2 50 68 https://omeka-test.library.appstate.edu/files/original/a8e1acbf8b97272029dfb5f4779e7bfb.pdf 6a3edad300b4aae0f5f8bf05e8086ef7 PDF Text Text �APPALACHIA AND THE POLITICS OF CULTURE Journal of the Appalachian Studies Association Edited by Elizabeth C. Fine 1995 Volume Seven �The Appalachian Consortium was a non-profit educational organization composed of institutions and agencies located in Southern Appalachia. From 1973 to 2004, its members published pioneering works in Appalachian studies documenting the history and cultural heritage of the region. The Appalachian Consortium Press was the first publisher devoted solely to the region and many of the works it published remain seminal in the field to this day. With funding from the Andrew W. Mellon Foundation and the National Endowment for the Humanities through the Humanities Open Book Program, Appalachian State University has published new paperback and open access digital editions of works from the Appalachian Consortium Press. www.collections.library.appstate.edu/appconsortiumbooks This work is licensed under a Creative Commons BY-NC-ND license. To view a copy of the license, visit http://creativecommons.org/licenses. Original copyright © 1995 by the Appalachian Consortium Press. ISBN (pbk.: alk. Paper): 978-1-4696-3693-1 ISBN (ebook): 978-1-4696-3695-5 Distributed by the University of North Carolina Press www.uncpress.org �Journal of the Appalachian Studies Association Volume 7 1995 Appalachia and the Politics of Culture TABLE OF CONTENTS Introduction Elizabeth C. Fine 1 Appalachia: The View From San Francisco Key Note Address Archie Green 6 Out in the Mountains: Exploring Lesbian and Gay Lives 18 Kate Black and Marc A. Rhorer "You've Got to Get the Music in Your Feet:" Old Time Dancing in African American and European American Communities in Southwest Virginia Susan Eike Spalding 29 Two Gardeners of Song: Exploiters or Preservers? 41 Fabric and Fiction: The Clinch Valley Blanket Mills, 1890-1950 Kathleen Curtis Wilson 50 Before Albion's Seed: Other Influences on Appalachian Culture Donald Edward Davis 57 Linda Plaut and Lyn Wolz 111 • •• �Connecting Appalachia: A Survey of Recent Work in Early American History with Reference to Southern Appalachia Tom Costa 67 Property, Gender, and the Sale of Mineral Rights in Pre-industrial Eastern Kentucky Robert Weise 79 Recollections About Life in Appalachia's Coal Camps: Positive or Negative? Mary LaLone 91 Storming Heaven in the Decade of Greed Kim Gillespie 101 Speech Acts and Cultural Resistance in a Rural Eastern Kentucky Community Anita Puckett 111 Southwest Virginia High School Graduates: Crossing Cultural Terrains in the University Setting Pam B. Cole 121 Teaching for Democracy: Reflections on Teaching Appalachian Studies Shaunna L. Scott 131 Gender and Schooling in Appalachia: Lessons for an Era of Economic Restructuring Sally Ward Haggard 140 Scotland, Appalachia, and the Politics of Postmodern Culture Richard Blaustein 152 iv �1994 Appalachian Studies Association Officers Alice Brown Ronald Lewis Elizabeth C. Fine Ken Sullivan Sandy Ballard Howard Dorgan Gerald Roberts Rebecca Hancock President Vice-President Conference Program Chair Program Vice-Chair Secretary Treasurer Archivist .Immediate Past President Steering Committee Program Committee Alice Brown, Chair Nyoka Hawkins Steve Fisher Grace Toney Edwards Jerry Williamson R. Chesla Sharp Pat Arnow Andrew Garrison Elizabeth C. Pine, Chair Ken Sullivan, Vice-Chair Rosemary C. Goss Jim Mi nick Karen Morgan Deborah Thompson Ricky Cox Barry Whittemore Keith Webb Melinda Wagner Norma Myers, Ex-officio Alice Brown, Ex-officio Local Arrangements Committee Rosemary C. Goss, Chair Mary Holliman, Exhibits Chair Elizabeth C. Fine Paul Lancaster Keith Webb Clyde Kessler Kate Briody Anita Puckett Sandy Ballard Clifford Boyd Alice Brown Ricky Cox Howard Dorgan Grace Toney Edwards Steve Fisher Nyoka Hawkins Youth Conference Coordinator Jim Mi nick Editorial Advisory Board Ronald Lewis Sally Maggard Jim Minick Anita Puckett Gerald Roberts R.B. Rosenburg Jean Haskell Speer V Ken Sullivan Deborah Thompson Melinda Wagner Peter Wallenstein David Whisnant Barry Whittemore John Alexander Williams Jerry Williamson �This page intentionally left blank �Introduction Elizabeth C. Fine When Pat Buchanan called for a cultural war at the 1992 Republican National Convention, he attested to the heightened awareness of the politics of culture in American life. In this last decade of the twentieth century, many cultural choices—the food we eat, the materials we wear, the products we buy, the language we use, the medical choices we make—all have political interpretations and repercussions. "Cultural space is contested space," someone once said, and those who study the Appalachian region have become keenly aware of the political dimension of culture, which is no longer conceived of as a taken-for-granted, "natural" given, but as a socially constructed, emergent, and often highly contested phenomenon (Banks, Billings, and Tice 1993; Maggard 1983, Clifford 1988). Ever since Henry Shapiro's classic study of the representation of Appalachia in American consciousness (1978), scholars have been much more aware of the political dimensions of culture and the complexities that go along with studying it or promoting cultural programs. The often negative images conveyed by local color writers and home missionaries served well the exploitative goals of early industrialists, who could pat themselves on the back for bringing "progress" to such benighted people. And these same images no doubt fed into the subcultural model of poverty, which as Helen Lewis and Edward Knipe point out, had political consequences in the War on Poverty (Lewis and Knipe 1978). The cultural models and programs developed by government bureaucrats during the War on Poverty contributed to subsequent media representa- 1995 • Volume Seven • Journal of the Appalachian Studies Association • 1 �tions of the region, which in turn, stimulated more adherents to the subcultural or culture of poverty model of Appalachia (Bowler 1985). Not just social workers, but educators and cultural workers have used culture for political ends, as David Whisnant has documented in All That Is Native and Fine: The Politics of Culture in an American Region (1983). The 1994 conference on Appalachia and the Politics of Culture was well attended, attracting over 400 scholars, students, and activists to Virginia Tech, in Blacksburg. The conference featured forty-four programs, with 101 individual presentations. Forty-one participants submitted papers for publication. Regrettably, not all of the very fine submissions could be published here. Slightly over a third of the articles submitted were selected by members of the program committee, other appropriate scholars, and the editor. In defining the theme for the 1994 Conference of the Appalachian Studies Association, I wrote in the call for papers that the politics of culture or cultural politics refers to "Social and political forces that influence what elements of a culture are featured or suppressed, promoted or ignored, sanctioned or censored." The keynote speaker, folklorist Archie Green, identified with uncanny foresight a number of critical issues dealing with the politics of culture that are developed by the contributors to this volume. Looking at the theme from many angles, Green raises questions about who has authority to write about Appalachia and the rift between insiders and outsiders of the region over its portrayal. Moving from the politics of who studies Appalachia to what is studied, Green challenges us to push our history of mountain images back before the local color movement and industrialization to the European antecedents of Appalachian culture. Examining the political impact of the concept of cultural politics, Green juxtaposes it with political action outside the academy, challenging us to engage not only in the political process in the United States, but in the world. "Perhaps the deepest question we all face," says Green, "is whether Appalachians can to any degree live with dignity both inside and outside mainstream America, while mountaineers across the globe are brutalized." The contributors to this volume have all addressed the conference theme, albeit in different ways. In "Out in the Mountains," Kate Black and Marc A. Rhorer focus our attention on an ignored area of Appalachian Studies—the lives of lesbian and gay persons and their experiences within a mountain region. These oral histories forcefully attest to the cultural hegemony of heterosexism and the political consequences of "coming out" in Appalachia. Three essays examine the cultural politics surrounding musical and material culture. In exploring the differences in vitality between the dance traditions of an African American and an European American 2 • Journal of the Appalachian Studies Association • Volume Seven • 1995 �community, Susan Eike Spalding discusses the impact of the War on Poverty, the folk revival movement, and the Black Power movement on African American old-time fiddlers and square dancers, calling attention to the effects of cultural programs and movements on dance traditions. In a critique of the work of two early female folk song collectors, Linda Plaut and Lyn Wolz examine the motivations and methods of Annabel Morris Buchanan and Ann Geddes Gilchrist. Did they exploit their informants for selfish ends, or did they treat them with respect in a genuine effort to preserve their music for future generations? Just as purveyors of musical culture act politically, so do purveyors of material culture, as Kathleen Curtis Wilson shows in her analysis of the coverlets woven and marketed by the Clinch Valley Blanket Mills. Although the coverlets were made by machines, Wilson shows how the proprietors skillfully used folk images of handwoven coverlets to market their wares outside the region and thus helped perpetuate a static and false image of Appalachia. Just as Archie Green challenges us to push our historical studies of the region back to earlier ages, two studies admirably expand our understanding of the past. Donald Edward Davis, in "Before Albion's Seed," examines the three hundred years preceding the eighteenthcentury Appalachian frontier and the impact of the Mississippian, Cherokee, and Spanish cultures. He argues that Appalachian culture evolved in relationship to the complex interactions between social and environmental forces. In "Connecting Appalachia," Tom Costa also turns the historical lens from the industrialization period to the colonial and antebellum periods, placing Appalachia in the broader context of American and southern frontier and rural history. His synthesis of recent work in early American history that pertains to Southern Appalachia corrects the essentialist view of a homogeneous Appalachian culture. This new body of research defies the traditional image of Appalachia as a backwater region and corrects political stereotyping. The impact of gender roles in Appalachia has largely been ignored, but Robert Weise's exploration of the gender divisions and conflicts over property within pre-industrial households in Eastern Kentucky shows how these conflicts sometimes encouraged property owners to part with the minerals underlying their land. Thus, Weise's work helps correct the image that mineral sales in Appalachia were solely the result of outsiders taking advantage of an unsophisticated public. Two studies in this volume deal with representations of coal town experiences—one based on oral histories and the other on literary interpretation. In an effort to further understand some of the conflicting interpretations of the quality of life for residents of coal towns, Mary La Lone has conducted oral histories with over fifty residents of a number of coal towns in southwest Virginia. Her essay identifies both positive and 1995 - Volume Seven • Journal of the Appalachian Studies Association • 3 �negative experiences and points to the reasons why residents express complex attitudes toward the company towns. While the novel Storming Heaven by Denise Giardina is ostensibly about life in the West Virginia coal fields during the mine wars of the 1920s, Kim Gillespie shows how the novel can be read as a political commentary on and national allegory of the 1980s "decade of greed." When individuals from differing cultural groups communicate, differences in using and interpreting speech often lead to socioeconomic and political repercussions, as Anita Puckett demonstrates in "Speech Acts and Cultural Resistance in a Rural Eastern Kentucky Community." Based on ethnographic studies of speech usage in a variety of work situations, Puckett shows how inappropriate usage of imperatives in work situations can result in labor relations problems. Language use is also an issue in Pam Cole's essay on how Southwest Virginia high school graduates fare when they cross the cultural terrain of a large university in the region. Through ethnographic interviews with four Appalachian high school graduates who entered a large university, Cole documents the oppression they experienced and shows how the students struggled to resolve the ambivalence they felt toward their Appalachian dialect and identity. Just as language usage has social and political repercussions, so does teaching and education. Two essays explore the political dimensions of education. In 'Teaching for Democracy," Shaunna L. Scott argues that teaching is a political act. She then evaluates texts and suggests pedagogy that further the goals of understanding regional social problems, debunking stereotypes, and empowering students. While Scott addresses the concerns of those who teach Appalachian Studies courses, Sally Maggard evaluates the complexity of designing new job training and education programs in Central Appalachia in an era of global economic transformation. Based on structured interviews with forty-four eastern Kentucky women about work and educational experiences, Maggard identifies gender as a factor in school dropout rates, low skill level of the labor force, and unsuccessful job training programs. She goes on to make practical recommendations for designing effective job training programs for Central Appalachia. The last essay by Richard Blaustein takes up Archie Green's challenge to internationalize our perspectives on Appalachian culture. In "Scotland, Appalachia, and the Politics of Postmodern Culture," Blaustein reviews David McCrone's Understanding Scotland: The Sociology of a Stateless Nation to help understand developments within Appalachian Studies. He finds striking parallels and important differences between the politics of culture and identity in Scotland and Appalachia. Taken together, these fifteen essays represent the interdisciplinary 4 • Journal of the Appalachian Studies Association • Volume Seven • 1995 �nature of Appalachian Studies and the broad range of interests within the Appalachian Studies Association. They also represent a maturing field that is engaging itself in a critique not only of the political forces affecting the region, but of its own role as a political and cultural agent. Works Cited Banks, Alan, Dwight Billings, and Karen Tice. 1993. "Appalachian Studies, Resistance, and Postmodernism." In Fighting Back in Appalachia: Traditions of Resistance and Change, ed. Stephen L. Fisher. Philadelphia: Temple University Press. Bowler, Betty M. 1985. "'That Ribbon of Social Neglect': Appalachia and the Media in 1964." Appalachian Journal 12 (3): 239-247. Clifford, James. 1988. The Predicament of Culture: Twentieth-Century Ethnography, Literature, and Art. Cambridge, Mass.: Harvard University Press. Lewis, Helen, and Edward Knipe. 1978. "The Colonialism Model: The Appalachian Case." In Colonialism in Modern America: The Appalachian Case, ed. Helen Matthews Lewis, Linda Johnson, and Donald Askins. Boone, N.C.: The Appalachian Consortium Press. Maggard, Sally Ward. 1983-84. "Cultural Hegemony: The News Media and Appalachia." Appalachian Journal 11 (1-2): 67-83. Shapiro, Henry. 1978. Appalachia On Our Mind: The Southern Mountains and Mountaineers in the American Consciousness, 1870-1920. Chapel Hill: University of North Carolina Press. Whisnant, David. 1983. All That Is Native And Fine: The Politics of Culture in an American Region. Chapel Hill: University of North Carolina Press. Elizabeth C. Fine is an associate professor in the Center for Programs in the Humanities and the Department of Communication Studies at Virginia Polytechnic Institute and State University. She is coordinator of the Appalachian Studies Program at Virginia Tech. 1995 • Volume Seven • Journal of the Appalachian Studies Association • 5 �Appalachia: the View from San Francisco Archie Green To open with a question: why does the Appalachian Studies Conference invite a keynote speaker from the nation's Pacific edge; particularly, from a city in which Appalachia does not appear on cognitive screens? To compound this initial query: why should happy banquet guests be harangued by an out-of-region senior citizen with a topic as open ended as 'The Politics of Culture?" At gatherings such as these, keynoters habitually wear ribbons of Pollyanna or Jeremiah—cheery platitudes or doomsday calamity. Tonight, avoiding both modes, I would feel most comfortable with a straight case study, a report on empirical research, or the analysis of an expressive construct or event. However, custom places such descriptive papers in daily sessions, saving the dinner evening for mood or vision. What, then, spills from the visitor's pack? At home, I hear San Franciscans who identify themselves constantly by life-style, ethnicity, occupation, or new-age belief, but never region. No acquaintance of mine uses Westerner, a brand that signifies saddles and spurs, guns and guitars. A few friends know vaguely my affection for hillbilly music, understood as a distant region's amusement far from the Golden Gate. These friends dismiss the rhinestone aberration as a tic, perhaps picked up while wandering east of the Sierra Nevada range. I live in The Castro, a neighborhood seen frequently in television features commenting upon American sexuality. My recent published studies treat "laborlore," the expressive culture of working people across our country rather than in a single region. This research choice and place of residence have not disqualified me from commenting upon Appalachia. In short, the keynote invitation to a traveler, itself, counters conventional inside/outside polarity often built into our discourse. I do not invoke this "we/they" dichotomy as a rhetorical device to 6 • Journal of the Appalachian Studies Association • Volume Seven • 1995 �exaggerate my distance from mountain life, but rather to mark troublesome concerns within academic and public agencies. One such issue touches each scholar's charter. Who grants and who obtains the license to penetrate the cultural briar patch? Where do critics go to obtain their tags? At times, we elevate race or class dialogue to matters of cultural jurisdiction. Can whites "dig" black blues? Should whites teach in African American campus programs? Do white scholars, by instinct or imperial design, distort black experience? Can intellectuals appreciate workers' anxieties? Should youths from comfortable quarters advance political platforms for working people? Why do traders in theory assert superiority over blue-collar artisans? To what extent do these questions alter if posed as other than race or class constructs: North/South, lowlander/highlander, mainstream/Appalachia? In the formal call for papers, conference conveners used one definition for two interchangeable rubrics, cultural politics Ipolitics of culture: "social and political forces that influence what elements of a culture are featured or suppressed, promoted or ignored, sanctioned or censored." Our readings reveal parallels: political culture, culture of politics, political-cultural dialectic, cultural-political exchange. Writers inflect these rubrics variously—synonymously or antithetically. Eventually, a lexicographer will sort out differences, search for cognates, and cite examples of initial appearances. We shall hear conference panelists label our governing theme with diverse tags. Nevertheless, all labels imply a set of beliefs about power enacted/power represented. To illustrate: cultural arbiters make conscious choices in the manner of a Roman emperor presiding at the gladiatorial arena—winners, thumbs up; losers, thumbs down. In contemporary practice, the National Endowment for the Humanities approves a grant to study Emersonian transcendentalism but not transcendence in the poetry of Hank Williams. Is Hank's fan merely an unlucky applicant, or a pathetic victim of hegemonic forces relentlessly pulverizing vernacular culture? Clearly, across the United States, deans, directors, philanthropists, curators, critics, editors, pundits, and panelists make political decisions every day. Hence, we watch the gestures, hidden or open, of such "commissars," regardless of their identifying letterheads. In recognizing the need to decode up/down judgments by American cultural "czars," Appalachians reach for "The Politics of Culture" as a fresh paradigm. Armed with insight on political-cultural connections, some Appalachian activists assert a corollary belief: mountain natives make wise decisions; distant dwellers make unwise, if not evil decisions. I reject this position when uttered on matters of race by Leonard Jeffries or Khalid Abdul Muhammad. Should I overlook mountain chauvinism, unwilling- 1995 • Volume Seven • Journal of the Appalachian Studies Association • 7 �ness to listen, and defensiveness raised to a high-art form? Ultimately, to cope with sanction and stigma, we begin to judge our judges, to question their origins, to name their political values. Thus, we return to the us/them divide and ask whether or not this facile formula, geared to kinship, helps or hinders efforts at justice. Challenge jumps from every corner. Are race and class more useful guides than region, ethnicity, religion, language, age, gender, occupation, health, or ethical code in gripping Appalachian experience? How do such diverse elements intersect and combine to shape everyday identity? Upon hearing Appalachians actually name themselves as Scotch-Irish, Cherokee, Baptist, Holy Roller, lawyer, teacher, home-nurse, Tar Heel, West Virginian, or as believing in the moral majority, holding membership in the National Rifle Association, marching under Right-to-Life banners, or living way up the holler, do we reject these categories as false, as subordinate to class and race dogma? How does Appalachian fascination with the links of land to lore complicate issues of cultural politics within the region? Lest my questions seem abstract, I note remarks by Jerry Williamson on the film Deliverance: "The movie was angrily denounced in mountain institutions and at regional professional conferences as an impious return to hillbilly stereotypes, which had been used by past generations of corporate exploiters to justify land theft and wage slavery" (Forthcoming). By extension, some mountain critics viewed this film's novelist, script writers, and, above all, Hollywood producers, as the mutant offspring of hostile intellectuals and greedy moguls. Does a reference to Deliverance seem outdated in 1994? Bobbie Ann Mason's and Gurney Norman's views on The Kentucky Cycle reveal the depth of mountain sensitivity to external portraiture (Mason 1993; Norman 1993). Should we advocate a Khomeini fatwa on Robert Schenkkan because he lacks Kentucky birth credentials, conducted research at UCLA, or, perhaps, because Greek drama's demands overwhelm him? How do we move from matters of a playwright's genes to those of literary style and structure, imagination and discipline? No easy answers spring to mind. Before turning to a new passage in the maze, I touch on a personal aspect of any outsider's authority. While writing Only a Miner (1972), I remained conscious that I had worked on the San Francisco waterfront; never in a mountain coal mine. Should I have refrained from exploring "Dark as a Dungeon" or "I Am a Girl of Constant Sorrow" and from seeking out Merle Travis or Sarah Ogan Gunning? As a stranger to the region, I could have restricted studies to items recorded or composed by a set of cultural modernizers strangely categorized as "folksong revivalists." Such a path would have violated my soul as a worker and scholar, clouding esthetic code and moral pulse. In the 1960s, I did not set out with a glossy agenda for Appalachia. 8 • Journal of the Appalachian Studies Association • Volume Seven • 1995 �Then, I conceived Only a Miner as a ballad scholar's offering stemming from affection for songs by and about coal miners. The poetry of the lines, "While he was working for those whom he loved/The boulder that crushed him came down from above" reinforced shivery scenes of industrial accidents on "my" jobs. Did God above or a careless crane operator below send deathly power from high voltage line to crane boom to cement bucket to roof pour to city morgue? What power locked into song bridged a continent, thus linking Kentucky coal drift and California construction site? Why did mountain students see my book as contributing to regional dialogue and consciousness raising? If a lesson can be extracted from my digging for fossil roots, for truth long buried underground, it lies in the complex interchange of creativity and agency locked into mine-camp song text, and, by extension, fiddle tune, duck decoy, and coverlet pattern. We can restate the politics of culture issue by resorting to a metaphysical abstraction: solipsism. The self only knows itself; one lives alone in an isolated den; consign blues to blacks; leave the ballad "The Hard Working Miner" to hard-working miners. Painfully, I learned the word solipsism at age sixteen, and have spent the subsequent six decades scaling its slippery walls. I shall not be pushed into a prison cell in the name of any party-line agenda, or, for that matter, by campus seers who walk the walk and talk the talk of canonicity, master narrative, essentialism, binary opposition, science of society, dialectical materialism, or post-modern praxis. I am painfully aware, and share openly with conference colleagues, that I, too, revel in "big words." Familiar words bring pleasure; strange words, terror. Logically, my verbal choices are not superior to those of others. Hence, I must struggle to distinguish speech shield from sword, as I return to the challenge of understanding language as it supplies the building blocks of identity and community. Here, I segue from questions of who studies Appalachia to those of matters studied. As a pluralist, I see no bounds to this conference's discourse—we lay claim to all academic fields, and some not yet named. Fortunately, in the years since our group first met in Berea in 1977, planners have not acted as stern gatekeepers determined to restrict sessions only to problems in political economy. By asking who fills the purse to film The Dukes of Hazard, or who manipulates zoning codes to place Alpine ski villages on Blue Ridge heights, we jump disciplinary fences. It seems obvious that cultural choice should involve interpretation by political scientists, economists, and sociologists. It may not be clear to political activists that specialists in language and literature, arts and philosophy, necessarily contribute to explicating cultural metaphysics. 1995 • Volume Seven • Journal of the Appalachian Studies Association • 9 �From many fields, I select an esoteric area, art history, to comment on identity—Harlan to Boone, Cumberland Gap to Sourwood Mountain. At the Pacific rim, when Appalachia rises from the mist, it appears as an upland island, an enclaved land mass, locked in the North American continent. This island seems better known to Californians who read novels and watch movies than to those who examine geography texts. At times, political junkies supplement fiction with reportage on resistance—for example, brave miner defies cruel operator and deflects strip-mine 'dozers. Documentary film footage, muckraking expose, editorial column, and local-color sketch merge. Do we visualize the platonic miner with a French liberty cap, Daniel Boone coonskin cap, decal-adorned plastic hard hat, or a Vietnam vet's combat helmet? For many Americans, fine artists with brush at easel stamped other regions memorably. William Sidney Mount favored Long Island's bucolic haymakers and eel catchers. George Caleb Bingham limned boatmen and stump speakers at the Mississippi-Missouri confluence. Further west, Frederic Remington and Charles Russell charted the West with cowboy portraiture. George Catlin, Carl Bodmer, and Alfred Jacob Miller vivified native life from the Great Plains to the Rockies. Catlin and his peers honored stoic Indians who defied confinement to canvas. By contrast, Thomas Cole reduced humans to miniature scale within Hudson River Valley mystical landscapes. In 1929, Grant Wood transformed an Iowa farm couple into mid-American icons. Finally, Thomas Hart Benton elevated Ozark sorghum makers and string-band musicians to Jefferson's pantheon. Benton's student Jackson Pollock, who had sketched Appalachian miners, helped bury regional art by turning eyes away from hilly contours to the hieroglyphs of psychic tension. Although Appalachian artists, either native-born or attracted to the Southern Highlands, have limned their region, no mountaineer has achieved the fame of a Bingham or Benton as a genre or regional painter. Why? Who among us comments upon the setting in which artistry flourishes and gathers criticism? For too many years, visitors have approached Appalachian art as a series of bright quilts or a set of swirling hoe-down skirts. A lonesome ballad's inner lines seem more familiar to mountain fans than does an Appalachian painting. To whom does "missing" fine art matter: museum curators or students of Appalachia? We have treated Li'l Abner and Jed Clampett as the alpha and omega in mountain imagery. We have devoted at least one session in each of seventeen conferences to archetype and stereotype— surely invented by outsiders to shame us. I suggest that time's a-wastin' in the task of mustering attention to the word image as literal picture, political emblem, and mythic paradigm. I plead with friends to go back ages before Manhattan magazine 10 • Journal of the Appalachian Studies Association • Volume Seven • 1995 �editors asked a staff artist to illustrate a Mary Murfree story. Does anyone know who first drew the Appalachian as a bean-pole-thin figure (taciturn, generous, distant) or as a moonshine-swigging fool (idiotic, treacherous, lusty)? Do we really want our pictorial chronology to open in the 1880s? Rodger Cunningham served colleagues well, and with considerable flair, in scaling the time plateau before Harper's Weekly emerged. Pushing Appalachia's time line back thousands of years, Apples on the Flood opened eyes to long-dim scenes (1987). Who will undertake a picture book to complement Cunningham's gift? Where are the art folios of European depictions of wild men, backwoodsmen, and outlaws before 1492? Who seeks John White's renditions of Celts and Picts as England's primitive ancestors, as well as precursors of Indianized colonists (half-breeds, renegades, squaw-men) on the Allegheny Front (Hulton 1984)? Did not Natty Bumppo, Deerslayer, and Leatherstocking anticipate Boone and Crockett? Does James Fenimore Cooper stand at Denise Giardina's elbow? I do not wish to divert colleagues into art or literary history, or involve them in editing coffee-table anthologies. Mountain imagery has a convoluted pedigree—one that we ignore at the expense of sophistication in endeavors. A parenthetical note adds a bit of glamour to our topic: campus critics chant a mantra, "the politics of representation," much as we call up "image" and "stereotype." Thus, I plead, let's turn the kaleidoscope of Appalachian representation—newspaper cartoon, magazine engraving, post-office mural, cinema poster, television-program publicity kit, oak-splint basket, roadside death memorial. For those to whom pictorial imagery seems digressive from realpolitik, I return to the social dimensions of regionalism. This very meeting attracts participants versed in science, humanities, communications technology, and community action. The first Appalachian Studies Conference organizers, guided by Loyal Jones, deliberately brought together advocates and scholars. Over the years, during which labels have fluctuated, conferees have divided both on degrees of commitment to political position and willingness to highlight cultural expression. Some conference "steadies" have dealt with regional marginality not by an agreed-upon political creed, but rather by an informal consensus to treat culture broadly—dialect, folk art, bluegrass music, individual spirit, pride-in-land, and egalitarianism. Appalachians do not constitute a religious, ethnic, racial, linguistic, occupational, political, or genderbased enclave. What, then, except a cultural construct of emblematic strength such as "Appalachianality" can tie the region's knot? We return, willingly or not, to land-lore connections. Regional boundary and sub-regional contours become persistent conference topics as no Appalachian map satisfies all mountain advocates. We do not fault skilled cartographers who recognize ridge and 1995 • Volume Seven • Journal of the Appalachian Studies Association • 11 �cove; we ask why they find it difficult to chart cultural material. Over the years, I have seen meeting maps contract and expand, and have welcomed panels on "out-migrants" to Cincinnati. From my perspective, we need also to encompass Appalachians from Cascade Range forests to Southwest sunbelt malls. Harriette Arnow's dollmakers now carve in Calaveras and Clackamas counties. Conference panelists do not call for dismembering the United States, for raising a sovereign flag at Sevierville. Essentially, I do not fear mountain secessionists; I do fear men of power distant from Blacksburg—figures, who in pernicious ways, may influence political culture in Appalachia for decades ahead. Four scarecrows make the point: Slobodan Milosevic, Vladimir Zhirinovsky, Rush Limbaugh, Ollie North. If these names seem grotesquely juxtaposed, please substitute others. The scroll unrolls from Tiananmen Square and Hebron mosque to mountain school yard. Why do I relate global tragedy to Appalachian discourse? When in the name of the Serbian Socialist Party, Milosevic employs ethnic cleansing in Bosnia, and, in the name of Marxism, Chinese communists destroy temples in Tibet, few Appalachians will seek Belgrade or Beijing for advice. Shall we look to Belfast, Gaza, Kabul, Soweto? Does it matter to the child mowed down that the juggernaut holds a decorative red star, a star of David, a crescent moon, or a silver cross? Perhaps the deepest question we all face is whether Appalachians can to any degree live with dignity both inside and outside mainstream America, while mountaineers across the globe are brutalized. Television did bring into our parlors the boom of Serbian guns pounding Sarajevo. We did see Kurdish families tenting on snow-clad peaks. But TV cameras cannot climb every slope of misery. I commend Anna Tseng's ethnographic book, In the Realm of the Diamond Queen, for its report on an elusive group of hill folk in Kalimantan (Borneo). Indonesian elites denigrate this tribe as "Bukits" (hillbillies) while politicians clear-cut their timber for export to Japan (1994). Anna Tsing might well address our assembly, for she shatters conventional anthropological notions of backwards people frozen in time. Yet the best command of cultural theory by the most advanced scholar does not stem tribal destruction. Kalimantan's Ishmaelites conjure ritual, narrative poetry, and shamanistic vision to ward off dams, oil rigs, and helicopters. Our Bukit cousins survive temporarily in margins between forest and field. Who will mourn their passing in an Indonesia racing to the Future? I am far from the best person to offer alternate politics to conference guests, for I distrust packaged platforms. I must confess that except during the New Deal election when I cast an early vote for Franklin Delano Roosevelt, I have a long record of favoring losers. Similarly, in 12 • Journal of the Appalachian Studies Association • Volume Seven • 1995 �hard-headed trade-union forums, I have advanced left-libertarian (Wobbly) visions, usually put down as romantic or antiquarian. In short, I am brother to a long line of mountain cranks, whittlers at the courthouse square, idlers in the country store. In his current study of America's regionalist impulse, Revolt of the Provinces, Robert Dorman treats several interwar (1920-1945) movements proclaiming the Utopian reconstruction of society: Harlem Renaissance, Manhattan elitism, Vanderbilt agrarianism, and rural populism (1993). Strange bedfellows, indeed, when Lewis Mumford, Howard Odum, Constance Rourke, J. Frank Dobie, Marie Sandoz, and Donald Davidson gathered under the tent of "cultural radicalism." Dorman uses this key term to distinguish those idealizing a "rural, frontier, decentralized, producerist, farm and village society—the older America—[from] the modern commercialized, consumerist, and mechanized mass society of the metropolis" (1993, xi-xii). Appalachians seldom appear in Dorman's book, yet "cultural radicalism" serves to describe much of the philosophy inherent in our assembly. We know that which we oppose. We do not like outsiders in Pulitzer Prize-winning plays or daily comic strips who mock speech, deplore taste, or denigrate belief. Moving from statements of opposition, we challenge those who judge us by scrutinizing their credentials. Who grants them power? Why do they spend our tax dollars to reject our artistry? Because radical has become an American pejorative, we seek alternative language to mask anger. With cultural politics and its twins, we blur direction and neutralize position. We divert attention from recognized labels (such as liberal, socialist, progressive, conservative, rightwinger, fundamentalist) to "The Politics of Culture," at its heart, an academic pursuit. Ironically, this conference's formal theme marks failure by each main political party to write a platform with planks on vernacular art, bed-rock demographic diversity, or cultural equity. Although President Clinton has appointed new chiefs at the National Endowment for the Arts and National Endowment for the Humanities, dedicated individuals within these agencies still struggle to devise programs that might alter dominant cultural strategies. Further I ask, will the president's faith in global competition and an information-highway-bound work force help castaway mountain folk, or, indeed, any dwellers stranded in American shoals? I cast no stones in this gathering. Appalachians do associate as environmentalists and preservationists—causes which engage my energies. Mary Hufford's Conserving Culture gathers essays to describe how public servants report gains and losses in deflecting development, constructing "heritage corridors," or challenging tourism's benefits 1995 • Volume Seven • Journal of the Appalachian Studies Association • 13 �(1994). Citizens who have suffered political slings know the perils in integrating concern for the snail darter with the right of mountain basket makers to sell their wares profitably. Here, I find exemplars of the presentation of regional issues, naming a few or noting their achievements. I salute John Sayles for the film Matewan (1987). I wept at the belief embedded in his artistry. Seen by me only in television moments, the camouflage-clad miners (including mothers, wives, sisters, daughters) who held Pittston at bay reaffirm my faith in trade unionism. Julia Ardery, approaching Edgar Tolson, Kentucky wood carver and folk artist, demonstrates that fresh inquiry can bring edge to tools long dulled by careless use (1995). Bob Cantwell, another outsider, stretches the elegant language of cultural criticism to describe the Smithsonian's folk festival, a stage upon which Appalachians and their cousins turn American identity inside out (1993). Among others, David Whisnant and I have parsed political culture, word and deed, in all its permutations. Whisnant's All That Is Native and Fine: The Politics of Culture in an American Region helped transform a sub-title into an Appalachian guide (1983). His message makes sense—turn inward with critical insight and outward to forge fresh alliances. We see the breadth of such double vision in the studies Steve Fisher has gathered for Fighting Back in Appalachia. His essayists document a dance of dominance and resistance in the Southern Highlands (1993). The figures who emerge from this book view themselves alternately as patriots or guerrillas. Each contributor also points ahead to continued conflict over strategies (neo-populism or class-based politics), agents (workers or intellectuals), and discourse (abstract or plain). We enjoy crediting companions, students, and mentors as we take pleasure in exchanging conversion stories. Strangers seek words to measure their attraction to the mountains. Youngsters within the region search for similar words to describe their flowering of consciousness. At some mysterious point in personal growth, one finds the connection of local dialect to school-board policy, or recognizes the tension between a neighbor's safety and a land developer's clout. We can judge political culture as a verbal pennant by its bearing at the point where personal knowledge and action converge. Bluntly put, does our conference theme, "The Politics of Culture," encourage or displace engagement? Do we expect this catch phrase to trumpet a specific political program shifting power from the Potomac to the New River? Some activists charge that attention to cultural expression leads to political exhaustion. I know of no easy way to merge the roles of culture explicators and political activists, or the styles of those who come together at academic gatherings with those beyond campus walls. Yet, this conference's existence demands conversation at the barriers. 14 • Journal of the Appalachian Studies Association • Volume Seven • 1995 �Perhaps attention to a particular problem can insure vitality in future gatherings. In meetings to come, let us explore the Appalachianization of America. I do not suggest that this catch phrase connotes only a moonscape of eroded land and stranded people—stump farmers at Puget Sound, flood refugees at the Mississippi, homeless/workless souls at chained factory gates in countless hamlets. Cannot mountain modes of intertwined self-reliance and sharing serve as national templates? I return to pictures on the cognitive screen of Twin Peaks' flanks as well as those in Big Stone Gap, Hiwassee, Red Jacket, and Laurel Bloomery. To close: although my studies occupy old-fashioned space, I confess an occasional stroll down deconstruction's path. With such liberty, it seems proper to question our conference rubric. Am I the only one present who finds 'The Politics of Culture" semantically unstable? Do its dual elements combine easily? Does it convey clear meaning? Many Americans use politics to signal campaign hoopla, within-theBeltway intrigue, or White House broken promises. Others hear politics as naming a mansion that holds a "Do Not Enter" sign. Culture, too, fares poorly, calling up long-hair music, formless poetry, and abstract art, as well as exclusionary prestige. Both words rumble dissonantly. Although social scientists try to rescue their respective guides from debasement, the gulf remains deep between the language of town and gown. Here, one falls back upon anecdotal rather than quantitative data. I do not sense that citizens (other than at professional meetings) join culture to politics in everyday speech. I doubt that wide currency will validate our usage. In assessing the rubric's future, we shall have to look at other earcatching coinages such as Partners for Peace to deny or delay NATO membership to former Soviet captive nations, and sustainable development to suggest compatibility between extractive industry, economic growth, corporate greed, and regard for the earth's finite capacity. The phrase 'The Politics of Culture" does not reach the status of a recognized oxymoron, yet it whispers ambiguity. Despite concern for problems in speech and print usage, a term may yet emerge to describe the state's multiple power-granting and powerdenying drives that encircle ordinary lives. New words, in time, do fill social vacuums. Metaphorically, we need to open a tool box for cross-cut hand saws and honed chisels that march across the grain of soft and hard woods, that aid the mechanic in cutting through knots and pitch pockets. Let's not put our conference on hold until the right blades appear at the local hardware store, or until the final word hitches a ride on the next space ship. Ultimately, 'The Politics of Culture," as a rubric, will dissatisfy leftist partisans for obscuring direct action. Similarly, rightists will reject the phrase for its threat to "family values" and other verities. 1995 • Volume Seven • Journal of the Appalachian Studies Association • 15 �No single formula can, or should, promise all Americans access to one shining path. With the best tools at hand, with or without adequate vocabularies, and conscious of danger, some Appalachians will demystify their cultural constructs by placing them on the widest bench of social force, while others will attend these same expressive forms with minute details of craft. Together, mountain artisans of large and small hand must build constant dialogue on imagery, power, and community. Our meeting participants—in order to mark and hold the core of Appalachian identity—shape seals and grails. We use such jeweled ornaments to name bunkers in America's political jungle, to find coalition partners, or to frame formulas for ending poverty or insuring peace. We seek respect for diversity, clarity in expression, and cheer in companionship. Whether crafting a plain wooden seal or a decorated silver grail, we need to step away from work-shop or tool-bench. We need to stake out a vantage point on these mountains, verdant or denuded, from which to see as far as Port-au-Prince and Phnom Penh, Sarajevo and San Francisco. Works Cited Ardery, Julia. 1995. Edgar Tolson, Woodcarver. Ph.D. diss., University of Kentucky. Cantwell, Robert. 1993. Ethnomimesis: Folklife and the Representation of Culture. Chapel Hill: University of North Carolina Press. Cunningham, Rodger. 1987. Apples on the Flood; The Southern Mountain Experience. Knoxville: University of Tennessee Press. Dorman, Robert. 1993. Revolt of the Provinces: The Regionalist Movement in America, 1920-1945. Chapel Hill: University of North Carolina Press. Fisher, Stephen. 1993. Fighting Back in Appalachia: Traditions of Resistance and Change. Philadelphia: Temple University Press. Green, Archie. 1972. Only a Miner: Studies in Recorded Coal-Mining Songs. Urbana: University of Illinois Press. Hufford, Mary. 1994. Conserving Culture: A New Discourse on Heritage. Urbana: University of Illinois Press. Hulton, Paul. 1984. America 1585: The Complete Drawings of John White. Chapel Hill: University of North Carolina Press. Mason, Bobbie Ann. 1993. "Recycling Kentucky." New Yorker 1 November: 50-62. 16 • Journal of the Appalachian Studies Association • Volume Seven • 1995 �Norman, Gurney. 1993. "This Side of the Mountain: The Kentucky Cycle." Appalachian Heritage 21(Winter): 3-5. Sayles, John. 1987. Matewan. Film, 132 min. Cinecom Intl. Released on video 1988, VHS/Beta, Warner Home Video, Inc. Tsing, Anna. 1994. In the Realm of the Diamond Queen: Marginality in an Outof-the-Way Place. Princeton: Princeton University Press. Whisnant, David. 1983. All That Is Native and Fine: The Politics of Culture in an American Region. Chapel Hill: University of North Carolina Press. Williamson, Jerry. Forthcoming. Hillbillyland: What the Movies Did to the Mountains and What the Mountains Did to the Movies. Chapel Hill: University of North Carolina Press. Archie Green, who lives in San Francisco, is a retired professor of English and folklore at the University of Texas, Austin, and the author of Only a Miner: Studies in Recorded Coal-Mining Songs and Wobblies, Pile Butts, and Other Heroes: Laborlore Explorations. 1995 • Volume Seven • Journal of the Appalachian Studies Association • 17 �Out in the Mountains: Exploring Lesbian and Gay Lives Kate Black and Marc A. Rhorer This research focuses on the lives of gays and lesbians and their experiences growing up in the mountains. The idea for this project began when Marc wanted to do a research paper on lesbians and gays in Appalachia and asked Kate, curator of the University of Kentucky Appalachian Collection, about prior research on the subject. Kate said, There isn't anything." A few months later, while returning from the 1993 Appalachian Studies conference, we decided to present something about lesbians and gays at the 1994 conference. Though neither one of us is from the mountains, we both grew up in the rural South. Being gay and lesbian, we both knew other lesbians and gays in Lexington who grew up in the mountains. We hope that this exploratory work-inprogress will stimulate other researchers to include gays and lesbians in the conversation of Appalachian Studies. We talked with five lesbians and four gay men from Eastern Kentucky, West Virginia, East Tennessee, and Western North Carolina ranging in ages from twenty to forty-five, in focused interviews. Only one of the interviewees continues to live in the mountains; the other eight live in Lexington and Louisville, Kentucky. All are white. We plan to interview others who have remained in the mountains. Participants were asked to allow their recorded interviews to become part of the oral history collection at the University of Kentucky, and most agreed. Before the interviews, we agreed on areas to explore: coming out experiences, homophobia, AIDS-phobia, and community building. Using a grounded research approach, an inductive method, we found several common themes in the rich stories of the participants: feelings of isolation, the 18 • Journal of the Appalachian Studies Association • Volume Seven • 1995 �importance of community, fears from inside and outside the closet, various forms of oppression and discrimination, and identity. Feelings of Isolation When we asked people to talk about the differences between being gay in the mountains and in urban areas, every interviewee expressed feelings of isolation in the mountains. While growing up, participants said, they had no one to turn to for guidance, support, and information when they began realizing they were homosexual. People felt there were no others with same-sex attractions, even to the extreme that some did not know gays or lesbians existed. When some participants mentioned the possibility of moving back to the mountains, they noted that the most difficult part would be coping with the isolation from other gays and lesbians. One interviewee made contacts in Lexington before moving back home to insure some access to the gay community. Among a few participants there was a sense that mass-communication technology (particularly cable/satellite television) has the potential to reduce feelings of isolation by providing young lesbians and gays in the mountains access to non-heterosexist images. The interviewees expressed feelings of isolation in a variety of ways. A lesbian put on academic probation her first year at Morehead State University in Morehead, Kentucky, said, "A lot of the problem was I discovered the gay community. I never knew one existed. It was unbelievable! Every other person was gay" (5 1993). A gay man, speaking of his high school friends whom he now knows are gay, said, "At the time I thought they were people I got along well with, but I didn't realize why . . . I didn't know people who were gay" (7 1993). One of the interviewees often gives talks on homophobia at Kentucky colleges. Once when she was at Morehead State, a young man came up to her afterwards and asked, "How old did you say you were?" She answered, "Forty-two." Then he said, "You're the same age as my Mama. I didn't know there were any gay or lesbian people as old as my mama!" (2 1993). Another lesbian said, "The saddest part to me about growing up in the mountains as a gay person is that. . . you end up feeling like an outsider; you've got no one to talk to about these strange feelings you have and you have to end up like lots of young people growing up gay, being isolated, and you think about killing yourself 'cause you're so strange" (6 1993). One lesbian who came out to herself when she was thirteen found out the definition of lesbian when she "went to the public library and looked up 'homosexuality'... . There was absolutely no one to talk to" (5 1993). One young gay man explained, 'To be gay in Clay City [Kentucky], it's hard" but it is harder out in the county where there isn't access to cable TV. He said, "MTV is preaching 'Free Your Mind' [but] your mind is not going to be free if you don't live inside the city limits" (9 1993). 1995 • Volume Seven • Journal of the Appalachian Studies Association • 19 �Finding a Community This sense of isolation greatly diminished when people moved from the mountains to the city because in the urban setting they could meet and be with other gays and lesbians. While finding a community of other gays and lesbians was crucial, ironically, an increased feeling of anonymity in the city was equally important. Anonymity, which many could not obtain at home, allowed greater freedom from the scrutiny of those who might condemn them; most people expressed a much greater sense of comfort about being out in the city. In contrast, at home people felt as if they were under surveillance and subjects of the gossip networks, even after moving away to the city. However, several people mentioned a positive aspect of the tightly-knit nature of rural community: if a person came from an established family lineage in the mountains, she or he was less likely to be harassed for being lesbian or gay. While discussing the differences between being gay in the mountains and in Lexington, one gay man said, "When you move to a bigger city, your reputation doesn't necessarily have that much weight. . . ." (3 1994). A lesbian summed it up this way: "Appalachian queers migrate out of there . .. the few that do live there are usually not totally rejected by the family but rejected by the community. They'll be real kind [to your face] but still say stuff behind your back" (5 1993). A woman who came out in the late 1960s and came often to the gay bar in Lexington said, "You had community [at The Bar], which gave you family, family of choice" (6 1993). A gay man made a similar assessment about his life in Lexington two decades later: "Living here, there's a lot more opportunities . . . to meet those of your kind—a lover, a boyfriend, a fuck buddy. ... to live in Clay City, I wouldn't want to do that. . . it's just not open enough" (9 1993). One interviewee sees himself as both insider and outsider, a perspective from which he can examine the tension between the two. When he was eight he and his mother moved back to her family's community after years of living in Ohio. He described both his parents as coming from old Eastern Kentucky families. He said, "If someone comes in from the outside—straight or gay—it doesn't make any difference. They are going to have a very difficult time fitting into the community. If, however, they are from this long lineage, they will find it much easier to be who they are, regardless if they're gay or straight" (3 1994). All the interviewees were asked to talk about how they found other lesbians and gays, either in the mountains or in their city homes. We found a variety of creative responses: "You go to the gym, you find gym rats" (6 1993). "[I]t takes one to know one" (9 1993). "In Boone [North Carolina], there was a lesbian softball league. It wasn't an official lesbian softball league, it just happened that most people on it were probably lesbian. . . . There was a student group. A lot of people would go 20 • Journal of the Appalachian Studies Association • Volume Seven • 1995 �to a regional gay bar.. . . Recently, I know of people in Boone who get on e-mail and try to meet people that way" (7 1993). "Gaydar" (2 1993).1 Finally, several people mentioned being invited to lesbian and gay parties, especially in mountain college towns. Identity and Community We believe that identity and community are intricately linked. Since they can sometimes be in opposition, we were curious about how people reconciled this. For instance, we wondered if people identified themselves as both gay and Appalachian. While everyone readily identified themselves as gay or lesbian, we found that many people seemed to avoid directly addressing their Appalachian identities. In addition, some of the interviewees had not resolved their sense of conflict over being from the mountains. One man referred to his "trapped" life in the mountains, equating living in the mountains with cultural isolation: "If I was trapped in Clay City, I would be myself, just like I was when I was trapped there. . . . Information and exposure to different cultures and different people is what really changes minds.. . . That's what causes accents, when people are trapped up in the mountains" (9 1993). The youngest of the interviewees, who is twenty, proudly said, "People are surprised when they find out where I'm from. . . . [My friends] say, 'I can't believe you turned out the way you did'" (8 1993). The one participant who has continued to live in Eastern Kentucky readily identified herself as Appalachian: "It's home, this is where the roots are" (6 1993). Another lesbian, describing what being Appalachian means to her, said, "It's the family, the heritage" (5 1993). One man, who used to live in Boone, expressed conflict over wanting to move back to the mountains but was not sure it is possible for him. Yet, in Boone, he feels a certain freedom not found in Lexington. "I feel sometimes people [in Boone] know me more as a person than as a gay person" (7 1993). Facing Fears Since all the interviewees expressed an overwhelmingly greater sense of freedom and ability to be out in the city, we wanted to know how the dimensions of the "closet" change with a move to the city. We asked people to talk about what was scary or fearful about being out at home versus being out in the city. Though fear of being out was experienced in the city, the participants all noted that the situation was more hostile in the mountains for gays and lesbians. Males experienced much more physical aggression at home and seemed to have a limited definition of the term "fear," equating it with the threat of physical violence. We also found that males endured much verbal taunting in junior high and high school. Males and females both told stories of physical violence and 1995 • Volume Seven • Journal of the Appalachian Studies Association • 21 �verbal taunting directed toward gay males in the mountains. For females fear included psychological as well as physical violence. Women seemed to sustain more social ostracism (i.e., from family, friends, and church) and/or were forced into psychiatric care for a "cure." None of the men reported being sent to a therapist. Men were tormented because those around them suspected they were gay, while women were more likely to face threatening conditions if they were caught being sexual with a woman. However, one interviewee contradicted this representation when she told of local police cruising places where teenagers parked. She said when she was caught making out with her girlfriend, the police would generally laugh and tell them to go home, but when her gay male friends were caught, they were likely to be brutalized. When asked about fear, a man said, "I've been scared that people would find out. I've been scared that if people knew I was gay, I would lose my job, people would say something to me, that I wouldn't have any recourse, wouldn't have any place to go." He went on to say how he was scared to kiss his lover good-bye when he dropped him off for work. Also, he feared "they'd hear my partner and I and they would come and bust down the doors and get us," a fear grounded in the North Carolina sodomy law (7 1993). Another gay man said, "I've heard stories of incredible physical violence against [gay] people." Then he told the story of a man in Breathitt County, Kentucky, who was killed and dismembered by local people because he was thought to be gay (3 1993). A lesbian said that one of her gay male friends was stabbed twenty-seven times while shopping in a country store in West Virginia, solely because he was homosexual. Several males noted they were persistently taunted with words like "fag" and "sissy" throughout their adolescent schooling. A lesbian, who left her truck overnight at a body shop, said, 'While it was there someone painted on the tailgate [near the pink triangle and rainbow decals] 'die fag5 and slashed the two back tires." She explained that the perpetrator probably thought the truck was owned by a man because of the reference to "fag" (4 1994). While describing the social ostracism she experienced, one lesbian said, "When I was in the eighth grade .. . because I came out to a couple of my friends . . . that proceeded to get me ostracized from overnight parties and church. . . ." (4 1994). One of the participants had a relationship during high school that was discovered by her girlfriend's parents. The parents came to a motel room where the two young women were staying for a softball tournament and pulled their daughter out of the room at 4:00 A.M. Another lesbian, who had a relationship with her teacher at Berea College, said "It turned out to be pretty devastating for both of us. She lost her job over it. I became this crisis point in my family. They decided I needed psychiatric help." After Berea College 22 • Journal of the Appalachian Studies Association • Volume Seven • 1995 �officials exposed her to her parents, she was caught by her mother at her lover's house at 1:00 A.M. She ended with: "Here was this woman corrupting some poor little Appalachian girl who obviously didn't know what she was doing." At this point Kate and the interviewee started giggling and Kate said, "Yeah, you're supposed to be making brooms." Then she finished, "yeah, or spoon bread at the Tavern!" (6 1993). Levels of Discrimination Gays and lesbians face discrimination both in the mountains and in the city. We defined "discrimination" as the public/civil face of homophobia, as did interviewees. Not surprisingly, gays and lesbians who work with children or young adults appear very susceptible to discrimination. We heard the story of two teachers in the mountains who were fired because they were rumored to be homosexual. One participant, who is out in most parts of her life, says she would never come out at her job working with school children in Eastern Kentucky because she "would be fired in a heartbeat" (5 1993). Many people expressed fear of being out at their jobs in the city, even when they did not work with children, because they were afraid of being fired or passed over for raises or promotions. Two of the participants told stories about gay bars that involved discrimination or the threat of it. These incidents gain even more importance because bars as public meeting places are historically central to the gay and lesbian community. One woman told of police surveillance behind The Bar in Lexington to observe those who went in and out. A man spoke about a gay bar owner in Huntingdon, West Virginia who did not want to be associated with anything "political," in this case having an AIDS literature table in his bar. The interviewee said the bar owner felt too vulnerable to actions of the local authorities and, therefore, did not want to do anything to call attention to his bar or his clientele. A gay man told the story of how a lesbian high school teacher in North Carolina lost her job. One of her students believed the teacher was a lesbian and "prayed for her" publicly at church. She was fired "on the pretext that she cussed in class . . . but it was well known that it was because she was a lesbian" (7 1993). Recently in Lexington, a woman noted, "I can't prove anything from this, but I would swear I'm being discriminated against at my job. After I'd been working there for three months, one of the people who was in middle management took me into his office and told me that I shouldn't be working there because of my sexual orientation and that there was no reason for me to come back . . . apparently he forgot to tell anyone else this and the next time my shift rolled around I got a call asking me where I was. So I went in, didn't say anything about it, and I've been working there ever since" (4 1994). Several of the interviewees told stories of discrimination at public 1995 • Volume Seven • Journal of the Appalachian Studies Association - 23 �meeting places. In Boone in the late 1980s, a group of gays who were not students wanted to start an off-campus gay organization and meeting place. Bomb and death threats were made. The police provided protection and "were pretty good about dealing with i t . . . people would have to come in around the police when these meetings first went on" (7 1993). A lesbian who went frequently to the gay bar in Lexington during the early 1970s said, "it was frightening, going to The Bar. It was rough, tough. Police cars parked out back. People said, 'don't drive your car, they're taking down license plate numbers,' so there was all that harassment. So coming to the bar was not only an act of celebration, but an act of defiance" (6 1993). AIDS-phobia We also asked people to talk about AIDS. We included AIDS-phobia in the discussions about various forms of homophobia, since the two have been viciously linked ever since the early days of the epidemic when AIDS was called GRID—Gay-Related Immune Deficiency. Surprisingly, one of the gay men interviewed did not know anyone who is HIV positive or has AIDS. Everyone acknowledged that AIDS-phobia exists, but did not seem to think it was more rampant one place or the other, except for one man who said he'd experienced more AIDS-phobia in Lexington—by both the straight and gay community—than in the mountains. He correlated AIDS-phobia with a higher HIV incidence in Lexington. Two people said that because they stick closely to the lesbian and gay community, or are outspoken advocates for the lesbian/gay community and for people with AIDS, they are not as likely to hear AIDS-phobic remarks and discussions. When asked if she heard AIDS-phobic statements at home, one woman said, "More than anything else. More than homophobia, more than racist things . . . it's not really [expressed] as trashing people with AIDS, it is just terror that they're gonna get it" (5 1993). There were a few who said they had experienced people relating AIDS directly with homosexuality. One man noted that when he told his grandmother he was gay, the first thing she said was, "You're gonna get AIDS!" He noted that she is an intelligent, politically aware woman, yet she immediately connected being gay with AIDS (8 1993). A lesbian said that when she comes out to people, they often respond with "Aren't you afraid of AIDS?" This same woman, who works at an urban YMCA, stated employees must take an AIDS awareness class. The Y*s policy is to notify the supervisor if an HIV positive person is in a class or program. This information is passed up the ladder to the executive director. The interviewee pointed out to her co-workers at a post-class discussion that no one needed to know this information. The purpose of the AIDS awareness course was to treat anyone who is injured as if they were infected to 24 • Journal of the Appalachian Studies Association • Volume Seven • 1995 �prevent infecting anyone else. "[I] was . . . knocked down by everyone else in the room, saying that it didn't matter, they [YMCA employees] deserve to know because they work with these children and adults and if they were infected they [YMCA employees] were going to treat them differently," she said (4 1994). Internalizing Homophobia Like racism, homophobia is not only perpetrated by those who dominate, but is also internalized by those who are dominated. The internalized homophobia was sometimes acted out in religious proselytizing. One of our participants noted she knew a lesbian couple and used the Bible to try to convince them that their sexuality was a sin, prior to her own coming out in high school. Organized religion played an important part in most of the interviewees' lives—socially, morally, and spiritually. We found that many had deep inner struggles over their homosexuality, rooted in religious notions of sin and guilt. Two of the lesbians, however, resisted the oppression and repression of the church by questioning and railing against it. One woman, at a young age, was able to transform her questioning into a belief in social justice. For most of the interviewees, the extreme isolation contributed to their internalized homophobia. Many spoke movingly of the need to help lesbian and gay young people in the mountains know they are not abnormal or alone. Many suggested lesbian and gay visibility as a partial solution to this problem. Here are some of the responses of the interviewees about these internalized conflicts: "[T]he church was the only social outlet in the town. So I wasn't going to church so much for religious/spiritual reasons as I was for social reasons. In fact, I learned quite early to keep my mouth shut when discussing the Bible and other issues because I asked too many questions that the answer was always 'pray about it and you'll see the truth'" (4 1994). "I really struggled with religion and going to hell . . . I really did not want to be gay. I've had a hard time accepting it. ... probably the last five years it has gotten easy" (5 1993). A gay man, one of the youngest interviewees, went to Mass every day when he was thirteen and prayed, "Why do I have to be different? Why can't I be like everyone else?" He concluded, "I would hate for another generation of gay people to have to grow up and feel alienated, to feel like they are outcasts. . . . I consider myself, in a way, one of the lucky people who have finally been able to draw themselves into another community and find other people like themselves, so that they don't end up being drug addicts, or jumping off a bridge, or hanging themselves just because they have no role models, have no other friends that they can come out to. ... They need someone to show them that they're OK, that they're not bad, that they're not going to hell " (9 1993). 1995 • Volume Seven • Journal of the Appalachian Studies Association • 25 �Some Last Words Marc A. Rhorer: We have examined various aspects of the lives of gays and lesbians from the mountains. All of our participants addressed issues that revealed difficulties related to growing up homosexual in Appalachia. There are several areas which need further attention, specifically class differences and race. The differences in educational backgrounds of participants' families deserves further exploration. A few interviewees noted that their families were more racist than homophobic. All of those who participated in this project have exhibited courage in many aspects of their lives. They have overcome a multitude of obstacles in their paths and have emerged to lead positive lives that are a reflection of their true selves. Though some participants were reluctant to identify themselves as Appalachian, they still expressed a sense of compassion for the gay and lesbian youth who inhabit the region. This expression of humanity came at the close of our interviews when we asked if there was any issue we had not covered that they would like to speak about. In some way, perhaps the sincerity of these people's stories can pave the way for a better understanding of what it is like to grow up gay or lesbian in the mountains, and foster the acceptance of future generations. Kate Black: Several gaps and some problems emerged from our research methods. For example, class differences and perspectives appear in the interviews, yet we did not really probe our interviewees with questions about class. We did not address the subject of gender with the interviewees, but we did extract gender differences from the material. Several people brought up the categories of "butch" and "fern" for lesbians and "butch" and "queen" for gay men and these need to be explored further. For example, one gay man said, "People [he means gay men] in rural areas of Kentucky and North Carolina tend to be queenier. It is like they try to mesh with the stereotype of gay people more than people in larger cities who feel free to emulate other things" (7 1993). The statement possibly provides a window into class and gender differences, roles (both chosen and prescribed), internalized homophobia, varying notions about power and resistance, and, maybe, rural and urban dissonance. Even with the additional voluminous work that this research requires, begs really, the stories of these lesbians and gay men growing up in Appalachia are important for their own sake. Each person we interviewed, in his or her own way, contributes to the spirit conveyed by that favorite Queer Nation chant, "We're here, we're queer, we're fabulous, get used to it." 26 • Journal of the Appalachian Studies Association • Volume Seven • 1995 �Finally for me as a lesbian researcher, doing this work was often very emotional and, at times, painful. After all, the struggles of the lesbian and gay participants were not really any different from my own. But there was another potent theme in all the stories: desire. Together, the pain and the desire seemed to produce this incredible resistance to the ever-lurking and pressing homophobia and heterosexism. I think I finally understand, in a very rooted way, Foucault's statement, "Where there is power, there is resistance." Note 1 Ed. Note: "Gaydar" is a "sixth sense" many gay people have developed and is a pun on the word "radar." Interviews Cited 1. 1993. Female, twenty-eight years old. Interview with authors. Lexington, Ky., 16 December. 2. 1993. Female, forty-five years old. Interview with authors. Lexington, Ky., 27 October. 3. 1994. Male, thirty-seven years old. Interview with authors. Lexington, Ky., 23 January. 4. 1994. Female, twenty-one years old. Interview with authors. Lexington, Ky., 15 February. 5. 1993. Female, twenty-eight years old. Interview with authors. Lexington, Ky., 12 August. 6. 1993. Female, forty-three years old. Interview with authors. Lexington, Ky., 19 October. 7. 1993. Male, twenty-eight years old. Interview with authors. Lexington, Ky., 15 December. 8. 1993. Male, twenty years old. Interview with authors. Lexington, Ky., 10 December. 9. 1993. Male, twenty-three years old. Interview with authors. Lexington, Ky., 14 September. Kate Black is a graduate student of sociology and the curator of the Appalachian 1995 • Volume Seven • Journal of the Appalachian Studies Association • 27 �Collection at the University of Kentucky Library. Marc A. Rhorer is a graduate student of sociology and an academic advisor in the College of Business and Economics at the University of Kentucky. 28 • Journal of the Appalachian Studies Association • Volume Seven • 1995 �"You've Got to Get the Music in Your Feet:" Old-Time Dancing in African American and European American Communities in Southwest Virginia Susan Eike Spalding Old-time square dancing and footwork dancing, variously known as flatfooting or clogging, have, since Cecil Sharp's visit to the Central Appalachian region, been perceived as purely Anglo-Saxon dance forms. However, Sharp himself describes movement and musical attributes with African sources, such as the backbeat, but never mentions African American Appalachians performing the music or dancing (Cantwell 1984, 130-131). Bascom Lamar Lunsford collected music and probably observed dancing among African Americans in the Asheville, North Carolina area, but never presented African American performers at his Asheville Dance and Folk Festival (Whisnant 1979-80). In living memory old-time dancing has, at least in Southwest Virginia, been popular among both African Americans and European Americans. Presently, oldtime dancing is a regular entertainment in only a few communities of each ethnic group. This paper considers factors contributing to the continuity of the square dance in one European American square-dance community in Fancy Gap, Virginia, and one African American square-dance commu1995 • Volume Seven • Journal of the Appalachian Studies Association • 29 �nity outside of Martinsville, Virginia. I use the term "dance community" to refer to people drawn together for the dancing. The group in each case is interest-based rather than geographically-based. Though most dancers live near each other, all members of the geographical community are not involved, and some dancers come from outside the immediate area.1 Aside from their ethnicity, the two communities, which are only about an hour's drive apart, are demographically similar, being primarily composed of working individuals with an attachment to the land and to the agrarian lifestyle in which they grew up. Many work in furniture or textile factories, in sawmills, or in small businesses, and keep a small farm or large garden on the side. As the city of Martinsville has grown, the rural areas surrounding it have become more suburbanized. Near Fancy Gap several large manufacturing towns such as Fries and Galax provided entertainment during the first half of the century, but in recent years many plants have closed and the towns have become smaller, leaving the area more rural. In both cases, old-time dancing grows out of the local neighborhood and involves a network of interlocking families. In looking at the dancing of these two communities, the stylistic and structural similarities suggest adherence to cultural values that cross ethnic lines. In fact, it would be easy to identify many of Loyal Jones's Appalachian values embodied in the dancing of both communities (1973).2 The differences in style and structure suggest two variations on regional culture, one African American and one European American. In the European American community of Fancy Gap, square dancing has become increasingly popular during the last quarter century, and now weekly dances draw as many as three hundred people of all ages. In an African American community near Martinsville, the form remains a passion for a small group, but fewer and fewer have participated so that today it exists as an occasional, spontaneous, home- and family-based recreation. Examination of the reasons for these changes has implications for the study of the continuity and evolution of traditional cultural expression in general, and Appalachian traditions in particular. The line of analysis presented here moves from specific features of the dancing in each community to its immediate context, and finally to the influence of national trends upon local choices. My work is predicated upon the concept that in movement, particularly structured movement such as dance, a group enacts beliefs about itself. This concept is related to Allen Batteau's assertion that "the logic of Appalachian culture is a logic of underlying structures, or paradigms. These structures are shared understandings, embodied in social arrangements" (Batteau, 1979-80, 18). Batteau refers to large organizational 30 • Journal of the Appalachian Studies Association • Volume Seven • 1995 �structures such as kinship networks and neighborhoods. One might also look at square dancing as a micro-social arrangement because it is an organizational structure in which a group of people chooses ways to define itself in space and to establish relations among its members. Square dancing can be seen as enacting a community's idealized vision of its structure, what the role of the individual should be within that community, and how the community should relate to the individual. Analysis of the movement is the core of this examination. In the description which follows, it becomes apparent that in Martinsville the dance seems to exist to support the individual, while in Fancy Gap the individual seems to dance in order to reinforce the community. These facts may impact upon the contracting of the former and the growth of the latter dance community. The Dancing Described3 As it appears today, old-time dancing has developed over the course of three centuries, as dancers have made choices from available movement vocabularies—European, African, and Native American—and have included elements of popular dance forms such as the Charleston (Spalding 1993). The dancing of both African Americans and European Americans shares formal and stylistic elements, with some distinctive variations, and may have evolved in part through mutual influence (Szwed and Marks 1988). At both Fancy Gap and Martinsville, old-time square dancing consists of a circle for any number of couples (Johnson and Spalding 1990; Lornell 1979). The middle portion of the dance incorporates patterns for two couples dancing together. For each community, the center of the circle is very important, but in different ways. Improvisational footwork, which in both cases is intimately connected with the music, continues throughout the square dance. The style is similar: dancers keep their feet very close to the floor, close together and directly under the body, with minimal leg gestures. The dancer is reserved, keeping the torso almost vertical with no visible movement of shoulders, and letting the arms swing easily by the sides. Knees bend and stretch resiliently on every beat.4 In Martinsville's African American square dance, dancers maintain the shape of the circle throughout, with individual solos and interaction of couples and sets of four taking place in the center.5 The dancers in the circle pat their hands and move their feet continuously while others dance in the center. The most important part of the dance is the solo in the center, called "Choose Your Partner," after which the soloist picks someone of the opposite sex to dance with in the center of the circle. The partner swing lasts as much as thirty-two counts, and is almost equal in intensity to the "Choose Your Partner" solo. Each square dance includes 1995 • Volume Seven • Journal of the Appalachian Studies Association • 31 �the same two-couple set, "Change Partners," in which men and women take hands and pass around each other in a figure eight, and then swing the opposite partner. In the European American square-dance community of Fancy Gap, after the initial circle, all couples join in sets of four for the "main dance," often diving into the center of the circle to find others to dance with. They sacrifice the shape of the circle for maximum interaction. They choose different partners for almost every one of the eight square dances in an evening. The partner swing, a fluid transitional four-count movement, leads from the end of one four-person pattern into the beginning of the next. The four-person pattern is the most important part of the dance, the main dance. Several are performed in an evening, but only once during each square dance, repeated many times, each time with a new couple. "Georgia Alabam," similar to Martinsville's "Change Partners," is the favorite. Others include "Chase the Squirrel," "Lady Round the Lady," and 'The Golden Gate." The end of the square dance is characterized by two or more large group patterns. For example, the entire group may parade down the floor in ranks of two, four, and eight, weave around each other in snakelike patterns, or loop around the space in giant figure eights, single file or with a partner. Why has the Fancy Gap dance community grown while the Martinsville dance community has diminished, despite demographic similarities and shared stylistic and structural elements in the dancing?6 To attribute the difference strictly to social and economic disparities due to ethnicity is too facile. I believe that the answer lies in part in characteristics of both the dancing and the dance event,7 in the strength of the supporting institution, and in the expectations of the communities influenced by regional and national trends. My examination is informed by the work of two sociologists: Wendy Griswold and Michael Schudson. Schudson in particular offers a scheme for determining the potency of a cultural object—in this case, old-time square dancing—examining retrievability, institutional retention, resonance, rhetorical force, and resolution.8 Martinsville In the African American community near Martinsville, square dancing has been retrievable in homes within an interlocking network of families. Now one family in particular—headed by fiddler Leonard Bowles and his wife, dancer Naomi Bowles—serves as the retaining institution and carries the tradition. Those who square dance grew up in the country. Some continue to live outside of town on small farms, although the city has grown to the point that its boundaries almost touch the Bowles's property. The community had its own lodge halls and club 32 • Journal of the Appalachian Studies Association • Volume Seven • 1995 �houses, and occasionally held square dances in those locations, but this never became a regular practice. The single exception was Martinsville's Black Fiddler's Convention, hosted annually by Doctor Dana Baldwin from 1928 to 1945, which included old-time dancing (Virginia Traditions 1978). By contrast, three hours west of Martinsville, in the Coalfields of Southwest Virginia, square dancing was regularly held in African American schools as recently as the 1940s (Kincaid and Kincaidl992). This was not the case in the Martinsville area or in the Blue Ridge where square dancing and old-time music have continued to be homeand family-based entertainment in African American communities (Lewis and O'Donnell 1990, 178). Though economic disparity may play a role in this circumstance, I feel that the definition of square dancing as a private, family, and community-centered event also has an impact. According to Leonard Bowles, square dancing in the home was "in full bloom" in the 1960s. With the assistance of the Blue Ridge Institute, members of their dance community performed at the National Folklife Festival and elsewhere in the late 1970s, but in recent years square dancing has become rarer, occurring today only at occasional family gettogethers (Bowles and Bowles 1992). The rhetorical force which draws people back to the dancing results from two things: the footwork, of which Naomi Bowles says, "You can feel the music within your feet" (Bowles and Bowles 1992), and the solo in the center of the circle, called "Choose Your Partner," which serves as competition with other dancers in terms of skill, and also as display to attract a partner of the opposite sex. Leonard Bowles points to the solo in the center as the most distinctive feature of this square dance, making it "altogether different" from European American square dancing. The circle contains and witnesses both individual virtuosity and partner interaction. The resolution of the dancing is the idealized social arrangement which establishes community support of the individual and the couple. As is the case throughout Southwest Virginia, many young people have moved away from the community and established families and professional lives. When they come home, they frequently initiate dancing with its individual footwork in the circle, and the Bowles's grown son instructs his students in square dancing in the school where he teaches. However, because young adults are not a large part of the dance community, the construction of the couple within the supportive community circle no longer has the importance it once did. For the Martinsville dance community, old-time square dancing resonates with the tradition of cooperation and individuality which pervades the agrarian lifestyle of the region as described by Ron Eller (1982). Discussion of the dancing is always surrounded by descriptions of older ways of farming and communal work such as quilting and corn- 1995 • Volume Seven • Journal of the Appalachian Studies Association • 33 �shucking. Into the 1940s, square dances here served the function of rent parties (though they were not so-called) with a different family claiming each weekend and charging money for refreshments as a way of supplementing income. The community thus supported the couple through the dance event as well as in the dance itself. The dance event no longer provides the opportunity for community material support of individual families, but its structure carries some of the same individual-community interaction. Improvisational footwork is encouraged and said to be important to good dancing, but it must never disrupt the rhythm and interaction of the whole group. Even the virtuoso solo must not "run on too long," according to caller Ernest Brooks. He describes the importance of everyone working cooperatively together for the success of the dance (Brooks 1992). Community support for the individual and the individual's responsibility to the community resonate with other aspects of their traditions. However, the dancing's rural cooperative heritage may have resulted in a certain negative resonance, causing the square dance to wane, since many African Americans in the region attribute lower status to "country," and higher status to "city." Mr. Bowles makes reference to people moving to town and leaving square dancing behind. Fancy Gap The European American Fancy Gap dance event is eminently retrievable. Old-time dancing moved permanently from the home to public venues such as stores and lodge halls in the 1950s. One particular dance event has been held every Friday night since 1971, drawing 300 or more people weekly. Its reputation has spread beyond the local community, and people travel up to an hour to attend. Newcomers are readily welcomed, and regulars are pleased to teach the dancing. It is easy to find and easy to learn. The retaining institution is the Fancy Gap elementary school and its PTA. The school is literally (geographically) and figuratively the center of the community. The event is organized by Charlotte Bevil, the daughter of a caller, and member of a generations-old dancing family. An important outcome of this dance event is fundraising for the PTA. By paying admission to the dance event, individuals support the future of the community through its children. In the Fancy Gap area, no dance event run for private gain has enjoyed longevity of more than a year or two, while this one has endured for 23 years (Bevil 1989). Two structural features provide the rhetorical force which keeps people coming back. The community as a whole defines itself in space in many different ways, as spirals, figure eights surrounding the cafeteria, and arches for the others to go under. The square dancing demonstrates that the community provides ever-changing but familiar patterns 34 • Journal of the Appalachian Studies Association • Volume Seven • 1995 �through which the individual can move fluidly and with confidence. Improvisational footwork is encouraged throughout, as long as it does not disrupt the group rhythm. Calvin Cole describes the footwork by saying, "you just pat a tune with your feet" (Cole 1989). The other significant feature contributing to rhetorical force of the dancing is that the square dance is organized to ensure interaction among all individuals. In the four-person patterns, called "the main dance," each couple dances with each other pair, never joining the same couple twice. Each group of four establishes its own pace, independently of the many others who are doing the same pattern at the same time. Calvin Cole used to say, "I like to go, like the music, like to dance, like the people—like to grab first one and then the other" (Cole 1989). All the couples dive into the center of the circle to find another pair to dance with, dissolving the circle. The implication is that interaction is more important than maintaining a visible structure in space, and more important than having witnesses to the interaction. Each individual, as a member of a couple, dances curving paths around each other individual in the group, making sure to dance with as many other individuals as possible during the course of the dance. The success of the dance relies on each individual being responsive to each other individual nearby, since the pace and spacing is established cooperatively through nonverbal cues. The resolution of the square dance comes from the individual's contribution to the weaving and re-weaving of the bonds of the community, never becoming the focal point of the group as a unit. The current dance event at Fancy Gap resonates with the perceived cooperative agrarian past, having grown out of the practice of wagontraining. During the 1960s, with salaried jobs providing disposable income and leisure time, people in many Central Appalachian communities joined together in groups to ride their farm horses and wagons from one location to another. For up to a week, these wagon trains would travel by day and camp at night, often at a school ground, where the PTA might provide food and old-time music and dancing. The Carroll County Wagon Train typically concluded its annual week-long trip at Fancy Gap Elementary School. Because of the success of this event, in 1971, the PTA instituted year-round dances (Bunn and Bunn 1989). Through its association with the wagon train, old-time dancing connects with the agrarian traditions of the area. Remote Experience/National Trends Remote experience may also have had significant impact on the growth of the one and the decline of the other square dance. National trends reflected and reinforced certain aspects of, and expectations concerning, old-time music and dancing, while contradicting others, influencing the growth of the forms in one community and their near 1995 • Volume Seven • Journal of the Appalachian Studies Association • 35 �demise in another. During the 1960s the War on Poverty created two populations in the public mind: the poor white Appalachian, and the poor African American urban dweller. While European American Appalachians became stereotyped as subsistence farmers, African American Appalachians were largely ignored by the War on Poverty (Turner and Cabbell 1985). Around this same time, the folk revival movement took root, drawing public attention to older styles of music and dance. African American music was cast as Blues, overlooking string band traditions and square dancing, which were stereotyped as European American Appalachian (Zwigoff 1991). David Whisnant documents the exclusion of African American performers and audience members from the White Top Festival (1983). The nationally known Galax Old-time Fiddlers Convention has never included African Americans, according to Leonard Bowles, though African American fiddlers are in the region. He expresses disappointment that local African American guitarists received the attention of music collectors, and fiddlers did not, because the guitarists fit the collectors' preconceived image. In his book, Blacks, Whites and Blues, Tony Russell corroborates Mr. Bowles's experience. Documenting the ways in which the recording industry affected folk traditions, he says, "blues played a less dominant role among Blacks than recordings suggest" (Russell 1970, 25). Local European American old-time musicians and dancers were encouraged by the folk revival movement while local African American old-time musicians and dancers were discouraged. In 1971, in the climate of the folk revival, the Fancy Gap dance began as a regular event. It employed local old-time musicians, rather than revivalists, and attracted local dancers. However, the emerging national interest in old-time music and dancing reinforced the local preferences. The principal of Fancy Gap Elementary School proudly displays a 1978 publication of the Smithsonian Institution which includes descriptions of a square dance at Fancy Gap. Also during this period, the Black Culture and Black Power Movements were growing, focusing on urban experience and defining the African roots of that culture. African American old-time fiddlers and square dancers found themselves "doubly invisible" as Edward Cabbell says, reflected in images of neither Appalachian culture nor African American culture (Arnow 1986). Naomi Bowles identifies with the "country" or "country-Western" culture when she says that the Martinsville dancers, in preparation for their videotaping by the Blue Ridge Institute, made costumes so that they could "look like the square dancers on TV" (Bowles and Bowles 1992; Lornell 1979). Conclusion By examining significant details of the square dancing and its 36 • Journal of the Appalachian Studies Association • Volume Seven -1995 �immediate context in each of these two Southwest Virginia communities, and by seeing these details in the light of national trends, it is possible to explain the growth of one dance community and the contraction of the other. The Fancy Gap dance community has maintained itself because the resolution of the dance reinforces the bonds of community through the interaction of each dancer with all others and in support for the local school. It has grown because of the dance community's easy availability and the rhetorical force of the large group patterns and the main dance, both of which allow for the incorporation of more and more people. Additionally there was resonance through the wagon train with the local agrarian lifestyle intersecting with the national folklore revival. These factors may explain why old-time dancing has thrived here, while it occurs rarely in other European American communities. Concerning the Martinsville dance community, one might ask two questions. Why has the circle become so small? And, why has the square dance continued to the present without the support of a retaining public institution such as a school? The circle has become smaller because the resolution in the support of the couple is no longer relevant with a dwindling youthful population. Also the resonance with a former agrarian way of life has worked against the circle. The sharing of financial burdens used to be an important outcome of the dance event, but today, families have become more financially independent of each other. As a result, the retaining institution, the kinship network, has dwindled to one family. The dance has remained private and home-based, not easily available to newcomers, and has further been made invisible by national images of African American culture. The Martinsville dance community continues at present, however, because of the rhetorical force of the footwork with the opportunity for individual expression supported by the community and because of the tenacity of the Bowles family as the retaining institution. Notes 1 Por further discussion of the concept of dance community, see Paul Tyler (1992, 1-7). 2 Loyal Jones has identified the following as Appalachian values: individualism, self-reliance and pride; neighborliness and hospitality; family solidarity; personalism (relating well with others); love of place; modesty and being one's self; sense of beauty in which artistic expression is tied to functional necessities; sense of humor; religion; and patriotism (1973). 3 In both cases, I have relied on interviews with dancers, callers, and musicians to guide me in highlighting significant features of the dancing. 1995 • Volume Seven • Journal of the Appalachian Studies Association • 37 �4 For comparison, old time dancing in the Coalfields of Southwest Virginia is characterized by stomping footwork, sideward-kicking leg gestures, sharp arm movements led by the elbows, torso tilted forward from the hip joint as much as forty-five degrees, and considerable shoulder mobility. It is almost exclusively a partner or solo dance, with square dancing being a rare occurrence. 5 This matches the form of the Juba and of African American ring plays. See Jones and Hawes (1972). 6 Neither continuity nor discontinuity is good or bad in itself. Both communities choose square dancing from among many other kinds of dancing such as ballroom, Western square, hiphop, swing. This study simply examines existing situations. 7 The dance event is the occasion at which dancing occurs. It can be examined for structural, stylistic, and contextual details, separately or together with the dancing itself. 8 Griswold offers a scheme for explanation of cultural objects such as old time dancing through specification of object, agent, time frame, local sensibility, and expectations influenced by proximate (direct) and remote (distant or secondhand) experience (1987). Schudson defines the following parameters: 1) Retrievability: the cultural object must reach a person and be available socially, economically, spatially, temporally. 2) Rhetorical Force: the cultural object must have the persuasive impact to make the individual mindful of the cultural object—something which attracts attention and causes people to want to participate repeatedly. 3) Resonance: the cultural object must connect with other aspects of the traditions of the society in which it occurs—belief systems, comfort zones, other arts. These connections may be with past and present aspects, and near and distant aspects. 4) Institutional Retention: the cultural object must be supported by a local institution such as a school or church, which preserves and passes on elements of culture. 5) Resolution: the cultural object gives direction for action, or in some cases contains the resolution within itself, as in the reading of a sacred text (1989). Works Cited Arnow, Pat. 1986. "A Part and Apart," Now and Then 3 (1): 9-11. Batteau, Allen. 1979-80. "Appalachia and the Concept of Culture: A Theory of Shared Misunderstandings." In Process, Policy and Context: Contemporary Perspectives on Appalachian Culture, ed. David E. Whisnant. Appalachian Journal 7 (1-2): 9-31. Bevil, Charlotte. 1989. Interview with author. Fancy Gap, Va., 18 July. Bowles, Leonard, and Naomi Bowles. 1992. Interview with author. Martinsville, Va., 24 July. 38 • Journal of the Appalachian Studies Association • Volume Seven • 1995 �Brooks, Ernest. 1992. Interview with author. Martinsville, Va., 12 August. Bunn, Pearl, and Roncie F. Bunn. 1989. Interview with author. Fancy Gap, Va., 18 July. Cantwell, Robert. 1994. Bluegrass Breakdown: The Making of the Old Southern Sound. Urbana: University of Illinois Press. Cole, Calvin. 1989. Interview with author. Hillsville, Va., 30 June. Eller, Ronald. 1982. Miners, Millhands, and Mountaineers: The Modernization of the Appalachian South 1880-1930. Knoxville.: University of Tennessee Press. Griswold, Wendy. 1987. "A Methodological Framework for the Sociology of Culture." Sociological Methodology 17:1-35. Johnson, Anne, and Susan Spalding. 1990. Step Back Cindy: Old-time Dancing in Southwest Virginia. 1/2" VHS Videotape. Whitesburg, Ky.: Appalshop, Inc. Jones, Bessie, and Bess Lomax Hawes. 1972. Step It Down: Games, Plays, Songs and Dances from the Afro-American Heritage. New York: Harper and Row Publishers. Jones, Loyal. 1973. "Appalachian Values." In Appalachians Speak Up, ed. Irmgard Best. Berea, Ky.: Berea College. Kincaid, Earl, and Eleanor Kincaid. 1992. Interview with author. Dante, Va., 30 July. Lewis, Helen, and Suzanna O'Donnell, eds. 1990. Ivanhoe, Virginia: Telling Our Stories, Sharing Our Lives. Ivanhoe, Va.: Ivanhoe Civic League. Lornell, Kip. 1979. Way Out West. 1/2" VHS Videotape. Ferrum, Va.: Blue Ridge Institute. Russell, Tony. 1970. Blacks, Whites, and Blues. New York: Stein and Day. Schudson, Michael. 1989. "How Culture Works: Perspectives from Media Studies on the Efficacy of Symbols." Theory and Society 18:153-180. Spalding, Susan Eike. 1993. "Aesthetic Standards in Old-time Dancing in Southwest Virginia: African-American and European-American Threads." Ph.D. diss., Temple University. Szwed, John F., and Morton Marks. 1988. "The Afro-American Transformation of European Set Dances and Dance Suites." Dance Research Journal 20:29-36. 1995 • Volume Seven • Journal of the Appalachian Studies Association • 39 �Turner, William H., and Edward J. Cabbell, eds. 1985. Blacks in Appalachia. Lexington: University of Kentucky Press. Tyler, Paul Leslie. 1992. "'Sets on the Floor': Social Dance as an Emblem of Community in Rural Indiana." Ph.D. diss., Indiana University. Virginia Traditions: Non-Blues Secular Black Music. 1978. Album and accompanying booklet. Ferrum, Va.: Blue Ridge Institute. Whisnant, David E. 1983. All That Is Native and Fine: The Politics of Culture in an American Region. Chapel Hill: University of North Carolina Press. . 1979-80. "Finding the Way Between the Old and the New: The Mountain Dance and Folk Festival and Bascom Lamar Lunsford's Work as a Citizen." In Process, Policy and Context: Contemporary Perspectives on Appalachian Culture, ed. David E. Whisnant. Appalachian Journal 7 (1-2): 135-140. Zwigoff, Terry. 1991. "Black Country String Bands." American Visions February: 50-5. Susan Eike Spalding, president of the Congress on Research in Dance, holds her doctorate from Temple University and is a certified movement analyst. She currently directs the state Dance Initiative for the Minnesota Center for Arts Education. 40 - Journal of the Appalachian Studies Association • Volume Seven • 1995 �Two Gardeners of Song: Exploiters or Preservers? Linda Plaut and Lyn Wolz Recent scholarship on the folksong revival in both Great Britain and the United States has emphasized the interventionist nature of the movement. A series of charges has been made against professional folklorists: that they exploited informants for their own gain, that they used an imagined age of innocence as an excuse to keep the lower classes in their place, and that they exploited folk melodies for scholarship or composition. While we recognize the harm done by many collectors, this paper examines the work of two women who represented folk music research at its best: Annabel Morris Buchanan (1888-1983) of Marion, Virginia, and Ann Geddes Gilchrist (1863-1954) of Lancaster, England. One of the leading critics of folk intervention in this country is David Whisnant, who wrote extensively on Buchanan's work in All That Is Native and Fine. While Whisnant is careful to avoid blaming Buchanan for the racist excesses of the other leaders of the White Top Folk Festival, he does include her in the circle of city slickers who he feels manipulated the music of poorer rural folk for their own profit (Whisnant 1983). Two books present criticism similar to Whisnant's but concern the folk revival in England. Georgina Boyes, in The Imagined Village, suggests that the English Folk Revival is in fact a construction of an idyllic past that never existed: On the one hand, urban popular culture, its context and consumers, could be demonstrated to be inferior, because folk culture had such high aesthetic, academic, and historical connotations. Conversely, on the other hand, as a form of workingclass expressive culture, folksong could also be presented as evidence of the artistic creativity of the proletariat. . . . From its earliest inception, what differentiates [the Folk Revival] from 1995 • Volume Seven • Journal of the Appalachian Studies Association • 41 �earlier publication of songs and dances collected from the people is its directly interventionist nature. Folk song and dance are not to be transcribed for archival purposes or popular entertainment but used as an instrument to effect a cultural change (1993, 3-4). In his book Fakesong, Dave Harker carries the arguments of Boyes and Whisnant into a specifically Marxist context. Noting that preservation of folk culture is encouraged by repressive governments in Eastern Europe, Zimbabwe, South Africa, and Great Britain, he concludes that these states reinforce nationalism in an attempt to "fend off danger of the only power which can challenge them—international working-class solidarity" (1985, xi). While Harker does not specifically attack Gilchrist, concentrating on more famous figures such as Francis James Child and Cecil Sharp (1985, xiv), he makes his goals clear: Even in a sane world, after the revolution, it will not be possible to take concepts such as "folksong" and "ballad" out to be shot. However, they stand a fair chance of being put on trial, and then being locked up, or subjected to a lengthy period of political reeducation . . . there is no point in attempting . . . to rehabilitate such concepts. They are conceptual lumber, and they have to go (1985, xii). Against such formidable opponents, then, we spring to the defense of our two gardeners of song. It is all too easy to underestimate the contributions of Gilchrist and Buchanan to folk music research. Gilchrist, in remote Lancaster, was never as visible as the London folklorists, and she did not leave major manuscripts or published books as Cecil Sharp did, but between 1906 and 1952 she contributed more articles and annotations to the Journal of the English Folk Dance and Song Society than any other single member. As Margaret Dean-Smith pointed out, "a very great deal of Anne Gilchrist's genius—her incomparable knowledge of melody—found expression in a vast correspondence rather than in published work" (1955, 218). Cecil Sharp, Lucy Broadwood, and John Masefield are only a few of those who deferred to Gilchrist's expertise in British folk song. Buchanan, in addition to doing the lion's share of the work of organizing the White Top Folk Festival in southwestern Virginia from 1931 to 1936, gathered together almost a thousand folk songs, tunes, and variants for the National Federation of Music Clubs' American Music Project. These items were donated to the Archive of Folk Music at the Library of Congress in the early 1960s. Buchanan is similar to Gilchrist in that much of her stature as a folklorist does not depend on published works, though she did have one book and several articles published during the active part of her career. The main influence Buchanan had, 42 • Journal of the Appalachian Studies Association • Volume Seven • 1995 �however, was through her correspondence with other folklorists and through the contacts she made with classical musicians, folk musicians, composers, conductors, teachers, music club women, and publishers during the years of the White Top Folk Festival and the Virginia State Choral Festival. She was the catalyst for many a project in her efforts to bring together her two worlds—the worlds of folk music and classical music (Wolz 1983). Annabel Morris Buchanan was a composer whose involvement with folk music transformed her career. While studying the work of English folklorist Cecil Sharp, she discovered that he had adapted his modal classification of Appalachian folk songs from a system developed by collector-scholar Ann Geddes Gilchrist. In the early 1930s, the two women commenced a long and productive correspondence. Buchanan, the daughter of a minister, heard folk hymns as a child but soon began studying classical music. Specializing in piano and composition, she received a certificate from Landon Conservatory in Dallas, Texas, at the age of eighteen. The young woman married and moved to Marion, Virginia, where she became active in a variety of organizations, including gardening and music clubs. As a gardener, she transformed "three acres full of poison ivy and tin cans and wild blackberry vines" into a flower-filled paradise (Buchanan 1935, 13). As a musician, she quickly moved into positions of leadership in local, state, and regional branches of the American Federation of Music Clubs (Wolz 1983, 4). It was as president of the Virginia federation that she first met Richmond pianist and composer John Powell. In a 1928 letter to Powell, Buchanan wrote, "I am working hard now on the state chorus and music in Virginia's rural schools. . . . P.S. I've written two new songs" (Powell Papers 12 October 1928). The combination of organizational and creative work is a constant theme in her letters. At the time she met Powell, Buchanan was already a successful composer. Her songs had been published by G. Schirmer and Carl Fischer, and several had been performed by singers with national reputations (Wolz 1983, 2), but her style was based entirely on the European art song. Powell's interest in Anglo-American folk music introduced her to a new field of melodic sources as well as the study of folk rhythms and modes. The two became frequent correspondents and Buchanan often submitted songs or sketches to Powell for criticism. In an undated letter, Buchanan writes, "I let composition go absolutely for folk study, for months, and then only a little, in folk style as far as possible, and I don't believe I could ever write a poor tune again, after being so steeped in these things" (Powell Papers n.d.). Meanwhile, a young woman of Scottish ancestry had grown up in 1995 • Volume Seven • Journal of the Appalachian Studies Association • 43 �Lancashire, England. A 1935 interview with Margaret Dean-Smith describes Anne Gilchrist's childhood: [She lived] . . . outside Lancaster in a spacious Victorian house high above the estuary of the Lune. Its windows looked westwards to the lakeland mountains, the sea, and the countryside where as a girl she had walked, sailed and fished, and exchanged plants with the future Regius Professor of Botany. . . (1957-58, 43). Anne Gilchrist was a distant cousin of the Scottish minister Neil Livingstone, who was responsible for the reprint in 1864 of the Great Scottish Psalter of 1635 (Dean-Smith 1957-58, 43). Although she had classical music training, including a thorough exposure to the "obsolete ecclesiastical modes" (Dean-Smith 1957-58, 44), Gilchrist traced her interest in folk music to a much earlier time: I might claim that my interest in folk-song began while I was still illiterate (which some collectors seem to think an advantage in a folk-singer). Our mother came of a musical family and sang often in the nursery, generally with the latest baby on her knee. . . . At the age of six I began to store folk tunes in my mind, beginning with singing-games learnt during Christmas revels in our grandfather's house in Cheshire. . . . Later, I became familiar with old Scotch traditional songs sung by my father and mother. One favourite of my father's had a fascinating refrain of "Sing yarrady airrum . . . " sung with a strong "burr." This was, I think, the first tune I ever noted from a singer. But by this time, having made the acquaintance of the modern major and minor modes, I lost for the time being my early innocence of ear, falling foul of the unsharpened seventh of my father's tune, and suggesting that the note should surely be sharp, not natural. "No, no, no," he replied, with a vigorous shake of the head, adhering with conviction to his "flattened" note. . . . So I conceded the "flat seventh," and learnt to note tunes as I heard them—"My version, right or wrong!" (Gilchrist 1942, 62). One of the fruitful products of the Buchanan-Gilchrist correspondence was a refinement of the system of modal scales used to transcribe folk tunes. Gilchrist, who collected extensively from native singers, observed a similarity between their "irregular" pitch patterns and the modes used in notating Medieval chant. She codified this transcription system (Gilchrist 1911) and Cecil Sharp made adaptations to it. While this whole approach to folk music may be perceived as Eurocentric, it enabled collectors to transcribe tunes into notation which could be performed by classically-trained musicians. Boyes objects that "songs 44 • Journal of the Appalachian Studies Association • Volume Seven • 1995 �with tunes in the 'ancient church modes' were privileged and treated as representative rather than unusual forms," while more recent songs were rejected (Boyes 1993, 14), but both Buchanan and Gilchrist found many examples of modal tunes in their collecting. If they were guilty of being less than statistically fair to the non-modal variety, this is likely to be an example of a taste for the exotic rather than egregious flaunting of class privilege. Buchanan, building on the work of Gilchrist and Sharp, developed her own system of analysis and presented it to the first International Congress of the American Musicological Society in New York in 1939. Called "A Neutral Mode," Buchanan's system acknowledged that certain tones in the melodies sung by native musicians did not fit even the church modes, but were "neutral" or halfway-between (for example) Bflat and B-natural (Buchanan 1944). Buchanan found that one of the greatest changes the "folk work" made in her life was that it changed the way she composed original music. In Folk Hymns of America (1938), she collected fifty melodies— many of which she had learned from her parents—and published them with simple harmonizations. She also made more elaborate settings of folk tunes for mixed chorus and these works were sung by amateur and professional groups throughout the U.S. Lastly, she composed original works which utilized folk modes and rhythms. Whisnant speaks critically of collectors who exploit folk tunes as raw material for original creative work (1983, 236). Buchanan, on the other hand, was quite clear that she was operating within a Western tradition in which Beethoven, Tchaikovsky, Bartok, and countless others had used their national folk heritage in the same way. In her opening statement as National Federation of Music Clubs chair of the American Music Project, she said, "Great composers of all nationalities have turned to their native folk music as the inspiration for some of their greatest works, being familiar with it from their cradles. Ours, which includes some of the most beautiful in the world, has been neglected. . . " (Buchanan Papers). Rather than exploitative, Buchanan saw herself as atoning for the sins of omission of other American composers who showed insufficient respect for their own national heritage. Boyes, Harker, and Whisnant all criticize folklorists for exploiting their informants rather than assisting their sometimes desperate financial conditions. All three authors find examples of the crassest insensitivity on the part of the leading collectors. Boyes, for example, says: But proposing to fellow members of the Folk Song Society, in agreeable West End surroundings, that the only way to avoid racial catastrophe was to collect folksongs was one thing. 