go fetch home the egg!"

Chicken Coop at Granny Sue & Larry's Homestead.

Sweet William died for Love

2009-05-30T19:42:00.008-04:00

Here is probably one of the most famous Appalachian folk ballads, Bar'bry Allen. Some say it as Bar'bry Ellen. I can't remember a time when I didn't hear someone singing this song, in part or in whole. The song, I've always heard, is hundreds of years old and was brought to America from Scotland. The song retained it's authenticity in the mountains of Appalachia, and was "rediscovered" in the early 1900's.

Bar'bry Allen

VERSE 1
Twas in the merry month of May
When all greenbuds was swellin'
Sweet William on his death bed lay
For love of Barbry Allen

VERSE 2
He sent his servant to the town
To the place where she was a dwellin'
Said my master's sick and he sends for you
If your name be Barbry Allen

VERSE 3
Slowly, slowly, she got up
And slowly she drew beside him
And the only words she did say to him,
Was young man I think you're a-dyin'

VERSE 4
O yes, I'm sick, and very sick
And death on me is dwellin'
And no better will I ever be
If I caint have Barbry Allen

VERSE 5
O yes, you're sick and very sick
And death is on you dwellin'
No better will you ever be
For you cain't have Barbry Allen

VERSE 6
Don't you remember in yonder town
When we were at the tavern
You drank a health to the ladies fair
But slighted Barbry Allen

VERSE 7
O yes, I remember in yonder town
In yonders town a drinking
I gave a health to the ladies fair
But my heart to Barbry Allen

VERSE 8
As she was on her highway home
The birds kept on a-singing
A sang so clear, that seemed to say
Hard hearted Barbry Allen

VERSE 9
As she was walkin' o'er the field
She heard the death bells a-ringin'
With every stroke they seemed to say
Hard hearted Barbry Allen

VERSE 10
She looked to the east and she looked to the west
And she saw his corpse a-comin'
Lay down, lay down, that corpse of clay
That I may look upon him

VERSE 11
The more she looked, the more she mourned
Till she busted out a-cryin'
And said pick me up and carry me home
I feel like I'm a-dyin'

VERSE 12
O Mother, O Mother, go make my bed
Go make it long and narrow
Sweet William died for pure, pure love
And I shall die for sorrow

VERSE 13
O Father, O Father, go dig my grave
Go dig it long and narrow
Sweet William died for me today
I'll die for him tomorrow

VERSE 14
They buried him in the ol' church yard
They buried her beside him
And from his heart grew a red, red rose
And from her heart a brier

VERSE 15
They grew and grew up the old church tower
'Til they could reach no higher
Then wrapped and twined in a true loves knot
With the rose growed 'round the brier

Here's one of my favorite versions of the song, sung by Emmy Rossum of the "Songcather" movie. Click here to hear it.

Snakes and more Snakes.

2009-05-14T12:08:00.006-04:00

Today I thought I’d write another post about snakes. I wrote a blog post about snakes a few months ago, click here to read it.

I remember when we lived up Johnson Holler we had to watch whenever we went outside, it was a real snakey place. And they weren’t just any snakes that seemed to be all over the place, they were timber rattlesnakes. Many times, we’d kill some rattlers whenever we’d go out to feed the dog. It is no wonder that place was overrun with snakes, it was right at the foot of North Mountain and it was a very rocky and rough place.

I remember one evening when we were coming home, Dad got a good surprise. You see, right before you entered our place, you had to get out and open a gate that blocked the road. There was an old spring box located near the gate, and since Dad had opened this gate hundreds of times before, he didn’t think anything of it nor was he overly careful in looking around. He just got out of the truck, walked over, grabbed the gate latch, and started to pull open the gate.

About that time, he was startled by the unmistakable singing of a rattlesnake. He instinctively jumped back, and it is a good thing because as he was jumping back, the rattler struck at him. Dad was just far enough away to where it missed him. The rattler then slithered out into the road. All of us kids were screaming, just sure that the giant serpent was gonna eat us all. Dad, a little more calm than the rest of us, ran back to the truck and grabbed out a shovel that he always carried with him. Dad meant to kill the rattler with the shovel, and since he was now armed, he was a little more confident when he went after the big snake. About the time Dad got to the rattler, the rattler rared up to where it was nearly staring Dad right in the eye, and Mom hollered out the truck window, “He’s trying to charm you!” We all knew how a snake will try to charm its quarry by doing a little mesmerizing dance…it will lull someone or some thing into a false sense of security, which will end with a fatal bite.

Well, Dad wasn’t having none of that, so he whomped down on the big rattler with the shovel. As soon as the shovel connected with the snake, there was a loud crack and Dad stood there holding a broken handle of a shovel! The big rattler wasn’t even phased, and it look pissed off! Dad then ran back to the truck and looked around for something else to kill the rattler with, but could find nothing so he ran up on the road bank and grabbed a big tree limb and a few rocks. First, Dad threw the rather large rocks at the rattler, and connected with it with a few of them. The last one hit the snake in the head and knocked it down into the road. Dad then ran up with the tree limb and beat the snake repeatedly in the head until it was dead. It was quite an ordeal. It was such a large snake, we measured it, it was 9 feet long and was 8 inches around. It also had 12 rattlers and a button! It was a monster.

I remember Dad saying it was the granddaddy of them all, and he figured it was the snake that came over on “Noey’s Ark”! Dad said he’d never seen anything like it. It was in late summer and it was quite dry that year, so Dad took the dead snake and laid it over the garden fence. We all knew that if you hung a snake over a garden fence it would rain until you took it off. Sure enough, that night it just poured the rain and continued to do so for the next week or so. Finally, my Grandmaw Mary told my Dad to take that snake off the garden fence because if he didn’t she feared it was going to flood.

People might laugh, but there has to be something to those old tales.

Another story I’ll share is about how one time Grandmaw Mary’s milk cow stopped giving milk. Grandmaw couldn’t figure it out, all of a sudden the cow seemed to dry up. Grandmaw puzzled on it, and come to the conclusion that something had to be milking the cow out, so she started keeping a close eye on the cow. Granny suspected a milk thief. Sure enough, on one of her frequent checks on the cow, she caught the culprit…a big blacksnake sucking on the cow. Now I know a snake ain’t supposed to be able to suck, but my Granny seen it with her own eyes. Granny picked up a hoe handle that was there in the stone cow barn and cracked the blacksnake with it. She had to be real careful so it wouldn’t bite the teats of the cow. Well, the blacksnake coiled up and Granny proceeded to kill it with the hoe handle, and she dragged it outside of the cow barn. She said it was unreal the amount of milk that poured out of that snake when she stretched it out.

North Mountain rocks.

I also remember a story that my Grandmaw Mary used to tell about a girl named Hallie who lived further up on the mountain. Granny grew up near there. She said that up on the mountain, right near the frost line, there used to be a house that was owned by a man and a woman by the last name of Wildfang. Granny said they were real good people, always willing to give a helping hand to anyone who needed it. She said that the man’s name was Hanse and the woman’s name was Mag, and they had tried for years to have a child but it seemed that Mag would always miscarry late in the pregnancy.

Eventually, Mag was able to carry a child to term and gave birth to Hallie. She said that old man and woman Wildfang doted on Hallie something fierce. They gave her anything that she wanted and never made her do any kind of chores or anything. Granny would tell how every morning after breakfast, Mag would give Hallie a cup of buttermilk and a piece of bread and Hallie would carry the treat around with her as she walked around the yard and poked around the barn. Mag and Hanse were very happy and proud of their little girl, and talked about how smart she was, and how fast she learned just by watching things around her. Grandmaw said that one morning, Hallie got her usual snack and walked outside, and seemingly made a beeline for the corncrib. Mag said this wasn’t typical because usually Hallie would walk around the house and look at the flowers and go out to the barn and look at the baby animals and such, but really she didn’t think too much on it. But Hallie was so intent on her walk toward the corncrib that something just struck Mag to follow her that morning, and she did.

My granny told that when Mag opened the door to the corncrib, she saw Hallie sitting on the floor among the cobs, and a snake was drinking the buttermilk out of the cup, and Hallie was telling it, ‘You be sure and eat your bread, too.” Mag, of course, was quite startled and said to Hallie, “Girl, what in the world do you think you are doing feeding that snake,” but Hallie didn’t answer her. She then hurried to Hallie and noticed that she had a real blank stare in her eyes, and Mag knew at once that Hallie had been charmed by the snake. Mag got up and killed the snake, who had kept drinking the buttermilk this whole time, and as soon as she dealt the fatal blow to the snake, Hallie took to screaming at her mother, “Stop killing him, please stop it, you’re killing him.”

Grandmaw Mary, at this point in the story, would say that most people thought that the girl had been witched but nobody could ever figure out who done it. Granny would then continue the story by telling of how after the snake was dead, Hallie became listless, she had no energy, she had no appetite, and Hanse and Mag got really concerned about her. They consulted the doctor down in Riverton, but he couldn’t find anything wrong with her. He just told them to give her Cod Liver Oil. And they did, but it didn’t help. Well, this went on for a couple of weeks, and Hanse and Mag went to a woman in the area who was known as a good witch. She told them that there was only one thing that could be done, the snake had charmed little Hallie and unless they could somehow break the charm spell that the snake put on her, that Hallie would die. The old witch woman then said a few words over her, and all of a sudden the old woman got sick and took to throwing up a vile green fluid. She raced outside and took to pulling up grass out of the yard and eating it, but she kept throwing up over and over. She managed to tell Hanse and Mag that the snake had a powerful hold over Hallie, and that it had charmed her like nothing she had ever seen, and it was too powerful for her. Well, Hanse helped the old woman back into the house and put her into bed, and he thanked her for trying, and he and Mag took Hallie and returned home.