1995 • Volume Seven • Journal of the Appalachian Studies Association • 45 �Actually journeying to rural areas to knock on unknown cottage doors with a request that the inhabitants sing to you, proved to hold fewer attractions (1993, 41). Harker provides a much more damning example. In describing the comfortable "field work" of Sabine Baring-Gould, a vicar and country gentleman who invited the "peasants" to come to his house just long enough to sing a few songs, he quotes this story: "I had in old Hard. Then and there I obtained from him a further crop of ballads. That was the last reaping, for in the ensuing bitter frost the aged man was found dead, frozen on a heap of stones by the roadside" (Harker 1985, 159). Harker reacts in justifiable rage: "I had in old Hard." It's as though the crippled ex-stone-breaker, living with his wife on four pounds a year, was rather like a dumb animal in Baring-Gould's eyes, or even the inanimate natural force, the "field," which that image of "reaping" a "crop" implies. What the tenant or landowner had to do, presumably was to extract all that was left of Hard's cultural property, and then let the forces of nature do their worst, while parsons and gentlefolk sat round their blazing fires, enjoying the "treasure" that had been preserved for their own kind (Harker 1985, 159). Once again, Gilchrist and Buchanan provide examples to counter these accusations. Both journeyed into the countryside, relishing a chance to experience a sense of adventure which was seldom available to women in their societies. In a letter written to Gilchrist on 4 September 1936, Buchanan described her feelings: I am enchanted at the opportunity this summer and fall to run around some in the mountains, having grown fond of the joys of "hitch-hiking"! I have had a MARVELOUS time gypsying and vagabonding through the summer in three states, maybe sleeping in some mountain cabin or the car. It was such an adventure, I shall never forget it. And I collected such splendid material (Buchanan Papers). Gilchrist loved to tell of "[an] old sailor at Southport, from whom I took down shanties and sea songs in a dark little cave of a shop . . . encrusted with dog-collars and tools and gadgets of all kinds . . . always ready to search his memory for songs" (Gilchrist 1942, 62). Gilchrist described herself as being "on friendly terms with all my singers," and she told of her own failure to get a song she badly wanted from a man who was said to sing it frequently to his wife. Although the wife and Gilchrist tried valiantly to persuade him to sing, "he sat as mute as an oyster, though not without an 'I-could-an-I-would' twinkle in 46 • Journal of the Appalachian Studies Association • Volume Seven • 1995 �his eye" (Gilchrist 1942, 63). Buchanan invited folk musicians to her home and established warm, caring relationships with them. On one occasion, she wrote to John Powell that a child named Virginia Russell (the daughter of one of Buchanan's informants) had died; the doll Buchanan had given her at Christmas was in her arms. "It seems so strange that I started out as a collector, and am gradually finding myself adopted as an intimate family friend by first one, then another of these folk musician families" (Powell Papers 9 January 1932). She often went on intuition to find her informants: " . . . a man just came to the door to sell blackberries. I sized him up instantly, and carried on my maidenly advances toward him, with the result that he's coming tomorrow with four gallons of berries, a guitar, and some folk songs" (Powell Papers 6 August 1931).1 Buchanan argued vehemently with other White Top organizers that the musicians deserved better pay and better working conditions, and she often employed or found employment for folk musicians. One of her favorites was a singer named Council Cruise. On 5 January 1932, she wrote to John Powell that Council Cruise was in jail, and several other "folk" were ill and in trouble. In February, Cruise was released, and Buchanan tried to find suitable work for him. "How could he settle down in a factory after running a still? And personally, I'd lots rather he'd run his still. . . . We can't make him over" (Powell Papers 7 February 1932). • • • In an article published in Better Homes & Gardens in 1935, Buchanan describes the earlier failures and later successes of her gardening ventures that culminates in a vision of Eden: A wild garden and rock garden have been planted at the rear, with myrtle-carpeted stepping-stones along a woodland trail in the "Forest of Arden," thru hemlock, rhododendron, dogwood, redbuds, ferns, and many plants and trees brought in from the mountains. . . . Here may birds sing and children play and elders read and dream (1935, 15). Intervention, yes; destruction, no. Plants may be taken from the forest and continue to grow in both forest and city. So may songs. In several ways, Buchanan and Gilchrist stand in strong contrast to the exploiters whom Whisnant, Boyes, and Harker criticize: they did not make large personal profits from their "folk work," they got to know and appreciate their informants as individual human beings, and they grew up in households which honored the oral transmission of old songs. To complete the analogy: while large-scale, for-profit farming can represent a very destructive intervention in nature, few would criticize the efforts of those whose flower gardens preserve little havens of beauty for family 1995 • Volume Seven • Journal of the Appalachian Studies Association • 47 �and community. Let us not fail to appreciate those whose collections of old songs preserve a treasure which can be enjoyed by all. (The authors wish to extend their thanks to Michael Plunkett at Alderman Library at the University of Virginia, Malcolm Taylor of the Vaughan Williams Library at Cecil Sharp House in London, England, and the staff of the Southern Historical Collection at the University of North Carolina, Chapel Hill.) Note 1 It is interesting that the humorous "seduction" depicted here represents a reversal of the gendered convention described by Debora Kodish. In the Kodish encounter, a male folklorist depicts himself as the fairy-tale hero who awakens the silent female informant to song (Kodish, 1993, 43). Works Cited Boyes, Georgina. 1993. The Imagined Village. Manchester: Manchester University Press. Buchanan, Annabel Morris. Papers. Southern Historical Collection, University of North Carolina, Chapel Hill. . 1935. "The House That Jack Built." Better Homes and Gardens March: 13-15. . 1938. Folk Hymns of America. New York: J. Fischer. . 1944. "Modal and Melodic Structure in Anglo-American Folk Music—A Neutral Mode." In Papers Read at the International Congress ofMusicology in New York, September llth to 16th, 1939, eds. Arthur Mendel and Gustav Reese. Richmond, Va.: William Byrd Press. Dean-Smith, Margaret. 1955. "The Gilchrist Bequest." Journal of the English Folk Dance and Song Society 7: 218. . 1957-58. "The Work of Anne Geddes Gilchrist, O.B.E., F.S.A." Reprinted in Proceedings of the Royal Musical Association lxxxiv:43-53. Gilchrist, Anne G. Papers. Vaughan Williams Memorial Library, Cecil Sharp House, London. . 1911. "Note on the Modal System of Gaelic Tunes." Journal of the Folk Song Society 4:150-53. . 1942. "Let Us Remember." English Dance and Song 6: 62-63. 48 • Journal of the Appalachian Studies Association • Volume Seven • 1995 �Harker, Dave. 1985. Fakesong: The Manufacture of British "Folksong" 1700 to the Present Day. Philadelphia: Open University Press. Kodish, Debora. 1993. "Absent Gender, Silent Encounter." In Feminist Theory and the Study of Folklore, eds. Susan Tower Hollis, Linda Pershing, and M. Jane Young. Urbana and Chicago: University of Illinois Press. Powell, John. Papers. Alderman Library, University of Virginia. Whisnant, David E. 1983. All That Is Native and Fine: The Politics of Culture in an American Region. Chapel Hill: University of North Carolina Press. Wolz, Lyn A. 1983. "White Top Folk Trails: Annabel Morris Buchanan's Folk Music Legacy." Master's thesis, University of North Carolina, Chapel Hill. Linda Plaut teaches in the Center for Programs in the Humanities at Virginia Polytechnic Institute and State University and is a concert violinist who specializes in performing works by women composers. Lyn Wolz is the reference librarian at Ferrum College in Ferrum, Va. She is also a consultant to the Blue Ridge Heritage Archives and music director of the annual Blue Ridge Folklife Festival. 1995 • Volume Seven • Journal of the Appalachian Studies Association • 49 �Fabric and Fiction: The Clinch Valley Blanket Mills, 1890-1950 Kathleen Curtis Wilson The Clinch Valley Blanket Mills, owned and operated by C.E. Goodwin and his four sons, was a model of clever marketing, crafts revival, and quality workmanship for sixty years. The mill influenced how people outside the Southern Appalachians would perceive mountain crafts and mountain craftsmen for nearly one hundred years. In order to understand the reason for this influence and its impact, we must look at the marketing techniques used to sell the mill's products and what was happening to the handweaver's market during the same period. The Development of the Clinch Valley Blanket Mills Charles Eugene Goodwin followed in the weaving trade he learned from his English father, James, who came to the United States about 1837. Charles Eugene, called C.E., ran mills for absentee owners or for his own business in Kentucky, Tennessee, and West Virginia. In the late 1880s, Goodwin moved to Cedar Bluff, Virginia from West Virginia to run the Scott Bros. Klondyke Cotton and Woolen Mill. The Cedar Bluff Woolen Mill, a carding wool business, was also located in Cedar Bluff. Over a twenty-five year period, Goodwin either leased or managed two mills in Cedar Bluff, the Cedar Bluff Woolen Mill, owned by the McGuire family, and the Klondyke Cotton and Woolen Mill, founded by Thomas Scott and later purchased by members of the McGuire family. Goodwin finally purchased both mills about 1916 and changed the names to Clinch Valley Blanket Mills. When the smaller mill burned in 50 • Journal of the Appalachian Studies Association • Volume Seven • 1995 �1924, Goodwin moved all his equipment to the larger facility up the Clinch River and expanded his operation.1 Mechanization increased production in the weaving industry at the turn of the century. Goodwin used local labor and materials to weave on looms powered by water, steam, and electricity. Over the years, the mill employed from thirty to 120 workers to weave colonial reproduction coverlets and blankets, using factory spun cotton, commercial dyes, and huge quantities of wool processed in-house (Dickenson and Dickenson 1993). The "blanket mill," as it was locally called, was an important industry in the small town of Cedar Bluff and for Tazewell County. Nearly every citizen had a family member who either worked for the mill, did the hand-finish work at home, traded or sold wool to the mill, or supplied coal to keep the furnaces going. Local women used "side cut" scraps from the mill blankets to weave throw rugs on hand looms in their homes. Wool was gathered in horse- or ox-drawn wagons in the early days. Later, a truck pulled the "wool wagon" to farms in Virginia, West Virginia, Tennessee, and Kentucky. Elderly men and women still remember the disagreeable job of shearing dead sheep in the field or the excitement of riding on the farm wagon to the mill with a load of wool. Frequently, they recall their own employment running the "mule," quillers, or looms, inspecting army blankets, or shipping finished goods. The "mule" was a mechanism mounted on a frame that traversed back and forth, keeping proper tension on carded wool when wound onto bobbins. What color the mill was dyeing wool that day was easily ascertained by the color of the river. When prices were low, farmers traded all their wool for coverlets and blankets to furnish bedding to the extended family or to put away for the next generation. Even in good times, many families used a little wool in trade. The woven goods were not only functional and warm, but beautiful as well. Without the "trade," most families could not have afforded such luxurious items. The mill-woven items became prized wedding gifts and baby presents, and were especially desirable since the giver usually had some association with the weaver or worker involved in its production. These coverlets and blankets still remain in families as treasured keepsakes passed from generation to generation. Goodwin, and later his sons, negotiated government contracts for the mill to weave thousands of all wool army blankets to ship overseas during both world wars. They wove the linings for army sleeping bags, puttees (gaiters) for World War I soldiers, and blankets for the British Royal Navy (Pierce 1941). When John Goodwin, C.E.'s youngest son, enlisted in 1914, he was considered too valuable to the production of army blankets and the government sent him home after basic training. The mill employed many wives and daughters of service men stationed 1995 • Volume Seven • Journal of the Appalachian Studies Association • 51 �away from home. In a region that offered little employment opportunity for women, the income earned made farm payments and put food on the table. The mill ran three shifts a day to meet government demands and employed additional women from outside the community. Local citizens earned extra money by boarding young women from West Virginia and Kentucky who came to work in the mill (Whitt 1993). In peace time, the mill wove colonial coverlets, lap robes for horse drawn buggies and automobiles, table linens, and baby blankets. C. E. and John Goodwin went into the community to borrow handwoven coverlets and pattern drafts to copy. According to their advertising, Goodwin produced the first seamless coverlets, appealing to northern buyers who didn't like that "unsightly" seam down the middle (Robertson 1949). The end result was a product of quality and durability. To sell these household goods, Goodwin avoided revealing his factory production capacity and focused on selling a concept of tradition. While using modern equipment of the day, Goodwin marketed the nostalgic idea of old women spinning and weaving in remote mountain cabins. He put together "the story" of his silk weaving background in England, simple mountain people, and faithful adherence to the handwoven coverlets of a bygone era. Coverlets, blankets, and table linens were sold through sales agents in Marion, Virginia, Bloomfield, Illinois, and other states. The mill also published a catalog for direct mail order sales. Goodwin watched home decorating trends outside the region and dyed some goods the fashionable colors of mint green, pink, gold, aqua, and lavender. The Handicraft Revival and Impact on Marketing For most of the 1800s, handcrafted household items were a necessity and the pride of mountain people. However, by 1890, many craft skills had been put aside and forgotten as factory items became available and more desirable. About 1893 the stirrings of a handicraft revival began in Berea, Kentucky and Asheville, North Carolina. The newly elected president of Berea College, Dr. William Goodell Frost, noticed the interesting woven bedcoverings used in many cabins. He determined that the college could preserve the handwork of an earlier period and find new markets for idle mountain looms. With few old timers to teach the new generation, it took a while to renew the art of coverlet weaving. In 1896 homespun fairs were started where competition and comparison to the old coverlets inspired young students. More than thirty years after the first revival of southern highlands handicrafts, the crafts centers in North Carolina, Tennessee, and Kentucky united to improve their crafts and to use the marketing advantage of a cooperative effort. Weaving was, and still is, an important part of the Southern Highland Handicraft Guild, founded in 1929 (Barker 52 • Journal of the Appalachian Studies Association • Volume Seven • 1995 �1991). The guild established a market for unique handmade mountain products that were inexpensive and reminiscent of pioneer times. These crafts appealed to city dwellers who knew little about rural mountain life. Northern housewives were anxious to purchase coverlets similar to the ones woven in New England fifty years earlier. By the late 1920s, there was a growing demand for all kinds of woven and handmade products. In 1930 Mrs. Riley Fox, Mrs. Finley Mast, and Mrs. Owenby traveled by train to Indianapolis, Pittsburgh, St. Louis, Minneapolis, Cincinnati, and Chicago on a tour of major department stores. All three were native mountain women with long family weaving traditions. Mrs. Mast was famous throughout the entire Appalachian region for her coverlets made for the Woodrow Wilson White House. The trip, sponsored by Frank E. Rudd of Louisville, Kentucky, manufacturer of rayon and cotton coverlets, was undertaken to acquaint northern women with Southern Appalachian coverlet weaving (Galloway 1930). The women traveled with an ancient hand loom, spinning wheels, handmade furniture, and coverlets to illustrate various patterns. In the stores they set up a display representing a "typical" mountain cabin. Dressed in homespun and weaving in their stocking feet, these women gave the impression that handwoven coverlets were still abundantly available throughout the Southern Appalachians. Mrs. Ovvenby explained the work being woven on the loom to the enthralled crowd that gathered at every stop. The onlookers perceived that mountain life was still as simple and backward as it had been a hundred years before and they were determined to furnish their homes with this quaint handmade weaving. During this same time period, the Clinch Valley Blanket Mills was weaving approximately fifty coverlets and blankets per day (Dickenson and Dickenson 1993). (The best handweaver can only weave one or two coverlets per month.) One of the mill's best accounts was Rosemont, an early handmade mountain crafts cottage industry in Marion, Virginia. Rosemont was widely known for its hand-hooked rugs, hand-tied bed canopies, and woven coverlets. Everything sold under the Rosemont label was purchased or commissioned in the surrounding communities. Their weaving was purchased from the Clinch Valley Blanket Mills. Rosemont's mail order booklet did not say the coverlets were woven on hand looms; instead they addressed the issue of hand weaving versus factory weaving as follows: They [coverlets] are not made in a modern factory but in the original old mill in the mountains to which the farmers still bring their wool for exchange and from which the mountain women take the coverlets home for hemming and fringe-making. Our looms are not the ordinary jacquard looms of the textile 1995 • Volume Seven • Journal of the Appalachian Studies Association • 53 �mills but are specially adapted to our process (Rosemont brochure). Another Rosemont booklet states: The spinning, dyeing, and weaving are all done in a primitive mountain community where living conditions are simple. Every purchaser of one of our Colonial Coverlets may be sure, not only of having an exact and exquisite reproduction of early American weaving, but also of helping the mountain people to help themselves (Rosemont brochure). While sales markets were being established by the Southern Highland Handicraft Guild, which only allowed hand weavers to join, the actual production of guild members was not large enough to fill the demand. The Clinch Valley Blanket Mills' vast production capacity, coupled with its quality and authentic 19th century designs, allowed the company to sell thousands of coverlets and blankets to customers who thought they were buying handwoven items. While this marketing sold the product, it also influenced the outside world's perception of the people in Southwest Virginia. At a time when industries were using the latest equipment and inventions to speed production, it was thought that the Virginia mountain craftsmen were using old fashioned methods. The myth of simple mountain people living simple lives and making simple crafts with simple mountain tools was a successful marketing technique that resulted in a negative stereotype which Southwest Virginians argue against to this day. Much has been published to expand public awareness of the 1895 Arts and Crafts Movement and subsequent revivals in Southern Appalachia. The Clinch Valley Blanket Mills never joined the Southern Highland Handicraft Guild because it used power looms. Nonetheless, the company affiliated itself so closely with this movement that it was perceived to be a part of it. With innate marketing skills, the Goodwin family successfully sold its products in distinctly different markets. The Goodwins influenced the attitude toward Virginia mountain weaving from 1890 to 1950 and for many years beyond. At the same time, the Clinch Valley Blanket Mills played an important role in the social and economic life of Cedar Bluff and the surrounding counties. The old production mill is long silent. The records are scattered and only the foundation of the original mill remains to photograph; but across the country, families still possess the woven fabrics to weave the story of an early mountain industry. 54 • Journal of the Appalachian Studies Association • Volume Seven • 1995 �Note 1 As this paper goes to print, I have uncovered letters that shed new light on the ownership of the mills. More analysis is needed to completely unravel the whole story of ownership versus management. What is known is that two generations of Goodwin men were running textile mills in Cedar Bluff, Virginia, Cumberland Gap and Harriman, Tennessee, and Campbellsville, Kentucky. What is not known is if C.E. Goodwin owned any mill prior to 1916, when he purchased both mills in Cedar Bluff. For many years there has been a good deal of confusion about the ownership of the two woolen mills located on the Clinch River. Local people refer to "the blanket mill," "the woolen mill," or "the Goodwin mill" whenever they mention the weaving that was done in Cedar Bluff. The Goodwin name was linked to the mills after 1890, but it wasn't until 1916 that Goodwin purchased both the Klondyke Cotton and Woolen Mill and the Cedar Bluff Woolen Mill. At that time both mills were owned by the McGuire family. Goodwin renamed the entire operation the Clinch Valley Blanket Mills. He used this name on his letterhead, publicity, and mail-order booklets, but locally this name was rarely used or remembered. Works Cited Barker, Garry G. 1991. The Handcraft Revival in Southern Appalachia, 19301990. Knoxville: The University of Tennessee Press. Galloway, Carrie C. 1930. "Mountain Women Advertise Park In Big Cities Of America With Their Looms And Spinning Wheels." The Knoxville Sunday Journal, 2 March. Dickenson, Tommy, and Rufus Dickenson. 1993. Interview with the author. Milledgeville, Ga., 30 October. Pierce, Eleanor G. 1941. "A Rare Art." Norfolk and Western August: 342-343. Robertson, Dorothy. 1949. "Tazewell County Family Preserves Ancient Craft of Coverlet Weaving." Richmond Times-Dispatch 5 June: 8-D. Rosemont brochures. Nancy Goodwin Hagy papers. Personal collection of the author. Asheville, N.C. Whitt, Mary Sue. 1993. Interview with the author. Washington, B.C. 16 October. Kathleen Curtis Wilson, a textile historian and writer, is currently developing and teaching courses in Appalachian arts and crafts appreciation at A-B Tech Community college, Asheville, N.C. Using slides of textiles handed down from generation to generation, she lectures to diverse audiences telling the stories of 1995 • Volume Seven • Journal of the Appalachian Studies Association • 55 �19th century Appalachian women, ordinary and extraordinary. Wilson was a 1994 scholar in residence at the Center for the Humanities in Charlottesville, Va. while writing the history of the Clinch Valley Blanket Mills. 56 • Journal of the Appalachian Studies Association • Volume Seven • 1995 �Before Albion's Seed: Other Influences on Appalachian Culture Donald Edward Davis Scholars studying Appalachia largely ignore the three hundred years of human history that preceded the eighteenth century frontier. Most who have written about the settlement of the southern mountains have not recognized the important contributions that the Mississippians, Cherokees, and even Spanish explorers made to the history of the region. While specific European skills and Old World land-use practices were certainly important to the settlement and social development of the region, the Europeans settled lands with a long history of human habitation. The Appalachian environment coupled with the cultural legacy already in place created new and difficult challenges for the settlers. In the southern mountains, culture evolved in relationship to both social and environmental influences. Major Periods of Cultural Change The process of culture formation and change is an extremely complex phenomenon. In the Southern Appalachians, no fewer than three major periods of cultural change occurred prior to 1820.l The Spanish started the process during the sixteenth century, introducing important new crops and initiating trade in furs and other goods (Crosby 1972, 35-63; Waselkov 1989, 117-120, Hann 1988, 182-183, 239). The Spanish also brought deadly microbes into the region, destroying a large percentage of the native Mississippian population. The social chaos that resulted forced native peoples to migrate both to and from the area, weakening cultural traditions and practices. Within a century, pre-Columbian Mississippian life had all but vanished from the Appalachian South 1995 • Volume Seven • Journal of the Appalachian Studies Association • 57 �(Smith 1987, 55-60; Smith 1990, 1-7; Hudson 1990, 52-60; Hudson and Chaves 1994). The second period of social and environmental change occurred after the English and French initiated trade with the Cherokees during the early part of the eighteenth century. Initially the Cherokees saw the fur trade as beneficial to their people and participation in it was not necessarily discouraged. As game became scarce, the Cherokees became more and more dependent on English goods for their sustenance. Debts were often paid in large tracts of land, which further decreased access to wild game. Fur traders became the first Europeans to actively live among the Cherokees and their presence in the region had a profound influence on the lives of the natives (Logan 1859; Rothrock 1929; Goodwin 1977; McLoughlin 1986; Hatley 1993). Fur traders married Cherokee women and introduced cattle and hogs into the surrounding countryside (Bays 1991). When the French encouraged Cherokee warriors to fight against the British in the 1760s, English armies retaliated by destroying Cherokee dwellings and grain supplies. As a result of these losses, natives found it harder and harder to maintain their traditional cultural practices. White settlement of the region represents the third and final era of cultural (as well as ecological) change in the southern mountains for this period. As early as 1745, Europeans cleared and settled land in what is today Southwest Virginia. However, Cherokee control of the mountains made it difficult for settlers to push deeper into the area until after the Revolutionary War. The first settlers to the region were mostly of English, Scotch-Irish, or German extraction, and they brought a variety of European grasses, plants, and livestock with them. Many introduced plants (particularly weeds and grasses) flourished in the rich soils of the mountain river valleys, overtaking some indigenous species. As timber was cut for fences, dwellings, and pasture, more and more openings appeared in the mountain forest. By 1820 only the most remote mountain coves and ridge tops had not been settled by whites. Because Cherokees continued to occupy the region throughout the frontier period, Native American influence on mountain culture remained significant. When many Old World crops proved unproductive in mountain soils, settlers began cultivating native Cherokee varieties. Corn, pumpkins, squashes, gourds, beans, and melons became popular and necessary substitutes among the white settlers, as did Cherokee preservation methods. Hunting and fishing techniques were also routinely borrowed from the natives. Pioneer women adopted Cherokee use of medicinal herbs and soon were making home remedies in a similar manner. Likewise, Cherokee women learned how to milk dairy cows, tend poultry flocks, and spin and weave European fabrics. Some of the 58 • Journal of the Appalachian Studies Association • Volume Seven • 1995 �invading plants (such as upland cresses) brought by the settlers also became popular with Cherokees. It is clear that culture change after European contact went both ways. The three seemingly distinct historical periods did not occur in isolation of each other. Peaches, watermelons, and sweet potatoes, all Spanish-introduced crops of the seventeenth century, became central to the diets of the Cherokees and later became important to the first European settlers (Williams 1984, 425-427; Davis 1993, 160-175, 211212). The building of weir-dam fish traps, a common subsistence practice of the Mississippians, was taken up by the Cherokees and later by the pioneer settlers. In fact, the early Cherokees inherited a considerable amount of material culture from the Mississippians, including wattle and daub building construction and the making of cane mats and baskets. Cherokees preferred sites formerly inhabited by the Mississippian Indians and settlers regularly sought out lands farmed by the Cherokees. Settlement Patterns Rivers played an important role in the early settlement history of the region. The Mississippians, Cherokees, and the eighteenth-century white settlers all chose to live along rivers, largely because river bottoms have the most productive and easily cultivated soils. Rivers provided transportation networks for canoes and keelboats and water power for grist- and sawmills. Site selection obviously changed from century to century, since each social group preferred some locations over others. During the sixteenth century, Mississippians preferred to settle along the largest rivers of the region, so the majority of villages were found either in the Ridge and Valley or Blue Ridge provinces of Southern Appalachia. Archaeologist Roy Dickens recorded the existence of more than three hundred Mississippian sites in the Blue Ridge province of western North Carolina, all along sizable mountain streams (Dickens 1978, 13-17).2 On the Cumberland Plateau, Mississippian occupation was somewhat less prevalent, although sizable villages were present along the Cumberland and Kanawha rivers. The largest Mississippian townships, however, were those located in East Tennessee and northern Georgia, in the southern end of the mountain region. Here the soils of the Ridge and Valley were extremely suited for corn and bean production and proximity to the slower-moving rivers provided convenient access to fish, mussels, and waterfowl (Smith 1990). Because the Mississippian settlement pattern was generally organized around a large central chiefdom, distances between villages were often very large. The Spanish displacement of the Mississippians through warfare and the spread of disease greatly altered the social organization and settlement pattern of the region. The Cherokees, who moved into the 1995 • Volume Seven • Journal of the Appalachian Studies Association • 59 �area, occupied former Mississippian village sites and established new ones as well. Cherokee social organization was less centralized and their numerous villages, much smaller. The Cherokees spread out linearly along rivers, generally close to one another. As populations increased during the seventeenth century, more and more river systems became occupied by the Cherokees. On the Tuckaseegee river in western North Carolina, for example, five Cherokee towns existed along a single thirtymile stretch of the river. Cherokees also burned the woods, leaving numerous clearings and adjoining canebrakes that provided important browse for livestock. The fur traders and first frontier settlers gravitated toward Cherokee villages in the level, rich river bottomlands. Because the bottomlands of the largest rivers were the first areas occupied, smaller streams became the preferred destination of later arrivals (Wilms 1991, 2-8). Gristmills, used to grind grain into meal and flour, were erected along these creeks and rivers and served as important centers of commercial activity. Those who could not find or afford land along streams built homesteads near small springs or, as a last resort, settled away from water on hillsides and ridge tops. The Role of External Forces Prior to the sixteenth century, the Appalachian South remained largely outside the world economic system. From the sixteenth century on, population pressures, warfare, land scarcity, and external economic relations all had a major impact on the settlement of the region. The desire for gold and silver brought the Spanish to the area, the fur trade brought the fur trader, and many European settlers came seeking refuge from servile living conditions in the Old World. By the early seventeenth century the native population was feeling the effects of an expanding global economy. There was trading in furs, albeit largely through middlemen to the south, some Old World crops from Europe and Africa had been introduced into the mountains, and thousands of natives had perished from introduced diseases. As the Mississippian case demonstrates, world commerce and trade profoundly affected the culture and ecology of the region as early as the seventeenth century.3 During the eighteenth century, the Cherokees were drawn even deeper into world economic relations. By the early 1700s, Charleston, South Carolina, had become an important center of trade, exporting skins, ginseng, and other commodities from the region to the European continent. Hunting deer had long been part of Cherokee traditional culture and the killing of surplus animals for the fur trade did not immediately bring significant changes to their lives. The Cherokee bartered furs for weapons, tools, and other Europeans goods and the rate of exchange was largely controlled by the natives. In the 1720s, as 60 • Journal of the Appalachian Studies Association • Volume Seven • 1995 �competition for furs increased, traders made permanent settlements in the area, enticing the Cherokees into acquiring more skins by offering them such items as durable fabrics, colorful glass beads, and alcohol. Because of their proximity to Charleston, Cherokees living in the southern Blue Ridge were the first to engage in the trade networks, and also the first to experience the resulting ecological changes. As their participation in the fur trade increased, Cherokees began to lose skills such as the making of bows and arrows and the crafting of stone celts and arrowheads; they became increasingly dependent on European weapons and ammunition (which could only be obtained by killing more deer). As deer became harder to find locally, the Indians had to make longer and longer excursions into the upland forests in order to supply their own villages with meat and skins. In 1760, after relations between the Cherokees and the English—the primary purchaser of southern Appalachian furs—became strained, warfare broke out among the two groups. The British were largely successful in defeating the Cherokees, destroying their most valuable orchards, granaries, and croplands. The British victory insured the acquisition of thousands of acres of prime Cherokee hunting land (Williams 1927, 96; Williams 1928, 235-236; Mooney 1900, 41; Schroedl and Ross 1984, 12). The extraction of natural resources for European markets did not end with white settlement. Fur trappers and long hunters, in direct competition with the Cherokees, traded elk, buffalo, deer, and beaver skins to exporters from Charleston, and Augusta and Savannah, Georgia. Frontier settlers also collected and sold ginseng, which was shipped to France and then China. Because overland travel across the mountain region was often difficult, river settlements became important outposts for commercial trade. On the Cumberland Plateau, products were regularly sent down the Cumberland River to shipping ports as far away as New Orleans. From there, goods from the southern mountains might find their way to the Caribbean, Spain, England, France, or even Asia. Process of Culture Change While external economic forces were certainly powerful in shaping the subsistence culture of the region, they do not tell us everything about the process of culture change. For the Cherokees, cultural change was both proactive and reactive. When Overhill Cherokees became political allies of the French in the early 1760s, they were partially directing the course of world trade (Williams 1927; Corkran 1962, 225). Because certain Cherokee factions always resented European presence in the region, there was also conflict. However, despite devastating military defeats, the Cherokees retained agency in governing their affairs. Cherokee women—devoted agriculturalists, basket makers, and weavers of native fabrics—maintain many of these cultural traditions even today, 1995 - Volume Seven • Journal of the Appalachian Studies Association - 61 �well into the twentieth century. Appalachia was, in many ways, a "middle ground," a place historian Richard White has described as "between cultures, peoples, and in between empires . . . the area between the historical foreground of European invasion and occupation and the background of Indian defeat and retreat" (White 1991, x). From my own perspective, culture change in Appalachia was a syncretic process. No single culture group avoided absorbing aspects of the other. The Spanish armies of De Soto and Pardo survived excursions into the Appalachian backcountry by eating Indian corn, a New World crop that quickly became the agricultural mainstay of the Iberian peninsula (Hudson 1990; Milanich and Hudson 1993). The Cherokees eventually adopted the practice of cattle-raising, and the white European borrowed a great number of subsistence techniques from the Cherokees. Unlike the one-dimensional acculturation theories of David Hackett Fischer and others (Fischer 1990; Greene 1988), cultural syncretism suggests that all culture groups, not just dominant ones, share in the process of cultural change.4 Proponents of syncretism focus attention almost entirely on social relationships; that is, the cultural dynamics that occur between two or more groups. But often the physical environment remains the fulcrum upon which cultural identity rests. As powerful as they may have been, members of colonizing groups generally found themselves strangers in a strange land. Having little knowledge of their new surroundings, they relied heavily on the ecological knowledge of native peoples, which, in turn, changed the nature of the relationship between the two groups. Cultural stability of the native population was dependent on a balanced relationship with the environment (Goodwin 1977; McLoughlin 1986, 3391). When the balance changed due to introduced demands, dependency on other groups increased. Ecological forces and cultural dynamics are equally important to the culture change equation—in the southern mountains culture did not arise in a social vacuum, it was the product of both human and natural history. Before European contact the living landscape of the region was less a resource to be consumed than a matrix for sustaining individual and community life. Pre-contact Mississippians and Cherokees certainly found ways of changing the local landscape, but their subsistence methods did not, in the long view, vastly alter the ecology of the region. This is not to say they didn't have an impact on the environment but that, more accurately, the impact differed from that of the Europeans. Human beings have been altering the environment in the southern mountains for the last 10,000 years. It is the magnitude of the interaction that ultimately affects the degree and rate of environmental change. In the final analysis, culture must be viewed as a product of both social and environmental forces. By emphasizing the environment in our 62 • Journal of the Appalachian Studies Association • Volume Seven • 1995 �cultural investigation, a more complex story of social evolution and environmental change is told. Culture is never simply the outcome of social and environmental forces: it is, more accurately, the product of complex interactions between the two. When humans and the environment came together in the southern mountains, both influenced the other. Notes 1 Certainly there were human beings and Native American cultures (e.g. Woodland and Archaic) in the Southern Appalachians prior to 1500. However, because of the absence of historical data prior to the sixteenth century, and the nature and scope of cultural and environmental change that occurred over the next three hundred years, this paper focuses solely on the post-Columbian era. 2 Dickens defines the Mississippian period occurring between 1000 to 1650 A.D. The extremely large number of sites is partly explained by settlement movement over this extended time period. Mississippian refers not to a single cultural group, but to a variety of cultures sharing certain characteristics. 3 The incorporation of southern Appalachia into the world economic system has produced a lively debate among scholars in the field of Appalachian studies. Stemming from the work of Imrnanuel Wallerstein (1989) and others, proponents of "world-systems theory" argue that the region contributed greatly to the development of the world economy prior to its settlement by white Europeans. For a synopsis of this view, see Baker (1991) and Stotik (1990). 4 Not a formal school, advocates of syncretism belong to a variety of disciplines and credit a number of thinkers in their scholarly work. One of the most frequently cited is Clifford (1988), an ethnologist who has studied cultural change in both primitive and modern societies. Other relevant works promoting syncretic models of cultural evolution include Billington (1977), Axtell (1985), Otto (1989), and White (1991). Works Cited Axtell, James. 1985. The Invasion Within: The Context of Cultures in Colonial North America. New York: Oxford University Press. Baker, Christopher. 1991. "East Tennessee Within the World-Economy: Precapitalist Isolation or Peripheral Capitalism?" Master's thesis, University of Tennessee, Knoxville. Bays, Brad Alan. 1991. "The Historical Geography of Cattle Herding Among the Cherokee Indians, 1761-1861." Master's thesis, University of Tennessee, Knoxville. 1995 • Volume Seven • Journal of the Appalachian Studies Association • 63 �Billington, Ray A. 1977. America's Frontier Culture: Three Essays. College Station, Tex.: Texas A & M Press. Clifford, James. 1988. The Predicament of Culture: Twentieth Century Ethnography, Literature and Art. Cambridge: Harvard University Press. Corkran, David H. 1962. The Cherokee Frontier: Conflict and Survival, 1740-62. Norman, Okla.: University of Oklahoma Press. Crosby, Alfred. 1972. The Columbian Exchange: Biological and Cultural Consequences of 1492. Westport, Conn.: Greenwood Publishing Company. Davis, Donald E. 1993. "Where There Be Mountains: Environmental and Cultural Change in the Appalachian South, 1500-1800." Ph.D. diss., University of Tennessee, Knoxville. Dickens, Roy. 1978. "Mississippian Settlement Patterns in the Appalachian Summit Area: The Pisgah and Qualla Phases." In Mississippian Settlement Patterns, ed. Bruce D. Smith. New York: Academic Press. Fischer, David Hackett. 1990. Albion's Seed: Four British Folkways in America. New York: Oxford University Press. Goodwin, Gary. 1977. Cherokees in Transition: A Study of Changing Culture and Environment Prior to 1775. Chicago: University of Chicago, Department of Geography. Greene, Jack P. 1988. Pursuits of Happiness: The Social Development of Early Modern British Colonies and the Formation of American Culture. Chapel Hill, N.C.: University of North Carolina Press. Hann, John A. 1988. Apalachee: The Land Between the Rivers. Gainesville: University of Florida Press. Hatley, Thomas. 1993. The Dividing Paths: Cherokees and South Carolinians through the Era of Revolution. New York: Oxford University Press. Hudson, Charles. 1990. The Juan Pardo Expeditions: Explorations ofCarolinas and Tennessee, 1566-1568. Washington, D.C.: Smithsonian Institution Press. Hudson, Charles, and Carman Chaves, eds. 1994. The Forgotten Centuries: Indians and Europeans in the American South, 1521-1704. Athens: University of Georgia Press. Logan, John H. 1859. A History of the Upper Country of South Carolina From the Earliest Period to the Close of the War of Independence. Charleston: Courtney & Company. McLoughlin, William Gerald. 1986. Cherokee Renascence in the New Republic. 64 - Journal of the Appalachian Studies Association • Volume Seven • 1995 �Princeton: Princeton University Press. Milanich, Jerald T., and Charles Hudson. 1993. Hernando De Soto and the Indians of Florida. Gainesville: University Press of Florida. Mooney, James. 1900. Myths of the Cherokees. Nineteenth Annual Report of the Bureau of American Ethnology. Washington, B.C. Otto, John. 1989. The Southern Frontiers, 1607-1860: The Agricultural Evolution of the Colonial and Antebellum South. New York: Greenwood Press. Rothrock, Mary W. 1929. "Carolina Traders Among the Overhill Cherokee, 16901760." East Tennessee Historical Society's Publications 1:3-18. Schroedl, Gerald P., and Kurt C. Ross. 1984. "An Introduction to the Archaeology of Chota and Tanasee." In Overhill Cherokee Archaeology at Chota-Tennessee. Knoxville: University of Tennessee Department of Anthropology Report Investigations 38, Tennessee Valley Authority Publications in Anthropology 42. Smith, Bruce, ed. 1990. The Mississippian Emergence. Washington, D.C.: Smithsonian Institution Press. Smith, Marvin T. 1987. Archaeology of Aboriginal Culture Change in the Interior Southeast: Depopulation During the Early Historic Period. Gainesville: University of Florida Press. Stotik, Jeffrey. 1990. "The Political Economy of Appalachia: A Critique and Synthesis of Radical Approaches to Underdevelopment." Master's thesis, University of Tennessee, Knoxville. Wallerstein, Immanuel. 1989. The Modern World-System HI: The Second Era of Great Expansion of the Capitalist World-Economy, 1730-1840s. New York: Academic Press. Waselkov, Gregory A. 1989. "Seventeenth-Century Trade in the Colonial Southeast." Southeastern Archaeology 8:117-133. White, Richard. 1991. Middle Ground: Indians, Empires, and Republics in the Great Lakes Region, 1650-1815. New York: Cambridge University Press. Williams, J. Mark. 1984. "The Joe Bell Site: Seventeenth Century Lifeways on the Oconee River." Ph.D. diss., University of Georgia, Athens. Williams, Samuel Cole. 1927. Lieutenant Henry Timberlake's Memoirs, 17561765. Johnson City, Tenn.: Watauga Press. -. 1928. Early Travels in the Tennessee Country, 1540-1800. Johnson City, Tenn.: The Watauga Press. 1995 • Volume Seven • Journal of the Appalachian Studies Association • 65 �Wilms, Douglas C. 1991. "Cherokee Land Use in Georgia Before Removal." In Cherokee Removal: Before and After, ed. William L. Anderson. Athens, Ga.: University of Georgia Press. Donald Edward Davis, Ph.D., a native of north Georgia, teaches sociology at Dalton College in Dalton, Georgia. He is the author of Ecophilosophy: A Field Guide to the Literature and was a historical consultant for the book Hiking Trails of the Smokies. He is currently revising for publication "Where There Be Mountains: Environmental and Cultural Change in the Appalachian South," his doctoral dissertation at the University of Tennessee. 66 • Journal of the Appalachian Studies Association • Volume Seven • 1995 �Connecting Appalachia: A Survey of Recent Work in Early American History with Reference to Southern Appalachia Tom Costa In his seminal study Appalachia on Our Mind, Henry Shapiro describes the creation of a myth of Appalachian isolation and "otherness" initially based on the writings of local color journalists who "discovered" the area in the latter part of the nineteenth century. Their depictions of the mountains as an isolated, rural backwater were reinforced by the attentions of Protestant home missionaries who invaded the region, shifting their focus from blacks to spiritually impoverished white mountain folk in order not to alienate other white southerners. In the view of these do-gooders, Appalachian "peculiarity" became the basis for attempts at "denominational uplift," despite the fact that many of the mountaineers were already Christians (Shapiro 1978, 4, 60). Ronald Eller, in Miners, Millhands, and Mountaineers, modifies Shapiro's thesis by showing that Appalachian economic stagnation, traditionally seen as a historical and geographical development which contrasts with the massive changes wrought by industrialization after the 1870s, was in reality a result of the rapid and uneven pace of the late nineteenth-century economic change (Eller 1982, xx, 6). Not surprisingly, both Shapiro and Eller see the crucial period in the history of Appalachia as the period of industrialization, from roughly 1870 to the 1920s, when the arrival of the railroad and coal industries 1995 • Volume Seven • Journal of the Appalachian Studies Association • 67 �had their greatest impact. There is no doubt that the effects of industrialization form a significant theme in Appalachian history. By shifting the focus to the roots of mountain history in the colonial and antebellum periods, however, recent works have added significantly to Shapiro's and Eller's work by placing Appalachia in the broader context of American and southern frontier and rural history. Echoing an earlier call for connecting Appalachia to the mainstream of history, these revisions significantly alter the traditional picture of Appalachia as a backwater, bypassed by the main forces of history (Wilhelm 1977). There is no synthesis of pre-industrial Appalachian history, which may be part of the problem. Older histories tend to view mountaineers as peripheral to the main story—an isolated, ornery folk who wanted nothing better than to be left alone. According to these versions, these dirt farmers or herdsmen, imbued with precapitalist values, worked marginal lands no one else wanted. Through choice and/or circumstance, they engaged in a subsistence agriculture by which they barely managed to scratch out a living. According to this thesis, coal mining brought capital, jobs, even civilization to the hillbilly (Gray 1933, 884, 867; Owsley 1942, 24, 26-7; Weise 1991). Recent works provide a valuable corrective to the picture of antebellum southern Appalachia as a static, impoverished region. Antebellum southern mountaineers practiced a more diversified agriculture than once was assumed. According to Tyrel G. Moore, Eastern Kentucky farmers participated in a range of economic pursuits which augmented their farming, including milling and tanning, as well as locally extracting salt, iron, and coal. In an important work on antebellum North Carolina highlanders, John Inscoe has described "a thriving, productive, and even a progressive society" on the eve of the Civil War—certainly not the poor dirt farmers of the older image. In these works, southern Appalachia is placed in the context of antebellum rural America as a whole (Moore 1991; Inscoe 1989, 11-12). On the other hand, the counterpart to the hillbilly dirt farmer stereotype—the sturdy, self-sufficient yeoman who lived in an idyllic Eden later spoiled by industrialization—also proves problematic. Paul Salstrom contributes to the scholarly debate over the self-sufficient versus entrepreneurial models of rural America by shifting the emphasis to agricultural production as a causative factor in the move from acquisitiveness to a more cautious self-sufficiency. Salstrom's Kentucky farmers have always been entrepreneurial. He turns the rural mentalites argument on its head by pointing out that Appalachia's declining agriculture actually dates from the 1840s and is the key factor in transforming the mountain farmer from a middling entrepreneurial producer to a cautious, self-sufficient grower (Salstrom 1991). Salstrom's article forms part of a larger debate over the mental 68 • Journal of the Appalachian Studies Association • Volume Seven • 1995 �world of rural Americans. Were eighteenth- and early nineteenthcentury farmers essentially communal, self-sufficient, and anti-capitalist? Or were they aggressive, profit-maximizing proto-capitalists? Much of the recent work dealing with Appalachia indicates that the latter view is probably closer to the truth. In a work dealing with the Shenandoah Valley, for example, Robert D. Mitchell attacks the self-sufficiency thesis head on by pointing out that the American westward movement was from the beginning spurred by a commercial ideology. By extension, Appalachian settlers, like the other frontiersmen, headed west with one eye on the profit potential ahead of them and the other on from where they had come (Mitchell 1977, 8).1 Livestock, in particular, often proved a valuable source of income for preindustrial mountain farmers. Frank Owsley's classic stages of settlement of the southwest, with herdsmen followed by farmers, is misleading. Livestock and crops were raised by mountain farmers. Moore's Kentuckians herded cattle, sheep, and swine in significant numbers. In colonial western Pennsylvania and Virginia, cattle formed an important part of the mixed farming that was characteristic of the region. For some eighteenth-century Shenandoah Valley farmers, cattle raising was the primary occupation. Valley cattlemen were an aristocracy comparable to the low country tobacco planters (Owsley 1942, 45-46; Moore 1991, 2267, 233; McMaster 1991, 130). Such economic diversification led to increasing social stratification, but it was access to land which provides the key factor in the formation of frontier elites. Recent studies of land acquisition in early American history may prove especially rewarding to the student of early Appalachia. In colonial times, the key figure in controlling access to land was the county surveyor. For colonial Augusta County, Virginia, for example, Turk McClesky detects a pattern of settling land in which a small, interconnected local elite, acting on their own behalf or as agents for provincial leaders, monopolized the best land (McClesky 1990; Hughes 1979, 89, 170; Hofstra 1991; Hofstra 1990, 427-29). Such a pattern of elite accumulation of land may have persisted into the ostensibly more democratic nineteenth century. Mary Beth Pudup demonstrates the formation of a native social, political, and economic elite in three counties in southeastern Kentucky beginning in the 1820s. Land ownership proved an important criterion for ascent. This group also based its prominence on establishing political and economic networks with the rest of Kentucky (Pudup 1991). The importance of kin in facilitating the formation of local elites, enhancing ideas of community in backcountry regions, and tying mountain people to the wider world is the subject of a number of recent works. For example, Warren Hofstra describes the importance of family, ethnicity, and religion in fostering a sense of community in the northern 1995 • Volume Seven • Journal of the Appalachian Studies Association • 69 �Shenandoah Valley settlement of Opequon, even for the increasing numbers who departed for Kentucky and Tennessee in the years following the Revolution (Hofstra 1990, 423-448). In Southwest Virginia, the kinship connections crucial in gaining the powerful Preston family local dominance helped them capture state office in the early national period. Later, a branch of the same family, residents of isolated Burkes Garden in Tazewell County, Virginia, also used family connections in a vigorous system of local and external exchange. Kin networks were as important in preindustrial Appalachia as they were elsewhere in colonial and antebellum rural America (Terry 1992; Mann 1992; Dunn 1988). Family provides one important theme in recent works on colonial and antebellum Appalachia; ethnicity represents another. The stereotype of a predominantly Scotch-Irish Southern mountain frontier is addressed by several authors. While the Scotch-Irish element is significant, the term itself is problematic. It is important to distinguish the differences among Irish Presbyterians of Scottish origin (Ulster Scots, the main ethnic group called Scotch-Irish), Irish Catholics, Presbyterians from Wales, Scotland, or northern England, and Irish Anglicans of English origin, all emigrants from the margins of Britain to American backwoods (Mitchell 1991, 9-10; Blethen and Wood 1991, 150-1; Keller 1991, 72; Nobles 1989, 651-2; Berthoff 1986, 525-30; Jones 1991, 286-7). Identifying the ethnic backgrounds of Appalachian settlers is one thing; attributing cultural characteristics to their ethnicity is another. Older accounts posit a group of characteristics as the "frontier type"— hardy, independent, aggressive, often violent. In examining the background of the "Scotch-Irish" immigrants to Southern Appalachia, Kenneth Keller asserts that it was only with the growth of nativism and anti-Catholicism in the 1840s and 1850s that a real sense of Scotch-Irish ethnicity began to appear among western mountaineers. Of all immigrant groups to the frontier, the Scotch-Irish adapted most readily to the dominant English cultural norm: they were the most rapidly assimilated of any of the frontier ethnics (Keller 1991, 83-4; Jones 1991, 311-13). Furthermore, an examination of the career of one Western North Carolina merchant, James Patton, "a key figure in linking the small farms of the southern mountains to the urban markets both north and south," emphasizes the advanced social standing of the Ulster immigrants in that region (Blethen and Wood 1991, 152-3). Even Hofstra's ethnic Scotch-Irish of Opequon traded with Germans, English, and native Virginians (Hofstra 1990, 424). Politically, mountain stereotypes also give way to a more diversified picture of early national and antebellum Appalachian public life. In Revolutionary Southwest Virginia, for example, a more complex reading of local politics replaces the traditional view that mountaineers were 70 • Journal of the Appalachian Studies Association • Volume Seven • 1995 �unanimous in their support for independence. While many of the area's patriots marched under Colonel William Campbell of Abingdon to defeat the British at King's Mountain, South Carolina, in 1780, local loyalists created such turmoil that patriot leaders reported that perhaps as much as half of the area's population had British sympathies (Selby 1988, 2156, 219; Evans 1985, 179-212). Following the Revolution, Van Beck Hall has found that, in contrast to older notions of a socially, economically, and politically retarded area, Appalachian Virginia between 1790 and 1830 "generated political programs that attempted to reform the state while using its power to implement economic development and social change. . . ." Hall proposes the existence of "two Appalachias": one, rural and isolated farming counties; the other, vital and town-centered, with newspapers, banks, and nascent industry. This latter area produced politicians who led efforts for political and social reform and economic development which proved an anathema to easterners. Hall's mountain politicians generally remained suspicious of the slave-owning, planter-dominated east (Hall 1991, 166, 172). On the other hand, John Inscoe's examination of antebellum North Carolina mountaineers provides a revision to the common view that they were unionist, and in the process corrects a series of misconceptions regarding southern mountaineers. Although the inhabitants of Boone and Buncombe counties owned fewer slaves than their eastern counterparts, their defense of the southern way of life was no less profound. Inscoe's Carolinians inhabited Hall's town-centered Appalachia, with the additional advantage of a growing tourist industry (Inscoe 1989, 25-58). Taken together, the two works reveal an Appalachia which defies political stereotyping. These recent examinations of preindustrial Appalachia form part of the larger question of the meaning of the frontier in American history. Frederick Jackson Turner's picture of independent and egalitarian settlers is largely discredited. Yet what replaces Turner's frontier is not clear. One concept which may prove more fruitful than Turner's tired frontier thesis is the concept of antebellum Southern Appalachia as a borderlands rather than a frontier. According to this model, western settlers migrated to an increasingly ragged periphery. Using such a concept, several themes emerge from the above works which have been made explicit in three recent attempts at a grand synthesis of early American history. Geography offers one key to gaining a more balanced perspective on Appalachian history, as many of the above-mentioned works attest. The starting point in any definition of Appalachia must be geography. The first volume of D.W. Meinig"s ambitious geo-historical approach to 1995 • Volume Seven • Journal of the Appalachian Studies Association • 71 �American history emphasizes geographic character, structure, and system, which he defines as the "the human creation of places and of networks of relationships among them" (Meinig 1986, xv). Another fruitful method lies in an examination of the folks involved in the settlement process itself. This process is called "peopling" by Bernard Bailyn in his recent synthesis. One of the most significant developments of the late colonial and early national period is population growth. According to the most recent estimates, in the years from 1750 to 1775 the population of North America grew from 1,300,000 to 2,300,000. The bulk of this increase, coming as it does after 1760, "became so great that it constituted a social force in itself. . ." This explains much of American history, including perhaps even the American Revolution (Bailyn 1986(a); 1986(b), 7; Meinig 1986, 288). David Hackett Fischer stresses the persistence of cultural factors as the organizing theme in the first volume of his ambitious survey of American history. Fischer sets forth four regions of Britain whose distinctive cultural traits migrated to four separate regions of North America. Fischer's book has been attacked, however, for a variety of reasons, one of which is his essentially static view of culture. For all of his prodigious research, his thesis of cultural persistence in Southern Appalachia remains problematic (Fischer 1989; "Forum" 1991; Landsman 1991, 253-259; "Culture Wars" 1992). Reviewing these three syntheses, one theme emerges which may prove productive in dealing with the history of the Appalachian South. The concept of networking represents a combination of the approaches of Meinig, Bailyn, and Fischer—geography, peopling, and culture. According to Barrett and Anita Rutman, networking involves a number of preconceptions. First is "the assumption that people inevitably associate in groups." Associations have some order; they come together at what the Rutmans call "nodal points." Geography, in both a negative and positive sense—presenting limits as well as opportunities— is also a vital element in forming associations. Physical topography is important; so too is social topography—associations are hierarchical, involving power relationships. Finally, associations are observable, having limits and forming networks. An important outcome of using this approach is that we see how the communities under study are connected to the wider world (Rutman and Rutman 1984, 25-30). How does networking apply to the history of early Appalachia? In Robert Mitchell's view, historians must "envision the Appalachian area as 'becoming,' as a place in process, defined both by its physical presence and by its mode and timing of pioneer settlement" (Mitchell 1991, 3). Using networking to see Appalachian history as a process can help reconcile seemingly disparate themes of geography, peopling, and degree of cultural persistence. 72 • Journal of the Appalachian Studies Association • Volume Seven • 1995 �For example, Meinig clearly focuses on all of North America, including the mountains, as part of a wider Atlantic world. His geographical approach views the colonies as parts of a whole—the movement of goods, people, and ideas from metropolitan European centers, each with its hinterland, through Atlantic ports, across the ocean to colonial ports, to colonies, to frontier entrepots, to outposts, and finally to Indian core lands. Meinig's schemata thus represents a network along which a spectrum of power relationships, interaction, and social character works itself out (Meinig 1986, 258-65). Bailyn, too, emphasizes networking. His masterful analysis of the lists of emigrants from Britain during the years 1771-1773 demonstrates the dual nature of British migration to the New World during those years. A primarily individual, servant migration from the midlands and southern England through London combined with an overwhelmingly family-centered migration from northern Britain (Bailyn 1986(b), 201-3). Family connections in this case may have maintained cultural norms for a longer period in the southern backcountry than in areas where individuals settled as servants. Fischer's work, focusing as it does on the near total retention of lifeways in the settlement process, proves more of a problem. Although his analysis of the British background to the settling of North America provides a wealth of detail, his examination of the transferral of culture to the backcountry is too rigid. The work is useful in its emphasis on the British background of the settlers, but provides a too static picture of the settlement process itself. If modified, however, by a closer examination of the networks between Old and New World regions, Fischer's analysis can provide important insight. For example, his emphasis on one specific characteristic of the northern British borderlands, namely a propensity to violence, attracts much of the criticism of his book. Just how this propensity toward violence may have changed in the process of settling the southern mountains remains the crucial question which Fischer's approach tends to obscure. A recent article by Ned Landsman offers a more subtle thesis, maintaining that borderers' violence may have generated the commitment to civil order which characterized the Scottish Enlightenment. Such a commitment then transferred to America through a network of settlers from northern Britain (Landsman 1991, 258; Cunningham 1992; Waller 1992). Applying the concept of networking to correct Fischer's emphasis on cultural persistence also serves to debunk the older view of the persistence of an ethnic Scotch-Irish "type" in Appalachia. As Maldwyn Jones points out, even if one accepts the distinctiveness of "Scotch-Irish" as a discrete group, by the time of the Revolution, except in the most isolated places, the Scotch-Irish on the American frontier had become largely 1995 • Volume Seven • Journal of the Appalachian Studies Association • 73 �assimilated into an Anglo-American cultural framework (Jones 1991, 313). The works discussed here repeatedly emphasize the value of networking as an approach to Appalachian history. There have been numerous connections between the inhabitants of Southern Appalachia and the wider world. Mann's inhabitants of Burkes Valley sought contacts with the outside world through a network of family and commercial connections (Mann 1992, 413). McClesky's colonial speculators acted in close cooperation with provincial leaders in Williamsburg, luring the large numbers of migrants which moved southward from Pennsylvania into the Shenandoah Valley (McClesky 1990, 485-6; Meinig 1986, 159-60). In the northern valley, Hofstra and Mitchell detect an integrated towncountry "system" which developed as the area joined the wider commercializing trading system in the early nineteenth century (Hofstra and Mitchell 1993). Inscoe's Western Carolinians, too, act "as parts of a larger whole." The Appalachia of Inscoe and Hall is a more complex region than any older picture of rural isolation. Mountain towns, "where the world got out. . . and where the world got in," as Inscoe so aptly quotes Thomas Wolfe, served as nodal points where news and institutions from the outside penetrated the mountain region (Inscoe 1989, 25-58). Many questions remain. Religion as a network receives less attention than it deserves, although Hofstra makes some effort to include religion in his analysis of the Shenandoah Valley (Hofstra 1990, 423448). The earliest networks of the region, among Native Americans and between Native Americans and European settlers, also warrant attention. But such questions represent significant research opportunities. Ongoing work in the history of colonial and early national Southern Appalachia will continue to add to our knowledge of Appalachian networks. Eventually a synthesis of early Appalachian history will appear, connecting Appalachia with the mainstream of American history, and the bogey of Appalachian isolation and otherness will finally rest. (The research for this paper was supported through a grant provided by the Faculty Development Committee of Clinch Valley College.) Note 1 It should be noted, however, that several historians, writing what has been labeled "the new rural history," dispute the entrepreneurial interpretation of American fanners. Their contributions lie beyond the scope of this essay, but see the introduction to The Countryside in the Age of Capitalist Transformation (Hahn and Prude 1985) and "Theoretical Perspectives on the New Rural History: 74 • Journal of the Appalachian Studies Association • Volume Seven • 1995 �From Environmentalist!! to Modernization" (Swierenga 1982). Works Cited Bailyn, Bernard. 1986a. The Peopling of British North America: An Introduction. New York: Alfred A. Knopf. . 1986b. Voyagers to the West: A Passage in the Peopling of America on the Eve of the Revolution. New York: Alfred A. Knopf. Berthoff, Rowland. 1986. "Celtic Mist Over the South." Journal of Southern History 52:525-530. Blethen, H. Tyler, and Curtis W. Wood. 1991. "A Trader on the Western Carolina Frontier." In Appalachian Frontiers, Settlement, Society and Development in the Preindustrial Era, ed. Robert D. Mitchell. Lexington: University of Kentucky Press. "Culture Wars: David Hackett Fischer's Albion's Seed." 1992. Appalachian Journal 19:161-200. Cunningham, Rodger. 1992. "Second and Third Thoughts on Albion's Seed." Appalachian Journal 19:174-5. Dunn, Durwood. 1988. Cades Cove: The Life and Death of a Southern Appalachian Community, 1818-1937. Knoxville: University of Tennessee Press. Eller, Ronald. 1982. Miners, Millhands, and Mountaineers: Industrialization of the Appalachian South, 1880-1930. Knoxville: University of Tennessee Press. Evans, Emory. 1985. "Trouble in the Backcountry: Disaffection in Southwest Virginia During the American Revolution." In An Uncivil War: The Southern Backcountry During the American Revolution, eds. Ronald Hoffman, Thad Tate, and Peter Albert. Charlottesville: University Press of Virginia. Fischer, David Hackett. 1989. Albion's Seed: Four British Folkways in America. New York: Oxford University Press. "Forum: Albion's Seed: Four British Folkways in America—A Symposium." 1991. William and Mary Quarterly, 3rd ser. 48:223-308. Gray, Louis Cecil. 1933. History of Agriculture in the Southern United States to 1860. 2 vols. Washington, D.C.: Government Printing Office. Hahn, Steven, and Jonathan Prude, eds. 1985. The Countryside in the Age of Capitalist Transformation. Chapel Hill: University of North Carolina Press. 1995 • Volume Seven • Journal of the Appalachian Studies Association • 75 �Hall, Van Beck. 1991. "The Politics of Appalachian Virginia, 1790-1830." In Appalachian Frontiers, Settlement, Society and Development in the Preindustrial Era, ed. Robert D. Mitchell. Lexington: University of Kentucky Press. Hofstra, Warren. 1990. "Land, Ethnicity, and Community at the Opequon Settlement, Virginia, 1730-1800." Virginia Magazine of History and Biography 98:423-448. Hofstra, Warren. 1991. "Land Policy and Settlement in the Northern Shenandoah Valley." In Appalachian Frontiers, Settlement, Society and Development in the Preindustrial Era, ed. Robert D. Mitchell. Lexington: University of Kentucky Press. Hofstra, Warren, and Robert D. Mitchell. 1993. "Town and Country in Backcountry Virginia: Winchester and the Shenandoah Valley, 1730-1800." Journal of Southern History 59:619-646. Hughes, Sara Shaver. 1979. Surveyors and Statesmen: Land Measuring in Colonial Virginia. Richmond: Virginia State Library. Inscoe, John C. 1989. Mountain Masters, Slavery, and the Sectional Crisis in Western North Carolina. Knoxville: University of Tennessee Press. Jones, Maldwyn A. 1991. "The Scotch-Irish in British America." In Strangers Within the Realm: Cultural Margins of the First British Empire, eds. Bernard Bailyn and Philip D. Morgan. Chapel Hill: University of North Carolina Press. Keller, Kenneth. 1991. "What is Distinctive About the Scotch-Irish?" In Appalachian Frontiers, Settlement, Society and Development in the Preindustrial Era, ed. Robert D. Mitchell. Lexington: University of Kentucky Press. Landsman, Ned. 1991. "Border Cultures, the Backcountry, and 'North British" Emigration to America." William and Mary Quarterly, 3rd ser. 48:223-308. McClesky, Turk. 1990. "Rich Land, Poor Prospects: Real Estate and the Formation of a Social Elite in Augusta County, Virginia, 1738-1770." Virginia Magazine of History and Biography 98:449-486. McMaster, Richard K. 1991. "The Cattle Trade in Western Virginia, 1760-1830." In Appalachian Frontiers, Settlement, Society and Development in the Preindustrial Era, ed. Robert D. Mitchell. Lexington: University of Kentucky Press. Mann, Ralph. 1992. "Mountains, Land, and Kin Networks: Burkes Garden, Virginia, in the 1840s and 1850s." Journal of Southern History 58:411-434. Meinig, D.W. 1986. The Shaping of America: A Geographical Perspective on 500 76 • Journal of the Appalachian Studies Association • Volume Seven -1995 �Years of History. Vol I, Atlantic America, 1492-1800. New Haven: Yale University Press. Mitchell, Robert D. 1977. Commercialism and Frontier: Perspectives on the Early Shenandoah Valley. Charlottesville: University Press of Virginia. Mitchell, Robert D., ed. 1991. Appalachian Frontiers: Settlement, Society and Development in the Preindustrial Era. Lexington: University of Kentucky Press. Moore, Tyrel G. 1991. "Economic Development in Appalachian Kentucky, 18001860." In Appalachian Frontiers, Settlement, Society and Development in the Preindustrial Era, ed. Robert D. Mitchell. Lexington: University of Kentucky Press. Nobles, Gregory H. 1989. "Breaking Into the Backcountry: New Approaches to the Early American Frontier." William and Mary Quarterly, 3rd ser. 46:64170. Owsley, Frank. 1942. Plain Folk of the Old South. Baton Rouge: Louisiana State University Press. Pudup, Mary Beth. 1991. "Social Class and Economic Development in Southeast Kentucky, 1820-1880." In Appalachian Frontiers, Settlement, Society and Development in the Preindustrial Era, ed. Robert D. Mitchell. Lexington: University of Kentucky Press. Rutman, Darrett, and Anita H. Rutman. 1984. A Place in Time: Middlesex County, Virginia, 1650-1750. New York: W.W. Norton and Co. Salstrom, Paul. 1991. "The Agricultural Origins of Economic Dependency, 18401880." In Appalachian Frontiers, Settlement, Society and Development in the Preindustrial Era, ed. Robert D. Mitchell. Lexington: University of Kentucky Press. Selby, John E. 1988. The Revolution in Virginia, 1775-1783. Williamsburg: Colonial Williamsburg. Shapiro, Henry D. 1978. Appalachia on Our Mind: The Southern Mountains and Mountaineers in the American Consciousness, 1870-1920. Chapel Hill: University of North Carolina Press. Swierenga, Robert P. 1982. "Theoretical Perspectives on the New Rural History: From Environmentalism to Modernization.".<4gricM/tora/ History 56:495-502. Terry, Gail. 1992. "The Preston Family of Southwest Virginia." Paper presented at a conference on the Southwest Virginia frontier, Emory and Henry College, Emory, Va., November. 1995 • Volume Seven • Journal of the Appalachian Studies Association • 77 �Waller, Altina. 1992. The Power of Culture." Appalachian Journal 19:180-181. Weise, Robert. 1991. "Big Stone Gap and the New South, 1880-1900." In The Edge of the South: Life in Nineteenth-Century Virginia, eds. Edward L. Ayers and John C. Willis. Charlottesville: University Press of Virginia. Wilhelm, Gene, Jr. 1977. "Appalachian Isolation: Fact or Fiction?" In An Appalachian Symposium: Essays Written in Honor of Gratis D. Williams, ed. Jerry W. Williamson. Boone, N.C.: Appalachian Consortium Press. Tom Costa is assistant professor in the department of history and philosophy at Clinch Valley College in Wise, Va. He also serves as moderator for H-Load, an electronic discussion list for state and local history. 78 • Journal of the Appalachian Studies Association • Volume Seven • 1995 �Property, Gender, and the Sale of Mineral Rights in Pre-industrial Eastern Kentucky Robert Weise Before corporate coal mining introduced full-time wage labor into the area, Central Appalachia's farm economy functioned primarily within the context of individual households. While the rather extensive local timber industry brought a large percentage of the Appalachian population in direct contact with regional and national markets and with rationalized credit systems, farming continued to maintain household subsistence (Merrill 1977; Henretta 1978; Clark 1979; Clark 1990; Hofstra and Mitchell 1993). In Eastern Kentucky, deep generational and gender conflicts over the control of property divided households in the years before industrialization, and those intra-household divisions were entangled with extensive credit relationships formed with merchants and with other households. The opportunity to sell mineral rights to coal speculators in the late nineteenth century suddenly opened up new avenues to women and men for resolving both intra-household and interhousehold conflicts. Eastern Kentucky's industrial development, then, dependent for its success on the sale of mineral rights, is linked not only to the colonial aspirations of outside mining corporations but also to gender relations within Appalachia's farming households (Eller 1982). Landed property formed the base of pre-industrial Appalachia's farm economy. Consequently, control of that property defined power relationships and shaped the ways those relationships became reproduced in successive generations. Property owners, generally men, managed the transfer of real estate through deeds of sale and through inheritance. 1995 • Volume Seven • Journal of the Appalachian Studies Association • 79 �While Kentucky law tried to protect some rights of married women and female descendants to property ownership, Appalachian cultural norms tended to privilege the power of men to control property over protections granted women by law. In Floyd County, Kentucky, during the late nineteenth and early twentieth centuries, men often sidestepped or disregarded women's legal property rights and preserved for men command over the productive resources of the county. Until 1894, married women in Kentucky did not have legal powers over land or business transactions conducted by their husbands (Salmon 1986; Basch 1982). All such transactions, and the profits gained from them, belonged exclusively to husbands, and husbands had full rights to their wives' personal property and to the use and rents of whatever real estate their wives brought into the marriage. Nonetheless, Kentucky law did protect women's ownership, if not use and control, of their own landed property, and it gave women an interest in property accumulated during their marriages. Wives' own estates were free from liabilities their husbands incurred either before or during the marriage, and their estates could not be sold to satisfy their husbands' debts. Wives, furthermore, had to consent to and acknowledge any sale of land; a wife's refusal to sign a deed in front of a notary public invalidated the transaction. Wives could also, with the support of their husbands, petition the circuit court to be given the status of feme sole, to be considered in the eyes of the law an unmarried woman with full powers over all her real and personal property. Statutes enacted in 1894 eliminated the legal concept of feme sole by granting all women, married or single, full rights to property ownership and rights to conduct business independently from their husbands. Kentucky laws upheld common law protections of widows and daughters by ensuring their share of the property left by husbands and fathers who died intestate. A widow received the customary one-third dower interest in land and a full interest in personal property for her use during her life. Upon her death, however, her dower descended to her husband's heirs. A widow, then, had full use of her dower, but she could not sell it or bequeath it. The 1894 laws gave husbands a one-third lifetime dower interest in their wives' estates, and gave both husbands and wives absolute control of one-half of the personal property. Daughters, before and after 1894, had as complete an interest in their fathers' estate as did their brothers. After court administrators determined the size and contents of the widow's dower, the rest of the estate went in equal shares to each of the children, male and female (Dembitz 1890; Bullock and Johnson 1873; Russell 1909). Pre-1894 inheritance law, then, codified some measure of independence for women by protecting their rights to ownership of separate property. Nonetheless, by prohibiting widows from disposing of their dowers as they saw fit, inheritance 80 • Journal of the Appalachian Studies Association • Volume Seven • 1995 �law still upheld the principle of male control over household business. Gender conventions in the Kentucky mountains placed men in positions of authority over women and over their children, creating what must be called a patriarchal hierarchy. At meals, women often waited on the men of the family before sitting at the table themselves; children labored under the strict discipline of their fathers; religious services had separate seating for men and women and restricted leadership positions to men alone. If those situations did not at all preclude genuinely loving relationships and did not signify Victorian submissiveness among wives, they did serve to underscore the power of husbands and fathers in the household and in the larger society (Caudill 1962; Mann 1993; Dorgan 1989; Tyson, Peacock, and Patterson 1988). That power generally meant that husbands, unaware of and unconcerned with the 1894 changes in property law, ran the business affairs of the household and expected their wives to acknowledge land deeds when necessary. One woman testified in 1912 that she knew nothing of the value of her farm or the timber on it because she had never investigated it, noting that "women are generally in the house, you know." When her husband sold the tract, he insisted she sign off on the deed even though she understood nothing of the document and knew none of her husband's plans, because "like all other women I always attend to my business in the house, and didn't pay any attention to them" (Floyd Circuit Court Files #5644, 22 January 1912). This woman took domesticity to an extreme that most Floyd County women did not share, yet her role was well within the gender norms of mountain culture. Those norms defined the proper relations between husbands and wives in the household. When Floyd County marriages fell apart, the party suing for the divorce did so on the grounds either that the husband failed to provide adequately for his family or that the wife, by some lewd and lascivious behavior, proved herself unchaste. Petitions in divorce suits tended to copy the wording of the Kentucky statutes that set out the grounds for a legal divorce, making it difficult to determine whether Floyd Countians shared the same gender conceptions held in the rest of the state, or if they felt they had to phrase their complaints that way to obtain the divorce. Fortunately, the details of the suits do make clear what each party expected of the other in the marriage. Women often pointed to habitual drunkenness or plain laziness as the cause of their husbands' inability to provide for their families' subsistence, and that failure was too often accompanied by severe abuse. One woman claimed that, although she was always "obedient, submissive, and kind" to her husband, he "cruelly, whipped beat and abused assaulted and injured . . . her with a large club." At the same time, her husband had "within the last few years wasted and extravagantly disposed of some twelve or thirteen hundred dollars without adding 1995 • Volume Seven • Journal of the Appalachian Studies Association • 81 �anything to his property" and was now trying to dispose of the rest of it so his wife could not claim alimony or gain control of his estate. Another woman suffered similar violence from her husband, who refused to provide her with food and clothing. Her husband, witnesses said, "would not buy Clothing for her" and "would not work and support her .. . the People had to throw in provisions to keep her from Starving" (Floyd Circuit Court Files #4860, 31 December 1906; #4823, 8 October 1906, among many others). Gender divisions of labor, even in Appalachia's subsistence farming economy, were apparently sufficiently well drawn that a husband's failure to do his part threatened not only the household's use and control of property but also its ability to feed itself. Either party could, and often did, accuse the other of adultery, most often occurring "on divers occasions and with divers persons." Men generally limited their complaints to adultery and abandonment, indicating that they expected their wives, in addition to their contributions to household subsistence, to provide them with a respectable home. Divorce suits based on adultery could get extremely ugly, especially since circuit and county courts accepted all manner of hearsay as evidence. Witnesses, both men and women, routinely testified as fact what was only neighborhood rumor and proffered to the court their opinions as to the moral character of one party or the other. One witness told the Court that "I have saw deft winking at men and squeezing mens feet and I have seen her Hug men I have seen her have vulgar talk to men . . . other than her husband." Another based her certainty as to a woman's unchastity on the grounds that "I have seen her knocking about with Zack Johnsonf;] report says they have taken up together" (Floyd Circuit Court Files #2545, 20 September 1886; #1404, 15 January 1872; #2173, 6 September 1881; #2218, 31 August 1882). Suits all too often degenerated into a sordid set of assertions, counterassertions, threats, and bribery as women tried to justify their claims to alimony in land, while their husbands sought to establish grounds for not paying any alimony at all. Divorce suits and accusations of male wastefulness were ways that Appalachian women contested male control of productive resources. Men tried to perpetuate their authority by passing control of property to their sons and sons-in-law. While most Floyd County wills written in the late nineteenth century merely specified which tracts of land would go to each child, son or daughter, some granted all land to the sons and gave personal property or cash to the daughters. None gave daughters any more land than they would have received had the bequeather died intestate, and only a few stipulated that the daughters' inheritance was to be free from the control of their husbands. One will insisted that daughters could sell their shares only to their brothers, who had no restrictions placed on their shares, and others gave daughters or sisters only a lifetime interest in their inheritances (Floyd County Will Book A 82 • Journal of the Appalachian Studies Association • Volume Seven • 1995 �1812-1931). Most Floyd County farmers left no wills at all and disposed of their property by deed instead. These deeds either did not go into effect until the grantor died, or else they specified that the grantee support the grantor and his wife on the property until their deaths. Deeds often went to sons alone, while others went directly to sons-in-law, under the assumption that daughters' welfare was served best by allowing their husbands full control of the households' resources (Floyd County Land Deed Books K:403-410; N:394). Fathers' attempts to control the distribution of their property did not always succeed, especially where an unusually forceful daughter insisted on retaining the estate for herself. Sometime around 1880, Christopher Patton tried to draw up a will giving much of his land to his sons-in-law Micajer Spradlin and Abner Hackworth. Christopher's daughter Pheba, however, in the words of her sister Polly Spradlin (wife of Micajer), "got into a mighty fret" over Christopher's plans and compelled him to write a new will giving Pheba ownership of virtually the whole estate. Christopher "told [Pheba] she would have all & had got all and yet she was not satisfied, and that if she did not quit [illegible] over him so much, he was going to be taken away from there." Abner Hackworth further testified to Pheba's influence over her father. On the day Christopher wrote his new will, Hackworth went to his house. "[I] stepped in the entry & the old woman [Pheba] stoped me & told me not to go in there they had the door bared against me . . . The evening before he died, he said that he did not have his business fixed up as he wanted i t . . . Pheba rushed in the house and told him to hush Mouth that everything was fixed up right." Hackworth concluded that "Pheba was the controller of everything so far as i know . . . I think she ruled over him in every thing, is my opinion" (Floyd Circuit Court Files #2649, 11 July 1887). Patriarchal authority had its limits, especially in the mountains where rugged living for both women and men mitigated against the idealization of the meek and domesticated woman. A handful of women, then, did manage to gain control of household property, and some even became a part of Floyd County's small but influential group of merchants and speculators. Most businesswomen, however, achieved their position as extensions of their husbands, by supporting them in their businesses or by taking over the businesses after their husbands' deaths. Christina Hatcher, for example, took control of her husband's general store when he died in 1851 and ran it with aplomb until her own death 35 years later. Hatcher never remarried, a move which would have ended her mercantile career. Instead, she concentrated on building up the family fortune by buying and selling 1995 • Volume Seven • Journal of the Appalachian Studies Association • 83 �several tracts of land and by extending store credit to neighboring farmers. Hatcher had no qualms about suing those farmers if they failed to repay their debts (Floyd Circuit Court Files #516, 8 December 1856; #688, 12 October 1858; #853, 19 November 1860; #970-#972, 17 November 1865; Floyd County Land Deed Books, esp. K:351, L:217) Nannie J. Honaker worked alongside her husband in his mercantile and timber operations. Around 1900, Honaker bought up several pieces of property and secured a lease on ten acres on which to build a log yard and sawmills. She also made at least three timber contracts with her neighbors, buying from them over one thousand trees for under one dollar each. In 1906, Honaker bought up the holdings of the bankrupt Winston Lumber & Manufacturing Company of Louisville, and three years later, in a joint deed with her husband, she purchased mineral rights under a 43-acre tract (Floyd County Land Deed Books X:475, 4:282, 14:339, 17:155, 22:621). Arty Akers built on her husband's extensive landholdings after his death in 1870. Like Hatcher, Akers, though an uneducated farm woman, lent money to farmers throughout the county at interest, not hesitating to file suit when the need arose. When she died in 1900, Akers left her children sizable estates. She was, in the words of a neighbor, "a fine business woman, fine" (Floyd Circuit Court Files #4149, 22 August 1901). Other women petitioned the Circuit Court to be granted the status of feme sole, allowing them to "use enjoy sell and convey for her own benefit any property . . . she may own or acquire free from the claims or debts of her husband and to make contracts, sue and be sued as a single woman and to trade in her own name". Mary L. Hatcher (only indirectly related to Christina Hatcher), supported by her husband, made such a petition in 1877 and from then on ran successful stores in at least two different locations (Floyd Circuit Court Files #1794, 17 March 1877). More often than not, however, what may look like a woman's effort to secure property for herself or to conduct business outside the dominion of her husband was actually a ploy to protect the husband's property from being sold for unpaid debts. Creditors regularly complained to the courts that their debtors had fraudulently sold all their property to their wives in an effort to "cover up his property." Other creditors believed that feme sole petitions themselves smacked of fraud, and they delved into the personal affairs of their debtors to determine whether their wives actually were managing their property on their own. So even though Lydia Mayo received feme sole status from the court, creditors of her husband, Lewis, still tried to force the sale of real estate that was in her name. Lewis Mayo, they said, traded in livestock and cultivated the whole of the farm on his own and received the benefits from his labor, and therefore the property legally belonged to him. Neither his creditors nor the judge believed Mayo when he told them that he was only a hired 84 • Journal of the Appalachian Studies Association • Volume Seven • 1995 �hand of his wife and that he turned all farm proceeds over to her in exchange for room and board (Floyd Circuit Court Files #1794, 17 March 1877; #1255, 13 February 1869; #2514, 1 April 1886; #1762, 25 April 1876; #1865, 25 April 1878; #1901, 4 December 1878). Only rarely was feme sole used as a mechanism to advance women's independence in the household. More often, those legal measures to protect women's property were manipulated to facilitate and safeguard men's business affairs, to perpetuate male control of household resources. Feme sole was a legal device useful mostly to households directly involved in commercial activities and with direct connections to creditors. In those farming households operating on a basically subsistence basis, men used more straightforward means of maintaining their dominion over household affairs. Cultural assumptions of male authority gave men de facto control of all property and all property transactions, sometimes in conflict with the protections granted women by law. Although husbands' power over their wives' property was meant to benefit the household as a whole, men sometimes simply turned it toward their own pleasures, causing more than one woman to complain to the Circuit Court that her husband was "spending and making away with her property and . . . never has made any provision for her and her children for their support and maintenance" (Floyd Circuit Court Files #1810, 30 July 1877). Wives' legal rights to real estate—their ownership of what they brought into the marriage and their interest in household transactions— fell victim to the real power of husbands, who commonly resorted to "fraud, threats, duress, and coercion" to gain their wives' legal assent to land sales. Women often signed deeds they did not understand and sometimes had their names forged to deeds; one woman signed a deed while delirious with a fever. "I had been sick, " she said. "I was sick a long time. . . . They pulled me off the bed and made me acknowledge one deed, but after I come to myself I never acknowledged any more" (Floyd Circuit Court Files, #5413, 11 June 1910; #5644, 22 Dec. 1912). Other men used force rather than deceit to obtain their wives' signatures. Anzie Hall claimed that her husband, "a very bad & dangerous man," threatened to kill her if she refused to sell the piece of property she inherited from her father. Hall's petition to the Circuit Court stated that: at the time she signed the deed . . . her husband & two of his brothers was armed with guns & pistols and compeled her to sign the deed. She says that she cried and beged [sic] and . . . says that this was her own land that she did not intend to sell i t . . . that all she did do was through fear of her life or greate bodily harm (Floyd Circuit Court Files #3447, 6 March 1894). 1995 • Volume Seven • Journal of the Appalachian Studies Association • 85 �Another woman claimed that her husband threatened to abandon her if she did not go along with his plans to dispose of her property. Julia Erasure told the court that her husband sold her inheritance to a neighbor without her consent just before they left Kentucky for Texas. While in Texas, Erasure's husband coerced her into signing the deed to that sale, saying that he told her that if she did not sign it, "he would leave me there without any money or friends and I would have to get back home the best way I could" (Floyd Circuit Court Files #4055, 18 July 1900) All these women tried to use the courts to protect the rights their husbands had violated, and there were certainly many more cases that went unreported. Occasionally, lawsuits did secure women's rights to property against the usurpations of husbands, fathers, or brothers. In one case, three sisters brought suit against their eight brothers for failing to pay the sisters' shares in the family inheritance. Apparently, just before his death, their father had divided his property among his eight sons on the condition that the sons would pay the daughters in cash one-thirteenth the total value of the estate. After eight years had passed without payment, three of the five daughters tried to force payment by filing suit (Floyd Circuit Court Files #2714, 4 April 1888; the court's judgement in the case does not appear in the case file). Legal action, however, generally did not present a challenge to male household authority. Anzie Hall had to wait until her husband died before she could safely ask the Floyd Circuit Court to invalidate the sale of her land, and the court ruled against her. Julia Erasure's husband supported her lawsuit, possibly because when he made the sale, he did not recognize the value of the timber that stood on his wife's land. The Erasures, too, lost their case and the transaction remained in force. As with feme sole petitions, husbands often benefitted from wives' legal claims to property, since, if successful, they gave husbands control of those additional resources. Wives, of course, could not sue their husbands, and if a married woman wanted to bring suit against anyone else, her husband had to file the petition on her behalf. So of the three sisters who sued their brothers for their inheritance, two did so jointly with their husbands, who took the legal initiative, while the third, a widow, filed independently. The documents in the file do not make clear whether the wives sued at the instigation of their husbands or vice versa, but, either way, the lawsuit served the interests of both. When mineral speculators, starting around 1890, approached Floyd County farmers about buying the rights for mining and drilling of coal, oil, and gas, they encountered households already fractured from the inside. Speculators' overtures became incorporated into household gender dynamics and gave greater urgency to the longstanding conflicts over control of property. Mineral sales greatly increased the value of 86 • Journal of the Appalachian Studies Association • Volume Seven • 1995 �mountain property, raising the stakes of competitions over property ownership. In Floyd County, women and men both seemed eager to sell their mineral rights, especially in later years when prices for minerals soared to ten, twelve, and even fifteen dollars an acre. The high dollar values attached to minerals encouraged women more than ever to assert their legal rights to their inherited property. One woman divorced her husband in 1910 because he had squandered the $3000 in proceeds obtained from mineral sales on their jointly held land, and because he sold the minerals on her own inherited property without her consent. In the settlement, the woman received all the land and the rents from it that the couple still owned (Floyd Circuit Court Files #5397, 1 June 1910). In a similar situation, five sisters brought suit against their brothers, claiming that the brothers had "coaxed, threatened, importuned and besought" their father shortly before he died to convey to them the whole of his estate, leaving neither land nor personal property for the sisters. The case gained especial importance because, the sisters said, the estate contained "some fifteen hundred acres of valuable Coal and timbered [sic] situated in the imediate locality where oil and gas is being found." Land that had been valued at about $1800 in 1880 was now, eleven years later, worth at least $7000 (Floyd Circuit Court Files #3014, 25 February 1891; Floyd County Tax Assessor Books 1880). In those cases, mineral sales gave women incentives to push their legal rights to their limits, but those rights still did not challenge husbands' control over household business. In some rare instances, however, women did use mineral sales to acquire greater power over property management for themselves, and they often had help from coal industrialists in doing so. A few women now decided to petition the courts to allow them to sell their minerals independently of their husbands, should their husbands refuse to sell the minerals jointly. One elderly woman, for example, found herself deeply in debt, and she wanted to sell the minerals off her farm to pay her creditors. Her husband, however, who had abandoned her several years before, refused to join in the deed conveying the minerals. The woman petitioned for and received from the court a divorce from her husband and title to the property vested in her name alone so she could sell the minerals. The woman's lawyer, Walter S. Harkins, was not only her creditor but also Floyd County's most influential booster of coal industrialization, and it was he who purchased her mineral rights (Floyd Circuit Court Files #4692, 5 February 1906). In situations like this, legal rights that had been meant to provide wives protection from husbands' misuse of their property now became a way for women to demand some control in making decisions over the disposal of household resources. Mineral sales certainly did not convince women to free themselves from the dominance of their husbands in the 1995 • Volume Seven • Journal of the Appalachian Studies Association • 87 �household, but they did, along with the 1894 changes in married women's property rights, become part of a wider trend that acknowledged in women separate and independent decision-making powers. That capitalists like Walter Harkins, who endorsed money and development over traditions of patriarchy, would support women's enhanced power to sell mineral rights is hardly surprising. Wherever it has occurred, agents of industrialization have sought a reformulation of "traditional" social relationships, and women, too, have sought to direct that reformulation toward their own benefit. Elsewhere in United States history, as in Appalachia, women saw in capitalist development, for better or for worse, an opportunity to create for themselves an identity independent of the household (Kulikoff 1992). Mineral sales in Eastern Kentucky did not take place in a vacuum, solely the result of outsiders taking advantage of an unknowing populace. Rather, gender divisions within pre-industrial households created a fertile ground for such transactions, encouraging property owners to part with the minerals underlying their land. Gendered conceptions of property ownership had always been associated with household subsistence and financial gain, and mineral sales simply added a new dimension to that old association. If feme sole petitions generally represented a collaboration between men and women manipulating gender conventions to protect the household from insolvency, other negotiations of gender claims were more divisive. Women often staked their claim to property control through divorce suits by accusing their husbands of squandering household resources, while men resorted to violence to prevent their wives from interfering with their business decisions. Mineral sales underscored those fissures by giving men greater reason to control land transactions and women greater reason to demand their legal rights. Floyd County women and men, then, understood mineral sales in the context of pre-industrial gender and property relations, relations which included conflicts over land, the bedrock of household subsistence and intra-household power. Works Cited Basch, Norma. 1982. In the Eyes of the Law: Women, Marriage, and Property in Nineteenth-Century New York. Ithaca: Cornell University Press. Bullock, Edward, and William Johnson, eds. 1873. The General Statutes of the Commonwealth of Kentucky. Frankfort: The Kentucky Yeoman Office. Clark, Christopher. 1979. "The Household Economy, Market Exchange, and the Rise of Capitalism in the Connecticut Valley, 1800-1860." Journal of Social History 13:169-89 88 • Journal of the Appalachian Studies Association • Volume Seven • 1995 �. 1990. The Roots of Rural Capitalism. Ithaca: Cornell University Press. Caudill, Harry M. 1962. Night Comes to the Cumberland*: a Biography of a Depressed Area. Boston: Little, Brown and Company. Dembitz, Lewis N. 1890. Kentucky Jurisprudence. Louisville: John P. Morton & Co. Dorgan, Howard. 1989. The Old Regular Baptists of Central Appalachia: Brothers and Sisters in Hope. Knoxville: University of Tennessee Press. Eller, Ronald. 1982. Miners, Millhands, and Mountaineers: Industrialization of the Appalachian South, 1880-1930. Knoxville: University of Tennessee Press. Floyd Circuit Court Files. Kentucky State Archives. Frankfort, Kentucky. Floyd County Land Deed Books. Floyd County Courthouse. Prestonsburg, Kentucky. Floyd County Tax Assessor Books. 1880. Kentucky State Archives. Frankfort, Kentucky. Floyd County Will Books. Floyd County Courthouse. Prestonsburg, Kentucky. Henretta, James. 1978. "Families and Farms: Mentalite in Preindustrial America." William and Mary Quarterly, 3d ser. 35 (January): 3-33. Hofstra, Warren R. and Robert D. Mitchell. 1993. "Town and Country in Backcountry Virginia: Winchester and the Shenandoah Valley, 1730-1800." Journal of Southern History LI (4): 619-646. KulikofF, Allan. 1992. The Agrarian Origins of American Capitalism. Charlottesville: University Press of Virginia. Mann, Ralph. 1993. "Guerrilla Warfare and Gender Roles: Sandy Basin, Virginia, as a Test Case." Journal of the Appalachian Studies Association 5:5966. Merrill, Michael. 1977. "Cash is Good to Eat: Self-sufficiency and Exchange in the Rural Economy of the United States." Radical History Review 3 (Winter): 42-71. Russell, Lev, comp. 1909. Statutes of Kentucky. Lexington: James E. Hughes. Salmon, Marylynn. 1986. Women and the Law of Property in Early America. Chapel Hill: University of North Carolina Press. Tyson, Ruel W. Jr., James L. Peacock, and Daniel W. Patterson. 1988. Diversities 1995 • Volume Seven • Journal of the Appalachian Studies Association • 89 �of Gifts: Field Studies in Southern Religion. Urbana: University of Illinois Press. Robert Weise is a graduate student at the University of Virginia. He lives in St Louis and is finishing his dissertation on the history of pre-industrial Eastern Kentucky. 90 • Journal of the Appalachian Studies Association • Volume Seven • 1995 �Recollections About Life in Appalachians Coal Camps: Positive or Negative? Mary B. La Lone What are people's recollections of their lives in the coal mining camps of Appalachia? Did they consider life in the coal camps a harsh and mean existence as portrayed by the popular fictional images of Storming Heaven (Giardina 1987) andMatewan (Sayles 1987), and to some extent in the work of scholars such as Eller (1982), Gaventa (1980), and Corbin (1981)? Or did life in the mining camps include positive, rewarding experiences and choices for the participants, as suggested in recent works by Shifflett (1991) and Fishback (1992)? While scholars may be tempted to characterize the experience in either black or white terms, ethnographic interviews with people who lived in the coal camps rarely give this simplistic perspective. Rather, people frequently express both positive and negative attitudes toward the coal camp within the same interview. Additionally, they often sort out both positive and negative features of each experience, whether it was working for the company, drawing scrip, or living in a coal camp. Some of the positive statements may, at first, surprise us. This paper examines the recollections of people who lived in mining camps within an eleven-mile radius of the town of Appalachia, located in the heart of the Southwest Virginia coal fields. Appalachia served as the commercial center for the study area which encompassed eighteen different coal mining camps in Wise and Lee Counties. These camps operated under three coal mining companies: Stonega Coke and Coal (SC&C), Blackwood Coal and Coke, and Virginia Iron, Coal and Coke. The three-year research project studied life in these coal camps, combining ethnographic/oral-history interviews with archival research.1 Exten- 1995 • Volume Seven • Journal of the Appalachian Studies Association • 91 �sive ethnographic interviews were conducted with over fifty men and women who lived in the eighteen coal camps during the 1930s through the 1950s. The most frequently stated, clearly negative attitudes 1) Miners had to endure very poor conditions prior to unionization in October 1933. 