The next morning, word came to them that the old witch woman had died the night before, and it looked like her whole face and neck was covered with snakebites. Hanse and Mag were doubly concerned over Hallie now, and they relayed everything that the old witch woman had told them during their visit with her the day before. After that everyone believed that evil was afoot, and word spread about Hallie’s condition and the old woman’s death. Granny said that soon after that, there were all kinds of preachers that went to the Wildfangs and prayed over Hallie, and one had even come from all the way over at Harrisonburg, VA, to pray over her, but nothing helped. A few days later, Hallie died right after Hanse and Mag had breakfast. Granny said that Hanse and Mag went out of their heads with grief and that they couldn’t even prepare little Hallie to be buried. My Granny’s grandmother, MaryAnna, went and cleaned the body and laid it out for them. Granny said that she’d always been told that while laying out little Hallie, her granny noticed that there was a mark on her that looked like a snakebite, and it was located right over her heart!

Soon after Hallie was laid to rest, Hanse and Mag moved away, Granny said she always heard they moved off to “Ohio somewheres”, but that their old house stood for many years after they moved away. Nobody would ever live in the house after that, and eventually it fell down. Grandmaw Mary would then conclude with telling exactly where the house was located and she would tell that you could still see the foundation of it if you looked real close.

So, do any of you all out there have any snake stories to share? I’d love to hear them.

Mercian Tittery Ay

2009-05-13T09:55:00.006-04:00

Today I thought I'd post an old folk song that I know called, "Mercian Tittery Ay". However, it seems that most people know this song as "Eggs & Marrowbones". I remember my Grandmaw Mary used to sing this in her kitchen while she cooked. She would hum and sing, and I was expected to join in on the chorus. I always thought this song was so funny.

Grandmaw Mary in the kitchen. I can still hear her singing, "Mercian Tittery Ay"

I never did know what the words "Mercian Tittery Ay" meant, but I've heard a similar version of this song (but not exactly the same) by Maggie Hammons. Hers is the only recorded version that I know of that uses the "Mercian Tittery Ay" in it. All of the other versions uses a different chorus line. Webster County, where Maggie Hammons was from, and Pendleton County, where my Granny was from, are fairly close to each other, and pretty much only a mountain separates the two locations. I wonder if they knew the same people, or if their ancestors came from the same place in Ireland. If the latter is the case, that would put this ballad in Pendleton County by the 1820's.

From what I can find, this folk song is Irish in origin and is classified as a Broadside Ballad. It is also known as "The Old Woman from Wexford".
=======================
Mercian Tittery Ay (Eggs and Marrowbones)

There was a woman up on the hill,
In a big house she did dwell,
She loved her husband dearly,
But another man twice as well.

Mercian Tittery Tittery Tittery
Mercian Tittery Tittery-Ay.

One day she went to the doctor,
Some medicine for to find,
She said, "Doctor give me something,
For to make the old man blind."

Mercian Tittery Tittery Tittery
Mercian Tittery Tittery-Ay.

"Feed him eggs and marrowbone,
And make him suck them all;
It won't be very long until
Your man won't see at all."

Mercian Tittery Tittery Tittery
Mercian Tittery Tittery-Ay.

She fed him eggs and marrowbone,
And made him suck them all,
It wasn't very long until,
He couldn't see the wall.

Mercian Tittery Tittery Tittery
Mercian Tittery Tittery-Ay.

The old man said, "I'd drown myself,
But that would be a sin."
The woman said, "I'll go with you,
To see you don't fall in."

Mercian Tittery Tittery Tittery
Mercian Tittery Tittery-Ay.

They walked along together,
'Til they came to the river's brim,
But he said, "I'll not drown myself,
You'll have to push me in.

Mercian Tittery Tittery Tittery
Mercian Tittery Tittery-Ay.

The woman made the offer,
And had a run and go;
But the old man quickly stepped aside,
And she fell in the river below.

Mercian Tittery Tittery Tittery
Mercian Tittery Tittery-Ay.

She screamed and she hollered
Just as loud as she could bawl,
He said, "My dear beloved wife,
I still can't see at all."

Mercian Tittery Tittery Tittery
Mercian Tittery Tittery-Ay.

She swam and swam and swam until,
She could no further swim;
When he grabbed up a cedar pole
And pushed her deeper in.

Mercian Tittery Tittery Tittery
Mercian Tittery Tittery-Ay.

Now eatin' eggs and marrowbones,
Won't make your old man blind;
So if you want to be shed of him,
You must sneak up from behind.

Mercian Tittery Tittery Tittery
Mercian Tittery Tittery-Ay.
========

So have any of you out there ever heard this song? Do any of you know the origins of the words "Mercian Tittery Ay"?

Mother's Day Flood

2009-05-11T10:52:00.007-04:00

“You need to move your car!” These were the words that awakened us at 3:30am. Shirley’s brother, Ricky, was frantically pounding on our bedroom window to let us know that the floodwaters were quickly rising. Almost at the very same time as Ricky pounding on the window, the electricity went off.

I hollered back, “Okay, I’m coming.” Shirley jumped out of bed and, still half asleep, tried to help me to the bedroom door, however, in her sleepy stupor, she started moving items from all around the room into the middle of the bedroom floor. Since the room was pitch-black now due to the electric going out, she was setting up an obstacle course for me. The first thing I ran into, fell over and survived was a vacuum cleaner. The vacuum cleaner is usually completely out of the way, but that’s to Shirley’s “helpfulness”, it was located directly between me and the bedroom door. After falling over the vacuum, then tripping over a suitcase, and then kicking another suitcase, I asked Shirley to please quit assisting me in getting out of the room. My lumbersome march across the bedroom had awakened Shirley’s mother, who hollered that there was a flashlight on the nightstand. I then made my way toward the nightstand, only to encounter the same vacuum cleaner (which Shirley had again moved to help me out). Eventually the flashlight was found and I managed to escape Shirley's obstacle course of horrors with only a fist sized bruise on my ribcage. I then proceeded on my way outside into the downpour to rescue our car.

It had started raining at just about dark on Friday evening. We had been sitting out on the porch when the storm blew in, and we rushed inside. It had been raining on and off all night, and it seems a torrential downpour blew in every half hour or so.

Luckily, Ricky is a night owl and had checked on the rain before going to bed, and had noticed that his front yard was under water. He ran out and moved his truck as far up in the yard as he could, there’s not much high ground in Coon Branch but the top of the yard is slightly higher than the bottom of the yard.

By the time I made my way out to move our car, Ricky was standing beside the car and was watching the floodwaters rise. They were right up to the rear end of our car by that time, and I pulled it up as far as I could. The water pouring off the bank behind the house made the driveway look like a creekbed. Ricky told me that his newly planted garden was already under water, and that Matheny Bottom road was under about a foot and a half of water. He said it was almost coming in his truck door as he was moving it to higher ground. I shined the flashlight out into the darkness and all I could see was raging floodwaters. We were flooded in.

The storms kept rolling in one right after the other, and while it was soemtimes hard rain, it had rained like that many times before without flooding like it was. Shirley commented that the people up the holler had recently logged off their property so there was nothing to hold back the water, and it was rushing off, bringing with it tree limbs, rocks and soil.

I came back inside and went back to bed, Ricky said he’d keep an eye on the floodwaters and if they got any worse, we’d have to evacuate and move up on the hill where Shirley’s mother had to wait out the Great Coalfields Flood of 2001. I figured there wasn’t anything that I could do about the flooding so I might as well get some sleep while I could. Shirley, of course, tossed and turned and worried about the stormy waters around us all night.

After a few more storms, which included thunder and lightning, dawn was soon breaking. I woke up and looked outside, it looks about the same, still raining though not as hard as it was. Floodwaters were again nearing the back end of our car, but it looked like it’d be okay. There wasn’t any higher ground to move it too anyway.

Morning found us surrounded by water, and with no electricity. Shirley’s mother was completely distraught over not having her morning coffee. I offered to go outside and built a campfire and heat some water for coffee, but she said the juice would be back on directly. I had my camera so I went out and took some photographs of the flooding, and noticed that now that the rain had stopped that the floodwaters were starting to recede. I could see the tops of the tomato stakes in Ricky’s garden. That made the garden under about 5 feet of water!

After a couple of hours, the waters had went down a little and word got to us that the problem was that the water from Coon Branch had got backed up when it tried to empty into Laurel Fork. Laurel Fork was running full and couldn’t handle any more water, so it was making Coon Branch back up all over Matheny. It was almost as if Laurel Fork was acting as a dam that was holding back Coon Branch. People were commenting that the reason Laurel Fork was so flooded was because of the Mountaintop Removal site located about a mile upstream from the mouth of Coon Branch. Stories were told about how the runoff coming from the mountaintop removal site was unbelievable. Even during the flood, people were blaming the mountaintop removal mining and the rampant logging on exacerbating the flooding. Even old timers there were saying that the water had come up faster than any of them could remember, even in times of harder rain. Without pointing fingers, it did seem like something was going on. It did rain pretty hard at times, but nothing that should have caused this amount of flooding.

After the rain completely stopped, it was only a few hours before all the floodwaters were gone and Coon Branch was left covered with a thick muddy muck that covered everything. The clean-up began, and damage was assessed. We also began to see sightseers coming and going, seemingly getting joy out of other folk’s misery of having lost everything they owned. Many of them would point and ogle at various sites that had been flooded out. I never could understand that. A real Appalachian would have asked if there was anything they could do to help, rather than just driving by to snap pictures and wave. There were even some of the younger people driving their jacked up trucks through the receding floodwaters and playing in the thick mud left behind. This was no time for play.

I was left pondering what is becoming of Appalachia? The land raped by rogue industries, the people ignored by politicians until something bad happens, increased flooding caused by poor stewardship of the land, then looky-loo’s who apparently get joy out of seeing others in misery. What is to become of us now that we are under attack economically, politically, socially, culturally and environmentally? There can be no Appalachia without the mountains that define us. There can be no Appalachia if the basic tenets of what makes us Appalachians are ignored and not passed on to the next generation. Are we to become a culture of victims?

While this was just a relatively small flood up a secluded holler in Wyoming County, West Virginia, it really opened up my eyes to the floodgates that are bulging with a change that will surely flood and forever alter the face of Appalachia if something is not done to curb the insanity.

Cora

2009-05-06T18:37:00.008-04:00

For today's post, I am going to tell readers of my mother-in-law, Cora (McKinney) Stewart. The best way to do this is to post the song lyrics of "Song for a Miner's Wife", which was written specifically about Cora by her daughter Shirley. The song can be found on Shirley's upcoming CD, "Been to the Mountaintop".
===================
Song for a Miner’s Wife (Ode to my Mother)
by Shirley Stewart Burns

I came to this valley 40 years ago.
A young miner’s bride to have and to hold.