2) The companies strongly responded with anti-union activities, 1933-34. 3) It took hard work to feed and maintain a family in the Depression years of the 1930s. 4) Mechanization in the mid-1950s led to massive job decline. 5) There were major difficulties getting black lung compensation. Negative sentiments focus on the low wages, hard work, and long hours that characterized mining in the pre-union period prior to 1934. Before union contracts, miners did not have access to 1) old age retirement or pensions, forcing elderly men to continue working to feed their families; 2) black lung assistance, forcing miners to continue working in the mines even if they could hardly breath; 3) widows' pensions; 4) paid vacations; and 5) long-term compensation for major injuries (Flanary 1992; Mabe 1993, 1; Skorupa 1992, 2; Stanley 1993, 1). Unrest over unionization in the Appalachian region was especially heavy from July to October 1933, and continued periodically during the year following the signing of the first union contract in October 1933 (The Post, 1933; WCCR). People recall the retaliation against miners who joined the union and who went on strike. Tommy Skorupa, a miner who struck against the company in 1934, states "the company was quite mean; they didn't want the unions in the camps" (1992, 1; WCCR). Many people remember that any man caught organizing would be fired and would have his family's furniture put on the street (Fields 1993, 1; Bobroski 1993, 1). According to SC&C records, the company fired a number of miners from 1 July to 2 October 1933, the period of heaviest unrest, confirming this recollection (WCCR). While the overall feeling about the unionization period may be negative, some people qualify their statements. Extremes in violence took place on both sides, by union supporters as well as company representatives. People recall that non-union miners' homes were stoned and that they were run out of the camps. Many mention that people they knew had fought for the union (Bobroski 1993, 2; Fields 1993, 1; Santelli 1992, 2; Stanley 1993, 1; Skorupa 1992, 2). Also, some interviewees made the qualification that the unionization conflict in this region was not nearly on the same scale of violence as the battles fought across Black Mountain in "Bloody Harlan," Kentucky (Stanley 1993, 1). 92 • Journal of the Appalachian Studies Association • Volume Seven • 1995 �Memories of the 1930s are also integrally bound up with hard times caused by the Depression. People recall the Depression era as a time when it took a lot of hard work to feed and clothe a family. Everyone, including the children, worked in family gardens to supplement wages from the mines (Flanary 1992, 1; Mabe 1993, 1-2; Santelli 1992, 1-3; Stanley 1993, 1). Yet some pointed out that nearly everybody in the camps was in relatively the same economic situation, so they did not know what they were missing. For example, after talking about taking over primary household duties for her family at age eleven and scrubbing her fingers to the bone on the washboard, Mary Santelli says: "Time was, for me, growin' up as a child I found it very hard, but yet I didn't suffer any hardness in it too bad because you see at that time I thought everybody on this earth was living the way we were living" (1992, 2). Negative recollections primarily focus on the early 1930s, especially 1933-1934, the period surrounding UMWA organizing. Fewer negative comments refer to the 1940s and 1950s. While some people speak about the company owning and controlling everything in the camps, this is generally expressed in the form of an acknowledgment rather than as a negative sentiment. Only two issues relating to the latter decades left people with strong negative sentiments. One was the mechanization of the mines around 1954-1955. People see the resulting loss of jobs as the beginning of the end for the coal camps. Men and their families had to migrate out of the region in search of jobs, while in the camps, the companies started selling houses and closing down essential facilities such as the stores and schools (Mabe 1993, 1). The other issue raised, one which touches many people deeply, was the often lengthy fight of miners and their families to obtain black lung compensation. The most frequently stated positive attitudes 1. The coal camp had a strong sense of community. Neighbors were like family; they interacted with one another, and helped each other out. 2. The personal qualities of people who lived in the camps were admirable: honesty, a capacity for sharing, ingenuity, and pride in their work. 3. The company was "fair" and "good" to employees: it "provided" for workers by "furnishing" jobs, camp facilities, sources of entertainment, and credit. Without a doubt, the most commonly expressed positive statements revolve around the strong sense of community that existed in the coal camps from the 1930s to the 1950s. The most frequently mentioned elements are: 1) everyone knew each other, neighbors were like family, and there was a great amount of visiting and social interaction in the 1995 • Volume Seven • Journal of the Appalachian Studies Association • 93 �community; 2) the spirit of sharing and reciprocity was strong in the camp, where everybody helped each other out; and 3) there was relatively little crime in the camps. Interviews abound with discussion of these issues, clearly pointing to the shared qualities that made the coal camps feel like true "communities" to their residents. In addition to community, many people attribute positive aspects of living in the coal camps to the personal qualities and ethics of the people who lived in the camps, especially honesty, sharing, ingenuity, and pride in their work (Bobroski 1993, 2; Flanary 1993; Santelli 1992, 2). As Louis Henegar emphasized, it's the "type of people you got" in the coal camps (1992, 2). A sampling of testimony gives a sense of the strength of feelings about the coal camp community. In a representative statement about the camp as community, Clint Mabe says, "Why, I think a real coal camp was one of the closest people anywhere in the world. Cause you take the neighbors, they were neighbors. They wasn't just good to you [today], and mad at you tomorrow. But something happen to you, I don't care how mad your neighbor is at you, I guarantee, he'd be the first to get to you" (1993, 2). His statements, like those of many others, attribute much of the special nature of the community to a strong orientation toward generalized reciprocity. "Helping our neighbors out, anytime, I don't care what it was. Course there wasn't a whole lot of money to be loaned or anything like that back then. But, anytime, and it didn't matter what it was, if they needed help with anything, if we could possibly help 'em, we would. And they would do us the same" (Mabe 1993, 2). Louis Henegar says "the community was more or less just one large family" and he speaks of specific types of reciprocity within the camp: Now don't get me wrong. It don't mean that people didn't disagree and have problems. But yet still, it was more like, it wasn't just you having a hard time or me having a hard time. Everybody lived the same way and I think it made them more close knit, you know more of a family-type thing. Then if you were destitute to the point that maybe you didn't have food in the house or something like that, then I would be there to see that you had it. And the rest of the neighbors would be there to see what they could do. If you were sick, then everyone would come and offer assistance. If your husband had gotten hurt and no income and no food, the neighbors would see that you didn't go hungry. You know, make sure you got food and stuff like that (1992, 2). Henegar refers to the ethical "code" that supported reciprocity as "a way of life." "This was just a way of life here. You didn't have to organize it, you know. There was—it was just a code. If you were in need, it was my job to help you. And vice-versa. It was that way, you didn't have to 94 • Journal of the Appalachian Studies Association • Volume Seven • 1995 �ask, people knew what was going on" (1992, 1). In addition, people speak of the high degree of social interaction and visiting that gave the camp its sense of community. Some, like Mary and Henry Fields, emphasize that people didn't have to go out of the camp to enjoy themselves because there was always plenty of visiting and events taking place within the camp (1993, 1). Others, like Rose Herron, spoke of neighbors regularly visiting with one another and pointed out that the houses were so close together that on a typical summer night, women visited with one another as they did their ironing on the porch and watched their children playing down the road (1992, 1). The coal camps were inwardly focused on life in the community, a focus that remained until the late 1940s. This was reinforced by two conditions: the camp was set up with all the facilities necessary to the mining family, and lack of cars and other forms of transportation didn't support mobility out of the camps. But even in the 1940s and 1950s, testimony indicates that the sense of community, comprised of generalized reciprocity and neighborliness, remained exceptionally strong (Reece 1992, 1; Van Winkle 1993, 1). What might be most surprising is the large number of positive statements that many former coal camp residents make about the coal companies. These positive statements are often mixed with some of the negative remarks already mentioned. Many people had favorable things to say about the coal companies' actions in providing for employees and their dependents. People support their view of the company as a "provider" with what they consider to be very concrete reasons, citing jobs, facilities, and the credit extended to them by the company. Clint Mabe feels "fortunate" that the company kept him working during the mid-1950s when mine shutdowns were forcing many people he knew to leave the region to search for work. He says, "Well, I can't complain much [about the company] because they kept me in a job" (1993, 1). Similarly, Tommy Skorupa says, "I worked for them all these years [fifty], but I never was mistreated by them; so I can't say nothing but good about 'em." He goes on to specify that the company kept him working even when the mines were shut or operating only a few days per week. He feels fortunate that he was provided with other jobs, such as delivering coal to homes, painting houses, and repairing plumbing. Additionally, the company provided jobs for his children in the company store and on camp clean-up crews during the summer months. Skorupa was not blind to the fact that those were minimum wage jobs and, in fact, acknowledges this in his interview. What is significant to him is that the company helped him out by providing jobs for him and his family (Skorupa 1993, 1-2). People speak about the coal companies being "good" because they provided services and facilities for people living in the camps. Nearly 1995 • Volume Seven • Journal of the Appalachian Studies Association • 95 �everyone describes the variety of facilities that were available—the stores, schools, movie theaters, dance halls, and churches. Others also describe the entertainment that the companies organized for the camps including Fourth of July and Christmas events, baseball teams, and Saturday night concerts with big bands (Bobroski 1993, 1-2; Fields 1993, 2; Herron 1992, 1, Stanley 1993, 1). Their use of words is interesting— they often say that the company "provided" and "furnished" them with these facilities and activities. Having the company store, other facilities, and entertainment right in camp was seen as a convenience by many. You could take the trip to Appalachia, "but really, you didn't have to get out of camp 'cause the company had everything" (Skorupa 1992, 1). For some people, this sense of the company "providing" for camp residents even extends to the scrip system and other ways in which credit was extended to miners. The company is seen as being "fair" because, people say, it continued to support miners, those known as hard-working miners, by carrying their rent and extending them credit even during the slack times when the mines were shut down. Tommy Skorupa speaks of the 1930s when the mines operated two to three days per week and idled the rest: If you didn't have enough money in payroll, see, the company could furnish you the scrip according to your family [size]. If you had a big family, you'd get so much a day, and you could go in the commissary and trade. So the company was very good on that. And I remember one time we was on strike, and there would be some days you know, the company would give scrip to us. When you went back to work, you'd pay them back, see. They was pretty good to people (1992, 2; 1993, 1). Clearly, Skorupa sees the positive aspects of getting credit in the company store. Additionally, he talks of the benefits of not having to come up with down payments to either rent a house or buy an automobile. To him, it was a benefit to be able to buy a car by getting a loan from the company bank and paying it off over time (Skorupa 1993, 2). He is not alone in viewing scrip credit as a positive feature. Mary Fields says, "the company store was good to us too. The company was real good to us. When he's off work [referring to her husband, Henry] they give us food" (1993, 2). In Rose Herron's words, "the company [SC&C] was wonderful to work for, in one sense of the way because they would give you a dollar a day scrip and two dollars on Saturday, whether you had it in there or not." This was especially important to her family in the first years after she "set up housekeeping" in Imboden in the late 1930s. Herron also valued the opportunity to use company credit to acquire the furniture and other large items needed to establish her first household (1992, 1). 96 • Journal of the Appalachian Studies Association • Volume Seven • 1995 �How can we explain the presence of these positive attitudes along with the negative? They are not necessarily incompatible. The positive sentiments expressed may come into better perspective if we make some comparisons with our own behavior and attitudes today. Should we be surprised that coal camp families, like many people today, appreciated the convenience of having stores and services nearby in the coal camps? Today, many of us shop at the closest grocery store, even when we know that the prices there are higher (as in the company store), because we value the convenience. Or should we be terribly surprised that coal camp families appreciated the opportunity to be able to furnish their homes and buy cars using credit, even if it meant getting in debt to the company? Many of us today are aware of exploitation in the credit card and bank loan system, yet we are still pleased to have the opportunity to immediately purchase a TV or VCR on credit, rather than waiting until some future time when we could pay cash. When we make these comparisons, we can better understand how coal camp families might have viewed opportunities for convenience and credit positively, even while being quite aware of the overall exploitation in the system. It is important to re-emphasize that nearly every person interviewed recognizes and acknowledges the negative as well as the positive aspects of coal camp life. While there may be some nostalgia involved, overall the responses are quite pragmatic. The interviewees recognize the negative, exploitative aspects of the company-run system, but weigh them against the positive personal experiences they had living in the coal camps. Tommy Skorupa recognizes that the company controlled things and "had their own rules," but he also appreciates the conveniences and credit offered by the company (1992, 1; 1993, 2). Rose Herron knows that it was to the company's advantage to give credit, but she is grateful she had the opportunity to get her household established using scrip and store credit (1992, 1, 3). Even though Henry Fields organized for the union against the company, he still enjoys the sense of community that he experienced living in the coal camps (1993, 1). The documentation from this case study suggests at least two areas needing further clarification and research in Appalachian coal camp studies. First, we need to be more clear in distinguishing temporal and regional variations within Appalachia. The Matewan image of extreme violence and hardship is primarily derived from a particular time period and region, specifically applicable to parts of Kentucky and West Virginia before and during unionization efforts. That situation cannot be generalized to include all times and places in Appalachia. In Southwest Virginia, former coal camp residents have negative recollections of hardship and exploitation on a more limited scale, primarily associated with the period just prior to and during unionization in the 1930s. 1995 • Volume Seven • Journal of the Appalachian Studies Association • 97 �People who lived in the camps in the 1940s and 1950s, after the struggles of the Depression and unionization, reaped the benefits of better working conditions, greater transportation mobility, and prosperity in coal production during World War II. While they recall the rigors of coal camp life in the 1940s and 1950s, they also speak eloquently of the strengths of the coal camps as true communities. Second, more study needs to be done on the micro-level. Oral testimonies portray 1930s to 1950s coal camp life as far more complex than a simple black or white, positive or negative experience. Anthropologists recognize two different, but complementary, views on any cultural situation: the "emic" or cultural insider's perspectives on his/her own life experiences as a participant immersed within the situation and the "etic" or cultural outsider's perspectives derived from examining that participant's experiences within the context of wider networks of interaction and power relationships (e.g. as in dependency theories). Both perspectives represent part of the cultural reality. While scholars, from their "etic" vantage point, might tend to generalize the Appalachian coal camp experience in simple terms, we are finding that the people who actually lived in the coal camps have shaped their "emic" perspectives by more intricately intertwining both the perceived positive aspects with the negative aspects. People disliked the hardships but also appreciated what they considered to be positive personal encounters with family, community, and even, at times, the company. The shaping of the "emic" perception may be a survival strategy in itself, enabling the participant to adjust to life within an exploitative system. Clearly, microlevel case studies might help us better understand how people thought, behaved, and shaped their identities from within the coal camp experience. The strongest investigations of coal camp life will incorporate and integrate multiple types of analyses to get a fuller picture of the coal camp experience. They will integrate micro-level analyses of people interacting and making sense of their lives within their families, communities, and immediate regions with macro-level analyses which view the interaction of economic and political forces within and among larger regions. Each type of analysis portrays a part of the reality; together they would work as complementary pieces in reconstructing the whole reality of life in the Appalachian coal camps. Perhaps Clint Mabe provided the best conclusion for this paper when, in reference to life in the camps in the 1930s, he says, "We had a good life. It wasn't rich like most people. But it was richer than most people think" (1993, 1). 98 • Journal of the Appalachian Studies Association • Volume Seven • 1995 �Notes 1 1 would like to thank the coal mining families of the town of Appalachia who contributed their oral histories to the project. I would also like to thank my research assistants on the project, Lin Usack, Matt Laferty, Liz Godoy, and Audrey McDowell, and my colleagues at Radford University and Virginia Tech who provided comments and critique as the research progressed. Funding for this research was provided by grants from the Radford University Foundation and the Hagley Museum and Library. Works Cited Bobroski, Paul. 1993. Interview with Matt Laferty. Keokee, Va., 3 June. PBobrosk\6393PBl-2. Coal Camp Oral History Project, Sociology and Anthropology Dept., Radford University, Radford, Va. Corbin, David Alan. 1981. Life, Work, and Rebellion in the Coal Fields: The Southern West Virginia Miners, 1880-1922. Urbana: University of Illinois Press. Eller, Ronald D. 1982. Miners, Millhands, and Mountaineers: Industrialization of the Appalachian South, 1880-1930. Knoxville: University of Tennessee Press. Fields, Henry, and Mary Fields. 1993. Interview with Matt Laferty. Appalachia, Va., 10 June. Fields\61093HFl-3. Coal Camp Oral History Project, Sociology and Anthropology Dept., Radford University, Radford, Va. Fishback, Price V. 1992. Soft Coal, Hard Choices: The Economic Welfare of Bituminous Coal Miners, 1890-1930. New York: Oxford University Press. Gaventa, John. 1980. Power and Powerlessness: Quiescence and Rebellion in an Appalachian Valley. Urbana: University of Illinois Press. Flanary, Maxi. 1992. Interview with Liz Godoy. Appalachia, Va., 2 February. MFlanary \2892MF1. Coal Camp Oral History Project, Sociology and Anthropology Dept., Radford University, Radford, Va. Giardina, Denise. 1987. Storming Heaven. New York: Ballantine Books. Henegar, Louis. 1992. Interview with author. Appalachia, Va., 8 February. Henegar\2892LHl-2. Coal Camp Oral History Project, Sociology and Anthropology Dept., Radford University, Radford, Va. Herron, Rose. 1992. Interview with author. Appalachia, Va., 28 February. Herron\2289RHl-4. Coal Camp Oral History Project, Sociology and Anthropology Dept., Radford University, Radford, Va. 1995 • Volume Seven • Journal of the Appalachian Studies Association • 99 �Mabe, Clint. 1993. Interview with Lin Usack. Appalachia, Va., 19 July. Mabe\7193CMl-2. Coal Camp Oral History Project, Sociology and Anthropology Dept., Radford University, Radford, Va. The Post. 1933. Big Stone Gap, Va. July 1; September 21; October 5. Reece, Diane. 1992. Interview with author. Appalachia, Va., 20 March. Reece\32092DRl-3. Coal Camp Oral History Project, Sociology and Anthropology Dept., Radford University, Radford, Va. Sayles, John. 1987. Matewan. Film, 132 min. Cinecom Intl. Released on video 1988, VHS/Beta, Warner Home Video, Inc. Santelli, Mary. 1992. Interview with author. Appalachia, Va., 8 February. Santelli\2892MSl-4. Coal Camp Oral History Project, Sociology and Anthropology Dept., Radford University, Radford, Va. Shifflett, Crandall A. 1991. Coal Towns: Life, Work, and Culture in Company Towns of Southern Appalachia, 1880-1960. Knoxville: University of Tennessee Press. Skorupa, Tommy. 1992. Interview with author. Appalachia, Va., 6 March. Skorupa\3692TSl-3. Coal Camp Oral History Project, Sociology and Anthropology Dept., Radford University, Radford, Va. . 1993. Interview with Lin Usack and Jennifer Armsey. Big Stone Gap, Va., 19 August. Skorupa\81993TSl-3. Coal Camp Oral History Project, Sociology and Anthropology Dept., Radford University, Radford, Va. Stanley, John (Aut), Sr. 1993. Interview with author. Appalachia, Va., 8 July. Stanley\7893JSl-2. Coal Camp Oral History Project, Sociology and Anthropology Dept., Radford University, Radford, Va. VanWinkle, Leona. 1993. Interview with author. Appalachia, Va., 8 July. Vanwinkl\7893LVWl-2. Coal Camp Oral History Project, Sociology and Anthropology Dept., Radford University, Radford, Va. Westmoreland Coal Company Records (WCCR). Hagley Library, Wilmington, Delaware. Ace. 1765, Box 426. Mary La Lone is associate professor of anthropology at Radford University. She received her Ph.D. from UCLA in 1985 and specializes in historical and economic anthropology. She has spent the past three years studying the socio-economic survival strategies of families that lived in the coal-mining camps surrounding the town of Appalachia, Va. 100 • Journal of the Appalachian Studies Association • Volume Seven • 1995 �Storming Heaven in the Decade of Greed Kim Gillespie At one point in Oliver Stone's film Wall Street, leveraged buy-out artist Gordon Gecko addresses the shareholders' meeting of TelDar Paper, a company he plans to buy. To convince shareholders his ownership is beneficial, Gecko gives the following speech: The point is, ladies and gentlemen, that greed, for lack of a better word, is good. Greed is right. Greed works. Greed clarifies, cuts through and captures the essence of the evolutionary spirit. Greed in all of its forms—greed for life, for money, for love, knowledge has marked the upward surge of mankind and greed—you mark my words—will not only save TelDar Paper but that other malfunctioning corporation called the USA. Eventually destroyed by a fellow broker in cahoots with the federal government, Gecko represents the 1980s as the decade of greed. Many now share this view. For example, in the April 1994 issue of Mother Jones, economists trying to explain the lack of job creation in the post1990-91 recession felt compelled to refer to the 1980s as the greedy decade. Lester Thurow, a Massachusetts Institute of Technology economics professor, said, "In the 1980s, we had a speculative bubble followed by a financial crash. Right now we're cleaning up the mess," and John Kenneth Galbraith, a Harvard economist, said, "There were a variety of insanities in the 1980s . . . All left the basic economic institutions in poor condition" (Clark 1994, 34-5). At first appearance, Denise Giardina's Storming Heaven does not comment on the 1980s. After all, it recounts the destinies of characters involved in the 1920-21 labor insurrection which culminated in the Matewan Massacre and the Battle of Blair Mountain near Logan, West Virginia. However, in the afterword to the novel, the reader is intro- 1995 • Volume Seven • Journal of the Appalachian Studies Association • 101 �duced to the fictional author, Dillon Freeman, the son of Carrie Bishop, a nurse who worked an aid station at Blair Mountain, and Rondal Lloyd, a labor organizer who fought there. By introducing a contemporary fictional author at the end of the novel, Storming Heaven focuses the reader's attention on the relevance of the novel's historical narrative for the present. Dillon, also a union man, has collected the stories which make up the novel during time down from picket duty. The strike which absorbs Dillon is the United Mine Workers of America (UMWA) strike in 1984 against A. T. Massey. The Massey strike was a part of the process of economic restructuring which occurred in the coal industry in the 1980s. At a coal trade conference in North Carolina in 1989, Allen Born, president and chairman of AMAX, Inc., the largest mining company in the United States, described this process. During the 1970s, Born said, the coal industry expanded because rising oil prices made coal competitive. However, when the price of oil dropped in the early 1980s, so did the demand for coal. Faced with falling prices and excess capacity, the coal industry responded by closing and downsizing mines, reducing staff, mechanizing, and shifting more and more production to Western mines and to stripmining, all methods to reduce cost. From these changes in the coal industry, Born draws lessons for coal operators. The successful coal company will be low cost, will apply new technologies, and will be flexible in its ability to respond to market pressures, to the needs of customers, and to international competition. It will be (what he calls) "quality"—that is, highly profitable. Looking forward into the 1990s, Allen Born recommends the coal industry as "a good place for a young person to build a career" (Born 1989, 13). In West Virginia, economic restructuring was characterized by a simultaneous shift from manufacturing and mining to service jobs, from relatively high to low pay jobs, and from male dominated to female dominated jobs. During the decade the state suffered continuous outmigration and population decline as natives went out of state to find employment. By the end of the decade, West Virginia finished 50th of all the states in per capita income (down from 47th in 1979), and by the early 1990s, one quarter of West Virginians lived in poverty (Maggard 1994). The coal industry was especially involved in restructuring. Between 1980 and 1990, the number of coal miners in the United States declined by about 40 percent; in West Virginia, by about 45 percent (from about 53,000 miners in 1980 to about 29,000 in 1989). Naturally, rapid declines in the work force produce social discord. On 1 October 1984, UMWA struck the mines of A. T. Massey located in the Tug River Valley, which includes portions of Eastern Kentucky and southern West Virginia, because A. T. Massey refused to sign a recently concluded contract between UMWA and the Bituminous Coal Operators Associa- 102 • Journal of the Appalachian Studies Association • Volume Seven • 1995 �tion. A. T. Massey contended that because it faced international competition it had to reduce labor costs through decentralization in which each unit of a parent company would be treated as a separate company and would negotiate a separate labor contract with the union (Lubove 1985, 6). "You can't discipline union miners and you can't discharge them," said Don Blankenship, who eventually became chairman and CEO of A. T. Massey in 1990. "You have to be able to purge your work force of unproductive elements in some way" (Mills 1986, 176). According to owner E. Morgan Massey, decentralization was the way. On the union side, purges meant problems. First, by negotiating separate contracts, the company would eliminate panel rights. Panel rights give union miners the right to transfer to another mine should their present mine close down. If Massey won separate contracts, then no such obligation would exist from one Massey mine to another. The loss of panel rights would allow the company to "cherry pick" which miners they wanted by transferring the congenial miners after a mine closure and firing the uncongenial. Secondly, while E. Morgan Massey worried about "decentralization," the union was concerned with what it called "double breasting," in which a parent company transfers assets— in this case, coal mines—from a unionized to a non-unionized subsidiary. Then, union miners can be fired and replaced with non-union miners. In a variation of this practice, a company closes down a union mine, laying off all the workers, then rehires non-union workers at the same mine ("Coal Miners in Bitter Strike Against A. T. Massey" 1985, 4). On 20 December 1985, the strike ended in a union victory, after the National Labor Relations Board ruled all of A. T. Massey's mines belonged to one company and therefore had to be governed by a single contract, though E. Morgan Massey referred to the end of the strike as an "unconditional surrender" on the part of the union (Wolford 1986, 5). In short, then, the struggle was between an attempt on the part of a company to reduce labor costs and increase flexibility in work rules against workers' attempts to preserve job security. Since Giardina uses the fictional name American Coal for A. T. Massey, against which two generations of characters struggle, I think it is possible to read Storming Heaven as what Fredric Jameson calls a national allegory—in this case, a national allegory of the 1980s. While the literature of the metropole can devolve into the psychological musings of isolated individuals bereft of community and historical consciousness, argues Jameson, the literature of the Third World cannot, where the telling of the story of individuals necessitates the recitation of "the primordial crime of capitalism" (Jameson 1986, 84).1 It is my argument that Storming Heaven is a national allegory of the 1980s to the degree that the lives of individual characters represent the combative social relations of the decade, understood not as isolated experiences 1995 • Volume Seven • Journal of the Appalachian Studies Association • 103 �or events but as constitutive of the national identity. I would like to show the relationship between Storming Heaven and the decade of greed by pointing to two features of the novel. First of all, although Giardina reports that Storming Heaven was produced through archival research and that no incident is without historical antecedent or precedent, the novel relies on a narrative of Appalachian colonization, codified, for example, in Colonialism in Modern America: The Appalachian Case (Lewis, Johnson, and Askins 1978).2 In Storming Heaven, Appalachian colonization is a two-staged process. Initially, characters are wrenched off their land by violence and economic compulsion. Railroads buy up the land, demanding local farmers sign away mineral rights, then sell the mineral rights to coal companies which in turn begin to exploit these resources. For example, one of the characters involved in this process is C. J. Marcum, who becomes a surrogate father for Rondal Lloyd. C. J. Marcum's own father, one of the farmers who will not sign away his mineral rights, is shot in the head while working in his garden (Giardina 1987, 16). Though C. J. becomes a small businessman, most families are driven off the land and into the mines. This is what happens to Rondal's father and to Rondal himself. Once in mining communities, the miners organize against a gang of rapacious British, New England, and local coal operators. The miners are forced to resist operators because wages plummet in the coal glut after World War I and because the operators attempt to control them through what was called the thug system. If we were discussing El Salvador, we would identify these thugs as death squads: an oligarchy of coal operators employs a private paramilitary security force of detectives from the Baldwin-Felts agency to brutalize a recalcitrant work force. To end the thug system, Rondal joins the union, is forced to flee southern West Virginia, then returns as an organizer with a nom de guerre— Lloyd Justice. When he is wounded at Blair Mountain, it is in a fight with a crew of thugs, police, and newly deputized college students and American Legionnaires, amassed in defense of the right of multinational corporations (for example, the manager of Imperial Collieries makes an appearance) to rule the lives of miners by fiat and the local constabulary to jail without writ those miners who complain. For Giardina, who participated in the Appalachian Land Ownership Task Force in 1979-80, absentee land ownership is the sine qua non of colonialism.3 That is, the narrative of Appalachian colonization relies for its coherence not only on the existence offeree and fraud to deprive agrarian communities of their land base, and of economic compulsion and death squads to transform displaced populations into miners, but also on the presence of an external force (here, the multinational corporation) whose ownership of the land confers on it a virtually sovereign 104 • Journal of the Appalachian Studies Association • Volume Seven • 1995 �power over the lives of Appalachians. To understand the emphasis Giardina places on absentee ownership of land, we ought to recall she grew up in McDowell County, West Virginia, which has one of the most extensive concentrations of absentee ownership in Appalachia (Appalachian Land Ownership Task Force 1983, 17-26). The explanatory power of the narrative of Appalachian colonization can been seen in the last line of the novel, spoken in Dillon Freeman's voice: "the companies still own the land" (Giardina 1987, 312). Connecting the historical narrative of the novel to current events, this line indicates thejjower of colonization to produce continuous labor struggles across generations. Against any suspicion that Giardina is engaged in hyperbole, it is important to note that during the A. T. Massey strike, the company—the eighth largest coal operator in the United States and the second largest exporter of coal—was partly owned by Fluor Corp. and partly owned by Royal/Dutch Shell. That is, it was a multinational corporation. More importantly, its relationship to southern West Virginia was a familiar one. Commenting on the role of multinationals in West Virginia, E. Morgan Massey said "Multinationals do not have a great deal of national loyalty and even less loyalty to southern West Virginia" (Mills 1986, 488). Giardina's narrative of Appalachian colonization is set against another more widely recognized narrative in which the violence of the region is treated not as endemic but alien to U.S. culture. Appalachia has long been a pocket within the contiguous United States where violence has been consistently rediscovered by metropolitans. For example, a 26 August 1986 Time magazine article on the A. T. Massey strike reports that: A stranger coming upon the gorgeous green mountains soaring over the Tug Fork Valley of West Virginia near the Kentucky border would not, at first glance, suspect that a combat zone was at hand. Yet for more than a century, bloody civil strife has roiled the region embraced by Mingo County, W.Va., and Pike County, Ky. There in the late 1800s, the Hatfield and McCoy families began a feud so lethal and long that it became legend. Then in 1920 the early struggles of the region's coal miners to unionize exploded into a fray that left nine people dead and is still remembered as "the Matewan massacre." Now the area around the same little town of Matewan (pop. 822) is living up to its turbulent reputation: a coal miners' strike that is now in its eleventh month is well on the way to becoming the longest and meanest since before World War II (Trippett 1985, 17). In this narrative of the history of southern West Virginia, a stranger regards a beautiful landscape, momentarily empty of people. This 1995 • Volume Seven • Journal of the Appalachian Studies Association • 105 �stranger, which I take to be the reporter's construction of his audience (that is, Time magazine's national readership), then learns that despite the beauty of the mountains the people of southern West Virginia are historically and culturally violent. I want to make three brief comments about this construction of the relationship of the reader to West Virginia. First, it repeats a familiar image of Appalachia as an alien place physically internal but culturally external to the borders of the United States, an image reported by Henry Shapiro in Appalachia on Our Mind (1978) as going back to the local color movement in the late nineteenth century. Second, the construction of the metropolitan traveler with his preference for a landscape without people and his fear of violent natives is a common one in colonial travel narratives, according to Mary Louise Pratt's Imperial Eyes (1992). Third, the absence of a historical context for the events shows that the Hatfield-McCoy feud and the Matewan Massacre are not cited as historical incidents. Rather, they are cited to reduce the strike to an internecine struggle between feuding clans, a reduction which dismisses any substantive issues in the labor conflict by appealing to a middle-class loathing of violence in all forms and to a metropolitan sense of superiority to rural regions. Storming Heaven debunks the myth of Appalachian backwardness, still at play in reportage of the A. T. Massey strike, by uncovering the multicultural, cosmopolitan, and global nature of the coal camps: they were ethnically and racially diverse, they were visited by Duke Ellington, and they expanded and contracted with changes in the world economy. In addition to the use of the narrative of Appalachian colonization, there is also a second way in which Storming Heaven interprets the decade of greed. Storming Heaven describes the ability of communities divided by race and gender to achieve solidarity, itself an effect of both the agency of individual actors and of the oppressive social conditions of colonialism. The importance of solidarity amid difference is one of the crucial issues faced by social movements in the 1980s, an issue not taken up in Wall Street but one which prompted a good deal of concern among labor historians (for example, Mike Davis 1986; Rick Fantasia 1988; Michael Goldfield 1987; and Kim Moody 1988), who treated gender and racial divisions as two of the most significant realities underwriting the decline of unionism in the 1980s. In Storming Heaven, while coal communities are segregated and culturally racist, African Americans play a particularly important role in the growing resistance to coal operators. For example, Dr. Toussaint L'Ouverture Booker is a Marxist intellectual who first brings a labor organizer to Annadel, the fictional town in which much of the action takes place, helps Carrie Bishop become a nurse, and works as a doctor of wounded miners at the Battle of Blair Mountain. Also, probably the most gripping scene of the entire novel (one which Giardina admits is 106 • Journal of the Appalachian Studies Association • Volume Seven • 1995 �the only scene she has written which has given her nightmares) is the death of Johnson, a black union organizer, thrown into an oven by some thugs at the behest of Malcolm Denbigh, the manager of American Coal. Not only is this scene gut-wrenching in itself, but it moves Rondal Lloyd to recall it later in a speech in front of a congregation of miners. "Johnson wouldn't be a slave no more!" says Rondal. "He died a free man. They's slaves today in Justice County, both white and black. Hit's time to break them chains" (Giardina 1987, 193). Clearly, Johnson's death in the fiery furnace has provided Rondal with an example of the difficulties of unionizing and with a paradigm of how to interpret the events of his life. Like African Americans in Storming Heaven, women also play an important role in the growing resistance to the coal operators. Although the coal communities are segmented by gender (the men mine; the women housekeep) and although even Carrie Bishop, atypical because she works outside the home, is employed in the traditional female profession of nursing, women sustain the continuity of the labor struggle. At one point after the food in a tent city has been depleted, a group of women raid a store for food. When the women are accosted by a gang of thugs, Carrie Bishop fires on them with a machine gun, securing the women's retreat. Like Doc Booker, Carrie treats miners wounded in the Battle of Blair Mountain and after Rondal is severely wounded is instrumental in transporting him out of the combat zone to safety. In fact, his life is saved through Carrie's intercession with her brother Miles, who, at great personal cost, allows him to ride on a coal company train. Most importantly, in contrast to the coal operators who seek to homogenize men and nature, Carrie and her female relatives value human particularity. On the one hand, human particularity is manifest in the notion of kin in which each person has a place in an elaborate set of relationships, conferring obligations on all. The obligation produced by kinship necessitates a respect even for those who appear odd or abnormal. For example, after asking about an aunt who is reputed to have no pubic hair, Carrie is told, "Your Aunt Becka is funny turned, but she's a good woman. And she's kin. Aunt Becka cant help the way God made her, and she has a right to be the way she is. ... As for you, you just be like your own self" (Giardina 1987, 49). On the other hand, human particularity is manifest in Carrie's relationship to the land. At one point, Carrie meditates on her relationship to her homeplace, the farm where she was born and raised. She thinks that "if there was no place of my own to be, no ground where my bones could be laid beside my kin's, would I not be the most miserable creature in God's world?" (1987, 141). An appreciation of the importance of kinship and of home constitute solidarity as much as the mobilization of miners at Blair Mountain. In 1995 • Volume Seven • Journal of the Appalachian Studies Association -107 �fact, in terms of the continuity of struggle, they are more important. Carrie lives to pass the story of the struggles of the 1920s down to the next generation, thus helping to produce the latest strike against American Coal. The 1980s have come to be interpreted as a time when conservative governmental elites gave the green light to speculation, through antiunionism, deregulation, and a diminution of governmental oversight. Oliver Stone's Wall Street is an early popular example of this interpretation, an interpretation advanced by representatives of very powerful and wealthy groups themselves, which lacks an acknowledgment that some communities resisted the process of economic restructuring. Storming Heaven remedies this lack. By providing an imaginative historical context to a contemporary conflict, it offers a lesson for the present. Multinationals will always face global competition. They did in the 1920s, they did in the 1980s, they do in the 1990s. The only bulwark against the ability of companies to slough off workers like dead skin and dismantle working-class communities like tinker toys is the strength of communities to overcome their internal divisions and stand together. Notes 1 Aijaz Ahmad has taken Jameson to task for this article, insisting that Jameson reduces any nation's aesthetic response to only the national allegory, a reduction Ahmad repudiates, and that Jameson unfairly does not apply his reduction to the literature of the metropole (Ahmad 1992). As far as I can tell, none of these criticisms impinge upon my use here of the concept of national allegory. 2 All references to Giardina's biography and opinions are derived from conversations with her between October 1993 and March 1994, including an extensive conversation while traveling through McDowell County, West Virginia. Throughout these conversations, Giardina showed remarkable candor and patience and was quite generous with her time and attention. I should note that for Giardina, Storming Heaven is not particularly a novel about the 1980s. Her only conscious response to the 1980s, she reported, was to shift from the firstperson narration of an early version of Storming Heaven to the multiple firstperson narration of the final version. She reasoned that "the message from the Reagan administration was to divorce yourself from people with problems and look after Number One, to be numb when it came to relating to things people were going through" and that "telling it in the first person was a direct attack on that in terms of forcing the reader to identify with the characters by being the characters." Prom the point of view of her biography, the economic restructuring of the 1980s was not peculiar but was in fact one more example of the social discord produced by the hubris of coal operators, the utility maximization of multinational corporations, the disloyalty of absentee ownership, and the vicissitudes of West Virginia's monoeconomy buffeted by the winds of global 108 • Journal of the Appalachian Studies Association • Volume Seven • 1995 �competition. Giardina's own direct experience with economic restructuring came not in the 1980s but in the 1960s when the collapse of the coal industry depopulated McDowell County where she was born and raised. In addition, Giardina discounted the importance of the afterword, explaining that her editor suggested it, insisting readers would want to know what happened to characters after the Battle of Blair Mountain. If Giardina had her way, she would cut or revise the afterword. However, although the editor demanded an afterword, she was not specific. The details are Giardina's own. 3 Giardina's assessment of the importance of land in understanding the colonial situation is seconded by Edward Said, who, in his discussion of Yeats's poetry, argued that If there is anything that radically distinguishes the imagination of anti-imperialism, it is the primacy of the geographical element.... For the native, the history of colonial servitude is inaugurated by the loss of the locality to the outsider; its geographical identity must thereafter be searched for and somehow restored" (1993, 225). Works Cited Ahmad, Aijaz. 1992. In Theory: Classes, Nations, Literatures. New York: Verso. Appalachian Land Ownership Task Force. 1983. Who Owns Appalachia? Landownership and Its Impact. Lexington: The University of Kentucky Press. Born, Allen. 1989. "Optimizing for the 90s: Lessons Learned from the 80s." Executive Speeches 4:10-13. Clark, Josh. 1994. "No Good Jobs?" Mother Jones March/April: 34-38. "Coal Miners in Bitter Strike Against A. T. Massey." 1985. Labor Notes 7:1, 4. Davis, Mike. 1986. Prisoners of the American Dream. New York: Verso. Fantasia, Rick. 1988. Cultures of Solidarity: Consciousness, Action, and Contemporary American Workers. Berkeley: University of California Press. Goldfield, Michael. 1987. The Decline of Organized Labor in the United States. Chicago: The University of Chicago Press. Giardina, Denise. 1987. Storming Heaven. New York: W. W. Norton. Jameson, Fredric. 1986. "Third-World Literature in the Era of Multinational Capitalism." Social Text 15:65-88. Lewis, Helen Matthews, Linda Johnson, and Donald Askins. 1978. Colonialism in Modern America: The Appalachian Case. Boone, N.C.: The Appalachian Consortium Press. 1995 • Volume Seven • Journal of the Appalachian Studies Association • 109 �Lubove, Seth H. 1985. "Massey Coal Strike Is Testing UMW Strategy." The Wall Street Journal 3 June: 6. Maggard, Sally Ward. 1994. "From Farm to Coal Camp to Back Office and McDonald's: Living in the Midst of Appalachia's Latest Transformation." Journal of the Appalachian Studies Association 6:14-38. Mills, Nicolaus. 1986. "A New Kind of War for the UMW." The Nation 8 November: 486-8. ---- . 1986. "A Victory for Miners' Rights." The Nation 15 February: 175-8. Moody, Kim. 1988. An Injury to All: The Decline of American Unionism. New York: Verso. Pratt, Mary Louise. 1992. Imperial Eyes. New York: Routledge. Said, Edward. 1993. Culture and Imperialism. New York: Alfred A. Knopf. Shapiro, Henry. 1978. Appalachia on Our Mind: The Southern Mountains and Mountaineers in the American Consciousness, 1870-1920. Chapel Hill: University of North Carolina Press. Trippett, Frank. 1985. "Violence in the Coalfields: A Strike Roils the Area Where Hatfields and McCoys Feuded." Time 26 August: 17. Wolford, Michelle. 1986. "Mine Workers End Massey Strike—Dispute Unsettled, Will Go to Court." Labor Notes 8:5. Kim Gillespie is a graduate student in the Program of Modern Thought and Literature at Stanford University, Stanford, Calif, and is presently finishing his dissertation, "Literature and Money: The Structure of Feeling in the Age of Diminished Expectations." 110* Journal of the Appalachian Studies Association • Volume Seven -1995 �Speech Acts and Cultural Resistance in a Rural Eastern Kentucky Community Anita Puckett In a now classic community study in North Carolina, John Stephenson offers the following anecdotal narrative concerning the work "habits" of many mountain men: One local story that has been handed down with embellishments over the years tells of a man who helped build the "scenic," a parkway through the mountains nearby. Although this was not a factory job, the story illustrates well the local attitude toward close work supervision. The man's job involved hauling loose dirt and rock away from a construction site and dumping it over a nearby cliff. After dumping each load, he would lean on his wheelbarrow and watch the dirt cascade to the bottom of the cliff. The supervisor, after watching the worker enjoy several episodes of this time-wasting spectator sport, walked over to him and said gruffly, "Why don't you get another and watch it chase the first one down?" To which the worker is said to have replied, "Why don't let's watch the wheelbarrow chase it?" At this he pushed the wheelbarrow over the cliff and "went to the house" (walked off the job) (Stephenson 1968, 27-28). This type of work behavior in which a laborer responds to a command or "order" given by a work superior with non-compliance of one form or another routinely supports popular non-local conceptualizations of a recalcitrant, hostile labor force in rural Appalachia. These 1995 • Volume Seven • Journal of the Appalachian Studies Association • 111 �conceptualizations in turn frequently legitimate a politics of labor in which differences in interpretations of labor relations become opportunities for those in control or power to denigrate or at least misunderstand those who question or contest their ways of organizing work (Anglin 1992, 1993; Kingsolver 1991, 1992; see also Bourdieu 1977, 1984). For example, Stephenson's comment that this narrative reflects the "local attitude toward close work supervision" is in itself an interpretation by some one not local to the community which reflects his view about the cause of the work problem. It may or may not be in accord with how the laborer operating under his cultural models would view this same situation, as he may not view the problem as one of close supervision at all. He may indeed be operating under a very different set of meaning structures regarding work and work relations than is either Stephenson or this man's supervisor, differences that probably are not idiosyncratic to him, but culturally normative for his local area. The question I wish to address is how speech-in-use functions to create these differences in meanings and what role these differences play in perpetuating cultural misunderstandings. I propose to focus on speech-in-use because of its power to convey a multiplicity of meanings simultaneously and precisely. Speech can map on to action, it can refer to work activities, and it can index, or point to, key elements present in work contexts. It is therefore the richest source of information available for exploring differences in cultural meaning. A category of speech acts called speech directives are speech forms that have an explicit goal of directing the behavior of others and are known to communicate especially rich and salient cultural meanings in addition to linguistic ones (Ervin-Tripp 1976; Searle 1976). I focus specifically on imperatives, the most obvious form of speech directives, because they are often construed by mountain residents to be "orders," or bald commands, and are well known to elicit highly negative affect through their explicit function of asserting control over others (for discussion see, for example, Hicks 1976, 88-98; Williams 1992, 31-36). The data used for this analysis comes from rural Eastern Kentucky speakers living in a community historically dominated by logging and farming (rather than a coal camp). The community has been given the pseudonym of Ash Creek. Data were collected ethnographically as I lived and worked in the community for two years and in the surrounding area for six. I sampled speech using techniques now common to linguistic anthropology.1 In general, the data were collected using similar strategies articulated by other anthropologists performing extended ethnographic sampling in mountain communities (for example, Batteau 1983; Beaver 1986; Hicks 1976; Pearsall 1959). I participated as fully as possible in community life. I taught community college classes and eventually acquired a role as "teacher."2 112 • Journal of the Appalachian Studies Association • Volume Seven • 1995 �Data collection focussed upon the speech and other communication used within work contexts, whether the labor was performed for wages or for some other purpose. As such a broad definition of work applies to most daily activities, this focus required that I note speech in every setting likely to be encountered by most community residents, whether they be at home, at work, in town, at the courthouse, or within state or federal agency contexts. Most residents are highly routine in their daily habits, so repeated sampling from similar settings was indeed possible, given the time frame and an eventual sample size of about 100 residents of all ages. Strong social pressure also existed for long-term non-locals such as myself to conform to communicative norms in order to be incorporated into community life. Such expectations of conformity further reinforced how I interpreted the data, as misuses of speech forms resulted in social misfires or corrections from friends and associates. These metacommentaries about what should have been said or done offered me a framework for a culturally acceptable analysis of how to "talk country" appropriately (Puckett 19933). Since the data were sampled from routine, normative laboring situations, I could expect residents to be creating and recreating their own systems of labor relations within an appropriate cultural setting and under minimal influence of non-local corporate or formal institutional laboring systems. Minimizing the effect of non-local corporate laboring systems on community speaking patterns was especially important to determine what were the interpretations local residents assigned to speech in work contexts. Non-local corporations frequently introduce their own language-use patterns, including corporate training session discourse, business jargon, or electronically-mediated communications which are unfamiliar to most community members and, therefore, are a potential source of analytical bias. Critical to understanding how differences in work communication occur is to recognize that residents organize work communication into different types of speaking practices, each having its own speech structurings, setting preferences, task-type, and participant role configurations. The speaking practice most similar to the one implied by Stephenson's anecdote is a subtype of "work talk" that I have labeled "helpin' out" situations, that is, situations in which culturally-recognized co-equals assist, or "help out" someone in completing a task or set of tasks.4 Wages may or may not be involved. "Helpin' out" situations do permit certain kinds of imperatives, and they also require that the participants preferably be of the same gender because members of the same sex can be presumed to have access to similar knowledge and skill bases (Beaver 1989; Hicks 1976; Ray 1983). This requirement reproduces a culturally-valued genderization of labor 1995 • Volume Seven • Journal of the Appalachian Studies Association • 113 �in which men tend to do men's tasks and women tend to do women's tasks, and it perpetuates assumptions of a gendered task egalitarianism in which participants are presumed to be fully equal in their ability to perform them and in which no participant has the "right" to direct the actions of another.5 The actual work should be performed with a minimal number of speech directives of any form, as an absence of commands, orders, demands, or any other form of directive indexes a higher level of work skill and ability among the laborers, showing that they all know what to do and when. It also frees them to engage more fully in other forms of speaking such as conversation, jokes, or gossip. When directives are used, the preferred form is a "let's" or "we" clause form in which the speaker includes himself through use of the first person plural pronoun and suggests the asking of permission through a "let" form: (1) Let us pray, [preacher at church service] (2) Let's, let's us three go upstairs an I can tell some jokes. [18 year-old boy in joke-telling session with younger siblings and researcher] (3) Can you sit down a few minutes? Let's sit down, [cook to other kitchen worker] (4) Come on Pedro, let's go git a load a boxes, [teenage male mover to other teenage male mover; no compliance—considered joking in response to overhearing an exchange between two other men] (5) Let's git out a here Clyde fore we git drove. (51B:272) [same as (4)] (6) Let's see, mostly I guess, insurance, [clinic receptionist to researcher in giving instructions] • (7) Let's see, do you reckon we could throw this at Bill? [teenage mover to another teenage mover, both male] (8) Let's not trap Bill in thare, he might not like it much [same as (7)] (9) Let's see if we can tighten this stuff up. [same as (7)] (10) Let's git all this stuff squared away, [same as (7)] (11) We could move it over thare. [same as (7)]6 When work-related imperatives are used, they must reference some aspect of doing the task itself, and the speaker must either be in a position such that he cannot perform the task himself (for example, "pass the salt" at the dinner table) or be performing a complex task with others so that labor coordination is necessary (for example, building a house). Failure to use imperatives under these task constraints when in a helping out situation results in the addressee interpreting the directive as an "order," which in turn violates task-egalitarian constraints: 114. Journal of the Appalachian Studies Association • Volume Seven • 1995 �A cook at the environmental center entered the dining area to sweep, a routine task performed by whoever was "free" to do it. A guest lingering in the dining area told her she "ought to wipe the tables." The cook entered the kitchen area angry, saying the woman "had no right to tell me what to do."7 In this example, the guest was not a co-participant in the task and therefore violated the cook's helping-out imperative rules of use. The result was a violation of the cultural norms of the cook regarding imperative use. When such interpretations of work imperatives as orders occur, some form of non-compliance behavior invariably results, whether it be anger and withdrawal, as with the above example, or hostility and property destruction, as with the Stephenson anecdote. It is not enough to know about the necessary structurings of imperatives and other speech forms that constitute "helpin' out" discourse; we must also understand the mechanism by which the speech itself recreates cultural norms within the actual events in which it is used. The assumption here is that there are signaling properties of routine "helpin' out" discourse forms which reproduce key contextual meanings every time they are uttered, creating strong associative relations between the utterance and the contextual meanings it signals. These routine forms, such as an appropriately used "let's," become sound units which evoke expectations of mutually present non-speech components or factors. These learned associations created or reproduced time and time again in situations of speech use are different from the referential (or semantic) meanings of the words in a clause or sentence. Just as a policeman's wearing of a uniform signifies his assumed law enforcing role, these associative meanings become invariant and expected. In the case of "helpin' out" imperatives, they construct core and constitutive relations between speech, type of task, task behavior, and participant relations. For "helpin' out" discourse forms, these associations, or indices (Levinson 1983), center around configurations of "rights," "place," and "claims" relations.8 "Rights" focus around divinely-sanctioned behavior according to gender as legitimated by consensual interpretation of King James scripture. A work situation such as house building, for example, must index a man's "right" to perform such a task. As the most primitive of indexical relations created in work contexts, "rights" relations must be met in order for a culturally normative work relation to be in effect. If a person's actions aren't "right," as when a woman wants to do "men's work," then these pragmatic indexical relations are broken and "helpin' out" discourse becomes inappropriate or must be reconfigured into another speaking practice in which different but appropriate relations are constructed. "Place" relations, on the other hand, are socially constructed as 1995 • Volume Seven • Journal of the Appalachian Studies Association • 115 �residents negotiate over time a position or role within a task network, usually made up of extended family members. These relations often determine who takes the task-directing initiative in a "helpin' out" context, and reproduction of these pragmatic indexical relations in work contexts facilitates replication of a cohesive working unit and of a synchronization of effort according to individual skills, abilities, and personalities. "Claims" relations, the third relation indexed in "helpin" out" work discourse, is a relationship based upon reciprocity associations in which the participants have performed valued services or given valued goods to each other without monetary charge. Ash Creek residents "claim" various neighbors and kin according to the value given to these exchanges and the frequency with which they occur. "Helpin'" someone "out" creates or reinforces these relations by the simple act of laboring. Wage-laboring situations, as in local trucking or coal mining, replicate these rights, place, and claims relations as most workers are from the area and enculturated into these "helpin' out" patterns. Consequently "helpin' out" contexts are core socioeconomic events within Ash Creek, replicating bonding relations among task participants which ensure future expectations of return services. When imperatives occurring within these contexts are inappropriately used, the resulting "order" interpretations break these relationships, resulting in potential threats to the social order and calling into question the cultural identity of the addressee. As "orders" are appropriately used only between marked cultural unequals, such as parents to children or, under certain contextual conditions, men to women, these reconfigurations are interpreted by the worker as an attempt by the addresser to imply that the worker, if male, is either a child or a woman; if female, that she is a child. These interpretations then result in worker non-compliance due to failure to acknowledge a culturally appropriate identity, as evidenced in the Stephenson narrative which began this discussion. Returning to this narrative, we can now reanalyze it as a situation in which the indices, or pragmatics, of the work situation were violated. In a government construction job in which long-term mutual knowledge about the role or roles of task participants within a working network is probably absent, place and claims relations can be presumed to be weak, so a "helpin' out" context cannot be configured by the participants in this instance. Nor can they be created through the speech used within it if participants do not a share a common system of pragmatics when they make requests of each other. From a culturally-normative perspective, money alone would be an insufficient motivator in such task-focused contexts to create or replace the place and claims relations demanded by appropriate imperative uses.9 Therefore the worker had little cultural motivation to perform the task at hand, a motivation which was not 116 • Journal of the Appalachian Studies Association • Volume Seven • 1995 �increased by the supervisor's inability to use imperatives in a culturally appropriate manner. Consequently, the supervisor's remark, "Why don't you get another and watch it chase the first one down?" was reinterpreted as an order by the local man. (The embedded "you get another and watch it chase the first one down" is an imperative construction. Despite the initial tag "why don't," the sentence is therefore presumed to be an imperative by its intonation, as indicated by the gloss "gruffly," making the "?" inserted by Stephenson a transcriptional error.) The local man refused to accept the cultural meanings he associated with inappropriately-used imperatives. He then proceeded to correct the supervisor's use of requesting language by echoing the supervisor's order-like phrase "why don't"10 and then amending it with the "let's" form in "why don't let's watch the wheelbarrow chase it," providing a lesson in culturally-accepted work language before abandoning an impossible work situation led by a man totally ignorant of how to construct appropriate work directives. Currently, when those representing formal, hierarchically-organized institutional or corporate patterns of working behavior interface with those coming from rural Appalachian communities similar to Ash Creek, the common result is perpetuation of labor relations problems that encourage contestation and conflict, often similar to this incident recorded by Stephenson. Through examining how speech functions pragmatically within situations such as this one, a rather different explanation of Appalachian work relations emerges, one which is culturally sensitive and which offers a normative explanation for work behavior rather than a psychological or idiosyncratic one. It will be difficult to have a full understanding of how to communicate the nature of the problem to all involved or to promote recognition of work interpretation differences until we begin to focus on how speech itself conveys not just one cultural meaning but a plethora of cultural meanings when it is actually used by members of that culture. Studies of language in use do have direct applications for understandings of socioeconomic issues and for the political acts which invariably follow mis-interpretations of working behavior. Notes 1 These techniques include audio-taping of speech in work settings, with the permission of the speakers, as well as hand-written recordings of speech instances and other cultural data commonly done in anthropological applications of participant observation. To conform to speakers' wishes and to ensure as much confidentiality as possible, no video recordings were made. A total of about 160 usable hours of audio tape was obtained, involving approximately one hundred different speakers. Most audio data were collected from a core of about twenty- 1995 • Volume Seven • Journal of the Appalachian Studies Association • 117 �five speakers under similar sampling conditions such as time, location, and setting. Audio data were subjected to classification into an inventory of discourse types, such as work talk, conversation, story-telling, gossip, and greetings. Pertinent data applicable to speech acts under work conditions were transcribed using a linguistically-sensitive system which recognized key dialectal features. 2 What data were actually available to be collected was influenced by gender, as would be expected in rural mountain communities. In terms of collecting speech act data, I was able to watch men work, help them with fetching supplies or tools, or simply listen in as I performed another task at the periphery of their activity. At the same time, I was able to participate fully in women's activities, obtaining data that would have been excluded to a man should he have attempted to visit homes or other women's domains without other men being present. 3 Support for this research was provided by a National Science Foundation Dissertation Grant, BNS-8516273, and by Berea College through a Mellon Foundation Appalachian Studies Fellowship. 4 Labels for types of speech used in work contexts are derived from what residents themselves call such events. For example, talk used when a group of workers are actually performing a task together occurs in a context that residents routinely label as "helping [NAME OF PERSON RECEIVING THE BENEFIT OF THE LABOR] out." If a group of local men, usually kin, assist someone named Joe in building a shed, they are likely to refer to this activity as "helpin' Joe out." 5 This assumption of egalitarianism does not mean that task specialization is avoided. Indeed, most residents assert special skill at one or a few types of work. Rather, the presumption is that any man (or woman) has equal access to the knowledge and skill necessary to perform a task. This assumption leads to such statements as "I could do that if I had to" or "I reckon I can figure it out." 6 These speech examples are segments transcribed from confidential audio tapes of community residents recorded from June 1985 through August 1987. Efforts have been made in the transcription process to mask both the identity of the speakers and the time and location in which the speech was recorded. In keeping with standard linguistic anthropological procedures, these tapes are not available in "raw" form to anyone without written permission from the recorded speakers and the author. Should a reader wish to make further inquiries about these tapes, please contact the author. 7 This example is an edited excerpt from fieldnotes recorded in late summer of 1985. As with audio-recorded speech examples, this passage has been edited to protect the name, location, and time of the event. Fieldnotes are also confidential; inquiries should be directed to the author. 8 The terms "rights," "place," and "claims" were derived from expressions or phrases used repeatedly by residents in conversation about others' laboring 118 • Journal of the Appalachian Studies Association • Volume Seven • 1995 �behavior. For example, I was told early in my fieldwork by a local woman that it may be my "right" as a woman to "help her out" by taking her home from a church picnic, but it really wasn't my "place" to do so; it was the place of a family member to assist her. Others, however, were more willing to "let" me transport them or their children, especially as I became more known in the community. This variation allowed me to ask about "place" relations and to elicit discussions about it. Similarly, as the field time become extended, I was able to ask about "claiming" someone and elicit discussion about this term as well. 9 Even today, nearly thirty years after Stephenson's North Carolina study, many residents in Ash Creek will not willingly wage-labor in situations in which rights, claims, and place relations cannot apply, preferring instead to work locally under someone who can be "placed" or to network regionally to work with kin or through the recommendation of kin. 10 A number of studies on English imperatives have noted that certain intonation forms and embedding of imperative forms within interrogative structures can all be interpreted in speech as imperatives, even if the grammatical form does not appear to be one on the surface (see, for example, Davies 1986; Ervin-Tripp 1976; Levinson 1983). Works Cited Anglin, Mary. 1992. "A Question of Loyalty: National and Regional Identity in Narratives of Appalachia." Anthropological Quarterly 65:105-116. ——. 1993. "Engendering the Struggle: Women's Labor and Traditions of Resistance in Rural Southern Appalachia." In Fighting Back in Appalachia: Traditions of Resistance and Change, ed. Stephen Fisher. Philadelphia: Temple University Press. Batteau, Allen. 1983. "Rituals of Dependence in Appalachian Kentucky." In Appalachia and America: Autonomy and Regional Dependence, ed. Allen Batteau. Lexington: University Press of Kentucky. Beaver, Patricia. 1986. Rural Community in the Appalachian South. Lexington: University Press of Kentucky. Bourdieu, Pierre. 1977. Outline of a Theory of Practice. New York: Cambridge University Press. —— . 1984. Distinction: A Social Critique of the Judgement of Taste. Trans. R. Nice. Cambridge, Mass.: Harvard University Press. Davies, Eirlys. 1986. The English Imperative. London: Groom Helm. Ervin-Tripp, Susan. 1976. "Is Sybil There? The Structure of Some American English Directives." Language in Society 5:25-66. 1995 - Volume Seven • Journal of the Appalachian Studies Association • 119 �Hicks, George. 1976. Appalachian Valley. New York: Holt, Reinhart and Winston. Kingsolver, Ann E. 1991. "Tobacco, Toyota, and Subaltern Development Discourses: Constructing Livelihoods and Community in Rural Kentucky." Ph.D. diss., University of Massachusetts at Amherst. 1992. "Contested Livelihoods: 'Placing1 One Another in 'Cedar,' Kentucky." Anthropological Quarterly 65:128-136. ——. Levinson, Steven. 1983. Pragmatics. Cambridge Textbooks in Linguistics. New York: Cambridge University Press. Pearsall, Marion. 1959. Little Smoky Ridge: The Natural History of a Southern Appalachian Neighborhood. Tuscaloosa: University of Alabama Press. Puckett, Anita. 1993. "Seldom Ask, Never Tell: Speech Acts and Socioeconomic Relationships in a Rural Eastern Kentucky Community." Ph.D. diss., University of Texas at Austin. Ray, George. 1983. "An Ethnography of Speaking in an Appalachian Community." Ph.D. diss., University of Washington, Seattle. Searle, John. 1976. "The Classification of Illocutionary Acts." Language in Society 5:1-24. Stephenson, John. 1968. Shiloh: Case Study of a Mountain Community. Lexington: University of Kentucky Press. Williams, Gratis. 1992. "Mountaineers Mind Their Manners." In Southern Mountain Speech, eds. Jim Wayne Miller and Loyal Jones. Berea, Ky.: Berea College Press. Anita Puckett is assistant professor in the Center for Programs for the Humanities at Virginia Polytechnic Institute and State University. She is a linguistic anthropologist who recently completed her dissertation examining Appalachian language and economic relationships. She has published in Anthropological Quarterly and Journal of American Folklore. 120 • Journal of the Appalachian Studies Association • Volume Seven • 1995 �Southwest Virginia High School Graduates: Crossing Cultural Terrains in the University Setting Pam B. Cole Introduction Mom graduated high school, but Dad, he just made it to the third grade; he skipped school a lot because he had to work in the fields so they would have food to eat. I think he was fifteen and in the third grade, and he just quit. And I see how it's affected him. He's never read a book before, and I can't imagine that, and I just want to do so much better than him. He always led me to believe that I was smart, and that I could do anything that I wanted to do. I want him to be proud of me (Chris 1993). The words above were spoken by a first-year university student who grew up in the Appalachian Mountains of Southwest Virginia. Chris and three of his high school classmates—John, Sandy, and Jarrod—enrolled together in a large university immediately following graduation from an all-white high school located in a small coal mining community.1 During their first semester as freshmen, these four students became participants in an ethnographic study of the ways in which they constructed their identities in the university setting. Chris and his classmates initially talked quite exuberantly about the encouragement they received from family, friends, and former teachers to attend the university. Chris's father was an illiterate, disabled coal miner who wanted to see his son "do so much better" than he himself had. His positive attitude toward education played an instrumental role 1995 • Volume Seven • Journal of the Appalachian Studies Association • 121 �in Chris's decision to pursue a degree in engineering. Likewise, Jarrod's decision to pursue a career in architecture was initially supported by his father who had spent his entire life working inside a coal mine and, as a result, wanted a better life for his son. Jarrod talked about watching his father labor and "grow old before his time" under the oppressive conditions of a coal miner's life. His mother, too, was a tremendous influence. At the time of the study she worked as a school janitor to help finance his education. All in all, these students brought to the university a strong sense of family, neighborliness, and personal identity. They had a great deal of pride in their Appalachian identities and were greatly motivated to do well in college.2 Nonetheless, pride in their Appalachian identities began to subside shortly after they entered the university. The students found themselves immersed in a dominant group that was less paternalistic and more bureaucratic, more elaborate in its speech codes, and more diverse in its thinking and experiences than their high school peer group. In this new environment, the students had to renegotiate their identities. Kondo points out that "identity is not a fixed 'thing,' it is negotiated, open, shifting, ambiguous, the result of culturally available meanings" and is heavily influenced by the power relations of the group (1990, 24). Though individuals constantly construct identities within their own cultural groups, neophytes, unfamiliar with the prevailing ways of a "new" group culture, renegotiate their identities in ways that are frequently in opposition to the norms of their native group. In so doing, they often acquiesce to prevailing group norms in order to gain acceptance. These students, unfamiliar with the university, renegotiated their identities in ways that were in opposition to their Appalachian identities. The differences they encountered frequently made them feel marginalized, disempowered, and stigmatized. As they renegotiated their identities, they struggled between remaining loyal to their stigmatized Appalachian identities and trying to pass as "normal" in order to gain membership in the dominant group. As a result, they began feeling ambivalent toward their native culture. Displacement Research findings suggest that schools are a source of identity and pride in more homogeneous rural communities (Gotts and Purnell 1986). By participating in high school events the students affirmed community membership and life. However, they felt overwhelmed by the bureaucratic nature and the size of the university. After attending a rural high school serving approximately 230 white students (Grades 7-12), they were shocked by the number and diversity of students enrolled in university classes. It was common for classes to have three hundred to six hundred students from various ethnic backgrounds. 122 • Journal of the Appalachian Studies Association • Volume Seven • 1995 �Many of their high school classes had fewer than ten pupils. Consequently, the students frequently received one-on-one attention from their teachers, with whom they had developed close relationships. This level of attention was absent at the university. Classrooms, Jarrod remarked, were "movie theaters" where students simply observed "an act in motion" (1993). The impersonal nature of the university setting affected the way they viewed themselves. As Sandy put it, she was no longer "an individual. I was just one of many numbers on the university campus" (1993a). Professors, John asserted, never seemed to have time to talk with them. Professors sometimes told the students their names were irrelevant, and they should not even bother putting them on their papers—social security numbers were sufficient (Group Interview 1993). These students also struggled with renegotiating their peer identities. Though they were frequently viewed as being "asocial," they assumed their hesitancy to establish new friendships was actually a result of the way they viewed friendships. The students felt that because they came from a community where "everyone knows everyone else" and where the unvarying nature of the community allowed friendships to deepen and evolve over time, they made friends quite differently than did many of their university peers. They were surprised by how quickly other students either joined or created cliques. Friendships, they believed, were lifelong commitments, not to be taken superficially and not to be developed too hastily. The students, therefore, approached new relationships in an ambiguous manner. Though Jarrod and Sandy were more extroverted than Chris and John and moved into new relationships quicker, they described their newfound friends as "acquaintances" and made apologetic comments concerning their new relationships. "I know it's a shallow way to be," Jarrod would frequently remark when discussing his new friendships. Sandy agreed: I'm makin' a lot of new friends, well, not really friends. Hopefully, one day they will be as close as my friends at home. But new people can't replace friends that I went to kindergarten with and played sports with and basically spent my entire childhood and adolescence with (1993b). John and Chris, more cautious in establishing new friendships, sometimes alienated themselves from other students. They hesitated becoming friends with "strangers" for fear they would make friends with the wrong crowd. Instead, they sought reassurance in one another's company. "The reason we're taking this so well," John asserted, "is because we have each other to talk to. I don't know if they [indicating the other three] weren't up here, if I would have stayed" (1993a). In addition to struggling with peer identity, these students quickly began viewing their educational identities as inadequate when compared 1995 • Volume Seven • Journal of the Appalachian Studies Association • 123 �to those of others; as a result, they felt displaced and marginalized in the classroom. Though all four students came to the university with high marks and were very much concerned about their academic performance, they began acknowledging academic experiences other students had which they lacked. John commented, for example, that other students were better prepared for lab work and, because his school lacked the materials to perform experiments, he was behind the other students. Sandy talked about the lack of advanced math courses in her high school. If she had been given the opportunity to take additional math courses, she would not be struggling in her college calculus class. All of them reported feeling "slighted" or "cheated" when other students made comments like "Oh, this is going to be easy" or "We did this in high school" when they themselves had been denied that experience. In one group interview, John summed up their feelings: We haven't did that stuff. They [other students] have on-hand experience with stuff that we don't have, so we have to work that much harder than they do because they've already had some knowledge that we have to learn new—which gives them an edge over us which isn't really fair, and sometimes it makes us angry, but there's not much we can do about it. Just work harder, I guess (Group Interview 1993).3 The students' greatest challenge dealt with renegotiating their intellectual and linguistic selves. They recounted a number of situations in which other students teased them about their intelligence and/or manner of speaking. Typical comments were "We thought all you people were stupid" and "We all thought that all of you talked real slow, and you didn't know anything." The students remarked that though their peers made the comments in a cordial manner, they sometimes felt marginalized by the statements. An early interview with two students illustrates the manner in which they felt put down for their style of speaking: Jarrod: When you get up here you like say somethin', and they go "Did you hear that? Say that again. Did you hear that?" John: Yeah. This one guy said, "Say somethin'." I said, "Like what?" And he goes, "Did you hear that? LIKE WHAT!" It just gets on your nerves sometimes, and then when I first got up here nobody could understand the way I pronounce my first name, and I finally just had to let pronounce it for them, and they still didn't get it. I mean, what's so hard about ? Jarrod: This one guy thought that 's last name was Musilix. I don't know how he got Musilix from . 124 • Journal of the Appalachian Studies Association • Volume Seven • 1995 �John: Me and are gettin' used to answerin' to . [Both young men, though unrelated, have the same last name. In their community, the accent is placed on the first syllable; outsiders place the accent on the second syllable.] Jarrod: Yeah. So whenever somebody asks me my last name, I say [Places accent on the last syllable.] I always said in elementary and high school that I would never do that, but when you're up here you don't have any choice. John: Yeah. It's no use. Jarrod: If you say , it's like "What did you say?" So we have to change it (Group Interview 1993). Though the students believed they did not encounter any situations in which they felt blatant acts of ridicule, they admitted that subtle forms of ridicule—exemplified by the previous dialogue exchange— reminded them they were different and made them feel put down and disempowered.4 Thus, to gain membership and acceptance, they felt the need to readjust their speech patterns to match those of the dominant group. Juxtaposing the experiences and/or opportunities they had at home with those of their university peers also made the students feel inferior. Phrases such as "more culturally rounded," "less culturally developed," and "culturally deprived" laced their discourse about their own personal experiences. "I did not realize how little I had never done in my life," Chris remarked, "until I came to college and started listening to other students around me talking about where they had been and what all they had done" (1993). Jarrod commented: I was talkin' to a bunch of friends last night, and it made me realize that bein' from a small place we're like so much further behind, you know, than all these other people, and we're so much less rounded than they are. I talked to them for about three hours, and they were just talkin' about so many things they had did and so many places they had went. In a way I feel cheated that they've did stuff that I've not, but, you know, I just try to put it out of my mind because there's really nothin' I can do about it, so I try to not let it bother me (1993). Forging an Identity All four students enrolled in the university with some understanding of the negative stereotypes that are associated with the Appalachian region. Despite this knowledge, none of the students initially believed they would have ever felt stigmatized because of their Appalachian 1995 • Volume Seven • Journal of the Appalachian Studies Association • 125 �identities. As Jarrod remarked, "I thought that they [society] thought that we were really stupid, but it never really bothered me before. But now, they make me feel so insignificant and dumb. And I don't like that" (1993). Goffman (1963) explains that people who deviate from the norm acquire techniques to manage what he calls "spoiled identities." The students reported ways in which they began managing the stigmatism associated with their "spoiled" identities. They learned to conceal their uniqueness by forging socially acceptable identities, one of many management strategies pointed out by Granfield (1991), Marshall (1985), and Pfuhl (1986). The students, for instance, often found themselves hiding their Appalachian identities by saying as little as possible about their home communities. Though the students could refrain from talking about their home communities, their distinct Southwest Virginia dialects were much less avoidable. Though they perceived dialect as a veneer feature of the cultural world, an inflated way of seeking membership in an "elite" group, the students agreed that in order to gain membership and status in their new setting, they had to alter their dialect. Not gaining membership in the dominant group, as Chris said, "was the worst curse of man." Thus, the students began copying the language of those around them. They talked quite frequently about "hearing their own language change" and how they began finding themselves almost subconsciously shifting to what they called a more "proper" way of speaking when they were talking with those outside their indigenous cultural group. By the end of their first semester, all four students had altered much of their Appalachian dialect.5 Ambivalence Goffman (1963) coined the expression "identity ambivalence" for describing the emotional conflict that arises when an individual tries to embrace one culture and release another. Early in the first semester, the students began talking about the difficulties of returning home. Once these students experienced the social norms of the university setting, returning to their indigenous roots became problematic. Though they generally felt good about their new identities, they felt far removed from their high school peers and their former lives when they returned to their home communities. "I feel like I'm living in a sound proofroom when I'm back there; no one actually hears me, and really, I'm not so sure I hear them," John remarked (1993b). For all four students, their changing dialect and their more diverse ways of thinking created a barrier between them and their former friends. Time away from home, they realized, marked them as elite outsiders. Jarrod problemized his situation: 126 • Journal of the Appalachian Studies Association • Volume Seven • 1995 �I've already noticed though that my accent has changed some since I've been up here. 'Cause they [high school friends] like make fun of me. And I went home last weekend and and —— [high school friends] would hear me say some stuff, they would make fun of me. They would say like "You think you're bad now, don't you? You've changed your accent!" (Group Interview 1993). The identity transformations that the students began experiencing also created tensions between the students and their family members. Chris mentioned his struggle to understand what he now felt were his parents' racist attitudes. Though he tried to discuss his feelings with his parents, he no longer felt capable of "talking on the same wave length with them" and insisted that there was no longer a place for him in his former community. John talked about how he now felt more open to different religious beliefs, but his parents were simply devastated that he wished to attend a nondenominational church. Overall, the students felt helpless in dealing with these conflicts. Despite their best efforts, the students had difficulty disengaging from their previous identities. "Sometimes," Chris remarked, "it's a relief for just the four of us to be together. 'Cause then we can let our guard down and be ourselves" (Group Interview 1993). Though the students conceded that a shift in dialect was inescapable, such a shift created dissension between their Appalachian identities and the new identities they were constructing. The students saw this vernacular shift as a disloyalty to their Appalachian identities but, at the same time, they felt powerless to do anything about it. As Jarrod said, "You understand that you are betraying who you are, but you want to be more accepted." John made a similar point: "I know at times that I talk different on purpose. I guess it's really bad. I shouldn't be like that, but I just don't want to be made fun of" (Group Interview 1993). All in all, the students felt a sense of guilt as they forged "acceptable" identities. Resolving Ambivalence All four students sought membership in the university setting by "passing," by forging socially acceptable identities. As they did this they began to resolve the ambivalence they felt by constructing negative views of their Appalachian identities. They began seeing their former identities as "fixed" realities and began appreciating multiple perspectives. As John remarked, "Now, I don't judge others. I wasn't as open minded in high school. I'm more so now" (1993b). In a final interview, Chris made a similar point when talking about how he felt he had changed: 1995 • Volume Seven • Journal of the Appalachian Studies Association • 127 �Chris: One thing, I was culturally deprived. Like black people .. . or anything you don't know anything about you're afraid of. Before I never had any contact with any of them. But I've met probably more nice black people here than I have white. Before I used the stereotypes. I didn't trust them. I didn't trust anybody. Just the people I already knew. That was just me; now I know that was wrong. Interviewer: What's made you change? Chris: I guess just actually experiencing. Just being around them. And just talkin' to them. They're just like we are. Skin color doesn't mean anything (1993). As the students observed their own attitudes changing, they began critically observing attitudes in their native culture. Sandy remarked: I don't wanna go back there. Just being here makes me see how narrow-minded everyone is at home. That's ridiculous. And I don't think kids should be brought up in a place like that. People there are too old-fashioned and are just not up for new ideas. At home everything has to be one way, and people can't be different. You have to be like everyone else or you're ridiculed because you're not (1993b). The students felt negatively about the lack of diversity in their home town and characterized their indigenous culture as narrow-minded. Thus, they felt ambivalent about returning home and raising their own families. Conclusion This paper has demonstrated the oppression that four students from Southwest Virginia experienced as they crossed cultural terrains in the university setting. Stigmatized by their Appalachian identities, the students sought membership in the academic setting by forging identities that were socially acceptable. However, in their efforts to "pass" as members of the dominant group, the students experienced identity ambivalence. They resolved their ambivalence by constructing negative views of their former identities and of their cultural heritage. Limitations exist to this study. The small number of participants makes it impossible to generalize the findings to other Appalachian youth. Others may have had similar or quite different experiences. Further research needs to be conducted with larger populations of students to see if the findings of this study are common to Appalachian youth and/or other children with rural identities. Furthermore, the duration of the study was limiting in itself. Can the students resolve the 128 • Journal of the Appalachian Studies Association • Volume Seven • 1995 �negative feelings about their Appalachian identities? A longer study would address this question and might see how the students' attitudes toward their Appalachian identities evolve with time. Notes 1 Students' names have been changed to protect their privacy. 2 Both Sandy and John talked about how it was always "understood" that they would attend college. Their parents always emphasized the importance of a college education in securing a good job. 2 Ed. note: Due to the nature and content of this paper Standard English corrections have not been made to quoted dialogue. 4 Sandy stated on a number of occasions that she felt she was less affected by comments than were the other students. 5 Sandy and Jarrod entered the university with a less pronounced Appalachian dialect; consequently changes in their dialects were less noticeable. Works Cited Chris. 1993. Interview with the author. 8 October. Goffman, E. 1963. Stigma: Notes on the Management of Spoiled Identity. Englewood Cliffs, N.J.: Prentice-Hall. Granfield, R. 1991. "Making It By Faking It: Working-class Students in an Elite Academic Environment." Journal of Contemporary Ethnography 20(3): 331351. Group Interview. 1993. Interview with the author and Chris, Jarrod, John, and Sandy. 16 September. Gotts, E., and R. Purnell. 1986. "Families and Schools in Rural Appalachia." American Journal of Community Psychology 14(5): 499-521. Jarrod. 1993. Interview with the author. 14 September. John. 1993a. Interview with the author. 12 September. ——. 1993b. Interview with the author. 4 November. Kondo, D. 1990. Crafting Selves: Power, Gender, and Discourses of Identity in a Japanese Workplace. Chicago: Univ. of Chicago Press. 1995 • Volume Seven • Journal of the Appalachian Studies Association • 129 �Marshall, C. 1985. The Stigmatized Woman: The Professional Woman in a Male Sex-typed Career." The Journal of Educational Administration 22(2): 131153. Pfuhl, E. 1986. The Deviance Process. Belmont, Calif.: Wadsworth. Sandy. 1993a. Interview with the author. 8 September. ——. 1993b. Interview with the author. 27 October. Pam Cole received a Ph.D in curriculum and instruction from Virginia Polytechnic Institute and State University in December 1994. She currently teaches adolescent literature and writing for teachers in the Department of English at Radford University in Radford, Va. 130 • Journal of the Appalachian Studies Association • Volume Seven * 1995 �Teaching for Democracy: Reflections On Teaching Appalachian Studies Shaunna L. Scott A long tradition of thought in the fields of education, social theory, and Appalachian studies conceives of education as the cornerstone for the construction of a democratic society and for the achievement of social justice and human liberation (see, for instance, Agger 1991; Dewey [1927] 1988; Freire [1968] 1983; Gramsci 1971; Habermas 1971, in social theory; and Einstein 1982; Fisher, Foster, and Harnish 1982; Lewis 1982, in Appalachian studies). According to arguments advanced by these writers, education provides students with the information and skills necessary for them to function as citizens in a democracy: to make informed policy and electoral decisions, to engage in dialogue, to solve problems, to think critically, and, perhaps most important, to imagine alternatives to the status quo. Teaching, then, is a political act. What we teach and how we teach it has important political consequences. In my own discipline of sociology, the politics of teaching is particularly transparent. Classical theorists such as Emile Durkheim and Talcott Parsons reaffirm society, while others like Karl Marx and Max Weber critique it. In spite of these differences, it remains the case that all of the dominant theoretical perspectives are elitist, ethnocentric, and androcentric. Put simply, they were written by, for, and about a relatively privileged group of white, European men. During the 1960s and 1970s, the field of sociology moved beyond an intellectual recognition of this fact and began to engage in rather vigorous debate over the discipline's political implications and, more specifically, over how socio ogy should be practiced and taught. This debate, though ongoing, has transformed our field in significant ways. 1995 • Volume Seven • Journal of the Appalachian Studies Association • 131 �First, there has been a rapid growth in sociological self-critique, which has resulted in an expanding body of literature on the sociology of knowledge. Second, as teachers, sociologists have sought to replace hierarchical, authoritarian pedagogical models which place professors in an expert role, requiring us to dispense knowledge to passive students via lectures. We have furthermore modified our curriculum: first, by adding components on race and gender to the standard courses on social inequality and stratification; and second, by formulating independent courses and sub-disciplinary specialties which concentrate primarily upon race and gender. Over the last decade, sociologists have pushed the project one step further, arguing that race, gender, and, as always, class are constitutive of U.S. society, academia, and sociology as well as our own individual experiences and identities as educators and students. Therefore, they must be integrated into the very core of our curriculum, not ghettoized into separate courses or a single week of the semester. There are obvious parallels between sociology and Appalachian studies, owing both to the nature of these intellectual enterprises and to their co-existence in similar social and cultural contexts. The same social forces and intellectual currents responsible for the diversification of sociology throughout the 1960s and 1970s were also responsible for the institutional emergence of the interdisciplinary field of Appalachian studies. The timing and context of Appalachian studies' emergence accounts for a remarkably widespread use of experiential, democratic pedagogical and research methods. I argue this, in spite of Helen Lewis's complaint that Appalachian studies had become "academized" (1982, 166). Compared to other academic programs, Appalachian studies programs have maintained an activist-applied orientation and have consistently struggled against the forces which push educators toward elitist, authoritarian teaching and research (see, for instance, Banks, Billings, and Tice 1993; Couto 1986; Couto et al. 1986; Fisher, Foster, and Harnish 1982; Lewis and Gaventa 1988; Lewis and O'Donnell 1990a, 1990b; Silver 1991; Tice, Billings, and Banks 1993; but also Einstein 1982). Appalachian studies has also provided us with a rich critical literature addressing questions of underdevelopment and poverty, regional and ethnic identity, cultural difference, stereotypes, and other issues surrounding Appalachia's relationship with the "outside" world: the national and global economy, the federal government, and American popular culture (often accessed through mass media). Books which I regard as classics in our field—Harry Caudill's Night Comes to the Cumberlands (1962), the Lewis et al. volume on the colonial and world systems models (Lewis, Johnson, and Askins 1978), Henry Shapiro's intellectual history of the conceptualization of Appalachia (1978), Ron filler's work on the industrialization of the region (1982), David 132 • Journal of the Appalachian Studies Association • Volume Seven • 1995 �Whisnant's work on the politics of culture (1983), and Altina Waller's investigation of the Hatfield-McCoy feud (1988)—all offer Appalachian students relevant information and, equally important, critical and potentially empowering frameworks through which to view their region and themselves. Texts such as these open up a terrain upon which Appalachian students may challenge culturally- and environmentally-deterministic paradigms which locate the source of regional problems either with the people or with an intractable mountainous terrain. Obviously, such paradigms are politically paralyzing to us as citizens. Grounding regional poverty and powerlessness in the environment naturalizes social inequality to the point at which it seems almost inevitable. It does so by turning our attention away from the ways in which regional problems are also socially constructed through a particular pattern of capitalist development and its articulation with outside sources of capital and outside markets. Such environmental determinism leaves us with two alternatives: radical alteration of our landscape or out-migration. The logic of the second discourse, which places the blame for regional problems on the people and their culture, stigmatizes Appalachians and disqualifies us from participating as equals in a democratic, public discourse on the fate of our nation, region, and selves. After all, who cares about the opinions of backward, impoverished, uneducated, clannish, and overly-violent hillbillies? Thus, by linking conceptualizations and stereotypes of Appalachia to the broader structural and ideological processes through which American national identity was forged (Shapiro 1978) and through which certain groups acquired wealth and power in an expanding capitalist state (Caudill 1962; Eller 1982; Lewis, Johnson, and Askins 1978; Waller 1988; Whisnant 1980, 1983), the Appalachian studies literature helps us to foster a critical consciousness amongst Appalachian students. And, since this critical consciousness is necessary for the construction of a democratic polity at the local, state, regional, and national levels (Agger 1991; Habermas 1971), I value the contribution of this segment of the Appalachian studies literature greatly. Indeed, these books continue to form a core element of my Appalachian studies courses. Yet, I would argue that Appalachian educators should not stop with the construction of a positive basis for regional identity and a critique of American democracy and economy. As important as these goals are, they are not sufficient. Indeed, if we do stop here, we run the danger of acquiring a self-congratulatory, culturally-based superiority complex, in which we appear as virtuous and blameless "folk" while all of our problems are blamed upon "outsiders," as others have previously argued (see, for instance, Whisnant 1982). This is a tendency I must constantly fight in my own Appalachian studies courses where students alternate be- 1995 • Volume Seven • Journal of the Appalachian Studies Association • 133 �tween embracing the "Appalachia is good" paradigm or elaborating an extreme cultural relativism in which no value judgments or political decisions can be made. Both positions, while attractive and understandable, undermine the project of local and regional critique which is also requisite for the construction of critical consciousness, democratic polity, and transformative change. One way to facilitate such a local and regional critique is to engage willingly and honestly in our own self-critique, thereby offering a model of self-critique and self-reflexivity to our students. For example, I usually share with students my own elitist, middle-class, town-based biases which once caused me to be embarrassed by my paternal grandmother's lack of education and her use of non-standard English. These biases also provided me with a basis upon which to feel superior to my poorer, less educated, rural-dwelling kin and neighbors whom I was more than willing to stereotype and dismiss. Since my students come from similar backgrounds and usually share these biases, this self-critique usually leads them to recognize and discuss how they, too, participate in and benefit from the place-based and class-based hierarchies created through American capitalism and culture. There are so many excellent resources for initiating a discussion of class and town-country inequality in Appalachia that it is not possible to list them all here. Excellent sources include Stephen Fisher's "Life with Father: Reflections on Class Analysis" (1983-4), Allen Batteau's "Mosbys and Broomsedge: The Semantics of Class in an Appalachian Kinship System" (1982), and Robert Coles's Migrants, Sharecroppers, Mountaineers (1967) in conjunction with his Privileged Ones (1977). Of course, the consideration of class-based inequality and exploitation as well as the structural relationship between core and periphery has always been at the center of Appalachian studies discourse. One would be hard-pressed to teach a course on the history, politics, or sociology of Appalachia without attending to these topics. On the other hand, the consideration of two other important axes of inequality and exploitation in the United States—gender and race—have not always been so high on our interdisciplinary agenda (Maggard 1986).1 To teach about gender and race in Appalachia, then, is to extend even further our original projects of understanding regional social problems, of explaining, contextualizing, and debunking Appalachian stereotypes, and of empowering our students. In short, we must facilitate and articulate a critique of Appalachian studies. An obvious method of accomplishing this task is to examine critically Appalachian studies classics, both for their inclusion of women, African Americans, and other ethnic minorities and for their recognition of gender and race as culturally constructed systems of social stratification. Springboards for this endeavor include the work of Mary Anglin (1993), 134 • Journal of the Appalachian Studies Association • Volume Seven • 1995 �Jacqueline Dowd Hall (1986), Sally Maggard (1990), Mary Beth Pudup (1990), Michael Yarrow (1986; In progress), and myself (Scott 1994; 1995) on gender as well as the work of Edward J. Cabbell (1985), Ron Lewis (1987), Joe William Trotter, Jr. (1990), and William H. Turner (1985) on race. To bring these issues to life for the students, however, intellectual exercises such as these should be supplemented with other activities: discussions of current newspaper articles or letters to the editor; reflections on sexism and racism in our Appalachian home towns, institutions of higher learning, and American society in general; oral histories, fieldwork, or internships related to these topics; or discussions of fiction, TV shows, or films depicting race and gender in Appalachia. Films such as "Harlan County, U.S.A." (Koppel 1976), "Harriet Simpson Arnow" (Smith 1987), and "Fast Food Women" (Johnson 1991) help us recover an active presence and voice for Appalachian women who so often appear marginal to historical and sociological works on the region. The 1990 film "Trouble Behind," which documents the racist legacy of Corbin, Kentucky, is quite helpful in eliciting discussion and debate among students (Henson 1990). And, last but not least, Appalachian novels, short stories, and poetry provide those of us in history and social science with additional opportunities to encourage discussion and reflection on women and gender amongst our students. I, for instance, have always found it quite instructive to juxtapose literary images of women, such as James Still's character Mother in River of Earth ([1940] 1978) and Harriet Arnow's character the dollmaker ([1954] 1985), with the "real live" women in our students' lives and with women as they appear in ethnography, oral history, and other academic representations. Integrating race and gender into the Appalachian studies curriculum involves more than just adding units on women, blacks, Cherokees, or eastern and southern European immigrants to our syllabi, as Steve Fisher advocated over a decade ago (Fisher, Foster, and Harnish 1982). It means that we recognize that race and gender are at least as important as Appalachian ethnic identity in organizing social relations, informing personal identity, and propelling systems of social stratification within our region, communities, and homes. The integration of race and gender into Appalachian studies programs is particularly important in light of the economic shifts and public policies of the 1980s, which have resulted in a regional transformation of gender roles and a national increase in xenophobia and race hate crimes. The integration of race and gender into our curriculum, therefore, represents a very important step in our journey toward creating a more inclusive, democratic, and relevant Appalachian studies curriculum for our students and ourselves. 1995 • Volume Seven • Journal of the Appalachian Studies Association • 135 �Note 1 My list is not exhaustive, of course. We should also consider other axes of inequality and exploitation, most obviously sexual orientation and age. Works Cited Agger, Ben. 1991. A Critical Theory of Public Life: Knowledge, Discourse and Politics in an Age of Decline. New York: The Fallmer Press. Anglin, Mary K. 1993. "Engendering the Struggle: Women's Labor and Traditions of Resistance in Southern Appalachia." In Fighting Back inAppalachia: Traditions of Resistance and Change, ed. Stephen Fisher. Philadelphia: Temple University Press. Arnow, Harriet. [1954] 1985 . The Dollmaker. Lexington: The University Press of Kentucky. Banks, Alan, Dwight Billings, and Karen Tice. 1993. "Appalachian Studies, Resistance and Postmodernism." In Fighting Back in Appalachia: Traditions of Resistance and Change, ed. Stephen Fisher. Philadelphia: Temple University Press. Batteau, Allen. 1982. "Mosbys and Broomsedge: The Semantic of Class in an Appalachian Kinship System." American Ethnologist 9 (3): 445-466. Cabbell, Edward J. 1985. "Black Invisibility and Racism in Appalachia: An Informal Survey." In Blacks in Appalachia, eds. William H. Turner and Edward J. Cabbell. Lexington: The University Press of Kentucky. Caudill, Harry. 1962. Night Comes to the Cumberland^: A Biography of a Depressed Area. Baltimore: Little, Brown and Company. Coles, Robert. 1967. Migrants, Share Croppers, Mountaineers. Children of Crisis, Vol. 2. Boston: Little, Brown and Company. ——. 1977. Privileged Ones. Children of Crisis, Vol. 5. Boston: Little, Brown and Company. Couto, Richard A. 1986. "Failing Health and New Prescriptions: CommunityBased Approaches to Environmental Risks." In Current Health Policy Issues and Alternatives: Applied Social Science Perspective, ed. Carole E. Hill. Athens: University of Georgia Press. Couto, Richard A., Pat Sharkey, Paul Elwood, and Laura Green. 1986. "Relevant Education: Sharing Life's Glories." Southern Exposure 14 (SeptemberDecember): 60-61. 136 • Journal of the Appalachian Studies Association • Volume Seven • 1995 �Dewey, John. [1927] 1988. The Public and its Problems. Athens, Ohio: Swallow Press. Einstein, Prank H. 1982. "Theory Si Practice No! Appalachian Studies Comes Full Circle." In Assessing Appalachian Studies, ed. Thomas A. McGowen. Appalachian Journal 9 (2-3): 195-201. Eller, Ronald. 1982. Miners, Millhands, and Mountaineers: Industrialization of the Appalachian South, 1880-1930. Knoxville: University of Tennessee Press. Fisher, Stephen, Jim Foster, and Mary Harnish. 1982. "From Nonsense to Good Sense: A Collective Reflection on Appalachia and Appalachian Studies." In Assessing Appalachian Studies, ed. Thomas A. McGowen. Appalachian Journal 9 (2-3): 149-61. Fisher, Stephen. 1983-4. "Life with Father: Reflections on Class Analysis." Appalachian Journal 11 (1-2): 154-62. Freire, Paulo. [1968] 1983. Pedagogy of the Oppressed. Trans M.B. Ramos. New York: Continuum. Gramsci, Antonio. 1971. Selections from the Prison Notebooks. Q. Hoare and G.N. Smith, eds. and trans. New York: International. Habermas, Jiirgen. 1971. Knowledge and Human Interests. Boston: Beacon Press. Hall, Jacqueline Dowd. 1986. "Disorderly Women: Gender and Labor Militancy in the Appalachian South." The Journal of American History 73 (2): 354-82. Henson, Robby, dir. 1990. "Trouble Behind." VHS video. Cicada Films. Johnson, Ann, dir. 1991. "Fast Food Women." VHS video. Whitesburg, Ky.: Appalshop. Koppel, Barbara, dir. 1976. "Harlan County, U.S.A." VHS video. Cabin Creek Films, Columbia Pictures. Lewis, Helen, Linda Johnson, and Donald Askins, eds. 1978. Colonialism in Modern America: The Appalachian Case. Boone, N.C.: Appalachian Consortium Press. Lewis, Helen M. 1982. "Appalachian Studies—The Next Step." In Assessing Appalachian Studies, ed. Thomas A. McGowen. Appalachian Journal 9 (2-3): 162-71. Lewis, Helen, and John Gaventa. 1988. The Jellico Handbook: A Teacher's Guide to Community-Based Economics. New Market, Tenn.: Economics Education 1995 • Volume Seven • Journal of the Appalachian Studies Association • 137 �Project, Highlander Center. Lewis, Helen, and Suzanna O'Donnell, eds. 1990a. Ivanhoe, Virginia: Remembering our Past, Building Our Future. Ivanhoe, Va.: Ivanhoe Civic League. ——. 1990b. Telling Our Stories—Sharing Our Lives. Ivanhoe, Va.: Ivanhoe Civic League. Lewis, Ron L. 1987. Black Coal Miners in America: Race, Class, and Community Conflict 1780-1980. Lexington: The University Press of Kentucky. Maggard, Sally Ward. 1986. "Class and Gender: New Theoretical Priorities in Appalachian Studies." In The Impact of Institutions in Appalachia: Proceedings of the 8th Annual Appalachian Studies Conference, eds. Jim Lloyd and Anne G. Campbell. Boone, N.C.: Appalachian Consortium Press. ——. 1990. "Gender Contested: Women's Participation in the Brookside Coal Strike." In Women and Social Protest, eds. G. West and R. Blumberg. New York: Oxford University Press. Pudup, Mary Beth. 1990. "Women's Work in the West Virginia Economy." West Virginia History 49:7-10. Scott, Shaunna L. 1994. "They Don't Have to Live by the Old Traditions: Saintly Men, Sinner Women and an Appalachian Pentecostal Revival." American Ethnologist 21 (2): 227-44. —— . 1995. Two Sides to Everything: The Cultural Construction of Class Consciousness in Harlan County, Kentucky. Albany: State University of New York Press. Silver, Roy. 1991. "The Struggle Against the Poisoning of Harlan County's Dayhoit: Fighting the Good Fight." Paper presented at the American Sociological Association meeting. Cincinnati, Ohio. Shapiro, Henry D. 1978. Appalachia on Our Mind: The Southern Mountains and Mountaineers in the American Consciousness, 1870-1920. Chapel Hill: University of North Carolina Press. Smith, Herb. E., dir. 1987. "Harriet Simpson Arnow." VHS video Whitesburg, Ky.: Appalshop. Still, James. [1940] 1978. River of Earth. Lexington: University Press of Kentucky. Tice, Karen, Dwight Billings, and Alan Banks. 1993. "Sustaining Our RegionWide Conversation: Founding Hopes and Future Possibilities of the Appalachian Studies Association." Journal of the Appalachian Studies Association 5:3-11. 138 • Journal of the Appalachian Studies Association • Volume Seven • 1995 �Trotter, Joe William, Jr. 1990. Coal, Class and Color: Blacks in Southern West Virginia, 1915-32. Urbana: University of Illinois Press. Turner, William H. 1985. "Between Berea (1904) and Birmingham (1908): The Rock and Hard Place for Blacks in Appalachia." In Blacks in Appalachia, eds. William H. Turner and Edward J. Cabbell. Lexington: The University Press of Kentucky. Waller, Altina L. 1988. Feud: Hatfields, McCoys and Social Change in Appalachia, 1860-1900. Chapel Hill: University of North Carolina Press. Whisnant, David. 1980. Modernizing the Mountaineer. New York: Burt Franklin and Company. ——. 1982. "Second-Level Appalachian History: Another Look at Some Fotched-On Women." In Assessing Appalachian Studies, ed. Thomas A. McGowen. Appalachian Journal 9 (2-3): 115-23. —— 1983. . All That Is Native and Fine: The Politics of Culture in an American Region. Chapel Hill: University of North Carolina Press. Yarrow, Michael. 1986. "Capitalism, Patriarchy and 'Men's Work': The System of Control of Production of Coal Mining." In The Impact of Institutions in Appalachia: Proceedings of the 8th Annual Appalachian Studies Conference, eds. Jim Lloyd and Anne G. Campbell. Boone, N.C.: Appalachian Consortium Press. —— . In progress. Voices in the Mines: Class and Gender in the Consciousness of Mining Families. Book manuscript. Shaunna L. Scott, a native of Pikeville, Ky., is currently an assistant professor of sociology at the University of Kentucky and an associate of the Appalachian Center there. Her book Two Sides to Everything: The Cultural Construction of Class Consciousness in Harlan County, Kentucky was published by State University of New York Press in January, 1995. 1995 • Volume Seven • Journal of the Appalachian Studies Association • 139 �Gender and Schooling in Appalachia: Lessons for an Era of Economic Restucturing Sally Ward Maggard Introduction A central tenet of the Clinton administration policy for economic improvement is to retrain the existing work force and educate new labor force entrants for jobs in a high wage, high skill, high productivity economy. It is argued such labor force preparedness will attract and hold internationally mobile capital investment. The multiple threats to workers and communities of factory relocation, wage and benefit reductions, and part-time, contingent jobs will be reduced or eliminated. This assumption that workforce preparedness will anchor mobile capital is untested, but even if one accepts it, many questions remain. What does it mean to "retool" a labor force for the jobs of the future? What is the mix of programs for training existing workers and educating new entrants? Can the decentralized American education system respond? In Central Appalachia, the overpowering question is how does one connect the national agenda to communities once dominated by natural resource extraction where unemployment today runs as high as 25 percent of the work force? This article considers the complexity of designing new job training and education programs in Central Appalachia in an era of global economic transformation. It examines patterns of economic change and educational attainment, women's experiences as they attend school and try to acquire marketable skills, and lessons from previous job training 140 • Journal of the Appalachian Studies Association • Volume Seven • 1995 �and educational programs. From this it draws conclusions about ways to link national policy to the realities of Central Appalachia. A major portion of the article analyzes the public school and job training experiences of working class women in Eastern Kentucky. The author's original research on women's participation in two union organizing drives in the early 1970s generated data on schooling and work histories pertinent to new educational and labor force training initiatives. Recent Economic Change in Appalachia Economic problems in Central Appalachia1 resemble problems in other parts of the country, but the impact of restructuring here is often more acute than it is elsewhere. Data from West Virginia, the only state located entirely within the region, provide good examples of current economic trends in Central Appalachia. Where have all the "good" jobs gone? While the total number of jobs in the West Virginia economy remained fairly stable from 1980 to 1991, the mix of jobs changed dramatically. High paying jobs in coal mining, manufacturing, construction, transportation, and financial services declined by 22.5 percent, while lower paying jobs in agriculture, retail and wholesale trade, and services increased 24.4 percent (WVTFCYF 1993, 16). From 1985 to 1990 mining employment fell 21.7 percent. Miners and communities dependent on mining wages suffer, but with the shift to new automated mining technology, productivity is at an all-time high in the industry (Maggard 1994a). In contrast, West Virginia jobs in amusement services, apparel and accessory stores, eating and drinking places, and health services each increased by over 20 percent from 1985 to 1990 (Gulp, Bingaman, and Witt 1991). With the recruitment of "back-office" operations to the state, new jobs opened up in data entry and processing, market research, telemarketing, customer service, and financial services (Maggard 1994a). In each sector experiencing job growth, jobs tend to be part-time, temporary, subcontracted, and non-union, and they tend to pay low wages, lack benefits, and lack job security. Employers hire "contingent" workers on a part-time, temporary basis to avoid the costs of health insurance, sick leave, unemployment insurance, workers' compensation, pensions, and retirement. Costs can be reduced an estimated 20 to 40 percent by hiring contingent labor (Callahan and Hartmann 1991). But recent data indicate that these labor force trends translate into poverty inside Appalachian households. Median family income in West Virginia dropped by 3.9 percent from 1980 to 1990 (WVTFCYF 1993, 16), and households experienced an 1995 • Volume Seven • Journal of the Appalachian Studies Association • 141 �overall reduced standard of living. West Virginia fell from 47th to 50th in per capita income over the decade (Center for Economic Research 1991, 3) and female headed families living in poverty increased by 11.6 percent (Lubman 1993a). The state's "coal counties" are in crisis. Located in what used to be called the "Heart of the Billion Dollar Coalfields", McDowell County, for example, lost 72 percent of its high wage jobs from 1980 to 1991. This is a truly alarming statistic, but the county also lost 22 percent of its low wage jobs. Unemployment is 22.7 percent higher than the state average (11.4 percent in 1992) (Yoder 1993), and median income fell by 27.5 percent, from $21,729 to $15,756 in the county (WVTFCYF 1993, 43). Where have all the people gone? Many people leave. Forty-four of West Virginia's fifty-five counties lost population over the last decade (U.S. Bureau of Census 1990), but new data indicate a reversal of this trend (Thompson 1993; Isserman and Sorenson 1994). Recent southern destination states and historical migration points such as midwestern cities are also experiencing restructuring, and migration is failing as an alternative to bad times in Central Appalachia. When laid off workers see their jobs relocated to countries like Mexico, they are deciding not to follow the jobs and to stay home (Ansley 1993). Although some experts argue that labor mobility is a special strength in the U.S. economy (Passell 1992), Appalachian workers increasingly disagree. Who is the family breadwinner? Since early in the century, males have been the predominant household "breadwinners" in the region, but today they are joining the ranks of "discouraged" unemployed workers who give up looking for jobs and are officially counted as out of the labor market. In contrast, women in the region are moving into the paid labor force in ever larger numbers (Maggard 1994a, 19-20). The rate at which West Virginia women are entering the formal labor force may soon outstrip the rate of increase nationally among women. These shifts disrupt traditional household relationships. Fragmented data from literacy teachers, women's shelters, and social service agencies link these trends to an increase in domestic violence. What is a "real" job today? The traditional model of employment in the U.S. has been of fulltime, long-term, and family-waged work. White male working class, white collar, and professional workers have generally held such jobs (Ansley 1993, 1768, 1842-1843), and restructuring challenges this presumed norm for these groups. Today the dominant employment 142 • Journal of the Appalachian Studies Association • Volume Seven • 1995 �model more closely resembles the work experiences of minority populations and women whose jobs have not provided economic security. In response to the increase in economic insecurity, a wide range of non-standard economic activity is taking place at a grassroots level in Appalachia and other parts of the country.2 This includes illegal work (marijuana and moonshine production, prostitution, drug sales, poaching), "self-provisioning" (picking berries, gardening, preserving food, raising livestock, hunting, cutting wood for fuel, scavenging coal, sewing), and other informal production and bartering (gathering ginseng and rattlesnakes, making crafts, repairing automobiles and machinery). Flea markets and yard sales have expanded into a thriving alternative economy, and other non-reported work is expanding. Reciprocal work is wide spread, especially along kinship and neighborhood lines, as people share elder care, child care, invalid care, transportation, cash loans, job referrals, home repair, and home building. At a community level, people organize health clinics, child care, and youth programs, as well as oral history projects, industrial recruitment programs, economic seminars, and community self-assessment projects. People combine these activities with other sources of income such as unemployment, worker's compensation, disability, welfare, food stamps, black lung benefits, and social security. Transfer payments rarely cover minimal household needs, so this "creative" but technically "illegal" combination of non-standard and other income is necessary to keep households solvent. Barriers to a High-Skill Work Force Upgrading the skills and educational levels of the labor force are at the heart of federal economic growth policies. But Central Appalachia's educational attainment record and the experiences of its residents in public schools and manpower development programs suggest that new programs face severe challenges in the region. Low educational attainment Central Appalachia has struggled for many decades with poorly funded public schools and high dropout rates. Challenges to school finance formulas in West Virginia and Kentucky have resulted in an infusion of new support for some poor school districts, and in West Virginia there has been progress since 1980 in reducing the percentage of high school dropouts (WVTFCYF 1993, 6-7). Still, in 1993 West Virginia ranked 48th nationally in the percentage of adults completing four years of high school (Zeller and Smith 1993). In McDowell County, 47 percent of men and 25 percent of women in the labor force in 1990 had not completed high school. Among men, 34 percent had not gone beyond high school. For women, the comparable figure was 46 percent 1995 • Volume Seven • Journal of the Appalachian Studies Association • 143 �(U.S. Bureau of the Census 1990). In McDowell and seven other coal counties, less than 55 percent of the population aged twenty-five and over had graduated from high school (Lubman 1993b). The special case of women Recent Appalachian scholarship demonstrates the importance of analyzing gender relations and gender ideology in the region's history, culture, economy, and problems (Maggard 1994b). In terms of education, gender relations and their supportive ideologies create specific difficulties which push women to drop out of school and which hamper their efforts to return to school or benefit from job training programs. Structured interviews conducted from 1986 through 1988 by the author with forty-four Eastern Kentucky wo.men about work and educational experiences point to gender as a factor in school dropout rates, the low skill level of the labor force, and unsuccessful manpower programs. The research was part of a larger comparative study of women's involvement in two union organizing drives in Eastern Kentucky in the early 1970s (Maggard 1988). Both drives resulted in strikes: the United Mine Workers of America strike vs. Duke Power Company at its Brookside coal mine in Harlan County and the Communications Workers of America strike vs. Pikeville Methodist Hospital in Pike County. Twenty women from the coal strike and twenty-four from the hospital strike were interviewed. At the time of their strike involvement, the women were working as homemakers, nurse's aides, cooks, kitchen helpers, housekeepers, and clerical workers. Some had never held paying jobs. Most had worked in a wide array of low-wage, service sector jobs. Only six had completed high school; ten had one-to-three years of high school; twenty had completed only the eighth grade; eight had less than eight years of school. Ten of the women had been enrolled in some kind of manpower training program. Analysis of their life history data reveals that schooling gets sacrificed to gender roles and expectations about women's work. Women's education is rarely a priority, and family needs supersede women's desires to stay in school, enroll in semi-professional or professional courses of study, enter job training and technical skills programs, or pursue advanced degrees. Dropping out of school and not getting back The most common reason cited for quitting school was poverty. "I had started high school," one woman explained. "They'd be seven of us in the family and I really couldn't afford [school]. So I just got a job. Started doing restaurant work."3 Another woman quit school in the eighth grade because, ". . . my grandmother couldn't afford to send me to high school. That's the reason I didn't go." One woman from Harlan County recalled, 144 • Journal of the Appalachian Studies Association • Volume Seven • 1995 �"I didn't get no education, for people were poor. I had to walk off the top of that mountain, come over here to school. I got the primer, half the fifth and half the sixth." One of the leaders in the coal strike quit school to take a $35-a-week job baby sitting: "I had to buy all the school clothes [and] any food I had at school . . . because Dad just couldn't make it. When the mines worked, they didn't work enough for the men to support the size family that my mother and daddy had." Women described crises which worsened financial situations in their families. A nurse's aide said, "I left home to work for people because our home burnt up and we lost everything we had." A strike created the family crisis that led another woman to quit: "I was going to high school . . . [I got] three years. Wished I'd went plumb through, but dad was on strike, and they didn't have much money. I knew I couldn't afford it, so I just quit." And a woman who worked over thirty years as a nurse's aide quit school because of her mother's illness: "My mother got real sick and had to have surgery. For two years [she] wasn't able to do anything. [I] took all the responsibility of the family." Usually families interpreted crises in gender terms. Female children quit school to assume work necessary to keep households viable. One woman, who still dreams of becoming a nurse, said, "I went about two weeks [high school] and quit. Daddy was sick. When he couldn't work we couldn't afford to go. I stayed home and helped Mommy out with him." Another woman, who worked many years as a hospital cook, quit school after the eighth grade: "After my mother died I didn't get to go. See, I was the only girl among six brothers. I was the only girl at home." Although she loved the small country schools she had attended, there was no question that she, rather than one of her brothers, would quit school when her mother died. As adults, the women repeated this childhood pattern of school sacrifice for family roles. One woman made several attempts to become a Registered Nurse. Most recently her husband's struggle with black lung stood in her way: "Somebody is all the time blocking me for what I've always dreamed about." Another nurse's aide gave up her dream to train to become a licensed practical nurse. "I went and signed up and was accepted," she said. "My youngest son had to have his appendix taken out. . . . So that knocked me out there. I couldn't leave my baby. I'd a went on and made a LPN if it hadn't been for that." One of the most extreme examples of the way gender ideology restricts women was given by a woman who worked for years as a hospital kitchen helper. "Mommy didn't believe in girls getting a education," she said. "I turned sixteen, and I had to quit and stay home. I don't know why she believed that girls shouldn't get an education, but she just wouldn't let us go. She's got five girls and not a one of us graduated from high school." 1995 • Volume Seven • Journal of the Appalachian Studies Association • 145 �Some of the women quit school to get married, but in each case marriage was seen as a solution to other problems. One woman quit the eighth grade to escape an abusive home situation: "I wasn't allowed to go anywhere by myself. Dad would whip me good. Dad was pretty rough on m e . . . . I guess, you know, when you're young—I took o f f . . . . Mom signed the papers for us to get married." In other instances a married daughter meant one less child to support in stressed households. One woman married soon after her family was evicted from their home during a coal strike. 'They [coal company] started giving house notices. So people had to move," she said. "We did have it rough for a while. [My dad] applied for his miner's pension and the black lung, and that took time. My mom had to go out and do housework for people in order to make ends meet." Soon after her family was evicted she quit school. There was three of us in high school at that time, and it was rough going. As far as making expenses meet, it was really hard." In some cases social class distinctions made school problematic and prompted women to drop out. "I passed two years in the sixth grade, and I didn't like that teacher," one Harlan County woman said. "I threatened to whip her. Me, a young kid, wanting to fight her. I didn't like her attitude." She explained that, "it was like she was better than the students. She had things, and she'd flaunt it. She just showed off. It turned me off. So I finally just married." Another woman fought a consolidation plan which would move her own children into a school dominated by middle class children. She wanted to protect them from the "class pain" she had experienced. These interviews parallel the findings in research with working class women in rural North Carolina and urban Philadelphia (Luttrell 1993) and working class males (Sennett and Cobb 1972). Difficulties of trying to overcome barriers After the strikes were over, most of the women either renewed their educational efforts, took job training, or became politically active in their communities. Participation in the strikes disrupted traditional understandings of women's roles and created a kind of free space in which women changed their lives. Change was most dramatic among women who had worked primarily as homemakers. Many of these women went back to school or trained at nearby community colleges and area vocational schools. One woman enrolled at a community college under a federal support program and had nearly completed an undergraduate degree at the time of her interview. Another woman went to college after the coal strike, finished an undergraduate degree, and had almost completed a master's degree at the time of her interview: "My two brothers and a sister, they had associates [degrees], but I was the first one to get a bachelor's. I'm going 146 • Journal of the Appalachian Studies Association • Volume Seven • 1995 �to be the first to get a doctorate. Let me tell you!" All of these women value education. Gender status, poverty, sexism, classism, and domestic abuse interfered with educational attainment. Still, their active pursuit of new skills, education, and political involvement after the strikes testifies to their desire for educational opportunities. If new federal programs address the problems described by these women, this research predicts high participation rates. Past training programs Ten of the forty-four women interviewed had been involved in Manpower Development and Training programs in the 1960s. One had participated in a sewing project, and the others had trained for various positions in health services. In most cases, this helped them get low wage service jobs, but even so, none utilized their technical training in the new job. One woman who wound up with a hospital kitchen job described her training experience this way: I went to the unemployment office for work. Me and my husband separated, and I didn't have no way of keeping up the kids. They told me about this program they had going up at the hospital. They'd pay me for going to school. Special diet course: how to fix diets for diabetics and people with heart trouble and high cholesterol, and stuff like that. I really enjoyed it. After the training she was hired at the hospital. "I was making just about the same as they was paying me through that government— minimum wage," she said. "I didn't use that [training]. It didn't help me a bit. The only way it helped me was getting the job." Federal workforce training in this era resulted in an underemployed labor force. Participants were unable to find jobs which used newly acquired skills or which paid above-minimum wages. Research on the more recent Job Training and Partnership Act (JTPA)4 reveals similarly disappointing results. Participation in JTPA programs tends to be low. A survey of one hundred women who lost their jobs when a Tennessee apparel plant closed reveals that many women did not enroll because of their financial and health insurance concerns (Merrifield, Norris, and White 1991, 8, 36-38, 61-62). One woman said, "I had to go back to work to get insurance. My husband's medicine is very high priced" (Merrifield, Norris, and White 1991, 38). Another woman felt she could not afford to participate. "I wanted to get into the medical field, to have something stable," she said. "I signed up for LPN classes but didn't go because I needed a job, and didn't know how long it would be funded or if I could draw unemployment. . . . I didn't think I could afford to go (Merrifield, Norris, and White 1991, 37). 1995 • Volume Seven • Journal of the Appalachian Studies Association • 147 �Women who do participate in programs find that they are not trained for growth occupations in technical and paraprofessional fields. In Tennessee, women were trained in stereotypically "female jobs," like clerical work and nursing. The survey concluded that the training made no difference in the ability of participants to get full-time, well-paying jobs. Similarly, a recent Government Accounting Office analysis of the JTPA reveals that in over half of the regions studied, only 9 percent of the women who participated received training for jobs which paid $7.00 or more an hour (GAO 1991). Conclusions and Recommendations New programs for labor force preparedness need to be connected to the present and future economic context. Problems particular to Central Appalachia in an era of profound economic change and lessons from past labor force programs and public school experiences suggest four recommendations. First, any educational upgrade, job training, and school-to-work programs must be linked to changes in labor markets and economic growth policies influencing labor market change. Unless training is linked to economic development with a dual emphasis on education and occupations, earlier failures will recur and programs will prepare people for non-existent jobs. Second, a "self-sufficiency standard" (Rose 1993, 7) should apply to job training. The Coalition on Women and Job Training, an alliance of twenty-seven national women's job training, labor, education, civil rights, and economic development organizations, urges development of training programs which estimate regionally specific wage and benefit needs for participants, assess job opportunities, and enroll participants in training specifically directed to meeting those job needs (Rose 1993). Third, an array of support services must accompany programs. Child care, transportation, health insurance, and family income support are necessary to sustain economically distressed participants. Counseling and crisis intervention may be needed. Programs must be particularly sensitive to location-specific social and cultural factors—including gender, class, and racial ideologies—which affect educational attainment. Fourth, desirable forms of non-standard economic activities should be strengthened with training, funding, credit, technical assistance, marketing, and licensing and regulatory assistance. This support can move innovative grassroots development projects into viable economic options. Without attention to these recommendations, the labor force may well segment into at least four tiers. At the top are highly skilled and well-educated workers of the "information age." At a second tier there 148 • Journal of the Appalachian Studies Association • Volume Seven • 1995 �are people who complete training and education required for technical occupations. At the third tier there are displaced workers who "retrain" for inadequate jobs and make up the "contingent" labor force. Finally, outside of the formal labor market, there are people who piece together the resources to survive through non-standard activities. It is no simple task to create a "world class workforce" based on sustainable economic activity which translates to economic security. It is imperative that we intentionally address the needs of displaced workers, new entrants to the work force, and communities. It is also imperative that we do this with broad-based, democratic participation in planning new economic policy and in designing the programs which will equip people to be active participants in the emerging economy. Notes 1 A federally defined subregion of the larger Appalachian Region, Central Appalachia consists of sixty counties located in four states: Kentucky, Virginia, West Virginia, and Tennessee (Appalachian Regional Commission 1964). 2 Literature on the "informal economy" is growing and conceptually diverse (see Brown and Scase 1991; Fortes, Castells, and Benton 1989; Christensen 1988). Here the term "non-standard economic activity" describes grass-roots economic strategies emerging in response to de-industrialization in Appalachia. Much is highly organized, "informal" only in the sense that it may fall outside traditional employer-employee wage relationships and government regulation. Discussions in this article of "non-standard economic" activity and segmentation of the labor force draw heavily from my collaborative work on economic restructuring with University of Tennessee law professor Fran Ansley. 3 A11 quotations in this paper are from the author's interviews with women who participated in these two strikes, unless otherwise noted. To protect privacy of respondents, names of interviewees are not published here. For similar reasons the exact dates and places of interviews are not published. All interviews were conducted in respondents' homes, work places, or mutually arranged sites during 1986 and 1987. Respondents signed special interview release forms setting the terms of use of their interviews. The interviews and additional strike documents are housed in the "Women and Political Protest" collection of the Appalachian Collection, University of Kentucky. 4 The 1982 Job Training Partnership Act was intended to retrain dislocated workers in new job skills. In 1989 this mission was transferred to the Economic Dislocation and Worker Adjustment Assistance Act. Works Cited Ansley, Fran. 1993. "Standing Rusty and Rolling Empty: Law, Poverty, and 1995 • Volume Seven • Journal of the Appalachian Studies Association • 149 �America's Eroding Industrial Base." Georgetown Law Journal 81 (5): 17571896. Appalachian Regional Commission. 1994. Appalachia. Washington, D.C.: Government Printing Office. Brown, Phillip, and Richard Scase, eds. 1991. Poor Work. Philadelphia: Open University Press. Callaghan, Polly, and Heidi Hartmann. 1991. Contingent Work: A Chart Book on Part-Time and Temporary Employment. Washington, D.C.: Economic Policy Institute. Center for Economic Research. 1991. West Virginia: Data File. July. Morgantown: West Virginia University. Christensen, Kathleen, E., ed. 1988. The New Era of Home-Based Work Directions and Policies. Boulder: Westview Press. Gulp, Linda, Fred Bingaman, and Tom Witt. 1991. "State of the West Virginia Economy." Prepared for Governor's Office of Community and Industrial Development. August 27. Morgantown: Center for Economic Research, West Virginia University. Isserman, Andrew M., and David J. Sorenson. 1994. "State, County, and City Population Change." West Virginia Demographic Monitor (Regional Research Institute, West Virginia University) 1 (2): 1-3. Lubman, Alex. 1993a. "One in Five West Virginians in Poverty." West Virginia State Census Data Center Newsletter (Office of Health Services Research, West Virginia University) 4 (fall): 3, 5. . 1993b. "Educational Attainment in West Virginia." West Virginia State Census Data Center Newsletter (Office of Health Services Research, West Virginia University) 4 (fall): 2, 4. Luttrell, Wendy. 1993. "The Teachers, They All Had their Pets': Concepts of Gender, Knowledge, and Power." Signs: Journal of Women in Culture and Society 18 (3): 505-546. Maggard, Sally Ward. 1988. "Eastern Kentucky Women on Strike: A Study of Gender, Class, and Political Action in the 1970s." Ph.D. diss., University of Kentucky. . 1994a. "From Farm to Coal Camp to Back Office and McDonald's: Living in the Midst of Appalachia's Latest Transformation." Journal of the Appalachian Studies Association 6:14-38. . 1994b. "Will the Real Daisy Mae Please Stand Up? A Methodological 150 • Journal of the Appalachian Studies Association • Volume Seven • 1995 �Essay on Gender Analysis in Appalachian Research." Appalachian Journal 21 (2): 136-150. Merrifield, Juliet, Lachelle Norris, and Loretta White. 1991. "I'm Not a Quitter!" Job Training and Basic Education for Women Textile Workers. Knoxville: Center for Literacy Studies, University of Tennessee. Passell, Peter. 1992. "Workers Who Follow the Jobs Are the Keys to Economic Health." New York Times 5 July: 6E. Fortes, Alejandro, Manuel Castells, and Lauren Benton, eds. 1989. The Informal Economy. Baltimore: The John's Hopkins University Press. Rose, Kalima. 1993. "Women & Job Training: A New Agenda." Equal Means 2 (1): 5-8. Sennett, Richard, and Jonathan Cobb. 1972. The Hidden Injuries of Class. New York: Vintage Books. Thompson, Eric. 1993. "Long-Term Economic Forecasts for West Virginia: 19932002." West Virginia Business and Economic Review (Center for Economic Research, West Virginia University) 1:1-10. U.S. Bureau of the Census. 1990. Characteristics of the Population. Washington, B.C.: Government Printing Office. U.S. General Accounting Office (GAO). 1991. "Job Training Partnership Act: Racial and Gender Disparities in Services." GAO/HRD-91-148. Washington, B.C.: United States General Accounting Office. West Virginia Task Force on Children, Youth and Families (WVTFCYF). 1993. Kids Count Data Book: 1993 County Profiles of Child Weil-Being. Charleston: West Virginia Task Force on Children, Youth and Families. Yoder, Belmar R. 1993. "State Employment Update." Community and Economic Development Newsletter (West Virginia University Extension Service) 2 (1): 6. Zeller, Frederick A., and Wil J. Smith. 1993. "The West Virginia Economy Tomorrow." Community and Economic Development Newsletter (West Virginia University Extension Service) 2 (3): 2-3. Sally Ward Maggard is assistant professor of sociology, adjunct assistant professor of history, and faculty research associate of the Regional Research Institute at West Virginia University. She is a Pro Cultura professor at Godollo University in Hungary. She is currently studying the impact of economic restructuring in coal regions in Central Appalachia and Hungary. 1995 • Volume Seven • Journal of the Appalachian Studies Association • 151 �Scotland, Appalachia, and the Politics of Postmodern Culture Richard Blaustein Since the early seventies, the idea of Appalachia as internal colony has captured the imagination of regional scholars and activists (Lewis, Johnson, and Askins 1978; Williams 1979; Simon 1981; McKenzie 1989).1 The critique of the internal colonialism model within Appalachian Studies has become increasingly sophisticated over the years. In their recently published essay, "Appalachian Studies, Resistance, and Postmodernism," Alan Banks, Dwight Billings, and Karen Tice (1993, 284-285) observe that a central theme in the cultural politics and literature of present-day Appalachia is the resolution of the internalized colonial struggle between a dominant mainstream and a subordinated periphery.2 They characterize Rodger Cunningham's Apples on the Flood as "a sophisticated and deeply probing application of the colonial model of Appalachia and an extended essay on the cultural and psychological consequences of peripheralization" (1993, 294). Seeking to recapture an authentic sense of identity by returning to an idealized homeplace to "heal the divided self," as Rodger Cunningham puts it in Apples On The Flood (1987, 171), and coming to terms with what Allen Batteau calls "double otherness" in The Invention of Appalachia (1990, 37) are not uniquely Appalachian experiences. Rather, it can be argued that the Appalachian identity movement and the field of Appalachian Studies itself, are local expressions of global trends which developed at the end of the twentieth century. These trends include the fragmentation and diversification accompanying the devolution of modern centrist states and colonial empires which have historically sought to superimpose metropolitan elite cultural standards upon their 152 • Journal of the Appalachian Studies Association • Volume Seven • 1995 �peripheral subjects and subordinates. The very notion of universal standards is under attack in the emergent postmodern world, not only in the academy but in everyday life. Support for this position can be found in David McCrone's Understanding Scotland: The Sociology of a Stateless Nation. McCrone constructs a theoretical framework to explain the Scottish struggle to preserve a sense of distinct identity despite centuries of English political and cultural dominance. He proposes that the Scottish experience provides a particularly British example of separatist and fragmentary movements spawned by the decay of nation-states, colonial empires, and other forms of central authority at the end of the twentieth century (McCrone 1992, 3). Much of what McCrone has to say about the contemporary Scottish neonationalist movement and its relationship to the revival and study of Scottish folklore, literature, and language directly applies to analogous developments in Appalachia during the same period. There are striking parallels between the politics of culture and identity in Scotland and Appalachia, but important differences as well. Appalachian identity is much more problematic and tenuous than Scottish identity: Appalachia never had a monarch, capital, or parliament. Few people designated as Appalachian, apart from regional activists and intellectuals, use that term to identify themselves; most think of themselves as Americans first, not Appalachians or southern mountaineers. By contrast, seven out often modern Scots think of themselves as Scottish rather than British (McCrone 1992, 198), and there are millions of nationals of other countries who consider themselves Scottish, even though their ancestors may have left Scotland generations ago. Though Scotland lost its political sovereignty following the Union of the Parliaments in 1707, it has preserved a high degree of civil and religious autonomy and experienced a continuous succession of cultural revitalization movements. For nearly three hundred years, Scots at home and abroad have asserted their distinctive communal identity through literature, language, and folk culture. The romantic reconstruction of Appalachian culture is a much more recent phenomenon, no more than 120 years old. Nonetheless, the similarities between the politics of culture in Scotland and Appalachia merit careful examination, especially in view of the postmodernist approach to Appalachian Studies advocated by Banks et al. McCrone describes his own approach to Scottish neonationalism as postmodern. McCrone's vision of postmodernism stems from his rejection of the classical rationalist premises upon which modernism is based: that scientific and industrial advancement inevitably lead to cultural and social homogeneity, and that universal cultural standards (including modes of discourse) are desirable or even sustainable (Banks, Billings, 1995 - Volume Seven • Journal of the Appalachian Studies Association • 153 �andTice 1993,291-292). Postmodernism is a fact of life for McCrone, not a theoretical construct. Multinational corporations and international political organizations are undercutting the sovereign powers of the classical nation-state; neonationalism, neoregionalism, religious neofundamentalism, neofascism, and a bewildering array of cultural, social, and sexual identity reformulation movements are confounding old line economic and social class determinists. Postmodern personal and cultural identities are plural and complex, varying from one social context to another. Counter-hegemonic movements, such as cultural revivals, are an inherent feature of postmodern life. Increasingly, cultural identities are voluntarily assumed rather than externally ascribed (Abrahams 1993). Competing languages and clashing styles are the postmodern norm; claims of cultural universality are increasingly suspect. The politics of postmodernism is basically the struggle of contending countercultures to invalidate what Rodger Cunningham, borrowing a phrase from Raymond Williams, calls "the internalized dominative mode" and authenticate themselves by redefining the terms of cultural discourse to suit their disparate desires (Cunningham 1989, 132). The Appalachian identity movement and Scottish neonationalism derive from comparable sources and have struggled with very similar questions. McCrone describes how neo-Marxist intellectuals in Scotland attempted to apply Immanuel Wallerstein's concepts of world capitalist systems to Scotland by classifying it as a periphery of the metropolitan English core, just as Appalachia was similarly characterized as an internal colony in the 1970s. McCrone summarizes a debate between Wallerstein and Scottish social historian T.C. Smout, who contends that Scotland was not peripheral to the British economy, but fully integrated within it, although undeniably politically subordinate. Dependency did not condemn Scotland to permanent poverty, says Smout, but enabled it to achieve a high degree of industrial productivity (McCrone 1992, 4249). McCrone challenges the portrayal of Scotland as an underdeveloped periphery, though it is definitely subordinate to the core of British political and economic power. McCrone also critiques Michael Hechter's Internal Colonialism: the Celtic Fringe in British National Development, 1536-1966 (1975), an attempt to apply Wallerstein's ideas to Britain. Basically, Hechter divides Britain into a metropolitan English core and a Celtic periphery: Scotland, Wales, and Ireland. Following Gramsci and Wallerstein, Hechter asserts that ethnic groups are socially and economically stratified, with the English maintaining hegemony over the subordinate groups. McCrone writes: Celtic nationalism is the political response to the persistence of 154 • Journal of the Appalachian Studies Association • Volume Seven • 1995 �regional inequality, and in particular to the process of anglicisation, especially in language and religion.. .. While diffusion models predict the demise of peripheral ethnicity, the internal colonial model is justified insofar as ethnicity has persisted and grown (1992, 59). Uneven development accounts for social and cultural distinctions between periphery and core (1992, 60). While McCrone feels that Hechter's model does not fit the historical facts of Scottish industrial development, he nonetheless stresses the attractiveness of the internal colonialism metaphor to Scottish, neo-Marxist, nationalist intellectuals. McCrone's own analysis of the relationship of Scotland's economy to that of the entire United Kingdom concludes that while the Scottish economy is not significantly distinct from the British mainstream, Scottish rejection of British hegemony is nonetheless definitely increasing (1992, 86-87). This conclusion creates serious problems for old line material determinists who view culture as peripheral to economic forces. Culturally speaking, Scotland has always been a complex society characterized by competing traditions and mythologies: 'There are, of course, competing versions of Scotland, using distinctions which have a mythological base. . . . At any point in history, some versions of Scotland win out over others" (McCrone 1992, 31). McCrone's discussion of Scottish cultural images and icons centers around the antipathy of Scottish neo-Marxist intellectuals, especially Tom Nairn (1977), to romantic, nostalgic, folksy, kitschy manifestations of Scottishness like tartanry and the Kailyard school of late nineteenth and early twentieth century local color popular literature. Scotland is supposedly a more open and upwardly mobile society than England (McCrone 1992, 89-92). This is reflected in the idealization of the Gaidhealtachd and the Kailyard: the "idyllised" folk communities of the Gaelic-speaking Highlands and Western Islands and the Anglophone Lowlands of Scotland, comparable to the supposedly egalitarian, self-sufficient Appalachian homestead of the preindustrial period. (Rhetorically, these imagined folk communities serve very similar functions; historically, it really doesn't matter if they never existed in pure form.) The Kailyard ("cabbage patch") school celebrates petit bourgeois values in an idealized rural setting. The success of the "lad of pairts," the Scottish equivalent of Horatio Alger's nineteenth century American "rags to riches" heroes, is a central motif in this literature, which mythologizes industrialization and urbanization while ostensibly celebrating rusticity. The underlying message is that Scots with get up and go literally got up and went, leaving their less energetic kinfolk at home to vegetate in the Kailyard. 1995 • Volume Seven • Journal of the Appalachian Studies Association • 155 �It would be instructive to compare these interpretations of the Scottish Kailyard genre with analyses of Appalachian local color literature, such as Allen Batteau's depiction in The Invention of Appalachia3 of the novels of John Fox, Jr. as parables of the sacrifice of nature for the sake of the advancement of civilization, and also Rodger Cunningham's "Signs of Civilization: The Trail of the Lonesome Pine as Colonial Narrative" (1990). The literature of the Kailyard school, engrossing though it may be, is much less visible to the world at large than bagpipes, kilts, and tartan. Tartan is so strongly associated with Scottishness in the popular imagination that it comes as a shock to learn that some modern Scots despise it as a symbol of Scottish complicity in British colonialism. Scottish neo-Marxists coined the derisive term "tartanry" to describe the complex of romantic cultural symbols that developed following the failure of the Jacobite Movement. Tom Nairn calls tartanry "the tartan monster" (McCrone 1992, 180-81). McCrone says: Tartanry was not a literary movement, but a set of garish symbols appropriated by Lowland Scotland at a safe distance from 1745, and turned into a music hall joke (Harry Lauder represented the fusion of both Tartanry and Kailyard—the jokes and mores from the latter, the wrapping from the former). . . . [T]artanry has come to stand for tourist knick-knackery, visits to Wembley, and the Edinburgh Tattoo. Oddly, no serious analysis of tartanry, the sets of symbols and images, has been carried out by Scottish intellectuals though there are a number of studies of the history of tartan (1992, 181). The subject of tartanry is so emotionally loaded for modern Scots that many scholars shy away from coming to terms with it. Tom Nairn's scorn for tartanry is palpable: 'Tartanry will not wither away, if only because it possesses the force of its own vulgarity—immunity from doubt and higher culture" (Nairn 1977, 165). Nairn views tartanry and the Kailyard school of literature from an orthodox Marxist perspective as forms of false consciousness: Scottish culture is schizophrenic; its low culture a bastard product, partly indigenous and partly maintained by British imperial mechanisms (the Scottish soldier is the obvious example). This sense of separation, of fragmentation runs through much intellectual analysis of Scotland (1977, 184). Compare Nairn's statement with Batteau's assertion that "Appalachia represents the convergence of two traditions, each of which contains its own contradiction" (Batteau 1990, 27), and one finds very similar philosophical premises underlying their interpretations of cultural 156 • Journal of the Appalachian Studies Association • Volume Seven * 1995 �expressions of romantic subnationalism such as tartanry and folkloric revivals. Nairn and Batteau reveal intense antipathy to folklore scholarship and folk revivalism, which they consider to be forms of romanticism promoting false consciousness. Though much gentler in tone than Nairn or his American counterpart Batteau, McCrone is nonetheless critical of the modern folk revival in Scotland. Scholars and amateur proponents of Scottish folklore, language, and literature have been primarily concerned with selectively preserving the cultural legacy of an idealized past while overlooking contemporary political, economic, and social realities: "The task was too readily defined as one of conservation rather than development, of protecting the legacy of the past rather than planning the future" (McCrone 1992, 4). Appalachian Studies is similarly divided (Miller 1982; Fine and Speer 1983). Some Scottish intellectuals have detected an element of self-hatred in folklore-bashing and the debunking of Scottish romantic nationalist symbology. Beveridge and Turnbull, in The Eclipse of Scottish Culture: Inferiorism and the Intellectuals, accuse Nairn of "a deep aversion to everything native and local" (1989, 59). Allegedly, Nairn has absorbed "metropolitan" (i.e., elite Anglo-British) values and has sacrificed nationalism for the supposedly higher goal of socialism. McCrone believes that pure, isolated national cultures and identities don't exist in the postmodern world: More radically, we might suggest that the search for a single carrier of national identity is doomed to ignore the pluralism and complexity of identity in the late twentieth century. The search for such a single identity in contemporary nationalism seems increasingly time-bound and anachronistic (1992, 191). Nonetheless, the myth of the pure, primordial folk culture is a central feature of romantic nationalism in the past and present: "Lying behind the deformed image is a sense of her 'golden age,' pre-independence, when society and the state were one" (McCrone 1992, 192). This statement evokes the French phenomenologist Gaston Bachelard's archetypal images of infantile reverie and the Dream House (the home of the primordial commune) explored by Parks Lanier, Jr. and other critics of modern Appalachian literature in The Poetics of Appalachian Space (Lanier 1991). Representations of the primeval Golden Age are found in the mythologies of all revival movements. The rhetorical function of the Golden Age motif is to stand in opposition to the unsatisfying present (Chapman 1992; Williams 1958). Like Jim Wayne Miller and Gurney Norman in Appalachia, McCrone believes that individuals as well as societies can be multicultural (1992, 194). "British" and "Scottish" identities are not necessarily mutually 1995 • Volume Seven • Journal of the Appalachian Studies Association • 157 �exclusive, no more than "American" and "Appalachian." In the postmodern world, multiple cultures and plural identities are normal. To support this assertion, McCrone cites a student of contemporary Scottish literature, Cairns Craig, who observes: The fragmentation and division which made Scotland seem abnormal to an earlier part of the 20th century came to be the norm for most of the world's population. Bilingualism, biculturalism, and the inheritance of a diversity of fragmented traditions were to be the source of creativity rather than its inhibition in the second half of the 20th [century], and Scotland ceased to measure itself against the false norms, psychological as well as cultural, of the unified national tradition (McCrone 1992, 194). Ultimately, McCrone believes that debunkers like Nairn and Batteau are missing the point about cultural politics in the postmodern world when they try to expose the presumed historical falsity of tartan and similar icons of national, ethnic, and regional identity. McCrone states: "national myths survive because they function to make sense of the present rather than the past. . . . What we see are new versions of Scottishness emerging, with different political and cultural resonances" (1992, 199-201). "Ethnicity did not wither but revived as a source of identity to meet new emergent needs. . . ," he says. "The resurgence of local or ethnic nationalisms came to be seen not as in direct contradiction to increasing globalisation of economic, political and cultural power but as part of the process itself" (1992, 10). Like Appalachia, "Scotland has what we might call a rich myth-history, which is often at odds with 'history' proper" (1992, 10). Scots have constructed countermythologies, some which, like the famous case of MacPherson's Ossian, have been exposed as forgeries. Neal Ascherson, in "The Religion of Nationalism," says: We talk easily about the forging of a nation, but forgery has played a real part in the foundation and revival of many nations. In Scotland we should know that better than most. Ossian was a forgery, but the emotions about nations and history roused by James MacPherson's pastiche of genuine Gaelic myth cycles was real enough. Finland's national epic, the 'Kalevala' emerged rather later, but doesn't bear close inspection either (1988, 61). In the final analysis, McCrone's pragmatic understanding of the fabrication of cultural identity symbols agrees with the American folklorist Alan Dundes' conclusion in the chapter titled 'The Fabrication of Fakelore" in Folklore Matters (1988) that folklorists cannot prevent the folk from believing that fakelore is folklore. 4 Understanding Scotland offers a corrective to the rigidly anti-romantic stance assumed by Allen 158 • Journal of the Appalachian Studies Association • Volume Seven • 1995 �Batteau in his review essay, "An Agenda for Irrelevance: Malcolm Chapman's The Gaelic Vision in Scottish Culture," in which he urges the Appalachian Studies community to read Chapman's study of Celtic romantic nationalism in Scotland, even though it doesn't contain a word about Appalachia in particular: It ought to be read for its warnings against the traps involved in such romantic constructions as the True Highlanders (or the True Appalachians), and its discussion of the intellectual dishonesty and political irresponsibility involved in nostalgia for a past that never existed (Batteau 1981, 212). In postmodernist terms, Batteau's efforts to explode romantic myths that presumably obscure historical truths can be classified as essentialism, "the tendency to treat historical and social constructions as fixed, natural, and absolute" (Banks, Billings, and Tice 1993, 292). This also defines ethnocentrism, the antithesis of the inherently pluralistic anthropological concept of cultural relativism. Trained as a cultural anthropologist, Batteau ought to know that symbols mean what people need them to mean, in Scotland, Appalachia, or anywhere else in the world, and that complex societies have conflicting countercultures and clashing countermythologies. As McCrone says, a community is ultimately a symbolic construct: "it does not reside in geographical or even social territory so much as in people's minds" (1992, 32). The emotional investments people make in myths and other cultural identity symbols, not antiquity or pedigree, give them power to bind communities together and distinguish them from other communities. Traditions are not simply passed along from generation to generation, they also evolve to satisfy changing needs and desires. As McCrone puts it: Traditions may be invented; symbols of national identity are manufactured. Perhaps there is a suggestion in the word 'invented' that myths and traditions are fabricated; what seems to happen is that the cultural raw materials are refashioned in a manner that gives coherence and meaning to action. The task is not to debunk these inventions, but to show how and why they are put to such telling use (1992, 3). The pragmatic approach to the politics of postmodern culture and identity presented in McCrone's Understanding Scotland can provide Appalachianists with an agenda for relevance that goes beyond debunking and folklore-bashing, as well as enlivening discourse concerning the "Celtic Question" on both sides of the Atlantic. (The support for my research during the summers of 1993 and 1994 as CASS Senior Research Fellow by the Center for Appalachian Studies and Services at East Tennessee State University is gratefully acknowledged and deeply appreci- 1995 • Volume Seven • Journal of the Appalachian Studies Association • 159 �ated. Special thanks to Elizabeth Pine for her cogent editorial comments and suggestions. I also want to express appreciation for the helpful comments following the presentation of the first draft of this paper at the 1994 Appalachian Studies Conference by Pauline Cheek, Cecelia Conway, Rodger Cunningham, Archie Green, Jack Higgs, Michael Montgomery, Marie Tedesco, and John Alexander Williams. Thanks also to my colleagues at ETSU—Lon Pelker, Paul Kamolnick, and Niall Shanks—for taking time to read and critique earlier drafts of this paper. The author takes full responsibility for any factual errors or stylistic flaws remaining in this paper.) Notes 'John Alexander Williams says: "The main problem with the internal colonialism model is not its misuse but its relative inutility. We may be guilty of stretching some of the analogies to compare the region with colonies dominated by another country,' admits Lewis. 'A very real difference is the ability of the dominated country to eventually throw the invaders out.' Precisely. Appalachia has no prospect of independence, either in fantasy or in fact. Why then cast the analysis of its grievances in what are essentially nationalistic terms?" (1979, 158-159). Roberta McKenzie traces the history of the influence of Antonio Gramsci's regionalist neo-Marxism, Immanuel Wallerstein's world systems theory, and the anti-colonialism of Frantz Fanon on Appalachian intellectuals in the 1970s (1989). 2 See Cunningham 1987, also 1989. Accardo (1984) outlines the resolution of the internalized crisis of conflicting identities experienced by hillbilly/hippy David Ray "Divine Right" Davenport: "His mind was very neatly divided in two. Half of it was clear and half of it was muddy, but it was hard to keep up with which side was which because both sides claimed to be clear, and each denied that it was muddy" (Norman 1971, 78). 3 The theme of civilizing the Appalachian wilderness is metaphorically expressed in sexual terms in Batteau's analysis (1990, 64-69) of John Fox, Jr.'s first published Appalachian story "Mountain Europa" in which an educated urban gentleman courts and transforms a mountain maiden who embodies nature and wildness. Batteau's analysis can be visualized in the following table of bi-polar oppositions: as male civilization modernity industry lowlands order is to is to female wilderness backwardness self-sufficient agriculture mountain chaos Some intriguing phallic/serpentine imagery rears its neo-Freudian head in Batteau's reading of The Trail of the Lonesome Pine (1990, 70-74). Hero Jack Hale drags "the ancestral chain" across the mountains, sheds the "snake skin" of civilization and recovers his primordial (Anglo-Saxon) vitality (1990, 70). Hale 160 • Journal of the Appalachian Studies Association • Volume Seven • 1995 �fails in business, goes native, and marries June Tolliver, a light-skinned "dusky maiden" (1990, 71). According to Batteau, Appalachia is an arrested civilization, "... a representation of the chaos and disorder on the periphery of commercial and industrial expansion" (1990, 72). 4 For a highly relevant discussion of the "invention" of cultural traditions and romantic nationalism comparing Ossian and the "Kalevala" see Alan Dundes (1988). Works Cited Abrahams, Roger. 1993. "Phantoms of Romantic Nationalism in Folkloristics." Journal of American Folklore 106 (419): 3-37. Accardo, Annalucia. 1984. "Divine Right's Trip: A Polk Tale or a Postmodern Novel?" Appalachian Journal 12 (1): 38-43. Ascherson, Neal. 1988. "The Religion of Nationalism." The (London) Observer 4 December: 61. Banks, Alan, Dwight Billings, and Karen Tice. 1993. "Appalachian Studies, Resistance, and Postmodernism." In Fighting Back in Appalachia: Traditions of Resistance and Change, ed. Stephen L. Fisher. Philadelphia: Temple University Press. Batteau, Allen W. 1981. "An Agenda for Irrelevance: Malcolm Chapman's The Gaelic Vision in Scottish Culture : A Review Essay." Appalachian Journal 8 (3): 212-216. ——. 1990. The Invention of Appalachia. Tucson: The University of Arizona Press. Beveridge, C., and C. Turnbull. 1989. The Eclipse of Scottish Culture: Inferiorism and the Intellectuals. Edinburgh: Polygon. Chapman, Malcolm. 1978. The Gaelic Vision in Scottish Culture. London: Groom Helm and McGill-Queens University. —— 1992. . The Celts: The Making of a Myth. London: Routledge. Cunningham, Rodger. 1987. Apples On The Flood. Knoxville: University of Tennessee Press. —— . 1989. "Appalachianism and Orientalism: Reflections on Reading Edward Said." Journal of the Appalachian Studies Association 1:125-32. — . 1990. "Signs of Civilization: The Trail of the Lonesome Pine as Colonial Narrative." Journal of the Appalachian Studies Association 2:21-46. 1995 • Volume Seven • Journal of the Appalachian Studies Association • 161 �Dundes, Alan. 1988. Folklore Matters. Knoxville: The University of Tennessee Press. Fine, Elizabeth, and Jean Haskell Speer. 1983. "Beyond The Quaint and Curious." In The Appalachian Experience: Proceedings of the 6th Annual Appalachian Studies Conference, ed. Barry Buxton. Boone, N.C.: Appalachian Consortium Press. Hechter, Michael. 1975. Internal Colonialism: the Celtic Fringe in British National Development, 1536-1966. London: Routledge and Kegan Paul. Lanier, Parks, Jr., ed. 1991. The Poetics of Appalachian Space. Knoxville: The University of Tennessee Press. Lewis, Helen Mathews, Linda Johnson, and Donald Askins. 1978. Colonialism in Modern America: The Appalachian Case. Boone, N.C.: The Appalachian Consortium Press. McCrone, David. 1992. Understanding Scotland: The Sociology of a Stateless Nation. London and New York: Routledge. McKenzie, Roberta. 1989. "Appalachian Culture as Reaction to Uneven Development: A World Systems Approach to Regionalism." Journal of the Appalachian Studies Association 1:93-104. Miller, Jim Wayne. "Appalachian Studies Hard and Soft: The Action People and the Creative Polk." Appalachian Journal 9 (2-3): 105-14. Nairn, Tom. 1977. The Break-Up Of Britain. London: Verso. Norman, Gurney. 1971. "Divine Right's Trip." In The Last Whole Earth Catalog, ed. Stewart Brand. Santa Cruz: Portolo Institute. Simon, Richard M. 1981. "Uneven Development and the Case of West Virginia: Going Beyond The Colonialism Model." Appalachian Journal 8 (3): 165-86. Williams, John Alexander. 1979. "Appalachia as Colony and as Periphery: A Review Essay." Appalachian Journal 6 (2): 157-61. Williams, Raymond. 1958. Culture and Society, 1780-1950. London: Chatto & Windus. Richard Blaustein earned his Ph.D in folklore from Indiana University in 1975. He is professor of sociology and anthropology and senior research fellow of the Center for Appalachian Studies and Services at East Tennessee State University. He served as director of the center from 1983 to 1992. 162 • Journal of the Appalachian Studies Association • Volume Seven • 1995 �Journal of the Appalachian Studies Association Back Issues Order Form Qty. Issue Price Total Journal of the Appalachian Studies Association Volume 7, 1995, "Appalachia and the Politics of Culture" Volume 6, 1994, "Appalachian Adaptations to a Changing World" $8.00 $8.00 Volume 5, 1993, "Diversity in Appalachia: Images and Realities" $8.00 Volume 4, 1992, "Environmental Voices: Cultural, Social, Physical, and Natural" $8.00 Volume 3, 1991, "Southern Appalachia and the South: A Region Within a Region" $8.00 Volume 2, 1990, "Transformation of Life and Labor in Appalachia" $8.00 Volume 1, 1989, "Mountains of Experience" $8.00 Proceedings of the Appalachian Studies Conference (10) "Remembrance, Reunion, Revival" $8.00 (9) "Contemporary Appalachia" $8.00 (8) "The Impact of Institutions in Appalachia" Out of Stock (7) "The Many Faces of Appalachia" $8.00 (6) "The Appalachian Experience" $8.00 (5) "The Critical Essavs" $8.00 Subtotal $ Handling and Shipping Total Enclosed $2.50 $ Name Address Phone Detach, fold, and staple this form and mail to: Appalachian Studies Association Regional Research Institute PO Box 6825 West Virginia University Morgantown WV 20506-6825 In 1995 The Journal of Appalachian Studies became the official journal of the Appalachian Studies Association superceding the JASA. 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Title A name given to the resource Appalachia and the Politics of Culture - Volume Seven Description An account of the resource This volume of the <em>Journal of the Appalachian Studies Association</em> includes fifteen essays that represent the interdisciplinary nature of Appalachian Studies and the broad range of interests within the Appalachian Studies Association. They also represent a maturing of the field that is engaging itself in a critique not only of the political forces affecting the region, but of its own role as political and cultural agent in the 20th century.<br /><br /><a href="https://drive.google.com/open?id=1lCeb3UMMd6dih6pO-cqx4u7elT0cLCAR" target="_blank">Download EPub<br /><br /></a><a title="UNC Press Link" href="https://www.uncpress.org/book/9781469636931/journal-of-the-appalachian-studies-association/" target="_blank">UNC Press Print on Demand</a> Subject The topic of the resource Politics and culture--Appalachian Region Appalachian Region--Social conditions Popular culture--Appalachian Region Appalachian Region--History Appalachian Region--Social life and customs Alternative Title An alternative name for the resource. The distinction between titles and alternative titles is application-specific. Journal of the Appalachian Studies Association Creator An entity primarily responsible for making the resource Fine, Elizabeth C. Date A point or period of time associated with an event in the lifecycle of the resource 1995 Language A language of the resource English Publisher An entity responsible for making the resource available Appalachian Consortium Press Coverage The spatial or temporal topic of the resource, the spatial applicability of the resource, or the jurisdiction under which the resource is relevant Appalachia Format The file format, physical medium, or dimensions of the resource PDF Periodicals Type The nature or genre of the resource Text Rights Information about rights held in and over the resource <a href="https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by/4.0/deed" target="_blank">https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by/4.0/deed</a> Spatial Coverage Spatial characteristics of the resource. https://www.geonames.org/12212302/appalachia.html Source A related resource from which the described resource is derived <a title="UA 76 Appalachian Consortium records" href="https://appstate-speccoll.lyrasistechnology.org/repositories/2/resources/9" target="_blank" rel="noreferrer noopener"> UA 76 Appalachian Consortium records </a> Is Part Of A related resource in which the described resource is physically or logically included. <a title="Appalachian Consortium Press Publications" href="https://omeka.library.appstate.edu/collections/show/82" target="_blank"> Appalachian Consortium Press Publications</a> Temporal Coverage Temporal characteristics of the resource. 1990s Multidisciplinary/ Appalachian Studies https://omeka-test.library.appstate.edu/files/original/807076cdcb62a5832352bc7cd23829f1.pdf 95ea462ea42d02a0742b1de5ecdff62c PDF Text Text �Appalachia/America �The Appalachian Consortium was a non-profit educational organization composed of institutions and agencies located in Southern Appalachia. From 1973 to 2004, its members published pioneering works in Appalachian studies documenting the history and cultural heritage of the region. The Appalachian Consortium Press was the first publisher devoted solely to the region and many of the works it published remain seminal in the field to this day. With funding from the Andrew W. Mellon Foundation and the National Endowment for the Humanities through the Humanities Open Book Program, Appalachian State University has published new paperback and open access digital editions of works from the Appalachian Consortium Press. www.collections.library.appstate.edu/appconsortiumbooks This work is licensed under a Creative Commons BY-NC-ND license. To view a copy of the license, visit http://creativecommons.org/licenses. Original copyright © 1981 by the Appalachian Consortium Press. ISBN (pbk.: alk. Paper): 978-1-4696-3690-0 ISBN (ebook): 978-1-4696-3692-4 Distributed by the University of North Carolina Press www.uncpress.org �TABLE OF CONTENTS Introduction, Wilson Somerville I II. III IV V Appalachia: Labor and the Economy The Wheeling Convention of the Miners for Democracy: A case Study of Union Reform Politics in Appalachia, George W. Hopkins The Roles of Transnational Corporations and the Migration of Industries in Latin America and Appalachia, Helen M. Lewis and Myles Horton Appalachia and the Third World: Eco-Development as an Alternative in the New Economic Order, Gene Wilhelm, Jr. The Economy of West Virginia and the Oppression/Liberation of Women, Rick Simon and Betty Justice Land in Appalachia Where American History Began: Appalachia and the Small Independent Family Farm, John Opie Losing a Bit of Ourselves: The Decline of the Small Farmer, Stephen L. Fisher and Mary Harnish Comparative Regional Issues: Land Use and Environmental Planning in the Adirondacks and the Appalachians, Peter G. Marden et al. Community Development Perspectives of Ohio Appalachians: A Regional Study, Ted L. Napier and Elizabeth G. Bryant The Experience of Urban Appalachians Appalachian Youth in Cultural Transition, Clyde B. McCoy and Virginia McCoy Watkins The Impact of Urban Housing Programs in Appalachian Neighborhoods, gary L. Fowler Elderly Appalachians in Cities: A Case Study of Cincinnati, David P. Varady Education in Appalachia Innovative Approaches to Vocational-Technical Education in North Central Pennsylvania, Robert A. Rusiewski Cora Wilson Stewart and the "Moonlight School" Movement, James M. Gifford Untying Some Knots in Knott County: Two Educational Experiments in eastern Kentucky, William Terrell Cornett Values and Culture in Appalachia Poetry at the Periphery: The Possibility of People's Culture in Appalachia, P.J. Laska Alther and Dillard: The Appalachian Universe, Frederick O. Waage Women Folk Healers of Appalachia, Karen Shelley and Raymond Evans Religious Language and Collective Action: A Study of Voluntarism in a Rural Appalachian Church, Michael V. Carter Goals for the Collection and Use of Appalachian Oral Materials in the 1980s, James Robert Reese 1 6 22 34 44 58 68 89 99 114 126 139 158 169 179 190 200 209 218 230 �VI Abstracts Mary Breckenridge and the Frontier Nursing Service: The Appalachian Rural Experience, Carol Crowe-Carraco The Blue Ridge Parkway: A Unique Part of Rural America, Granville B. Liles A Heritage of Regional Landscapes: Appalachian Baptistry Paintings, Jack Welch Bringing Sister Home: The Fight For Job Equity in Appalachia, Leslie Lilly Multiculturalism in Southern Appalachian Schools: A Diagnosis and Attempted Prescription, David N. Mielke Appalachian Youths in the Juvenile Justice System: Clues in the Search for a Distinct Culture, Phillip Obermiller and Dan McKee Problems of Urban Appalachian Youth in Cincinnati, Larry J. Redden Struggling to Stay Together: Black and White Miners in West Virginia and Alabama, 1880-1910, Richard Straw The Assimilation of Appalachian Migrants, Frank J. Traina The Cultural Context of Philosophic Criticism, Frans van der Bogert; Some Special Problems of Teaching Introductory Philosophy and the Occasional Essential Relevance of Appalachian Studies for Teaching Philosophy, H. Phillips Hamlin; Academic Philosophy and Appalachian Culture, Richard A. Humphrey; Teaching Philosophy in Appalachia: An Existentialsist Approach, Gary Acquaviva. Film Reviews: "They Shall Take Up Serpents," "Gandy Dancers," and "Buna and Bertha" 238 239 240 241 241 242 243 243 244 245 247 �Introduction The third annual Appalachian Studies Conference was held March 21-23, 1980, on the grounds of East Tennessee State University in Johnson City, Tennessee. Sponsors, along with the host institution, were the Appalachian Consortium, Inc., and the Appalachian Studies Conference. Scholars, teachers, and regional activists began the Appalachian Studies Conference in 1977 in the belief that "shared community has been and will continue to be important for those writing, researching, and teaching about things Appalachian." To this end, the organization held its first meeting at Berea College in Berea, Kentucky, in 1978 and its second at Jackson's Mill, West Virginia, in 1979, under the sponsorship of Davis and Elkins College. The ongoing efforts of conference planners have made this annual event an important opportunity for interested citizens of varying occupations and disciplines to exchange information and ideas on regional issues. As a beginning to the 1980 conference, the Appalachian Consortium Press held an open house in the Down Home Pickin' Parlor in Johnson City to honor Jim Wayne Miller and the publication of his new book of poetry, The Mountains Have Come Closer. Miller read selections from his book which deals with a mountain man, the Brier, who comes to the realization that he is thoroughly disoriented by contemporary culture. The poems describe how the Brier, by taking a fresh look at his heritage, works past the vapid, throwaway clutter of mainstream America to a new affirmation of himself. This reading fittingly evoked the aim of the conference, which was to encourage a new look at the region in a national and international context. The conference title, "Appalachia/America," raised the question of the uniqueness of the "Appalachian experience." To what extent could Appalachia be viewed as a microcosm of America and the world, mirroring the problems and potential of a global community? Behind this purpose and the line of questioning which evolved from it, lay the continuing concern in Appalachia over regional autonomy. Self-determination for communities and individuals was the bedrock issue in the reading of papers and in the special events of the conference. Alternative methods of achieving such self-determination were evaluated in the light of national and global events. While this publication exists to record the contribution of authors to this dialogue, some mention should be made of conference events, other than the presentation of papers, that, likewise, drew attention to major issues in Appalachia. The following brief overview of these special events indicates the diverse ways in which this meeting promoted the examination of regional concerns in a larger context. Darrell V. McGraw, Jr., Justice of the West Virginia Supreme Court of Appeals, spoke on the topic of "Appalachia: Resources and People." He depicted the influence that non-indigenous people have upon West Virginia government and observed that many top level officials in the state are trained outside the area to serve national economic interests with no commitment to the needs of the region. McGraw felt that the West Virginia picture was not entirely dismal, but that Appalachians need to decide whether they prefer "distant, absentee corporate ownership and direction or fundamental economic change that gives people a right to participate in decisions which affect regional development and lifestyles." In another speech, Robert J. Higgs, professor of English at East Tennessee State University, lamented the state of contemporary American humor, which he found to be mostly insipid and sentimental. He maintained that a culture 1 �that is alive and well is always in tension — a tension which exists at the archetypal level between the Hero and the Natural. However, Higgs sees no one capable of playing the natural today: "We are afraid to speak out on anything. We need fools in Congress again," fools whose wit has traditionally been a curb to the powerful. Higgs's antidote to the current crisis was the example of Appalachia's own "last of the naturals," Sut Lovingood, the creation of Tennessee humorist George Washington Harris. Drama, presented by the Road Company of Johnson City, raised questions about Western man's ability to come to grips with his own inventions. The play by Jo Carson, entitled "Horsepower: An Electric Fable," chronicles the changes brought about in an Appalachian family by technological advances. The action takes on mythic overtones when the son, Isaac, tears through the fabric boundary of this dream world in pursuit of a symbolic horse. This act designates his personal culpability in a society where the pursuit of power and its benefits separates man from his own internal resources. This show came together after months of public workshops and private conversations in which hundreds of people shared their perceptions of the current energy situation. The Appalachian Regional Commission and the Tennessee Arts Commission subsidized the conference performance. In another event, the Six State Land Ownership Task Force, which also received funding from the Appalachian Regional Commission, gave a preliminary report on its survey of ownership and taxation patterns in more than eighty counties of Alabama, Kentucky, Tennessee, Virginia, North Carolina, and West Virginia. The researchers, trained at the Highlander Center in New Market, Tennessee, with help from Appalachian State University's Center for Appalachian Studies, have been compiling data on those land and tax patterns that apply, in particular, to large corporate and absentee landowners. In twenty counties, case studies will correlate these patterns with the migration of industry, the availability of land for housing, the ability of the tax base to support needed schools and services, and the viability of small farms to remain in operation. Hence, this survey will provide essential facts to community groups that are struggling to assert themselves in determining the allocation and use of resources within the region. In short, these findings will give extra underpinning to the argument for local initiative, as put forward by Judge McGraw in his speech. Beyond its application within Appalachia, the final report will offer other regional groups a basis for conducting similar studies. In their conference remarks, task force members expressed concern about the problem of poorly kept records in some Appalachian counties and emphasized the need to make land ownership information more accessible and to maintain it more accurately. Other special features at this conference included two new film documentaries by Appalshop, Inc., a regional educational media center located in Whitesburg, Kentucky. The first, called "Oaksie," portrayed basketmaker, fiddler, and harp player Oaksie Caudill from Cowan Creek, Letcher County, Kentucky. The other film, "Strip Mining: Energy, Environment, and Economics," measured the social, environmental, and economic costs of a highly visible and controversial type of mining, which accounts for over 50 percent of the coal produced in Appalachia. In addition, the Roadside Theater, a touring group and part of Appalshop, Inc., entertained conference participants with their skillful and uproarious renditions of jack tales. The Institute for Appalachian Affairs at East Tennessee State University, in conjunction with Appalachian Community Arts, held a workshop on "Art as Community Expression," with music, storytelling, a slide presentation, a photographic display, and general discussion on the importance of art as a community development 2 �tool. Rounding out this exploration of Appalachian culture were a display of books and magazines from regional presses and educational groups, a quilting demonstration by members of the Clinchfield Senior Adult Center of Erwin, Tennessee, an exhibition of Appalachian quilts and crafts, and a photographic portrayal of "The Appalachian Farm at the Turn of the Century," assembled by the Archives of Appalachia and the B. Carroll Reece Museum of East Tennessee University. As for the proceedings which constitute this volume, thirty-two authors read their papers in sessions that touched on virtually every aspect of the Appalachian experience. For the purposes of publication, their articles have been grouped into broader categories than those used in the conference format, with an abstract serving as an introduction to each one. The section headings highlight five major issues in Appalachia: labor, land, urban life, education, and culture (from folk to literary). A final section of this volume includes abstracts of papers which were not published, along with a review of a threepart film session. An editorial decision was made not to publish papers that had appeared previously. Three articles were not published for this reason, and abstracts for them appear in the final section, as well. They are as follows: Carol CroweCarraco, "Mary Breckenridge and the Frontier Nursing Service: The Appalachian Rural Experience," published in slightly different form in The Register of the Kentucky Historical Society 76 (July 1978): 179-91; Granville B. Liles, "The Blue Ridge Parkway: A Unique Part of Rural America," printed as a booklet by the Appalachian Consortium Press, Boone, North Carolina, 1980; and Jack Welch, "A Heritage of Regional Landscapes: Appalachian Baptistry Paintings," Goldenseal 6 (April - June 1980): 40-46. P. J. Laska's article was accepted for publication prior to its appearance in another journal, and, therefore, is included in this volume with acknowledgment to the West Virginia Art News and Hyperion for permission to reprint it here. Thanks are due to many people for work on the conference and the publication of the conference proceedings, but they are first and most gladly given to Martha McKinney, program coordinator, and Richard Kesner, head of local arrangements and member of the program committee. Both were instrumental in organizing the conference and were encouraging and helpful at every stage in the production of this volume. Others who played an essential role in planning the conference were officers Joan Moser, chairperson; Anne Campbell, secretary/newsletter editor Polly Cheek, treasurer/membership secretary; and program committee members Jane Horton, Gordon McKinney, Milton Ready, Carl Ross, Linda Scott, and Rose Mary Tennant. The publication of these proceedings was made possible through the financial assistance of the Appalachian Regional Commission. Dennis Pelletier created the graphic design for the cover, Gail Powell and Pat Fitzpatrick worked swiftly to turn out clean, typed copy, and Rosemary Barson gave special care to the layout and printing of this volume. The various authors deserve major acknowledgment for their contributions and cooperation during the editing process. Finally, some recognition, however inadequately it may be noted here, belongs to all those who attended the conference and who contributed to this inquiry by their interest. Wilson Somerville Editor 3 �This page intentionally left blank �I. Appalachia: Labor and the Economy �THE WHEELING CONVENTION OF THE MINERS FOR DEMOCRACY: A CASE STUDY OF UNION REFORM POLITICS IN APPALACHIA George W. Hopkins Abstract After the murder of insurgent leader Joseph "Jock" Yablonski in late 1969, the reform movement within the United Mine Workers of America continued its struggle to oust the administration of Tony Boyle. When federal courts finally cleared the way for a new election in May 1972, the dissidents quickly organized a convention in Wheeling, W. Va. This paper will focus on the efforts of union reformers at the convention to reconcile enthnic tensions and divergent policy interests within the rebel movement. Not until the Wheeling convention did the various reform groups in the union unite under the banner of Miners For Democracy and merge their strength. Because of the pragmatic politicking at the convention, the insurgent coalition was able to present a united front against Boyle and the loyalist faction. After a bitter campaign, the MFD slate won the Labor Department-supervised election in December 1972. The legacy of John L. Lewis dominated the United Mine Workers of America (UMWA)—and much of Appalachia-after the union chief's retirement in 1960. While Lewis had helped build the CIO in the 1930s, and had won a Welfare and Retirement Fund for the miners in the late 1940s, he had stabilized the coal industry in the 1950s by sacrificing the jobs of three fourths of his soft-coal miners to automation. This decision allowed the industry to meet the threat posed by alternative fuels; however, it also forced many miners in southern Appalachia to work in small, unsafe, non-union mines or remain unemployed. While Lewis may have hoped that other industries in Appalachia would absorb his discarded miners, the union patriarch did little to help them through job retraining or relocation programs. During the 1950s, as his sensitivity to rank-and-file concerns further dimmed, Lewis endorsed the tightening of Welfare and Retirement Fund eligibility rules, thus denying benefit and pension payments to many miners and their dependents. Lewis was able to make these ecisions and enforce them without significant internal opposition because of s dictatorial control over the union.' When Lewis's chief administrative assistant, W. A. "Tony" Boyle assumed the UMWA presidency in 1963, he ran the union even more autocratically. Boyle tried to stifle and then, failing that, to co-opt the "black lung" rebellion of miners in the southern coalfields in 1968. Meanwhile, dissatisfaction grew in the northern coalfields. Retired anthracite miners in eastern Pennsylvania despaired over their thirty-dollar-a-month pensions, little more than a quarter of what bituminous pensioners received. Many working miners in the northern fields resented their district officials, most of whom were appointed by Boyle instead of being elected by the men in the pits. By 1969, the UMWA leadership had become so bureaucratized and unresponsive to its members that the Boyle administration met the electoral challenge of insurgent leader Joseph "Jock" Yablonski with blatant intimidation of his supporters and vote fraud on election day. While Boyle claimed victory, Yablonski refused to concede, declaring that the contest had been "the most dishonest election in the history of the American labor movement." He pledged to file suit in federal court under the Landrum-Griffin Act to have the election over turned because of the 6 �numerous irregularities at the polls. Three weeks later, hired assassins murdered Jock Yablonski, his wife, and daughter. But the rebels vowed to continue the struggle to oust Boyle and clean up the union. 2 However, the reformers faced several problems, the foremost being their own internal divisions. Yablonski's campaign had temporarily brought together northern and southern miners opposed to Boyle and various policies of the union and its Fund. With the fiery, charismatic Yablonski dead and his running mate, Elmer Brown, unable to fill the void, the two wings of the reform movement drifted apart. Rebel miners in the northern coalfields-western Pennsylvania, southern Ohio, and northern West Virginia-were mainly of eastern European extraction and were primarily concerned with moralistic/abstract goals such as union democracy and an end to corruption in union affairs. Dissident miners in the southern coalfields-southern West Virginia, southern Virginia, Kentucky, Tennessee, and Alabama-were generally of Anglo-Saxon and Afro-American origin and were primarily interested in practical benefits such as compensation for "black lung" and pensions for disabled miners and their widows. A majority of miners lived in the southern coalfields. Several organizations emerged in the coalfields which reflected these diverse interests and constituencies. In the northern coalfields, Miners For Democracy (MFD) began as a loosely organized internal union reform group in April, 1970, after a series of meetings which had begun at Yablonski's funeral. Mike Trbovich, Yablonski's national campaign manager in 1969 and long-time personal friend, became chairman of the group. During the next two years, MFD would run a slate of candidates in the District 5 (Pittsburgh area) election, keep alive the issues of the 1969 campaign, and work with attorneys Joseph Rauh and Chip Yalbonski (Jock's son) in filing suit to overturn the election. MFD leaders also testified before Congressional committees about fraud and intimidation during the 1969 election and the 1970 District 5 election as well as commenting on various health and safety bills before Congress.3 In the southern coalfields, three different organizations fought for rankand-file interests. The Association of Disabled Miners and Widows, Inc., had filed a class action suit against the UMW Welfare and Retirement Fund in 1969 on behalf of all union miners and their dependents who had been unjustly denied hospital and disability benefits as well as pensions. While this group waited for its legalistic strategy to work, a more militant organization, the Disabled Miners and Widows of southern West Virginia, led by black miner Robert Payne, used direct action tactics against the union. In the summer of 1970, Payne and his group led a strike against the union, shutting down mines in the southern fields by picketing, in an unsuccessful effort to win benefits and pensions from the UMWA Fund. Meanwhile, the Black Lung Association (BLA) became the dominant insurgent group in the southern coalfields. Arnold Miller became the chief spokesman for the group. The BLA built a grassroots network of independent chapters throughout southern Appalachia. Working with sympathetic lawyers and social workers, BLA organizers trained miners and their wives and widows about the regulations and procedures involved in the federal black lung, workmen's compensation, social security disability and union pension programs. These people then assisted others in filing claims. BLA members helped guide their constituency through the maze of union, state, and federal bureaucracies.4 All of these groups considered themselves part of the UMWA reform movement, but they found it hard to work together in practical terms. Northern rebels (except in the eastern Pennsylvania anthracite region) tended to be active, working miners while southern dissidents tended to be retired and/or 7 �disabled miners and their wives/widows. Leadership and personality problems complicated the internal politics of the reform movement as well. After two years of education and agitation, the reformers still had no realistic chance of overthrowing Boyle from within. But in May, 1972, a federal judge finally voided the results of the fraudulent 1969 election and ordered a new election. That same month, another federal judge ruled illegal the district trusteeships through which the UMWA hierarchy maintained its tight grip on most of the union. Suddenly the insurgents had the opportunity to remove Boyle and his appointed district officials from office.' The obvious key to a winning ticket would be a slate that represented the strength of Miners For Democracy in the northern coalfields and the strength of the Black Lung Association and the disabled miners and widows groups in the southern coalfields. Only by reconciling the ethnic tensions and divergent policy interests between the two regions could the insurgents present a united front against Boyle. A convention of rebel miners would have to select a balanced ticket and draft a platform fusing the concerns of the various dissident reform groups. The formerly defunct MFD Steering Committee reactivated itself in the wake of the court rulings. At a meeting held in Charleston, W. VA., on May 6, the Steering Committee decided on Wheeling, West Virginia, in District 6, as the site of the rebel convention. Wheeling was roughly equidistant from the various areas of reform movement strength-southern West Virginia, northern West Virginia, Pennsylvania, and southern Ohio. The miners had also considered a proposal offered by attorneys Chip Yablonski and Clarice Feldman to adopt a weighted delegate vote system based on the number of dues-paying members, and an approximation df the amount of election fraud in 1969. The weighted vote system competed with several alternatives. To base voting solely on the number of union members in a district would inflate the strength of the reform movement in some districts. Conversely, giving each district an equal number of votes would underrate rebel strength in some districts. A majority vote of those attending the convention would give the home district undeserved influence. There also existed a slim possibility that Boyle supporters might try to pack the convention and nominate Boyle and embarrass or discredit the reformers. Though some delegates quibbled about the allocation of votes, the steering committee gave tentative approval to the weighed vote system. The delegates at Wheeling, chosen at district meetings, would have to give the system final approval.6 Although the steering committee had decided that no individual should announce his candidacy for international office, that an open convention should democratically choose the insurgent slate, Harry Patrick recalled that "there was a lot of jockeying for position, a lot of campaigning before the convention started." The stakes were high-trie future of the reform movement, the presidency of the union, power, and status. The very nature of an open convention meant that there would be pre-convention politicking and maneuvering, a testing of the possibilities by some and attempts by others to influence the final outcome. The role black miners would play was unclear. Another major imponderable was the role the Yablonski brothers would play. Sons of the martyred leader, they were both lawyers, not miners, and thus were prohibited by the UMWA Constitution from running for office. But especially to MFD supporters in the north, their opinions and feelings would count. In the northern coalfields, Mike Trbovich, MFD chairman, seemed to be the heir apparent. He had spoken at innumerable rallies and demonstrations. His name headed the lawsuit that finally overturned the 1969 election. Trbovich 8 �believed he had earned the presidential nomination of the rebel group because of his work within the reform movement. However, Trbovich also knew that several key dissidents in various northern districts disliked him personally. To guarantee his nomination at the top of the insurgent ticket, Trbovich reached a private understanding with BAL President Arnold Miller--in return for Miller's support for his presidential bid, Trbovich pledged to support Miller for the vice-presidential slot. When Miller accepted the offer on the eve of the convention, Trbovich seemed certain of his reward for his service to the rebel cause.* However, Trbovich lacked the support of the Yablonski family. Chip and Ken Yablonski, the lawyer-sons of the slain leader, had worked with Trbovich during the preceding two years. They had distributed press releases and brought litigation in Trbovich's name, "things of that nature which were entirely proper and Mike deserved a lot of credit for sticking his neck out." On the other hand, Chip Yablonski noted that, "We had been partially responsible for Mike Trbovich's identity within the reform movement and his viability as a candidate." The Yablonskis decided not to endorse Trbovich because they doubted his abilities; he was from a small district in western Pennsylvania, and they were convinced that the ethnic prejudice his name would incur in the southern coalfields would seriously jeopardize any chance of the insurgent slate beating Boyle.9 Instead, the Yablonskis supported Tom Pysell from District 6, the host district for the MFD convention. Pysell was president of the seven-hundredman UMWA local at Consolidation Coal's Ireland Mine near Moundsville, West Virginia-one of the largest locals in the union. The average age of miners in his local was twenty-five and almost one third of them were Vietnam veterans. The local showed its militance and aggressiveness by its frequent wildcat strikes over safety grievances—and they were backed up by their local president. This had earned Pysell favorable publicity in the reform movement. The Yablonskis were concerned that none of the insurgents held offices at the district level or higher. With Pysell's solid base of support, the Yablonskis believed he could be a winner. They had confidence in his abilities; moreover, his name was easily pronounceable and would not be a liability for ethnic reasons. With Yablonski backing, Pysell was definitely a contender. Northern reformers would not come to Wheeling united behind one candidate.10 In the southern coalfields, Arnold Miller had emerged as the leading spokesman for the reform movement. A retired miner with black lung, Miller was president of the Black Lung Association, current Chairman of the MFD Steering Committee, Chairman of his home district 17 MFD and was actively involved in both disabled miners and widows groups. He knew that a divided reform movement in the southern fields would seriously weaken the reform movement as a whole. By working with all of the reform groups Miller not only bridged the gap between the two wings of the movement but he also personified what they had in common-opposition to a union leadership unresponsive to the felt needs of both working and disabled miners and their widows. " Miller had of course sought-and-received~a fair amount of publicity for his activities. He also knew the political implications of his actions. Miller seemed to be on friendly terms with black miner Levi Daniel, who headed reform efforts in nearby District 29. However, Miller faced opposition within his own District 17 from reformers in Logan County who thought Miller's relocation of BLA headquarters to Charleston was too remote from the coalfields. They also felt that Miller spent too much time courting the media and prominent 9 �West Virginia politician John D. "Jay" Rockefeller IV. John Mendez, one of the few active miners in the southern coalfields who identified with Miners For Democracy as well as the Black Lung Association and disabled miners and widows groups, emerged as Miller's chief critic and rival. However, a majority of southern reformers reluctantly concluded that Mendez's Mexican heritage limited his potential voter appeal in the region as much as a Slovakian background would have. Miller would go to Wheeling with his home base relatively secure and a covert deal with Trbovich guaranteeing him the second spot on the rebel slate.12 In northern West Virginia, an area allied more with the northern coalfields than with the southern but with contacts in both, Harry Patrick had been a National Co-Chairman of Miners For Yablonski in 1969 as well as Yablonski's campaign manager in District 31's Morgantown-Fairmont area. Patrick had emerged as a spokesman for rank-and-filers dissatisfied with the 1971 contract. He was now Chairman of District 31 MFD and a National Co-Chairman of Miners For Democracy. He also knew Arnold Miller, Robert Payne, and other southern reformers. While he had not considered running for national office, he received encouragement from a number of miners within and outside of his district. Patrick headed for Wheeling with a new perspective on his possible role at the convention. " Other MFD supporters in various districts were also politically ambitious. However, none of the insurgent leaders held a major union office. This meant that the slate selected at Wheeling to oppose Boyle would be an all rank-andfile ticket. Journalist Tom Bethell found that, "some reporters are having trouble taking such a slate seriously-thinking, apparently, that unless a highranking official like Yatjlonski makes the race, it isn't for real." He tried to counter this attitude with Arnold Miller's statement that, "You could pick the next three men at random to come up out of any mine, and they'd be an improvement over Boyle, Tiller, and Owens." Don Stillman, editor of The Miner's Voice, expressed the same attitude in even stronger terms: The media and some liberals parrot the same mistaken line back and forth that the reform movement doesn't have any real leaders. They appear to be searching: for the same type of flashy, well-dressed labor bureaucrat with a rose in his lapel [Boyle] that the rank-and-file is so dissatisfied with. Arnold Miller, Mike Trbovich, Karl Kafton, Harry Patrick, Lou Antal, Ed Monborne, Tom Pysell, and a host of others are names familiar in the coaifields-they are coal miners who traveled and campaigned with Yablonski. The rank-and-file in the UMW wants leaders who understand what working in the pits means. Because it is a legitimate reform movement composed of working miners, the money and the time to travel have hurt MFD some. But there is no lack of leadership at the top of the movement. These MFD leaders and their supporters gathered at the field house of Wheeling College in Wheeling, West Virginia, to select the rank-and-file slate that would oppose the "labor bureaucrats" whom they had fought for so long. 14 On Saturday, May 27, 1972, the insurgent convention began its deliberations. Three hundred and eighty-seven delegates from the sixteen largest and most important of the union's twenty-three districts assembled in the field house; by Sunday, over 450 miners would take part in selecting the insurgent slate. The delegates were either working miners or pensioners who had come to the convention at their own expense. No salaried staff officers or appointed officials were present. The hardships the insurgents had endured were reflected in their 10 �serious, purposeful behavior. With one leader murdered, the possibility of a bomb at the convention, and the knowledge that whoever was nominated to oppose Boyle might be exposed to violence, miners well understood the importance of this gathering." Karl Kafton, from the host District 6, served as Permanent Chairman of the convention. He introduced Pittsburgh's famed "labor priest," Monsignor Charles Owen Rice, who delivered the invocation. Chip Yablonski spoke next, telling the miners that, "If my dad could have had his way in 1969, he would have wanted a convention like this to nominate him." Yablonski commented on the trial that overturned the 1969 election: "We went through 6,700 pages of transcript and 10,000 pages of exhibits, and I can tell you that that was the crookedest election that was ever held." After brief speeches by Ken Yablonski, Representative Ken Hechler (D.-W.Va.), the only Congressman to support the insurgents, and Robert Payne, MFD attorney Joseph Rauh delivered the keynote address: "I recall, in a lifetime in the labor movement, of no precedent for this meeting." Rauh declared that, "Not in our lifetime has there been a rank-and-file convention of union members to choose the candidates who will run against an entrenched union bureaucracy and to write the platform upon which those candidates will run." Rauh refused to endorse any individual but pledged to "work like hell for whoever [sic] you choose."" After receiving praise from the mainly non-miner speakers who had helped them in many ways, the insurgents settled down to hear the Platform Committee report. This committee had been authorized at the May 6 MFD Steering Committee meeting to draft a platform that would include the interests and concerns of all the major groups in the reform movement. Subtitled "The Miners' Bill of Rights," the MFD platform began with the issue of primary importance to underground workers: safety, "the first and most basic right of all coal miners." Declaring that "Safety must never be arbitrated," the platform demanded strict enforcement of safety laws backed up by union* officials. Dust levels in the mines must be strictly controlled. Moreover, welfare and retirement benefits should be raised. Pensions should be increased. Eligibility rules should be liberalized so that all victims of the mines could receive necessary health care. Meanwhile, the platform compromised on strip-mining, stressing that "BOTH jobs and land" should be protected; non-union strip-miners should be unionized while reclamation laws should be sternly enforced." The insurgents indicted Boyle and the UMWA hierarchy, declaring that the reign of "union leaders who refuse to leave their mahogany-paneled offices in Washington, D.C." was over. The rebels announced an end to "sweet heart contracts and sell-out unionism . . ."To make the union leadership responsive to the membership, MFD called for the relocation of UMWA headquarters to the coalfields, an end to nepotism in hiring, the restoration of district autonomy, and rank-and-file ratification of all contracts." The MFD platform disappointed some observers. Compared to Yablonski's 1969 platform, the rebels said little or nothing about reviving UMWA support for regional and national social reform efforts. Nor did the MFD platform say much about increasing taxes on coal companies to redistribute wealth or pressuring government agencies to do more to reduce unemployment in Appalachia. Yet the situation in 1972 differed from three years earlier. Yablonski had run for the UMWA presidency without any serious individual or organizational rivals to his postition as Boyle's chief opponent. Moreover, Yablonski hoped for financial contributions from non-miner liberal supporters and drafted his platform in part with that group in mind. While Miners For Democracy also hoped for outside liberal financial support, the primary problem facing the 11 �reformers revolved around finding the best way to coordinate or merge the strength of the various dissident groups into a united movement against Boyle. More than one insurgent candidacy would split the reform vote and guarantee Boyle's re-election. Individual and organizational jealousies as well as genuine differing interests and priorities among the rebels had to be resolved without alienating or angering important individuals or groups in the insurgent camp. Therefore, reconciling these differences amicably led to the almost exclusive focus on internal union problems in the MFD platform." The MFD platform was unanimously approved. While some observers found this dismaying, wondering why so little debate occurred, others noted that "there was nothing much to argue about." Because the platform had been carefully worked out in committee, the concerns of all the various reform groups had been voiced, as well as the interests of the constituencies to whom the rebels must appeal. Union democracy, district autonomy, and an end to corruption in the UMW reflected issues in western Pennsylvania, northern West Virginia, and southern Ohio. Assistance to black lung victims and pension relief for disabled miners and widows expressed demands in southern West Virginia, southern Virginia, and eastern Kentucky. Both regions supported strong health and safety law enforcement. The platform demonstrated understanding and sympathy for the problems of pensioners and made special mention of the plight of pensioners in the anthracite district. The need to organize non-union miners to gain royalties for the welfare and retirement fund was discussed. The compromise on strip-mining was not so controversial since few delegates were abolitionists. Moreover, the reformers hoped to unionize strip-miners in Appalachia and the West in order to bring their production under union contract-not eliminate their jobs. If any group had felt its concerns had been omitted or threatened and had staged a floor fight, the platform could have been a divisive force fragmenting the reformers. That may also have been the reason that the platform was silent on ethnic and racial tensions within the union. MFD played it safe by omitting any mention of the subject-perhaps a victory of pragmatism over principle. However, because all the reform groups had their interests acknowledged and no group felt its interest was threatened, the platform served as a strong cohesive force uniting the insurgent movement. 