I was barely 16, and so scared was I
to leave mommy and Daddy and my family behind.

It’s a lonely life
to be a miner’s wife.
Such a lonely life, to have and to hold
Goodnight.

I soon settled into my daily routine.
Neely went to the mine, and I cooked and cleaned.
Three children we had, a girl and two boys

our lives they were filled with comfort and joy.

It’s a lonely life
to be a miner’s wife.
Such a lonely life, to have and to hold
Goodnight.

I prayed for my Neely as he went to the mine.
And I prayed that my boys never would find.
That they had not a choice but to go underground,
With death and destruction looming all around.

It’s a lonely life
to be a miner’s wife.
Such a lonely life, to have and to hold
Goodnight.

I watched as my Neely gasped for his breath.
His lungs were infested, the pain in his chest.
“We’ll grow old together,” he told me once.
But the mining did kill him, dead at 51.

It’s a lonely life
to be a miner’s wife.
Such a lonely life, to have and to hold.
Goodnight.

The years quickly passed and my children are grown.
Mostly out of this valley, out on their own.
I think back in time to my young handsome groom,
All alone with my thoughts in this quiet bedroom.

It’s a lonely life
to be a miner’s wife.
Such a lonely life, to have and to hold

Still Alive After All This Time

2009-05-01T19:28:00.007-04:00

While reading the 30 April 2009 issue of The Pendleton Times, my home county newspaper, I came across a news item from the Sugar Grove news titled "German Folk Culture Still Lives Today". This got me to thinking about this topic, and using some information from the aforementioned The Pendleton Times article, I came up with today's post.

When immigrants came to America, their cultural contact was usually broken with the mother country. In the case of many of my ancestors, that mother country was Germany. Within a few generations, the knowledge of the German language and the ability to read and write it waned, and soon a folk culture developed, which encompassed the world of the proverb, superstition and folk medicine. In many parts of the country, “progress” so slow in coming, so this folk culture flourished and became part of everyday life.

While many ways remained that came over from the mother country, most of them were meshed with the new folk culture to form an amalgamation of cultures that, in some areas, remain to this day. While it is beginning to be lost, my home of Germany Valley in Pendleton County is one of these last remaining pockets to cling to the old ways that have been practiced since the early 1700’s.

There are old bits of German poetry that was passed on by word of mouth from generation to generation, sometimes forgotten, sometimes altered. Counting out rhymes were and to an extent, still are popular with young children. As you can see, they are a mesh of the old German language and the newer folk culture. While most (I’d say all, but when a person says all, they can usually be proven a liar) who teach these rhymes have no idea what the German words mean, they have never-the-less remained for around 300 years.

Eins, zwey, drey.
Mommy caught a fly!
The fly died,
Mommy cried;
Eins, zwey, drey!
==========
Hex foot, hex foot;
Toad foot, toad foot!
Long snout, long snout!
Nothing out, nothing out!
==========
Dibble, dobble, thimble head!
Set the farmer on his head;
Who must out, I or thou—
Or miller’s old brown cow
And that are Thou.

Folklore was commonly passed onto the next generations by an elderly member of the family, as in the following:

Hoppi, hoppi, hoppi,
Pony goes galoppi,
Over stock, over stone
Never crack the left shin bone;
Always at a galoppi,
Hoppi, hoppi, hoppi.

Local hexmeisters and powwow doctors provided most of the medical attention in the Pennsylvania Dutch settlements. Hexmeisters cured by using chants and incantations; and by using the power of hex symbols. Many of these hex signs can still be seen today, painted on barns and houses. Many people still believe in the power of the hex signs. (Also, you may not know this, the reason most barns are painted red with white trim, is a direct result of the hexmeister. Red is a power color, and the white trim around doors, windows and openings protected against witches. Also, if you see a barn or outbuilding with white trimmed windows, those are known as “Witch Windows” in Pennsylvania Dutch communities).

An old barn with hex signs on it. The big white circles have a symbol painted on them in case this photo doesn't show it. This symbol is called a rosette, and a sign for basic good fortune and prosperity. This barn is located near Circleville, Pendleton County, WV.

Powwow doctors used a combination of herbal cures and faith healing. Don’t confuse the Pennsylvania Dutch Powwow Doctor with the Native American dance. They are not the same at all. Most powwow doctors used a combination of folk medicine and the Holy Bible. If you believe, there is a multitude of cures for just about any disease or ailment in the first and second books of Moses. The first book of Moses (Genesis) and the second book of Moses (Exodus) can be found in every Holy Bible. That is no secret; the secret is in knowing how to use them. Most powwow and hexmeister secrets were passed on by word of mouth and were kept secret from the masses, lest their powers be used for evil.

Here is a common powwow cure to ease the pain in a child who has hurt himself:

Owley, Owley, keeley hay!
Tomorrow morn it’s all away.

To cure more serious pain, a powwow might use a healing stone on you and repeat three times, starting and stopping each time with the trinity:

Hair and hide,
Flesh and blood,
Nerve and bone,
No more pain than this stone.

Powwowing also assisted in matters that were of importance to the community. Topics of the weather, livestock, gardening and an array of other topics were all in the repertoire of the powwow doctor. Here is another example of something a powwow doctor could assist with:

To keep a bee from stinging you, repeat in an even tone:

Hummler, brummler,
Do not sting
Until devils
Benediction bring.

The following cure was used to stop bleeding:

Auf Christi grab wachsen Drei Rosen,
Die erste is gutig,
Die ander ist nach herrschen viel,
Blut steh still, und wunde heil.

Three roses grow on Christ’s grave;
The first is gracious,
The second would rule.
Blood stand still,
Wound heal!

And here is how to get rid a hex or witching that has been placed upon you or your property:

Take an unwashed jar; take thread spun by a maiden not yet seven years of age; put water (urine) from an animal in the jar. Then take an egg from a black hen, wrap the thread around the egg three times, and speak “In the name of the Father, and of the Son and of the Holy Spirit” while doing it. Then put the egg in the water, close the jar, turn it upside down so no moisture escapes and set it near the fire, saying: “Get rid of the witch in the name of the Father, and of the Son and of the Holy Spirit.”

Chivaree!!!!

2009-04-27T12:50:00.005-04:00

Since it is the spring of the year and this seems to be a very popular time of year for weddings and such, I thought I’d tell you all about a custom we have in the mountains known as chivaree.

A chivaree was a noisy celebration of friends and family that took place on the wedding night of a loved one. The celebration was usually headed up the by brothers of the bride, or another close male relative. It was kept secret from the happy couple, but it was done to nearly every couple so I don’t know how much of a secret it was. I’m sure many happy couples hoped against hope that everyone had forgotten about honoring them with a chivaree.

After the wedding reception and after the newlyweds retire for the night, all of their kinfolk and friends would get together and surprise the couple with a noisy and raucous welcome into married life. The best time to start a chivaree was after the newlyweds turned out the lights, usually around midnight or a little later and kind of got settled. Then, all of a sudden the boisterous crowd gathered outside the house where the newlyweds were spending their wedding night. On cue, the crowd started hollering at the top of their lungs, banging on pots and pans, setting off firecrackers, beating on windows and doors, and hollering out the names of the newlyweds and yelling “chivaree”. This usually scared both of the newlyweds half to death, especially if one or the other had never heard of chivaree before. It really depended on the crowd, but sometimes they’d force the door open and gather up the bridegroom and rough him up a little.

I remember when my cousin Sal got married to her husband Kingfisher, they were given a pretty lively chivaree. The thing of it was, Kingfisher wasn’t from the mountain and he had never heard of such a thing as a chivaree, and Sal had neglected to tell him anything about it (she probably didn’t want to scare him off). After they had settled into their honeymoon house on their wedding night, and when their minds were occupied with other thoughts, the chivaree commenced.

A crowd of about 50 people surrounded the honeymoon house and were hollering out the names of Sal and Kingfisher. It liked to scare Kingfisher to death, he thought a horde of hillbillies were out to get him, and I'm sure it did look that way. Sal tried to reassure him that they’d stick around for awhile and it was just their way to honoring the marriage, but Kingfisher panicked and couldn’t understand why this crowd was gathered all around their house, hollering and screaming, banging on the windows and doors…and some of them were even carrying lit torches!

Then Sal’s brothers, who were really proud because of their sister’s wedding, decided they would really welcome Kingfisher to the mountain, so they decided to give Sal a chivaree like they had in the old days. First, they sent someone to fetch a rail from a nearby rail fence, and they then greased it up with lard. Then they got a bunch of men together and forced open the door to the house, and dragged Kingfisher out of the house kicking and screaming, and he was wearing nothing but his underwear! They told him to hold on, and they hoisted him up on the greased rail and paraded him all around the community, fully thinking that they were honoring their sister’s choice of husband by doing this. Of course, Kingfisher kept falling off the rail but the brothers would just hoist him back up on it and continue along the way. I’m sure Kingfisher had no idea what was to become of him.

Jubilant cheers of chivaree echoed all over the mountain that night. After the rounds were made, they brought Kingfisher back to Sal and expected to get asked in for some drinks and such, as was the custom. By this time, Kingfisher was fit to be tied, and was really angry at everyone, and started hollering at everyone to leave them alone and to leave. Well, that just offended Sal’s brothers, who really had thought that they had honored Kingfisher by riding him around the community on a greased rail, so they figured they cool him off a little. They grabbed Kingfisher again, and this time tied his arms and legs, and grabbing the greased rail again they tied him to it, they carried him to the water trough that was used for the stock. They dipped Kingfisher into the trough a few times, and each time they’d pull him up out of the water, they’d holler, “Chivaree…Chivaree”. Well, Kingfisher caught on pretty quick and told the boys, “Let’s go back to the house and have a drink.” They did, at which time Sal hastily explained to Kingfisher what a chivaree meant, and this time he listened intently, so as not to again offend the family he had just married into. He didn’t make that mistake again, and resigned himself to celebrating the marriage with his newly acquired family. An hour or so later, everyone left the honeymoon house flaming torches and lanterns in hand, some of them still beating on their pots and pans, and hollering out the names of the newlyweds and “chivaree’. The commotion soon faded into the distance and all was again quiet at the honeymoon house. Kingfisher had been welcomed into the family, and amazingly enough, he’s still a part of it!

These days, the festivities of a chivaree are nearly forgotten on the mountain, but everyone remembers the one that took place after Sal and Kingfisher’s wedding. After that whenever one of Sal’s sisters were married, immediately following their wedding reception they drove into Franklin to stay at the hotel there. I guess they didn’t want to take a chance on their brother’s honoring them with a chivaree.

Do any readers out there remember the chivaree? If so, what kind of things happened during the festivities? Anyone know where this custom came from?

My Heart's in the Highlands

2009-04-25T22:55:00.004-04:00

My Heart's in the Highlands

by Robert Burns

My heart's in the Highlands, my heart is not here,
My heart's in the Highlands a-chasing the deer
A-chasing the wild deer, and following the roe;
My heart's in the Highlands, wherever I go.

Farewell to the Highlands, farewell to the North

The birth place of Valour, the country of Worth;

Wherever I wander, wherever I rove,

The hills of the Highlands for ever I love.

Farewell to the mountains high cover'd with snow;

Farewell to the straths and green valleys below;

Farewell to the forrests and wild-hanging woods;

Farewell to the torrents and loud-pouring floods.

My heart's in the Highlands, my heart is not here,

My heart's in the Highlands a-chasing the deer

Chasing the wild deer, and following the roe;

My heart's in the Highlands, whereever I go.

Guardian Angels

2009-04-22T13:58:00.010-04:00

Today I'd thought I'd post the lyrics to one of my favorite songs, "Guardian Angels", and include some of my old family photo's to go along with the lyrics.

Guardian Angels
Written by Naomi Judd, John Jarvis & Donald Schlitz Jr.

A hundred year old photograph
Stares out from a frame
And if you look real close you'll see
Our eyes are just the same,

My great-great grandparents Charley & Jennie (Cunningham) Burns & their son, my gr-granddaddy Don.

I never met them face to face
But I still know them well,
From the stories my dear grandma tells.

My great-grandparents, Don & Mary (Kile) Burns.

Elijah was a farmer.
He knew how to make things grow.
And Fannie vowed she'd follow him
Wherever he would go.

My gr-gr-gr-grandparents, George & Phoebe Jane (Bennett) Cunningham

As things turned out they never left
Their small Kentucky farm.
But he kept her fed,
And she kept him warm.

My gr-gr-grandparents, Fon & Rosie (Nelson) Lawrence.

They're my guardian angels,
And I know they can see
Every step I take
They are watching over me
I might not know where I'm goin'
But I'm sure where I come from.
They're my guardian angels
And I'm their special one.

My grandparents, Richard H. & Virginia (Thompson) Burns.

Sometimes when I'm tired
I feel Elijah take my arm
He says, "keep a-goin, hard work
never did a body harm."
And when I'm really troubled
And I dont know what to do
Fannie whispers, "Just do your best,
were awful proud of you".

My gr-gr-gr-grandparents, Anderson & Dianna (Lantz) Lawrence.

They're my guardian angels
And I know they can see
Every step I take
They are watching over me
I might not know where I'm goin'
But I'm sure of where I come from
They're my guardian angels
And I'm their special one.

My gr-gr-gr-grandmother, Phoebe Jane Cunningham.

A hundred year old photograph
Stares out from a frame
And if you look real close you'll see
Our eyes are just the same.

My gr-gr-gr-gr-grandparents, Joseph & Catherine (Andrews) Lantz.

Gypsies

2009-04-17T11:38:00.009-04:00

I remember while growing up I always heard stories about the gypsies visiting the mountains of home. In fact, during times when I was especially annoying, people would threaten me that they were going to sell me to the gypsies. Lucky for me, by the time I came to be the days of the gypsies coming through were long past. People still talked about them though. It is their stories that I will relate to you.

The gypsies travelled in a wagon train, and it was said you could hear them coming from miles away. I remember hearing people talk about how the squeaky wheels of the wagons would echo up every holler along the way, and this was how people would know that the gypsies were back. It was said that the gypsies never greased their wagon wheels. I’m sure this was a sort of calling card of the gypsies.

The gypsies were led by a gypsy king. It was said that the gypsy king was from down around Romney but nobody ever knew for sure. The gypsy king ruled the camp and his word was law. He kept everyone in order. When there was a problem in the community, he would deal with it. He was respected both in the gypsy camp and in the greater community. While gypsies had the reputation of being thieves, nobody could ever point out any instance to verify this. Now they would haggle when trading and try to get the best possible deal, but that can’t really be considered stealing.

They said that the gypsies would come about every other year and would set up camp along the river in an empty field. The gypsies were never invited to your house, but it seemed that everyone went to visit the gypsy camps. The gypsy camps were favorite area’s to trade for horses, and pretty much anything else you could think of. My granny always bragged on a pot that she bought off of the "wandering gypsies", as she referred to them. The gypsies especially liked to trade for medicinal herbs and roots and such when they were in our neck of the woods. I reckon they got those things in the mountains, made medicine out of them and traded it back down in the more populated areas. They always seemed to have money.

Local people really looked forward to the return of the gypsies, and many local farmers would vie for the title of having the gypsies to camp on their land for the summer. The gypsies brought news from all over, and had items to trade that were hard to come by in the mountains. If the gypsies camped on your property, you’d get better deals and the first pick of the trading. I was told that one time the gypsies camped on Burns property. While our place was up on the mountain, there is a creek there to supply plenty of water, and the gypsies set up camp in the flat part of the property. My granddaddy Burns supposedly got a team of good horses to allow them to camp there, and people came from all around to trade that summer. The local store merchant loved it too because his business was boosted to an all time high. It was said that while they were camped there, an old gypsy man had died and was buried on the hillside near where my great-grandparents later built their house, but nobody knew the exact spot. I remember years later while digging a water line, my dad came across some bones that were buried about 4 feet deep, and he figured it was the remains of the old gypsy man. Dad covered the bones back up and dug the water line around the spot.

The last time people remember the gypsies coming through was in the early 1940’s. People remembered that on this last trip, the gypsy camp was really small and times were very hard for them. The gypsies couldn’t offer as many good deals as they had in the past, and they were going hungry quite a bit. Their clothes were old and worn out, and gone were the flashy jewels that they wore. The gypsy king was very old and was sick, and many of their wagons were in bad repair and it was pretty evident that this would be the last time the gypsies would come through. Everyone reckoned it was the automobile and the better roads that allowed people to travel further away from the mountains to shop had rendered the time of the gypsies obsolete.

It was said that of all the places the gypsies went, the gypsy king liked the mountains of Pendleton County the best and he said that it was here that people treated his people with kindness and fairness. In fact, on that last trip of the gypsies, the gypsy king married off his daughter to a local man. She was not an attractive girl, but she was very skilled in making medicines and reading fortunes, and she was his pride and joy. When I was a little boy, I remember the gypsy kings daughter, who by this time was an old woman. The most memorable thing about her was the silky, shiny scarf she wore around her head, and the clothes that she wore were not the same type of clothes that everyone else wore. Her clothes were really bright colors and were made out of shiny cloth of some sort, and she wore a big green bauble around her neck. People referred to her as “Old Hog Face”, well, because she really did have a face like a hog. Her given name was Belle but I don’t recall anyone ever calling her by that name.

I remember one time when my brother was a boy, he got poison ivy really bad, and people were afraid it was going to swell his eyes shut he had it so bad. Mom said that if his eye’s started swelling up, she was going to have to take him to the doctor. Word got around about my brothers condition and Old Hog Face sent word to my Mom to put white shoe polish on the poison ivy, and Mom did, figuring that Old Hog Face used to be a gypsy and she might know what she was talking about. The next day, my brothers poison ivy was nearly all dried up, that shoe polish sure did the trick. I do remember people would come from miles around to ask for medical advice from Old Hog Face, and while she was kind of an outcast, people did seem to respect her, although there were some people who called her a witch.

It was said that when the old gypsy king died, the remaining gypsies brought his body to Old Hog Face. He is reportedly buried somewhere along the river near Cherry Grove. After his death, the gypsy camp broke up and scattered to the winds, and nobody ever heard from any of them again.

I’ve often thought about the gypsies that came through the mountains, camping for a season and then moving on. Where did these gypsies come from? Where all did they travel? Do any of you all have any stories about the gypsies?

Old Seneca stands as a Sentinel.

2009-04-16T10:06:00.005-04:00

Seneca Rocks

by Grace Yoke White from "Unhoarded Gold"

Old Seneca stands like a great gray hall,

With steeples and turrets and gables of granite;

It stands majestic, gigantic and tall

In the snows of winter and the breezes of spring.

Seneca Rocks was the home of the giants old

Who carved the peaks of Old Spruce Knob;

They lived and wrought on their fortress bold;

Now their spirit keeps watch at the twilight hour.

I heard the Spirit in the rustle of leaves

As the sunset gilded the tallest turret;

The Spirit whispered through the summer breeze,

"I still stand guard for my mountain people."

What a heritage to dwell where Old Seneca stands

And towers aloft to the rock-ribbed heights;

It stands to guard from all alien hands

The verdant hills and the peaceful vales.

Adventures in the Mountains

2009-04-08T09:46:00.008-04:00

This past Monday, my new travelling buddy Larry and I braved the elements to go rampin' in the mountains. The mountain where we went is called the Birthplace of Rivers, because it contains the headwaters of the Potomac, Cheat, James, Tygart & the Monongahela Rivers. What this sign doesn't tell you, if you walk due east about 1,000 yards, take a left and go another 1,000 yards, then take another left and walk 1,000 yards, and finally take yet another left and go another 1,000 yards, you will come upon the headwaters of even more rivers...the Tigris, the Euphrates, the Yellow, and the North Fork of the Possum Branch of the Nile. This mountain truly is the Birthplace of Rivers.