20 Beneath the orderly facade of the convention proceedings ran an undercurrent of tension and excitement. Politicking was the name of the game. Miners discussed the various reform leaders and speculated about possible slates. Rumors of deals and offers swept through these gatherings. While more experienced participants and observers found nothing unusual in the political maneuvering going one, some miners, especially those attending their first convention, were upset at the politicking they saw and heard. Some had naively expected a "clean," open, apolitical contest for political positions. Moreover, the political skills of most of the miners at the convention were not especially subtle. But while the politicking of the Miners For Democracy may have been a bit crude at times, it was proof positive that this was truly a rankand-file convention, a rough-hewn example of grass-roots union democracy in action.!1 The MFD chairman became the main issue frankly discussed in various caucuses and meetings. And Trbovich was vulnerable. Ethnicity was a key factor - his name alone caused concern among his friends as well as his critics. "Trbovich" was hard to pronounce; when Mike was introduced at rallies in the northern coalfields, his last name had often been garbled. "Yablonski" had been easier to pronounce. Moreover, many Slovak miners in the northern fields did not believe a "hunky" could win southern votes for his presidential 12 �bid. In addition, to some miners Trbovich represented an ethic stereotype: "a man with a rough and chiseled countenance and thick silver hair, who favored loud shirts and boldly patterned suits. . . perhaps too much of a dandy." The clash of regional and cultural styles between northern and southern Appalachia would clearly be a factor in selecting a candidate.22 Trbovich's record as MFD chairman could also be viewed critically. As the visible symbol of the reform movement for the past two years and the acknowledged front-runner for the presidential nomination, Trbovich had to accept responsibilitity for MFD's failures as well as successes. Miners For Democracy as an organizational entity was still very weak throughout the coalfields. Some miners thought that Trbovich lacked the intelligence and charisma necessary for the leader of a movement. Others thought Trbovich too often reacted to events instead of creating them. One observer summed up much of this criticism: "he had angered many with his interim management of MFD by alledgedly speaking too much and organizing too little."21 To complicate matters further for Trbovich, personality conflicts and feuds with other reformers eroded his support. Trbovich's small home District 4 in western Pennsylvania backed the MFD chairman without hesitation. But next door in the larger and more important District 5, Trbovich faced stiff opposition from Lou Antal, the key MFD leader in the area. Antal was not challenging Trbovich for the MFD presidential nomination; Antal coveted the District 5 presidency. But Antal disagreed with Trbovich on the role and scope of a district officer's authority vis-a-vis the national leadership. Moreover, Antal simply did not believe that Trbovich had the necessary qualities to win the election and lead the union. Antal spent much of his time at the convention criticizing Trbovich's performance as MFD chairman. While District 5 delegates would support Trbovich, Antal's words would influence delegates in other districts. 24 Added to Trbovich's troubles was his loss of support by the Yablonskis. This had an unfortunate whipsaw effect on Trbovich's candidacy. Some delegates, especially in the northern coalfields, looked to Chip and Ken Yablonski to indicate their choice for president. Because they were the sons of the martyred leader, their wishes would receive special consideration. For these delegates, the Yablonskis' rejection of Trbovich and support for Pysell caused them to reconsider the chairman's candidacy. On the other hand, many miners, especially in the southern coalfields, had always been suspicious of the Yablonski brothers and all the non-miners aiding the reform effort. To these delegates, Trbovich had been associated in their minds with the Yablonskis, Rauh, Hechler, and others for so long that they were already quite alienated from him. The whipsaw effect of this put Trbovich in a classic damned-if-youdo and damned-if-you-don't situation: spurned by some miners for his close ties to the Yablonskis, he also lost support when they shifted their support to Pysell.25 Northern miners disenchanted with Trbovich considered Tom Pysell. The youthful, militant president of a large local, Pysell was an attractive candidate. But he too had deficiencies: Pysell was an outside employee at his mine; he was not a deep miner; he did not go underground to confront coal dust, methane gas, cave-ins, and explosions. That might easily work against him in a campaign. He was also seen by some miners as the pawn of the Yablonski brothers. His candidacy seemed too sudden. These miners respected the Yablonskis, but they felt that the brothers were attempting to manipulate the convention to "put their own men in office." Moreover, Pysell came from District 6, which was also the home of well-known rebel Karl Kafton, the permanent chairman of the convention. Again it might look manipulative to some if Kafton worked 13 �hard for Pysell while chairing the convention. A final obstacle for Pysell was that, despite the publicity he had garnered in the last few months, he was still not widely known throughout the coalfields." Those nortnern delegates who would not vote for Trbovich and who believed that Pysell did not have enough support to get the nomination then considered a man many southern delegates had been talking about-Arnold Miller. The southern reformer possessed a number of attractive qualities. In contrast to Trbovich, his name posed no problem. As one participant stated: '"Arnold Miller' is a good Anglo-Saxon name and would have heavy support in the heaviest voting areas." Another observer put it more bluntly: "You don't have to be a genius to remember that one." Moreover, Miller had not antagonized any of the key people in Miners For Democracy, mainly because his work had been confined to the southern coalfields. His personal feuds also seemed to be under control; after John Mendez failed to get majority support from his and Miller's home District 17 delegation, Mendez left the conventionand the mantle of southern reform leadership -- to Miller. " And many northern delegates were impressed by Miller's record as a reform leader. Miller had been one of the original founders of the Black Lung Association. He had helped expand the BLA into a service organization functioning in seven states. His work with Designs for Rural Action, a federally funded antipoverty program for which he had worked part-time, had helped link Appalachian activists and miners together. His skill in trying to unite an effective coalition of dissident active miners, black lung victims, disabled miners and their wives and widows, anti-poverty workers and other non-union reform supporters in the southern fields had been reflected in part in the publicity he had received. And that publicity was important — while some southern reformers might carp that Miller had received an excessive amount of credit for work done by others, that people like Bill Worthington, Hobert Grills, Charles Brooks, John Mendez, and others deserved as much recognition as Miller, that Miller had cultivated the media and arrogated too much authority or power to himself, northern reformers tended to dismiss such talk as "sour grapes." All that most northern reformers knew was that Miller headed the reform movement in the southern coalfields. Moreover, Miller's restrained conduct at the convention had made a favorable impression on those put off by Trbovich's style of leadership.21 And, finally, from a geopolitical point of view, Miller came from the area with the heaviest concentration of votes. Of all the caucuses and factions meeting that Saturday night, no group was more impressed with this fact than the one composed of Chip and Ken Yablonski, Tom Pysell, Ed Monborne, Ken Dawes, Bill Savitsky, and others who were the core of the anti-Trbovich movement among the northern delegates. Their districts included the bulk of northern votes and population, having twice as many convention votes as proTrbovich northern districts, 49 to 24, and representing twice as many miners as their opponents in the northern fields, 62,000 to 30,000. That statistic alone was strong criticism of Trbovich's leadership and activity as chairman aside from any geo- and ethnopolitical calculations. By Saturday night, it became apparent that Tom Pysell could not win the nomination. This gathering of district leaders, who could influence or control of the votes in their delegations, was looking for someone to support. 29 The group appraised the situation. The convention had approved the weighted vote system tentatively agreed to at the May 6 MFD Steering Committee meeting in Charleston. Thus there were 130 votes to be cast Sunday morning. The candidate with more than 65 votes would carry the Miners For 14 �Democracy banner against Boyle. If the northern forces at the convention had been united, they could have easily nominated their candidate: Districts 2 (central Pennsylvania),4 (southwest Pennsylvania), and 5 (northwest Pennsylvania), 6 (southern Ohio and the western panhandle of West Virginia), 8 and 11 (Indiana), 12 (Illinois), 25 (eastern Pennsylvania), and 26 (Nova Scotia) together had 73 votes, 8 more than the minimum needed. If they picked up swing District 31's (northern West Virginia) 11 votes, they would have a landslide. Conversely, if the southern forces at the convention were united, they still could not win. Districts 17 (southwest West Virginia), 19 (eastern Kentucky), 23 (western Kentucky), 28 (southwest Virginia), 29 (southeast West Virginia), and 30 (northeast Kentucky) only totaled 46 votes. Even if they picked up District's 31's 11 votes, they were still short of the mark. However, while southern delegates seemed united behind Miller, northern delegates were clearly divided.30 The anti-Trbovich group decided that a successful insurgent presidential candidate had to meet at least two basic requirements: he had to be from a big district and he had to be Anglo-Saxon. Fearful of prejudice within the union, the group concluded that neither miners of Afro- erican or eastern European origins should head the rebel slate. While the cau us agreed rather quickly that a black presidential candidate might limit support for the dissidents, extended debate took place over the other prohibition. The Yablonskis were convinced that a "hunky" could not win the southern coalfields and thus the reform ticket would lose. They had experienced ethnic prejudice in their hometown of Clarksville, Pennsylvania, where there was a strict dividing line between the Anglo-Saxon population and those of eastern European descent. If ethnic bias was still quite evident in an area containing many ethnic residents, what would it be like in southern West Virginia, eastern Kentucky, Alabama? Their father had known that his ethnicity was a problem in the southern fields in 1969. One retired Kentucky miner but put it bluntly: "I ain't going to vote for no hunkie." The Yablonskis did not think the situation had really changed since then." Edgar James, a non-miner graduate student serving as assistant editor of The Miner's Voice, totally disagreed with that ethno- and geopolitical view. James thought the Yablonskis overemphasized anti-ethnic sentiment in the southern coalfields. He noted that a significant number of people of eastern European heritage lived in the area, although they were a minority. James believed that such an ethnic candidate for union president could win majority support in the south. But the bottom line for the Yablonskis, as they expressed it in a moment of frustration during the deliberations, was their conviction that, "Those fucking hillbillies won't vote for a hunkie." The tenacity of the ethnic and cultural stereotypes by which many miners in each region viewed the other - or at least the perception of such rigid stereotypes by these northern delegates — settled the issue. The ethno- and geopolitical argument remained convincing to the group. 32 Given the prerequisites of a big district and an Anglo-Saxon, how well did Arnold Miller fill the bill? His ethnic background was correct, and he came from the second largest district in the union-it contained more miners than any of the districts represented in the anti-Trbovich group. Moreover, as a retired miner, Miller would appeal to many pensioneers—and Yablonski had only been credited with 7 percent of that group's vote. Arnold Miller's District 17 had 16 votes at the convention. Those plus the anti-Trbovich coalition's 49 votes made a total of 65. The minimum needed to win the presidential nomination was any fraction over 65. Surely Miller would get other southern votes to offset any slippage that might occur in the anti-Trbovich coalition. The ethno- and geopoliticians had found their man. " 15 �Once the group had decided on Miller for president, the rest of the slate had to be balanced. With Miller's strength in the southern fields heading the ticket, support from Pennsylvania was the next consideration. Trbovich seemed the likely choice for vice president. Not only would his selection assuage his hurt feelings but having the MFD chairman on the slate would symbolically unite the two wings of the reform movement. District 31 in northern West Virginia was a crucial swing district and its mix of cultural and ethnic backgrounds also made it problematic. But young Harry Patrick had emerged as a militant rankand-file spokesman during the 1971 contract strike. The group would support Patrick, a member of the MFD Finance Committee, for secretary-treasurer." Chip Yablonski later recalled: "I got far more involved in it than I wanted to be." But with the vindication of their father's sacrifice seeming to hang in the balance, the Yablonskis discussed the candidates with rebel leaders and reached a consensus that "the winning combination would be with Arnold, Mike, and Harry." Hillbilly, Hunky, and Hybrid -- the stereotypical slate was an ethno- and geopolitician's dream ticket for Appalachia. 3! The Yablonskis had not controlled the Saturday night meeting. They were not delegates and could cast no votes on the convention floor. Their original choice for president had fizzled out. They were respected, they had influence -but they could not dominate. Monborne, Pysell, Dawes, Savitsky and the others had come to the meeting because they were opposed to Trbovich. They had chafed under his leadership and believed that if he carried the MFD banner, the reform movement would lose and perhaps suffer irreparable damage. Convinced that none of them could win, they looked elsewhere. Their decision was not so much pro-Miller as anti-Trbovich. They did what they thought was best for the reform movement. They were not particularly happy at the end of the meeting. They did not really know Miller, nor did they believe that they could control him—they just knew that he fit the criteria which they had agreed was a prerequisite for victory against Boyle. Arnold Miller had merely been the beneficiary of some cold, hard, pragmatic calculations. Northern men were going to support a southern candidate. Meanwhile, Miller, who had reached an understanding with Trbovich before the convention about the vice presidency, learned that many northern delegates now preferred him for the top spot on the slate instead of Trbovich. 36 Sunday morning came too early for many of the miners who had spent much of the night discussing the candidates. Tension began to build as the miners filed into the Wheeling College field house to select a slate to represent Miners For Democracy against Boyle and the hierarchy. Six men were nominated for the presidential slot on the MFD ticket: Levi Daniel, Arnold Miller, Harry Patrick, Tom Pysell, Bill Savitsky, and Mike Trbovich. Patrick declined in favor of Trbovich, as did Daniel. But Miller accepted the nomination. As he did, murmurs spread throughout the convention. The deal with Trbovich was off. A few delegates shouted, "Doublecross!" Pysell and Savitsky then declined in favor of Miller. Trbovich, who had expected everyone else to decline, which would have brought him the nomination by acclamation, had a surprised look on his face as he accepted the challenge from Miller." Each district caucused, discussed the candidates, and voted. The results were double-checked and finally announced: Miller, 70 and 9/10; Trbovich, 57 and 1/10 (2 votes were not cast). Northern men had nominated a southern man as their presidential candidate. The northern votes split dramatically: 46 and 9/10 for Miller (Districts 2, 6, 12, and 25) and only 26 and 1/10 for Trbovich (Districts 4, 5, 8 & 11, 26). Southern votes had also shattered: 24 for Miller (Districts 17, 19, 28, and 30), 18 for Trbovich (Districts 23 and 29). District 16 �31's border area 11 votes had swung to Trbovich. Only Pysell (District 6) and Miller's (District 17) delegations had split their votes-both overwhelmingly for Miller. 38 Neither region had voted as a bloc. Insurgents in both areas seemed less impressed by the men they knew and hoped the other region's leader would be an improvement. The major southern defection from Miller was Levi Daniel's District 29 in Southeastern West Virginia. Perhaps Daniel hoped that Trbovich would reward him with the second spot on the ticket-or perhaps he had privately faulted Miller's leadership until now. But the southern split could not prevent Miller from winning. With over half the southern votes and almost two thirds of the northern votes, Arnold Miller won the presidential nomination of the Miners For Democracy. While Miller had skillfully maneuvered himself through the convention, the anti-Trbovich coalition in the northern coalfields had also succeeded in their aim-and Trbovich knew who had engineered his defeat. A chagrined Trbovich then won the vice-presidential spot, despite competition for that nomination as well. Harry Patrick defeated two other candidates to garner the secretary-treasurer position. That left six minor offices to fill: three international auditors and three international tellers. But in the celebration that followed the major nominations, little strategic thought was given to selecting the nominees for minor offices. Harry Patrick recalled: "When the top three was filled, everything just kind of went haywire after that. No one sat down and gave any real thought . . . I think we should have recessed for like two hours and got our heads screwed back on right and took this into consideration." Instead of a recess, nominees were hastily picked-three from Pennsylvania, two from Ohio, and one from Virginia. With hindsight, the major nominees wished that a broader geographical and racial balance had been reflected among the minor office nominees. An auditor or teller from Alabama, Colorado, eastern or western Kentucky, or other areas would have increased chances for victory. The selection of a black miner would also have strengthened the slate.39 Almost three years to the day after Jock Yablonski had announced his candidacy challenging Boyle, a grass-roots convention of rebel miners chose a full rank-and-file reform ticket to oppose Boyle again. The process of fusing together an effective, coherent reform organization from dissident groups sharing the same interests but have quite different cultural and political attitudes and styles was no easy matter. Although there had been some communication and cooperation between the northern and southern wings of the reform movement during the previous two years, no merger of their respective strengths occurred until the Wheeling convention. Then a platform fused the northern concern for union democracy with the southern concern for black lung and pension reform. That fusion was then personified in a slate which represented southern Appalachia in Arnold Miller, western Pennsylvania in Mike Trbovich, and the border area of northern West Virginia in Harry Patrick. Continuity with Yablonski's effort was also evident in that all three major nominees had played active roles in the 1969 campaign. While the convention left some scars-Trbovich, who felt betrayed by his own organization and by Arnold Miller, who internalized his anger and bitterness until after the election; some black miners wondered about the reformers' commitment to racial equality when they looked MFD's "lily-white" ticket-no serious damage had been done to the rebel movement. Harry Patrick spoke for the insurgents after the convention when he declared: "We came out unified and strong and we're ready to go." 40 17 �Miners For Democracy was now a reality. The pragmatic, strategic decisions reached at the Wheeling convention resulted in an ethnically and geographically balanced slate and an inclusive reform platform that allowed the insurgents to focus all their energies against Boyle and the heirarchy. After an intensive sixmonth campaign, the MFD slate won the Labor Department-supervised election in December 1972 -- and democracy was finally re-established within the United Mine Workers of America. NOTES The author gratefully acknowledges the financial assistance provided by the American Council of Learned Societies and the College of Charleston for this study. 1. This essay is a substantially condensed version of the paper presented at the Appalachian Studies Conference. The most recent scholarly study of Lewis is Melvyn Dubofsky and Warren Van Tine, John L. Lewis: A Biography (New York: Quadrangle/The New York Times Book Co., 1977), especially pp. 469-517 for background on Lewis's post-war policies. A partial list of significant secondary works on Lewis would include Saul Alinsky, John L. Lewis: An Unauthorized Biography (New York: Vintage Books, 1970); Morton Baratz, The Union and the Coal Industry (New Haven: Yale University Press, 1955); Harry Caudill, Night Comes to the Cumberlands: A Biography of a Depressed Area (Boston: Little Brown and Co., 1963); Joseph E. Finely, The Corrupt Kingdom: The Rise and Fall of the United Mine Workers (New York: Simon and Schuster, 1972); Brit Hume, Death and the Mines: Rebellion and Murder in the United Mine Workers (New York: Grossman Publishers, 1971); Bill Peterson, Coaltown Revisited: An Appalachian Notebook (Chicago: Henry Regnery Company, 1972); J. B. S. Hardman, "John L. Lewis, Labor Leader and Man: An Interpretation," Labor History 2 (Winter 1961): 3-29; Nat Caldwell and Gene S. Graham, "The Strange Romance between John L. Lewis and Cyrus Eaton," Harper's Magazine 223 (December 1961): 25-32; A. H. Raskin, "John L. Lewis and the Mine Workers," Atlantic2\l (May 1963): 52-57; T. N. Bethell, "Conspiracy in Coal," The Washington Monthly 1 (March 1969): 16-23, 63-72. 2. Hume, Death and the Mines. 3. See George W. Hopkins, "The Miners For Democracy: Insurgency in the United Mine Workers of America, 1970-1972," Ph. D. dissertation, University of North Carolina, Chapel Hill, N.C., 1976, pp. 66-201. 4. George W. Hopkins, "Southern Coal Miners and Union Insurgency, 1968-1972," in Gary M. Fink, Leslie A. Hough, and Merl Reed, eds., Essays in Southern Labor History, Volume 2 (Westport, Conn.: Greenwood Press, 1980), forthcoming. On April 28, 1971, Federal Judge Gerhard Gesell found the UMWA and its Welfare and Retirement Fund guilty of willful mismanagement and misuse of Fund assets. Boyle was cited for violating his fiduciary trust to UMWA members. Boyle, the union's trustee for the Fund, and the allegedly "neutral" trustee, Josephine Roche, an old Lewis crony, were ordered to resign their postions. After careful study, Judge Gesell awarded $11.5 million in damages to disabled and retired UMWA miners and their widows, to be paid by the union and its bank, the National Bank of Washington, in which UMWA and Fund monies had been kept. New York Times, April 29, 1971, p. 1; Coal Patrol (independent newsletter), April 16-30, 1971, pp. 1-2; New York Times, January 8, 1972, pp. 1, 37. 18 �5. The federal court decision overturning the 1969 UMWA election is available in the Miners For Democracy Collection at the Wayne State University Archives of Labor History and Urban Affairs, Box 18, File 2; for a brief summary, see the New York Times, May 2, 1972, pp. 1, 28; the demise of district trusteeships appeared in the Wall Street Journal, May 12, 1972, p. 6, and the New York Times, May 25, 1972, p. 29, as well as the rank-and-file newspaper of the Miners For Democracy, The Miner's Voice, May 1972, p. 12, and ibid., June, 1972, p. 11. 6. Ibid., May, 1972, p. 3. 7. Interview with Patrick. There is no official record of the proceedings of the Wheeling conventon; nor is there a detailed account of the internal politics of the convention. Press coverage, with a few exceptions, tended to be superficial. Thus, source material for much of this paper is composed of interviews, substantiated where possible in the written record, and compared to the recollections of other participants and observers to determine as clearly as possible the internal dynamics of the rebel convention. 8. Interview with Trbovich; interview with Edgar James, former associate editor of The Miner's Voice; Edgar James, "UMW Still Subject to Lewis Legacy," signed article in the weekly newspaper In These Times, March 1-7, 1978, Vol. 2, No. 15, p. 11, includes details on the Trbovich-Miller deal. 9. Interview with Joseph A. "Chip" Yablonski 10. The Miner's Voice, February-March, 1972, p. 1; Don Stillman, "Murder and the Mines," New Politics, May 1972, p. 28. 11. Interview with Miller. 12. These criticisms of Miller were aired in an interview conducted by sociologist Paul Nyden with Charles Brooks, a black miner who was the first president of the Black Lung Association and who had to resign the post because of poor health. See Paul Nyden, "Miners For Democracy: Struggle in the Coal Fields," Ph. D. dissertation, Columbia University, 1974, pp. 700-701, 705-706. My own interview with Richard Bank, a former VISTA, attorney in West Virginia, and an aide to Miller, also touched on those issues. 13. Interview with Patrick. 14. Other possible MFD rank-and-file candidates included Bill Savitsky, Chairman of District 25 MFD, a long-time reformer in the anthracite fields who had been a strong Yablonski backer; Ed Monborne, Chairman of southwest Pennsylvania's District 2 MFD, an early Yablonski supporter; Lou Antal, a veteran rebel and the MFD candidate for the District 5 presidency in 1970 who had been counted out in a mini-version of the 1969 election; Karl Kafton, another long-time rebel and a friend of Yablonski; and Levi Daniel, Chairman of southern West Virginia's District 29 MFD, a black miner who helped lead the struggle for black lung compensation and had built support of Yablonski in the southern fields, Wheeling College was a liberal Catholic school, many of whose students had worked in the 1969 campaign of Catholic insurgent Jock Yablonski. Quotations from Coal Patrol, May 20, 1972, p. 7; Stillman, "Murder and the Mines," p. 28. 15. The presence of federal bomb detection experts from the Treasury Department's Alcohol, Firearms, and Tax Division as well as Wheeling City Police underscored the threat the convention posed to Boyle. After Yablonski's murder, the safety of rebel miners had to be taken seriously. However, no bombs were discovered at the convention. Observers, press, and staff would bring total attendance to approximately 750. New York Times, May 28, 1972, p. 45; Coal Patrol, June 1, 1972, p. 1; H. W. Benson, "Miners For Democracy: A Report from West Virginia," Dissent 19 (Fall 1972): 632. 16. Coal Patrol, June 1, 1972, p. 2; Phil Primack, "Miners For Democracy: 19 �Closing In On Tony Boyle," The Nation, June 19, 1972, p. 787; Benson, "Miners For Democracy," 637-638; a copy of Rauh's keynote address is available in the Miners For Democracy Collection, Box 66, File 37. 17. The Miner's Voice, May 1972, p. 3, 7-10. 18. Ibid.,9-10. 19. Nyden, "Miners For Democracy," 547-548. 20. Coal Patrol, June 1, 1972, p. 1; Benson, "Miners For Democracy," p. 634. 21. Wall Street Journal, May 30, 1972, p. 5; Coal Patrol, June 1, 1972, p. 1; interview with Patrick; Joseph Rauh, "Internal Union Problems: A Study of the United Mine Workers Union," in Emanuel Stein and S. Theodore Reiner, eds., Proceedings of New York University Twenty-Sixth Annual Conference on Labor (New York: Matthew Bender, 1974), p. 299; interview with Stillman; interview with Patrick; interview with Yablonski. 22. Don Stillman definitely thought Trbovich's name could be a liability for the rebel ticket. Because he and Ed James would have major responsibilities in coordinating campaign advertising and images for whomever won the nomination, Stillman recalled: "We decided if it was Trbovich, all our stuff would have to say 'Vote Mike' and build it around 'Mike' rather than his last name because it was going to be a tough one to deal with." Interview with Stillman; interview with James; interview with Bank; Coal Patrol, June 1, 1972, p. 2; James Humphreys, "Miller Vs Boyle: Revolt in the Coal Fields," New south 28 (Winter 1973): 41. 23. Interview with Tom Bethell, editor of Coal Patrol; interview with Stillman; interview with Lou Antal of District 5; Humphreys, "Miller Vs Boyle," 41. 24. Interview with Antal; interview with Trbovich; interview with Yablonski; interview with Bethell; interview with Patrick. 25. Interview with Trbovich; interview with Yablonski; interview with James. 26. Interview with James; interview with Trbovich; Coal Patrol, June 1, 1972, p. 1. 27. Interview with Bank; interview with Stillman. 28. Interview with Miller; interview with Bank; Nyden, "Miners For Democracy," pp. 547-48. 29. Interview with Yablonski; interview with Antal. Table 1 represents the anti-Trbovich northern districts, their convention votes, and district population. Table 2 represents the pro-Trbovich northern districts. Table 1 Chairman Ed Monborne Tom Pysell Ken Dawes Bill Savitsky District Convention Votes 2 6 12 25 11 11 10 Chairman Mike Trbovich Lou Antal unknown Jake Campbell District 17 49 Population 15,730 13,202 15,210 17,832 61,974 Table 2 Convention Votes 7 12 2 3 24 4 5 8&11 26 20 Population 8,047 13,096 4,946, 4,331 30,420 �30. The Miner's Voice, June, 1972, p. 3, shows the weighted votes allotted to each district at the MFD Steering Committee meeting in Charleston on May 7. 31. Interview with Yablonski; interview with James; interview with Bank; Peterson, Coaltown Revisited, p. 105. 32. Interview with James. 33. Ibid.; interview with Yablonski. There was another reason for supporting Miller. A three-way race between Trbovich, Miller, and Pysell might produce a deadlocked convention. Several observers saw that as a potentially dangerous situation because these "people hadn't had that much experience working with each other. You didn't have a very natural cement." Given the tensions already evident at the convention, a deadlock might result in "the very bad spectacle of the reform wing of the mine workers engaged in barroom brawl" at the convention. Selecting a winning ticket would also eliminate the threat of a deadlock. Interview with Bethell. 34. Interview with Yablonski 35.Ibid. 36. Confidential statements of MFD participants; Primack, "Miners For Democracy," p. 787. 37. Confidential statement of an MFD participant; The Miner's Voice, June 1972, p. 3. 38.Ibid. 39. Ibid.; interview with Trbovich; interview with Patrick. 40. Ibid.; interview with Trbovich; interview with Miller; interview with James; interview with Stillman; Paul Nyden, "Black Coal Miners in the United States," Occasional Paper No. 15, American Institute for Marxist Studies (AIMS) (New York: AIMS, 1974), p. 57. After the election, Miller appointed Daniel the provisional president of District 29 until an election could be held. However, Daniel lost the election. 21 �TRANSNATIONAL CORPORATIONS AND THE MIGRATION OF INDUSTRIES IN LATIN AMERICA AND APPALACHIA Helen M. Lewis and Myles Morton Abstract The growing role of transnational corporations in the world is the subject of this study. Special comparisons are made between their activities in Latin America, particularly Brazil and Peru, and Appalachia and the rural South. The analysis concludes with suggestions of community and worker response to the changing shape of industry. The pace and extent of multinational activity is increasing. Corporations are changing the nature of their activity or entering a new stage and, thereby, reshaping the competitive context which portends enormous consequences for communities and workers in America/Appalachia. Our paper is designed to stimulate discussion and will deal with aspects of multinational activity under the following headings: I. The nature of transnationals and the direction of change in their activities. II. Understanding the process: dependency and colonialism models. III. Development in Latin America (Brazil and Peru). IV. Similarities and differences of development in Appalachia and Latin America (Brazil and Peru). V. What difference does this perspective make in Appalachia, and how can communities and workers most effectively organize in response to the changing shape of industry? I. The nature of transnationals and the direction of change. I have long dreamed of buying an island owned by no nation and of establishing the world Headquarters of the Dow Company on truly neutral ground of such an island, beholden to no nation or society. -Carl A. Gerstacker, chairman of Dow Chemical Company 1 The growth of multinational corporations or transnationals represents a new stage in capitalist development and poses new problems for third world and exploited regions, internal peripheries or colonies, such as Appalachia. Transnationals can also turn whole countries into "Appalachias" or "Latin Americanize" the United States. The international corporation has interests separate and distinct from the interests of every government including its own government of origin. The dependence of the leading United States based corporations on foreign profits has been growing greatly since 1964. United States corporations have been shifting more and more of their assets abroad: about one third of the chemical industry, one third of the Pharmaceuticals, three fourths of the electrical industry, and two fifths of the consumer-goods industry. 2 Although the United States is still the dominant transnational, Germany, Japan, France, Holland, and Great Britain are actively involved. Some of these are investing in the United States at the rate of 15 percent a year. 3 What is happening is not just the old pattern of runaway industries looking for new raw materials or cheap labor, although that is part of the total process. The industrial system is changing from national or regional operations 22 �to a globally integrated production system. The large corporations are developing a global grid of producing subsidiaries which utilize labor, raw materials, markets, and political systems throughout the world. It is estimated that by 1985, three hundred giant multinationals will produce more than one half of the world's goods and services." This triumph of multinationals is made possible by jet aircraft, international telecommunications, and computers. Some of the characteristics of transnationals are: 1. The corporations are large, capital intensive, technologically oriented and managerially intense. They are looking for greater growth and profitability through world markets. 2. They seek growth centers -- countries which are developing and willing to cooperate politically and economically and follow the capitalist path. 3. Global corporations have destroyed the concept of market. They conduct most transactions with themselves. 4. Profit maximization is the major guiding principle. Decisions are based on hard, cold business facts. 5. They develop global standardization of business procedures and measures, and a uniformity in work habits, products, and services. 6. Corporations transform production techniques to make for manufacturing flexibility: shifting tooling, interchangeable parts, and multiple sources of goods. 7. The internationalization of the division of labor allows the rational placement of plants according to type of labor available. The experience of the Ford Motor Company in Europe demonstrates the advent of this sort of manufacturing flexibility. Ford developed a uniform European car with standardized interchangeable parts, thereby making manufacturing flexibility possible. They placed the labor intensive assembly in countries with the lowest labor costs, and the engines and more complicated parts where a skilled labor force existed. In addition, multiple sources existed for each component; so that if there was labor trouble in one source, overtime at the other source could keep assembly lines going. Assembly was placed in Saarlous, Germany, which had high unemployment and a concentration of migrant workers dependent on the employer to stay in the country. Wildcat strikes were illegal as well. The Ford plant could rely on the needs and fears of the workers to ensure docility, and on the involuntary scab labor of migrant workers. In addition to manufacturing flexibility and internationalization of the division of labor, there has been a revolution in production technique. A transformation of the production process has occurred, encouraged by the development of smaller cars. It has resulted in new machines, new plants and new routines, more robots (Unimate Welders), highly automated machines, and the use of shifting tooling (including computer tapes) which can be transferred to a job site to replace labor or avoid labor disputes.5 8. They have shaken off traditional sources of countervailing power: outgrown trade unions, consumer groups, and local and national governments. 9. Nations now compete for corporations and use their legal and financial resources, raw materials, and labor to attract foreign capital for development. 10. The free flow of goods, investments, and technology may eventually 23 �equalize standards of living and wage scales. In each country where a corporation concentrates wealth, the gap between rich and poor widens. 11. Transnational use foreign countries to avoid ideological barriers to sales-i.e., weapons sales by Brazil. Carl A. Gerstocker, chairman of Dow Chemical, told a White House Conference on Industrial Worlds Ahead: We appear to be moving in the direction of what will not really be multinational or international companies as we know them today but what we might call "Anational" companies-companies without any nationality, belonging to all nationalities.6 12. Migration of industries or "going transnational" is encouraged when big changes in production are needed. These give an industry the impetus to move to a more congenial environment to recoup capital investment sooner. Changes which facilitate or encourage companies to go international are: a. Modernization of existing facilities such as oil refineries or steel mills. b. Installing environmental safeguards or changing to pollution-free procedures. c. Requirements for new safety devices. d. New or different products being introduced. e. Major changes in design (large cars to small cars). f. The saturation of a market, as with the ratio of one car per two persons in the United States, prompting the development of markets elsewhere. g. Decline or depletion of a resource such as gasoline for cars — and the subsequent move to a locale with the resources or substitute (i.e., land for gasahol). An example of such a business exodus is U.S. Steel in Youngstown, Ohio, which is closing down and investing in more profitable areas such as oil, chemicals, and banking. In 1974-79, the company spent only half the $7.6 billion needed to maintain plant and equipment. They refused to modernize and closed. It was "too old to save." No major expenditures to modernize were made after World War II. In order for the plant to be rebuilt, the government would now have to subsidize the industry, grant tax concessions, restrict imports, and ease pollution controls. While the government puts money in to rebuild the industry, the company can still use its own money to diversify and buy into other industries, a policy aimed at taking nothing less than the largest possible profit margin. II. Understanding the process: dependency, underdevelopment, colonialism. Latin American scholars have developed several models to explain the role of transnationals in Latin America and the development of underdevelopment in peripheral societies. Some of these theories have influenced Appalachian scholars.7 Andre Gunder Frank's essays on the development of underdevelopment emphasize the relationship between transnationals and patterns of development in Latin America. He concludes that transnational development has resulted in a dependency relationship (subjection and economic dependencies) and a transformation of the class structure and culture. Transnationals support the class interests of the local dominant bourgeoisie who make and change policy to support dependence. Local capitalists produce an unbalanced, dis24 �articulated economy, as well as repressive and economically active central governments. F. H. Cordosa also points to the ways the dominant class tries to impose upon the whole society that form of domination which serves their own interest, and Samir Amin in Accumulation and World Scale further points to the asymmetrical relationships resulting in the dependent country where there is a distortion toward exports and unequal specialization to the advantage of the dominant country. Dos Santos also comments on the structure of dependence.' Most often dependent countries use harsh repression to keep labor working and to cut down on peasant revolt or worker uprisings. The state becomes very involved in the economy and uses its power to serve the interests of the capitalists and to insure a favorable investment climate. Foreign investors make alliances with conservative agrarian and military elites and help reactionary groups control the state. This state of dependence is natural to the economic system of transnational: monopolistic control of large-scale capital and complex technology which leads to unequal development. It benefits few and results in misery and social marginalization for many. Andre Gunder Frank points to the difference between earlier colonialism and exploitation by transnational capitalism.9 The earlier form of exploitation was colonialism with outside countries controlling and exploiting raw materials. The industries were largely agricultural or extractive: minerals, timber, coffee, bananas, and sugar cane. Earlier colonialism was not interested in using the area as a market for goods. It sought only to control and exploit the mineral and agricultural products without seeking to industrialize the area. The transnational, however, wants to industrialize the country, internationalize the market, and orient the production toward high income consumption to develop and support a middle class market. III. Development in Latin America: Brazil and Peru. The "Brazilian Model" of development has been praised by development economists. Also called the "Brazilian Miracle," it has been characterized by a rapid rise in gross national product and a heavy emphasis on foreign investment through multinationals. The greatest growth was between 1968 and 1974. By 1978, Brazil was the ninth largest automobile producer in the world. It exports both parts and finished vehicles, having increased export from $7.9 million in 1969 to $514 million in 1976. Brazil began encouraging automobile development in 1956, hoping to promote a local industry. However, it created no obstacles or restrictions on operation for foreign capital and provided tax incentives and subsidies. There was cooperation between the transnationals, the Brazilian bourgeoisie, and state capital. However, there was little development until 1964 when the military regime "stabilized" the work force by destroying the working class radical movement, neutralizing unions, and mandating sacrifice on the part of the workers. The new labor climate, with a quiescent labor force, attracted industrialists, and both Brazilian and foreign capital investments increased to produce a big boom with spectacular profits. United States investments increased five hundred percent between 1964 and 1977. Labor costs were kept very low, but income of the middle class technical staff increased to provide a local consumer market for cars and other goods. In the process there was a concentration of production and many local entrepreneurs were forced out as too small or inefficient to compete. The state joined with foreign investors in joint ventures. In addition to automobiles there has been a big increase in chemical manufacturers and weapons. Brazil exports $500 million a year in weapons-missiles, 25 �tanks, tank destroyers, amphibious landing vehicles. The government does not restrict resales, there are no ideological strings, and the equipment is low cost and designed for less well trained soldiers.10 In petrochemicals Brazilians have received new Inter American Bank loans to increase production. They are producing ethylene, propylene, benzene, and butadiene to further produce thermoplastics and synthetic rubber. They also produce PVC (polyvinyl chloride), styrene, and polystyrene. Union Carbide, Dow, Solvay, Phillips, and Koppers are involved. Benzene, PVC, and butadiene are cancer-causing. Many other companies produce health hazards for workers and the community. As environmental and health protection legislation limits production in the United States and other western countries, the industries are moved to less-developed and less regulated countries. Third world nations are being used as dumping grounds for hazardous products and polluting industries." Aldrin, dieldrin, ehptochlor, and chlordane are banned in the United States but are made for export and come back to the country on imported foods. Of United States pesticide manufacture, 40 percent is for export. To avoid regulations, much asbestos manufacture has moved to Mexico, India, and Brazil. As a beneficiary country, Brazil has a preferential tariff on United States imports, and some of the asbestos textiles enter the United States free or at very low tariffs. Brazil also provides a hazard-pay increment for workers in hazardous industries. If the hazard is controlled or eliminated, the pay increases are discontinued. By making hazardous work economically attractive and by making workers suffer pay cuts in exchange for improved working conditions, the law undermines all efforts to improve working conditions in hazardous industries. Brazil like many other Latin American countries has new coalitions of young military officers, young businessmen, and technicians—all middle-class, foreign educated, dedicated to modernization, development, and efficiency. This cadre has given rise to authoritarian governments with technocratic and development aspirations.'2 In Brazil the military has embraced industrialization and developed an authoritarian regime to promote the development process and work for full integration of the Brazilian economy in the structure of international capitalism. In addition to the increase in manufacturing in Brazil, multinational corporations are carving out "homesteads" from hundreds of square miles in the Amazon, dispossessing and destroying native populations." One example of multinational entrepreneurship supported and encouraged by the government may be seen in Daniel K. Ludwig, an American businessman, who owns three million acres of the Amazon. He is investing one half billion dollars in planting rice and Cmelina trees for pulp paper. He moved a power plant and paper mill from Japan, and the Brazilian techno-military bureaucracy works with Ludwig to bring growth to the unexplored areas, to increase reserves of foreign currency, and to attract foreign investors. He has been allowed to move out Indian populations, which has resulted in their death. Approximately eight thousand Yanomamo Indians have been displaced by road construction crews, lumbering and mining companies, and prospectors who have brought environmental destruction and disease. A huge network of roads has now opened up the Amazon. Ludwig has created an agro-industrial enclave disregarding the ecology of the region or the needs of the people. The lumber project may disrupt the native forest and the costly rice project may bring about a food shortage. The Amazon area also contains the world's largest reserves of iron ore and enormous amounts of manganese, as well as oil, timber, gemstones, and hydro- 26 �electric potential. A recent bank loan is financing a floating sawmill to move up and down the river exploiting the timber. Agricultural production has been diminishing for the past thirteen years as Brazilians have concentrated on producing commercial crops for export. Both urban and rural workers are malnourished. Emphasis has also been placed on airports and roads, so transnational may export their products. Poor farmers, semi-proletarians, and peasants have a hard time surviving. Even the middle farmers and rich land owners are losing power to transnational and Brazilian corporations. Five percent of the rural population owns 69 percent of all cultivated land. Large sugar and coffee growers are allies of transnationals. In expansion and modernization of exports, industries, agriculture, land, and capital is concentrated in fewer and fewer hands and more and more small producers have gone under. Concentration and modernization have resulted in a large number of landless, dispossessed peasants who work as day laborers. They are now the mass of unemployed who live in slums of towns and cities. They were expelled from plantations by owners to avoid minimum wage for agricultural laborers. They are highly exploited and receive fifty cents to one dollar per day. Agriculture is developing in Latin America capitalist style, and millions are being impoverished in the process. Brazil is the world's second largest exporter of food while 40 percent of its population suffers from malnutrition.14 Northeastern farm workers in large sugar cane operations suffer from malnutrition, and 66 percent of the children die before age five. The worker must work twice as long as in 1964 to earn enough for food. There has been recent labor activity, and the plantation owners, for the first time, have signed a labor agreement with 250,000 laborers who have been virtual slaves to the owners. These are some of the negative effects of the large agribusiness development in Brazil: 1. Marginalizes the national investor. 2. Introduces foreign technology and know-how (capital intensive). 3. Creates unemployment for rural workers. 4. Displaces rural people. 5. Increases urban unemployment through regional migration of landless peasants. 6. Destroys small and middle farmers. 7. Proletarianizes the Brazilian rural labor. The "Brazilian miracle" has also produced great tensions and hardships for industrial workers. Brazilian industrial workers made sixty-six dollars a month in 1977. As Brazil concentrated income in the upper classes and controlled labor, the disparity between rich and poor increased, and repression became a necessary part of the development. Industry grew at the expense of the majority of the people. Even with strong control there was considerable unrest and numerous strikes broke out in 1978-79. The state has intervened in many ways to promote exports and enlarge or decrease local buying power depending on the import/export balance. Inflation was 75 percent in 1979, and Brazilian money was devalued by 30 percent to further increase exports and investments. Inflation has further resulted in a decline of real salary of the workers. In Peru one can see the ways in which international corporations must change local patterns of health care, farming, and diet in order to develop a consumer market for Pharmaceuticals, medicines, hospital-clinic-medical care equipment and supplies, fertilizers, pesticides, and processed foods. Peru has 27 �one of the oldest and most sophisticated non-Western "folk medicines" which serves a large proportion of the population, not only rural, but urban as well. The medicine relies heavily on local herbal prescriptions, and to change the population into consumers of Western goods, the local healers and herbalists must be discredited or retrained and credentialized. The first International Congress on Folk Medicines gave lip service to the great folk tradition but clearly came out for the superiority of scientific medicine. In many cases this official line is destroying the only available medicine and health care for the very poor. Retrained midwives now charge more and use sterile practices in non-sterile situations which are less safe than the traditional methods. The displacement of traditional healers by Western trained scientific practitioners, which happened in the United States over one hundred years ago, is now happening in Peru. There are some who are fighting against the invasion of petrochemical fertilizers and herbicides and are seeking to maintain traditional farming and nutrition practices, but the powerful advertising and popular appeal of processed foods, such as Pepsi, Coke and fast foods, is hard to counter without full support of the state. The many exhibits and demonstrations at agricultural fairs for fertilizers and pesticides compound the problem. IV. Similarities and differences of development in Appalachia and Latin America. Among the twenty-five largest United States' based transnational are companies familiar to Appalachia: Exxon, Gulf, Continental Oil, Eastman Kodak, Occidental, Union Carbide, Ford, DuPont, all of which own and operate mines and factories in the region. Appalachia and the rural South have been the traditional sources of cheap labor for runaway industries. Early, there was a great migration of New England textiles. When the industries needed modernizing, the old plants were closed and new plants built in the South, and the cheap southern labor paid for the remodeling. One of the first "foreign" transnationals, Bemberg, came to Tennessee for cheap labor, and others such as Enka followed to Tennessee and North Carolina. Appalachia has also been the source of raw materials, and the timber and coal were "developed" in the traditional colonialexploitation pattern by American and British companies, more recently joined by German and Japanese firms. Most of the coal companies have now been replaced by large transnational oil companies: Exxon, Gulf, Standard Oil, Continental; and the area is now being more thoroughly integrated into the international economy. In particular, we are seeing the coal industry integrated into the worldwide energy industry as large oil (energy) companies have bought out the coal companies. We see what looks like contradictory behavior: new mines being developed, mines closing, new growth expected, large numbers of miners unemployed, coal production increased in the West, a big push for synfuels investment by the Federal government. In terms of international energy corporation needs and goals, it makes sense. The Appalachian coal fields are being integrated into the international economy, and decisions are made in those terms: profit is being maximized, labor is being stabilized, the government is pushed to invest in expensive ventures, local elites are mobilized, and areas and communities and workers are traded off against each other. Beginning in the sixties, the area, which fit the colonial pattern of exploitation (export of raw materials and cheap labor), was geared up for more industrialization with the building of roads and infrastructure services by the Appalachian Regional Commission. The area was also developed as a market for consumer goods, and all the major retail stores and fast-food outlets came to Appalachia. There was an increase in local entrepreneurs, 28 �especially in strip mining, which cut in local capitalists, and there has been the development of technocrats and managers with the help of local colleges. An increase in income in the middle class has come about, but the poor have lost ground, and there are wider divisions between the rich and poor. Actually, the integration of the United States into the international economy is making the whole country into Appalachia, an underdeveloped society. Former industrialized communities of New England and the Midwest are now Appalachianized: exploited but not developed. Michael McKale sees the United States being "Latin Americanized" through the effects of wage leveling, a decreased standard of living, and growing lack of democratic participation." Manual labor operations are being exported to low-labor-cost countries, and the income distribution and trading patterns of the United States are beginning to resemble underdeveloped countries. The United States' major exports are agricultural products, timber, and coal-raw materials rather than finished products. There have been dramatic layoffs and plant closures in Detroit, Youngstown, and Pittsburgh. This is all part of the integration of the United States' industrial system into a modular global economy. As industries need to modernize, change style or product, or install pollution devices, it becomes profitable to move and make the changes (or avoid controls) in another country. Although Appalachia and the rural South may still be the recipients of some runaway industries which come for lower wages and docile (right-to-work, non-union) labor, other labor intensive industries are also leaving Appalachia and the South for cheaper labor in Taiwan, Hong Kong, Mexico, and Brazil. Chemicals and oil refineries are looking for clean, uncluttered land with less health or environmental controls in Mexico, Brazil, or other Latin American countries. As production workers are being displaced in the United States, there is some growth in managerial, research, and service jobs. Research and development planning still takes place in the home base of the transnationals. As transnationals, especially banking institutions, helped engineer a devaluation of the United States dollar, european transnationals began to invest more in the United States now own Borax, Bic, Ovaltine and Good Humor. Industrial wages in the United States are now iower than many European countries, and labor is forced to accept lower wages or no-strike, no-wage-increase deals to attract foreign industries such as VW to Pennsylvania and West Virginia. States and regions now compete against each other to attract industries and advertise their low labor costs and tax incentives. Although there are some specific similarities between Appalachia and third world countries-such as, (1) absentee ownership of industry and land, (2) receivers of runaway plants, (3) low local tax base because of tax incentives, (4) development of native managers to control for the owners, (5) development of a consumer market, (6) growing control of labor by legislation, injunction, court orders and state police to provide a stable labor force-it is best to see Appalachia/America in the context of global capitalism. Appalachia remains as a part of the United States, home base of many transnationals, and shares with others some of the surplus value derived from the exploitation of lowerpaid workers in other parts of the world in terms of cheaper consumer goods and exported raw materials. We are part of the home base of transnationals and are called on to assist with their operations in foreign countries. In Latin America the United States has been involved militarily and economically since the Monroe Doctrine in 29 �1823. All military interventions are accompanied by the establishment of financial institutions, including, the Export-Import Bank, 1934; the World Bank and International Monetary Fund, 1944; the Alliance for Progress, 1961 - all developed to assist corporate ventures of the United States in Latin America. The government sometimes ends up underwriting loans or investments both at home and abroad (i.e., Lockheed, Chrysler). The World Bank, UNESCO, and other international organizations also become agents, perhaps inadvertently, for the multinational developers, and work to pave the way or facilitate their entry into third world countries. The United Nations Economic Commission on Latin America has pushed for development of roads, power, and basics for heavy industrialization to foster economic independence and national development, but the penetration and control by multinationals makes economic independence impossible. The consolidation of capitalism on an international basis requires armies, diplomatic corps, state bureaucracies, the World Bank, the International Monetary Fund, and international planning and coordination which is the role of the Trilateral Commission. Carter may be considered the first multinational president, since he was a member of the Trilateral Commission and is considered by many as "their candidate." The Trilateral Commission was formed in 1973 by a group of bankers, corporate leaders, and intellectuals from the United States, Japan and Western Europe. Zbigniew Brzezinski was named director and David Rockefeller was financial backer. They are equipped to take over bankrupt cities, as they did New York City, as well as nations. When they do so, they organize the government efficiently and gear it to serve the business community. Social services are cut to a minimum. Corporations are now in a position to have cities, states and countries compete for their "jobs." The local government is asked to foot the bill on roads, water systems, airport modernization, and transit systems, in order to make development possible. The government may also be asked to provide tax relief, subsidies, buildings, and training for the labor force. The corporations pit countries against countries, and within countries, states or counties or regions against each other, to provide cheaper labor, better tax relief, and more subsidies than the next locale. Corporations also want the state to use welfare policies to resolve social conflicts and protect the corporate system. V. What difference does this perspective make in Appalachia, and how can communitites and workers most effectively organize in response to the changing shape of industry? In Appalachia we have just begun to understand the nature of corporate control, outside ownership, and the effects of exploitation. Now we must try to understand what it means to be integrated into the international capitalist system. This seems far more complex; yet we must try to understand how this reality changes the nature of the problems and the ways of dealing with them. We will continue to have large numbers of absentee owners of land and minerals and industries. A recent newspaper article reported that large timber owners are returning to the area to do again what they did before, as mountains have been reforested and can provide a new crop. Oil, gas, and uranium will be developed along with the coal, since the energy conglomerates own it all. We are now the site of runaway or expanding industries from other countries such as the VW plant in Charleston. As our wages decline, unions weaken, and state and local governments and unions "sell" their workers. This trend can be expected to continue. As a region, Appalachia will compete with other regions and the thirteen Appalachian states will compete with each 30 �other for runaway industries and new industries. Workers may be able to take over some discarded plants, but will be left with outmoded, unsafe, and unprofitable operations and the burden of competing with the newer operations from other parts of the world. We can expect government services to become fewer and weaker as the state takes on a role of caretaker and opts for a free market economy. The government will use welfare, social services, and education to serve the needs of business, and will be encouraged to invest in expensive developments such as synfuels or other energy development. We can expect growing attempts to control the labor force through "union busting" or more sophisticated legal maneuvers and psychological strategies. The large oil companies seek to employ more technically oriented, skilled middle-class miners to avoid militant trade unionists. The destruction of coal camps and homogeneous communitites is designed to produce less militant workers. The "line" is that one is not a coal miner but a skilled technician, and class consciousness is destroyed or avoided. The use of Appalachia as a market and the development of a local bourgeoisie to operate banks, fast-food franchises, markets, and regional offices has led to a growing role for local colleges in the training of managers for industry. The developing middle class must be trained, and colleges and universities have received funds and encouragement to meet the needs. As a result, the business education programs are the largest programs in almost every school, replacing teacher training. Business and economics are being merged in some places as skills and "right thinking" economics are taught together. Again, Appalachian colleges are serving the needs of the economic system in educating the local bourgeoisie who serve the needs of the multinationals which employ them. Today they are not "teachers" but "managers." Their adaptation to this role makes progressive social change more difficult. The rising middle-class managers are trained to serve the needs of their employers, with allegiances to the multinationals. It becomes much harder to identify the "outside exploiter." The semblance of prosperity keeps the middle class loyal, and it is more difficult to educate about global issues and problems. The Appalachia/American middle class receives dividends as they profit from the cheaper labor of third world countries and purchase low cost luxuries. Appalachian studies in Appalachian colleges have a responsibility to research and educate around these changes and the impliations of the integration of the region into the international economy. Cross-cultural studies are important and necessary. Workers in Appalachian industries need to understand their connections and kinship with workers in other parts of the world. The possibility of an international labor organization seems remote. Some argue that the internationalization of industry and labor forces makes possible linkages between workers all employed by the same company. While capital can defend itself against isolated, national laborers through multiple sourcing, an organized global work force could stop production worldwide." An international workers' organization could support workers' struggles against repressive regimes and fight against second-class status immigrant workers, no-strike legislation, and government mandated "sacrifice" on the part of the working class. There are some signs of change in Brazil. In 1978-79 workers at Brazilian autoworks struck for wage increases, trade union rights, job security, and democratization of the political system. The union bypassed the state bureaucracy and forced the firms to negotiate directly. The State control of labor was broken. 31 �The organization of an international work force would be difficult. Cultural and language differences are hard to overcome, but understanding the interrelationships and interdependencies is a first step. The development of coalitions of workers within Appalachia, especially in the energy field, would add great strength to the battles of coal miners, oil workers, and nuclear workers who are often employed by the same corporations. Such would be a first step for the region. Communication between communities and workers trying to deal with environmental and occupational health hazards would begin to develop international networks to fight such hazards. There is an urgent need for systematic monitoring and reporting of the national and worldwide movements of hazardous industries and hazardous wastes. In Appalachian studies, we must not limit our programs to the exotic, romantic Appalachian cultural history. It is important to develop pride in the region's rich heritage, but it is also important to see Appalachia as part of a worldwide process of development and change. We must deal with economic and political questions and build an understanding of what is happening in the region and how it is related to the global economic system. We also must try to influence our regional educational institutions to develop broader courses in political economy. They must not concentrate only in training managers and technicians to keep the system running, but must provide a broader education so the managers and technicians can understand what they are doing, why and to and for whorn. NOTES This paper grows out of a variety of contacts the authors have had with individuals in Latin America and Appalachia. Morton has been in communication with a number of non-formal educators in Latin America over the years and has been interested in the workers' and peoples' movements throughout the area. Various delegations of workers, educators, and religious workers have visited the Highlander Research and Education Center in New Market, Tennessee, a resource for community groups founded and directed by Morton, and through which Lewis has conducted programs in health care. In 1979 Morton visited Brazil, Argentina, and Peru, attending a conference called by the Catholic Bishops in Brazil, and in his visit met and talked with people concerned with the problems of domination and exploitation by multinational corporations. Together, Morton and Lewis attended an International Congress of Folk Medicine in Peru in October 1979, at which they met people from throughout South America and took the opportunity for travel in Peru. -Ed. 1. Carl A. Gerstacker quoted in Richard J. Barnet and Ronald E. Muller, Global Reach, The Power of the Multinational Corporations (New York: Simon and Schuster, 1974), p. 16. 2. Ibid., p. 56. 3. James Cook, "A Game Any Number Can Play," Forbes, June 25, 1979, pp. 49-55. 4. Harvey D. Shapiro, "Giants Beyond Flag and Country." New York Times Magazine, March 18, 1973, pp. 20-35, 32 �5. Merg Hainer and Joanne Koslofsky, Introduction to "Car Wars", NACLA 's* Latin America and Empire Report, July-August 1979, pp. 3-10; and Rick Knonish and Ken Mericle, "Mapping Out Auto: Latin AmericaWheels, Deals, and Class Struggle," Ibid., pp. 10-22. (*North American Congress on Latin America) 6. Shapiro, "Giants Beyond Flag and Country." 7. See Ph. D. dissertations by David Walls, Doug Arnett, and John Wells, and an Office of Technology Assessment report by Lee Balliet, "A Pleasing Tho' Dreadful Sight': Social and Economic Impacts of Coal Production in the Eastern Coalfields," Appalachian Center, University of Kentucky, 1978. For a review of theorists see Steven Jackson, Bruce Russett, Duncal Snidal and David Sylvan, "An Assessment of Empirical Research on Dependencia," Latin American Research Review 14 (1979): 7-28. 8. Theotonio Dos Santos, "The Structure of Dependency," American Economic Review, May 1970, pp. 231-36. 9. Frank, Andre Gunder. Latin America: Underdevelopment or Revolution, (New York: Modern Reader, 1969). 10. News articles in The Times of the Americas, December 1979, and January 1980. 11. Barry I. Castleman, "The Export of Hazardous Factories to Developing Nations," International Journal of Health Services 9 (1979). 569-606. 12. Victor Alba, "Technocrats and Militarists, "A new 'Conquest' of Latin America," Secolas 1, March 1970. 13. Marcos Arruda, H. de Sousa, and C Afonso, The Multinational Corporations and Brazil (Toronto: Brazilian Studies, L.A. Research Unit, 1975). 14. Roger Burbock and Patricia Flynn, "Seeds of Hunger-Roots of Rebellion," NACLA's Latin America and Empire Report, January-February, 1978, pp. 2-10. 15. "For a Society Overcoming Domination," Project Secretariat, International Study Days, 101, Paris, January 1980, p. 11. 16. Merg Hainer and Joanne Koslofsky, "The World Car—Shifting into Overdrive," NACLA's Latin America and Empire Report, July-August, 1979, pp. 22-37. 33 �APPALACHIA AND THE THIRD WORLD: ECO-DEVELOPMENT AS AN ALTERNATIVE IN THE NEW ECONOMIC ORDER by Gene Wilhelm, Jr. Abstract This essay proposed that it is only reasonable and just that everyone on the planet earth is entitled to a basic minimum share of the earth's air, water, land, and mineral resources. This eco-share, or minimum level of living for everyone, is best expressed in social rather than economic terms. The concepts of eco-development and eco-growth are positive approaches to solving the basic needs ofAppalachia and and the Third World. They concentrate upon the positive viable assets of particular environments and local resources, both human and natural, for meeting the basic needs of the people without altering or destroying the environment. INTRODUCTION The twentieth century has been a period of unprecedented economic growth and technological progress which, while bringing benefits to many people, also have caused severe social and environmental consequences.' Inequality between the poor and the rich among and within nations is still growing and there is ample evidence of increasing deterioration of the biophysical environment on a world-wide scale.2 Such conditions affect all of humanity and the entire ecosphere but are epitomized by Appalachia and the Third World. 3 When discussing the relationship between Appalachia and the Third World, it is evident that there are important differences between regions and countries, and between poor countries and poor regions in wealthy countries." The simple truth is that the world is not environmentally homogeneous. Countries differ in their renewable and non-renewable resources. Some nations always will be struggling against poor soils, unpredictable climates, and extremes of heat and cold. Others never will be self-sufficient in food, energy, or raw materials.' The environmental inequalities in the world are paralleled by socioeconomic and political ones, which are a major obstacle to the satisfaction of basic human needs, especially in Appalachia and the Third World, and a barrier to the harmonious development of mankind. 6 As Schumacher observed: One of the unhealthy and disruptive tendencies in virtually all the developing countries is the emergence, in an ever more accentuated fashion, of the "dual economy," in which there are two different patterns of living as widely separated from each other as two different worlds. It is not a matter of some people being rich and others being poor, both being united by a common way of life: it is a matter of two ways of life existing side by side in such a manner that even the humblest member of the one disposes of a daily income which is a high multiple of the income accruing to even the hardest working member of the other. 7 34 �The relief of the poverty affecting so large a part of humanity is hampered by the present concentration of the world's economic strength in the developed nations and by the considerable waste of natural resources there. The western nations, Japan, and Russia, for example, account for only one fourth of the world's population but use 90 percent of the entire world's natural resources. The United States of America, with 6 percent of the world's population, uses over one third of the world's resources and produces half of the world's pollution.' As a result, the typical American consumer has from twenty-five to fifty times as great an environmental impact on our world life-supporting sytems as a peasant in any developing country.' Therefore, it is the thesis of this essay that regardless of such environmental, social, economic, and political differences, Appalachia and the Third World are members in the "commonwealth of poverty, dependency, maldevelopment, and ecology."10 Further, it is only reasonable and just that everyone on the planet earth is entitled to a basic minimum share of the world's air, water, land, and mineral resources. This eco-share, or minimum level of living for everyone, is best expressed in social rather than economic terms. In this regard the concepts of eco-development and eco-growth are positive approaches to solving the basic needs of Appalachia and the Third World. They concentrate upon the positive viable assets of particular environments and local resources, both natural and human, for meeting the basic needs of the people without altering or destroying their environment." DEVELOPMENT THEORY Debate over the nature of change in Appalachia and the Third World has been growing among scholars since the 1960's. One scholar has examined recently the contemporary explanatory models of Appalachian poverty and underdevelopment and has drawn an analogy between peripheral countries in the Third World system and peripheral regions, such as represented by Appalachia, within developed nations. 12 Many social scientists, in fact, have questioned recently the so-called "development-modernization paradigm." That particular model, developed in the 1950s and refined during the 1960s, was based, among other things, on the belief that people in an undeveloped country or region could attain a modern outlook through education and work. It stressed the development of institutions in which the modernized citizens could lead their country or region from their traditional attitudes into a "westernized" society. The role of missionaries, teachers, health personnel, engineers, and lawyers in this process has been evident both in Appalachia and the Third World. 13 The modernization theorists argues, in essence, that when certain conditions involving education, employment, and organized institutions prevailed, a society would begin the process of moving from a traditional to a modern condition. The development-modernization approach was challenged in the late 1960s, especially by leftist social scientists who argued that it put too much emphasis on individuals and institutions in isolation and ignored the economic and historical conditions under which social change took place. They advanced, instead, the "dependency theory," which stressed the dominance of Third World countries by the capitalist economics of the West, and argued that those economics prevented developing nations from taking independent action. In its simplest form, the dependency theory maintains that developing countries are puppets incapable of controlling their own destiny. 35 �Neither the modernization nor dependency models have adequately explained the process of socioeconomic and political change in the Third World or in Appalachia, for that matter. The modernization theory places inordinate attention on the borrowed institutions that are bought to a society rather than on the exerience of the society receiving those structures. On the other hand, the dependency model suggests that all Third World nations are locked in irrevocably as agents of a global system. However, it has been shown in Iran, as elsewhere, that such nations can and do revolt from the global system. On close examination many concepts, attitudes, and values expressed in these two paradigms are found in the subculture of poverty, regional development, and internal colonialism models often applied to Appalachia.'4 Most recently a wide-ranging debate has materialized over different paths to development. Third World countries are talking about "self-reliant change," or "culturally rooted change," or "alternative development." In fact, there has been a growing demand, especially since 1972, for a coordinated and comprehensive world approach to the problems of poverty, food and nutrition, trade and commerce, investment, industry, and technology." This, in turn, has led to developing countries demanding fundamental structural changes. The developing world does not want a new deal but a new order. It wants an organized system of new relationships based on a global recognition and acceptance of the principle of interdependence in economic influence, collective responsibility, and shared decision-making." The recent "awakening" among people of Appalachia demands similar recognition of authority. Thus the United Nations Declaration for a New International Economic Order (NIEO) was proclaimed on May 9, 1974, at the Sixth Special Session of the UN General Assembly in order to mitigate the economic difficulties of the developing nations by immedite and effective international measures. Again, the NIEO was reinforced in September 1975 at the Seventh Special Session of the UN General Assembly." The NIEO demands were essentially: transfers of technology from the West; price indexing; energy development; either a debt moratorium or a minimum of an additional one billion dollars in aid for the poorest nations; and many associated programs. Viewed in detail, the NIEO appeared to be a drastic solution. A black writer who favored the changes stated candidly at the time: "The demands are so fundamental that they pose very grave problems for the future of capitalism and ultimately for the political stability of the constitutional democracies of the West." 18 Proponents of the NIEO also called for a new international standard of conduct in law as well as in economics and politics. The very fabric of international law was seen to be biased in favor of the developed world. In the economic arena, for example, it was suggested that the terms of international trade be changed and controls of the conduct of multinational corporations made more comprehensive. Politically, greater power of decision was to be given to the poorer, newer nations through increased authority wielded by international organization." Although a confrontation occured between the developed and Third World nations in 1975-1976 through a series of encounters in the United Nations, a new terrain of international relations has been gradually revealed. Both the developed and Third World nations seem to have moderated their positions somewhat in extended and difficult negotiations, but it is too early to know the final outcome. Regardless, even if the NIEO could be fully implemented, there is still an apparent lack of awareness, sensitivity, and comprehension on the part of all nations about world ecosystems and man's role in them and too much emphasis on economic determinism. 36 �ECOLOGY VERSUS ECONOMICS In determing the appropriate size and growth rate in development, we encounter some of the basic differences between economic and ecological viewpoints. Different ecological cycles have different optimal rates, which must not be exceeded if we are to avoid overload or breakdown. But the tendency in our present linear economic system is to maximize growth rates by using and abusing these natural cycles in our air, water, and land. As the rate of production increases, supplies of finite resources diminish and the amount of waste and heat pouring into the air, water, and land increases." To prevent ecosystem breakdown, economists would pay maintenance costs while continuing to increase production rates. Ecologists agree that this solution would work if mankind had infinite resources, infinite energy, unlimited funds, were not governed by the second law of energy (which automatically yields more environmental disorder or entropy per unit of order established by man), and had a clearer idea of the actual limits of the ecosphere.21 To be both economical and ecological, man must stablize, not maximize, growth by deliberately operating some environmentally disruptive activities (such as strip mining in Appalachia) at a slower rate so that energy consumption is reduced. Further, optimum growth for private profit is not necessarily the optimum for the social economy and quality of life, because many external costs, such as pollution, are shifted to the consumer. The "ideal goal" is simultaneously to optimize both growth and the quality of life for all. 22 This ideal focuses attention on two other major differences between economics and ecology: a difference in time perspective and a difference over the best means for justly distributing the world's resources and wealth. Economics is centered on the short term while ecology is focused on the long term. Economics deals with day-to-day activities and thus economists find it difficult making five-year plans. Yet ecologist insist that 25, 50, or 100-year plans be made. Many western economists think that the best way to get a reasonable distribution of the world's wealth and resources to the poor is to increase the economic growth rates of the industrialized countries (maximizing the linear system for a few), so that the spillover that trickles down from this growth will raise the absolute level of living for everyone. Ecologists challenge this view. Because resource supplies and allowable recycling rates cannot exceed certain natural limits, man must find a better, quicker, and safer way for fairly distributing the world's wealth than letting it trickle down. The closer man comes to the limits of the system, the less effective the conventional cure for poverty becomes, and the more maldistribution of wealth becomes the key environmental and political issue. It appears that all existing economic systems (capitalism, socialism, and communism) have the same fatal flaw: the need to increase growth and pollution continually. Increasing pollution, for example, is a problem in both industrialized capitalist countries and industrialized socialist and communist countries. In truth, as Echeverria states, "the destruction of the environment is a universal tragedy." 23 The author continues: Much of today's problems arise from the concept that humanity's first priority is economic growth. Growth we must have...But a nation's growth is more than the abstract and complacent statistics of Gross National Product. Rather than this narrow economic growth our own objective must be an all-embracing human development.... 37 �Economic growth with its meaningless figures has come to dominate our social mentality. It has created one of the most serious problems of our century: the acceptance of natural destruction as an inevitable sacrifice to economic development....At present we are sold ecology in tiny doses, like pills from a chemist. This is a totally inadequate response. We need a truly ecological programme, one which ceases to regard our planet as just another consumer object. 24 DEVELOPING A NEW MODEL Present growth patterns and practices are self-destructive and cannot be sustained. On the other hand, there is no society that is likely to accept "no growth" as an option. The only real alternative then is a new approach to growth, what I call "eco-growth," both in developed and developing societies. The eco-growth approach is based upon removal of the artificial and selfdefeating conflict between ecology and-economics which is now built into our system of economic decision-making. Man must make ecology and economics the allies they can and should be in evolving an approach to growth, the prime goal of which will be to produce a better quality of life for people.2' A promising approach towards environmentally sound eco-development and eco-growth is the application of the concept of self-help in Appalachia and the Third World. This is designed to aid the people of a developing region of a country or the world by relying as much as possible on local resources, both natural and human, to meet the basic needs of the people without harming their environment.26 After all, development does not start with goods; it starts with people and their education, organization, and discipline. If aid is given to introduce certain new economic activities, these will be beneficial and viable only if they can be sustained by the already existing educational level of fairly broad groups of people, and they will be truly valuable only if they promote and spread advances in education, organization, and discipline.27 One must look outside the developed and Third World nations for an example of present-day eco-development and eco-growth. The Peoples' Republic of China has to a considerable degree been able to integrate ecological and social objectives i her economic development strategy. This has been a natural outcome of a s tematic plan to mobilize large numbers of people and make them participate in the development process and influence the necessary changes.2' China's development strategy includes two concepts which are almost lacking in most other developing countries where the approaches to economic development have been heavily influenced by models from already industrialized countries. First, China's manpower has been efficiently mobilized in nearly all spheres of economic activity, but in particular for rural development. Second, China has systematically utilized local resources and waste materials of all kinds in order to optimize the economic results. The mobilization of large numbers of people for various development projects has its basis in a system of well-organized local planning with a considerable degree of local control. This has established an environment which can efficiently control some of the undesired effects of economic development and growth and provide long-term viability for modern technology. 29 Underlying the Chinese concepts of local planning and control of development are at least three major factors which were nearly recognized by the central government. First, the natural environments within each locality 38 �(region, county, commune) have differences in climate, topography, soil, vegetation, and mineral resources. Naturally these have important implications for economic and social planning. Second, there is no uniformity in the level of economic and social development and identical treatment of the localities would lead to difficulties in determining the priorities. A third and possibly more important motivation for local planning lies in China's normative development strategy which stresses the improvement in the general well-being of people throughout the country, access to services, culture, educational opportunities, and a high degree of participation. The meaning of development consequently includes much more than mere economic growth. People become involved in the decision-making process and determine their own development priorities and strategies. The present Chinese view on environment and development is apparent in the following statement: Economic development and environmental protection are interrelated and promote each other. The former gives rise to the environmental problem and the latter constitutes an important condition for developing the economy; economic development increases the capability to protect the environment, and environmental improvement in turn promotes economic development. This is the independent relationship between the two. 30 This interaction is obvious in the area of irrigation and flood control, where the cumulative effect of massive farmland construction is now beginning to add a considerable degree of stability to China's agriculture. In the past five years, more than 100 million people in China have in the winter-spring seasons taken part in construction work to improve farmland and establish irrigation and drainage facilities. These rural masses, mainly organized by brigades and communes although coordinated at higher levels, have, on the average, been able to extend the irrigated area every year by more than 1.3 million hectares and achieved flood control in another 1.3 million hectares." Similarly, mass mobilization has been used for the successful eradication fo schistosomiasis. Here too, large numbers of people have been mobilized and organized to drain and collect the snail-infested muds and dispose of them in other places. In this way it has been possible to achieve an almost complete eradication with little or no use of chemicals. China's soil cover was extremely poor in many areas of the country when the new regime took over. In order to reduce the silt content in the rivers, it was necessary to plant trees or other types of vegetation so as to prevent soil erosion or sand drifting. This has been done on a very considerable scale, particularly after the introduction of the peoples' communes which made it possible to mobilize large rural manpower forces to improve conditions to their own long-term benefit. In fact, the area covered by trees and other forms of natural vegetation has almost doubled since 1949 when forests covered roughly 9 percent of the total land area. This would, of course, not have been possible if the bushes and tree saplings were collected for firewood. Consequently, the development of local coal mines and an efficient distribution of coal at low prices has been a major contributing factor." Making use of various types of waste products has parallels in almost all areas of Chinese economic planning. The use of night soil as fertilizer is wellknown and has until recently provided Chinese agriculture with a major share 39 �of added riutrients. The use of local resources and waste materials has immediate economic benefits aside from their ecological considerations. In sum, the Chinese leadership has opted for retaining a majority of the country's population in rural areas for a considerable period of time. Accordingly, the countryside has been provided with the necessary infrastructure and financial resources for self-sustained development. Eco-development and eco-growth demand that conservation become a way of life and incentives for it must be built into our economic system. In practical terms, this will mean a redesign of industrial systems in which the residues of one process become the raw materials of another. Technologies for recycling and reusing materials and abatement of pollution must be integrated into such systems, not merely added onto them. On the local, regional, national, and international levels, the eco-growth approach will require new dimensions of cooperation between one sector of society and another. It will require a revamping of the present system of arrangements and institutions to enable them to better support and serve the interests and aspirations of the developing world, whether it be in Appalachia or the Third World. A New International Economic Order is a necessity as much for the industrialized countries which are resisting it as it is for the developing countries which are pressing for it. The healthy functioning of our interdependent technological society requires the full participation and active cooperation of the people who live in the developing world. This dictates that we heed their demands for a more just and equitable share of the benefits which this modern technological civilization makes possible. Finally, we need an additional concept to help organize our affairs, one that would directly measure the quality to life resulting from our total activities and environment. Certainly this would require some subjective measurements. As one example of an attempt being made throughout the world to develop new means of measuring progress, the Overseas Development Council has established an index of the physical quality of life that uses infant mortality, life expectancy, and literacy as measures. The index shows, for example, that Sri Lanka, whose GNP per capita is near the bottom of the scale at $130, has a physical quality of life index of 83, well above the 67 average for the uppermiddle-income countries whose average GNP per capita is many times higher." Other authors have suggested a Gross National Quality Index in which we would list and put a price tag on all the "deficits" included in the GNP. The total of these undesirable effects would be subtracted from the GNP to obtain the Gross National Quality or GNQ." Fortunately, a small number of scholars are working on this crucial facet of eco-development.3! An eco-growth society will require important changes in the attitudes, values, and expectations of the people, particularly of the industrialized world and the more privileged sectors within the developing world. As Strong indicates: We must rediscover our communal values and downgrade our competitive drives. We must learn to applaud and look up to those who adopt lifestyles that are modest in terms of the amount of space they monopolize or the amount of materials and energy they consume; ostentatiously wasteful and indulgent living should become socially reprehensible in all our societies. There should be an acute sensitivity to all activities which create risks of damage to our natural heritage, or impair the quality of life for others. 36 40 �The new thinking and doing required for aid and development in Appalachia and the Third World must be different from the old because it will take basic needs of mankind seriously. It will not go on mechanically saying: "What is good for the rich nations certainly must be good for the poor." It will care for people because people are the primary and ultimate resource of any country. Development cannot be an act of creation; it cannot be ordered, bought, or planned. Development requires a process of evolution, education, organization, and discipline. It follows from this that development is not primarily a problem for economists, least of all for economists who follow the linear economic model so common today. Economists have their usefulness at certain stages of development, but only if the general guidelines of a development policy "to involve the entire local population" are already firmly established. 37 As Strong concluded:3' Today, for the first time in history, we do have the knowledge, the resources and the technology and management capacity to assure that every person on this planet has access to the basic resources and environmental conditions required for a good and satisfying life. Our future really turns now on whether we will have the enlightened moral and political will and the sense of our own ultimate self-interest that is needed to enable us to change our ways before it is too late. CONCLUSIONS What is urgently needed today is a New International Development Strategy that would examine, evaluate, and eventually select appropriate development patterns and lifestyles everywhere in the world. Such development patterns and lifestyles cannot be uniform for all countries or even all regions within countries. Since prevailing conditions differ from place to place and culture to culture, alternative approaches become necessary. What is at issue is not only the need for alternative approaches but also the need for a choice between them and the bases of such choice. It is clear that rational choices must stem from a process of harmonization of social aspirations, particularly of economic policies and considerations with environmental goals and objectives. If environment is thought of as the frame of the resource base available to man, development is the process by which resources are used to give man a better quality of life, a better environment. In short, substained development needs a sustained resource base. There is an emerging consensus in the United Nations Environment Programme that environmental protection and economic development are not only compatible but also interdependent and mutually reinforcing in character. Conflicts, options, and trade-offs are more apparent than real and exist only if objectives of both development and environmental protection are considered within an inadequate time frame. A certain poignancy is added to the situation by the fact that, while the developed countries have the technology and the financial means to retreat from a wrong decision, the developing countries have none. High consumption societies or sectors of societies in developed and developing countries must take stock of the world's nonrenewable resource base and the carrying capacity of the biosphere as a whole. It is becoming increasingly 41 �clear that the pressure on the resource base of the planet and the deterioration of the environment is multiplying at such a rate as to threaten an eventual col lapse of life-sustaining systems. The balance of responsibility, in this situation, would appear to rest more with the developed countries which account for the lion's share of the consumption of energy, minerals, and chemcials and also for a large share of pollution. Two of the essential steps needed for the realization of alternative, and hopefully more acceptable, development patterns and lifestyles for the next decade are being considered in 1980 by the UNEP: 1. A realistic, long-term, and truly scientific assessment of the risk and uncertainties involved in all processes of change which result from the interaction of man on life-supporting systems; and 2. Patterns of development and lifestyles, covered political, economic, and social structures, production and consumption patterns, transfer and adaptation of appropriate technology, and energy/resource use, are being identified. Through a series of seminars in various parts of the world, patterns can thus be geared to minimize or negate environmental damage and help avoid the emergence of hard options between economic and ecological considerations. NOTES 1. "The Belgrade Charter: A Global Framework for Environmental Education," Connect 1 (January 1976): 1. 2. The State of the Environment, 1976 (United Nations Environment Programme, Nairobi, Kenya); The State of the Environment: Selected Topics, 1977 (United Nations Environment Programme, Nairobi, Kenya); The State of the Environment: Selected Topics, 1978 (United Nations Environment Programme, Nairobi, Kenya); and The State of the Environment: Selected Topics, 1979 (United Nations Environment Programme, Nairobi, Kenya). 3 See David S. Walls, "Central Appalachia: A Peripheral Region within an Advanced Capitalist Society," Journal of Sociology and Social Welfare 4 (November 1976): 232-246; and David S. Walls, "Three Models in Search of Appalachian Development: Critique and Synthesis," a paper originally presented at the joint session of the Rural Sociological Society and the Society for the Study fo Social Problems, Montreal, August 25, 1974, and revised i May 1976. 4. John Friedman, "Poor Regions and Poor Nations," Southern Economic Journal 32 (April 1966): 465-470. 5. Lester R. Brown, The Twenty-Ninth Day (New York: W. W. Norton & Co., 1978), pp. 202-205. 6. See Luis Echeverria, "The Ecological Rights of Man," Uniterra (October 1978): 4-5 Echeverria was the President of Mexico (1970-1976) and "father" of the New International Economic Order. 7. E. F. Schumacher, Small Is Beautiful: Economics As If People Mattered (New York: Perennial Library, Harper & Row, 1975), p. 164. 8. G. Tyler Miller, Jr., Living in the Environment: Concepts, Problems, and Alternatives (Belmost, California; Wadsworth Publishing Co., 1975), p. 13. The author recently published a second edition (late 1979) of this book in which he states on p. 1:" . . .the 220 million Americans, who make up only 5 percent of our total (world) population, used about 35 percent of all our supplies and produced over one-third of all our artifical pollution last year." 42 �Regardless of the exact statistics, it is still obvious that the USA is singly most responsible for impairing our earth's life-supporting system. 9. Ibid., p. 13. 10. Wayne M. Clergern, "What is the Third World?" paper presented at the First National Conference on the Third World, Omaha, Nebraska, October 1977, p. 3. 11. "UNEP Paper Offers New Development Concepts," Uniterra (August 1977): 3. 12. Walls, "Three Models," pp. 1-74. 13. See Gene Wilhelm, Jr., "Folk Culture History of the Blue Ridge Mountains," Appalachian Journal 2 (Spring 1975) pp. 210-212; and Gene Wilhelm, Jr., "Appalachian Isolation: Fact or Fiction?" in An Appalachian Symposium, ed. J. W. Williamson (Boone, N.C.: Appalachian State University Press, 1977), pp. 77-90. 14. Walls, "Three Models," pp. 1-74. 15. "The New International Economic Order: Policy Implications for African Agriculture," Ninth FAO Regional Conference for Africa, Item 16 of the Provisional Agenda, Freetown, Sierra Leone, November 2-12, 1976, p. 1. 16. This plea started as early as the mid-1960s; see United Nations Conference on Trade and Development (UNCTAD), Towards a New Trade Policy for Development (New York: United Nations, 1964). 17. Clegern, "What is the Third World?," p. 13. 18. Preston Green, "The New World Economic Order: Capitalism's Greatest Challenge," First World: An International Journal of Black Thought 2 (Spring 1978): 6-10. 19. Joseph S. Nye and Robert Keohane, "Transnational Relations and World Politics: An Introduction," International Organization, No. 25 (1971), pp. 329-349. 20. Gene Wilhelm, Jr., "Eco-Development and'the New World Order," paper presented at the First National Conference on the Third World, Omaha, Nebraska, October 27-29, 1977, p. 6. 21. Miller, Living in the Environment, pp. 325-326. 22. Ibid., p. 326. 23. Echeverria, "The Ecological Rights of Man," pp. 4-5. 24. Ibid., p. 5. 25. Maurice F. Strong, "New Growth Policy," Uniterra (August 1978): 4-5. 26. "UNEP Paper Offers New Development Concepts," p. 3. 27. Schumacher, Small Is Beautiful, p. 168. 28. Jon Sigurdson, "Eco-Development Chinese Style," Uniterra 1 (November) 4-5. 29. Ibid., p. 4. 30. Kee-ping Chu, "Environment and Development," Peking Review, No. 20,1976. 31. Sigurdson, "Eco-Development Chinese Style," p. 5. 32. Ibid., p. 5. 33. Russell W. Peterson, "Impacts of Technology," Uniterra 4 (October 1979): 5. 34. U. S. Department of Health, Education, and Welfare, A Report On Measurement and the Quality of Life (Washington, D. C.: Government Printing Office, 1972). 35. Miller, Living in the Environment, p. 332. 36. Strong, "New Growth Policy," p. 5. 37. Wilhelm, "Eco-Development and the New World Order," p. 12. 38. Strong, "New Growth Policy," p. 5. 43 �THE ECONOMY OF WEST VIRGINIA AND THE OPPRESSION/LIBERATION OF WOMEN Rick Simon Betty Justice Abstract Women in West Virginia historically have participated in the paid labor force at a rate less than women in the United States as a whole and at a rate less than women in all other individual states. This fact is explained by the dominant influence of the coal industry on the state's economy. Women have been excluded from direct participation in the coal industry, but more significantly the structure of the industry industry hindered the development of a diversified economy which included work of the type traditionally performed by women. By June 1979, 50.7 percent of women in the United States sixteen years of age or older were in the paid labor force.' Unlike technology which creates an infrastructure and a potential for change in social relations, the emergence of women from the family into the paid labor force and the absorption of previous family economic functions into the commodity market necessarily change the very patterns of social life-how we spend time together, raise our children, have our fun-in fact our basic values. However, a discussion of the scope of such changes is not our object. Rather we want to examine a tiny aspect of this phenomenal change-the failure of West Virginia to conform to this pattern, in fact to lag to such an extent that it has for all of this century engaged less of its female population in the paid labor force than has the United States as a whole and for the most part at a rate less than all the individual states. (See Table I) To understand the female labor participation rate in West Virginia, we believe that it is necessary to analyze the role/oppression of women within the capitalist mode of production generally, i.e., the social organization of the economy and of social classes. Our view of the status of women within the capitalist mode of production is that: 1. The role of women in the capitalist mode of production has been in the home performing unpaid labor in the maintenance and reproduction of the society's labor power. Their role in the paid labor market has historically been that of a reserve army of labor. 2. Women, particularly since World War II, have increasingly been incorporated into the paid labor market; this increased participation is in part a response to changes in the structure and needs of capitalist production. 3. The history of women in West Virginia clearly illustrates the twofold oppression of women, as workers within the home and as wage laborers. 4. In Appalachia, particularly in the coal fields, there is also a relative oppression of women in the labor market. First, women have been excluded from employment in the largest and highest paying industry. Second and more significant in terms of women's current rate of participation in the paid labor market, the coal economy does not stimulate but actually hinders the development of a diversified economy which includes "women's work"-jobs in the clerical, service, sales, and light manufacturing occupations which account for the overwhelming proportion of women engaged in the paid labor force in the United States. 44 �Two conclusions follow from this analysis: 1. To increase the job opportunities for women in West Virginia, it is not enough to open up the traditional male occupations to women. Rather, to correct the labor force participation deficiency for women, it is necessary to restructure the entire economy. 2. In order to eliminate sexual oppression both in West Virginia and the United States as a whole, it is necessary to change the mode of production. This does not mean that women should submerge the goals of their sex, nor the immediate struggles for women's rights are unimportant, but rather that systemic problems are corrected only by systemic change. ROLE OF WOMEN IN THE CAPITALIST MODE OF PRODUCTION The capitalist system of production is characterized by wage labor wherein a worker sells time to an employer. In the labor process, a good or service is produced which may satisfy some social need but more importantly must be sellable in the marketplace at a profit, the motive force of the capitalist system of production. The analysis of the role of women within the society is therefore incomplete without an examination of their position in and relation to production for profit. The economic oppression of women under capitalism is twofold: "outside the market place" through the indirect production of profit in the home and "inside the market place" in the direct production of profit. Historically, under capitalism, the man has engaged in paid labor, earning an income to maintain a family of "workers." Women's labor, traditionally within the home, has been unpaid and officially considered "non-work" since it is performed outside the "market" context.2 However, women's work within the home has been a necessary function for the maintenence and continuance of capitalism. The woman within the home has played an important role in maintaining the workers who produce profit directly and a primary role in the physical and nutritive reproduction of the future labor force. "Every individual man is forced to use his wife's expenditure of herself in the family in order to 'earn' money in the form of wages. He is dependent for his survival on her. 3 The extent of this non-work has been estimated by the Chase Manhattan Bank to take 99.6 hours per week.4 By utilizing the unpaid services of the wife, the cost of reproducing and maintaining labor is reduced and profits correspondingly increased. Although the primary role of women has been in the home, women have also participated in the direct production of profit, particularly serving as a reserve army of labor. Women from the poorest groups in the society, especially black women and recently immigrated women, have long experienced attachment to the paid labor market. For instance, as early as 1900, 20 percent of all women in the United States were in the paid labor force. Women, however, have found (as have men to a lesser extent) the labor market open to them only in certain places, sectors, and times. Much of women's work outside the home has been and yet is an extension of work previously performed within the home. Examples are the production of clothing, hospital work, restaurant work, and jobs required in the socialization of the young, such as teaching. "The predominance of women in the lower grades of teaching and social work is no coincidence. These are capitalism's human face in labour...Women are the soft cops..."5 As the nature of work has changed with the impact of technology and as expanded consciousness and economic 45 �necessity have encouraged long term attachment to the labor market, the range of occupations open to women have changed. However, the capitalist mode of production is not necessarily evenly developed throughout a society, and it is sometimes necessary to examine the particular form of the mode of production within a region to understand the role of women in its economy. The capitalist mode of production was introduced into West Virginia in the late 1800s with the advent of the coal industry. This mode of productin dominated the organization of production in the state by World War I. But in West Virginia, the development of the capitalist mode of production was limited by the class structure of the coal industry which impeded the development of internal markets and limited capitalist penetration of new spheres of production. The role/oppression of all workers in West Virginia, but particularly of women, has been and is yet affected by this new but incomplete expression of capitalism within the state. Women in West Virginia have faced the same two fold oppression in the home and in the paid labor market. But as the development of the capitalistic mode of production in West Virginia has been limited, the rate of participation by women in the paid labor force has remained throughout the twentieth century one of the lowest of all the states in the United States. For instance in 1970, the state's women had a labor force participation rate of 29.4 percent the lowest in the nation (See Table 1). By 1976, the rate had increased to 28.1 percent but yet remained the lowest in the United States. This backwardness is demonstrated not only by the participation rate of women but by that of men as well.' Despite massive out-migration of workers of both sexes, a pattern resulting in a higher participation rate for the remaining population, West Virginia has for much of this century ranked near the bottom in terms of the male labor participation rate. For instance, 1976 figures indicate that West Virginia had a rate less than that of all other states other than Florida where a massive retired population pulls down the rate (See Table 1). This figure for West Virginia is especially significant since it reflects the rate during a period of boom in the coal industry. In order to understand its impact on women, capitalist production in West Virginia is examined in its initial period of development from 1880 to 1930, in the transitional period following mechanization and the consolidation of wage labor relations, and in the period of the last two decades characterized by the penetration of capitalism into all aspects of Appalachian life, particularly the family. LABOR PARTICIPATION IN THE COMPANY TOWN ERA The development of the coal resources in West Virginia led to significant social and economic changes. In 1880, the state was characterized by a subsistence agricultural economy with some commercial trading. By 1930, the economy was characterized by capitalist relations, particularly the development of wage labor in the mining of coal. Industrialization increased, though not significantly, the participation of women in the paid labor market (See Table 1). This fact is attributable to the impact of the dominant industrycoal-on the West Virginia econony. First, the coal industry itself did not directly employ women, not as miners nor as clerks in company stores or offices. Second, the coal industry was located primarily in rural areas where labor participation rates generally tend to be lower. Moreover, the coal industry limited the development of an internal market and the expansion of 46 �capitalism into new spheres of production. The coal operators adopted policies which monopolized the use of the land and the labor force.7 Access to land and labor, even if not consciously prevented by coal operators, was difficult in the environment of closed coal towns. The lack of a diversified economy, manufacturing and retailing and wholesaling, further limited the job opportunities for women since the lack of a consuming population meant that the service, clerical, and sales industries (women's work) remained at a primitive level. Requiring large numbers of workers most of whom were male and many of whom had wives and daughters, the industry created a concentration of women in communities with virtually no job opportunities for them. The very low labor participation rates of women in West Virginia, in fact, hide the crucial role of women in the coal economy. Responsible for producing and reproducing a labor force for coal mining, women produced goods within the home. Though not unlike the role of women in working class families throughout the country, women's significance in the coal field economy was probably much greater. Profitability in the coal industry, routinely characterized by overproduction until 1930, was based on the direct reduction of wages to or below a cultural subsistence.' In this context, home production meant sheer survival. Maintaining profits through the reduction of wages required tight control of the labor force and an ability to prevent unionization. One aspect of this policy was the elimination of competing demands for the labor force. Another was relocation to avoid unions. For instance, there were important shifts in production from unionized coal fields in Illinois and Pennsylvania to "wilderness" West Virginia following the first UMW national agreement in 1898 and again in the 1920's.9 Locating in "wilderness" areas provided several advantages, particularly the opportunity to recruit a labor force10 and the opportunity to establish company towns suited to the control of labor either through repression or paternalism, and was by design meant to limit job opportunities for miners and their families. A study of women in coal miners' families based on the 1922 United States Coal Commission investigation states: Women are naturally an important fact in an industry like coal mining which of necessity is carried on in many instances in isolated localities. The presence of the family is essential to keeping the mine workers in these regions, and help of the wives in maintaining normal homes means greater efficiency on the part of the mine workers themselves.'' This study interprets the structure of the coal town as a geoeconomic necessity; we assert that it is a social necessity of the mode of production. Both views agree that the family was necessry for the production and reproduction of an efficient work force. 