The temperatures hovered around freezing and we were bombarded with a mixture of rain, and snow, and sleet, and refrigerators...all amid warnings of giant bears that rip out tree stumps just for fun. We were even shown one of these stumps at one point, a stump that would have taken ten men to reach around. We were concerned but nothing could dissaude us from our goal of digging ramps.

On our way to my secret rampin' spot in the mountains, we found none other than my mother sitting alongside the road in a warm vehicle. I wasn't having none of that, especially for MY mother, so we dragged her along with us kicking and screaming. After all, we needed someone to carry the ramp bag (and when I say "ramp bag" I am referring to the sack that carried the ramps and not my mother).

Lucky for me, Maw doesn't read this blog!!!!

After finding the ramps were not up very much on the highest point in West Virginia, Larry and I dug just enough for a good mess for each of us, but let it be known far and wide that our shortened trip had nothing to do with us being "skeert" of the gigantic, megafaunal bears that rip out tree stumps just for fun. And finding that big pile of steaming bear crap in the ramp patch had nothing to do with our hasty retreat to the warm and steel reinforced car. We just figured we had plenty of ramps! And we were a might cold.

Luckily, Granny Sue who doubles as Larry's wife in the evening hours, packed us two warm quilts soaked in kerosene to wrap up in. She was so nice to do this so we wouldn't get too very cold. I think she might have had an ulterior motive, she wanted us to take photo's for her and she couldn't have either of us losing a finger to frostbite because then we wouldn't be able to shutter the camera.

After we got thoroughly warm from Granny Sue's carcinogenic quilts, we proceeded off the mountain with ramps in tow and away from the gigantic, stump-eating bears. We then hit upon the idea of doing a little fishing up on the mountain. We checked the signs and determined that it was the right time of year for the Salmon to be spawning, and sure enough, we caught a peck or three of fresh mountain salmon and even two wayward halibut. Sorry, but we didn't take and photographs since we didn't have a government stamp on our fishing licenses, and we didn't want any photographic evidence of our crime. But here is the stream in case any of you all want try your luck with the West Virginia salmon run.

We were now loaded down with ramps, salmon and the two wayward halibut, and we were making good progress off the mountain, and we knew we had to do something to preserve the fish or else they'd go bad on us, and there ain't nothing worse than a passel of gun toting fish that rob banks and cause mayhem. We'd always heard that one bad fish will ruin the barrel, so this was of special concern for both Larry and me because we had two wayward halibut in the mess. I had heard tales of a Fort nearby so we decided to go there and get some salt to preserve our fish. On the way to the fort, we passed another warm and welcoming vehicle that now offered a cold and hostile interior so I dropped my mother off at it so she could drive up another mountain to home. Larry and I proceeded on to the fort. We drove down the valley and tried to follow the rising smoke of the settlement, but finding none we figured that the Fort had probably passed some no smoking legislation so we just followed the road signs. After we arrived at the fort, we noticed that they were apparently still closed for the winter so we couldn't get the supplies to preserve our salmon. Just our luck! I know we were at the right place, too, because the fort still had their shingle sitting out by the road.

We were then left with a carload of rapidly decomposing fish, so we decided to go ask my Granny if she had any idea's on what to do with the salmon or at least the two wayward halibut. We drove up to Granny's house, and I remembered that it had been awhile since I last visited Granny. In fact, I couldn't remember the last time I had stopped by. The house looked abandoned and it appeared that the big bad wolf had succeeded in blowing the house down.

I knew that Granny would be safe and I wasn't a bit worried about her, she liked nothing better than warm wolf stew, and I knew she knew her way around a wolf, but we were in a hurry so we didn't scout around to find Granny to get the advice on preserving the fish. Anyhow, I figured she was probably up on the mountain hunting fur seals in the salt-petre caves. Nothings warmer than a fur seal cape. After all, it was that time of year.

After leaving Granny's cabin, we drove back into Riverton, and was surprised to find a monument commemorating the Battle of Riverton, from back in the days when the North invaded America.

We stopped and took some pictures and I was reminded of a legend about buried treasure that was supposed to be located nearby. I also recalled a method of "dowsing" out water and other treasures by weaving together fish bones and making a divining rod of sorts. I mentioned this to Larry and we were soon neck deep in fish guts and bones, and were swatting away the seagulls, pelicans and California condors. After a few hours of this work, we had completed our homemade, fishbone divining rod, and set out to finding the buried treasure of Riverton. Well no sooner did I start "treasure witching" that divining rod took to spinning around in my hands like a whirlygig and danged if it didn't twist out of my grip and it commenced to drilling down through solid sandstone.

After a few minutes of drilling and grinding, all of a sudden the noice stopped. Larry and I were puzzled about this and wondered what could have happened. Then it come to Larry that the fish bone divining rod probably hit upon a piece of gut that we missed while cleaning off the bones. He said that little piece of fish gut had probably acted like a spot of grease and most likely it had made the drilling fishbone divining rod change course. Larry said that it was his experience that while cleaning fish guts off of salmon bones is extremely hard to get them impeccably clean if the salmon haven't been taking their shark cartilidge supplements. He said he should have thought of that before, but in our haste to make waste, he had forgotten about how hard cleaning nutrient deficient salmon bones can be.

Oh well, at least we were now rid of the peck of decomposing wild, wonderful West Virginia mountain salmon, but we still had the two halibut and the bag of ramps. We decided that it would probably be best if we just called it a day and headed back westward into the sunset. We did this and had crossed the Eastern Continental Divide out of West Virginia into Randolph County and lo and behold if we didn't come upon two mountain lions sitting alongside the road. Evidently the recession had hit the mountain lions the same as it has the rest of America because those two big cats were just sitting there, each holding a large placard that read, "Brother, could you spare a dime?". Well, Larry always did have a soft spot in his heart for catamount's and barricuda's, so he jerked the car off the road and gave each of the two mountain lions a twenty dollar gold piece, a Daniel Webster cigar and the two halibut. They were very grateful for his generousity, and lamented to him that they were in dire straights since the National Forest had laid off 80% of the deer population, and how they had been surviving solely on porcupine and beenie weenies ever since December. They said Santy Claws had even forgot to stop by at Christmastime, because they reasoned, he probably got wind that they were planning on ambushing the reindeer. The two mountain lions, who we came to know as Nelly and Mart thanked us even more when Larry told them about the stimulus funds that was pouring into the area, and how the mountain loins were supposed to get 40-acres and a sheep out of the deal.

I would like to say that after leaving those now jubliant mountain lions on the mountain, that we had a relatively uneventful trip back to the Kanawha Valley, but in fact, it wasn't. We got attacked by a giant chicken in Elkins, and we had to eat that sucker in order to get past him. The only thing was, that giant chicken wouldn't give up the ghost until I dressed up in a white suit and put on a fake beard and offered him a package of 11 herbs and spices. No sooner than I did that, he up and ran clucking into the deep fryer, and we soon filled our gullets. I reckon it is true that the Colonel has his way with chickens.

I would continue recounting the events of Matthew and Larry's great adventure but I have a feeling you all wouldn't believe some of the more outrageous things that happened to us that day. That is why I only told the things that were the most believable to you today, I wouldn't want you all to think I was stretching the truth. I reckon I'll have to write a fiction story about the other things sometime.

Spring Came Last Night

2009-04-02T13:50:00.004-04:00

A native of Lewis County, West Virginia, author Grace Yoke White wrote the book, "Unhoarded Gold: A Book of Poems" in 1953 . I am proud to include one of these poems, titled "Spring Came Last Night" in this post.

Spring Came Last Night

The sky is clear,

Spring birds are near;

I hear their calls

On low stone walls.

The winter left with lagging feet;

With summer warmth our pulses beat;

The snow is gone, the sun is bright,

The flowers are here-spring came last night.

The sky is blue;

All hearts are true.

Sorrow slipt away;

Joy's here today.

In Search of Rose Conelly

2009-03-31T12:54:00.007-04:00

The ballad Rose Conolly follows the “murdered sweetheart” pattern of ballads. Folk songs of this type are commonly found in England, Ireland and the Appalachian region of America. Some similar songs are “Little Omie Wise”, “The Wexford Girl”, “The Cruel Ship’s Carpenter” and “The Old Oak Tree”.

Most folks credit Ireland as the place of origin for Rose Conolly, and the Bunting Collection says it was collected in Coleraine in 1811. But in fact, the lyrics and tune are entirely different between the Bunting version and all later versions. In 1979, folklorist D.K. Wilgus searched for Rose Conolly in the archives of the folklore department of University College in Dublin, widely credited as being the repository for the most complete collection of Irish folklore. In my opinion, Wilgus research is the best available for tracking down the origins of Rose Conolly. He could find no exact match, but he did however, locate the following folksong that was collected in Galway in 1929, it is obviously akin to the Appalachian version of Rose Conolly.

Rosey O’Connell

It was on a Saturday morning
My true love and I did meet
Yonder a soddely garden
Our sorrows we did relate.

A bottle of poison I brought her
Of which she did not know
Which made me murder my darling
All under the banks below.

Rosey O’Connell she loved me
As dear as she loved her life
It was my whole intention
To make her my loving wife.

When it was the devil’s temptation
That soon entangled me
Which made my murder my darling
All under the ivy tree.

My mother she reared me tenderly
For seven long years and more
But seldom she ever thought of
That the gallows would be my store

My father often told me
That money would set me free
But now I am found in this country
And its hung I’ll surely be

I live in a castle of comfort
A little beyond the fair
Grief it is my comfort
And sorrow is my care.

My bolsted feathers are dingling
The whole length of day
I have but the cold floor to walk on
To pass the time away.

My father stood at the hall-door
With a watery eye
Looking at his only dear son
Hanging on the gallows so high

I leave it written on my tombstone
To read as they pass it by
That my name is James Mullrooney
That murdered Rosey O’Connell.

Since this version of the song was collected in 1929, it isn’t exactly safe to say that it is the precursor to the Appalachian version of Rose Conolly, especially since there are documented versions of the song here in America that are dated before 1929. Added to this is the flow of folks songs at the time from America to Ireland, as was the case of “The Boston Burglar”, “The Last Fierce Charge” and “Twenty One Years”. This reverse osmosis of folksongs from American to Ireland is largely attributed one of two things, either to Irish immigrants returning home from America after finding that the streets here weren’t paved with gold; or with former soldiers of the Civil War who went to Ireland to lead the Fenian Rebellion. So we are left with the question, did the ballad come from Ireland to America, or did the ballad originate in America and make its way back to Ireland?

In fact, the earliest documented report of Rose Conolly in the United States was found in the oil fields of Wetzel County, West Virginia, in 1895. American folklorists subsequently found the same song with little variation in Virginia, North Carolina, Kentucky and even as far west as Wisconsin. The Wisconsin link is attributed to lumber men who left Kentucky to work the timber camps in the Great Lakes region.

Interestingly, if you read the original lyrics to Rose Conolly that were gathered in Wetzel County, WV, you can get another clue as to where the song began. There is the line:

“I had a bottle of burgaloo wine,
My love she could not know,
That I would murder my darlin’
Down on the banks below”.

Later versions of the song called it “burgundy wine”, or “burglar’s wine” but the earliest mention is “burgaloo wine”. What is burgaloo wine? It is a type of pear wine that was commonly made in central Virginia in the late 1700’s into the early 1800’s. If you follow migration patterns of people of that day, many families came from central Virginia, into the Shenandoah Valley of Virginia and then into north-central West Virginia. This was typically within one or two generations. There were earlier migrations as well, for example, the Whetzel family for which Wetzel County, WV was named, was in the area by the middle of the 18th century, and they hailed from the Lost River Valley in what is now Hardy County ,WV (Lost River valley is adjacent to the Shenandoah Valley of Virginia). So this would place some aspect of the origins of the song in central Virginia between 1760-1830, but probably leaning toward the earlier portion of that timeframe. As time went on, many people could no longer relate to “burgaloo wine” so they renamed it something they could relate to, and today most versions use the term “burgundy wine”.

The ballad “Rose Conolly” was first recorded in Virginia is October 1928, it was recorded again in North Carolina in August 1937, but perhaps the most famous recording of the song was by Charlie Monroe in March of 1947, and he changed the title to “Down in the Willow Garden”.

My wife Shirley recorded “Rose Conelly” in July 2008, and I’ll include a Youtube video of her version of the song. Shirley said her Daddy taught her this song, and he got the song from his Granddaddy who said he had heard the song for years and years, so that would put the song in southern West Virginia during the late 1800’s.

Click here to hear Shirley sing “Rose Conelly”.

I will also post the “new” lyrics to the version of “Rose Conelly” that Shirley recorded, and you can compare them to the version collected in Galway, Ireland in 1929. Certainly, the two songs are akin, but who knows which is the parent and which is the child. Here are the lyrics Shirley uses:

“Rose Conelly”, traditional, with variations by Shirley Stewart Burns.

Down in the Willow Garden
My love and I did meet
And there we went a-courtin’
My love fell fast asleep

I had a bottle of burgaloo wine
My love she could not know
That I would murder my darlin’
Down on the banks below

I drew a saber through her
It was a dreadful knife
I threw her in the river
Which was a bloody sight

My father had often told me
That money would set me free
If I would murder that dear little girl
who carried my baby

Now he sits at his cabin door
Wiping his tear-brimmed eyes
For his only son is hangin’
Upon the scaffold high

My race is run beneath the sun
Hells gates lay open for me
For I did murder that dear little girl
Whose name is Rose Conelly.

Copyright, Shirley Stewart Burns 2008.

Click here to hear Shirley sing "Rose Conelly"
------

So perhaps Rose Conolly does hail from Ireland, but just as likely she hails from somewhere in Appalachia. As do the people here, our music comes from just as many points of origin. One thing is for sure, she is uniquely Appalachian now.

Doc & Killdare

2009-03-26T14:00:00.005-04:00

Growing up I spent a lot of time in the old hardware store in Riverton. It was one of those old community gathering places that you hear so much about these days. I remember there were benches on the porch for people to sit in and there were a few chairs inside near the cash counter. There always seemed to be a bunch of old men gathered around there telling lies about their lives and trying to pass it all of as the gospel truth.

On a typical summer day, old man Doc would be sitting out on the bench on the porch, he was some kin to us and my Granddad always talked to him and asked if he needed a ride home. You see, Doc didn’t have a car and he either walked or hitched a ride from his house to the hardware store every day. Doc would always take him up on the offer for a ride home, which to me at the time was pure torture. Old man Doc was notorious for not being able to control his bowels and as often as not, we’d end up having to clean off the truck seat after dropping Doc off at his house. But of course, it couldn’t be cleaned immediately, no siree-bob, we had to wait until we were up the road a ways so Doc wouldn’t know that we were having to clean up after him. Doc was always a pleasant enough old man to talk to, it was just having to clean up after him that was the bad part. I never knew my Granddad to ever not offer a ride to Doc if he needed one though.

Another familiar face at the hardware store was old Slack Hand. You can read about Slack Hand by clicking here. Old Slack Hand would always be sitting in an old split-bottom chair with what looked like the bottom nearly hanging down to the floor. I imagine it was his immense girth that led the chair to have the sagging bottom in it, and it was an on-going joke among many people that if the straining buttons on his shirt ever broke loose, they would likely injure somebody really bad. I remember it always seemed that his chair would be in the way of getting to the pop cooler. You could neither get to it from the front of him, nor by going all the way around the store to reach it from behind him, somehow he always managed to position himself just so he’d completely block access to the pop cooler. I know now that this was because if you asked him to move for a second so you could get into the pop, he’d inquire “So, are you gonna buy me a pop?” As often as not, someone would say, “Give him a sody so he’ll shut up.” and so Slack Hand would wrangle a free pop out of the deal.

Another common face at the store was a man called Killdare. He was the pseudo-hunter of the group and was always telling about his exploits of hunting in the mountains. I remember several of his far-fetched tales, and I’ll share with you the two most memorable stories of his. The first was about the time he was hunting out on the Huckleberry Plains. It was mid-summer and it was a warm day when he left with his plott hound, Sam. Killdare and Sam were in search of grouse which would be feeding on the ripening huckleberries. Well ole Killdare said him and Sam were several miles out on the plains when a big black cloud came approaching from the west, and he figured it was a thunderstorm and decided to seek cover. When the storm finally reached them, it brought with it a snowstorm.

Killdare said that in a matter of minutes, the ground was covered with snow, and it was still snowing so hard that he couldn’t tell which way was up and which way was down. He said it snowed for several more hours during which time he made a lean-to between two boulders and set up camp. He said it soon grew dark, and seeing that there was already over a foot of snow on the ground, he settled in for the night and bedded down.

In the middle of the night he said he was awakened by some sort of bellowing, the likes of which he had never heard in these mountains. The sound kept coming closer and he was increasingly puzzled as to what it was. After a few more minutes, he said that a great shaggy head poked around the corner of his lean-to and he was face to face with a giant moose. Well, Killdare, being always at the ready for such a chance encounter with big game, up and shot the moose and killed it dead right then and there. He said he got up out of bed and dressed out the moose, and cut him off a big hunk of the meat and roasted it over the fire. He went on the say that was the best tasting meat he’d ever had. Well, his telling of the story at this point would always lead somebody to ask, “How did a moose get all the way onto the huckleberry plains of West Virginia?” to which Killdare would respond that he reckoned the moose got lost in the snowstorm and he figured it was thinking it was headed towards the Rocky Mountains instead of the huckleberry plains. Of course, nobody believed his story and they would try to trip him up in it by inquiring how come nobody had ever seen the moose head that he had killed, (Killdare was notorious for collecting mounted animal heads), and he’d answer them, “Well the next morning, it stopped snowing and it got hot, real hot, and all of the melted like that (he’d snap his fingers) and it caused a big flood right up on the huckleberry plains. He said the floodwaters washed away the entire carcass over the moose except for the hunk of meat he had roasted over his fire, and it was all he could do to save himself and ole Sam. Then someone would ask him how come nobody living down the valley from the huckleberry plains had reported any flooding, and Killdare would say the flood waters all ran towards the low end of the huckleberry plains and it all dropped down into a big cave, and from there he doesn’t know where the water ended up. He said he reckoned the unexpected summer snowstorms and the ensuing floodwaters were the reason why there wasn’t any trees that grew out on the huckleberry plains.

The other hunting tale told by Killdare involved his hunting wild turkeys in Germany Valley. He said he was walking up Dolly Ridge and came upon a big downed tree and it was plum covered with turkeys. He said he had never seen a sight like that in all of his days, and he decided to count them all to see how many there were. He said he counted exactly 100 turkeys, and as he was finished counting them he noticed that they were all lined up in a perfectly straight line from where he stood, so the idea came to him that perhaps he could shoot more than a couple of them with only one shot. He said he drawed up and took careful aim and fired, he said there was a great rustling noise and he seen turkeys flopping everywhere but he only noticed one turkey gobbler flying away. He assessed the situation (that was a favorite saying of his “assessed the situation”) and he seen that his one shot had killed 99 of the 100 turkeys. Of course, nobody believe his great hunting prowess and someone would always ask him, “Why didn’t you just say that you killed all one hundred of them turkeys with just one shot, why did you have to say that one got away?” to which Killdare would incredulously report, “I’ll be damned if I’ll tell a lie over just one turkey!”

There were many other colorful people who came into the store and who I got to know during our frequent trips there, people like Mabel Mack and Wild Indian Turnip, and Waltaddie and his daughter Hoghead, but those are stories best saved for another day.

The Ballad of Fisherman's Holler

2009-03-25T14:05:00.004-04:00

For today's post, I thought I'd share with you a song from my wife Shirley's upcoming a capella CD titled "Been to the Mountaintop". The song is titled, "The Ballad of Fisherman's Holler", and Shirley said when she wrote it, the song was given to her while she was sleeping. It woke her up and needed to be written. She had everything but the ending of the ballad when she started, and she tried to change the outcome of the song, but as she puts it, "the song had other plans".

Shirley and I both wonder if this is a true story that we just haven't heard about. The names and events are pretty specific. Anyone know?

Here are the lyrics to the ballad, you will have to click here to go to Youtube to hear Shirley sing it.

The Ballad of Fisherman’s Hollow

Verse I
I had but one love, Charming Luther.
I loved him like no other man.
He held me close and swore he loved me
and we’d be married come the Spring.