12 Women provided to the family and to the coal economy the production of goods within the home. Though there is no data to quantify the extent of this production, it is safe to assume that activities such as gardening, food preservation, baking, and domestic textiles were considerable. Many wives also contributed directly to family income through work performed in the only place of opportunity-trie home.13 In 1922, 21.3 percent of the wives of West Virginia miners were engaged in some paid work. 14 Of these, 97 percent of them were employed in the home, most providing for boarders and lodgers 47 �and a few doing only laundering or other services. In the more isolated bituminous mining regions, this involves not only cooking and the care of sleeping quarters but doing the laundry for boarders and lodgers. In many camps it is customary for boarders to bring their own food, the wife of the household cooking for each boarder as well as her own family. While this system probably makes for greater satisfaction among the boarders it must entail much more cooking on the part of the housewife than if the same food were cooked to be eaten by family and boarders alike." Thus it is clear that women in coal communities worked-often without pay and when for pay, in the home performing work of the same kind. Women worked out of the economic necessity created by an industry which directly required the families of its employees to absorb some of the costs of production while at the same time, both by intention and by its inherent structure, limiting the job opportunities of family members, particularly those of women. TRANSITION TO A "MODERN" ECONOMY In the 1930's, the coal operators were no longer able to prevent the unionization of their labor force. Moreover, coal operators competed not only with each other but increasingly with the oil and gas industries as well as for markets. Faced with these changes, the operators initiated mechanization through the adoption of machine loading technology. A corollary development was the increase of profits through increased productivity and less reliance on the reduction of wages to create profits. Along with these changes, operators sold company houses to miners and loosened the tight control that they had formerly held on coal communities. The increasing use of the automobile also encouraged the decline of the company town. These changes had two important implications for women in the coal fields. First, the unionization resulted in wages equal to or above the subsistence level, thereby reducing the necessity for supplementing the family income. Secondly, the quality of life in coal communities improved with the introduction of public services such as running water. Both of these changes eased the burden of women. The changes in the coal economy were part of national changes which were reducing the role of the family within the capitalist mode of production. First, there was a decreased scope of production within the family unit. Second, the separation between home and work was expanding. Third, decreased time was required for procreation." Capitalism survives by incorporating ever more spheres of production into commodity production-production for exchange in a market for a profit. As a result, the scope of production within the family declines and the separation of home and work expands. As to the first, the introduction of laborsaving devices (which are themselves often new commodities) has reduced the time required for the care of a family. For instance, innovations make the preservation an preparation of food a minor task today compared to the efforts it required a century ago. But beyond these innovations, capitalism penetrated the family further and produced, as a commodity, foods that are essentially fully prepared, leaving only the labor of heating, serving, 48 �and cleanup. But more recently, the drive for profit has penetrated even further into the family. It is estimated that today American families eat more than one third of all their meals in restaurants. Thus the heating, serving, and cleanup have now been incorporated into the profit system. The increasing commoditization of functions previously performed within the family has meant it has become almost entirely a consuming rather than a producing unit. This pattern is as true for leisure and entertainment activities as it is for the more primary survival functions. Other than church activities, fun and fellowship are pursued almost entirely in a market context. Increased penetration of capitalism into the home has decreased the economic functions of the family and particularly those of the wife who, under capitalism, had performed a majority of domestic economic functions. With the expansion of commodity production has come an increased demand for labor, and women have thus become more integrated, albeit at the margins, into paid commodity production. THE MODERN ERA Women's participation in the paid labor market has expanded significantly since World War II. Nationally the increase has been from 35.8 percent in 1945 to 50.8 percent in early 1979. In West Virginia the increase has also been apparent, but as compared to the national figure, the overall labor participation of women in the labor market remains the lowest of any state. In this section we examine the sectors in which women's employment has increased and the reasons for the continued low rate of participation of West Virginia in the paid labor market. The occupation structure for women in 1960 and 1970 in West Virginia is shown in Table 2. The concentration of women in traditional "women's work" is obvious. Service workers (including household), clerical and kindred, sales, and profession and technical make up 80.8 percent of the state's employment of women in 1970. Although participation of women in the labor force in West Virginia increased overall by 23.1 percent from 1960 to 1970, the largest gains in actual number of jobs were in those categories where women were already employed. There were some shifts reflecting trends in the national economy such as the decline in the proportion of women employed in private household work and the increase of women employed in clerical and kindred occupations.'' What explains the low labor participation rate of women in West Virginia in 1970? Unlike the earlier part of this century, the coal industry no longer dominated the State's economy. Employment in the coal industry was in 1970 about 10 percent of total employment. The company towns had long since been transformed into "independent" communities. Although the link between the coal industry and labor participation rates is not as clear now as it once was, the relationship still exists. Although there have been important changes in the coal economy, they have not changed the nature of the mode of production in West Virginia relative to other regions of the national economy. The lack of industrial diversification which characterized the coal fields in the pre 1930s perists today." The lack of industrial diversity in West Virginia today is a legacy of the past. Even after fifty years of expanding coal production which ended in 1927, West Virginia by the 1940s was still relatively deficient in its social infrastructure (roads, schools, health facilities) and in its small internal market. The decreased demand for coal and the huge out-migration of the population in the 1950s served to intensify the state's deficiencies. 49 �Even the recent growth of coal employment has not changed the industrial structure nor increased the job opportunities for women. The coal industry is still characterized by a blue collar work force accounting for more than 90 percent of its employees, the highest proportion of any industry. "Women's work"-office work, clerks, sales-is virtually nonexistent in the industry, certainly within the state where extraction is done primarily by corporations based outside the state. Moreover, coal does not generate much of a demand for suppliers to the industry nor does it attract an "industrial complex" centered on coal inputs." Finally, much of the value-added tax generated by coal mining leaves the region in the form of interest dividends, royalties, and rents, limiting the internal market in its size and diversity. The structure of the coal economy is such as to limit the job opportunities for, and labor participation of, women. This point is illustrated in Table 3, wherein counties are classified as either coal or non-coal counties, the former producing at least 2.4 million tons of coal in 1970. The counties are also classified as rural or urban, the latter if at least 30 percent of the population live in urban areas. Using the County and City Data Book, the labor participation rates of women were computed and averages for four different types of counties determined.20 Table 3 illustrates that in rural counties, the labor participation of women is lower in the coal counties than it is in the non-coal counties. This shows that the extent to which a county is rural does not alone explain the nonparticipation of women in the labor force. Rather the nature of the coal economy itself is an important variable affecting female labor participation in coal and non-coal counties. 21 The impact of the coal industry on industrial structure can also be seen by an examination of the industrial structure itself. The 1970 census data reveals that the central Appalachian economy is less diversified in terms of population employed in different industries. 22 Central Appalchia had less of its labor force employed in retail and wholesale, professional services, manufacturing, domestic and entertainment, finance, insurance and real estate, business and repair services and construction than did the nation as a whole. However, central Appalachia had more than thirteen times the national average in forest and mining industries and, curiously enough, educational services. The impact of the coal economy on job opportunities for women is illustrated in the number of women employed in professional and technical (including educational) occupations. Nationally, the figure was 15.4 percent, whereas West Virginia had a higher rate of 16.6 percent. Amazingly, the statistics for rural coal counties had an even higher percentage of women workers in this occupational category. Five rural coal counties (Logan, McDowell, Mingo, Raleigh-no longer rural-and Wyoming) actually had more than 20 percent of their women workers in this occupational category. In fact, membership in this category was probably made up almost entirely of school-teachers and health professionals. Ironically, in counties where health and educational services were notoriously lacking, that occupation accounted for a higher percentage of the female work force than was true of the rest of the state and of the nation. This anomaly is explained, not by the fact that there was an exceptional number of professional and technical workers in an absolute sense or a high per population ratio, but by the fact that there were so few jobs available to women in other occupational categories that their access to participation in this particular category skewed the percentages.23 Clearly, the dominant mining industry has not engendered a balanced economy within the region. 50 �CONCLUSIONS Women within the capitalist mode of production suffer a twofold oppression, in the home and in the labor market. In West Virginia, women suffer a twofold discrimination within the labor market. They have until recently been excluded from the primary source of employment in the state, the coal industry. Moreover, the coal industry has influenced the structure of the economy such as to prevent diversification and thus has reduced further the opportunities for employment available to women. The entry of women into blue collar jobs in West Virginia in industries such as mining, basic steel, chemicals, and construction will not significantly change women's labor participation rates relative to the national average. There are a limited number of jobs in any of these industries, and the numbers are increasing in only a few of them. Moreover, since women's entry is at the bottom of seniority systems in the state's highly unionized basic industrial sector, they are subject to layoffs and will not become fully integrated (under present practices and laws) for decades. Finally, though entry into the blue collar sector will increase the labor participation rate of women, that is a national trend and does not mean an improvement in the state's rate relative to the rest of the country. Opening of blue collar jobs to both sexes does mean an opportunity for women to engage in more remunerative employment and probably over the long run will create attitudinal changes as to the appropriateness of thinking of certain work as "women's" work. But the opening the blue collar jobs to women does not affect the basic industial structure. The unavailability of work for either six continues to be a persistent problem in the West Virginia economy. Until the structure of the economy changes, West Virginia clearly will not have jobs for all of its citizens. This conclusion is equally applicable to rural counties, as to the industrial counties in Appalachia. In rural counties where few traditional male jobs; exist, breaking down the traditional sexual occupational boundaries will not have a significant quantitative effect on women's employment. In rural counties, as in coal counties, it is necessary to change the economic structure of the local economy in order to provide job opportunities for women. One final conclusion, only suggested in this paper, is that to eliminate sexual oppression both in West Virginia and the United States as a whole, it is necessary to change the mode of production. The history of West Virginia shows that the sexual discrimination of female labor was not simply attitudinal but served the existing mode of production. In the company town era, women's work underpinned the profits of coal employers in allowing lower paid wages to miners. In the modern era, the segregation of women's work serves the profits of their employers in that job discrimination reduces the level of remuneration necessary to attract workers. In order to remove the financial incentive in sexual discrimination, it is necessary to change the mode of production based on production for profit. 51 �TABLE 1 Male & Female Labor Force Participation Rates* United States and West Virginia, 1900-1977. Female Male United States West Virginia United States West Virginia 20.4% 9.3%A 80.0% 1900 87.7% 13.2B 84.1 72.4 + 1930 24.3 29.0 1950 78.9 74.619.6-1960 37.1 82.4 67.824.329.4B 1970 42.8 79.2 66.949.4 72.0A 38. IB 1976 78.5 *Male or female labor force divided by male or female population above some age; for 1900-1930, it is population ten years old and over: for 1950, fourteen years old and over: for 1960-1977, sixteen years old and over. A second lowest of any state B lowest of any state + third lowest of any state - Rankings not determined SOURCE: U. S. Census of Population, 1900 & 1930 and Statistical Abstract of the U.S. Data for 1976 are from "Marital and Family Status of Workers State and Area," Bureau of Labor Statistics, Department of Labor, Report 545, Spring 1976, pp. 3 and 9. 52 �TABLE 2 OCCUPATIONAL STRUCTURE OF EXPERIENCED LABOR FORCE, WEST VIRGINIA, 1960 AND 1970 OCCUPATION Professional Technical and Kindred Managers and Administrators Sales Workers Clerican and Kindred Craftsman and Kindred Opeatives, Except Transportation Transportaton Operatives Laborers, Except Farm Farmers and Farm Managers Distribution of Women Workers U.S. West Virginia 1970 1960 1970 15.4% 17.2% 16.6% 4.5 12.0 25.9 1.0 ( (12.0 0.6 0.6 4.5 8.3 30.0 1.9 11.5 3.6 7.4 34.5 1.8 14.6 0.4 1.5 0.5 1.0 0.2 ( (0.4 0.4 Farm Laborers and Foreman 17.0 20.1 Service Workers Private Household Workers 8.7 4.9 TOTAL 100.0 100.0 Source: Census of Population, U.S. Bureau of the Census, 1960 and 1970 0.6 16.6 3.9 100.0 Females as a Percentage of Total Labor Force, Percentage Change by Occupation West Virginia West Virginui, 1960-1970 1970 Female Employment Male Employment 24.5% 43.9% 19.1% 22.9 -14.8 41.9 123.0 ( (22.1 -3.4 -20.1 26.6 5.1 ( 18.8 44.5 69.7 3.4 22.3 185.5 -27.1 2.3 7.3 (-62.8 ( (7.9 ( 1-51.1 45.8 -30.3 23.1 (-8.5 ( 24.7 -33.2 -7.8 60.0 97.1 31.9 �TABLE 3 Female Labor Participation Rates*, by type of County, West Virginia, Pennsylvania, Kentucky, and Virginia, 1970 Appalachian Portion of Virginia Type of County* * West Virginia Pennsylvania Kentucky 7.2 6.7 Rural Coal 8.3 11.5 Rural Non-Coal 9.2 13.2 8.9 11.8 Urban Coal 12.2 9.0 NA 12.5 11.4 12.4 13.8 Urban Non-Coal 14.3 *Female Labor Participation Rates are defined as the number of women in the labor force divided by the total population times 100. Thus these figures are not comparable to other tables. **Coal counties are counties which produced 2.4 million tons or more of coal in 1970. Urban counties are counties in which at least 30 percent of the population lived in urban areas in 1970. Source: County and City Data Book, 1970, Appachian States Data File, Division of Environmental and Urban Stystems, Virginia Tech. 54 �NOTES We gratefully acknowledge the research assistance of John Taylor, the computer assistance of Bruce Carveth and Dr. Tom Watts, and the typing of Jo Anne Smith and Nancy Marosy. We also think Jane Horton and Connie Mahoney for their comments at the Appalachian Studies Conference. 1. Bureau of Labor Statistics. U. S. Department of Labor, Report 572, 1979. 2. Sheila Rowbotham. Women's Consciousness.: Man's World (N. Y.: Penquin Books, 1973), p. 68. 3. Ibid., p. 68. 4. Ibid., p. 84. 5. Ibid., p. 89. 6. Interestingly, the deficiency in that participation rate is not accounted for by an excess in the elderly population. That portion of West Virginia in central Appalachia had 10.6 percent of its population age sixty-five or over in 1975 while Appalachian New York had 11.4 percent of its population in that category. Population 65 years of age and older, Appalachian Region and Untied States, 1970-75, Appalachia~A Reference Book (Washington: Appalachian Regional Commission, 1977), Table 8. p. 26. 7. See Richard M. Simon, "The Lablor Process and Uneven Development: The Appalachian Coalfields, 1880-1930," International Journal of Urban and Regional Research 4 (March 1980): 46-71. 8. One method of producing profit is to increase the productivity of labor. In steel, for example, productivity was increased through the organization of work and capital investment. Most of the productivity gains were appointed by the owners of the factories, but part of the productivity gains were distributed to workers in the form of increased wages. The coal operators, however, faced with intense competition and declining or unstable prices adopted policies to increase profit through the indirect and direct reduction of wages such as shortweighing and overcharges in company stores and housing. The earnings of many miners were estimated by the Bureau of Labor in the early 1920s to be inadequate to provide a minimal subsistence. For a further discussion of the role of coal in the West Virginia economy see Richard M. Simon, "The Development of Underdevelopment." Ph.D dissertation, University of Pittsburgh, 1978), especially chapter 6. 9. Simon, "Development of Underdevelopment," pp. 76 and 77. 10. Baily, "A Judicious Mixture, "West Virginia History 34 (January 1973): 141-161. 11. "Home Environment and Employment Opportunities of Women in Coal Mine Workers' Families," Bulletin of the Women's Bureau, No. 45, U. S. Department of Labor, (Washington: Government Printing Office, 1925). 12. The sons of miners often became miners. The daughters of miners, however, did not have a role to play in the coal town, other than in marrying a male miner. Therefore, unlike the sons, the daughters were forced to leave the family and the community in order to find work. In only 26 percent of the families that had daughters, were the daughters still living at home at age fifteen and over. See Ibid., pp. 39-42. 13. In fact, it is essential in a mode of production that is paying wages less than the familial subsistence wage that the family have a means of increasing its total income. Carmen Diana Deere argues that the non-capitalist mode of production within the family absorbs the cost of production and reproduction of labor power; in developing countries, this would most often take the form 55 �of subsistence agricultural production by women. In "Rural Women's Subsistence Production in the Capitalist Periphery," Review of Radical Political Economics 8 (Spring 1976): 9-17, 14. "Home Environment and Employment Opportunities." It is interesting to note that West Virginia had the highest percentage of miners' wives gainfully employed; the average throughout the bituminous coal fields was 17.1 percent. The percentage of wives gainfully employed is related to the percentage of the mine related population housed in company towns. West Virginia had the highest percentage-about 80 percent. 15. Ibid., p. 37. 16. See Rowbotham, Women's Consciousness, pp. 103-115. 17. The very large percentage increases in the employment of women in the crafts and laborers are misleading because the large percentage are due to the very small number of women in those occupations in 1960. They do represent, however, the opening to women of jobs previously traditional to male workers, among these the employment of women in the coal mines after 1974. 18. West Virginia has never been a complete mono-economy. As early as the 1900s, glass and metal fabrication co-existed with coal in the northern West Virginia, and since World War I chemical production has coexisted with coal in the Kanawha Valley. However, these operations, primarily branch plant operations, have not materially changed the structure of the West Virginia economy. 19. See Nasser Sherafat, Angelos Pagoulatos, and Kurt R. Anschel, "The Exploitation of Coal as an Engine for Growth in Eastern Kentucky-An InputOutput Study," Southern Journal of Agricultural Economics, December 1978, pp. 81-86. 20. In this table, labor force participation of women had to be defined as the female labor force divided by the total population of the county, rather than the female labor force divided by the female population sixteen years of age and older. Thus, the figures are not comparable. There is some variation between counties in the participation rates due to the variation in the proportion of the total population which is female. However, this variation will not affect the comparison of the averages among the four groups of counties. 21. It is interesting to note that in West Virginia, the urban coal counties have higher female labor participation rates than do the non-coal urban counties. This is not true in Kentucky or Pennsylvania where urban coal counties, as rural coal counties, have lower female participation rates than do the urban non-coal counties. This is explained in that the West Virginia urban coal counties are also the most highly industralized and diversified. For example, the state university is located in Monongalia County and the state capital is located in Kanawha County. 22. See Appalachia—A Reference Book, 2nd Edition, Appalachian Regional Commission, February 1979, p. 50. 23. As a way of comparsion, highly industrialized counties had a significantly lower percentage of women in that category. Brooke had 15.7 percent; Hancock had 14.2 percent; Ohio had 15.8 percent; Harrison had 15.8 percent and Wood had 15.3 percent. Of these, Harrison and Ohio had some production. Kanawha with the state capital had 17.1 percent and Monongalia, with the university and its hospital dominating its economy, equalled Mingo for the highest rate with 22.8 percent. 56 �II Land in Appalachia 57 �WHERE AMERICAN HISTORY BEGAN: APPALACHIA AND THE SMALL INDEPENDENT FAMILY FARM John Opie Abstract Some historians, including F. J. Turner, believed that the independent yeoman farmer was the first uniquely American figure. A strong case can be made that this symbol first emerged in the southern Appalachian region. The small-scale independent farmer remained the most important symbol of American success from approximately 1720 to 1880, but could not cope with new agricultural conditions on the arid Great Plains. The result was a massive civilizational failure (1870-1940). That, together with endemic poverty and instability in Appalachia itself, has raised questions about the durability of one of the most powerful archetypes of American life. This essay explores the difficult and ambiguous, but crucial and un-examined, links between the specific geography of a region, the kind of people attracted to it, the quality of life carved out a region, and the influence of a region and its people upon a national consciousness today. When we look at Appalachia and its role in the development of the American people, the geography is so commonplace and the way of life so routine that it does not attract extraordinary attention. But a landscape has human meaning, no matter how ordinary, or how inhospitable and poor. Significant features of a society are exposed by reading its landscape. The historical geographer, Peirce F. Lewis, writes: Our human landscape is our unwitting autobiography, reflecting our tastes, our values, our aspirations, and even our fears, in tangible, visible form. We rarely think of landscape that way, and so the cultural record we have "written" in the landscape is liable to be more truthful than most autobiographies because we are less self-conscious about how we describe ourselves. Grady Clay has said it well: "There are no secrets in the landscape." All our cultural warts and blemishes are there, and our glories too; but above all, our ordinary day-to-day qualities are exhibited for anybody who wants to find them and knows how to look for them.' As farmers settled frontier regions, they themselves changed as much as the wilderness. To create a human landscape out of wilderness represented an enormous investment of skills, energy, time, and emotions. The natural features of a piece of land, the mechanics or technology of working and living on it, all suggest that a quality of life is intimately related to the geography one starts out with, and the "built landscape" one comes up with. Since Roman and medieval times, farmers have tested the agricultural potential of an undeveloped piece of land by its natural vegetation cover. The most desirable farmland, tradition said, was covered by a thick forest. 58 �When frontier farmers first encountered the southern Appalachians, its forest cover surpassed all expectations and may have been the greatest stand of trees and vegetation encountered since Roman time. At the bridge between the southern Great (Shenandoah) Valley of Virginia and the all-important Cumberland Gap stands the greatest and most varied deciduous forest in North America. A long history of climate and glacial movement, together with rich soil and wide range of altitute (nine hundred to six thousand feet) compressed into this region an extraordinary treasure of twenty-five hundred trees, shrubs, and other plants. No wonder the famed early American botanist William Bartram wrote in 1791 of the "sublime forest" he encountered here, and that the region attracted a special visit from the French naturalist Andre Michaux early in the nineteenth century.2 Bartram excitedly described black oaks 30 feet in circumference, massive chestnut trees 13 feet thick at the base, and beeches and gum trees which towered to 150 feet. This promising land stood at the base of the Great Valley and settlers poured into the top of the Valley by the 1720s. Fertile limestone soils, cheap land, and accessibility from the north but not the east drew frontier farmers. The Valley also lacked permanent Indian settlements, as would Kentucky seventy years later. Earlier native burning and hunting created a region which was fire resistant with significant, open grass covered meadows.3 Primary agricultural needs were fully satisfied: fertile soil, water, vegetation cover, flat or rolling terrain. Limited markets, lack of capital, and labor intensive farming kept Valley farmers on a subsistence level into the 1760s, a major achievement, nevertheless, where once there had been only wilderness. Fields covered ten acres, planted in corn, wheat, or rye, yielding ten to seventeen bushels per acre. Between 1760 and 1800 the Valley shifted into a cash crop economy, changing from frontier conditions to a rural society. Frontiersmen searching out forest land with good farming potential in the southern Appalachians had already been primed not only by the Great Valley, but also by the extraordinary agricultural successes in southeastern from its original twenty to forty acres. The family also used its cash to acquire salt, tea, coffee, iron goods, perhaps some textiles, and services when needed very rich."4 The bounty of nature was being used as a test for good land: a temperate climate, rich soil supporting a vast forest, flat or gently rolling terrain, and an adequate water supply. But the superiority of the southern Appalachian forest to Pennsylvania and the Great Valley established a new standard for agricultural potential. This same southern Appalachian forest would become the setting for another American standard. The historian, Frederick Jackson Turner, when he searched for a uniquely American identity, turned for his answer to the westward frontier expansion of the new nation. In most frontier epics, heroic stature belonged to the mountain man, explorer, fur trader, hunter, or backwoodsman. But when he wrote his all-important 1893 essay, "The Significance of the Frontier in American History," Turner gave his attention to "the advance of the more steady farmer.'" This was Turner's "representative frontiersman." The sequence of waves of agrarian advance into the wilderness is constant: first, backwoods settlement, then, permanent clearings that open the forested land, and finally the extensive fields of a recognizable rural American landscape.6 According to his 1908 essay, "The Old West," published by the State Historical Society of Wisconsin, this representative frontier farmer first appeared in the Great Valley and the colonial background: today's southern Appalachia. Turner concentrated his attention to that flow of settlement which ran through the Valley and penetrated into the Cumberland Gap. His classic statement in the 1893 essay: recalls the migration. "Stand at 59 �Cumberland Gap and watch the procession of civilization, marching single file-the buffalo following the trail to the salt springs, the Indian, the fur trader and hunter, the cattle raiser, the pioneer farmer-and the frontier has passed by." 7 Southern Appalachia was part of Turner's "Middle Region," which "was democratic and nonsectional, if not national; [it was] easy, tolerant, and contented; rooted strongly in material prosperity....the Middle region mediated between East and West as well as between North and South. Thus it became the typically American region."8 Aside from Turner, a strong case can be made that this small family farmer in the southern Appalachians did become the model, even ideal, by which Americans identified themselves, and which rang true to foreign observers. Westward agricultural expansion dominated the American experience in the early nineteenth century. Alternative outside influences were few: only 250,000 immigrants were added at a time when the population grew from 4,000,000 to 9,600,000. Americans turned inland and inward; in the process they arrived at a national identity. 9 The frontier family farm became a distinctively American way of life. The farmer, on his piece of land, formed the basis for major American ideological beliefs: freedom, opportunity, individualism, pragmatism, growth, and optimism. We can consider this agrarian experience, from Appalachia in 1800 to its collapse on the arid Great Plains in 1880, as the emergence and persistence of "Original America." "Original America" established, perhaps for the first time, a specifically American standard of living and quality of life. The standards established for farm land in the southern Appalachians, together with the independent family farmer of the region, became fixtures in American history. By 1820 the magnet which pulled settlers across the Alleghenies and through Appalachia into the Midwest was the promise of land so fertile that the wheat went to straw unless you had several seasons of corn. The modern ecologist, Aldo Leopold, writing of the rich cane lands of central Kentucky, which would become the classic bluegrass country, asked, Would Boone and Kenton have held out? Would there have been any overflow into Ohio? Any Louisiana Purchase? Any transcontinental union of new states? Any Civil War? Any machine? Any depression? The subsequent drama of American history, here and elsewhere, hung in large degree on the reaction of particular soils to the impact of particular forces exerted by a particular kind and degree of human occupation.10 The transappalachian midwestern forest apparently stretched endlessly, the soil was rich and black, and most attractive of all, utterly stoneless. Whether in the Great Valley, the vast southern Appalachian forest, or the flat, deep soils of the Midwest, basic necessities had to be adapted out of the environment with the resources the farmer could bring from civilization. Frontier settlement was like a long-term expedition into the wilderness with wife and children rather than other able-bodied, skilled men. Most adapting of raw materials depended upon muscle power, a variety of basic agricultural skills, and simple tools, the majority of which had not changed substantially since the dawn of agriculture—axe, grubbing hoe, spade, rake, sheath knife, wedge, and mallet.'' In this regard, the ever present rifle was a new fangled device. The technological revolution and mechanical equipment would come later. Agriculture was still based on traditional, European hand tool dirt farm- 60 �ing upon land cleared from a dense deciduous forest in a temperate climate. In the first year, three to five acres were cleared of forest, mostly down to stumps left to rot, and fifteen more acres with trees, girdled or "deadened." The clearing was planted first in corn. By the second year, eight to ten acres were open, planted again in corn or at best half corn and vegetables, and half wheat for some cash.12 All too often an unexpected burden for the wilderness farmer was his dismayed discovery that his livestock could not or would not survive on native American grasses for pasture. He was compelled to import English grasses with him, notably red clover and timothy, or in Kentucky, bluegrass. If any cash was available it would often be a downpayment for more land (the interest rate was twelve to twenty per cent) to enlarge the farm from its original twenty to fourty acres. The family also used its cash to acquire salt, tea, coffee, iron goods, perhaps some textiles, and services when needed of a lawyer, minister, miller, blacksmith, shoemaker, and part-time laborer. The frontier self-sustaining farm family was typically settled on eighty acres within three to five years. This settlement usually remained unchanged for about ten years before it was transformed into a post-frontier, middle America, farm community. Contrary to the standard myths about American growth and prosperity, this small farmer had no great urge to improve his condition above a certain basic standard of living which he saw as good and which we would call subsistence.13 But we must remember that in the long seven thousand year history of agriculture, with ninety percent of the humans of that era being farmers, this American farmer, roughly between 1750 and 1840, became one of the world's most successful agriculturalists. We must see his "subsistence" economic level in a global perspective. By modern standards, according to the naturalist Betty Flanders Thomson, life for the pioneer farmer was hard, raw, and lonesome. In the Midwest the first farms were scattered at random all over the area, most of them far from neighbors and further isolated by the widespread swampiness of the land and the impassable condition of what roads there were....there is little reason to believe that life at that time and place offered any advantages beyond independence, owning one's own land, and a hope that the future would be better. 14 The settlement cycle was the same-clearing timber and brush, breaking the primeval soil, first corn and later wheat crops, within a ten-year span, rarely less. The attraction, likewise, remained the same: self-sufficiency and independence-at a subsistence level, to be sure, but that seemed enough. In contemporary writings, affirmations of agricultural success far out-numbered reports of disappointment and failure." Reports of agricultural disillusionment and downright collapse came later, and from other places. So little value was attached to treeless land that in the 1780s when settlers reached the first large prairie in Kentucky, the one referred to above by Aldo Leopold, they called it the "Big Barrens."16 James Madison was convinced that Jefferson had squandered federal funds when he acquired the vast, treeless Louisiana Territory in 1803. The prairie repelled farmers; it was monotonous, empty, uninviting, and presumably barren. When they encountered the midwestern open country at roughly the Indiana-Illinois border, farmers were stymied by their tradition that open treeless country was not good farming country. 17 Conditions were wrong on the prairie; it was not like the southern Appalachian forest model. There was no protection from wind, cold, or heat. Wood was not available for fences, buildings, and fuel. And the sod was so dense and tangled that it was unplowable with available technology: the traditional, heavy, tough, iron-sheathed wooden plow. By all rights, westward 61 �movement of the Appalachian formed small farmer should have ended at the Illinois-Indiana line. But the prairie soil was too rich to be ignored. "Sodbusting" demanded the new, thin, lightweight, highly polished steel shear plow devised by John Deere. The resulting crops exceeded all previous bounty. Unlike the East, where farms have been carved out of the forest, cultivated for some years, and then later abandoned, very little prairie country has ever lain idle. The prairie frontier farmer had a subsistence crop of corn in his first year and often a cash crop of wheat by the third to fifth year. The symbolic act on this near perfect farm land took place in 1839, when Lyman Dillon plowed a furrow a hundred miles long across the prairie to lay out the road from Dubuque through the site of Iowa City to the Missouri line." It now seemed that the small farmer in America was invincible; even the old traditions about the best land being forested land had been laid to rest in Iowa's rich black moist "gumbo." His westward advance was not only inevitable, it became the major force in America's "manifest destiny." The next challenge would be the land west of the hundredth meridian, a north-south line, lying roughly half way between Chicago and Denver today if one is traveling Interstate 80, and dividing the nation into approximately equal east-west halves. East of the line are the rich prairies just discussed. West of the line stands one of the grasslands of the world-the arid high plains country. The high plains had had a historic reputation as a dry unfarmable region since the early nineteenth century. And dry land regions, because of the limits of existing agricultural techniques, made American farmers as uncomfortable as open, treeless country had earlier until the prairie country had been opened up. An incredible event took place in the 1870s which seemed part of the small farmer's destiny to succeed in his westward movement. For the better part of a decade, unusually heavy rains covered the arid high plains, and the "Great American Desert" became the "Great American Garden."" News spread rapidly that the small farmer could change the climate by plowing the land and planting trees. The famous maxim, "Rain follows the plow," carried farmers into the inhospitable region. But by the late 1880s, wagons of farmers retreated eastward carrying the bitter slogan, "In God we trusted, in Kansas we busted." The region, when its typical dryness returned, became a largescale example of human failure. The agriculturalist's victory was brief; the farming traditions learned in the east failed dismally. A sizeable American landscape was depopulated, including massive emigration from many settled regions and the abandonment of the entire towns.20 This failure was made worse by the stubborn persistence of the small farmer tradition in a region where its geographical usefulness was questionable. The result was agricultural failure for over seventy years, from the 1870s to the 1940s. An eastern success story, the Appalachian style small farmer became a broken myth west of the hundredth meridian. This region, whre agribusiness would get its start, was the place where the classic Jeffersonian yeoman farmer would disappear. Turner was only partly right. Nevertheless, where the Appalachian style small farmer appeared and persisted, from the Great Valley to the midwestern prairie, one of the world's great agricultural traditions was established. Several features of this tradition were unique and gave American society its distinctive coloration. The frontier farmer labored through his days and nights in intense isolation. His degree of separation from the civilized world was unprecedented in human history and formed the backdrop for his thoughts and actions. More often than not the farmer and his family were literally "off the map," having settled on land that had not been explored, surveyed, or mapped. The impact of 62 �backwoods isolation is suggested by the intensity of frontier religion, especially highly emotional, camp meeting revivalism.21 Folks feared for themselves and the conditions of their souls in an alien environment which seemed filled not only with the "silence of God," but in its strangeness pointed to the absence or "death of God," or at least his disappearance. To this psychologically powerful isolation must be added the influence of the distinctive family homestead which Americans take for granted but is a pointed contrast to the rural village communities in Europe, Asia, and Africa. The American farm family lived on its piece of land, clearly separated from neighbors and usually isolated from daily contact with any established community. No wonder frontier accounts tell of the madness of wives and the violence of husbands. The strongest sense of security under these conditions may have been the farmer's psychological bond with the tract of land which he owned and worked. By hard physical labor with hand tools, the farmer acquired a close identity with his land. Here he acquired the same solidarity with the landscape as did European, Asian, or African agriculturalists." This sense of solidarity is an unexplored theme in American history. The land was part of his own personal identity; conversely, he invented the place where he lived, creating it out of wilderness placelessness. This "built landscape" signalled to him his chances for survival. One of the most crucial aspects of frontier settlement was its durability under adverse conditions. The American farmer, despite his isolation and vulernability, believed he experienced a high degree of success and had carved out a satisfying standard of living. Pioneer farm people were used to hard physical work under dangerous conditions. Frontier farmers lived under what behavioral psychologists today would call high risk conditions, as they wavered between failure, survival, and different levels of subsistence." Their life was hazardous, because wilderness circumstances meant difficult actions happened more frequently, and tested their peak abilities constantly. There was less ability to cope with crisis when one faced it regularly and often went through defeat. Farmers on the edge of civilization more willingly accepted lower levels of performance. Desperate farmers tended to throw themselves into hopelessly optimistic projects and pollyanna solutions. Coping with an unknown, dangerous, and probably hostile environment, life for the American farmer involved more difficult work, more critical decisions, and more uncontrollable factors than in long settled regions. Hence, also, the high satisfaction with barely adequate success on a subsistence level. Extreme physical hardship, the dangers of accidents, and the uncontrollable power of circumstances were vivid daily realities for the small frontier farmer. But essentially the farming family, when it moved into a new region, was optimistic, and with justification. Their goals were attainable; pioneer farmers did not experience the grinding hopeless labor and deep pessimism of their counterparts elsewhere in the world. The risks were worth the benefits. The danger of failure or harm seemed nominal for the high returns. If a farmer had his health, reasonable abilities, basic survival and agricultural skills (which most people had), he could expect a comfortable existence.24 This essay is no more than an exploratory enquiry into a neglected but hardly trivial subject. With today's "return-to-the-land" climate, it is all too easy to romanticize the historic single-family farm as an ideal way of life. But anyone who has grown up or lived on a farm hardly praises each early morning's physical chores. Yet the difficult and often desolate life of the pioneer farmer was a quantum leap beyond agrarianism elsewhere in the world, because it promised "independence, owning one's own land, and a hope that 63 �the future would be better." By the standards of today's consumer abundance, the small pioneer farm in the Great Valley, southern Appalachian mountains, and the lower midwest would only impress us by its "nothingness." But as early as 1775, the French visitor, Crevecoeur, waxed eloquently about the pioneer farmer's victory: The world is gradually settled...the howling swamp is converted into a pleasing meadown, the rough ridge into a fine field...hear the cheerful whistling, the rural song, where there was no sound heard before, save the yell of the savage, the screech of the owl, or the hissing of the snake. I wish to see men cut down the first trees, erect their new buildings, till their first fields, reap their first crops, and say for the first time in their lives, "This is our own grain, raised from American soil-on it we shall feed and grow fat, and convert the rest into gold and silver." I want to see how the happy effects of their sobriety, honesty, and industry are first displayed; and who would not take a pleasure in seeing these strangers settling as new countrymen, struggling with arduous difficulties, overcoming them, and becoming happy. All I wish to delineate is, the progressive steps of a poor man, advancing from indigence to ease, from oppression to freedom, from obscurity and contumely to some degree of sonsequence~not by virtue of any freaks of fortune, but by the gradual operation of sobriety, honesty, and emigration. 25 Such quasi-religious proclamations about the primitive American farmer are not surprising. Frederick Jackson Turner's perceptions of the archetypal American-the single-family farmer, owning his land and carving out a fundamentally new existence-represent a virtual profession of faith in a secular symbol derived from out own history. Turner may have done better in describing a national "myth" than in writing history. We have made a very ordinary figure into a larger-than-life ideal. This is not surprising and our task is to come to grips with our creation. There is a great deal of truth in the myth. The verdant, forested southern Appalachian highlands did exist. The frontier farmer did enter them, and his settlement there created new levels of expectation for American agricultural expansion. The archetype that emerged out of this region and its settlement has persisted since then as a major symbol of American history. This agrarian ideal did fail miserably in the western dry grasslands, and it would fall upon extraordinarily hard days in Appalachia itself. Tillich today would call the symbol a "broken myth." And surely the single-family farmer today has difficulty matching historic expectations and standards. But one modern version of the independent farmer, the Appalachian mountaineer, also has a surprisingly strong durability even under adversity. 64 �NOTES NOTE: the references below are hardly exhaustive. Emphasized are works still in print or otherwise readily available. A basic environmental history of Appalachia has yet to be done. 1. Peirce F. Lewis, "Axioms for Reading the Landscape." The Interpretation of Ordinary Landscapes: Geographical Essays, ed. D. W. Meinig (New York: Oxford University Press, 1979), p. 12. Other important related works are DAvid Ward, ed. Geographical Perspectives on America's Past (New York: Oxford University Press, (1979); David Lowenthal and Martyn J. Bowden, Geographies of the Mind: Essays in Historical Geosophy in Honor of John Kirtland Wright (New York: Oxford University Press, 1976); and YiFu Tuan, Space and Place: The Perspective of Experience (Minneapolis: University of Minnesota Press, 1977). 2. See Mark Van Doren, ed., Travels of William Bartram (New York: Dover Publications, 1955); Reuben G. Thwaites, Travels West of the Alleghenies (New York: Arthur H. Clark Company, 1904); Maurice Brooks, The Appalachians (Boston: Houghton Mifflin Company, 1965); and good popular works like May Theilgaard Watts, Reading the Landscape of America (New York: Macmillian Publishing Company, 1975); Eliot Porter and Edward Abbey (with Harry M. Caudill), Appalachian Wilderness: The Great Smoky Mountains (New York: Ballantine Books, 1973); Jerome Dolittle, The Southern Appalchians (New York: Time-Life Books, 1975); and Darwin Lambert, The Earth-Man Story (New York: Exposition Press, 1973). 3. See the excellent analysis by Robert D. Mitchell, "The Shenandoah Valley Frontier," in Ward, p. 150. 4. Still definitive is James T. Lemon, The Best Poor Man's Country: A Geographical Study of Early Southeastern Pennsylvania (Baltimore: Johns Hopkins University Press, 1972). 5. Turner's essay is still available; see Frederick Jackson Turner, The Frontier in American History, Foreward by R. A. Billington (New York: Holt, Rinehart and Winton, 1920, 1947, 1962). 6. Ray Billington, more than anyone else, has mastered the debate over Turner's significance for historical enquiry, and the relative success and failure of his frontier thesis: see especially, America's Frontier Heritage (New York: Holt, Rinehart and Winston, 1966); and Frederick Jackson Turner (New York: Oxford University Press, 1973). 7. In the 1920 anthology, p. 12; see also "The Old West," pp. 68-69. 8. "Significance of the Frontier..." in the 1920 anthology, pp. 27-28. 9. Frontier histories which give adequate attention to the farmer are still scarce; see especially, Richard A. Bartlett, The New Country: A Social History of the American Frontier, 1776-1890 (New York: Oxford University Press, 1974): John R. Alden, Pioneer America The History of Human Society, ed. J. H. Plumb (New York: Alfred A. Knopf, 1966) Ralph H. Brown, Historical Geography of the United States (New York: Harcourt, Brace and World, 1948); and Reginald Horsman, The Frontier in The Formative Years, 17831815 (New York: Holt. Rinehart and Winston, 1970). 10. Aldo Leopold, "The Conservation Ethic" (1933), reprinted in Robert Disch, ed., The Ecological Conscience (Englewood Cliffs, N. J.: PrenticeHall, 1970), p. 46. 11. See John T. Schlebecker, Whereby We Thrive: A History of American Farming, 1607-1972 (Ames, Iowa: The Iowa State University Press, 1975); and 65 �the perceptive classic, Eric Sloane, A Museum of Early American Tools (New York: Ballantine Books, 1964). 12. The best review is still in Horsmann The Frontier in the Formative Years, pp. 104-120. 13. See the comments in Horsman, pp. I l l , 115, 119, and 123-124; also Edward Hyams, Soil and Civilization (London: Thames and Hudson, 1952); and Fernand Braudel, Capitalism and Material Life, 1400-1800 (New York: Harper and Row, 1973); as well as the important representative essays by Gratis Williams, Loyal Jones, and Harry M. Caudill in Robert J. Higgs and Ambrose N. Manning, eds., Voices from the Hills: Selected Readings of Southern Appalachia (New York: Frederick Ungar Publishing Company, 1975). 14. Betty Flanders Thomson, The Shaping of America's Heartland: The Landscape of the Middle West (Boston: Houghton Mifflin Company, 1977), p. 230; compare with Maurice Brooks, The Appalachians (Boston: Houghton Mifflin Company, 1965). 15. See for example the opinions of contemporaries in Clark C. Spence, ed., The American West (New York: Thomas Y. Crowell, 1966); Robert V. Hine and Edwin R. Bingham, eds., The American Frontier (Boston: Little, Brown and Company, 1972); and Martin Ridge and R. A. Billington, eds., America's Frontier Story (New York: Holt, Rinehart, and Winston, 1969). This is a subject which has not been adequately explored. 16. The best study on American perceptions of arid lands is still W. Eugene Hollon, The Great American Desert (New YHork: Oxford University Press, 1966). See also excellent essays by Waldo r. Wedel, John L. Allen, David M. Emmons, Martyn J. Bowden, and Leslie Hewes in Brian W. Blouet and Merlin P. Lawson, eds., Images of the Plains: The Role of Human Nature in Settlement (Lincoln: University of Nebraska Press, 1975). 17. The classic, and controversial study, not yet superseded, is Walter Prescott Webb, The Great Plains (Boston: Ginn and Company, 1931), pp. 152-159, and 319ff. See also John Opie, "Frontier History in Environmental Perspective," in Jerome O. Steffen, The American West: New Perspectives, New Dimensions (Norman: University of Iklahoma Press, 1979), pp. 9-34. 18. Thomson, The Shaping of America's Heartland, p. 239. 19. See John Opie, "America's Seventy-Year Mistake: or, How We Got Fooled by Good Weather in Difficult Country," Proceedings of a Seminar on Natural Resource Use and Environmental Policy (Ames Iowa: North Central Regional Center for Rural Development, 1980), pp. 27-56. An earlier version is in the Proceedings of an AAAs-DOE Workshop on Environmental and Societal Consequences of a Possible CO-2-Induced Climate Change (Washington, D. C.: USDOE, 1980). 20. See Gilbert C. File, The Farmer's Frontier, 1965-1900 (New York: Holt, Rinehart and Winston, 1966); and Climate and Society Research Group, The Effect on Climate Fluctuations on Human Populations (Worcester, Mass.: Clark University, 1979). 21. See Charles A. Johnson, The Frontier Camp Meeting: Religion's Harvest Time (Dallas: Southern Methodist University Press, 1955). 22. See John Opie, "A Sense of Place," in An Appalachian Sympsium, ed, J. W. Williamson (Boone, N.C.: Appalachian State University Press, 1977). 23. See John Opie, "Environmental and Human Factors in Farming the Arid Great Plains, 1870-1940," 1980 Meeting of the Midcontinent American Studies Association, Des Moines, Iowa. 24. See Note 13. 25. Quoted in John Opie, "De Crevecoeur's Anti-Frontier Thesis: The 66 �Cultivator's Peaceable Kingdom as a State of Mind," 1977 Meeting of the American Society of Church History, Dallas. 26. See John Opie, "The Merging of Space and Time, Myth and History: The Victory of the Sacred West Over Profane Modernity in the Writings of Frederick Jackson Turner," 1980 Confernce on the Hermeneutics of Myth, Athens, Ohio; and also "Frederick Jackson Turner, The Old West, and the Formation of a National Mythology," 1978 Meeting of the Organization of American Historians, New York City. 67 �LOSING A BIT OF OURSELVES: THE DECLINE OF SMALL FARMER Stephen L. Fisher Mary Harnish Abstract This paper surveys the literature concerned with the nationwide decline of the family farm and the concomitant rise of agribusiness. It identifies the major causes and implications of these developments, summarizes the case for the small farmer, and reviews various reform proposals. Such a survey is a necessary first step toward an understanding cf how the Appalachian farm situation is similar to and different from the national scene. The paper concludes with some preliminary thoughts about a research agenda on the future of the small farmer in Appalachia. What many Appalachians share in common is a closeness to the land, a familiarity with it and an attachment to it. Perhaps nowhere is the significance of land more clearly and poignantly illustrated than in Robert Coles' Migrants, Sharecroppers, Mountaineers. To mountaineers, says Coles, "the land is almost anything and everything: a neighbor, a friend, a part of the family, handed down and talked about and loved, loved dearly-loved and treasured and obeyed, it can be said, as we agree to do when we get married."' Yet during the 1970s, as in the decades before, Appalachians have witnessed a constant assault on their land. We propose to examine the dimensions of one part of this assault-the displacement of hundreds of thousands of small farmers and the disintegration of the culture and communities of farming. The decline of the small farmer is, of course, a national phenomenon. In the last thirty years the nation has lost 60 percent of its farms. Ten farmers a day leave the land, and it is estimated that two hundred to four hundred thousand farms will disappear each year for the next twenty years if present trends continue. There is an increasing amount of literature documenting and decrying this decline, but the effects of this trend on Appalachia, which has the greatest number mall farms of any region in the nation, has gone largely unreported. The variety of farm experience in Appalachia and the absence of concerted political action on the part of small farmers explain, to some degree, the lack of any systematic treatment of the special social, political, and economic problems faced by the Appalachian family farmer. But the basic reason the small farm has been ignored is the widely held belief that it is inefficient and that the small farmer would be better off doing something else. This is clearly the perspective of the Appalachian Regional Commission (ARC) which has no overall policy and practically no programs directed toward the thousands of small farmers left in Appalachia.2 Many radical political activists in the mountains also see no place for the family farm in Appalachia's future. While expressing sympathy for the problems the farmers face, these radicals accept the disappearance of the family farm as an inevitable consequence of capitalist development.3 Such beliefs can be attacked on a number of grounds. There is increasing evidence to show that large-scale farmers are not intrinsically more efficient 68 �than smaller ones. Moreover, these beliefs ignore what the disappearance of the small farm will mean for the future of our society. Societal transformation, in a sense, must begin with the land if only because the basic materials for life are acquired from the land. As Murray Bookchin explains: The kind of agricultural practice we adopt at once reflects and reinforces the approach we will utilize in all spheres of industrial and social life. Captalism began historically by undermining and overcoming the resistance of the traditional agrarian world to a market economy; it will never be fully transcended unless a new society is created on the land that liberates humanity in the fullest sense and restores the balance between society and nature.4 The paper surveys the literature concerned with the nationwide decline of the family farm and the concomitant rise of agribusiness. It identifies the major causes and implications of these developments, summarizes the case for the small farmer, and reviews various reform proposals. Such a survey is a necessary first step toward an understanding of how the Appalachian situation differs from the national scene. The paper concludes with some preliminary thoughts about a research agenda on the future of the small farmer in Appalachia. It should be noted that efforts to focus on the family farm as a policy issue face two critical limitations. First, there is no common meaning or operational definition of a "family farm' completely satisfactory for policy purposes. The term means many things to many people, and any detailed analysis of this debate would constitute a paper in itself. For our purposes, the family farm is one operated by a farmer and his family where the farmer provides much of the labor needed for the farming operation, makes most of the management decisions, assumes most of the risk, and reaps the gains or losses from those decisions.5 Inadequate data is the second problem faced by researchers. Aggregate farm statistics mask a wide variety of situations and needs in the American farm sector. As the United States Department of Agriculture (USDA) itself explains, "neither the existing data base nor research to date is adequate to explain the developments taking place in the farm sector, the situation of farms in various farm groups, or the individual and cumulative impacts of all the forces causing structural changes."6 II In the late 1930s, there were over 6,800,000 farms in the United States, all but two or three percent of them classified as family farms. Today the number is around 2,300,000 and still dropping. In 1974, just 125,000 farms accounted for one half of all farm sales; today there are probably fewer than 100,000 such farms. 7 In the decades immediately after World War II much of the blame for this decline was placed on the "cost-price squeeze" faced by the farmer and on the USDA's rules and regulations.' With the publication of Victor Ray's The Corporate Invasion of American Agriculture, the focus shifted to a family farm versus corporate farm debate.9 The issues in this family farm debate are complex, but it is possible to identify the major factors contributing to loss of over 4,000,000 family farms. Financial Instability. At the heart of the farm crisis is the fact that there is little profit to be gained in farming. The high risks of failure, the cost-price 69 �squeeze, the restricted access to markets, and the problems of gaining access to capital and credit have led to a cycle of financial instability for the small farmer. The small farmer operates in a highly competitive market and chance of failure is always present. Shirley Greene summarizes this predicament: The free market, especially in an elastic demand commodity like food, tends to respond to small variations in supply with wild fluctuations in price. This tendency, combined with the manuevering of traders and speculators in commodity futures markets, results in roller coaster prices which provide farmers with no reliable index of what or how much to plant or how many animals to breed. A lucky guess one year may bring windfall earnings; the next season the same farmer may lose his shirt...The typical family farmer, unlike the large corporation farmer, does not have the reserves or the diversified sources of income to withstand many bad guesses.' ° Farmers are quite frequently caught in a cost-price squeeze where the prices they receive are not able to cover their costs. The farmers' costs are determined largely by prices charged by manufacturers, whose market conditions are much less competitive than those for farm products. The only practical way that farmers can meet increasing costs and purchase the new sophisticated and expensive machinery needed to stay competitive is to increase output. But when farmers do this simultaneously, the surplus causes a drastic drop in prices." Farmers since World War II have consistently faced heavy downward pressure on prices combined with major increases in the cost of production. This is illustrated by the fact that the price farmers receive from their produce increased only six percent from 1952 to 1974, while farm operating expenses increased by 122 percent. It is little wonder that the total farm debt in the 1970s increased from $59 billion to $94 billion.12 Since large abribusinesses, especially if they have significant non-farm sources of revenue, are better able to spread their losses over several years, it is the small farmer who is hit the hardest by the cost-price squeeze. Inflation, of course, increases the severity of the cost-price squeeze. Because farmers have more difficulty adjusting to price changes than nonfarm businesses, inflation has an important effect on the economic health of agriculture. It affects the cost of what the farmer must buy, sooner and more seriously than the farm price of his product.13 Consequently, inflation pressures thousands of small farmers out of business each year. Small farmers also face special problems in the area of marketing and in gaining access to credit. Marketing trends have seen the emergence of fewer but bigger purchasers of farm goods. The small independent farmers are frequently at a severe competitive disadvantage because they do not control large enough supplies of agricultural products to give them much bargaining power with large agribusiness concerns.14 The problem of transportation from farm to market also presents special problems for small farmers. Farmers need ready sources of capital and credit to purchase land, to recover from a bad crop, to buy new machinery, and to cover normal operating expenses. The small farmers in general face great difficulty in obtaining credit. Many of the major lending institutions refuse to extend credit to small farmers because of the higher risks faced by these farmers, their lower equity position, and the desire of these institutions to minimize their service costs per dollar 70 �loaned." The Farmers Home Administration, which is supposed to be oriented to serving the credit needs of farmers with limited resources, has tended to help affluent rather than poor farmers." In sum, it is the small farm operator who is hurt the most by the inherent instability of agricultural production and prices. He has virtually no power to affect the cost of items he must buy and little power to affect the price at which he must sell his product. In a sense, small farmers are suffering from the effects of free market competition. They constitute several million relatively small bargaining units in the marketplace at the mercy of the forces of supply and demand. It is what we say our economy is all about. Unfortunately for the small farmer, he is one of the few playing the game.'' Corporate Control. While the number of farmers working the land decreases each year, corporations are becoming more involved in every phase of food production and distribution. From one side, the small farmer feels the pinch from corporate "input" suppliers. Agribusiness corporations have gained enormous control over farm supplies such as machinery, feed, fertilizer, and seeds. As Jim Hightower explains: Before the first sprout breaks ground, American farm families are over their heads in debt to such corporate powers as Bank of America (Production loans), Upjohn Company (seeds), The Williams Companies (fertilizer), International Minerals & Chemical (pesticides), Ford Motor Company (machinery), Firestone (tires), Ralston Purina (feeder pigs), Merck & Company (poultry stock), Cargill (feed), Dow Chemical (cartons and wrappings), Eli Lilly (animal drugs), Exxon (farm fuels), and Burlington Northern (rail transportation)." There is a conspicuous lack of competition in most of the farm supply industry. Economist William Sheppherd reports that four leading firms control 67 percent of petroleum products, 71 percent of tires, 74 percent of chemicals, and 80 percent of rail transport. The concentration can be even greater in specific items and local markets. For example, DeKalb AgResearch and Pioneer Hi-Bred International supply half the hybrid seeds sold, and there are many farming communities where feed must be bought from Ralston Purina or not at all." This lack of competition has had a profound effect on what farmers must pay for supplies. The Federal Trade Commission (FTC) found in 1972 that the lack of competition among farm machinery manufacturers cost farmers an extra $251,000,000.20 Table 1 presents a sample of profit increases for some major farm suppliers in the first quarter of 1974. These large profits came at a time when the average profit increases for large corporations was 16 percent and at a time that prices paid to farmers were falling. Farm-Supply Corporation Farm Products and Services First Quarter 1974 Profit Increase Allis-Chalmers Burlington Northern Rail Consolidated Freightways Federal Paper Machinery Transportation Trucking Board Cartons 41% 102% 75% 100% 71 �Firestone W. R. Grace International Harvester International Harvester and Chemical Occidental Petroleum Pfizer Ralston Purina Rohm & Haus Stauffer Chemical Tenneco Upjohn White Motor Tires, Inner tubes Chemicals Machinery 19% 129% 113% Chemicals 131% Fertilizers, fuels 716% Drugs 33% Feed 32% Fungicides 30% Chemicals 55% Chemicals, machinery, fuel, packaging 57% Drugs, seeds 32% Machinery White Motor Machinery 38% Source: Business Week. "Profits: Better Than Expected." May 11, 1974, p. 69. From the other side, the farmer feels the pinch from "output" corporations —the middlemen-that process, market, and retail the farmer's product. This industry involves such familiar names as Del Monte, General Mills, Ralston Purina, Minute Maid, Kraft, Dole, and A&P. As with the farm supply industry, the food industry has become increasingly monopolistic. In 1966 the FTC revealed that the 100 largest food manufacturers-representing only .03 percent of the entire industry-accounted for 71 percent of the food industry's profits and 60 percent of its total assets.21 The American consumer has tended to blame the farmer for the rapid increase in food prices during the 1970s. Several different studies clearly show that it is the food industry which is at fault. As pointed out earlier, only 6 percent of the rise in food prices between 1954 and 1974 went to the farmer; the food industry accounted for 94 percent of the price increases which consumers paid for food. A USD A study revealed that the farmer in 1974 was receiving only forty-one cents out of each dollar the consumer spent on food." Finally, a 1972 FTC study reported that over-pricing in 13 "monopolized" food lines cost consumers over $2 billion that year.2' It is not clear to what degree actual farm production is in the hands of corporate interests. Statistically, corporations account for only 5 percent of the total number of farms. However, as Walter Goldschmidt points out, this statistic is highly misleading.24 First, some specialty crops are heavily controlled by a few large firms: 100 percent of sugar beets, 92 percent of broilers, and 47 percent of all citrus fruits.2' Second, corporations primarily engaged in other activities and whose agricultural operations account for less than 10 percent of their gross income are not required to file separate reports on their agricultural activities with the USDA and other governmental agencies. "Thus Tenneco, the conglomerate with many enterprises, is not included in such surveys because it is not primarily agricultural, though it controls nearly two million acres of farmland. The same applies to Boeing, Goodyear, Purex, Penn Central, Standard Oil of California, Prudential Insurance, and Bank of America."2' Third, the statistic is misleading because it ignores the trend in agriculture toward vertical integration. This is achieved primarily through contract farming, which involves contractual agreements between independent farmers and non-farm corporations (i.e., suppliers, processors, retailers). Instead of a corporation directly owning a farm, it simply rents one. The arrangement has several advantages for the farmer. He is usually assured of production supplies 72 �and a market for part of his crop at a predetermined price. The contract farmer also finds it easier to obtain credit. John E. Davis explains the disadvantages: First, contract farming tends to eliminate competition within its sphere of influence. Where contracting prevails, other farmers often discover that to sell what they produce they must produce under contract. Second, because farmers are seldom organized to counter the market power of corporate contractors with their own collective bargaining power, contract prices are often quite low. Third, because the contractor tells the farmer what, when, and how to produce, when to harvest, and when to deliver his crop, contract farming often removes from the farmer's hands many responsibilities that have traditionally been his as an independent entrepreneur.27 Contract farming permits the corporation to obtain high-value commodities at low "wage" prices while controlling the essential aspects of the production process. It provides the corporation with a labor force that is self-disciplined, self-exploiting, and non-unionized. Thus, it is not surprising to learn that in the United States contract farming is at least three times as prevalent as corporate farming. The American Agricultural Marketing Association estimates that 50 percent of America's food supply will be produced under contract with corporations by 1980 (as compared to 17 percent in 1970)." Government Policy. A number of governmental policies have worked to the advantage of large growers and have given impetus to the disappearance of the small farmer. The most important of these special advantages are (1) agricultural support programs; (2) tax policies; (3) agricultural labor policies; and (4) the research-orientation of the USDA and the land grant colleges." During the New Deal years, when family farms were the predominant source of food production, the government instituted agricultural support programs in order to help the farmer through the depression. The subsidy payments were directly proportional to the total productivity of the farm; so the more a person (or corporation) owned the more relief he (or it) received. In other words, income and price supports have been based on volume and acreage. As Table 2 illustrates, the wealthiest farmers with the capital necessary to expand and produce large quantities of food are now the chief beneficiaries of these government programs. The small farmer, who has the greatest need, is often unable to even qualify for support. In short, American agricultural relief policy has subsidized the corporate interest in agricultural production.30 TABLE 2 THE DISTRIBUTION OF FEDERAL FARM BENEFITS Proportion of Government Payment Received by Percentile, 1967 Top 5 percent of farmers Top 20 percent of farmers Top 40 percent of farmers Lower 60 percent of farmers Lower 40 percent of farmers Lower 20 percent of farmers 42.4% 69.0% 87.7% 13.3% 5.7% 1.1% 73 �Source: James T. Bonnen, "The Distribution of Benefits from Selected U. S. Farm Programs," Rural Poverty in the United States: A Report of the President's National Advisory Commission on Rural Poverty (Washington, D.C., 1968). The tax laws also do not give the small farmer an even break. Family farmers find themselves at a competitive disadvantage in the face of a variety of income tax loopholes available to large corporate farm units and non-farm investors in farm land. The tax laws are complex and there is not the time or space to examine them in any detail here. Perhaps the two basic avenues by which tax regulations contribute to the corporate control of agriculture are the provisions which encourage high-income urban residents to make agricultural investments as "tax shelters" and the "accounting devices which vertically integrated corporations can use to shift their income and losses to minimize their taxable income."31 In addition, family farmers are hurt by rising property tax rates, as expanding urban and recreational developments drive up the price of land. A recent USDA report sums up the tax situation: It thus appears that congressional efforts to protect the family and small sized farm through the tax system may have been somewhat self-defeating, largely because of the difficulties in limiting the benefits of special tax preferences to the intended group. The provisions are so broadly written as to invite abuse, or so narrowly defined that they provide little actual assistance.32 The third major corporate advantage is the exclusion of agricultural labor from the legislation governing unionization. Goldschmidt briefly summarizes how the low wages paid farm labor work to the disadvantage of the small farmer: The family farmer's income derives in part from his capital investment, in part from managerial skill, but in large part from the value of his labor input. Commodity prices will be affected by prevailing wages; the farmer competing with poorly paid workers thus receives less compensation for his work. 33 A final corporate advantage is derived from farm research, much of it carried on at land grant schools with public money. Although designed as the peoples' universities with a mandate to serve the needs of a broad rural constituency, the land grant college complex has today become the sidekick and frequent servant of agribusiness. In Hard Tomatoes, Hard Times, an investigation of the land grant college system, Jim Hightower documents how these colleges are being called upon by big business to participate directly in the planning, research, and development stages of efforts toward the increased mechanization of agriculture.34 These efforts have helped to develop the overly mechanized, capital intensive pattern of production which has contributed in large part to the decline of the small farm. The Extension Service, which is the land grant system's means of reaching rural people, has devoted most of its attention to achieving greater output and efficiency, thereby providing technical services to larger farmers, not to the smaller ones. Ray Marshall and Allen Thompson, in their analysis of the status of small 74 �farmers, provide a number of examples of how the bias toward the large producer, illustrated in the four areas discussed above, is evident throughout the entire network of federal, state, and local agricultural agencies. The prevailing attitude, insist Marshall and Thompson, is that small farmers are obsolete and have no real future in the American agricultural system." Loss of Agricultural Land and Land Speculation. American agricultural land is being lost at the equivalent of 320 acres per hour or about 3 million acres a year. Over a million of these acres constitute what the government labels "prime" agricultural land." Much of this land is taken over for suburban developments, shopping centers, and industrial parks. Thousands of additional acres are lost to power lines, dams, and recreational developments or are destroyed by corporations strip mining for coal. Together these developments have led to land speculation and a rapid escalation of farm land prices. Foreign investors have recently become the most conspicuous players in the farm land sweeptakes, but the storm raised by foreign ownership has obscured the broader issue of the threat that land speculation poses to the family farm." In an era where more acreage and higher-volume production is the only way a family farmer can successfully compete, he is facing increasing difficulty in buying or renting prime agricultural land. Even if the farmer can find land, he often cannot afford it because of the high price or his inability to get credit. In some areas today, an acre of farm land is worth about four times the value of what it can produce per year." High land prices also cause property taxes to rise to such an extent that many farmers can no longer afford to keep their land in agricultural use. The spiralling farm land prices have made it next to impossible for new or young farmers to begin farming. If an individual is not fortunate enough to have inherited a farm, the initial investment for land and operating costs can be close to $400,000" Black farmers, whose problems are compounded by racial discrimination, have d particular difficulty in acquiring agricultural land.40 James Krohe, Jr. summarizes the effects on American agriculture if prime farm land continues to disappear at its current rate and land prices continue their precipitous rise. The effects include: ...more farm debt (and debt-caused foreclosures); acceleration of the trend toward fewer and bigger farms run by fewer and older farmers ...;increased concentration of production...with its attendant dangers of monopolization; neglect of the productive resources of the land by speculators interested only in its price;...and absentee corporate managements that buy their supplies and do their banking in big cities instead of small towns.41 Ill In the spirit of Jeffersonian democracy, Americans have always paid lip service to the family farm. Yet today it is clear that the family farm is in serious trouble and that immediate and far-reaching measures are needed to save it. The question is, are family farms worth the effort? The Social Argument. In 1946 Walter Goldschmidt, in an effort to determine the important factors in rural development, looked closely at two California communities. Each had essentially the same soil and agricultural base, but each was surrounded by farms of a different size. Goldschmidt discovered a clear and direct relationship between small farms and a high level of social and 75 �economic development in small communities. As compared to the community surrounded by large farms, the small farms community had twice as many businesses, 61 percent more retail trade and three times as many household and building supply purchases. It supported more people per dollar of agricultural production, had a better average standard of living, a much greater proportion of independent businessmen and white collar workers, more and better schools, and twice as many civic organizations, churches, and means of community decision-making.42 Efforts were made to suppress Goldschmidt's controversial conclusions, and large landowners, corporate interests, and the Farm Bureau were able to pressure Congress into forbidding the Bureau of Agricultural Research (the sponsor of the study) from funding any further research of a social or cultural nature.41 As a result, little follow-up work was done, and Goldschmidt's conclusions were largely forgotten in the 1950s and 1960s. Recently, however, several studies have confirmed Goldschmidt's findings. For example, a study in South Dakota revealed that every time six family farmers left the land, one small business had to close. A 1977 California study examined 136 towns and concluded that not only were small farm towns more viable and supported more services, but that small farm regions contained more towns. This suggests that not only the quality, but the occurrence of communities depends on the structure of agriculture in the surrounding area.44 The Ecological Argument. Since World War II the emphasis in agriculture has shifted from the diversification of crops to a relatively new phenomenon known as monoculture.45 The use of pesticides and synthetic fertilizers, a controlled breeding program to develop a few high-yielding, uniform crops, and the mechanization of the farm are all characteristics of monoculture farming. However, the introduction of these farming methods has upset the ecological balance. It is now questionable whether "modern" agriculture can, in the long run, maintain high yields of food production. Scientists and the Food and Drug Administration are deeply concerned about the chronic poisoning of food, and lack of plant resistance to disease, the depletion of soils, and the flood hazards related to monocultural practices. There is additional concern over the vast amount of energy resources required to power farm machinery and to produce necessary petrochemical products.46 Monoculture techniques require a great amount of capital. As a result, large farms are the only ones able to support the monoculture habit. The small farmer may have at one time gratefully accepted this illusory panacea. What he is now finding is that his careful handling of the land through the use of crop rotation, organic fertilizers, and solar energy offers a better, less costly alternative for the adequate provision of food and preservation of croplands for future generations.47 The Efficiency Argument. Many people grant that the small farm has social and ecological advantages over the corporate farm, but question whether the small farm can feed America. There exist a number of studies which establish the validity of the claim that the family farm is the most efficient unit of production, the classic summary statement on this issue, prepared by J. Patrick Madden and published by the USD A in 1967, concluded that the family farm can achieve unit costs as low as, if not lower than, giant operations.41 This was confirmed in 1969 by Dr. Roy Van Arsdall, an agricultural economist at the University of Illinois. "The evidence suggests," wrote Arsdall, "that family farms can convert inputs into outputs in physical terms as effectively as any other form of business."49 Another USDA study confirmed these results in 1973. As the Deputy Director of the USDA's Commodity Economics Division put it: 76 �We are so conditioned to equate bigness with efficiency that nearly everyone assumes that large-scale undertakings are inherently more efficient than smaller ones. In fact, the claim of efficiency is commonly used to justify bigness. But when we examine the realities we find that most of the economies associated with size in farming are achieved by the one-man fully mechanized farm. 50 Even the Ralston Purina Company, with long experience as a corporate farmer, admits that the family farmer "can meet and many times surpass the efficiency of the large units that operate with hired management."" John Kenneth Galbraith, in his Economics and the Public Purpose, summarizes why this is so: Nothing regulates the hours of work of the individual entrepreneur, and nothing at all regulates the intensity of his effort. He may thus be in a position to offset the higher technical productivity of the better-equipped worker in the organized but regulated sector of the economy by working longer, harder or more intelligently than his organization counterpart. In doing so, he reduced his compensation per unit of effective and useful effort expended. He is, to put the matter differently, almost wholly free, as the organization is not, to exploit his labor force since his labor force consists of himself." Foreign experiences provide some useful insight into the efficiency of the small farm. The small farm has demonstrated remarkable viability, even in countries like the Soviet Union where it operates in a very hostile ideological environment. The experiences of Taiwan and several East European countries suggest that on the average small farms can be more efficient than larger ones in producing the same crops. The experiences in other countries also suggest that smaller farms may be more efficient in labor intensive crops requiring limited amounts of land and capital." Finally, there is, as Peter Barnes points out, the question of how much and what kind of efficiency is desirable. American agriculture is, if anything, too efficient; it is the only industry in which people are paid not to produce. Moreover asks Barnes, what kind of efficiency are we talking about? The mechanization of the farm has impoverished millions of rural families, sent them to overcrowded cities, and forced them onto welfare rolls. Thus, large farms are far less efficient when their total effect on the community is evaluated.'4 The Political Argument. The family farm represents one of the few remaining areas of decentralized ownership and control in an increasingly concentrated and corporate society. Today more and more Americans are not really free to make major decisions affecting their lives. They work for large corporations or government bureaucracies or on assembly lines. They are not their own bosses, not proud of their work, and are not motivated to exercise their full rights as citizens. The family farm allows people to determine their own lifestyle and to take pride in the quality of their work; the farmer is his own employer, making his own decisions, winning or losing by his own efforts. If agriculture goes the way of the auto industry, asks Barnes, where will our independent citizens come from?" There is a tendency to romanticize the democratic virtues of the small farm. Family farmers are not more virtuous nor further removed from human frailty than others in society. Not all persons now in farming should remain there and 77 �not all farms should be small or medium-sized. But we cannot have political democracy without economic democracy. A diversified system of agriculture with control dispersed among many persons is certainly more conducive to equity and justice in our society than a system where control is increasingly concentrated in the hands of a few." IV It is clearly in our interest to make small-scale farming economically viable so that present small farmers can survive and new ones can get started. There is space here only to highlight some of the major reform proposals. Increasing Economic Opportunities. Since it is the small farm operator who is hurt the most by the inherent instability of agricultural prices, measures must be taken to stabilize these prices. In addition to a price support system to reduce the downward movement in prices, Marshall and Thompson suggest that careful attention be given to a countercyclical purchasing program to buffer agricultural price fluctuations and increase national and international food reserves.'7 There are a wide variety of proposals designed to give small farmers access to greater marketing options. These include revival of old methods, such as farmers' markets and the promotion of growers' and consumers' cooperatives, along with newer and more far-reaching suggestions, such as using the procurement power of federal and state governments to bypass the middlemen and purchase directly from farmers and farmer cooperatives." Concern over the lack of ready sources of capital and credit have led to calls for the establishment of a Rural Development Bank which could provide low-interest loans and loan guarantees to small farmers." Protection Against Conglomerates. Proposals in this area emphasize the need for a forceful antitrust policy for agriculture which would prohibit businesses with major investments in non-farm assets from engaging in agricultural production and would ban ownership of farm land by corporations. There are also demands for FTC enforcement of existing regulations against overconcentration in the food industry, for elimination of tax deductions which encourage food advertising, and for an investigation of the international grain marketing system.60 Food processors and middlemen could be required to bargain collectively with farmers, thereby restoring some balance to the power relationship that is forcing farmers to merge into the corporate system or go out of business." Government support of low-income cooperatives also wold help to strengthen the position of the working farmer and control the growth of agribusiness." Reorienting Government Policy. Current agricultural support programs, tax laws, and labor policies must be changed. No system of subsidy or price supports for agriculture should be tied to volume of production; rather it should be designed to support family farm income and to stablize prices." Tax laws that provide conglomerates with unfair tax advantages should be reviewed and modified to give the competive advantage to persons earning the bulk of their income from agriculture alone. For example, tax loss farming could be minimized and special tax breaks could be given for organic farming and the use of equipment more suitable for small farmers.64 Labor laws should guarantee to farm workers a minimum wage equal to that of other workers; this measure along with a general farm workers' bill of rights would end large landowners' ability to exploit great numbers of poor people and would allow self-employed farmers to derive more value from their own labor." 78 �The USDA must be made more responsive to the needs of the majority of farmers. Legislation that would define a farm on the basis of agricultural products "produced," not "sold," would prevent the USDA from periodically defining hundreds of thousands of small farmers out of existence. The establishment of Advisory Committees representing independent family farmers, minorities, farm workers, consumers, and environmentalists would help open up the Department to the public." The USDA, land grant colleges, and the Extension Service must redirect their research, demonstration, education, and assistance programs from the current focus on large-scale and high-energy farming operations to the needs of small farmers. They must give more attention to such neglected areas as cooperative marketing, organic farming, small-scale farm machinery, appropriate technology, and the general health of the rural community." Marshall and Thompson go so far as to propose that all federal programs designed to improve the conditions of small farms should be removed from the USDA and placed in a separate agency whose main interests might include the welfare of all small businesses." Others, pessimistic over the possibility of breaking the grip of powerful agribusiness interests on federal agricultural policy, urge farmer afld citizen activists to turn to state and local governments for help." Land Reform. There exist a number of different proposals designed to slow down the loss of farm land. The repeal of the federal capital gains privilege would be a good beginning to inhibiting land speculation.'" Zoning rural land for specific uses, such as agriculture or new towns, would help contain suburban sprawl and ease the pressure on small farmers to sell to developers." A corollary to zoning would be imposition of a real property tax based on usevalue rather than market-value.71 Some states have even passed or are considering bills that establish special agricultural districts, that place a special capital gains tax on land speculation aimed at protecting fanners, or that require owners of large land holdings to pay property taxes at a higher rate than owners of less land.'3 Land trusts should be encouraged to take the profits out of land speculation and to ensure that adequate land is available for farming at prices related to the potential returns in agriculture.74 A federal land bank could provide low-interest loans to enable farmers to purchase property or expand farms.7' Other proposals call for the redistribution of land. The guiding principles behind these proposals are that land should belong to those who work and live on it and that holdings should be reasonable proportions.76 Many of these proposals call for the enforcement of the Reclamation Act of 1902, which provides that large landholders in the West who accept federally subsidized water must agree to sel their holdings in excess of 160 acres at prewater prices within ten years.77 Peter Barnes calls for an updating of Thaddeus Steven's old program for dividing up large plantations in the South into forty-acre parcels.7' The above proposals are just a few of the elements of a program that would help to save the family farm. As Jim Hightower points out, there is nothing radical or even new about them. It is not that we have lacked solution but that we have lacked the will. If we are going to make a difference in any part of our life, says Hightower, perhaps the place to start is here, with corporate power over farming,79 For as Wendell Berry points out, to protect the small landowner, especially the small farmer, is to preserve what is human and humane in our culture. "The care of the earth," insists Berry, "is our most pleasing responsibility. To cherish what remains of it, and to foster its renewal, is our only legitimate hope."10 79 �V Appalachian farmers are among the most poverty-stricken of American farmers. Observers have labeled much of the farming area of Kentucky, Tennessee, West Virginia, North Carolina, and Virginia as an agricultural slum, "A Land of Do Without."" Nevertheless, little has been written on the special conditions and problems faced by Appalachian farmers. Most of the studies which have been conducted are not particularly helpful. They tend to be outdated or to share the attitude of W. B. Back and Clark Edwards.l! The rural portion of the Tennessee Valley region, conclude Back and Edwards, provides a drag on economic development through its small farm structure and culture, antiturban and urbanization attitudes, limited ability to invest in its human resources, and physical isolation partly related to the topography and transportation facilities of the region. Agricultural development should be oriented to removing such obstacles, and a prime target from the standpoint of land tenure could be the small farm structure. This structure would serve a Jeffersonian world of free-holder subsistence farmers quite well, but not a twentieth century environment for urban expansion. The small farms are potential poverty traps according to twentieth century standards. The solution does not appear to be to increase farm production efficiency within the small farm structure-rather, it apparently resides in human resource investments to prepare people for nonfarm employment, accompanied by a tranformation of the agricultural sector into large-scale commercial operations." Appalachian farmers have much in common with small farmers elsewhere. They suffer from the same governmental neglect, financial instability, and corporate dominance that plague small farmers throughout the country. There are, however, some obvious differences. The Appalachian farmer tends to be older, less-educated, and poorer. The average farm in Appalachia is smaller, both in total land area and in cropland and harvested cropland. Moreover, the uneven topography results in the division of available cropland into such small and scattered fields that efficient use of modern machinery is at times impossible." The continued destruction of farm land through strip mining, dam building, and recreation development, together with the absentee ownership of large parts of the Appalachian region, make it very difficult for hte Appalachian farmer to find new agricultural land." If he can find it, he usually cannot afford it because the price of land has increased more rapidly in Appalachia than in many other parts of the United States." Another key difference involves the circumstances surrounding industrial development in Appalachia. Dean Pierce maintains that the process by which the greater American community misunderstood, misused, and disrupted the Appalachian farmer's lifestyle has led to special problems for this farmer that cannot be remedied by the solutions currently proposed by the larger society." Research on the small farm in Appalachia needs to explore a number of important questions: (a) What types of farms exist and what are their characteristics? (b) What is the process by which farm units are formed? (c) To what degree and in what manner do Appalachian farmers suffer from the forces described in Part II of this paper? (d) What has been and is currently the effect of farmer displacement on culture and community life? (e) Where and under what conditions does farming hold economic promise in the mountains? (f) What must be done to ensure the viability of the small farm in Appalachia?" These are difficult questions, but to ignore them is to risk a future where few will own farms and few will work on them. People will have nothing to say 80 �about how the land is used or the kind of quality of its produce. They will eat what the corporations decide for them to eat. It will be a future where, in Berry's words, "people will be detached and remote from the sources of their life, joined to them only by corporate tolerance. They will have become consumers purely-consumptive machines—which is to say, the slaves of producers."" If we lose the family farm, we give up more than competitiveness and economic efficiency. We lose a bit of ourselves. We lose our grip on "the idea that individuals can make it on their own, that human enterprise is of greater value than any security that corporate systems can promise."'° It is, as Wendell Berry reminds us, impossible to care for each other more or differently than we care for the earth." NOTES 1. Robert Coles, Migrants, Sharecroppers, Mountaineers (Boston: Atlantic Monthly Press-Little Brown & Co., 1973), P. 7 Vol. 2, Children of Crisis. 2. This is the view of Robert W. Scott, former Federal Co-chairman of the ARC. See Robert W. Scott, "The Plight of the Region's Small Farmer," Appalachian (December 1977-January 1978) :21. 3. For an analysis of how some Marxists view the fate of the family farm in the United States, see Pat Mooney, "Class Relations and Class Structure in the Midwest," in "The Transformation of Agriculture in the United States." a manuscript prepared by a collective work group associated with the Department of Rural Sociology at the University of Wisconsin-Madison, October 1979. 4. Murray Bookchin, "Radical Agriculture," in Radical Agriculture, ed. Richard Merrill (New York: Harper Colophon Books, 1976), p. 13. 5. USD A, Status of the Family Farm, a report submitted to the Committee on Agriculture, Nutrition, and Forestry, United States Senate, June 18, 1979 (Washington, D.C.: USGPO, 1979), p. 2. The battle over how to define the family farm has important policy impliations. The new official USDA definition requires a place to have $1,000 minimum sales of farm products in order to be counted as a farm. This new definition, instituted in 1979, disqualifies about 302,000 farms. See also James Lewis, "Alternative Definitions of Small Farms and Low-Income Farm Families," in Toward a Federal Small Farms Policy, Phase I: Barriers to Increasing On-Farm Income, ed. National Rural Center (Washington, D.C., 1978), pp. 131-47. 6. USDA, Status of the Family Farm, p.3. 7. Donald K. Larson and James H. Lewis, "Small-Farm Profile," in SmallFarm Issues: Proceedings of the ESCS Small-Farm Workshop, May 1978 (Washington, D.C.: USDA, 1979), pp. 10-30 8. Some of the earlier works focusing on the reasons for the decline of the small farm include Joseph Ackerman and Marshall Harris, eds., Family Farm Policy (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1947); Stanley Andrews, The Farmer's Dilemma (Washington, D.C.: Public Affairs Press, 1961); Lee Fryer, The American Farmer: His Problems and Prospects (New York: Harper & Brothers, 1947); Anna Rochester, Why Farmers are Poor: The Agricultural Crisis in the United States (New York: International Publishers, 1940); and Lauren Soth, The Embarrassment of Plenty (New York: Crowell, 1965). For additonal works, see Charles L. Smith, A Bibliography on Land Reform in Rural America (San Francisco: Center for Rural Studies, 1974). 81 �9. Victor K. Ray, The Corporate Invastion of American Agriculture (Denver: National Farmers Union, 1968). The literature on this debate is summarized in Kevin F. Goss and Richard D. Rodefeld, Corporate Farming in the United States: A guide to Current Literature, 1967-1977 (University Park: Department of Agricultural Economics and Rural Sociology, Pennsylvania State University, 1978). 10. Shirley E. Greene, "Struggle for Survival," Engage/Social Action, October 1978, p. 15. 11. Ray Marshall and Allen Thompson, Status and Prospects of Small Farmers in the South (Atlanta: Southern Regional Council, 1976), p. 6. 12. Joe Belden, Gibby Edwards, Cynthia Guyer, and Lee Webb, eds., New Directions in Farm, Land and Food Policies: A Time for State and Local Action (Washington, D.C.: Conference on Alternative State and Local Policies, 1978), p. 10. 13. Marshall and Thompson, Status and Prospects of Small farmers, p. 9. 14. Ibid., p. 55. See Also Center for Science in the Public Interest, From the Ground Up: Building a Grass Roots Food Policy (Washington, D.C., 1976); U. S. Senate, Subcommittee on Agricultural Production, Marketing and Stabilization of Prices, Marketing Alternatives for Agriculture: Is There a Better Way? (Washington, D.C.: USGPO, 1976); and USDA, ECSC, Market Structure of the Food Industries, Marketing Research Report No. 971 (Washington, D.C., 1972). 15. Marshall and Thompson, Status and Prospects of Small Farmers, pp. 53-54; USDA, Status of the Family Farm, p. 29; Center for Rural Affairs, Where Have All the Bankers Gone? (Walthill, NB, 1977); and Gene Swackhamer and Raymond J. Doll, Financing Modern Agriculture: Banking's Problems and Challenges (Kansas City: Federal Reserve Bank, 1969). 16. Marshall and Thompson, Status and Prospects of Small Farmers, p. 54; and George Gilbert and Nancy Smith, The Farmers Home Administration: Its Operation and Programs (Washington, D.C.: Congressional Research Service, Library of Congress, 1976). 17. Jim Hightower, Eat Your Heart Out: Food Profiteering in America (New York: Vintage Books, 1976), p. 163. For further information on the financial problems facing small farmers, see USDA, Structure Issues of American Agriculture, Agricultural Economic Report 438 (Washington, D.C., 1979); U.S. Senate Select Committee on Small Business and the Committee on Interior and Insular Affairs, Will the Family Farm Survive in America?, 4 vols., 3 parts (Washington, D. C.: USGPO, 1975-76); and U. S. House of Representatives, Sub-committee on Family Farms and Rural Development, Obstacles in Strengthening Family Farm Systems (Washington, D.C.: USGPO, 1977). 18. Hightower, Eat Your Heart Out, p. 167. The anaylsis in this section of the paper relies heavily on the Hightower study. See also Corporate Date Exchange, Inc., CDE Stock Ownership Directory-Agribusiness: Who Owns and Controls the Nation's Food Supply (New York, 1978); A. V. Krebs, 1976 Directory of Major U. S. Corporations Involved in Agribusiness (San Francisco: Agribusiness Accountability Project, 1976); Interfaith Center on Corporate Responsbility, ed.) Agribusiness Manual: Background Papers on Corporate Responsbility and Hunger Issues (New York, 1978); Virginia Cook, Corporate Farming and the Family Farm, CSG Research Brief (Lexington, KY: Council of State Governments, 1076); John Shover, First Majority-Last Minority: The Transforming of Rural Life in America (Dekalb: Northern Illinois Univ. Press, 1976); Stanley Aronowitz, Food, Shelter and the 82 �American Dream (New York: Seabury Press, 1974); Michael Perelman, Farming for Profit in a Hungry World: Capital and the Crisis in Agriculture (Montclair, NJ: Allan held, Osmun & Co., 1977); and National Farm Institute, ed., Corporate Farming and the Family Farm (Ames: Iowa State Univ. Press, 1970). For additional sources, see Goss and rodefeld, Corporate Farming in the United States, pp. 9-16. 19. Cited in Hightower, Eat Your Heart Out, p. 168. 20. Paul D. Scanlon, "TDC and Phase II: The McGovern Papers," Antitrust Law & Economics Review 5 (Spring, 1972): Table 1, 33-36. 21. National Commission on Food Marketing, Organization and Competition in Food Retailing, Technical Study No. 7, Federal Trade Commission (Washington, D.C., 1966). See also Hank Frundt, "The Food Gamble," in U.S. Capitalism in Crisis, ed. Union for Radical Political Economics (New York, 1978), pp. 155-68. 22. Cited in "Agribusiness and the Food Crisis, "Corporate Information Center (CIC) Brief, November 1974, p. 3B. 23. Belden, et. al., New Directions, pp. 10-11. For Additional information on the food industry, see Martha Hamilton, The Great American Grain Robbery & Other Stories (Washington, D.C.: Agribusiness Accountability Project, 1972); William Robbins, The American Food Scandal: Why You Can'tEat Wellon What You Earn (New York: William Morrow& Co., 1974); Catherine Lerza and Michael Jacobson, Food for People, Not for Profit: A Sourcebook on the Food Crisis (New York: Ballentine, 1975); and Dan Morgan, Merchants of Grain (New York: Viking, 1979). 24. Walter Goldschmidt, As You Sow: Three Studies in the Social Consequences of Agribusiness (Glencoe, Illinois: Free Press, 1947; Montclair, New Jersey: Allanheld, Osmun & Co., 1978), p. xxvi. 25. Jim Hightower, "The Case for the Family Farmer, "Washington Monthly, September 1973, p. 28. 26. Statement of Jim Hightower, Role of Giant Corporations, Hearings before the Subcommittee on Monopoly of the Select Committee on Small Business, U. S. Senate, Ninety-second Congress (November 30 and December 1, 1971; March 1 and 2, 1972), Part 3, p. 3725. 27. John E. Davis, "There's a Contract Out on the Small Farmer," Rural America, October 1979, p. 5. See also Marshall and Thompson, Status and Prospects of Small Farmers, pp. 55-56; Goldschmidt, As You Sow, pp. xxvixxvii; Hightower, Eat Your Heart Out, pp. 197-208; Ronald Mighell and William Hoofnagle, Contract Production and Vertical Intergration in Farming, 1960 and 1970 (Washington, D.C.: USDA, 1972); and Shover, First MajorityLast Minority, pp. 175-228. 28. Belden, et al., New Directions, p. 10. 29. The Analysis in this section relies heavily on Goldschmidt, As You Sow, pp. xxxii-xxxix. For general works on U. S. agricultural policy, see Williard Cochrane and Mary Ryan, American Farm Policy, 1948-1973 (Minneapolis: University of Minnesota, 1976); Dale Hathaway, Government and Agriculture: Public Policy in a Democratic Society (New York: Macmillan, 1963); and Marion Clawson, Policy Directions for U. S. Agriculture (Baltimore: Johns Hopkins University Press, 1968). 30. Goldschmidt, As You Sow, pp. xxxii-xxxiii; Don Paarlberg, American Farm Policy, (New York: Wiley, 1964); Reo Christenson, The Brannan Plan: Farm Politics and Policy Ann Arbor: University of Michigan, 1959); and USDA, Status of the Family Farm, pp. 30-32. 