He became my one obsession.
His honeyed words they doused my ears.
His warm embrace, his sweet caresses
could not ebb my lingering fears.

I followed him one night after he left me.
I followed him to the riverbed
for I had seen him with pretty Jane Price
who I thought was my dear friend

Chorus
I’m going down to Fisherman’s Hollow.
I’m going to see my next of kin.
For the place where I am going, I never shall see them again.

Verse 2
From his pocket, he withdrew a box
and from the box a wedding band.
As she held it in her fingers,
I shot them both ‘til they were dead.

I approached the lifeless bodies,
jerked the ring from her lovely limb.
I looked down and saw the paper
clutched tightly in her other hand.

I stood over the bodies trembling
Could not believe my mortal sin.
for it was my ring she was admiring.
It was my surprise of which they spoke

Chorus

Verse 3
I pushed the bodies into the river
With rocks tied to their feet and hands.
In two wee hours, it would be sunlight
I bid farewell to life as it had been

I only pray that God will forgive me
for two lives are gone at my hand.
I’m too frightened to face a jury.
I am a coward to take the stand.

So I’ll steal away and they’ll not find me.
I’ll go away to some distant shore.
Where I will linger in my misery
until I die to knock on Hell’s vast door.

Chorus

© 2000 Shirley Louise Stewart

Click here to hear Shirley sing this song.

Recollections of Slack Hand

2009-03-24T12:47:00.010-04:00

Throughout my childhood I continually met interesting people. When I say interesting, I’m not implying good or bad, just interesting. One of these people was a man known as Slack Hand. I was told that Slack Hand was distantly related to us, and I was also told not to tell anyone about it.

I asked my Granddad one time why the man was called Slack Hand, and I was told he'd been given that name because he wouldn’t strike a lick at work of any kind. Granddad went on to say that Slack Hand had better be glad that his daddy had given him his farm, otherwise he would have starved to death a long time ago. Granddad said ole Slack Hand was too lazy to work and too on’ry to steal, to which he added “he’s lazier than a cut dog.”

I first came to know Slack Hand when we were in the hog business. At one time we had upwards to 80 hogs and pigs in our ever-growing pens. For a few years we raised and sold hogs until new USDA standards made it impossible to turn a profit. We always had healthy stock but we couldn’t afford to get all the new shots that were mandated or to have the weekly inspections from an accredited inspector. This was coupled with plummeting pork prices, I recall that the last batch of hogs we sold, we only got 11 cents a pound for them, and it was costing us an average of 35 cents a pound to raise them. If we had gotten the USDA inspections and additional shots, the average price would have been more like 90 cents a pound to raise the pork. I think it was just a way to put the small family farmer out of business, we were too small to qualify for government subsidies, but too large not to have the new rules applied to us. But that’s another story for another day.

Like I mentioned, I first came to know Slack Hand during the “hog years”. We didn’t keep a boar hog on our property so we’d “rent” one off of Slack Hand. I say rent because Slack Hand would pick out a boar hog for us to use, a boar that coincided with a boar he meant to sell at the stock market within a few weeks. Since Slack Hand didn’t care for his stock at all, he liked for us to take the boar so we’d fatten it up for him so it’d weigh more when he sold it. I remember we’d have to feed the boar for a couple of weeks before it’d even have enough energy to court the ladies! This arrangement worked out for both parties though, it kept us from having the expense of keeping a boar hog year round, and it helped Slack Hand get the weight of his boar up so he’d fetch a bigger price out of it at market. By using a different boar hog every year, it also kept our stock from becoming inbred.

The most memorable thing about going to Slack Hand’s farm to pick up the boar was that when a truck would pull up, all of the different stock animals would come running toward the truck. Slack Hand didn’t have a loading chute on his place, all you had to do was open your tailgate and a bunch of hogs would jump up into the truck. Then you had to force all of the other hogs except for the boar out of the truck. I remember also how the cows would lick the tires and fenders of our truck, I guess they were trying to get at the road salt that was on the truck.

Also, at Slack Hand’s farm was the first (and only) time I have ever seen hogs eat rocks. I suppose having rocks in your belly would be better than nothing. I remember my Granddad would always complain about how Slack Hand’s stock was treated, and he said that Slack Hand was no farmer because a farmer wouldn’t treat his animals like that.

Slack Hand went out of the hog business at the same time we did, he couldn’t afford the new USDA rules either, and this was the case with most other small farmers in the region. Of course, this led to a huge glut of hogs at the market, which depressed the prices even further.

I remember after all of his hogs were sold, Slack Hand had an auction at his place. Old Slack Hand had come from a good family so there were a lot of people there, even though most of them didn’t care too much for him personally. I remember folks talking about how Slack Hand had got an auctioneer to do the auction by saying that he was in a real hard place and that if the auctioneer could help him out, he could only afford to pay him $500. Usually an auctioneer got 10 percent of the total sales for doing an auction. Well, of course the auctioneer felt sorry for old Slack Hand and told him that he’d do the auction if Slack Hand would help him out by carrying the items up to be auctioned off. That way the auctioneer wouldn’t have to pay two or three men for their help. He told Slack Hand that if the labor could be provided, then he’d do the auction as a favor to Slack Hand since he was between a rock and a hard place. The auction was advertised at all of the local stores and in the regional papers and it seemed like everyone showed up to the auction. When the time came to start, the auctioneer told Slack Hand to carry up the first lot of stuff to be sold, and Slack Hand grumbled a little bit and said his back was killing him, and he doubted he’d be able to be of much use in helping out. A few of the farmers who showed up for the sale offered to pitch in to help, and ole Slack Hand bragged on them and said they'd be a big help to the auctioneer.

After conning some men to work for free, Ole Slack Hand hollered for his wife to carry him out his easy chair to sit on during the sale. So directly here come his wife, struggling out through the yard carrying Slack Hands easy chair on her back, and he instructed her to set it right near the little stage area. And there Slack Hand sat all day long watching his neighbors carry his stuff up to the auctioneer where it was sold to the highest bidder. I remember my Granddad telling me not to stand too close to where Slack Hand sat or else I’d likely lose an eye if the straining buttons broke loose from Slack Hands shirt. I looked at his shirt and they were stretched to the max.

I remember after the auction, Old Slack Hand got out of his chair and marched over to where the cashier was stationed, and he instructed them to give him $500, they did and Slack Hand took it over to the auctioneer and settled up with him. No sooner than he done this, Slack Hand started berating the auctioneer how he should’ve got better prices out of some of his stuff. The auctioneer just shook his head in disbelief and just walked off. Slack Hand then went back to the cash stand, and asked how much they made, and someone said “so far, a little over twenty thousand”, and Slack Hand grabbed his hat, started slapping it against his sides and started dancing right there in front of the crowd that was milling around and waiting to settle up their bill. Slack Hand then hollered for his wife to carry his easy chair back into the house, and to hurry up, they was headed for town. He then cornered a neighbor and told him that they had to go to the bank, and asked if the neighbor could stick around until everyone had left and make sure that everything went okay. Slack Hand and his wife then loaded up into his truck and they took off down the road. Slack Hand had a way of getting people to do things for him, and this time was no different, everybody knew that the bank was closed this late in the evening. People talked about that for months after the sale!

The next year, Slack Hand decided to plant sweet corn and sell it at a roadside stand. He had a neighbor to plow up a field for him near the main road (again using his “I’m in a real hard place, could you help me out, argument). I remember all through the early summer we’d drive by Slack Hand’s corn patch and we’d see Slack Hand sitting in the back of his truck…in his easychair…while his wife would be hoeing in the corn! People all up the valley talked about how lazy Slack Hand was and how he worked his wife like a dog. They’d say “you know he even has her to load up his easy chair so he can sit and watch her work.”

Later that summer, Slack Hand and his wife did sell corn at their roadside stand, she would wait on customers and run back into the field to pick the corn whenever it was needed, and ole Slack Hand would sit there and talk to the people about how bad he had it and how hard he worked growing the corn. And yes, all the while he’d be sitting in his easy chair.

The following winter Slack Hand’s wife hurt her back real bad, people joked that she hurt it when hefting his easychair in and out of the truck bed. After she hurt her back she wasn’t able to stoop over and work the cornfield like she had before. So Slack Hand came up with a solution the their problem. He’d plant and sell potatoes instead of corn since potatoes took less work! He talked a neighbor into plowing the field and planting the potatoes for him, this time playing up how they were really in a hard place now that his wife couldn’t “help out” with things. Well the taters were growing good but when it came time to hill them up, ole Slack Hand couldn’t talk anyone into helping him out by doing it all for him. Everyone he asked would come up with an excuse as to why they couldn’t do it, so the news spread like wildfire up the valley when Slack Hand took to hilling up the potatoes all by himself. I remember people would drive by his potato patch just to see him doing something. He became sort of a local tourist attraction. The funniest part was that Slack Hand hoed them up while sitting in one of those little plastic chairs. He’d sit in it and hoe away. It was slow going, but every 10 minutes or so, Slack Hand would stand up and his wife would move the chair a little further up the row, Slack Hand would sit back down and continue hoeing. People at the local store would talk and say that folks ought to take a picture of him working because it was the first time that anyone ever knew him to do it. They all figured it was an unwritten sign of the apocolypse.

That was the last year Old Slack Hand ever planted anything.

A couple of months later, word reached us that Slack Hand was killed in an automobile accident. It seems he fell asleep at the wheel and ran over the hill, oddly enough, the site of his wreck was right in the old potato patch. What stuck with people, aside from hearing of Slack Hand’s death, was that his easychair was in the back of his truck at the time of his wreck, and it was thrown from the truck and had landed upright in the middle of the old potato patch. Of course, after the initial shock of the accident wore off, people told tales that they reckoned that the ghost of Old Slack Hand had sat the chair upright so he could sit in his tater patch and watch people work. People told this so much that nobody ever moved the Slack Hand’s easychair from the tater patch beside the road, and it sat there for years until it rotted to pieces.

After Slack Hand’s death, his widow sold the farm and moved to Petersburg, where she eventually remarried and lives to this day.

West Virginia, Oh My Home.

2009-03-20T15:23:00.010-04:00

Today I thought I'd post about what amounts to a love song that details the feelings that many West Virginians share with the land and people we love so much. This song was penned by none other than Grammy award winning singer/songwriter Hazel Dickens (and distant cousin of my wife Shirley), and in my opinion, this song is THE best song out there about West Virginia. It sums up why we stay here, and why we return. The song lyrics are posted amidst photo's of various generations of Shirley's family.

West Virginia, My Home
by Hazel Dickens.

West Virginia, Oh my home
West Virginia's where I belong

In the dead of the night
In the still and the quiet
I slip away like a bird in flight
Back to those hills, the place that I call home.

It's been years now since I left there
And this city life's about got the best of me

I can't remember why I left so free
What I wanted to do or what I wanted to see
But I can sure remember where I come from.

West Virginia, Oh my home
West Virginia's where I belong

In the dead of the night
In the still and the quiet
I slip away like a bird in flight
Back to those hills, the place that I call home.

Well I paid the price for the leavin'
And this life I have ain't the one I thought I'd find
Just let me live, love, let me cry
And when I go, just let me die
Among the friends who'll remember when I'm gone

West Virginia, Oh my home
West Virginia's where I belong
In the dead of the night
In the still and the quiet
I slip away like a bird in flight
Back to those hills, the place that I call home.

Home, home, home.

I can see it so clearly in my mind.

Home, home, home.

I can almost smell the honeysuckle vines.

In the dead of the night
In the still and the quiet
I slip away like a bird in flight

Back to those hills, the place that I call home.

Click here to go to Youtube and hear a version of West Virginia, My Home.

The Wreck of the Dry Fork #4

2009-03-17T12:07:00.006-04:00

The Wreck of the Dry Fork #4, as found in Don Teter's book, "Goin' Up Gandy".

I was recently reading the absolutely fabulous book, Goin' Up Gandy by Don Teter. the book discusses the History of the Dry Fork region of Randolph County, WV. I had many ancestors who worked and lived in these logging camps and I am intimately familiar with all of the places mentioned in this book. However, it was Teter's brief mention of the wreck of the Dry Fork #4 train that really stuck with me. I remember my Granddad telling stories about this wreck, which were told to him by his father, which were in turn told to him by his father, who lived in the area around Jenningston, WV, the site of the train wreck.

People in the area still talk about this wreck, and many will point you to the exact location, even though it has been many decades since the last logging train departed from these mountains. So I was inspired to write down the story of The Wreck of the Dry Fork #4, incorporating some of the information provided by Don Teter but mostly based on the stories given to me by my Grandfather. It was a story that evidently needed to be told.

I'm still not sure if it is a poem or the beginnings of a ballad, but this is the way this story was given to me. I hope you enjoy it. After reading it, you may wonder what happened to the widow Booker? I surely do, but that part of the story was not given to me. For me to write something, I have to be given the story out of the blue and if I force it, it just seems to come out all wrong. Oh well, perhaps her story is best saved for a later date.

The Wreck of the Dry Fork #4
by Matthew Burns, 16 March 2009

Come gather around and I’ll tell you
Of the logging days of yore,
And of the day of that dreadful wreck
Of the Dry Fork #4.

The engine was brought in from the flatlands,
Where it pulled the passenger trains.
But it was no match for the twists and turns
Of the mountainous Dry Fork grade.

On the evening of the 20th of June,
In the year of 19 and aught one.
The time was nigh and the signal given,
For the Dry Fork #4’s final run.

Tales of the wreck became legend,
Up and down the Dry Fork line
Of Superintendent Booker’s orders
And his obsession with making up time.

He was running late for supper,
Or so the story is told,
Many miles yet to travel and
He’d be damned if he’d eat it cold.

Ordering Engineer Cromwell
To make all due haste
The Dry Fork #4 did hug the tracks
And was well upon its way.

Halfway home to supper,
They came to Jenningston grade,
Up and over the mountain they went
But the bridge they could not make.

They weight of the rushing engine
Snapped the railroad bridge.
The engine rested in the river,
The cars stayed on the ridge.

Three were killed in the madness,
That came from hunger and greed,
Booker, Cromwell and a man named Spillman,
Were all trapped underneath.

The work crew on the ridge above,
Riding in the cars that escaped
Shook their heads in dismay
At the wreckage and the watery grave.

They talked of Booker’s reckless ways,
And how he laid to waste,
The Dry Fork #4 and two good men,
At the foot of Jenningston grade.

The bodies were freed of the wreckage,
And taken to “the gateway of Hell”
Where the families of the three men
Began to weep and wail.

Except for one well-dressed woman
Who was Booker’s widowed wife,
Not a tear for her fallen husband and
On her face an almost smile.

Tales were told thereafter,
About her deceitful plans,
Of how she had plotted for many months
To be shed of her beastly man.

They told of how he came home every evening,
Full of hunger, anger and rage,
And took his frustrations out on her,
That read on her bruised up face.

She played the part of a loving wife,
Doing what she was told.
She cooked him his favorite meals,
Knowing it would rush him home.

It wasn’t just Booker nor his reckless ways,
That laid waste to the Dry Fork line.
It was deception, greed and a love turned cold,
That ruined so many good lives.

=======
So, what did you think of the story? Is it a poem or a ballad? Any idea's on what happened to the widow? I want to know the rest of the story.

Springtime with Grandmaw

2009-03-12T10:54:00.008-04:00

Twenty years have passed since my Grandmaw Mary walked these hills. It is hard for me to believe it has been that long. It seems to me that I was always at Grandmaw’s side, walking our land and learning her ways. I remember about those days about this time every year. We’d walk across the holler and up the adjacent hill to her garden. She’d scoop down and grab a handful of dark earth, and she squeeze it. If it formed a ball, she’d tell me “Nope, still too wet to plant.” She’d explain that the soil should crumble in her hand it if was ready. Grandmaw would tell me, “If you plant when the ground is wet, your dirt will be as hard as the hubs of Hell.” All of these years later, I still haven’t been able to figure out where that saying came from. Does Hell have hubs? They must be hard if it does.

After checking out the garden, I remember we’d always proceed to stroll through her plum orchard. She loved her Green Gage Plums. I don’t know why but one year I noticed that there was something on the tree bark, and to me in my world, it looked exactly like chickenshit. I asked Grandmaw Mary why her plum trees had chickenshit all over them, and she laughed at me and looked at bark and told me it was black knot. She said to remind her to get some lime sulfur to put on them, she said that is the only thing that can get rid of black knot. Shortly after this time, Grandmaw started getting sick and nobody thought to apply the lime sulfur, so the trees languished a few more years but eventually died. I have wished many times over the years that I had put the lime sulfur on her Green Gage plum trees, but I was just a kid at the time.

Grandmaw Mary was a firm believer in planting by the signs. She always said to plant corn in the sign of the Crab. And you had to plant potatoes in either the sign of the Thighs or the sign of the Feet, but always in the dark of the moon. In addition, Grandmaw always liked to plant potatoes on Good Friday. I remember some of the old signs and what to plant in them, but not as many as I would like to have remembered. Grandmaw always had a good garden.

Maw & Big Six at Maw's garden.

I also remember every year at school we’d buy Grandmaw flowers. She loved purple petunia’s. At school, the high school vo-ag ran a greenhouse. All of the elementary students would get the opportunity to go every day and buy single flowers for 25 cents each or $2.00 a dozen (our school was kindergarten through 12th grade). It was always a big deal for us to save our snack money and go buy Grandmaw Mary some petunia’s. She’s keep them on her back porch and they’d get really big. Everytime you’d visit Grandmaw Mary, she’d take you out and show you the flowers that you bought her. She had several grandkids but she always remembered which kid had bought which flowers.

And of course, Grandmaw Mary loved her lilacs. I wrote an entire story about Grandmaw’s love for lilacs. Read it by clicking here.

Grandmaw Mary's Lilac Bush.

Grandmaw knew what plants or home remedies to use for common ailments. She taught me that milkweed would heal most skin conditions, including warts. She taught me that chewing a willow twig would cure a headache. She taught me that chewing birch cured an upset stomach. She taught me that tobacco spit would take the pain out of a bee sting. She taught me how to remove the heat from a burn, or to stop bleeding just by saying a certain Bible verse over it. She called it “takin’ the far out” or “stoppin’ up blood”. Nowadays people would call that faith healing. I don’t know if you all believe in that, but I sure do. I have complete faith in anything that Grandmaw Mary taught me.

Grandmaw Mary in her kitchen.

So you can see why this time of year reminds me of Grandmaw, planting the soil and all that she has taught me. I’ve always found it humorous that even though Grandmaw Mary taught me all of these things, that one time she asked me what I wanted to be when I grew up. Well, without even having to think about it, I told her “I want to be a farmer.” Grandmaw Mary just looked at me and shook her head, and said, “Honey, you might as well find something else that you want to be. Only a rich man can be a farmer these days. My daddy was a farmer and he was a poor man all of his life. A poor boy like you ain’t got a chance at farming these days.” (read about Grandmaw’s Mary’s parents by clicking here). All of these years later, I see the wisdom in Grandmaw’s advice even though I’ve always wanted to be, and continue to want to be, a farmer when I grow up!!

Obligatory scenery shot. Pendleton County barn in Spring.

But for now, I get by on getting’ by, living on just the “concept” of being a farmer. I suppose you could say I am a farmer without a farm. But there is one thing that I have come to realize, though Grandmaw Mary has been gone for the past twenty years, she continues to walk this land with me everytime I step outside.

Generations of Spring

2009-03-12T10:05:00.002-04:00

My world abounds with life anew.
An anxiously awaited spring welcomes
A new beginning.

And the fat robins strut about with their red breasts shining,
They remind me of home and childhood,
“Little Robin Redbreast sat upon a tree…”

The cool earth has changed its scent,
The now pungent aroma permeates my senses,
And it beckons me to scoop it up to partake of the gifts.

The warm light shines upon my shoulders
Lifting my spirits. My mind turns to retrospection,
And to the generations that walked this land before me.

The present becomes the past
And the future becomes the present.
Promises are made, promises are kept.

Life continues. The Earth is full of the goodness of the Lord.