31. Goldschmidt, As You Sow, p. xxxiv; Isao Fujemoto and Martin Zone, Sources of Inequities in Rural America (Davis: Department of Applied Be83 �havioral Sciences, University of California, Davis, 1976); Jeanne Dangerfield, "Sowing the Till: A Background Paper on Tax Loss Farming," Congressional Record 119 (May 16, 1973): 9247-55; Charles A. Sisson, The U.S. Tax System and the Structure of Agriculture (Washington, D.C.: National Rural Center, 1979); Thomas Carlin and W. Fred Woods, Tax Loss Farming, ERS-546 (Washington, D.C.: USDA, 1974); and Marshall and Thompson, Status and Prospects of Small Farmers, pp. 61-64. 32. USDA, Status of the Family Farm, p. 29. 33. Goldschmidt, As You Sow, p. xxxviii. 34. Jim Hightower and Susan DeMarco, Hard Tomatoes, Hard Times: The Failure of the Land Grant College Complex (Cambridge, Massachusetts: Schenkman, 1972). See also U. S. Senate, Committee on the Judiciary, Hearings on Priorities in Agricultural Research of the USDA (Washington, D.C.: USGPO, 1977); U. S. General Accounting Office, Some Problems Impeding Economic Improvements of Small-Farm Operations (Washington, D.C.: USGPO, 1975); William Friedland and Amy Barton, Destaging the Wily Tomato (Davis: College of Agricultural and Environmental Sciences, University of California, Davis, 1975); and Joe Belden with Gregg Forte, Toward a National Food Policy (Washington, D.C.: Exploratory Project for Economic Alternatives, 1976), pp. 103-06. 35. Marshall and Thompson, Status and Prospects of Small Farmers, p. 64. 36. National Agricultural Lands Study, Where Have the Farm Lands Gone? (Washington, D.C., 1979). See also Peter Meyer, "Land Rush: A Survey of America's Land," Harpers, January 1979, pp. 45-60; and Frank Browning, The Vanishing Land: The Corporate Theft of America (New York: Harper Colophor Books, 1975). 37. U. S. Senate, Committee on Agriculture, Nutrition and Forestry, Foreign Investment in United States Agricultural Land (Washington, D.C.: USGPO, 1979); U. S. General Accounting Office, Foreign Ownership of United States Farmland-Much Concern, Little Data (Washington, D.C.: USGPO, 1978); and Kenneth C. Crowe, America for Sale (Garden City NY: Doubleday, 1978). 38. James Krohe, "Farm-Land Bonanza," The Nation,, February 17, 1979, p. 177. See also Marvin Duncan, Farm Real Estate Values: What's Happening and Why (Kansas City: Federal Reserve Bank, 1979). 39. Belden, et al., New Directions, pp. 9-10. 40. See Leo McGee and Robert Boone, eds., The Black Rural LandownerEndangered Species: Social, Political and Economic Implications (Westport, CT: Greenwood Press, 1979); James Lewis, White and Minority Small Farm Operators in the South, Agricultural Economic Report 353 (Washington, D.C.: USDA, 1976); and Lester Salamon, Land and Minority Enterprises: The Crisis and the Opportunity (Washington, D.C.: U.S. Dept. of Commerce, 1976). 41. Krohe, "Farm Land Bonanza," p. 178. 42. Goldschmidt, As You Sow, pp. 3-451. 43. For details of the efforts to repress Goldschmidt's study, see Goldschmidt, As You Sow, pp. 455-91. 44. These studies and others are summarized in Goldschmidt, As You Sow, pp. xxxix-xlviii; and Alabama Marketing Project, "Land Ownership Patterns and Community Development," in A Landless People in a Rural Region: A Reader on Land Ownership and Property Taxation in Appalachia, ed. Steve Fisher (New Market, Tennessee: Highlander Center, 1979), pp. 155-56. 45. Richard Merrill, "Toward a Self-Sustaining Agriculture," in Radical Agriculture, ed Richard Merrill (New York: Harper Colophon Books, 1976) 84 �pp. 284-327; Harrison Wellford, Sowing the Wind: Ralph Nader's Study Group Report on Food Safety and the Chemical Harvest (New York: Grossman, 1972); and Belden, Toward a National Food Policy, pp. 120-50. 46. Barry Commoner, The Poverty of Power (New York: Bantam Book, 1977), pp. 149-64; and Michael Perelman, "Efficiency in Agriculture: The Economics of Energy, " in Radical Agriculture, ed. Richard Merrill (New York: Harper Colophon Books, 1976), pp. 64-86. 47. A number of articles on these alternatives can be found in Richard Merrill, ed., Radical Agriculture (New York: Harper Colophon Books, 1976). See Also Commoner, The Poverty of Power, pp. 149-64; Wendall Berry, The Unsettling of America: Culture and Agriculture (New York: Avon Books, 1978); Garth Youngberg, "The Alternative Agricultural Movement," Policy Studies Journal 6 (Summer 1978): 524-30; Daniel Zwerdling, "Curbing the Chemical Fix-Organic Farming: The Secret Is It Works," Progressive, December 1978, pp. 16-25; and Henry Esbenshade, Farming: Sources for a Social and Ecologically Accountable Agriculture (Davis, California: Alternative Agricultural Resources Project, 1976). 48. J. Patrick Madden, Economics of Size in Farming: Theory, Analytical Procedures, and a Review of Selected Studies, Agricultural Economic Report 107 (Washington, D.C.: USDA, 1967). 49. Quoted in Hightower, Eat Your Heart Out, p. 157. 50. Warren R. Bailey, The One-Man Farm, ER S-519 (Washington, D.C.: USDA, 1973): 1. See also Gordon Ball and Earl Heady, eds., Size, Structure and Future of Farms (Ames: Iowa State University Press, 1972); and Philip Raup, "Corporate Farming in the United States," Journal of Economic History 33 (March 1973): 274-90. 51. Quoted in Hightower, Eat Your Heart Out, p. 158. Similarly, Tenneco admits that from the standpoint of efficiency, "there is no substitute for the small-to-medium-sized independent grower who lives on or near his farmland." See Henry J. Freundt, "Agbiz 'Insignificant' for Nation's Largest Farmer," in Agribusiness Manual, ed. Interfaith Center on Corporate Responsibility (New York, 1978). 52. John Kenneth Galbraith, Economics and the Public Purpose (Boston: Houghton Mifflin Co., 1973), p. 73. 53. These studies are summarized in Marshall and Thompson, Status and Prospects of Small Farmers, pp. 68-72. 54. Peter Barnes, "Land Reform in America," in Radical Agriculture, ed. Richard Merrill (New York: Harper Colophon books, 1976), p. 27. 55. Ibid., p. 30. See also A. Whitney Griswold, Farming and Democracy (New Haven: Yale University Press, 1952). 56. Greene, "Struggle for Survival," pp. 18-19. 57. Marshall and Thompson, Status and Prospects of Small Farmers, p. 79. 58. Belden, et al., New Directions, pp. 28-37, 198-213; Agricultural Marketing Project, Marketing Report: Food Fairs (Nashville: Center for Health Services, Vanderbilt University, 1976); William Ronco, Food Co-ops (Boston: Beacon Press, 1974); Deborah Bowles, Farmers' Market Organizer Handbook (Olympia, Washington Hunger Action Center, Evergreen College, 1976); and Hightower, Eat Your Heart Out, p. 304. 59. Marshall and Thompson, Status and Prospects of Small Farmers, p. 79; Belden, Toward a National Food Policy, pp. 111-14; and Belden, et al., New Directions, pp. 19-27. 60. Rural America, Platform for Rural America, revised at the Third National Conference on Rural America, December 5-7, 1977, (Washington, D.C., 1978), pp. 25-27; Hightower, Eat Your Heart Out, pp. 303-04; Barnes, 85 �"Land Reform in America," pp. 30-31; and Sheldon L. Greene, "Corporate Accountability and the Family Farm," in Radical Agriculture, ed. Richard Merrill (New York: Harper Colophon Books, 1976), pp. 59-61. 61. Marshall and Thompson, Status and Prospects of Small Farmers, p. 80; Eat Your Heart Out, p. 304; and Greene, "Corporate Accountability and the Family Farm," p. 61. 62. Rural America, Platform for Rural America, p. 25; Greene, "Corporate Accountability and the Family Farm," pp. 59-60; Belden, Toward a National Food Policy, pp. 117-19; and Linda Kravitz, Who's Minding the Co-op? A Report on Farmer Control of Farmer Cooperatives (Washington, D.C.: Agribusiness Accountability Project, 1974). 63. Rural America, Platform for Rural America, p. 25. 64. Greene, "Corporate Accountability and the Family Farm," pp. 58-59; and Marshall and Thompson, Status and Prospects of Small Farmers, p. 79. 65. Barnes, "Land Reform in America," p. 31; and Greene, "Corporate Accountability and the Family Farm," p. 60. 66. Rural America, Platform for Rural America, pp. 24-27. 67. Hightower and DeMarco, Hard Tomatoes, Hard Times,, pp. 138-43; Berry, The Unsettling of America, pp. 221-22; Belden, et al., New Directions, 55-69; and Rural America, Platform for Rural America, p. 24. 68. Marshall and Thompson, Status and Prospects of Small Farmers, p. 79. 69. Belden, et al., New Directions, pp. 11-12. The book provides an excellent introduction to innovative state and local actions related to small farm issues. 70. Rural America, Platform for Rural America, p.27. 71. Belden, Toward a National Food Policy, pp. 114-17; Greene, "Corporate Accountability and the Family Farm," p. 61; U. S. Senate, Committee on Agriculture, Nutrition and Forestry, Hearings on the Farmland Protection Act (Washington, D.C.: USGPO, 1979); and Joseph H. Nash, Jr., "Farmcolony: A Development Approach to Loss of Agricultural Land," Urban Land, February 1976, 12-16. 72. Farm-value assessment laws are often placed in three classes: preferential assessment, deferred taxation, and restrictive agreement. Questions have been raised as to the effectiveness of these laws as land use control mechanisms. See Robert Brandon, Jonathan Rower, and Thomas Stanton, Tax Politics (New York: Pantheon, 1076), pp. 158-63; Robert J. Gloudemans, Use-Value Farmland Assessments: Theory, Practice and Impact (Chicago: International Association of Assessing Officers, 1974); Glen W. Atkinson, "The Effectiveness of Differential Assessment of Agricultural and Open Space Land," American Journal of Economics and Sociology 36 (Apiil 1977): 197-204; Thomas F. Hady, "Differential Assessment of Farmland on the Rural-Urban Fringe," American Journal of Agricultural Economics 52 (February 1970): 25-32; and John Keene, Untaxing Open Space, prepared for the Council on Environmental Quality (Washington, D.C.: USGPO, 1976). 73. See H. E. Conklin and W. R. Bryant, "Agricultural Districts: A Compromise Approach to Agricultural Preservation," American Journal of Aricultural Economics 56 (August 1974): 607-13; Belden, et al., New Directions, pp. 97-112; and Bryon Dorgan, The Progressive Land Tax: A Tax Incentive for the Family Farm (Washington, D.C.: Conference on Alternative State and Local Policies, 1978). 74. International Independence Institute, The Community Land Trust: A Guide to a New Model for Land Tenure in America (Cambridge, Massachusetts: Center for Community Economic Development, 1972); and Belden, et al.) New Directions, p. 88. 86 �75. Jerry Hardt, The Feasibility and Design of a Central Appalachian Land Bank, prepared for the A.R.C. (Berea, Kentucky: Human/Economic Appalachian Development Corporation, 1979); and Ann L. Strong, Land Banking: European Reality, American Prospect (Baltimore: John Hopkins University Press, 1979). 76. Barnes, "Land Reform in America," p. 31. See also Geoffrey Faux, "Reclaiming America," Working Papers 1 (Summer 1973): 31-42; Peter Barnes, The People's Land: A Reader on Land Reform in the United States (Emmaus, Pennsylvania: Rodale Press, 1975); and Florence Constant, Land Reform: A Bibliography (Cambridge, Massachusetts: Center for community Economic Development, 1972). 77. Barnes, "Land in America," pp. 31-33. See Charles Smith, A Bibliography on the 160-Acre Anti-Monopoly Water Law (San Francisco: Center for Rural Studies, 1974). 78. Barnes, "Land Reform in America," p. 32. 79. Hightower, Eat Your Heart Out, pp. 304-06. 80. Berry, The Unsettling of America, p. 14. 81. Ladd Haysted and Gilbert Fife, The Agricultural Regions of the United States (Norman: University of Oklahoma Press, 1955), p. 82. 82. See Roy E. Procter and T. Kelly White, "Agriculture: A Reassessment," in The Southern Appalachian Region, ed. Thomas Ford (Lexington: University of Kentucky Press, 1962), pp 87-101; The Appalachian Region's Agriculture: Its Problems and Potentials for Development, prepared for the President's Appalachian Regional Commission (Washington, D.C., 1963); R. I. Coltrane and E. L. Baum, An Economic Survey of the Appalachian Region, with Special Reference to Agriculture, Agricultural Economic Report 69 (Washington, D.C.: USDA, 1965); Anthony Pavlick, Toward Solving, the Low-Income Problems of Small Farmers in the Appalachian Area, Bulletin 499T (Morgantown: West Virginia Agricultural Experiment Station, 1964); and USDA, Employment, Unemployed and Low Incomes in Appalachia (Washington, D.C.: 1965). 83. W. B. Back and Clark Edwards, "Socioeconomic Trends and Nonfarm Demands for Resources in the Tennessee Valley," in Farmland Tenure and Farmland Use in the Tennessee Valley (Southern Land Economic Research Committee, n. d.). 84. Proctor and White, p. 87. 85. See Steve Fisher, ed.,A Landless People in a Rural Region: A Reader on Land-ownership and Property Taxation in Appalachia (New Market, Tennessee: Highlander Center, 1979); Judy Miller, "Where Does All of Our Farmland Go?", Mountain Review, January 1979, pp. 35-38; and Hal Lenke, "Land Poor: The Appalachian Farmer," People's Appalachia 3 (Spring 1973): 35-36. 86. USDA, Status of the Family Farm, p. 25. 87. Dean Pierce, "The Low-Income Farmer: A Reassessment," Social Welfare in Appalachia 3 (1971): 7-10. For more information on the effects of industrial development on Appalachian agriculture, see Harry Caudill, Night Comes to the Cumberlands (Boston: Atlantic Monthly-Little, Brown, & Co., 1962). 88. Marshall and Thompson (Status and Prospects of Small Farmers, p. 80) offer a set of specific questions which could be used in structuring a response to the problem of how to ensure the viability of the small farm in Appalachia. See also Fred Stewart, Harry Hall and Eldon Smith, "Potential for Increased Income on Small Farms in Appalachian Kentucky," American Journal of Agricultural Economics 61 (February 1979): 77-82; and Sammy Comer and 87 �Roger C. Woodworth, Improving Incomes on Limited Resource Farms in South Central Tennessee, Bulletin 36 (Nashville: School of Agriculture and Home Economics, Tennessee State University, 1976). 89. Berry, The Unsettling of America, p. 74. 90. Hightower, Eat Your Heart Out, p. 188. 91. Berry, The Unsettling of America, p. 123. 88 �COMPARATIVE REGIONAL ISSUES: LAND USE AND ENVIRONMENTAL PLANNING IN THE ADIRONDACKS AND APPALACHIANS Parker G. Mar den and Alan M. Schwartz with Kealy Salomon, Gardiner Tucker, Susan Tewksbury, Timothy Jones, and Laurie Booth, ST. LA WRENCE UNIVERSITY Abstract In this paper, an effort is undertaken to compare two regions—the northernmost counties in New York (commonly known as the "North Country") and the southern Appalachians. After examining the possibilities and merits of developing a comparative perspective on regional issues, a comparison is made between policies on land use and environmental planning in two areas within the larger regions: the Adirondacks and the mountains of western North Carolina. In the first case, land use and development is managed by the strictest set of controls governing private land in the United States. In the second instance, the controls are far less restrictive and administered at a local level. The notions of dependency theory are evoked to emphasize that structural arrangements are present in both instances that pass control into the hands of others. In this report, we propose to offer a comparison of two regions-the northernmost counties of New York (commonly known as the "North Country") and the southern Appalachians. Our goals here are to suggest the value of developing a strong comparative perspective on regional issues and, by way of example, to specify some important aspects of land use and the regional character of the two areas. Such comparisons offer possibilities for understanding that are not easily revealed in each separate case. In most respects, our observations are preliminary and tentative; they are perhaps better considered as an agenda for research than as firm conclusions; and they await the enrichment (and alteration) of criticism. These observations are the direct outgrowth of a summer program in comparative regional issues that has been offered to undergraduates at St. Lawrence University since 1978. The program was developed because, unlike Appalachia, the North Country in which the University is located has not been the object of significant and extensive attention from researchers as a distinctive region. Although one can draw lessons about the side effects of such attention from the experience of Appalachia, there is a knowledge base that allows that region to be better understood and appreciated. Accordingly, the program seeks to look at northern New York with perspectives gained during a trip through western North Carolina, central Tennessee, and eastern Kentucky and visits with academicians, planners, regional advocates, and residents to learn how they perceive and address the needs of their region. Comparative Regional Issues On the face of it, the potentialities for comparison are not easily recogniz- 89 �able. Despite the presence of its "Appalachian" counties, as reflected in the delineation and influence of the Appalachian Regional Commission, New York generates connotations of affluence that Appalachia does not. The sparkle and self-assuredness of New York City as a cultural and economic center for the world, despite the blight and poverty that gnaws at its core, can be blinding. But just as residents of Appalachia complain about having that region's important features blurred by media-reinforced stereotypes, the process is returned in kind and the "New Yorker" becomes a caricature and one specific to its major metropolis at that. Yet, many communities in the North Country are located as far from New York City as are some communities in western Pennsylvania or West Virginia and their cultural and social isolation may be as marked. Northern New York is not only on the periphery of the state geographically, but politically and economically as well. In a state where Westchester County, so near to New York City, is thought of as "Upstate," what chance is there for distinguishing areas that are more than 300 miles away? The North Country reaches from Vermont on the East to Lake Ontario and the St. Lawrence River which forms the international boundary with Canada on the West and North. Its southern border is less clearly defined, although appropriately, many persons define it as the area lying North of the metropolitan centers along the old Erie Canal and now the New York Thruway (Albany-Troy-Schenectady, Utica-Rome, and Syracuse). It is a huge area geographically for at its center lies the Adirondack Park-6,000,000 acres, of which much remains as unspoiled wilderness. The North Country is set apart from the rest of the State by its poverty, high unemployment, its harsh winters, the significant out-migration of its youth, a small population (about 250,000) scattered over a large area, and an economy that is especially vulnerable to decisions made by public agencies and private corporations from outside the region and over which it has little control. Further, land use in its Adirondack core is controlled by a controversial set of strict regulations that are unique within the United States. Many possibilities for comparison with Appalachia are obvious. Although its poverty is quite different in character, some of the nation's poorest counties are located in the Appalachians. Its economy is also based heavily on natural resources, although coal rather than timber is more commonly king. Like the Adirondacks, the natural beauty of areas in Appalachia has attracted tourists and second-home developers, thereby accentuating the struggle between development and preservation. Similarly, most economic and political decisions are made in distant cities. And as in northern New York, many young adults have had to leave the region to find rewarding employment. A comparative approach is valuable because it can lead to a better understanding of northern New York. The focus on regional concerns that is found in Appalachia is lacking in the North Country. The arguments advanced by dependency theory, for example, can be borrowed to provide a framework for evaluating manifestations of economic and political power. The control of timber and mineral resources in the North Country can be better comprehended by learning about the history of the coal industry in Appalachia. As importantly, however, the comparative approach can sharpen the analysis of the variable being compared. For example, both northern New York and Appalachia are characterized by poverty and high unemployment. From this comparison, however, it is a short step to other dimensions of economic distress: (1) the "character" of poverty (e.g., its possible relief through subsistence farming), (2) the special costs of severe winters and a low-density population, (3) the presence of a shadow economy served by the underemployed, (4) the dif- 90 �ferential impact of welfare benefits by state, and (5) the relative proximity of extremes in wealth. Similarly, the consequences of distinctive settlement patterns and their pace and timing can be appreciated through comparison. The Appalchians were settled quite early in the nation's history when compared to northern New York which, with the exception of its periphery along the St. Lawrence River, Lake Champlain, and central New York, was not even well-explored until the mid-1800s. Even today, much of the North Country is very sparsely populated with small hamlets and villages clinging to a limited network of roads. Some areas remain as true wilderness. Both areas can be characterized by the isolation of much of their populations, but in the Appalachians with its distinctive hollows, it is isolation imposed by geology; and in the North Country, it is the isolation of sparseness emphasized annually by winter. The implications of such settlement patterns need to be carefully examined. For example, how much do they contribute to the legacies of a rich and distinctive culture found in the Appalachians and to the lack of unique regional attributes and artifacts in the North Country? In the latter case, the history of recent and scattered settlement, especially in its Adirondack core, precludes the possibility of "trapping" a culture in time. So the potentialities for comparative regional study are great. In looking at Appalachia and the North Country, the pattern that seems to be emerging is one of general similarities and differences in detail. The benefits rest both in moving towards better understanding of the two regions and in developing better specifications of the dimensions along which the comparisons are made. These goals can be illuminated by an examination of land use controls and environmental planning in Appalachia, here primarily the recreation areas of the North Carolina mountains, and in the Adirondack Park at the center of the North Country. Environment and Land Use Planning Both areas are regions of great natural beauty. Persons in the North Country talk with the same affection for the High Peaks of the Adirondacks as their counterparts speak of the Blue Ridge. The attractiveness of the regions, as known to its inhabitants, was discovered next by those of wealth and privilege and both now face the pressures of the "democratization" of leisure with an unprecedented demand for recreational opportunities, including secondhome developments and other forms of intensive use. Both regions have also had to contend with the interests of large outside companies interested in timber and mineral resources. But the regions differ dramatically in the way that such challenges are being managed. While growth in western North Carolina and elsewhere along the Blue Ridge is largely the concern of local government, the Adirondack area is managed by the most stringent controls on private land use in effect in the United States. The comparisons can be most instructive. With its 6,000,000 acres, the Adirondack Park is approximately the size of Vermont. Its population, however, is small-112,000 permanent residents and 90,000 seasonal residents--and much of the area is still wilderness. Approximately 60 percent of the land within the Park is privately owned, including the holdings of large timber companies, while the balance consists of the Adirondack Forest Preserve owned by the State. These lands are intermingled like a haphazard mosaic. All or part of 15 villages, 92 towns, and 12 counties are within the Park's boundaries or the imaginary "Blue Line." The wilderness character of the Park has been attracting tourists and outdoor enthusiasts for more than a century. The first real threat to the 91 �character of the Adirondacks came from the timber industry in the late nineteenth century. Large tracts of land were being leased or sold to logging companies and the virgin forest was being cut. Alarmed at the rate at which state forest land was disappearing, the Legislature adopted what is now Article 14 to the State Constitution in 1895. The opening section remains unchanged to this day: The lands of the state, now owned or hereafter acquired, constituting the forest preserve are now fixed by law, shall be forever kept as wild forest lands. They shall not be leased, sold, or exchanged, or taken by any corporation, public or private, nor shall the timber thereon be sold, removed, or destroyed. Despite increasing pressures, the simplicity and Constitutional character of the law have provided over eighty years of protection for the state-owned land. The next major threat to the Adirondacks came in the middle of this century. As leisure time and incomes increased, the Aidrondacks Mountains, like many other areas of the United States, attracted an increasing number of visitors. Recreation was no longer the luxury of the rich and persons from all social backgrounds could visit the Adirondacks. Although large portions of the wilderness within the Park were publicly owned and protected by Article 14, many fragile and important ecosystems were not clearly delimited by ownership and parts were often in private hands. As long as their owners resisted development, there would be no problem. Pressures for large-scale development were increasing, however, and the State of New York could no longer be certain that the Adirondack Park would be able to escape the boom in tourism and development that was already engulfing other areas of the country. 1 In 1968, Governor Nelson Rockefeller created the Temporary Study Commission on the Future of the Adirondacks and charged it with the responsibility of developing a long-range policy for state lands and to suggest measures that would ensure that the development of private lands would be appropriate and consistent with those long-range goals.2 The Commission produced a report that made 181 recommendations pertaining to all aspects of the Park. The first three dealt with the creation of an Adirondack Park Agency that would be responsible for developing and implementing land use plans for both public and private lands within the Park. The Adirondack Park Agency (APA) Act was passed by both the Senate and Assembly in 1971, although it was opposed by all but one of the legislators from the region. Immediately after its creation, the Agency produced the State Land Master Plan that was submitted to Governor Rockefeller in 1972. Legislative approval was unnecessary because the Plan dealt solely with management of the state lands. Seven land use classifications for public land and guidelines for their use were designed to maintain the Adirondack Park in as natural and unspoiled condition as possible. The checkerboard separation of state and private lands within the Park meant that the stringent controls imposed by the APA for the state lands were really of little value if the general character of the surrounding private lands were destroyed by development. After the State Land Master Plan had been approved, the Agency set to work on the much more difficult task of developing a land use plan for the privately owned lands. The Adirondack Park Land Use and Development Plan was submitted to the Legislature in 1973. There were attempts to defeat the bill, but when strong pressure from Governor Rockefeller made passage seem certain, the representatives from the area 92 �sought a year's delay to study the Plan in depth. Rockefeller felt that delay would result in hurried and uncontrolled development of the kind that the Plan was designed to halt and he vetoed the delay bill. A few months later, the Legislature approved the Plan and, with it, the unique land use controls that apply to the Adirondack Park. Thus, the role of a politically powerful governor, committed to the preservation of the Adirondacks, made a key contribution for the passage of the Act. The Plan called for six categories of land use. They range from "hamlets," essentially the population centers in the Park, in which there are no restrictions on land use and development, to "resource management areas" in which land use density is limited to encourage forestry and agriculture with residential development not to exceed one dwelling per forty-two acres. (53 percent of all private land falls into this category.) In the first instance, no restrictions are set in the hope that growth will be focused on such communities, so that the rest of the Park will remain relatively unspoiled while still serving visitors. Resource management areas are especially restrictive so that fragile ecosystems can be protected and the wilderness character of the Park can be maintained. In addition to the classification of private lands, the Land Use and Development Plan also defines regional projects for which the APA has authority: Projects of a certain size and type and in certain locations assume regional importance. This means that they have a broader area of impact and concern that just the town in which they are proposed to be located.3 In hamlets, few projects are considered to be regional, while nearby all in resource management areas are regarded as such. Again, the other categories of land use range in between. The APA also established specific regulations for the shorelines of all lakes, ponds, rivers, and streams in order to protect them from destruction and to preserve the wilderness character of the land. There are specifications of minimum width to lots and building setbacks, again varying by the classification of the land. With the passage of the Land Use and Development Plan by the Legislature, the APA assumed control over most building and development activities within the Blue Line (the imaginary Park boundary), ranging upwards from the construction of a single family dwelling.4 The Agency is prepared to relinquish jurisdiction of most small-scale local planning to those communities that develop a land use plan that is consistent with its goals.' In seven years, however, only seven towns have developed APA-approved plans, although several others are in various stages of completion and adoption. The intent is to form a partnership between the state and local governments in the Park in order to maintain its character and plan its growth. The lack of approved plans, assuming more local control over local planning, is clear evidence of the resistance of communities to this notion of partnership. At the same time, the consciousness of Park residents about the importance of planning has been raised even as the presence of the APA is opposed.6 Thus, land use and development in the six million acres of the Adirondack Park is regulated and controlled by a single agency, the Adirondack Park Agency, with the full force of state law behind it. Public lands (some 40 percent of the area) are managed through Article 14 of the State Constitution, and the privately owned lands (the remaining 60 percent) are controlled through the Adirondack Park Land Use and Development Plan approved by the Legislature in 1973. Both combine to insure that state lands will be maintained as "open 93 �spaces," even wilderness, and that their quality will not be marred by the development of nearby private lands. The success of the Adirondack Park Agency is preserving the character of the Park is widely debated. In its first years of operation, it approved more than 90 percent of the applications submitted to it. Just over one percent were disapproved and another 5 percent were withdrawn before a decision was reached, presumably because the project sponsors realized that approval would not be forthcoming.7 These figures can be misleading, however, because many projects die aborning due to the very existence of the Land Use Plan and an agency to apply its regulations. Robert Flacke, presently Commissioner of the State's Department of Environmental Conservation, says that the Adirondack Park Agency has discouraged the "fast buck" developers from considering the Adirondacks as a suitable target for easy profit.' There is also evidence that the quality of applications has improved since the APA's early years. As will be discussed below, those years were especially troubled ones. The review procedures have become simpler and more efficient as generally accepted guidelines have emerged, at least in practice. Those filing applications are increasingly aware of the regulations concerning building and sewage system setbacks, wetlands, intensity to use, steep slopes, and aesthetics, and they describe more clearly how their project intends to meet the requirements. Accordingly, applications are processed more efficiently and quickly. The high percentage of project approvals is misleading in another way. Conditions are often attached. The most common conditions involve limits on the number of buildings due to intensity restrictions, location of buildings, wetland and stream protection, and proper provision for on-site sewage disposal. It is difficult to determine how many projects are halted because of the special conditions because they prove to be too costly to the developer or home owner, but they do affirm the intentions of the Land Use and Development Plan. At the same time, the Agency has lacked an effective system of inspection and, consequently, of enforcement, so it is difficult to determine how effective the setting of special conditions is in preserving the environmental and aesthetic quality of the Adirondack Park. Given its power to rule on matters that had heretofore been private, including the construction of a single family home, it is not surprising that the Adirondack Park Agency has been the center of controversy from its creation. Its very parentage, New York State (especially its governor and urban legislators) has never been in doubt and local residents view the Agency as an "outside" infringement of their basic liberties. In the beginning, the inefficiencies of the Agency produced several controversial cases, indeed "horror stories," that galvanized local opposition. Protest groups were active, litigation against the Agency was frequent, and legislation was introduced to curb its powers. Such activities continue, but the opposition is more sporadic and muted. The Agency's increased sensitivity and efficiency has helped in this regard. So, seven years after the Adirondack Park Land Use and Development Plan was enacted, the controls over land use and development within the Park are firmly in place. The status of the Adirondack Park is in sharp contrast with developments in the Blue Ridge mountains. In 1974, the Legislature of North Carolina rejected the Mountain Area Management Act (MAMA) that would have provided for state regulation and controls in that state's portion of the Blue Ridge region. Those who framed the Act were reacting to the same concerns about uncontrolled growth and uncoordinated development that had been foreseen in the Adirondacks (and elsewhere). But, here planning and environmental protection was left to local agencies instead. Many are not equal to the challenge offered 94 �by organized interests. As one result, the area around Boone and Blowing Rock has become the setting for a wide variety of fast-food restaurants, motels, amusements, and other tourist-related accouterments. Without comprehensive land use controls and zoing regulations, the growth has been uncoordinated and random. The problems escalate with new outcries for flood control and better drainage where building should have been restricted and for improved highways where the demand is generated by the newly constructed attractions. Deeper in the mountains, large-scale developments provide a challenge of similar difficulty. Ski resorts and related second-home enterprises have been built throughout the area and others are planned. Some are carefully designed to protect their natural assets; others have taken few safeguards. The situation is further complicated by the problems that some developments have encountered in their financing. Some have been slowed or halted in mid-construction due to a lack of funds, even bankruptcy, and others have had to cut corners or ignore promises. Environmental safeguards quickly become luxuries in such situations. The problems of growth are not just those of the physical environment, however. Even where developments follow sound advice and employ selfimposed standards on the use of land, protection of fragile ecosystems, and the management of sewage, there are difficulties that transcend specific projects. For example, accelerating commercialization of the environment in parts of western North Carolina places great pressure on residents to sell their land. Consequently, speculation is rampant. Those who would prefer to continue with the present use of land, perhaps in farming, are under increasing pressure to sell because assessments for taxes increase with land values and the best use of land becomes its sale. A more subtle difficulty which is perhaps unmanageable with even the most cautious planning concerns the "hidden injuries of class"' when those of economic advantage are served by those who have been figuratively or literally dispossessed. In western North Carolina, as elsewhere in the United States, the symbols become such things as roads to ski resorts that are well-maintained in winter while the schools must close because other roads are impassable, or clusters of second homes of spectacular siting and design in areas where the inadequate "first homes" of others are discreetly out of sight, but nearby. Most of these problems are not obscure. They are very difficult ones with which to deal, however, because the tools of management—land use controls, regulations, planning-challenge the concept of property rights. "Nobody is going to tell me what I can do with my land!" So, efforts to set standards for new developments or to implement stricter regulations are seriously challenged. Such challenges are often encouraged by those who have the most to gain, and land developers, bankers, realtors, and politicians have vested interests in "home rule" and local determination of land use. Indeed, it is very hard to fault those who behave in accordance with their perception of their basic rights and interests. The same arguments are heard in the Adirondacks and western North Carolina as well as any other place where the use of land is changing. But in the Adirondacks, large-scale development has virtually ceased, steep slopes and wetlands are off-limits to development, and shorelines are protected. Personal choice and local option have been supplemented in specified instances by state control of the land. One principle, environmental management, has taken priority over another-property rights. The options for development and other uses of the land have been narrowed for local residents by citizens of the entire state acting through their legislators and 95 �directly by referendum. Regional Character Why have these differnces occurred? Why is land use in the Adirondacks now managed by strict regulations while developments in North Carolina are governed more by the laws of gravity and the good will of the developers than by a formal set of controls? It is not enough to say that those with deep interests in environmental quality saw that the Adirondacks required protection and it was accomplished. Not only does this interpretation commit an act of reductio ad absurdum, but it ignores the fact that by the same standards of natural beauty and environmental quality, and at a roughly similar point in the development of these resources, the Blue Ridge region of North Carolina needed the same foresight implied in planning and land use controls. Better explanations are needed to account for the differences in response. Perhaps the easiest explanation can be sought in variations in regional character. By this interpretation, the people of North Carolina were more resistant to infringement on personal liberties than those in the Adirondacks. Doubtlessly, the inhabitants of the Blue Ridge and Adirondack regions differ in certain cultural and social-psychological attributes. Indeed, this is one argument for positioning the comparison of the two areas in the larger regional contexts of Appalachia and the North Country. But whatever those differences may be, it is very unlikely that passiveness to an infringement of property and other rights is among them. Adirondackers are proud and independent persons and to attribute the presence of land use controls established for the region to their indifference would be a classic case of "blaming the victim." 10 Similarly, it is inappropriate to explain the differences as historical accidents or to attribute them to idiosyncratic factors. In doing so, one accounts for the differences simply in the votes of legislatures or particular environmental atrocities committed (or planned) in the name of development that mobilized public opinion. Such explanations imply no pattern to history or the particular relationship of a region to the larger world. Rather, a structural interpretation seems most appropriate. In both cases, it is in the interests of others that the decision is made and that decision-for controls in the Adirondacks and against MAMA in North Carolina-reflects those interests. It is the politics of dependency. In the Adirondacks, those who influenced the decision were willing to have some rights surrendered, usually those of others, to protect the environment. In North Carolina, those who influenced the decision were not yet willing to surrender such options only because they had not yet obtained what they wanted. Instead, they could use the issue of such rights for their own ends. In the Adirondacks, the decision was made to protect the environment; in North Carolina, it was made to protect development. In either case, was it the politics of the people who would be most affected that mattered. Both situations are manifestations of dependency theory and the ideas of colonialsim." In the Adirondacks, we are talking about an "environmental" colony; in the Blue Ridge mountains, the colonizers are the land developers. Both areas, as part of the North Country and Appalachia respectively, are party to a long heritage of economic and political dependency in which decisions are made elsewhere. There are two problems with evoking the ideas and imagery of dependency 96 �and colonialism in this context. First, they carry connotations that can be troubling. The implications of exploitation and the arrogance of power are not pretty. In its classic sense, dependency is an economic, political, and social mechanism, often reinforced by psychological manifestations, that allow a few to control and profit from the labors of many. It is perhaps possible to adjust dependency theory to the unique circumstances of the Adirondack Park where the relationships are the same in that the decision was made for those who are affected, but the motives for doing so were more honorable. The reasons for imposing controls were not profit-related, but ones reflecting the deep conviction that the environment needed protection. The tradeoff between property rights and control involved a calculation that the environment, including the last remaining wilderness in the Northeast, was more deserving. In one respect, this explanation is too simplistic. It implies that the motives of all those who supported the Adirondack Park were equally honorable. For some, protection of the environment did involve a higher calling, but for others, it was a matter of protecting interests and investments. The same division, perhaps still too simple, can be made for those who opposed the Park. Nonetheless, it should be patently clear that the decision to establish strong controls in the Adirondacks was but one of a series made for local residents by others from the "outside." Here, the decision was on behalf of the environment. Conversely, the decision not to establish strong controls in the mountains of western North Carolina was also one of a series of decisions made for local residents by outsiders. Here, the decision was on behalf of development. In balance, the potential for continued exploitation both of people and the environment seems greater in the latter case. Perhaps the connotations of dependency theory, although not its logic, are misapplied when they blur such features. This raises the second problem. The application of the dependency idea provides a structure for analysis, but leads quickly to a set of second-order questions: why and how are these interests mobilized? At this point, we come full circle to the points made at the beginning of this paper about potential for comparative study. Simultaneously, we must hide behind (under?) an agenda for further study. Essentially, we argue that whether local autonomy or "home rule" is supported or eroded, it reflects the intersts of others. In the Adirondacks, those interests were supportive of the environment; in the Blue Ridge area, the issue of "rights" supports pro-development interests. Why did the econimic and political elite in New York elect to preserve the Adirondacks? Why did their counterparts in North Carolina choose the other course? These two questions are only the beginning of a fuller exploration. Informed through comparison, it could add important specification to the nature of regional character. Attention needs to be directed to basic matters of political and economic power, control, and autonomy as well as concerns about ecological fragility and environmental protection. NOTES 1. Fred Sullivan, "Adirondack Zoning: A National Experiment in Land Use Controls Faces Local Challenge," Empire State Report, December, 1975, p. 464. 2. Temporary Study Commission on the Future of the Adirondacks, The Future of'the Adirondack Part, Albany, 1972, p.3. 3. Adirondack Park Agency, A Citizen's Guide to Adirondack Park Agency Land Use Regulations, January, 1979, p. 8. 97 �4. During its first four years, 58.1 percent of the proposals reviewed by the Adirondack Park Agency involved the building of a single family dwelling or two-lot subdivisions. At the other extreme, fewer than one percent of the projects reviewed were subdivisions of greater than 50 units; cf., G. Gordon Davis and Richard A. Kiroff, "Conflict in the North Country," draft report, September, 1979, p. 18. 5. When a town is granted APA approval for a land use program, it gains (1) refinement and distribution of overall intensity guidelines, (2) local review of Class B regional projects, and (3) increased local participation in APA review of Class A projects. The Class A projects are those of "regional importance" and are generally more sensitive. The Class B projects are smaller and more localized. 6. Adirondack Park Agency, Local Planning and Land Use Controls in the Adirondack Park, 1975. 7. Davis and Liroff, "Conflict in the North Country, pp. iv-22. 8. Robert F. Flacks, A Report on Implementation of the Adirondack Park Agency Act, presented to the Eighth Annual Convention of the Environmental Planning Lobby, October 15,1978, pp. 1-2. 9. Richard Sennett and Jonathan Cobb, The Hidden Injuries of Class, (New York: Vintage Books, 1973). 10. William Ryan, Blaming the Victim (New York: Pantheon Books, 1971). 11. See, for example, Helen M. Lewis and Edward E. Knipe, "The Colonialism Model: The Appalachian Case," in Colonialism in Modern America: The Appalachian Case, ed. Helen M. Lewis, Linda Johnson, and Don Askins (Boone, N.C.: Appalachian Consortium Press, 1978), pp. 9-31. 98 �COMMUNITY DEVELOPMENT PERSPECTIVES OF OHIO APPALACHIANS: A REGIONAL STUDY TedL. Napier and Elizabeth G. Bryant Abstract Data were collected from a random sample of 1474 residents living in a five county area located within the designated Appalachian region of Ohio during the summer and fall of 1975. The focus of the study was upon the assessment of development priorities of the local populace. The study findings are employed in this paper to ascertain the validity of stereotypes commonly used to describe Appalachians and to determine the relative merits of individual deficits models for understanding unemployment. The findings are discussed in the context of alternative development strategies for rural Appalachian areas such as the study region. INTRODUCTION Appalachians have been characterized in the existing popular, as well as scientific, literature as being individualistic, suspicious of oursiders, localistic in terms of world perspectives, opposed to government involvement and control, opposed to socioeconomic growth and social change, anti-intellectual, poverty stricken, dependent upon reference groups for information, traditionalistic, ignorant, and numerous other stereotypes which are not complimentary to Appalachian people (Coles, 1972; Ball, 1970; Fetterman, 1970; Caudill, 1963; Harrington, 1966; Quigley, 1969; Weller, 1965; Schwarzweller, 1970; Photiadis, 1970; Mayo, 1970; Looff, 1971). Such descriptors suggest that Appalachians have internalized self-perceptions and attitudes which impede planned change programs from being implemented within the region and imply that the "culture of poverty" thesis advocated by Lewis (1966) is correct. The culture of poverty thesis suggests that development problems can only be "attacked" via modification of the individual through changes in attitudes, knowledge bases, skills, values, beliefs, and behavior. The individual is perceived to be deficient in the sociocultural factors which are necessary to participate fully in the institutions of the society. Therefore, solutions to development problems are couched in terms of changing the person to fit the system. Many federal and state programs designed to ameliorate socio economic problems in rural areas within the United States have tended to rely heavily upon the individual deficits model as noted by the existing literature in the field of human resources development (Schultz, 1962; Becker, 1962; Jakubauskas and Baumel, 1967; McCollum, 1967; Bloch and Smith, 1977; Niland, 1972; Stromsdorfer, 1968; Colmen, 1967; Levitan, et al, 1972; Parnes and Kohen, 1975). The long history of manpower programs in Appalachia is evidence of the commitment to the human resources development model. The logic advanced in the human resources development model is that private and public investments in developing human skills will make the recipient of such investments more functional in the existing social structure. Subsequently, it is argued that an individual who has been "developed" in terms of "improved" human resources will be absorbed into the existing social system which in turn will reduce socio economic development problems for the region. While the individual deficits model has been used extensively by governmental agencies, several researchers have raised questions about the model (Gurin, 1970; 277- 99 �299; Grubb and Lazeson, 1975; Niland, 1972; Patten and Clark, 1968; Ballante, 1972; Koenker, 1967; 134-142; Spitze, 1970; 197-218; Blaug, 1976; Napier, et al, 1979; Napier, 1979). These writers suggest that the model has some serious limitations and some even suggest the model may be an inappropriate strategy for bringing about rural development under certain circumstances (Napier, et al, 1979; Napier, 1979). The two objectives of this paper are to examine with empirical data the validity of the stereotypes used to describe Appalachians noted above and to evaluate the relative merits of the human resources development model for understanding unemployment within a multi-county Appalachian area of Ohio. The findings will be discussed in the context of rural development policy. RESEARCH METHODOLOGIES The Research Situation The region selected for investigation is a five county area within the designated Appalachian counties of southeastern Ohio. The region is characterized by rolling hills and widely separated farmsteads and small villages. The primary occupations in the study area have traditionally been associated with the extractive industries (coal, timber and small-scale agriculture) even though the occupational structure is slowly becoming more differentiated. An examination of the socio economic history of the region prior to the late 1970s will show a gradual reduction of socio economic viability for many years. Out-migration prior to 1975 was very common, since jobs in the local area were difficult to secure and opportunities for social mobility within the study region were quite limited. The social infrastructure of the multi-county region tended to reflect this history of decline. Services, both public and private, have been in a state of continual decline relative to other areas of the state, and unemployment rates have remained high. Other indicators of a declining area have traditionally been identified with the region. The socio economic viability of the area looked rather bleat until several coal mines were opened in the early 1970s. The mines provided expanded employment opportunities but also created new interest in development planning among several groups to sustain the growth and, therefore, increase the probability that the recent surge of economic activity would not wane. To aid in the planning process, a study was commissioned by the Ohio Agricultural Research and Development Center using Title V funds provided by the Rural Development Act of 1972 to ascertain the perceived development needs of the region's populace. The study findings reported here were drawn from this study. Sampling A systematic, random sample was drawn from the five county study area (Napier, 1971; Napier, 1975; Napier and Wright, 1976; Napier, et al, 1977; Napier, 1976; Napier and Maurer, 1978). Interviewers were instructed to conduct an interview with an adult resident from each selected occupied dwelling. The interviewers were instructed to select every fifth occupied residence, with the initial dwelling chosen at random, and to begin the selection process at different places in the sampling area each day. A structured questionnaire was developed and administered to the respondents 100 �via personal interview. The location of each respondent's residence was noted on detailed county maps secured from the Ohio Department of Transportation which provided a means of pictorial display of the sampling distribution. Careful visual monitoring of the distribution of the sample during the data collection phase and subsequent evaluation after the data were collected revealed the sample was not clustered and approximated the population distribution by township. The respondents drawn from villages and towns were selected using the same systematic sampling technique which was modified to be approximate to more densely populated areas (streets were selected as the starting points for the sampling and the residences were systematically chosen). The village sample was also monitored with detailed maps showing location of respondents, and evaluation of the distribution during and after the data collection revealed the village samples were not clustered. Approximately 95 percent of the people selected to participate in the study completed an interview and the total number of respondents to the study was 1474. The characteristics of the sample are presented in Table 1. TABLE 1: Sociodemoeraphic Characteristics of the Study Sample (N = 1474) Sex of Respondents 44.8% Male 55.2% Female Mean Age of Respondents 44.3 years Mean Length of Residence 30.6 years Mean Number of Children Living at Home 1.25 children Mean Number of Formal Organization Memberships 1.6 groups Percent Home Owners 80.4% Percent Unemployed at Sometime During Last Year (Excluding Retired) 25.9% Percent Engaged in Full-time Farming 5.5% Percent Engaged in Part-time Farming 11.7% Mean Farm Size (For those Engaged in Farming) 104.0 acres Mean Education of Head of Household 11.5 years Occupation of Primary Income Earner Percent 61 116 119 401 375 178 86 138 4.1 7.9 8.1 27.2 25.4 12.1 5.8 9.4 149 244 257 301 198 122 118 85 Unclassified Service Workers Farmers Unskilled Laborers Skilled Blue Collar White Collar Manager- Administrator Professional Frequency 10.1 16.5 17.5 20.4 13.4 8.3 8.0 5.8 Family Income (1974) $ 0- 2,999 3,000- 5,999 6,000- 8,999 9,000-11,999 12,000-14,999 15,000-17,999 18, 000 and above NO response 101 �The characteristics of the sample population indicate the study respondents were middle-aged people with very few children living at home. The study participants were basically working class people with moderate incomes. Most of the people were long-term residents of the region and had basically completed high school. Most of the respondents spent their early years in small towns or less densely populated areas (farm and rural nonfarm). A large majority of the respondents (80 percent) owned their homes and were not actively involved with many formal organizations. A small minority of the respondents indicated they were farmers, and most of those who were involved indicated they were farming only on a part-time basis. This finding partially explains why the mean farm size was only 104 acres. Also, the region is quite hilly and large-scale agriculture is not common. A relatively large number of respondents indicated that the primary income earner in the family had been unemployed at some time during the preceding year and that many remained without work for extended periods of time. Commuting to work was quite common as noted by the respondents, who revealed they commuted an average distance of eleven miles one way each day. Instrument Construction A questionnaire was developed from previous research instruments used by the principal author of this paper and other development studies. The questionnaire was reviewed by community development professionals in the College of Agriculture at the Ohio State University and a pretest was conducted using a similar population to the one selected for research purposes. The questionnaire was revised and the data were collected in the summer and fall of 1975. Data were collected on the following: attitudes toward various development options, willingness to commit limited resources to development efforts, priorities for development actions, use of information sources, and perceptions of geographical areas to which the respondents identified. Data concerning unemployment were also collected and used to test the relevance of the human resources development approach. The findings for these components of the study are presented in descriptive statistical form with reference made to multivariate analysis published^ journal articles and research bulletins. FINDINGS The findings basically support the position that the common sterotypes used to describe Appalachian people are not appropriate for the study region, the respondents were very postive toward rural industrial development and held very positive orientations toward outdoor recreation development. The respondents were willing to commit resources for collective development efforts and perceived that socio-economic growth (expansion of jobs and industrial base) was the most important development problem within the study area. Sixty-seven percent of the study respondents identified with their county of residence as opposed to multi-county districts, the State of Ohio, or the Appalachian Region. The study participants used mass media, both printed and electronic forms, as their primary information sources rather than depending upon other people within the study area. Lastly, the human resources model was shown to be an inadequate model for understanding unemployment 102 �within the study region. Data relative to each of these findings are provided below. Attitudes Toward Rural Industrial Development The descriptive data about attitudes toward industrial development are presented in Table 2.' TABLE 2: Attitudes of Survey Respondents to Industrial Development: Presented in Frequency Counts (Percentages Within Parentheses - N51474) Strongly Agree Strongly nisigree Mean for Ovation Rapon* 3* Dingrc* 2* 489 (33.2) 76 ( 5.2) 126 ( 8.5) 63 ( 4.3) 4.1 377 (25.6) 679 (46.1) 329 (22.3) 70 ( 4.7) 19 ( 1.3) 3.9 3. Industrial development is not needed in my region. 34 ( 2.3) 74 ( 5.0) 78 ( 5.3) 552 (37.4) 736 (49.9) 1.7 4. The disadvantages brought to my region by industrial development will offset the advantages. 61 ( 4.1) 205 (13.9) 225 (15.3) 614 (41.7) 369 (25.0) 2.3 5. Industrial development in my region will create many problems for people living here. 37 ( 2.5) 227 (15.4) 175 (11.0) 688 (46.7) 347 (23.5) 2.3 6. Industries should not be encouraged to locate in my region. 45 ( 3.1) 85 ( 5.8) 79 (41.4) 610 (44.4) 655 1.8 7. Industrial development of my region will provide many jobs for local people. 748 (50.7) 599 (40.6) 67 ( 4.5) 39 ( 2.6) 21 ( 1.4) 4.4 8. Industrial development will make my region a better place in which to live. 550 (37.3) 640 (43.4) 167 (11.3) 84 ( 5.7) 33 ( 2.2) 4.1 9. New industries employing mostly women would be harmful to family life in my region. 107 ( 7.3) 216 (14.7) 254 (17.2) 555 (37.7) 342 (23.2) 2.5 10. Industrial development wilt benefit my region. 611 (41.5) 694 (47.1) 94 ( 6.4) 50 ( 3.4) 25 ( 1.7) 4.2 1 1 . New jobs are more important to me than the air or water pollution that new industries may cause. 217 399 267 402 189 (14.7 (27.1) (18.1) (27.3) (12.8) 3.0 12. Planned industrial parks are very important for industrial development. 326 (22.1) 773 (52.4) 277 (18.8) 80 ( 5.4) 18 ( 1.2) 3.9 Question 5' 1 . Industrial development in my region will benefit me or some member of my household. 720 (48.8) 2. The costs of industrial development in my region can be justified. Agree 4* Undecided 1 * •Weighted values given to each designated response. Source: Napier, Pierce and Bachtel, 1977, page 13. The findings presented in Table 2 show that the respondents were basically quite postive toward rural industrial development. The respondents believed they or members of their families would receive benefits from industrial development and believed the region as a whole would benefit. They also believed that industries should be encouraged to locate in the region. The respondents did not believe that industrial development would destroy their community and fragment family relations. They held this view if the industries attracted to the region employed primarily women. Multi-variate analyses of the industrial attitude data revealed that people 103 �from different socioeconomic strata held positive attitudes toward rural industrial development of the region. The findings strongly indicate the Appalachians included in this study did not percieve socioeconomic growth and expansion negatively, general assertions that Appalachians are suspicious of outsiders does not appear to be valid either, since most people realize industries will attract people from outside the region (Summers, et al, 1976). Data collected about the possibility of outside people being attracted to the area revealed the respondents were positive toward such in-migration. Attitudes Toward Outdoor Recreation Development Data were collected about attitudes toward outdoor recreation as a development option. These data are presented in Table 3. 2 TABLE 3: Attitudes of Survey Respondents to Outdoor Recreation Development: Presented in Frequency Counts (Percentages Within Parentheses-N'1474) Mean for Queston Response Agree 4* Undecided Disagree Strongly Disagree Question Strongly Agree 5' 2* 1* 1 . Outdoor recreation development of my region will provide many jobs for local people. 312 (21.2) 809 (54.9) 197 (13.4) 134 (9.1) 22 (1.5) 3.9 2. Outdoor recreation development will make my region a better place in which to live. 366 (24.8) 872 (59.2) 141 (9.6) 79 (5.4) 16 (1.1) 4.0 3. Outdoor recreation development is not needed in my region. (2.3) (6.7) (8.8) (53.3) (29.0) 2.0 4. Development of outdoor recreation will benefit my region. 381 (25.8) 899 (61.0) 113 (7.7) 64 (4.3) 17 (1.2) 4.1 5 . The costs of outdoor recreation devlopment in my region can be justified. 226 (15.3) 705 (47.8) 422 (28.7) 97 (6.6) 24 (1.6) 3.7 6. The disadvantages brought to my region by outdoor recreation development will offset the advantages. 39 (2.6) 210 (14.2) 267 (18.1) 716 (48.6) 242 (16.4) 2.4 7. Outdoor recreation development in my region will create many problems for people living here. 17 (1.2) 124 (8.4) 200 (13.6) 845 (57.3) 288 (19.5) 2.1 3' 8. My region will not benefit much from new outdoor recreational development. 33 137 159 832 313 (2.2) (9.3) (10.8) (56.4) (21.2) 9. Existing recreation facilities in my region are adequate for my needs. 171 (11.6) 557 (37.8) 1% (26.5) 391 (10.8) 159 2.1 (11.6) (37.8) (13.3) (26.5) (10.8) 3.1 10. Expansion of existing outdoor recreation and tourism attractions in my region will reduce my travel to other areas outside my region. 203 (13.8) 505 (34.3) 270 (18.3) 389 (26.4) 107 (7.3) 3.2 1 1 . Outdoor recreation development is usually harmful to the environment. 13 (0.9) 67 (4.5) 136 (9.2) 848 (57.5) 410 (27.8) 1.9 •Weighted values given to each designated response. Source: Napier, et at, 1977, page 14. 104 �These data demonstrate that the respondendts believed that expansion of outdoor recreation facilities was a highly desirable development option even when such development efforts would attract tourists into the region. These findings can be interpreted as indicating the Ohio Appalachian respondents were neither provincial nor opposed to socioeconomic growth. Data collected about perceptions of tourists indicated the respondents perceived them in a positive manner (Napier, et al, 1977: 11), which suggests that suspicion of outsiders is not a valid descriptor of Appalachians within the study area. The respondents believed that outdoor recreation development would benefit the region by generating jobs and stimulating economic growth. The people also believed that resources used to accomplish outdoor recreation development goals would be wise investments. Lastly, the respondents realized that the region needed such development programs. Multi-variate analyses indicated that these feelings permeated all socioeconomic groups represented in the study. When people believed they would benefit from the efforts they tended to be more supportive. Commitment of Resources To Development Efforts Data were collected concerning willingness of local people to support industrial and outdoor recreation development programs. The findings demonstrated that the respondents were willing to cooperate in the accomplishment of collective community goals and that the support for cooperative problem solving permeated every segment and social class within the region (Napier and Maurer, 1978). Individuals who were most willing to commit resources for outdoor recreation and industrial development were those who perceived that the region, close family members, or they themselves would benefit from such development efforts. The issues addressed in the commitment scale were taxation, zoning, and commitment of personal time. The first two require government involvement in the development process, which brings into question the common belief that Appalachians fear government involvement in local affairs. Also, the willingness of the respondents to pursue common goals suggests that the individualistic orientation often associated with Appalachians is probably overstated. Priorities For Development Action The respondents were requested to rank the top three development problems within the study area which they believed to be the most important. These data were summarized using weighted rank orders to assess the relative ranking of development problems. The findings are presented in Table 4. 105 �TABLE 4: Weighted Rank Order of Problem Priorities in the Study Area: Survey Results (N 5 1474) Weighted Frequency Multiplied by Weighting Factors 2711 Problem for Region Jobs and Industrial Expansion Drug Abuse Education Highway Improvements Crime, Vandalism and Trespassing New Housing Recreation Facilities Water Supply Sewage Improvements Solid Waste Pick-up Planning and Zoning Other Source: Napier, et al, 1977, page 7. 972 913 889 851 682 526 362 361 280 138 137 Score Sample Size 1.84 .66 .62 .60 Weighted Rank Order 1 2 3 4 .58 5 .46 .36 .25 .24 .19 .09 .09 6 7 8 9 10 11 12 The findings presented in Table 4 show that the study populace perceived jobs and industrial development to be single most important development issue. This issue was perceived to be much more important than the other issues evaluated, the weighted value for jobs and industrial development is 1.84 which is almost 3 times greater than the weighted value for the issue ranked second. Inspection of the priorities given to the issues will show that the respondents were primarily concerned with community living and "quality of life" issues. The respondents were concerned with having secure work roles, a crime free social environment, and social amenities and public services. The respondents were apparently willing to accept the social changes and social consequences associated with economic development to achieve better life styles. Such behavioral orientations could not be defined as traditionalistic. Sources of Information Data were collected about the most frequently used sources of various types of information. These findings are presented in Table 5. The findings demonstrate that mass media mechanisms for the dissemination of information were the most frequently used sources for every issue evaluated except agricultural information. The traditional mode of interpersonal interaction for the exchange of information was not frequently employed. The small number of people who do not seek information should also bring into question the idea that rural Appalachians are ignorant of contemporary issues in the community, region, nation, and world. The findings from the Appalachian study group are quite similar to previous research undertaken by the principal author of this paper to assess information sources used in rural areas (Ross and Napier, 1978). The patterns discovered among the Appalachian group are basically the same for other rural groups evaluated in non-Appalachian areas of Ohio. 106 �TABLE 5: Most Important Source of Information for Survey Respondents Presented in Frequency Counts with Percentages Within Parentheses (N = 1474)* Radio 239 (16.2) County Extension Agent 39 ( 2.6) Television Newspapers Family or Neighbors 67 ( 4.5) 485 (32.9) 245 (16.6) Special Interest Magazines 2 ( 0.1) 1 ( 0.1) 623 (42.3) 3 ( 0.2) 197 (13.4) 530 (36.0) 115 ( 7.8) 524 (35.5) 125 ( 8.5) 57 ( 3.9) 73 ( 5.0) 18 ( 1.2) 131 ( 8.9) New Development Programs 151 (10.2) 236 (16.0) 151 (10.2) 72 ( 4.9) 167 (11.3) 579 (39.3) 169 153 158 50 87 Recreation Activities (11.5) (10.4) (10.7) ( 3.4) ( 5.9) Taxing Issues 68 ( 4.6) 520 (35.3) 93 ( 6.3) 78 ( 5.3) Local School Issues 117 ( 7.9) 402 (27.3) 127 ( 8.6) 27 •( 1.8) 14 ( 0.9) 31 ( 2.1) Do Not Seek This Type of Information 72 ( 4.9) Public Officials 318 (21.6) Local News 2 ( 0.1) Information About Your Occupation Type of Information General Community Problems 19 90 283 Agricultural Information (19.2) (1.3) (6.1) •The most important source of information for each issue is enclosed in boxes. Source: Napier, Pierce and Bachtel, 1977, Page 19. Extension Bulletins No Response 3 ( 0.2) 4 (0.3) 0 ( 0.0) 1 ( 0.1) 2 (0.1) 113 ( 7.7) 382 (25.9) 40 ( 2.7) 11 (0.7) 72 ( 4.9) 24 ( 1.6) 18 ( 1.2) 601 192 46 13 4 (0.3) 5 (40.8) (13.0) ( 3.1) ( 0.9) (0.3) 637 (43.2) 40 ( 2.7) 4 ( 0.3) 4 ( 0.3) 3 (0.2) 622 (42.2) 148 (10.0) 5 ( 0.3) 7 ( 0.5) 1 (0.1) 183 (12.4) (0.2) 618 29 139 68 42 (41.9) ( 2.0) ( 9.4) ( 4.6) ( 2.8) 3 �Identification With Geographical Areas A characteristic commonly associated with Appalachians is the "Identification with place" orientation. The focus of the identification is assumed to be Appalachia, but seldom, if ever, is the place of identification specified. To address this issue, the respondents were provided maps with different geographical areas specified and asked to choose the geographical area with which they identified. The areas varied from county to the multi-state federation termed Appalachia. More than 67 percent of the respondents chose county of residence and an additonal 15 percent selected the county of residence and the counties immediately surrounding it as their area of identification. About 9.7 percent selected the multi-county study area. About 3.6 percent identified with Ohio and 2.4 selected the Appalachian region of Ohio. Only 2.3 percent of the respondents selected Appalachia as their place of identification. These findings indicate that the concept "Appalachia" may have more literary meaning than it does as a geographical area of identification. The findings also suggest that macro-level geographical areas for addressing rural development problems are probably not appropriate. The Human Resources Development Model Unemployment information was collected about the primary income earner in each family represented in the study and was used to assess the merits of the human resources development model as a development strategy for attacking rural unemployment problems. The literature noted in the introductory sections of this paper was reviewed to ascertain the relevant factors to examine as predictive variables. The factors used to analyze the variance in length of unemployment of the primary income earner were: age, education, length of residence, number of children in the household, formal group memberships, and occupation. Multi-variate regression and discriminant analyses were conducted on the data set and the findings revealed that the variables selected for investigation were basically useless in predicting length of unemployment. Comparisons made between the employed and unemployed groups using the above-mentioned variables also proved fruitless (Napier, et al, 1978; Napier, 1979; Napier, Maurer, and Bryant, 1979).3 The study data suggest that further investment in human resources without concomitant development of the economic infrastructure of the region is probably futile. The findings strongly indicate that pursuit of the human resources development strategy within the study region will probably result in continual out-migration of the best-trained people. Even more tragic is the possibility that such an approach will produce a better-educated and trained labor force on the local level that will remain unemployed. It was concluded from the research that human resources development approaches alone will not serve to enhance the socioeconomic viability of rural Appalachian areas, such as the study region, if the existing social infrastructure cannot absorb the newly trained people.4 An alternative development approach focused upon expanding the local structural employment bases (private economic expansion in the production and service sectors) before enhancing human skills has been advanced from the study findings. It is argued that first priority for development action be given to the generation of permanent jobs within rural areas. It is also argued that federal and state development funds be used to facilitate location of small, privately owned and operated industrial plants in rural areas. Small firms are ususally preferable to large manufacturing firms because they have fewer adverse social and environmental impacts 108 �(Summers, et al, 1976) but an established pattern of generating benefits for local communities (Birch, 1979). Once permanent jobs have been created on the local level and the existing pool of human resources has been depleted, more emphasis should be placed upon human resources development programs. In sum, the unemployment component of the regional study suggests that sole reliance on the human resources development approach is probably an inappropriate development strategy for rural areas which cannot absorb newly "developed" human resources. Thus, one must conclude that the use of the individual deficits model approach for rural Appalachian development must be questioned. CONCLUSIONS The study findings basically demonstrated that stereotypes commonly used to describe Appalachians could not be applied to the study population. Ohio Appalachians included in the study were modernistic in their development orientations and appeared to be willing to address collective socioeconomic problems which have been adversely affecting their lives. The respondents were very much concerned about "quality of life" conditions within their communities and region. They also appeared to be willing to commit personal and collective resources to community problem solving. Comparison of preliminary statistical analyses of data collected in a non-metropolitan, multicounty region in California have shown the development orientations of the Ohio Appalachians to be very similar to the views held by rural Californians. Other studies conducted by the principal author of this paper relative to the assessment of development priorities basically have produced similar findings to those reported here. The study findings also suggest that development programs couched entirely in individual deficits models will probably never solve rural Appalachian development problems if the goal of such efforts is to improve the life styles of rural people. If the development goal of rural Appalachians is to achieve a community which can provide secure work roles, basic public and private services, recreational facilities, opportunities for social mobility, and the many factors that constitute the "good life," then they should consider alternative strategies to the human resources development model, because such goals will probably never be accomplished by training people for jobs that do not exist on the local level. NOTES 1. For a more detailed discussion of the industrialization findings, see Maurer and Napier (1978) and Bachtel, et al. (1979). 2. For a more detailed discussion of the outdoor recreation findings, see Pierce and Napier (1980) and Bryant and Napier (1980). 3. Recent statistical analyses of data collected in northeast central California by the principal author of this paper basically reproduced the findings generated in southeast Ohio. 4. Billings (1974) and Walls (1976) recognized the limitations of the individual deficits model for understanding poverty in Appalachia. Billings (1974) failed to suggest an alternative while Walls's (1976) dependency explanation is open to severe criticism given the expanding production capacity of Appalachia without significant reduction in regional development problems. 109 �REFERENCES Bachtel, E. C.; Thomas, D. W.; and Napier, T. L. "A Comparative Analysis of Recent Urban to Rural In-Migrants and Long-Term Rural Resident's Attitudes Toward Rural Industrial Development." Paper presented at the Rural Sociological Society Meeting in Burlington, Vermont, August 1979. Ball Richard A. "The Southern Appalachian Folk Subculture As A TensionReducing Way of Life." 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"Problems of Adequacy in Rural Human Resources Development Concepts and Accomplishments." In Benefits and Burdens of Rural Development: Some Public Policy Viewpoints, pp. 197-218. Ames: The Iowa State University Press, 1970. Stromsdorfer, Ernest W. "Determinants of Economic Success in Retraining the Unemployed: The West Virginia Experience." Journal of Human Resources 3 (1968): 139-158. Summers, Gene F.; Evans, Sharon D.; Clemente, Frank; Beck, E. M.; and Minkoff, Jon. Industrial Invasion of Nonmetropolitan America: A Quarter Century of Experience. New York; Praeger Publishers, 1976. Walls, Davis S. "Central Appalachia: A Peripheral Region Within an Advanced Capitalist Society." Journal of Sociology and Social Welfare 4 (1976): 232247. Weller, Jack. Yesterday's People. Lexington: University of Kentucky Press, 1965. 112 �Ill: The Experience of Urban Appalachians 113 �APPALACHIAN YOUTH IN CULTURAL TRANSITION Clyde B. McCoy and Virginia McCoy Watkins Abstract Inner-city youth who have migrated from the Appalachian region are the focus of this present study. The impact of this migration and resettlement process is not clear. Little is known about Appalachian youth who now reside in urban areas. What problems of transition do they face? What behavioral and emotional patterns are evident as they confront a totally new cultural environment? This study is an attempt to begin to answer these questions. Recent Findings Concerning Appalachian Youth Education has received considerable attention in the literature on Appalachian youth. Much of the literature points to cultural differences which created problems for Appalachian youth in school. Language or accents of first generation youth (and some second generation youth, as well) set them apart immediately (Rhodes, 1968; Wagner, 1974, 1975). Misinterpretation of mountain dialect, idiomatic expressions, accent differences, and other cultural differences cause problems in relationships of Appalachian youth with urban peers and school personnel (McCoy and Watkins, 1979). Appalachian culture places emphasis on individual achievement and the value of self-sufficiency—Appalachians are not "joiners" and do not relate readily to group activities. Appalachian youth are less likely to seek, or readily accept, school personnel support, such as sponsorship or encouragement by a particular teacher or counselor; they try to deal with problems on their own. They are less likely to participate in school activities (Rhodes, 1968; Wagner, 1975), and parents are less likely to participate in PTA's (Watkins, 1976). Youth do not identify with their schools, especially in junior and senior high school (Miller, 1979), since most youth are placed in an unfamiliar neighborhood for those grades. In addition, since few youth participate in school activities, few are in positions of leadership to serve as role models for others. Parents are overwhelmed by school bureaucracy, by unfamiliar extra-curricular activities, and by the eduational jargon of such groups. Class differences in terms of a mother's employment may conflict with meeting times and may preclude a work schedule to attend those meetings. High absenteeism and truancy are related to the cultural value placed on the importance of the family, as well as to the traditional migration process. Familism requires that family situations take priority over education (and in many cases, jobs). High absenteeism (Adams, 1971; Wagner, 1974; Rhodes, 1968) is, at least in part, a result of youth being needed at home to help care for siblings and household matters. The traditional migration process, in the three to five years after initial settlement in urban areas, involves frequent relocation (Schwarzweller, 1970). A family's adjustment to an urban area can mean moving several times to find satisfactory neighborhoods, jobs, schools, doctors, and shopping areas. "Indifference" or lack of interest in education was cited by many authors as one of the prevailing features of Appalachian youth in school (Wagner, 1974, 1975; Huelsman, 1969; Henderson, 1966; 114 �Moore, 1976). This attitude was described in various ways, as youth feeling ambivalent toward school, being shy, reticent, passive, avoiding conflict, and withdrawing. Few, however, perceived the significance of cultural conflict. Appalachian parents see more value in basic education and skills development than in extra curricular activities and abstract idea training (Miller, 1977). Parents may encourage Appalachian students into career/practical skills and vocational classes rather than college preparatory or advanced placement classes. Parents often sacrifice personal needs in order to have their children achieve the educational level equivalent to their own (Adams). However, the low educational level of Appalachians, traditionally, complicates parents' commitment to higher education (Miller; 1977). Kunkin and Byrne found that the parents without high school degrees considered education irrelevant (Kunkin and Byrne, 1973). Moore and Pastoor (1976) were interested in whether educational values of Appalachian youth were retained in an urban setting. They compared sixth graders in Perry County, Kentucky, and Cincinnati, Ohio, and found that both groups felt that education was moderately important to their lives. Urban youth, however, felt more positive toward education than rural youth, in that urban youth had more confidence in their teachers' abilities and urban students were more inclined to aspire toward a college education. But, based upon current evidence, urban Appalachian youth are frustrated in accomplishing such goals. Appalachian students have also experienced difficulty in racial, class, and cultural conflicts. Wagner (1975) says, in describing the typical Appalachian student in his sample: If he attends a school where there are blacks, he will not understand the blacks and will tend to keep to himself or to associate only with other white students. If he is placed in a threatening situation, he normally will withdraw, not because he is afraid, but because he does not understand the more aggressive behavior of black students. If pressed too hard, he simply will take action to avoid future incidents (such as avoiding the lunchroom, the front hall, or in the extreme situation, quit attending school). Appalachians have traditionally had little experience with urban blacks, since the black population in the Appalachian region is relatively small. Miller explains that this lack of experience continues in urban schools in elementary grades since Appalachian children attend school with other Appalachians in their own neighborhoods. However, contact increases at the junior high school level where white Appalachians often constitute a minority in the schools. Since the junior high and high schools take Appalachian youth out of their own neighborhood, away from their own "turf," they become fearful, believe rumors of reprisals, and generally feel intimidated. Class differences cause Appalachian youth to feel "looked down on" and the lack of attention given to Appalachian culture only adds to a defeated self-image. Differences in language, dress, and values are seen by other classes as deficiencies or inferiority (Miller, 1977 and 1979). These feelings of inferiority and fear were found in Cleveland to stem from the lack of skills and experiences in certain situations (Kunkin and Byrne, 1973). The conditions affecting Appalachian youth in school have culminated in 115 �extreme dropout rates. Maloney (1974) found that all twelve of the census tracts in Cincinnati with dropout rates of 40 percent or higher were in Appalachian neighborhoods. Several authors suggested methods of working with Appalachian youth to improve educational levels, as well as relationships with school personnel and peers. Some of these solutions have been alluded to: teacher training (Adams, 1971; Wagner, 1974; Henderson, 1966), curriculum development (Wagner, 1974) in Appalachian culture, and the use of innovative teaching methods (Wagner, 1974). Parent and community involvement in the schools (Wagner, 1974; Henderson, 1966; Watkins, 1976) was considered important in order to provide a personal approach and commitment, as well as having parents and students feel ownership in their schools. Future roles, expectations, and aspirations of Appalachian youth are unclear. Wagner (1975) found Appalachian youths' job aspirations to be vague and unrealistic considering low school acheivement. Henderson (1966), in studying Appalachian youth, did not find any relationship between school achievement and employment aspirations. Moore and Pastoor (1976), on the other hand, observed a positive relationship between the perception of a good education and a good job among urban Appalachian youth. In addition, Ricco (1965) found a positive relationship between achievement aspirations in both Appalachian and non-Appalachian males in Whitehall, Ohio, a small urban area. Other than school related experiences, little information exists concerning the behavior of Appalachian youth in urban environments. However, there is some evidence that the transition from the mountains to urban life presents cultural incongruities. For example, independence and freedom of movement were allowed by parents in the Appalachian mountain environment. However, when migration occurred, the spatial restrictions of the urban setting affected this lifestyle. Parental freedom, combined with alienation experienced in the school systems, and peer pressure (Huelsman, 1969) resulted in higher delinquency rates. Examples of cultural clashes creating adverse attitudes toward authorities among these (Appalachian) youth include domestic stress in the new environment, individualism in the face of need for legal help, and perceived prejudice in the legal system, both as to poor people and as to Appalachians in particular (McCoy, 1976). Inner-city Appalachian youth must also deal with restricted recreational facilities. Facilities are often staffed by workers insensitive to the Appalachian value system, or are controlled by other groups. Appalachian youth find themselves caught between the values of the urban society in which they live and the values from their heritage. Survey Findings Concerning Appalachian Youth This study is based on survey data collected in 1975 to assess youth behavior in four cities: Baltimore, Providence, Cincinnati, and Detroit. The National Center for Urban/Ethnic Affairs (NCUHA) developed and tested the survey instrument, and then contracted with community organizations in each city to collect the data. NCUEA provided training and technical assistance to the community 116 �organizations during the data collection phase. Questionnaires were administered in parochial and public schools in Detroit and Baltimore. The Providence and Cincinnati organizations were unable to obtain access to schools and utilized outreach programs to administer the questionnaire to youngsters in the community. The out-of-school populations were selected in specific predetermined ethnic neighborhoods on the basis of a 20 percent sample of ethnic youths in each selected neighborhood. Interviewers were instructed to find and interview youths fourteen to twenty years old in the prescribed neighborhoods by locating youths where they were known to "hang out," such as recreation centers, bars, churches, neithborhood drop-in centers, and after-school programs. Interviewers had to account for unique variations. For example, in Cincinnati an added consideration of low educational levels among out-of-school youth meant that some interviews had to be conducted in small groups; other interviews needed to be conducted with the interviewer reading the questions and filling in the answers. Comparative Characteristics of Appalachian and Other Urban Ethnic Youth Comparisons based on the survey data and on noting similarities and differences among the various youths should provide a certain understanding of the differences in behavioral patterns between Appalachians and other urban ethnic youths and provide some further insights into the cultural transition experienced by Appalachian youths. The sample of 1458 youths included 445 (30.5 percent) Appalachians, 157 (10.8 percent) Blacks, 307 (21.1 percent) Polish, and 549 (37.7 percent) other ethnics. Each group contained slightly more males than females: 43.3 percent of the Appalachians were females, 44.5 percent blacks, 48.8 percent Polish, and 45.6 percent other ethnics. The median ages of the ethnic groups in the sample are shown below. Appalachian youths were the oldest in the sample, with a median age of 17.1 years. Blacks were the youngest, 16.3 years. Appalachian Black Polish Other Total Sample Median Age 17.1 16.3 16.6 17.1 16.9 Religious affiliation for Appalachians and blacks was primarily Baptist, with Roman Catholicism second in importance (see Table 1). Polish youths were overwhelmingly Roman Catholic (90 percent), as were other ethnics (53.6 percent). Fundamentalism underlies the religious beliefs of many Appalachians and strongly influences other values. These beliefs are founded on a literal interpretation of the Bible, an expectation of reward in the next life, and a world view in which God is omnipotent and man is fallible (Jones, 1978). 117 �TABLE 1 Religion Baptist Black Muslims Church of God Congregational Eastern Rite Catholic Episcopalian Greek Orthodox Holiness IslamicJewish Lutheran Methodist Presbyterian Pentecostal Roman Catholic Other None Total Appalachians % N 31.7 138 8 1.8 6.0 26 0.7 3 2 0.5 11 2.5 5 1.1 7 1.6 0.0 0 12 2.8 3.7 16 27 6.2 10 2.3 17 3.9 16.1 70 7.1 31 12.2 53 436 Blacks % N 74 48.7 3.9 6 5.9 9 1 0.7 0 0.0 0.0 0 0 0.0 3 2.0 0 0.0 0 0.0 3 2.0 3 9 2 1.3 2 1.3 15 9.9 5.9 9 19 12.5 152 Polish % N 1 0.3 0.0 0 4 1.3 0.7 2 1.0 3 0.0 0 0.0 0 1 0.3 0 0.0 1 0.3 4 1.3 1.0 12 2 1.3 1 0.3 90.7 274 1 0.3 6 2.0 302 Other % N 42 7.6 0.5 3 20 3.6 3 0.5 1.8 10 2.0 11 2.2 12 2 0.4 6 1.1 11 2.0 31 5.6 2.2 1 0.3 9 1.6 53.6 295 18 3.3 50 9.1 550 Religion in the mountains (and transferred to the urban environment) was less focused on institutionalized ritual and ceremony than based on personalized beliefs in God, Christ, and the church. Specific and literal interpretations of the Bible have molded behaviors and emotions and have shaped a value system which permeates daily life routines. Fundamentalist churches which were delineated in the questionnaire include Baptist, Church of God, Congregational, Holiness, and Pentecostal; 43.8 percent of the Appalachians and 58.6 percent of the blacks belonged to these churches. The suprisingly large number of Appalachians (12.2 percent) who did not identify with any church may be indicative of the cultural transition Appalachian youths are experiencing. The transition from the more traditional Appalachian values to the more secular values and belief systems of urban youths could be due, in part, to influence from their peers or from obtaining a more "realistic view" of life based on their negative experiences in urban neighborhoods. The role of the church among inner-city urban youths probably reflects ambiguity as to its purpose and value for many of them. The storefront churches prevalent in manu inner-city areas represent a lack of stability that does not provide for the type of support needed by the youths in confronting various situations which occur during cultural transition. TABLE 2 Attendance at Religious Services Never Few times a year About once a month Few times a month About once a month N Appalachians Blacks Polish Other Grade Past Grade Past Grade Past Grade Past School Year School Year School Year School Year 19.4 29.4 35.1 11.3 15.8 2.3 8.3 14.6 15.7 28.7 23.4 19.6 12.0 24.3 5.0 31.1 6.8 7.9 9.1 6.6 9.3 15.1 5.6 6.9 10.9 20.8 15.5 12.4 24.0 20.4 11.6 14.5 17.1 36.4 50.5 42.0 17.2 43.3 24.3 75.5 302 303 547 544 439 442 150 152 118 �Even though religion and the development of religious values are important to Appalachians, church attendance is not. More than half the Appalachians in our study either never attended, or else, only attended services a few times in the past year (Table 2). Even in grade school years, church attendance was considerably less than for the other three groups. The importance of religion to Appalachians is in shaping a belief system, not in regular church attendance. As recent studies have revealed, Appalachian youth s have substantial problems with the urban school systems. Educational attainment, measured by a median for highest grade completed, shows that Appalachians in the study had completed fewer school years than any other group, even though they were one of the oldest groups in the sample. Further, there were few Appalachians enrolled in high school academic programs or college classes (Table 3). Median Highest Grade Completed Appalachians Black Polish Other Ethnic Total sample 9.9 10.1 10.6 10.3 10.2 TABLE 3 Current School Program High School Academic General GED Business Course Vocational or Trade School College Other Total Appalachians <7o N N 22.6 31.2 7.5 8.3 10.9 4.9 14.7 100.0 34 47 0 14 18 6 13 132 60 83 20 22 29 13 39 266 Black % 25.8 35.6 0.0 10.6 13.6 4.5 9.8 100.0 Polish N % 119 70 2 19 7 17 9 243 49.0 28.8 0.8 7.8 2.9 7.0 3.7 100.0 Other Ethnics N % 125 102 11 41 24 26 27 356 35.1 28.7 3.1 11.5 6.7 7.3 7.6 100.0 Since Appalachian youths' experiences with the public school systems have been negative ones, some are apparently selecting other alternatives to complete their education. Table 3 shows that Appalachians (10.9 percent) as well as Blacks (13.6 percent) were in trade or vocational schools. An additional 7.5 percent of Appalachians were enrolled in GED programs, which was a substantially higher number than for the other young people. Debunking all the stereotypes revealed in Polish jokes, the grades reported by Polish students were substantially higher than those reported by the other groups (Table 4). In addition, Polish students had the highest proportion enrolled in high school academic programs with many enrolled in college programs (7.0 percent), as well as the highest median school years completed (10.6). TABLE 4 Grades in School in the Previous Year Fail D-Average C-Average B-Average A-Average Total Appal achians N % 36 8.2 52 11.9 206 47.0 105 24.0 39 8.9 438 100.0 119 Blacks N «7o 8 5.3 15 9.9 88 58.3 34 22.5 6 4.0 151 100.0 Polish Other Ethnics N % N % 9 3.0 35 6.4 16 5.3 68 12.5 110 36.3 245 45.0 132 43.6 162 29.7 36 11.9 35 6.4 303 100.1 545 100.0 �Black youths were similar to Appalachians in the area of education, reporting the lowest grades of all groups, and low median grade completed scores. None of the Black youths were enrolled in GED programs, but some, like Appalachians, were apparently selecting alternatives to the public school system in that 13.6 percent were in trade or vocational programs. Over one fourth of the youths in the sample were not in school, but were of school age. Appalachians comprised 49.2 percent of these, 34.2 percent were other ethnics, 11.8 percent were Polish, and 4.7 percent were blacks. In revealing their reasons for not completing school, 49.2 percent said they had dropped out. The majority of Appalachians, Polish and other ethnics had dropped out of school, while blacks evidenced a greater variety of reasons for being out of school, including almost a quarter whose education was disrupted by being in jail (Table 5). TABLE 5 Reasons for not Completing School Other Ethnics Appalachians N N Dropped Out Suspended/Expelled Hospitalized Jail Other Total N Black N 108 12 20 20 27 187 % 57.8 6.4 10.7 10.7 14.4 Polish N 3 3 2 4 6 18 o/o 16.7 16.7 11.1 22.2 33.3 N 26 4 2 3 10 45 % 57.8 8.9 4.4 6.7 22.2 N 58 29 5 14 24 130 % 44.6 22.3 3.8 11.5 18.5 121 The post-high school plans of respondents (Table 6) show realistic expectations of Appalachian youths, especially in light of their current educational experiences. Only 16.2 percent planned to go to college, while nearly one fourth planned to go to work. Of the Appalachians, 20.7 percent had no plans after high school and 12.7 percent did not plan to complete high school—not an encouraging picture for further educational achievements. In light of Moore's (1976) finding that urban youths aspired more toward a college education than rural Appalachian youths, the youths in this study, who are older, have apparently reduced their expectations by the time they reach high school age. Low expectations, however, may also be a reflection of fatalism, another prominant value among many others discussed by Jones (1978). More Black/youths and Polish youths planned to attend college than to go to work. Their higher expectations for the future are also revealed in the small number who to a future without a high school diploma. TABLE 6 Plans After High School Academic College Vocational Training Work Go into Business Marry/Raise Family Join Army Other Dont't Know Dont't Plan to Graduate Total N Appalachians N % 16.2 61 30 8.0 24.7 93 11 2.9 14 3.7 24 6.4 18 4.8 20.7 78 12.7 48 377 120 Black N % 50 35.5 7.1 10 27 19.1 6 4.3 2 1.4 9 6.4 9 6.4 24 17.0 4 2.8 141 Polish N % 82 30.4 7.4 20 62 23.0 3.7 10 14 5.2 19 7.0 3.7 10 44 16.3 3.3 9 270 Other Ethnics N % 80 16.8 41 8.6 107 22.5 35 7.4 4.2 20 33 6.9 3.2 15 107 22.5 37 7.8 475 �Current employment data show that Polish and other ethnic youths had the highest proportions employed (Table 7). Appalachians, on the other hand, had the highest unemployment. Appalachians, traditionally, have tended not to seek jobs through state employment services or employment agencies, but have utilized the kin and friend network to find jobs (Schwarzweller and Brown, 1970). This method of finding jobs is not nearly as productive in times of high unemployment as when jobs are plentiful, and may be part of the explanation for the high number of unemployed Appalachian youths. TABLE 7 Employment Part-Time Full-Time Homemaker Not in School-Not Employed Total N Appalachians % N 78 29.0 62 23.0 18 6.7 111 41.3 269 100.0 Black % N 25 50.0 6 12.0 1 2.0 18 36.0 50 100.00 Polish Other Ethnics N % N % 57.1 88 116 38.3 30 30.7 19.5 93 4 2.6 10 3.3 84 27.7 32 20.8 154 100.0 303 100.0 The conditions of inner-city Appalachian youths in this survey reveal some very discouraging patterns. The culture of Appalachian youths is undergoing change. This process of change in the urban environment has created new situations with which a changing culture must deal, but the Appalachian youths in this survey were armed with few resources for this task other than support from family and their own inner strength. In summary, the findings showed that Appalachian youths had completed fewer school grades than the comparative groups, although they were older in age. Few were enrolled in high school academic programs; however, some were selecting vocational education and GED programs as alternatives. More of the Appalachians than other groups were school dropouts, and many of those who were in school had either no plans or low expectations for their future. Some did plan to go to college and about one fourth planned to work. However, if the high unemployment of this young age group is any indication of what the future holds, their chances for employment in adult life will be less than other groups. Implicatons for the Future of Appalachian Youths The above research findings show consistantly, that compared to other urban ethnic youths. Appalachians exhibit great symptomic behavior, indiciating severe difficulties in coping with urban environments. Why these greater difficulties of adjustment should exist for urban Appalachian youths is not clear at the present time. Further study is needed to understand the relationship between these behaviors patterns and the differences in cultural conditions for Appalachian youths. The recency of the migrant experience of Appalachians relative to other ethnic youths is certainly one factor that needs to be considered. Empirical confirmation is needed to determine more specifically what accounts for these differences. Conflict with public institutions (in particular, the school system) is a critical factor in any attempt to understand Appalachian youths. Consistent evidence exists that Appalachian youngsters have high dropout rates, above average truancy rates, and in general, are dissatisfied with school. Many Appalachians do not have the family and religious support systems that are needed to address medical, social, and psychological needs. 12.1 �Only a proper understanding of Appalachian culture and the needs of Appalachian peoples will permit the development of appropriate community support systems. Several factors have been cited as significant to the design of support systems intended to serve urban communities containing large numbers of Appalachians. These systems should be: 1. Family and Kinship Oriented Family and kinship networks have been an important source of support for mountain families (Brown, 1970). In making the transition from mountain lifeways, there is a deterioration of these kinship support networks. The University of Kentucky Medical Center and the Bethesda North Hospital in Cincinnati found that by developing a familial orientation of health delivery, the services and responsiveness among Appalachian families improved (Watkins, 1973). 2. Community and Neighborhood Based* Support systems for Appalachians should also be neighborhood based, rather than being associated with the presently structured schools or other institutions. Experience has shown that Appalachians respond best to services that are located near their homes. In Cincinnati in recent years, response by Appalachians has been favorable to programs like youth drop-in services, community organizing, and cultural heritage projects whose primary functions are based upon self and family defined needs. Human services or referrals to such agencies are provided as a secondary function. Self-involvement has served to instill ownership in the programs by Appalachians, as well as helping them to feel that they have given something in return for the services received. 3. Culturally Sensitive* Cultural sensitivity is another important characteristic of a support network responsive to the needs of Appalachians. Cultural sensitivity does not necessarily mean that a program would be culturally specific. A program within the Appalachian community would need to deal with several variants of Appalachian culture, as well as other ethnic groups. 4. Non-Bureaucratic* Another factor that is necessary in providing services to Appalachian youths in particular, is that support systems should be flexible, open, personal, and family oriented. A personal approach has been described by David Looff (1971) in his work with mountain children. He strongly emphasizes the Appalachian characteristics of personal support and familism as crucial to his success in working with the children. Youths tend to respond well to approaches which recognize them as people with problems, but not when labels such as "sick" or "mentally ill" or "bad" are placed on them. 5. Comprehensive A fifth factor to consider in developing supports for Appalachians is suggested by James S. Brown, a long-time scholar of Appalachian migration and migrants. He suggests that Appalachians are multiple problem families; that their arrival in the cities presents many unique problems for the family which differ for each member of the family; and that these problems are cultural inasmuch as they are economic. Urban conditions affect each member of the family in such a unique way that the support systems usually offered by kinship and family are less effective in the new environment than they were in the mountains. Multiple, sociocultural conflicts combined with a lack of initial opportunity to gain meaningful employment create multiple problems for the 122 �family. Since the Appalachian family relied very heavily upon the support system of kinship and familism in the mountains, the conflicts and stresses confronted in the urban environment also deteriorate that support system so that it is not as effective as in the mountain tradition. 'Categories similarly named in Watkins, 1975. CONCLUSIONS In conclusion, an increased understanding of Appalachian culture and needs, with the provision of appropriate support systems, could improve the conditions for Appalachian youth. Although economic conditions are also part of the problem, for Appalachians, all the problems cannot be solved through economic support. Neither should these be school based at the present time due to the alienation of the youth from the schools. These supports must be rooted in the communities and neighborhoods and involve the tremendous strength that family and kinship can offer to Appalachian youths. REFERENCES Adams, James. "Series on Appalachians in Cincinnati: Children Face Special Problems in School." Reprinted from the Cincinnati Post and Times-Star, 1971. Ball, J. C., and Bates W. M. "Nativity, Parentage and Mobility of Opiate Addicts." In J. C. Ball and C. D. Chambers The Epidemiology of Opiate Addiction in the United States, edited by J. C. Ball and C. D. Chambers, pp. 95-111. Springfield, Illinois: Charles C. Thomas, 1970. Beschner, George, and Treasure, Kerry. "Female Adolescent Drug Use." In Friedmand, Alfred S. and Beschner, George, Youth Drug Abuse: Problems, Issues and Treatment, editied by Alfred S. Friedman and George Beschner, pp. 4-7. Lexington Books, Inc., forthcoming. Brown, James S. "The Family Behind the Migrant." Mountain Life and Work, September 1968, pp. 4-7. Chein, Isidor; Gerard, Donald L.; Lee, Robert S.; and Rosenfeld, Eva. The Road to H: Narcotics, Delinquency and Social Policy. New York: Basic Books, 1964. Chitwood, Dale D.; McBride, Duane C.; and McCoy, Clyde B. "The Extent of Substance Abuse Among High School Students." Miami-Dade Metro County School System, 1976. Cisin, I. H., and Mannheimer, D. I. "Marijuana Use Among Adults in a Large City and Suburb." Annals of the New York Academy of Science 191 (1971): 222-34. Fowler, Gary L. "Residential Distribution of Appalachians in Cincinnati." In The Invisible Minority, edited by William Philliber and Clyde B. McCoy, pp. 79-94. University Press of Kentucky, 1980. Henderson, George. "Poor Southern Whites: A Neglected Urban Problem." Journal of Secondary Education 41(1966): 111 -114. Henson, Michael. "There's Nothing Better to Do." Mountain Life and Work, August 1976, pp. 20-29. Huelsman, Ben R. "Southern Mountaineers in City Juvenile Courts." Federal Probation 33(1969): 49-54. Jones, Loyal. "Appalachian Values." In Perspectives on Urban Appalachians, edited by Steve Weiland and Phillip Obermiller. Cincinnati: Ohio Urban 123 �Appalachian Awareness Project, 1978. Kleinman, P. H., and Likoff, Irving. "Ethnic Differences in Factors Related to Drug Use." Journal of Health and Social Behavior 19(1978): 190-199. Kunkin, Dorothy, and Byrne, Michael. Appalachians in Cleveland. Institute for Urban Studies, The Cleveland State University, 1973. Loof, David H. Appalachian Children: The Challenge of Mental Health. Lexington: University of Kentucky Press, 1971. Lukoff, Irving F. Social and Ethnic Patterns of Reported Drug Use and Continguity with Drug Users. Washington, D.C.: U.S. Department of Justice, Law Enforcement Assistance Administration, 1972. Maloney, Michael E. The Social Areas of Cincinnati: Toward an Analysis of Social Needs. Cincinnati Human Relations Commission, 1974. "The Implications of Appalachian Culture for Social Welfare Practice." Perspectives on Urban Appalachians, edited by Steve Weiland and Phil Obermiller. Cincinnati: Ohio Urban Appalachian Awareness Project, 1978. McBride, Duane C. "Social Control and Drug Use." Ph. D. Dissertation, University of Kentucky, 1977. McCoy, Candance. "Attitudes of Appalachian Youth Towards Legal Authority." Focus on Law 2(1976): 11-12. McCoy, Clyde B., and McBride, Duane C. "Socio-Cultural Theories and Techniques in the Explanation for Social Research on Drug Abuse." Miami: Center for Social Research on Drug Abuse, 1976. "Drug Use in Metropolitan Society." Final Report to National Institute on Drug Abuse. Miami: Center for Social Research on Drug Abuse, 1978. , and Brown, James S. "Migration Stream Systems to Midwestern Cities." In The Invisible Minority, edited by William Philliber and Clyde B. McCoy. University Press of Kentucky, 1980. , and Watkins, Virginia McCoy. "The Migration System Pattern of Southwest Ohio and its Relation to Southern Appalachian Migration." Research Bulletin. Urban Appalachian Council, 1975. "Stereotypes of Urban Appalachians." In the Invisible Minority, edited by William Philliber and Clyde B. McCoy. University Press of Kentucky, 1980. Miller, Yommie. "Education and Urban Appalachian Youth." Youth Services Training Handout. Urban Appalachian Council, 1977. ______________. Information obtained in discussion on Appalachian youths with Virginia McCoy Watkins, 1979. Information obtained in discussion on Appalachian youth with Virginia McCoy Watkins, 1979. Moore, Detlef H., and Pastoor, Dirk J. "Appalachian Values: Are They Transferrable from a Rural to Urban Setting?" The Institute for Community Development. University of Louisville, 1976. Pickard, Jerome. "Population Changes and Trends in Appalachia." In Appalachians in Urban Areas, edited by William Philliber and Clyde B. McCoy. University of Kentucky Press, forthcoming. Rhodes, Charles. "Appalachian Child in Chicago Schools." Appalachian Advance, October 1968, pp. 6-10. Ricco, Anthony. "Occupational Aspirations of Migrant Adolescents from the Appalachian South." Vocational Guidance Quarterly, Autumn, 1965, pp. 26-30. Schwarzweller, Harry C. "Adaptation of Appalachian Migrants to the ______________. 124 �Industrial Work Situation: A Case Study." In Behavior in New Environments: Adaptation of Migrant Populations, edited by Eugene B. Broey. Sage Publications, 1970. Simpkins, O. Norman. "An Informal, Incomplete Introduction to Appalachian Culture." In Marshall Universtiy Distinguished Reading Series-2. Huntington, W.Va.,1974. Vaillant, G.E. "Parent-Child Cultural Disparity and Drug Addiction." Journal of Nervous and Mental Diseases. 142-534-9. 1966. Wagner, Thomas E. "Report of the Appalachian School Study Project." Urban Appalachian Council Working Paper No. 4. June, 1974. . ______________. "Urban Appalachian School Children: The Least Understood of All." Urban Appalachian Council Working Paper No. 6. January, 1975. Watkins, Virginia McCoy. "Consideration of Factors Relevant to the Development of Health Support Systems for Appalachian Migrants." Master's Thesis, University of Cincinnati, 1973. , ______________. and West, Ray. "Relationships and Potentials Between the Urban Appalachian Family and the Neighborhood School and Neighborhood Stability." Case Study prepared for the National Center for Urban Ethnic Affairs. Urban Appalachian Council, 1976. ______________., and McCoy, Clyde B. Drug Use Among Urban Ethnic Youth. Report to the National Institute on Drug Abuse. January, 1979. ______________. Drug Use Among Appalachian Youth. Services Research Monograph. National Institute on Drug Abuse, 1980. 125 �THE IMPACT OF URBAN HOUSING PROGRAMS ON APPALACHIAN NEIGHBORHOODS Gary L. Fowler Abstract Traditional ports-of-entry and Appalachian neighborhoods in lowincome areas of central cities have been included in target areas for a succession of urban housing and development programs. These programs have resulted in the displacement of large numbers of Appalachian families, and have contributed to the decline in the importance of the areas in the geography of urban Appalachians. The impacts of public housing programs in Chicago's Uptown community provide a case study of these changes. This (urban population loss) is a problem—one that, yes, has to be solved or at least mitigated by both local and large, multi-state development strategies. But in the meantime, and at risk of seeming militantly cheery, the problem is also an opportunity. In Dayton's specific case, take just one small example. The inner East Side neighborhood formerly known as Burns-Jackson and now reborn as the Oregon Historic District. It has lost population, thank goodness. The large, old homes were crumbling a few years ago under multi-family occupancy by persons stuck short of the poverty line. Now the homes are being remodeled into classy, single-family residences. Sorry about the implied elitism, but there can be little real question the community is better off thanks to that "population decline." Mere numbers do not always add up for the best. Editorial, "Population Loss-Dayton's and Others'-is an Opportunity,'' Dayton Daily News, April 17, 1977, p. 18A INTRODUCTION Large numbers of Appalachian people who migrated to northern cities in the 1940s and 1950s concentrated in central city ports-of-entry. These "hillbilly ghettos" were staging areas for upwardly mobile Appalachian migrants, as well as places in which newcomers with few economic resources could live. Through time, however, many of the ports-of-entry neighborhoods were included in central city poverty areas that were designated targets for a succession of urban housing and development programs. These programs have become controversial because of their impact upon the residential opportunities for low income families who are most subject to involuntary relocation. The purpose of this paper is to discuss the impacts of urban renewal and revitalization programs upon Appalachian people in Chicago's Uptown community. The empirical data for urban renewal and code enforcement programs, and available information about revitalization programs since 1974, suggest that poor Appalachians in Uptown continue to be victimized by policies and programs that benefit the middle and upper classes. 126 �Urban Appalachian Settlement People from local "high" class families dominated the early migration from the Appalachian Region.1 They went to small towns and cities near the periphery of the Region where they established roots for subsequent migrants. As the pace of migration accelerated in the 1940s and 1950s, large numbers of Appalachians who had little money and few industrial skills moved into large cities and settled in central city ports-of-entry. These neighborhoods had relatively inexpensive rental housing that was accessible to sources of employment for the newcomers. They also offered the social support of kin, friends, and familiar cultural environment that eased the adjustment to city life for people who, in many instances, considered themselves to be temporary urban residents. The hillbilly ghettos became notorious places in the folk geography of urban America. The port-of-entry life style was, in a sense, stereotyped in the public mind (Huelsman, 1968, p. 99): The migrant to Dayton usually gets here in a wheezing old car full of kids with hungry bellies and maybe a guitar. In the pocket of his faded, blue work shirt is a letter from a second cousin or an uncle with an address near Fifth and Brown or Tecumseh St. in East Dayton. This is in the heart of Dayton's port of entry, a strange new style of life for the southern white mountain migrant. He brings his wife, four, five or six children and about eight years of grammar schooling because he's heard from his kinsman that "they're hirin' on at NCR" or somewhere else. The southern mountain man in the port of entry is most likely to be from one of the mountain counties of eastern Kentucky. His kinsman of Tecumseh or Brown St. has four of five young 'uns of his own, but he'll not turn down Dayton's newest migrant. They will all pile into one big flat, sleeping on couches, on the floor or in nice weather, maybe some of the kids will sleep out in the car. The family baggage is meagre...a few changes of old clothes, a tov or so, some snapshots, a few trinkets and souveniers of life back home in the hills and hollows of eastern Kentucky. The family has brought the most important baggage of all with them...the culture of the southern mountaineer, unfamiliar with city life. Ports-of-entry were described as "natural" areas with physical and cultural characteristics that presumably suited the needs of recent migrants. They functioned as the territorial bases of an evolutionary settlement pattern in which Appalachians, just as groups of migrants who preceded them, were expected to follow an orderly progression of socioeconomic and geographical mobility in the city according to classical models of urban ecology. The stereotype of the hillbilly ghetto has dominated the public perception of urban Appalachians for several decades. Recent research, however, points out that the port-of-entry is only one of several urban residential environments in which Appalachian people live. A large percentage, but not the majority, of Appalachians in cities such as Atlanta, Chicago, Cincinnati, and Detroit continue to live in traditional ports-of-entry and other central city neighborhoods in which they cluster by state or area of origin.2 The housing stock in many of these neighborhoods deteriorated during the period of large-scale 127 �inmigration as the density of population increased, and various forms of disinvestment by landlords became common in areas where an increasingly large proportion of the population suffered problems of poverty, unemployment, and other disadvantages. As selective migration from these neighborhoods to other parts of the cities continued, the flow of newcomers also decreased. Many of the traditional central ports-of-entry no longer are staging areas for upwardly mobile families. The Appalachian people who remain in them are more likely to be long-term residents of the city with limited socio-economic opportunities. And the newcomers are more likely to be upper-middle-class, non-Appalachian people (Fowler, 1976). During the late 1960s and early 1970s, many central city Appalachian neighborhoods, including traditional ports-of-entry, were incorporated within areas that were targeted for urban renewal and revitalization policies and programs. Although the roster is incomplete, Appalachian neighborhoods in Ohio cities—Cincinnati's Over-the-Rhine, Cleveland's West Side, and East Dayton, for example—were included in target areas, as well as larger communities such as Chicago's Uptown and Appalachian areas of Detroit. The impacts of these programs raise serious questions about their effect upon the quality of life of urban Appalachian people. Appalachians living in central Cincinnati, for example, were more likely to have been forced to move, or to move into a place because it was the cheapest available, than were non-Appalachian residents (Fowler, 1976). Appalachians in other cities faced similar problems of relocation because of renewal and disinvestment practices. Currently, Appalachians face the possibility that public policies and programs that are designed to promote central city revitalization will result in their in voluntary dislocation by non-Appalachians, especially middle and upper-class groups. The Uptown community in Chicago is an area of traditional Appalachian settlement that has been the site for a succession of urban public housing policies of the 1960s and 1970s. Empirical data for selected urban renewal projects suggest that Appalachian people in particular had to change their residences as a result. Furthermore, revitalization initiatives suggest that Appalachian families are more likely to be excluded, rather than included, in the process. Appalachians in Uptown Uptown, which is located on Chicago's north side, extends from Irving Park Road north to West Devon, and inland from the Lake Michigan shore to Ravenswood (Figure 1). It was a prosperous area during the 1920s, with a large commercial district centered on Broadway and Sheridan and a population that was predominantly German, Swedish, Irish, and Russian. Dwelling units were converted into smaller apartment units and the density of population increased dramatically during the depression. Subsequently, foreign immigration declined, and Uptown attracted large numbers of low-income migrants after 1945. These included people from Appalachia; blacks, mainly from the South; American Indians, East Indians,and Puerto Ricans. They contributed new elements to Uptown's mosaic of ethnic and cultural diversity, as well as the area's sharp distinctions in socioeconomic status. Appalachian migrants attracted Chicago's official attention in the late 1950s. Giffin (1959) prepared a document intended for use in understanding problems of adjustment that might face the migrants; and the Cook County Department of Public Aid surveyed the public assistance use patterns of southern Appalachian families (Brooks, 1960; and Cook County Department 128 �of Public Aid, 1963). The Department of Public Aid concluded that, contrary to conventional wisdom, Appalachian families were not disproportionately represented on the public assistance roles. However, they did note, that from 1960 to 1963, the proportion of Appalachian families receiving public assistance and living in the Uptown area had increased.3 Subsequent decriptions of the Appalachian community in Uptown were neatly fitted into the stereotypes of a traditional central city port-of-entry. The area was described as one of several places in the city that linked urban poverty with its rural origins, and Appalachian people were depicted as having related adjustment problems that resulted from being unprepared for living in large, urban industrial areas.4 Research on the status and welfare of Appalachians living in Uptown clearly showed that the popular portrayal of their situation was simplistic at best (e.g., Coles, 1971; Gitlin and Hollander, 1970; and Merten, 1974). The fact remained that this was the dominant perception, and that Uptown was the only area that was consistently mentioned as the urban home of Appalachian people in Chicago. RECENT SOUTHERN WHITE IN-MIGRANTS TO CHICAGO, BY CENSUS TRACT: 1970 129 �The number of Appalachians who live in Uptown and their residential distribution is unknown. However, there is general agreement that they are concentrated in a core area that focuses upon several census tracts in the southern part of the area. This is also the area with the highest rate of recent inmigration of white people from the South as well as the highest concentration of white, southern born population (Figure 1).! Other areas on the north side have similarly high rates of recent southern in-migration, although they are generally not identified as areas of Appalachian settlement. Urban Renewal Programs in Uptown The Uptown Chicago Commission was organized in 1955 to direct efforts to redevelop the Uptown area. The commission was organized by W. Clement Stone's Combined Insurance Agency and seven other business firms, including two large local banks (Uptown Federal Savings and Loan Association and Uptown National Bank of Chicago) that were committed to investment in the area. Uptown was declared an urban renewal conservation area in 1965. Subsequently, the Uptown Community Conservation Council (UCCC) and Uptown Model Cities Council were formed and assumed active roles in urban renewal planning. As their activities became more widely known, other groups representing diverse interests organized under the banner of the Uptown Area People's Planning Coalition (UAPPC) to gain influence over plans that were considered to be thinly disguised means of displacing poor people, especially Appalachians, from Uptown to the advantage of the upper-middle-class and business interests. TABLE 1 Urban Housing Programs and Relocation in the Uptown Area, Chicago Relocated Program Uptown Urban Renewal Project I (DUR) Truman Junior College Interim Site* Total Site* Neighborhood Service Date Households 1968 1970 783 1970-1973 170 785 253 People 545 1466 892 *The data are from a survey of the site, as reported by Rodney and Sydney Wright, "Facts Concerning the Proposed Clifton-Racine Site for City Colleges of Chicago," June 17, 1970. The data are for total households (dwelling units) and people living within the site, rather than the number actually relocated. Three separate activities in Uptown were included under the rubric of urban renewal legislation in the late 1960s and early 1970s (Table 1, Figure 2). The 130 �first of these, Uptown Renewal Project I, involved the acquisition and clearing of about one quarter of the nineteen block project area. Twenty-one structures were demolished, and 783 households were relocated. The construction of a city junior college on a twenty-one acre site in the heart of the Appalachian community was the second project. This threatened a total of approximately SELECTED PROGRAM SITES IN THE UPTOWN AREA two thousand people with relocation. Third, a large area in the southern part of Uptown was designated a Model Cities area, and federal monies were used for a code enforcement program-trie Neighborhood Service Program (NSP)~ designed to eliminate slum and blighted buildings. Each of these programs included the poorest areas of Uptown, and the areas that housed the largest concentration of Appalachian people, including recent immigrants. The plans for construction of the city junior college was the catalyst of political activity over urban renewal plans for Uptown. Surveys of the site completed by UAPPC reported data that indicated that the impacts upon people living in the area was potentially quite severe. 131 �BULLETIN The North Side Coalition Community Organizations opposed to an Uptown Junior College Monday night announced the results of a survey taken in the 6-acre Phase One area. In that area they found: 18 buildings (the DUR found 25); 577 people in 104 units for a family occupancy of 5.5 persons per unit; 65 percent of the families in the area contain five or more people; some families number as many as ten; 87 percent of these people have an income under $5,000. Looking for vacancies for those to be relocated, the survey found 134 apartments on Kenmore, Winthrop, Magnolia, Beacon and Maiden. Forty-four of these were one-room apartments, no children allowed. Thirty-two were 2-room apartments, no children allowed. Forty-six were 3-room apartments. Two family-sized units were found. About 34 percent of the landlords said no children; 12 percent said only pre-school children; and 16 percent said no more than two children. The survey also checked vacancies in the 221-D3, federally-subsidized buildings. Of nine buildings, they found 30 vacancies. But building managers reportedly told Jerry Zank, a surveyor, that they would not accept Uptown residents as tenants. The majority (56 percent) of the 545 people in the Phase One (interim) site were from Appalachia.6 Other whites (18.7 percent) and Spanish-speaking people (13.2 percent) were the next largest groups. The results of a second survey for the entire twenty-two acre site counted a total of 1,466 people living in 785 dwelling units. Approximately 41 percent of them were from Appalachia, with "other whites" (25.6 percent) and black people (20.2 percent) comprising the next largest groups. The families in this area were smaller, with fewer children than in the interim site. They also had a slightly higher median income, although the majority of the households in each area received some type of welfare assistance. The Advisory Coalition for North Side City College proposed that the City College Board seek an alternate site for the college on the north side.7 UAPPC had assisted in preparing a plan for that site that would include a model community named Hank Williams Village, in which 80 percent of the units would be reserved for low-income families. Later renamed the Village, the model community also was to provide a variety of community services and a town hall for community organizations. Political confrontations that pitted the Village against the proposed junior college continued through 1968 and most of 1969, with the interim results that the Chicago College Board voted in early September to change to a twenty-one acre Riverview site instead. The decision was subsequently reversed, and the Clifton-Racine site was indeed cleared for construction in the summer of 1974. Truman College opened two years later. An estimated 87 percent of the enrollment came from the North Side of Chicago, with Uptown supplying 30 percent.1 Yet a mural facing the new college reads, "I. O. U. This college must be for everyone. 1,200 families used to live here. We are watching you." The impacts of the Neighborhood Service Program (NSP) of code enforcement were less dramatic, and affected a smaller number of people in a much larger area of Uptown. Analysis of the data on relocation, however, provides a picture of the geography of residential change that resulted. A total of 253 132 �households were displaced from 1970-1973.' The majority of these were white households, although blacks, American Indians, and Spanish-speaking groups were disproportionately represented. The majority of all groups had lived at their current residence for less than two years, and they had very low mean incomes ($4,179 for whites; $4,263 for blacks). The majority of the households that were displaced by NSP relocated in the Uptown area (Table 2). The white households remained within the southeast section of Uptown, especially around Broadway between Irving Park Road and Lawrence, and following a corridor between Sheridan Road and Broadway north to Foster and Bryn Mawr. This matched the highest concentration of low-cost residential housing units. Those who moved out of Uptown went to adjacent community areas; and seven percent left the city for various locations in the South. The white households experienced only an eight percent increase in rent after relocation (from an average of $102 to $111 per month). However, the majority remained in those parts of Uptown that had the lowest socioeconomic status. The Revitalization of Uptown The Housing and Community Development Act of 1974 and subsequent legislation has called for policies and programs to promote population redistribution in urban areas, specifically, to promote the spatial deconcentration of the urban poor and to attract higher income people to poor and deteriorating; neighborhoods. These include federal housing subsidy programs, such as the Section 8 Lower-Income Rental Assistance Program, that are supposed to increase the spatial range of housing options for the poor. At the same time, the potential for widespread revitalization in areas such as Uptown raises serious questions about the extent to which lower-income people, including Appalachians, will be involuntarily displaced from their neighborhoods to make room for the middle and upper class. The people who are least able to control their own destinies, and who have the fewest choices in the housing market, may bear a disproportionate share of the costs of neighborhood improvement. 10 TABLE 2 Relocation Patterns for Uptown Residents Displayed from the Neighborhood Services Program (NSP) Area, 1971-1973 WHITE NON-WHITE Uptown 60.7% 107 63.3% 51 Community Area Other North Side Community Areas 2.4 4 Rogers Park 2.4 4 North Center 2.4 4.1 2 7 Lake View 1.2 1 Lincoln Park 3.6 3 Near North Side Other Parts of the 10.7 2.4 4 9 City of Chicago Out of the City 7.1 3.6 3 12 of Chicago 17.9 18.3 15 31 Unknown 100% 100% 84 169 Totals Source: Based upon City of Chicago, Department of Urban Renewal data. 133 �Uptown has become a prime target for revitalization under new urban housing and development policies. According to one developer: There's no question that the area's the hottest place in Chicago right now. There are sections of the neighborhood where people are buying up apartment buildings and vacant land eyeing Uptown as, potentially, a good place to live.'' The majority of the large-scale projects are located in the southeastern part of Uptown. Expensive new housing and rehabilitated units, including some for subsidized low and middle-income renters, are being developed with federal and state funding support. The largest of the rehabilitation projects is at 511012 Kenmore. It is financed by a $10.5 million loan from the Illinois Housing Development Authority; $1.6 from the City of Chicago's community development fund; and $1.3 from the developer. The project will convert an existing 399 apartment units, two thirds of which are efficiencies, into 280 units, the majority of which are one-bedroom places. Although most will be available for federally subsidized persons, the rents will be much higher than is currently the rule and the number of units available will decrease. Other projects are town houses and high-rise condominium buildings that are specifically designed for young, upper-class professionals who are considered to be pioneers in "reclaiming the city." Controversy over the impact of revitalization programs in Uptown is focused upon alleged conflicts in the use of Community Development Block Grant Funds. The 1974 Housing and Community Development Act has a clearly stated goal: ...the development of viable urban communities, by providing decent housing and a suitable living environment and expanding economic opportunities principally for persons of low and moderate income. In the absence of a comprehensive plan for redeveloping the city, the Uptown People's Community Center produced a model plan for developing the heart of Uptown as a multi-ethnic, broad economic spectrum of people living in a variety of housing units (Hafferkamp, 1979). The Center's plan was rejected out of hand in the spring o 979. Subsequently, the Center's attorney filed an amendment to its pending 975 class action suit in U.S. District Court. The suit, which was originally filed against William Thompson, who had proposed the Pensacola Planned Development in the southern part of Uptown, was amended to contend that HUD, as well as the City of Chicago, conspired to infringe on the civil rights of the Uptown Community by allowing private developers to displace the existing population and thus aid in the destruction of an integrated neighborhood. The Center's attorney explained the suit in these terms: The 1975 suit alleged a conspiracy among the city and various developers to destroy the integrated nature of Uptown, and to create a middle- and upper-middle income, basically white neighborhood. The original suit focused on developer William Thompson because in 1975 he was the most visible enemy. Now we have added HUD because in giving money to the city, we think it has failed to live up to its mandated responsibility. I think our suit paints a very accurate history, going back 20 years 134 �to show that as the demand for white middle-and upper-income housing has increased, there were certain neighborhoods, such as Lincoln Park and Sandburg Village, that the city and developers focused on. In one way or another the existing population was kicked out. Minorities in particular didn't get the chance to move back in when the redevelopment was completed. Prices simply went up too much. And of course when you make a strickly white neighborhood, you are making a segregated neighborhood. In Uptown it became apparent to us that one logical step in the conspiracy was the city's refusal to put funds for rehab or construction into the Uptown community. If Federally subsidized housing were to go into selected sites in Uptown, two things would happen. One, the big developer would be discouraged. They feel that if there is subsidized housing in the area, then well-to-do whites won't want to move in. Second, the developer-encouraged destruction of the existing neighborhood would stop, and the area would begin to stabilize on its own. The city has not so far put funds for new or rehabbed housing into the heart of Uptown because the area is simply too desirable financially. Shortly after the amendment was filed, the suit was settled as Thompson scaled down the Pensacola Place project and agreed to rehabilitate three existing buildings nearby to provide housing for lower-income people. Epilogue Compared with relocation under urban renewal, the impacts of urban revitalization programs upon Appalachian communities are difficult to assess. The necessary data are available only from surveys and, even then, they are subject to sharply different interpretations (Cf. Sumka, 1979;Hartman, 1979). Nevertheless, the Appalachian peoples' relationship to traditional ports-ofentry in low-income areas such as Uptown has changed. The potential for direct displacement because of reinvestment is the most obvious development. The more subtle pressure of increased housing costs may be equally significant, especially when landlords, arson, and other types of disinvestment have reduced the available housing stock. During the seventies, Appalachians have had to compete for the old and new low-income rentals with recognized minority groups. In Uptown, as in many other traditional Appalachian ports-of-entry, the number of blacks and Spanish-speaking people is increasing rapidly. The politics of neighborhood revitalization are as controversial as the earlier politics of urban renewal. Uptown is similar to other communities in that respect (Auger, 1979). However, Appalachians have played less of a role in Uptown community politics in the late 1970s. This may reflect their diminished numbers, as well as the apparent decline in the number of new immigrants relative to other groups. In Uptown, as in other traditional central city ports-of-entry, Appalachian people no longer dominate the influx of newcomers to the neighborhood. NOTES 1. See Fowler (1976); Petersen, Sharp, and Drury (1977); and Photiadis (1971). 2. These patterns are described by Fowler (1980). Studies of Appalachian 135 �settlement in specific cities are by Howell (1973); McKee and Obermiller (1977); Marple, Koebernick, and Jones (1977); Petersen, Sharp, and Drury (1977); and Photiadis (1971). Also, see Maloney (1978). 3. Brooks '(I960) and Cook County Department of Public Aid (1963). 4. Cf. Backs (1968), Bruno (1974), and Montgomery (1968). Earlier studies of Appalachians in Chicago included Killian's (1970) research on southern, white laborers living in the Near West Side in the 1940's, and Harwood's (1966) description of the adaption of southern migrants in the city. 5. The census tract data are from the Fourth Count Summary Tapes, 1970 General Census of Population and Housing. 6. Uptown News, Tuesday, June 16, 1970, p. 1. The survey data are from a report by Rodney and Sidney Wright. "Facts concerning the proposed CliftonRacine Site for City Colleges of Chicago," June 17,1970. 7. The advisory coalition which was composed of a number of north side groups, was formed to "assist" the City College Board in finding a suitable site for the college. The coalition recommended that the Clifton-Racine site be dropped because it would displace people and destroy residential facilities. 8. Meg O'Connor, "New Truman College Stirs Both Hope, Fear in Uptown," Chicago Tribune, March 20, 1977, Sec. 1, p. 37. 9. According to tabulations from relocation records in the City of Chicago, Department of Urban Renewal archives. The files, which are not complete, do not contain information that can be used to identify Appalachian people. 10. See the arguments by Sumka (1979) and Hartman (1979). 11. William P. Thompson, the late Mayor Richard J. Daley's former son-inlaw; quoted in Bonita Brodt, "Rebirth of a Neighborhood Is Not Without Some Pain," Chicago Tribune, June 21, 1979, Sec. 6W, p.l. 12. Quoted in Hafferkamp, 1979, p. 197. 13. Chicago Tribune, November 25, 1979, Sec. D, p.l. The revised project will be a combined shopping center with 100,000 square feet of floor space and a high-rise tower with 252 rental units. A total of 155 apartments will be located in the rehabilitated buildings, named Scotland Yard. A $21.7 million dollar loan insured by HUD, was provided by the Government National Mortgage Association. Section 8 rental subsidies will be available for 20 percent of the units. REFERENCES Auger, Deborah A. "The Politics of Revitalization in Gentrifying Neighborhoods." Journal of the American Planning Association 45 (October 1979): 515-522. Backes, Clarus. "Appalachia: The Source. "Chicago Tribune Magazine, October 6, 1978, pp. 30-33,70. _ _ _ _ _ _ _ . "Poor People's Power in Uptown." Chicago Tribune Magazine, September 29, 1968, pp. 46-56. _ _ _ _ _ _ _ . "Uptown: The Promised Land." Chicago Tribune Magazine, September 22,1968, pp. 1-6. Brooks, Deton J., Jr., A Study of Families from the Southern Appalachian Region Receiving Public Assistance. Chicago: Cook County Department of Public Aid, 1960. Bruno, Hal. "Chicago's Hillbilly Ghetto." In Poverty in the Affluent Society, edited by H. H. Meisner, pp. 102-107. New York: Basic Books, 1974. Coles, Robert. The South Goes North . Vol. 3, Children of Crisis. Boston: Little, Brown and Company, 1971. 136 �Cook County Department of Public Aid. The Southern Appalachian Migrant on Public Aid in Cook County: A Follow-Up Study. Chicago: Cook County Department of Public Aid, 1963. Cross, Robert. "Uptown's Future: Are the Swingers at the Gate?" Chicago Tribune Magazine, September 29, 1974, pp. 20-24. Fowler, Gary L. "The Residential Distribution or Urban Appalachians"In The Invisible Minority: Appalachians in Urban Areas, edited by William W. Philliber and Clyde B. McCoy, Lexington, Kentucky: The University Press of Kentucky, 1980. _______. "Residential Mobility Among Appalachian People in Central Cincinnati." Research Bulletin, Urban Appalachian Council of Cincinnati, May 1976, pp. 1-3. _______. "Up Here and Down Home: Appalachians in Cities." In Appalachia: Social Context Past and Present, edited by Bruce Ergood and Bruce E. Kuhre, pp. 71-82. Dubuque: Kendall/Hunt, 1976. Griffin, Roscoe. "Newcomers from the Southern Mountains," In Institute on Cultural Patterns of Newcomers, pp. 15-40. Chicago: Welfare Council of Metropolitan Chicago, Migration Services Committee of the Chicago Commission on Human Relations. The Mayor's Committee on New Residents, November. 1959. Gitlin, Todd, and Hollander, Nanci. Uptown: Poor Whites in Chicago. Colophon Books. New York: Harper and Row, 1970. Goodman, John L., Jr., "Reasons for Moves Out of and Into Large Cities." Journal of the American Planning Association 45 (October 1979): 407-416. Hafferkamp, Jack. "Who Owns the Neighborhoods?" Chicago Magazine 28 (November 1979): 192-199. Hartman, Chester. "Comment on 'Neighborhood Revitalization and Displacement: a Review of Evidence'" Journal of the American Planning Association 45 (October 1979): 488-490. Harwood, Edwin S. "Work and Community Among Newcomers: A Study of the Social and Economic Adaption of Southern Migrants in Chicago." Ph.D. dissertation, University of Chicago, 1966. Ho well, Joseph T. Hard Living on Clay Street: Portraits of Blue Collar Families. Anchor Books, Garden City, New York: Anchor Press/ Doubleday, 1973. Huelsman, Ben R. "Urban Anthropology and the Southern Mountaineer." Proceedings of the Indiana A cademy of Science for 1968 IS (1968) 97-103. Johnson, Flora. "In Order to Save It." Chicago Magazine 25 (December 1976): 165-86. Killian, Lewis M. White Southerners, New York: Random House, 1970. McKee, Dan M., and Obermiller, Phillip J. From Mountain to Metropolis: Urban Appalachains in Ohio. Prepared for the Ohio Urban Appalachian Awareness Project. Cincinnati: Urban Appalachian Council, June 1978. Marple, David; Koebernick, Thomas; and Jones, Richard. "Demographic and Social Characteristics of Appalachian Migrants Living in East Dayton." Research Bulletin, Urban Appalachian Council of Cincinnati, May 1977. Maloney, Michael E. "Appalachian Migrants in Midwestern and Mid-Atlantic Cities. Mountain Life and Work 54 (January 1978): 29-32. Merten, Don Edward. "Up Here and Down Home: Appalachian Migrants in Northtown." Ph.D dissertation, University of Chicago, 1974. Montgomery, Bill. "The Uptown Story." Mountain Life and Work 44 (September 1968): 10-18. Petersen, Gene B.; Sharp, Laure M.: and Drury, Thomas. Southern New- 137 �comers to Northern Cities: Work and Social Adjustment in Cleveland. Praeger Special Studies in U.S. Economic, Social, and Political Issues; New York: Praeger Publishers, 1977. Photiadis, John. West Virginians in their Own State and in Cleveland, Ohio, Appalachian Center Research Report 3. Morgantown: West Virginia University, Center for Appalachian Studies and Development, 1971. Sumka, Howard J. "Neighborhood Revitalization and Displacement: A Review of the Evidence." Journal of the American Planning Association 45 (October 1979): 480-487. _______. "The Ideology of Urban Analysis: A Response to Hartman." Journal of the American Planning Association 45 (October 1979): 491-94. 138 �ELDERLY APPALACHIANS IN CITIES: A CASE STUDY OF CINCINNATI David P. Varady Abstract This article tests for the validity of four widely held stereotypes about elderly Applachians in cities, using the results of a survey of 862 elderly in Cincinnati, Ohio, carried out in March, 1978. As expected, the Appalachian elderly had a higher incidence of health problems and were more likely to formulate infra-metropolitan moving plans, even when other relevant background characteristics were controlled. However, in contrast to what was anticipated, the Appalachian elderly were not concentrated in older Appalachian ghettos within the city and were not less likely to utilize government social welfare and housing programs. The policy implications of these findings are discussed. Introduction The widely held belief that the elderly are a homogeneous group is incorrect (Raga and Davis, 1978). The elderly are in reality a diverse group in terms of income, social class, and ethnicity. Furthermore, these different subgroups "experience old age and its problems differently" (Wiseman, 1978:3). It is important for social planners to be cognizant of the differing needs of these subgroups within the elderly population. The lack of this type of information on the characteristics and attitudes of memb'ers of these subgroups has hindered program development (see United States Department of Health, Education and Welfare, 1978a, 1978b). This information gap has been particularly serious in relation to different ethnic elderly subgroups.1 In order to improve existing understanding of this subject this paper focuses on differences between the Appalachian elderly and other white and other black elderly with respect to: (1) socioeconomic, health, and housing characteristics, (2) residential satisfaction and residential mobility plans, (3) spatial distribution within the metropolitan area, and (4) utilization of governmentally funded housing and social service programs. More specifically we will test for the validity of the following stereotypes: (1) that elderly Appalachians are an impoverished group, (2) that they are dissatisfied with city life and more frequently, (3) that they are concentrated in inner city Appalachian ghettos, and (4) that they tend not to utilize government funded social services and housing programs. Methodology This study is based on the results of interviews of 862 elderly residents (sixty and over) living in Hamilton County, Ohio (which includes, but is not limited to the City of Cincinnati) carried out during March 1978.- The sample was selected and interviewed using the Random Digit Dialing Technique (see Tuchfarber and Klecka, 1976). The data was collected as part of a larger study of elderly housing needs implemented by the Housing for Older Americans Coalition of Cincinnati (Better Housing League of Cincinnati, 1978). The 139 �survey included questions on moving plans (when, where, and why),' levels of housing and neighborhood satisfaction,4 perceived residential problems,' family health and functional ability,' participation in government housing programs as well as background demographic and housing data.' Information on the socioeconomic characteristics of neighborhoods surrounding respondents, drawn from the 1970 Census, was incorporated into the data set.The householder's Appalachian background was measured by questions on the state and county of birth. We defined an Appalachian as an individual who was born in a county defined as in Appalachia by the Appalachian Regional Commission (Appalachian Regional Commission, 1971:93-99). The variable measuring Appalachian background was combined with the variable measuring race to create an index called "Appalachian status'.' Using this index we categorized the sample into three groups, Appalachians (15 percent of the total), "other whites" (74 percent), and "other blacks" (11 percent).' Crosstabular analysis is used to compare members of these three groups with respect to socioeconomic characteristics, health and housing problems, location within the metropolitan area, residential satisfaction, moving plans, and utilization of government housing assistance programs and social services. Regression analysis is used to determine the impact of Appalachian background controlling for other background characteristics. In the first stage of the regression analysis all the theoretically relevant variables were included in the runs. In the second stage, we reran the regressions excluding those variables that did not meaningfully contribute to explaining variations in the dependent variables (i.e., housing satisfaction, neighborhood satisfaction, moving plans). We excluded those variables whose F values were statistically insignificant at the .05 level. The regression results dealing with the interrelationship between background characteristics, housing satisfaction, and moving plans are represented by a path diagram (Figure 2). The hypothesized causal relationships are represented by unidirectional arrows extending from each determining variable to each variable depending on it. Residual variables are represented by vertical unidirectional arrows leading from the residual variable to the dependent variable. Standardized regression coefficients are standardized, the two paths leading to the same variable can be compared by the order of magnitude to indicate which variable has the most powerful effect. Discussion 1. Socioeconomic characteristics and health and housing problems. Existing research offers contradictary evidence in terms of the degree of deprivation of urban Appalachians (elderly and non-elderly) in relation to other ethnic groups. Case studies of particular Appalachian neighborhoods (Gitlin and Hollander, 1970; Maloney, 1972; Osborne, 1970) emphasize the high rates of social pathologies and the high incidence of housing deterioration in these neighborhoods. This research implies that Appalachians are worse off than other ethnic groups in these cities. Furthermore, this research suggests that a disproportionately large number of Appalachians receive welfare and that they, therefore, constitute a fiscal drain on these cities. Fowler has challenged this viewpoint indication that "there is no compelling evidence that Appalachians are disproportionately represented among the poor or welfare recipients" (1976:78). It is not clear from Fowler's research, however, how Appalachians fare in relation to other ethnic groups, particularly blacks. Our evidence indicates that the Appalachian elderly in Cincinnati are a deprived group in terms of socioeconomic, health, and housing indicators. They are not, however, nearly as badly off as blacks. 140 �Table 1 shows that the mean family income of elderly Appalachians ($7416) was 15 percent lower than that of other whites ($8767). Nevertheless, the mean income level for Appalachians was still considerably higher than for other blacks ($4621). TABLE 1 Differences between Appalchian, other white, and other black elderly with respect to socioeconomic characteristics, health, and residential problems. Other blacks 41% (66) .0000 Tenant Status (proportion owners) Family Health (whether respondent or spouse unwell) 63% (123) $8767 (404) $4621 (66) 72% (588) 44% (92) .0000 .0000 44% (126) 30% (602) 42% (93) .002 Family functional ability (whether respondent or spouse has difficulty) Perceived cost problems (at least some difficulty) Housing costs/income index (index relatively high) Housing costs/income (mean) Perceived housing deterioration (at least some deterioration) Perceived crime problem (neighborhood not safe) 31% (125) 19% (597) 30% (90) .002 37% (120) 23% (567) 54% (86) .0000 20% (126) 14% (604) % (93) .0002 15% (94) 12% (384) 17% (66) n.s. 33% (123) 28% (599) 36% (90) n.s. 30% (123) 28% (582) 41% (90) .04 Neighborhood socioeconomic status (lowest quartile) Neighborhood racial composition (25-49% black) 22% (125) 8% (594) 53% )93) .0000 6% (125) 3% (1549) 8% (93) .04 Characteristic Family Income (below $3000) Family Income (mean) Appalachians 16% (95) $7416(95) Other whites 11% (404) Sig. The Appalachian elderly are clearly a deprived group in terms of the existence of debilitating illnesses and functional limitations. Table 1 indicates that Appalachians closely resemble blacks in terms of both of these measures and differ sharply from other whites. Approximately two fifths of the Appalachians, as compared to one third of the whites, were in households where either the respondent or the spouse (if there was one) felt that he/she had a health problem, a disability, or a long term illness which restricted 141 �his/her ability to get around. There were similarly wide differences in terms of a more objective measure of family functional ability. In one third of the Appalachian households, as compared to one fifth of the white households, either or both of the spouses had at least some difficulty in carrying out one or more basic activities of daily living (getting around the house, walking up and down steps, getting around out of doors). It is conceivable that these differences in health between whites and Appalachians could be due to differences these two groups in income, and the fact that health is correlated with income. The regression results refute this hypothesis. That is, there were significant negative beta coefficients between Appalachian background and both family health (- .08) and family functional ability (-.11) when other relevent background characteristics (e.g., income) were controlled. TABLE 2 Differences between Appalachian, other white, and other black elderly in the incidence of specific health problems.' Other Other Appalachians Health problem blacks whites 33 17 17 5 14 7 2 2 3 29 13 11 4 25 4 5 4 5 35 0 0 0 41 9 3 3 9 42 Heart Lungs Limbs Back Arthritis Stroke Eyes Circulation Diabetes 133 134 x2 = 20.7 df = 16 p^.2 Notes: a. This Table presents the coded first response to the questions on health problems. We suspected that the particularly high incidence of health problems among Appalachians was due to diseases contracted in the mountains. In particular, we expected that many former miners would have contracted black lung disease and, consequently, that Appalachians would have a particularly high rate of lung illnesses. The results in Table 2 are not clearcut enough to either support or reject this hypothesis. Appalachians were more likely than other whites or other blacks to have lung illnesses, but the results are not statistically significant. In addition, it should be noted that the category "lung illnesses" in Table 2 includes illnesses unrelated to having an Appalachian background (e.g., lung cancer resulting from smoking) as well as illnesses attributable to the Appalachian experience. Additional research is needed in order to identify why elderly Appalchians suffer such high rates of debilitating illnesses. The results dealing with the incidence of housing and neighborhood problems were more mixed. The Appalachian elderly were worse off than other whites 142 �with respect to three of seven problems. Specifically, Appalachians were far more likely than other whites to experience difficulty in affording current housing costs (or were expected to experience difficulty in affording likely future increases; 37 percent versus 23 percent). Appalachians were also more likely than other whites to be living in neighborhoods that were in the lowest quartile with respect to socio economic status (22 percent versus 8 percent). Furthermore, they were also more likely than other whites to be living in racially changing communities, as indicated by their presence in communities between 25 and 49 percent black (6 percent versus 3 percent). It should be noted, however, that blacks were far worse off than Appalachians or whites in terms of most of the indicators of residential problems. That Appalachians were more likely to experience a cost problem was probably attributable to their having lower incomes than other whites, rather than any aspect of their Appalachian background. This interpretation is supported by the regression results (not presented here) which indicated that the householder's Appalachian background was of no importance in predicting variations in the incidence of the cost problems when other background characteristics were taken into account. 2. Residential satisfaction and moving plans. Existing research supports the image of Appalachian transiency. That is, Appalachians have been shown to have higher mobility rates than nonAppalachians (Coles, 1967; Fowler, 1976; Votaw, 1955). There are, however, two limitations in this research. First, there have been few attempts to compare Appalachians with specific other ethnic groups. Second, most research has relied on bivariate analyses. It is as a result unclear whether the high mobility rates are a result of demographic characteristics associated with being Appalachian (such as a high rate of renting) or are a result of some aspect of the Appalachian experience. Coles (1967) favors the second interpretation. He speculates that a dissatisfaction with city life combined with an inability to return home leads to a continual wandering within the city. In order to determine which of these hypotheses is valid this paper tests a residential mobility model (Figure 1) developed by Speare and Associates (1974) consisting of three sets of variables: (1) personal, housing, and neighborhood characteristics (including Appalachian background), (2) housing and neighborhood satisfaction, and (3) intra-metropolitan moving plans.10 Speare, Goldstein, and Prey's model suggests that Appalachian background, like other personal characteristics, would affect intra-metropolitan mobility plans indirectly. That is, a householder's Appalachian identity would foster housing and neighborhood dissatisfaction, which would in turn lead to intra-metropolitan moving plans. The results (Figure 2 and Table 3) support this hypothesis." Appalachian background indirectly promoted rapid intra-metropolitan moving plans through higher levels of housing dissatisfaction. This is shown by the significant path coefficient (.11) between being Appalachian and housing dissatisfaction, and by the high correlation of the latter variable with intrametropolitan moving plans (beta = .40). Using Coles's research, we would interpret the high level of housing dissatisfaction among these elderly Appalachians as attributable to a discontent with the urban environment, generally, and an inability to return "home" to the mountains. 3. Spatial distribution Much of the research that is available on urban Applachians is based on case 143 �FIGURE 1 Elderly mobility model. �FIGURE 2 Significant Paths Influencing Housing and Neighborhood Satisfaction and Intra-Metropolitan Mobility Plans (likelihood of remaining) Among Hamilton County Elderly. NOTE: All of the beta coefficients are statistically significant at the .05 level. �TABLE 3 Differences between Appalachian, other white, and other black elderly with respect to residential satisfaction, moving plans, and length of residence. Appalachians Other whites Other blacks Sig. Housing satisfaction (proportion not very satisfied) 28% (122) 19% (590) 26% (91) .03 Neighborhood satisfaction (proportion rating neighborhood not good) Intra-metropolitan moving plans (proportion planplanning move) 29% (11 8) 27% (571) 33% (89) n.s. 20% (113) 18% (563) 15% (80) n.s. Inter-metropolitan moving plans (proportion planning inter-metropolitan move) 6% (124) 5% (591) 1%(93) n.s. Length of residence (proportion at current address below 5 years.) Length of residence (mean no. of years) 24% (126) 19% (604) 28% (93) n.s. 14.9 19.3 13.0 .001 Characteristic studies of port-of-entry tenement neighborhoods in the inner city like the Uptown section of Chicago (Gitlin and Hollander, 1970) and the Over-theRhine community in Cincinnati (Maloney, 1972). This research reinforces the stereotype of Appalachians being concentrated in this type of community. Nevertheless, this stereotype probably is inaccurate for younger Appalachian families. A recent trend is for mountain families, particularly the better off ones, to bypass the central city entirely and to settle in rural fringe communities (Fowler, 1976; Photiadis, 1970; Schwarzweller, 1970; and Stevens, 1973). The above sterotype may be applicable to the Appalachian elderly, however. Researchers have found that the white, ethnic elderly are often left behind in the inner city as younger families achieve mobility and move to the suburbs (see for example Ginsberg, 1975). The results refute this last hypothesis. The proportion of elderly Appalachians living within the city (47 percent, 126) was identical to that for other elderly whites (47 percent, 604). Not surprisingly, the proportion of blacks living within the city (83 percent, 93) was far higher than for either of the two other groups (X 2 = 43.0, df = 2, p-* .00001). In addition, only a small minority (15 percent, 59) of the Appalachian elderly living in the city lived in Appalachian neighborhoods (i.e. those estimated to be 50 percent or more Appalachian). Futhermore, the proportion of Appalachian elderly living in this type of community was no higher than that for other whites (17 percent, 287). A smaller proportion of blacks lived in this type of community (7 percent, 77, n.s.). The notion that the Appalachian elderly are concentrated in Appalachian ghettos is not true. Finally, as shown in Table 4 only a small 146 �TABLE 4 Differences between Appalachian, other white, and other black elderly in neighborhood type. Neighborhood Type" Appalachians Other whites Other blacks 39% 24 13 24 58% 29 2 11 (281) 10% 33 38 19 Hill newer Valley Established Basin-Old Town Transitional Dynamic (59) (177) x> = 50.0 df = 2 p* .00001 Notes: a. See footnote 8 for definitions of these four neighborhood types. minority (13 percent) of the Appalachian elderly living within the city of Cincinnati reside in the "Basin-Old Town area" area. It should be noted, however, that the proportion of Appalachian elderly living in this particular area is substantially higher than for other whites. Previous research has indicated sharp differences in income and other socioeconomic characteristics between Appalachians living in the city and the suburbs. That is, those in the suburbs tend to be more well-to-do (Photiadis, 1970). Based on this research, we expected that within an Appalchian elderly sample those in the city would be poorer, and in worse health, worse housing, and neighborhoods than those in the suburbs. Table 5 provides no support for this assertion. As shown, the mean family incomes for the Appalachian elderly living in the city and in the suburbs are virtually identical. Furthermore, there are insignificant differences between the city and suburban Appalachian elderly with respect to the incidence of health and housing problems. The only way in which the suburban Appalachian residents are significantly more likely to be in high socioeconomic status neighborhoods and significant city-suburban differences may be due to the presence of many attractive suburban communities in the city of Cincinnati. Consequently, this fact may have led some of the relatively affluent Appalachians to move within the city rather than to the suburbs. We would expect to find wider differences between city and suburban residents in cities lacking such attractive neighborhoods. 4. Utilization of Social Services There is consensus within the research literature that Appalachians (elderly and non-elderly) tend not to utilize existing governmental social services and housing programs. Fowler (1976) asserts that Appalachian families tend not to use public social services because of pride, because of their dependence on the kin group (which leads to an avoidance of formal public institutions generally), and because of the perception that these agencies give blacks and other groups preference. Engler (1979) found that the Appalachian elderly tended not to participate in the Independent Environments Program in Chautauqua County, New York. That is a program under which homeowners can have ramps built for wheelchairs, handrails installed for showers, and so forth. He suggests that this underutilization results from many of the Appalachian elderly having 147 �TABLE 5 Differences between Appalachian elderly living in the city and in the suburbs Characteristic Family income (proportion below $3000) Cincinnati 15% (47) Suburbs 17% (48) Sig. n.s. Family income (mean) Family health (whether respondent or spouse unwell) Family functional ability (whether respondent or spouse has difficulty) Perceived cost problem (at least some difficulty) Housing costs/income index (ratio relatively high) Perceived housing deterioration (at least some deterioration) Perceived crime problem (neighborhood not very safe) Neighborhood socioeconomic status (lowest quartile) Neighborhood racial comp. (25-49 percent black) $4798 (47) $4752 (48) n.s. 42% (59) 46% (67) n.s. 36% (59) 27% (66) n.s. 36% (56) 38% (64) n.s. 22% (59) 18% (67) n.s. 38% (56) 30% (67) n.s. 40% (57) 21% (66) .03 42% (59) 3% (66) .0000 12% (59) 3% (66) .05 moved from areas where there were few federal social services or housing programs. Thus, these elderly residents did not know what help was available nor were they sure they had a right to get it. Our results (Table 5) are in sharp contrast to previous research on the subject. There is no evidence to support the premise that the Appalachian elderly are less likely to take advantage of social services than others. As shown, there were insignificant differences between Appalachians, other whites, and other blacks in their utilization of government housing assistance programs (such as Rent Supplements) and government income supplements (such as Social Security). In addition, there were insignificant differences in the 148 �proportions preferring to move into housing for retired persons (assuming it was available), rather than to continue to live in their present home. There were significant differences in the utilization of social services delivered to the home (e.g., visiting nurses). The statistically significant difference was due, however, to the higher rate of usage of these programs by elderly blacks than either Appalachians or other whites. The greater utilization of social service programs by elderly blacks probably reflects: (1) the higher incidence of social pathologies among elderly blacks, (2) the War on Poverty which informed many blacks of their eligibility for social services, and (3) the location of many of these services (e.g., senior centers) in inner city areas that are heavily black. Regression analysis was utilized to determine whether the lack of association between Appalachian background and social service utilization was attributable to the intercorrelation between these two variables and other background characteristics. This was not the case. The results (not presented here) indicated that Appalachian background had no impact at all on the utilization of social services or housing assistance programs when other personal characteristics were controlled. The results therefore indicate that this stereotype is not valid for the Appalachian elderly. TABLE 6 Differences between Appalachian, other white, and other black elderly in the utilization of different social welfare and housing assistance programs Characteristic" Government housing assistance programs (use at least one) Government income supplements (use at least one) Social services at home (use at least one) Social services (mean number utilized) Housing for elderly (proportion preferring this over home ownership) Notes: Other blacks 26% (86) Sig. 30% (125) Other whites 26% (573) 81% (122) 84% (565) 87% (90) n.s. 19% (126) 16% (600) 31% (91) .003 .28 .23 .48 .006 11% (113) 11% (557) 13% (83) n.s. Appalachians n.s. a. See footnote 7 for definitions of these four measures of program utilization. Conclusions This paper was sought to improve the understanding of differences between Appalachian, other white, and other black elderly in urban areas. Four widely held stereotypes about urban Appalachians were tested using the results of a survey of the elderly in Hamilton County (Cincinnati), Ohio. 149 �The results supported the validity of two of the stereotypes. The Appalachian elderly were shown to be an impoverished group in relation to other white elderly. This was particularly true with respect to measures of health and functional ability. In addition, the stereotypes of Appalachian transiency was supported. An Appalachian background was shown to indiiectly promote intra-urban residential mobility plans through increased housing dissatisfacation. Two other widely held stereotypes were refuted. In contrast to what had been expected, the Appalachian elderly were not shown to be concentrated in inner city Appalachian ghettos. Not even the poor Appalachian elderly were concentrated in these areas. In addition, there was no support for the assertion made by Fowler (1976) and others that Appalachians tend not to utilize governmentally funded social services and housing programs. Policy Implications The results support an expansion of health care programs for the Appalachian elderly. As indicated above, the incidence of debilitating illnesses was disproportionately high among Appalachians even when other relevant background characteristics were controlled. In developing such programs, improved information is needed on the nature of the health problems affecting members of this group. These health care programs need to be targeted to the Appalachian elderly wherever they reside. Our results show that it would be a mistake to implement them only in identifiable Appalachian communities. In Cincinnati only a small minority of the needy Appalachian elderly reside in these areas. Citywide agencies such as the Urban Appalachian Council in Cincinnati could be helpful in reaching Appalachians located throughout the metropolitan area. Finally, attention should be given to expanding the residential choices of elderly Appalachians. The high levels of housing dissatisfaction that we discovered among elderly Appalachians probably result from a dissatisfaction with city life and and inability to return to the rural point of origin. Research needs to be directed to the obstacles preventing such return moves. With such research in hand, planners could then develop programs which would enable those Appalachian elderly wanting to return home to do so. Notes The author wishes to thank the Better Housing League of Cincinnati for making available the data set on which this paper is based. He is also grateful for the statistical assistance provided by Mr. Dan McKee of the Behavioral Sciences Laboratory, University of Cincinnati. 1. Among the few exceptions to this generalization are Lawton and Kleban's comparison of Jews and non-Jews in the determinants of well-being (1971) and Sterne, Phillips, and Rabushka's study of black-white variations with respect to residential satisfaction and political participation (1974). 2. Using the Random Digit Dialing technique, 11,365 telephone numbers were generated and called. Two thirds (66 percent or 7526) of these numbers were found to be not in service. Of the remaining valid numbers, one half turned out to be ineligible for the study either because there was no elderly person in the household (41 percent) or for some other reason, such as a business or institutional number, or a language barrier (13 percent). In one fifth (20 percent) of the cases, it proved impossible to reach anyone, even though three attempts were made. Three percent of the respondents refused to be interviewed. A little over one fifth (23 percent) of the valid numbers led to completed interviews with elderly householders. 150 �The regression analysis of the determinants of moving plans reported on in this paper is based on 408 rather than 862 cases noted above. This is due to the utilization of a regression program which required complete information on all the variables included in the analysis; otherwise, the case was deleted. For this reason 416 cases were excluded. In addition 38 intended inter-metropolitan movers were deleted from the analysis. 3. In order to measure moving plans respondents were asked: "Do you plan to move from your present home in the next ten years?" There were five reponse categories: yes, considering it, no, only under unforeseen circumstances, and don't know. In the analysis the respones were receded into three groups; those who had definite plans to move (category one), those who had plans but who were uncertain about their plans (category 2) and those who planned to remain (categories 3 and 4). Those who didn't know or who planned to move outside the Cincinnati metropolitan area were excluded from the analysis. 4. Housing satisfaction was measured by the question: "In general, how satisfied are you with your present housing?" The four response categories ranged from very satisfied to very dissatisfied. We measured neighborhood satisfaction by the question: "How would you rate your neighborhood (community) as a place for retired people to live?" The three response categories were good, fair, and bad. 5. The physical housing quality index was derived from two questions. The first asked whether there was anything about the residence that made it dangerous (e.g., a fire hazard). The second asked whether the building in which the respondent resided needed major repairs, minor repairs, or no repairs. The combined results were receded into a three point scale: (1) most deterioration (minor or major repairs and dangerous), (2) less deterioration (either no repairs and dangerous or minor/major repairs and no danger), and (3) no deterioration (no repairs and no danger). The housing costs index was created from two other questions. The first asked whether or not the respondent was having difficulty paying for the residence and its upkeep (including utilities). The second asked about the degree of difficulty that the individual would experience if housing costs increased by twenty-five dollars from what they were at the time of the interview. The four response categories ranged from not difficult to impossible. The combined results to these questions were receded into a three point scale: (1) no difficulty (can afford housing costs now, and would have some or no difficulty in affording future incrases), (2) some difficulty (either experiencing difficulty in affording current costs and would have some/no difficulty in affording future increases or can afford current costs but would find it difficult or impossible to afford future increases) and (3) great difficulty (have difficulty in affording current costs and would find it very difficult/impossible to afford future increases). A second more objective measure of the housing cost problem was computed by dividing housing costs (including utilities) by monthly family income. 6. Two separate questions were used to create the family health scale. The first question asked whether the respondent had a health problem which restricted his/her mobility. The second obtained comparable information about the spouse, if there was one. The combined results were receded into two categories: (1) families where both spouses were well or unrelated individuals who were well and (2) families where at least on of the spouses was ill or unrelated individuals who were ill. Family functional ability was based on two separate series of items (one for the respondent and one for the spouse) dealing with the degree of difficulty each experienced in completing certain everyday activities (i.e., getting around 151 �the house, walking up and down the stairs, getting around out of doors). Respondents were asked whether they could complete each of these activities without difficulty, with difficulty but without help, or only with the help of another person. The scores for this set of items ranged between 3 and 9, with 9 representing the highest degree of functional limitation. The results for each of the two variables were separately receded into two groups: (1) respondents or spouses who could complete all of the activities without difficulty (i.e., a score of 3) and (2) respondents/spouses who experienced at least some difficulty in completing one or more activities (i.e., scores between 4 and 9). The two separate variables were then combined and receded into two categories: (1) families where both respondents were able to complete all the activities without difficulty or where the unrelated individual was able to complete them without difficulty and (2) families where one or both spouses (or an unrelated individual) had at least some difficulty completing one or more of these activities. 7. Homeowners were separately asked whether they received any of the following forms of governmental housing assistance: property tax reduction, utility cost assistance, and mortage interest reduction. If they didn't receive any of the three, they were then asked whether they had ever applied to the government for financial assistance to help to pay housing costs. Renters were asked a separate series of questions probing whether they received rent supplements or assistance with utility bills, and if they received neither, whether they had applied to the government to help pay housing costs. An index was created from all of these questions to distinguish between two groups of respondents: (1) those who had applied for or participated in one or more government housing assistance programs and (2) those who had not applied for or participated in any. A second scale measured in utilization of social services for the elderly. Respondents were asked whether they had used any of the following services provided by agencies or groups over the previous three years: prepared meals or meals brought to the home, housekeeping help, assistance with minor home repairs, senior centers or clubs, transportation, visiting nurses. An ordinal level scale was created based on the number of services utilized. A third scale measured the utilization of governmental income supplement programs. Respondents were asked whether any of the following programs provided income for them or any other other relative living in the home: social security, supplementary security income, veterans' benefits, unemployment compensation, workmen's compensation, disability insurance, food stamps, aid to dependent children/general relief. An index distinguishing between two groups of respondents was created: (1) those who were utilizing one or more of these programs and (2) those who were not utilizing any. 8. Neighborhood age composition was measured by the proportion of individuals sixty and over living in the census tract in 1970. All of the census tracts in Hamilton County were ranked on the basis of the proportion of elderly living in the tract. Each tract was assigned a value ranging from 1 to 4 depending on which quartile it fell within. A socioeconomic status index was calculated for each census tract based on the ranking of the tract with respect to the following indices: median family income, overcrowding, family composition (the presence of both spouses), occupation, and education. The tracts were then ranked from lowest SES to highest and divided into quartiles. Each tract was assigned a value (from 1 to 4) based on which quartile it was located in. Four dummy variables were used to measure neighborhood racial composition (i.e., whether the neighborhood was under 25 percent black, 25-49 percent black, 50 to 74 percent black, 75 to 100 percent black) because there was a non-linear relationship between neighborhood racial composition and moving 152 �plans. Crosstabular analysis revealed that respondents living in neighborhoods 25 to 49 percent black were significantly more likely to formulate moving plans than those living in the three other types of neighborhoods. The first dummy variable (whether the neighborhood was under 25 percent black) was considered the reference variable and, therefore, was not included in the regression runs. Communities within the city of Cincinnati were classified into four types using a scheme developed by the Real Estate Research Corporation (1973:1) Hill-Newer Areas are those "often referred to as the 'suburbs inside Cincinnati'. They are relatively new, relatively white, relatively upper-income and predominantly owner occupied as compared to the rest of the city." ValleyEstablished Areas "are older, more established and contain quite mixed types of land uses. They tend to lie along the geographical valleys of the City....Most have declining populations, moderated levels of household income and average rates of turnovers". Basin-Old Town Areas "are the oldest parts of the City clustered around the central business district. Their land use patterns have been significantly changed in recent years by highway or urban renewal developments; hence they lost more than one third of their population from 1960 to 1970. Their population is mainly nonwhite and have relatively low incomes." Transition-Dynamic Areas contain those "that do not consistently fit into the above three categories. Some are undergoing rapid transition in population characteristics whereas others are more stable". In addition, city communities were classified as "Appalachian" or "nonAppalachian" using a scheme developed by McKee and Obermiller (1978). School survey data were used to estimate community ethnic composition. Communities were defined as Appalachian if they comprised one half or more of the population. 9. The overwhelming majority (83 percent) of the Appalachian elderly surveyed were white. 10. Our decision to focus the analyis on the determinants of intra-metropolitan moving plans rather than on moving plans, generally, was based on previous research indicating that there are different determinants of intra and intermetropolitan mobility (Wiseman, 1978). This implied that the precision of our model could be increased if intended inter-metropolitan movers were excluded from the analysis. It should be noted that in contrast to Spear's (1974) and Newman and Duncan's research (1978, 1979), which examined determinants of mobility behavior, ours is limited to an analysis of moving plans. Van Arsdol (1968) has indicated that there is a real distinction between moving wishes, moving plans, and moving behavior. Consequently, it is not possible to validly generalize from our results dealing with moving plans, to actual mobility behavior. Nevertheless, this study is valuable because it examines most of the components of the mobility decision and, therefore, should lead to an improved understanding of this decision. The results of the analysis of the determinants of intra-urban mobility plans for the 1978 Cincinnati elderly sample are discussed in far greater detail in a separate paper (see Varady, forthcoming). 11. These results are in contrast to those obtained from an analysis of the determinants of moving plans and mobility behavior among a sample of elderly and non-elderly residents of the Cincinnati Model Neighborhood (Varady, 1975). Appalachian background was of no importance in explaining variations in either plans or behavior in the regression analysis. It should be noted that in contrast to the analysis in this paper, we did not then test for the indirect impact of Appalachian background through measures of housing and neighborhood satisfaction. Had such measures of satisfaction been included we might 153 �have found that Appalachian background did have an indirect impact on mobility. References Appalachian Regional Commission. 7977 Annual Report. Washington, D.C.: Appalachian Regional Commission, 1971. Better Housing League of Greater Cincinnati. Housing for Older Americans in Hamilton County Ohio. Cincinnati: Better Housing League, 1978. Coles, Robert. The South Goes North. Vol. 3 Children of Crisis. Boston: Little, Brown and Company, 1967. Fowler, Gary L. "Up there and Down Home: Appalachians in Cities". In Appalachia: Social Context, Past and Present, edited by Bruce Ergood and Bruce E. Kuhre, pp. 77-81. Dubuque, Iowa: Kendall/Hunt Publishers, 1976. Ginsberg, Yona. Jews in a Changing Neighborhood: The Study ofMattapan. New York: The Free Press, 1975. Giltin, Todd, and Hollander, Nanci. Uptown: Poor Whites in Chicago. New York: Harper and Row Publishers, 1970. Lawton, M. Powell, and Kleban, Morton H. "The Aged Resident of the Inner City". The Gerontologist, Winter 1971, Part I, pp. 277-83. Maloney, Michael. "Appalachian Settlements: Cincinnati and Southwestern Ohio". People's Appalachia 2, No. 3 (July 1972). McKee, Dan M., and Obermiller, Phillip. From Mountain to Metropolis: Urban Appalachians in Ohio. Cincinnati: Urban Appalachian Council, 1978. Newman, Sandra J., and Duncan, Greg J. "Residential Problems, Dissatis-faction and Mobility." Journal of the American Planning Association 45 (1979): 154-166. Newman, Sandra J., and Duncan, Greg J. "Residential Problems, Dissatisfaction and Mobility." In Five Thousand American Families - Patterns of Economic Progress. Vol. 6 Edited by Greg J. Duncan and James N. Norgan, pp. 297-322. Lansing, Michigan: Institute for Social Research, University of Michigan, 1978. Osborne, Robert S. "The Migrant Spirit." Mountain Life and Work, JulyAugust 1970, pp. 12-14. Photiadis, John D. West Virginians in Their Own State and in Cleveland, Ohio: Selected Social and Socio-phychological Characteristics. Morgantown, West Virginia: Appalachian Center, West Virginia University, 1970. Ragan, Pauline K., and Davis, William J. "The Diversity of Older Voters." Society, July-August 1978, pp. 50-53. Real Estate Research Corporation. Description and Partial Analyis of Cincinnati's 44 Statistical Areas. May 1973. Schwarzweller, Harry; Brown, James S.; and Mangalam, J.J. Mountain Families in Transition. University Park, Pennsylvania: The Pennsylvania State University Press, 1971. Speare, Alden, Jr.; Goldstein, Sindey; and Frey, William H. Residential Mobility, Migration and Metropolitan Change, Cambridge, Mass.: Ballinger Publishing Company, 1974. Sterne, Richard S.; Phillips, James E.; and Rabrushka, Alvin. The Urban Elderly Poor. Lexington, Mass.: D.C. Heath and Company, 1974. Stevens, William K. "Appalachia's Hillbillies Trek North for Jobs." New York Times. March 29, 1973. Tuchfarber, Alfred J., and Klecka, William R. Random Digit Dialing: Lower- 154 �ing the Cost of Victimization Surveys. Washington, D.C.: Police Foundation, 1976. U.S. Department of Health, Education and welfare. Our Future Selves: Report of the Panelon Behavioral and Social Science Research. Washington, D.C.: U.S. Government Printing Office, 1978. U.S. Department of Health, Education and Welfare. Our Future Selves: Summary Report. Washington, D.C.: U.S. Government Printing Office, 1978. Van Arsdol, Maurice D., Jr.; Sabagh, Georges; Butler, Edgar W. "Retrospective and Subsequent Metropolitan Residential Mobility." Demography 5 (1968): 249-67. Varady, David P. "Determinants of Mobility in an Inner City Community." Regional Science Perspectives 5 (1975): 154-78. ______. "Housing Problems and Mobility Plans Among the Elderly." Journal of the American Planning Association, forthcoming. Votaw, Albert N. "Hillbillies Invade Chicago." Harper's Magazine, February 1958, pp. 64-67. Wiseman, Robert F. "Spatial Aspects of Aging." Resource Papers for College Geography No. 78-4. Washington, D.C.: Association of American Geographers, 1978. 155 �This page intentionally left blank �IV Education in Appalachia 157 �Innovatice Approches to Vocational-Technical Education in North Central Pennsylvania Robert A. Rusiewski Abstract The focus of this paper will be on innovative approaches in vocationaltechnical education in the area of north central Pennsylvania. Attempts will be made to illustrate that even though the approaches discussed appear to be innovative to vocational-technical education in general, they are also fundamental to the concept of vocational-technical training in particular. The interface between and among the needs of area employers, the role of vocational-technical education to provide training to meet area employer needs, and student/adult interest in developing a skill or trade to enhance employment opportunities, will be illustrated throughout the examples provided. Introduction Three examples of innovative approaches to vocational-technical education in North Central Pennsylvania will be discussed in this paper. They involve the provision of training in petroleum production, powdered metals technology, and forest industry production (i.e., logging and sawmilling). A fourth example, a proposed vo-tech coal mining program, is briefly described. Of the three training programs being highlighted, the petroleum production course is presently the most advanced. The major goal of the Bradford Vocational-Technical Drilling-Oil Production is the development and implementation of an on-site oil production course addressing the drilling of an oil well, the use of modern finishing techniques such as electro-logging and hydrofracturing, and the installation of a pumping unit so as to provide an avenue of training and career development for young oil field workers. The major goal of the Powdered Metals Technology Program, Seneca Highlands Vocational-Technical School is the development of a program to provide training, at both the secondary and adult level, in powdered metal manufacturing technology. The North Central Pennsylvania Forest Industry Training Program at Jefferson County, while still in the development phase, has as its goal the development of a training program for secondary and postsecondary students in the skills required for harvesting, processing, and transporting all categories of forest products to local, state, and national markets. Subsequently, in order to depict this situation effectively, this paper is organized into four sections to describe the area of north central Pennsylvania, the vocational-technical training delivery system, the examples of innovative training, and in a final section, the summary and conclusion to be drawn from this study. The North Central Pennsylvania Region North central Pennsylvania consists of six contiguous counties that lie in the mountainous Allegheny plateau of northern Pennsylvania. These counties include Cameron, Clearfield, Elk, Jefferson, McKean, and Potter, and a part of a 158 �larger, sparsely populated area which is considered the only extensive "open" area remaining in the urbanized northeastern United States. The total area of the region is 5,083 square miles or 3,257,100 acres, which represents approximately 11 percent of the area of Pennsylvania.1 Nearly 90 percent of this area is forested, with large tracts of forest land owned by the federal governmerit (i.e., Allegheny National Forest), state government (Pennsylvania state game lands and forest lands), and private landowners. The population of North Central Pennsylvania in 1970 was 231,490, or approximately 2 percent of the state total.2 The latest estimates by the U.S. Department of Commerce, Bureau of the Census, compute the region's population to have grown slightly, by 6,676, to 238,166 as of July 1, 1977.3 Population decline has been a general characteristic of the region since 1910, when the regional population was at its peak of 277,970. In general terms, population losses have been due to deteriorating economic conditions and the general rural to urban movements that have been characteristic of the United States in the past thirty years. The region is rural, non-farm, and small town in character. There are numerous communities which have populations in excess of 1,000; however, only 36 percent of the total populaton resides in the fifteen larger (population of 2,500 or more) urban centers of the region. Bradford (12,672) and DuBois (10,112) are the only chartered cities, as well as the largest population centers. Of the 157 municipalities in the region, 146 have populations less than 5,000 persons. Major economic activities in north central Pennsylvania include coal and clay mining, agriculture, forestry and timber production, oil and gas production, retail and personal services, and manufacturing. Decline in the extractive industries and reliance on below average growth industries have caused severe economic problems in the region, especially when the national economy is troubled. Manufacturing is by far the single most important industry in the region. Manufacturing, in the region in 1976, employed 31,200 of the total six-county civilian labor force, or 32 percent.4 In comparison. Pennsylvania, a highly industrialized state, employed only 28.8 percent in manufacturing in the same year.' Also significant is the fact that almost 75 percent of those employed in manufacturing in the region are employed in durable goods industries. This compares to only 60 percent for the state of Pennsylvania. The heaviest concentration of manufacturing is found in the counties of Elk and Cameron. Both of these counties have well over half their employment in manufacturing (54.2 percent and 57.1 percent respectively in 1976). Mining holds an important place in the economy of the region. Coal in the southern section (Clearfield and Jefferson Counties) and oil in the northern section (McKean County) were instrumental in the region's past economic growth, and will continue to be important in the future. Mining and oil exploration have increased in the 1970s as a result of the energy shortage, but because of mechanization, especially in the case of coal, mining will never by a major employer again as in the 1940s. However, the increased mechanization has created a need for employees possessing more technical skills than in the past. Poverty, housing shortages, high dependency ratios, low wages, low tax assessment bases, and a lack of retail outlets and personal services are all problems currently experienced in the region. These problems are not unique, but are characteristic of many areas in Appalachia. Such problems and economic circumstances have contributed to both the need and demand for vocational training in the region in not only the traditional 159 �sense, but also for innovative curriculums with training for employment indigenous to the area. Such factors as the make-up of the local and regional economies, the desire of people - particularly young people - to remain in the area, the subsequent need and demand for vocational training, and the relevance of this training to enhancing employment opportunities and/or career development, have nurtured and fostered the present vocationaltechnical education delivery system in north central Pennsylvania. This system is outlined in the following section. North Central Pennsylvania's Present Vocational-Technical Education Delivery System The present vocational-technical education delivery system in north central Pennsylvania consists of three areawide vocational-technical schools and one comprehensive high school that has a vocational-technical department. Brief descriptions of each school are outlined. Bradford Area High School Bradford Area High School is a comprehensive high school including vocational-technical training. Vocational-technical training is available to students in grades 10-12, and enrollment in these grades is approximately 1,200. Enrollment in grades 10-12 is expected to remain fairly constant in the near future. In recognition of the fact that not all jobs require college training, the vocational department offers courses in twelve vocational-technical training areas. These courses are Automotive, Carpentry, Electrical Maintenance, Machine Shop, Nursing Assistants, Distributive Education, Drafting and Design Technology, Electronics Technology and Grounds Building Maintenance, Petroleum Production, Home Economics, and Business Education. Student selection is made on a quota basis with the selection criteria including test scores, past academic records, and attendance. Emphasis is made on the student selecting a course based on the student's interest in acquiring training in that subject area for the purpose of seeking employment or using that subject as a foundation for further training in a trade or technical school or a college. The school is located in Bradford, McKean County, Pennsylvania. Clearfield County Area Vocational-Technical School The Clearfield County Area Vocational-Technical School has a maximum enrollment potential of 831 students, and at present, approximately 650 day school students and 700 evening students are enrolled. Students from five participating school districts attend the Clearfield County school, and percentage of high school students attending the school represents 15 percent of the total high school (grades 9-12) student population from the five participating districts. However, only in unusual circumstances do ninth grade students participate in vo-tech training. Thus approximately 21 percent of the total school population grades 10-12 in the five participating districts attend the Clearfield County Vo-Tech. Sixteen major subject areas are offered and these included Auto Body Repair, Automotive Mechanics, Carpentry/Cabinet Making, Clothing Design/Sewing, Cosmetology, Beautician, Data Processing/Computer Programming, Diesel Mechanics, Distributive Education/Sales and Merchandising, Electronics, Electrical Wiring/Industrial and Residential, Food Preparation and Service, Health/Medical Assistant, Machine Shop, 160 �Masonry/Bricklaying, and Welding. With no vo-tech facilities in Elk and Cameron Counties (central part of the region), the Clearfield Vo-Tech has a very large service area. The $3 million facility was funded in part by a $346,500 grant from the Appalachian Regional Commission. The school is located in Clearfield, Clearfield County, Pennsylvania. Seneca Highlands Area Vocational-Technical School The Seneca Highlands Area Vocational-Technical School is new and opened in February 1979. Capacity of the facility is 320 students with present capacity being approximately 300 students. The $3 million facility was funded in part by a $450,000 grant from the Appalachian Regional Commission. Five participating school districts in McKean, Potter, Cameron Counties send students to the Seneca Highlands Vo-Tech. Currently the school is in its first full year of operation. Students in grades 10-12 are eligible for training courses. They must be at least fifteen years of age and below the age of twenty-one. Others not categorized as such can participate in the adult training sessions. Present adult enrollment is approximately 200. Nine course offerings are available and these include: Metal Working Occupations, Heavy Equipment Construction, Automotive Mechanics, Building Construction Occupations, Building Maintenance Trades, Advanced Office Practice, Cosmetology, Health Assistant, and Powdered Metals Technology. The school is located in Port Allegany, McKean County, Pennsylvania. Jefferson County, DuBois Area Vocational-Technical School The Jefferson County, Du Bois Area Vocational-Technical School has a facility capacity of 550 students with present enrollment at approximately 520 students. Both traditional academic course work and vocational-technical training are available at this school. The combined enrollment of daytime students and adult evening students is approximately 700. Four participating school districts provide the service area student population. The $4.6 million facility was funded in part by a $187,500 grant from the Appalachian Regional Commission in 1968. Fifteen vocational-technical training courses are available and these include Auto Body, Auto Mechanics, Building Maintenance, Carpentry, Cosmetology, Electrical Construction, Food Services, Machine Shop Practice, Metal Fabrication, Graphics Arts, Distributive Education, Laboratory Technology, Data Processing, Drafting and Design Technology, and Electronic Technology. The school is located in Reynoldsville, Jefferson County, Pennsylvania. Regional Service Area Upon viewing this delivery system in the six-county area, two conclusions are apparent. First, students in the northern counties of McKean and Potter have easy access to vocational training at either Bradford High School or Seneca Highland Area Vo-Tech, as do the students in the southern counties of Clearfield and Jefferson at either the Clearfield County Area Vo-Tech or the Jefferson County, DuBois Area Vo-Tech. Students in both Elk and Cameron counties have much farther to go to attend as there is no vocational-technical training offered in the central portion of the region. Second, the curriculum composition of these four schools, in terms of traditional vocational instruction, is quite similar except for the petroleum production training at Bradford High School and the powdered metals technology training at the Seneca Highlands Area Vo-Tech. It is the innovative nature of these two courses, plus two other 161 �courses in the development stage, that will be pursued in the following pages. Examples of Innovative Approaches to Vocational-Technical Education in North Central Pennsylvania The four examples of innovative approaches to vocational-technical education in north central Pennyslvanina are listed below with each course at a different phase of development/implementation. Bradford Vocational-Technical Drilling-Oil Production Course During the early to mid-1970s the petroleum industry in the Pennsylvania Grade Crude producing area of Bradford, McKean County, Pennsylvania, was experiencing a problematic series of events that projected very critical production problems in the near future. The local petroleum industry requested the vocational-technical department of Bradford High School to investigate the possibilities of developing a training program to supply the industry with training manpower.' This investigation and a survey of the local petroleum industry identified the following five specific problems, and needs of the industry. 1. The large percentage of oil field workers at the age fifty or above and the lack of younger experienced or trained workers. 2. Retirement alone will open up approximately twenty jobs per year for new employees, and the industry will need to replace 25 percent of its work force in the next fifteen years. 3. Increased drilling activity will require more workers. 4. Improved recovery techniques will require a more skilled work force. 5. Complaints by the industry that young employees have little or no knowledge of the industry and may require on-site training. When viewed compositely, these problematic events formed an unusual dichotomy whereby, on the one hand, the petroleum industry has increased production activities to its highest level since 1960 (a peak year in the local industry); and on the other hand, the petroleum industry found itself with a trained manpower shortage at the oil field production level. The effects of this "push-pull" dichotomy on the local petroleum industry prompted representatives of the industry to request that Bradford Area High School become involved in alleviating this problem. In 1975 Myron Crumrine, Director of Vocational Education at Bradford Area High School, requested the North Central Pennsylvania Regional Planning and Development Commission (NCPRPDC) to investigate potential sources of funding to develop and implement a petroleum production course. A project application was submitted to the Appalachian Regional Commission (ARC) and Bradford High School received $36,728 in ARC funds out of the total project cost of $45,910 to implement such a course. However, it soon became apparent that the course needed to provide more on-site training. The school had a twenty-seven acre oil lease and both the VoTech Director and the twelve man advisory committee identified a need for more equipment to provide instruction in the actual operation of drilling a producing well. An application to ARC was submitted in 1978, and a grant of $46,663 for equipment was approved. In addition to this equipment, a drilling rig, the development and implementation of an on-site production course addressing the drilling of the well, the use of modern finishing techniques such as electro-logging and hydrofacturing, and the installation of a pumping unit all provide an avenue of training and career development for students interested in the program. In a course involving the total process in the completion of a producing well, emphasis is placed on 162 �training in the following work activities. 1. Surveying to locate a well site 2. Securing the drilling permit 3. Preparation of an erosion and sedimentation plan 4. Construction of an access road 5. Preparation of a well site 6. Construction of pipe-line right-of-way 7. Securing the services of a drilling contractor 8. Setting up the rig 9. Provision of adequate water supply 10. Construction of pits for sand pumping 11. Drilling the well 12. Electo-logging of the well 13. Hydraulic fracturing of producing sand 14. Disassembly of rig 15. Installation of pumping equipment 16. Installation of oil run lines and gas lines 17. Erection and installation of electric lines 18. Clean-up of site 19. Grade and seed well location The major objectives of this training program include the following: 1. To help offset a training manpower shortage in the oil industry by providing trained workers. 2. To provide students with training in the many facets of the oil industry. 3. To provide students with skill development in these multiple areas which will enable them to seek entry level employment. 4. To provide this training in an actual work setting such as the operating oil lease upon which the training is conducted. 5. To duplicate work conditions as closely as possible. 6. In addition to skill development, to make students aware of employer's needs in an employee, such as the willingness to accept responsibility, regular attendance, and willingness to work. 7. To provide area students who desire an occupation which is outdoor in nature an opportunity to find that employment through this training area. 8. To develop a formal training program in an industry over 100 years old in which none has previously existed. 9. To assist students in finding local employment which will help preserve the area's most valuable resource, its young people. 10. To develop the training program in such a way that it may be readily duplicated in another oil producing area. 8 This course, as a mechanism for not only solving petroleum industry problems and needs but also developing skilled young employees, is unique to both vocational training and the needs of the area. The lubricating quality of Penn Grade Crude produced in this area is unsurpassed and considered a premium product worldwide. In fact, Penn Grade Crude supplies approximately 20 percent of the total lubricating sales in the nation. In this context, it is interesting to note that McKean County is the heart of the Penn Grade Producing area, and that the Bradford Oil Field will be celebrating its 109th year of production later in 1980. This year also represents the 106th year of continuous production by the oldest producing oil well in the world, situated in Bradford. Approximately 44 percent of the total crude oil production for the state of Pennsylvania, in 1977, came from McKean 163 �County.' (This amounted to 1,198,616 barrels of the state's 2,703,763 total barrels). At present the course has an enrollment of thirty-seven students. These students are enrolled in grades 10, 11, and 12 in a three-year vocational training program. This course is in its fourth year of operation, with twenty-seven students graduating from the program in the past three years. Of these twentyseven graduates, fifteen are currently employed in the oil industry, eight are on active duty in the military service, and four are employed in an occupation not related to the oil industry. 10 Approximate salary for these employed in the oil industry ranges from $4.50 per hour starting to $7.00 per hour. Course activities are conducted on a twenty-seven acre operating lease where there are currently ten oil wells in production. Revenue from these wells has been approximately $4,000 during the 1979-80 school year through December 31, 1979. This represents approximately 144 barrels of crude oil, with approximately two thirds of that production the results of the ARC funding drilling project. These funds will be used to assist in making the program self-sufficient. Both the development and operation of this program have been enhanced by the cooperation of the local petroleum industry. Donations include a complete hydrofracturing job on one new well, an electro-logging job on the same well, the donation of tools and supplies from many sources, and over 100 hours each of active participation in a curriculum writing project by the twelvemember advisory committee. In the course's 3'/2 years of operation, it has become one of the most popular training offerings at the school. In addition to the training supplied to the prospective oil field workers, the lease operation has provided involvement with other vocational shop areas such as carpentry, electrical, automotive, drafting, and building maintenance. In addition to these activities, it has provided the school and community with local and national media exposure. Two stories have been run by the national wire services, many local articles have been written, and television newscasts have covered the course activities. The program has been covered by two national magazines and was also included in the 1978 Annual Report of the Appalachian Regional Commission. At the time of the course's initial implementation it was the only vocationaltechnical course of its kind in the United States. While being an innovative approach to vocational-technical training, the course fulfills the concept or fundamental philosophy of vocational education by providing a form of training relevant to the needs of both students and the employment skills required or sought by employers in the local/regional economy. In this regard it is important to highlight the response of the Appalachian Regional Commission in providing "seed money" to enable the program to be implemented. Now, the revenue obtained by selling the oil produced at the wells, plus the contributions of materials, supplies, and industry technical assistance are together enabling the program to be self-sufficient. Also, just recently the natural gas by-product from the wells was connected to the on-site classroom and is providing fuel to heat it. (A Glossary defining some of the terminology used in this course is included at the end of the paper.) Powdered Metal Technology Program, Seneca Highlands Area Vo-Tech School The area served by the Seneca Highlands Vocational-Technical School is one of the most important production areas in the United States for powdered metal, primary metals, and related technology products. The course was developed as a result of an initial survey conducted by the Director of the new Vo-Tech School, the desire of the powdered metal industries to remain in 164 �north central Pennsylvania, and the growth and expansion projected by the Governor's Office of State Planning and Development in 1977. Course surveys were mailed to approximately twenty of the area powdered metal firms. Nine of the industries submitted detailed answers to the survey and these were very positive about such a course. Of the nine firms responding, the combined employment of these firms totaled 1,415 employees. These firms had a 6.8 percent turnover in employment annually, and their projected total employment for 1980 indicated a 330 employee increase, or 18.9 percent, to 1,745 workers. All of the firms indicated that they would hire properly trained graduates of the course. Another reason for the active and viable attempt to develop a powdered metals technology course was that the industry appears to be committed to remaining and expanding existing operations in north central Pennsylvania. Some of the explanations for this commitment include: 1. The powdered metal industry is not affected to the same extent as other regional industries (especially electronics) foreign competition. 2. Large capital investments in existing physical plant and equipment have been made. 3. The powdered metal industry is growing in excess of 15 percent per year. 4. The industry, even though quite labor intensive, has a large work force to draw upon. 5. Most of the industry's various competitors have located in the area, and all are affected by quite a variety of similar factors such as labor rate, market supply and demand, and changes in product development and quality control. Additionally, in 1977, the Governor's Office of State Planning and Development had projected significant increases in primary metal products manufacturing from the period 1980 through the year 2000. In the three local labor market areas most affected, the projections are as follows: PRIMARY METAL PRODUCTS MANUFACTURING Labor Market Area 1980 Coudersport St. Marys Emporium TOTAL Total Employment Projections 2000 1990 242 2394 524 3160 439 3095 711 4245 622 3736 884 5242 Together, these factors have contributed to the initial efforts of not only investigating the potential for the course, but also the aggressive pursuit of a sound, viable, and relevant approach to develop and implement the course. The major goal of this project is the development of a program of providing training at both the secondary and adult level, in powdered metal manufacturing technology. The approach will be the development of a curriculum which will provide both basic and advanced training through a combination of classroom and shop/equipment education. The program will resolve the problem of job entry for students from this region, while meeting manpower needs for trained individuals within the powdered metals industry. It will also be designed to upgrade the skills of those people already employed. Other objectives of the powdered metal technology course include the following: 165 �1. To train high school students, grades "10, 11 and 12" for employment in the powdered metals industry, thus making an opportunity for employment which will encourage students to remain in the community. 2. To provide a student with entry level skills which will encompass a wide variety of actual work experiences which are essential in the powdered metals industry. 3. To meet an industry need for supplying young, able-bodied workers who have had some formalized training in the occupational areas of powdered metals manufacturing. 4. To develop a formalized course of study and training programs for the powdered metals industry, which has never attempted any organized training for production workers in this geographic location. a. To develop a curriculum based upon community, education and industry needs. b. To stimulate an industrial atmosphere in which job attitudes, performances, and expectations are stressed. 5. To provide on-site training in a skill area which meets the career needs and desires of students from a rural community, and in north central Pennsylvania. 6. To provide the image of powdered metal workers in regards to wages and working conditions by providing career guidance pertinent to the industry. 7. To establish a cooperative summer employment program for enrolled students. 8. To provide a relevant type of training in the usage of sintering equipment and modern finishing techniques such as compacting, tooling, and machining." The development of this course is in the application stage at the present time. The total cost is estimated to be $275,700. Funding for the program is projected as follows: $ 37,500 Pennsylvania Bureau of Vocational Education 20,000 U.S. Department of Education 150,000 Appalachian Regional Commission 42,500 Jefferson County DuBois Area Vo-Tech 25,700 Local Ineligible Contribution . . . $275.700 TOTAL COST The proposed coyrse has been ranked as a priority for state and federal funding, and if all goes as planned, the course will be ready to enroll students in the 1981-82 school year. Clearfield County Area Vocational-Technical Coal Mining Program This proposed course is presently in the investigatory or development phase. A craft advisory committee has been formed, with members of the committee being either producers, employees, or representatives of pro-coal organizations. A need for this course is appearing as the resurgence of the coal industry has brought about a dramatic increase in coal production in Clearfield County. In 1977 (latest figures available), Clearfield County ranked third in the state of Pennsylvania of all the counties producing bituminous coal with 9,299,741 tons mined. 12 A significant factor in this production is that 8,673,745 tons were produced via strip mining. This course will be designed to meet the employment training needs of the bituminous coal industry in strip mining in the Clearfield County area. The Vo-Tech School has approximately fifty acres of land on which a small strip 166 �mining training operation could be initiated. The present plans are to seek funding from the Appalachian Regional Commission as "seed money" to begin the course, and the revenue obtained from selling the coal would enable the program to be self-sufficient. Optimally, the course will be ready to enroll students in the fall semester of 1982. Summary and Conclusions In viewing the four examples of innovative approaches to vocationaltechnical training in north central Pennsylvania in their various stages of either implementation or development, several important factors have been crucial not only to course development and implementation but also to the insurance of successful programs in the future. These factors focus on: (1) the interface between and among the needs of area employers and the role of vocationaltechnical education to provide training to meet area employer needs and student employment interests, (2) the role of the Appalachian Regional Commission in responding to such regional needs, and (3) the vehicle of vocational-technical education to provide training that is both innovative with reference to traditional forms of vo-tech education and at the same time fundamental to the needs and opportunities of the regional economy. The linkage between these factors has been of paramount importance not only in developing and implementing a meaningful training program, but also in insuring solid future for the programs based on a close relationship between the vo-tech schools and area employers. Such a situation will enable the local and regional economies to grow, reduce out-migration of the region's young people, provide employment opportunities for the young, and help renew confidence in the future of the regional extractive and manufacturing industries. Thus, the courses described can be viewed in the following ways: 1. As examples of Appalachian Regional Commission efforts in linking vocational-technical education to private sector employment opportunities. 2. As examples of innovative vocational-technical training being offered in Appalachia. 3. As a point of departure for further investigation concerning comparisons of training opportunities linked to employment opportunities in both the Appalachian region and the nation. Glossary Hydro-fracturing Hydro-fracturing involves the pumping of water under very high pressure down the well to break up the oil producing sand; then a sand solution is pumped in to keep the cracks open. The crude oil can then be freed from the producing sand and will drain into the bottom of the well much easier, thereby improving production capabilities of the individual oil well. Electro-logging Electro-logging is the process of taking an electronic picture of the rock strata in a newly drilled well to identify the presence of hydrocarbons in the strata. It involves lowering an instrument, similar in function to a television camera, down the well to take electronic pictures for analysis. Surveying to locate a well site Surveying is used primarily in conjuction with the drilling permit application procedure. The location of oil wells and new wells about to be drilled must be 167 �indicated on a topographic map to insure the location coordinates are the same as those on the permit issued to the person or firm drilling the well. Notes 1. Commonwealth of Pennsylvania, Department of Commerce, Pennsylvania,Industrial Census Series Release Number M-5-77, 1978 editions. See individual booklets for each Pennsylvania County: Page 5 for Cameron, Clearfield, Elk, Jefferson, McKean, and Potter Counties. 2. U.S. Department of Commerce, Bureau of the Census, Population Estimates and Projections, November 1979, pp. 15,17,18,21,25,30, and 34. 3. U.S. Department of Commerce, Bureau of the Census, Population Estimates and Projections, November 1979, pp. 15,17,21,25,30, and 34. 4. North Central Pennsylvania Regional Planning and Development Commission, 7975 Areawide Action Program Document, p. 49. (Material taken from the 1979 Pennsylvania Statistical Abstract.) 5. North Central Pennsylvania Regional Planning and Development Commission, 1987 Areawide Action Program Document, p. 49. (Material taken from the 1978 Pennsylvania Statistical Abstract.) 6. Bradford Vocational-Technical Drilling-Oil Production Course, project application submitted to the Appalachian Regional Commission, May, 1978. See Attachment A. p. 1. 7. Bradford Vocational-Technical Drilling-Oil Production Course, project application submitted to the Appalachian Regional Commission, May, 1978, pp. 7-8 . 8. Myron A. Crurryine to Robert A. Rusiewski, January 24, 1980. 9. Pennsylvania Geological Survey, Oil and Gas Development in Pennsylvania in 1977, Progress Report 191, 1978, Figure 2. 10. Myron A. Crumrine to Robert A. Rusiewski, January 24, 1980. 11. Powdered Metal Technology Program, Seneca Highlands Area Vocational Technical School, project application submitted to Appalachian Regional Commission, April, 1979, pp. 3-4. 12. Commonwealth of Pennsylvania, Department of Environmental Resources, 1977 Annual Report on Mining, Oil and Gas, and Land Reclamation and Conservation Activities, p. 116. 168 �Coral Wilson Stewart and the "Moonlight School" Movement James M. Gifford Abstract This paper traces the remarkable educational career of Cora Wilson Stewart who pioneered the "Moonlight School", a night school program for illiterate adults in her home county in eastern Kentucky. The success of her program was felt far and wide: many states adopted versions of it, the reader she devised was published for use as an aid to illiterate American soldiers in World War I, and she later served on national and international commissions on illiteracy. All told, her most satisfying accomplishment was the progress she brought to her own people of eastern Kentucky. In 1911, Cora Wilson Stewart, an ambitious, talented, Kentucky mountaineer, began a crusade against illiteracy that dramatically improved the quality of life in Appalachian Kentucky. The "Moonlight School" Program-a night school for illiterate adults-made her a beacon of hope to the mountain people of eastern Kentucky and a legitimate hero in their eyes. "My mother thought she hung the moon," observed one Morehead State University educator, while a Kentucky legislator reportedly said that "he always told his children he wanted them to see two people, Buffalo Bill and Cora Wilson Stewart."1 Her memorabilia are still cherished and handed down in Rowan County families today. By the early twentieth century Appalachian Kentucky was a land of despair that desperately needed Cora Wilson Stewart's help. While many Americans worried about the Supreme Court's antitrust stance or the unfolding split in the Republican party, eastern Kentuckians "made do".1 They had learned their survival lessons the hard way, because both geography and historical experience had separated them from the American mainstream. The Civil War had been particularly devastating.' The people of Appalachian Kentucky-caught between warring armies—expressed divided sentiments. The majority supported the North, but strong Confederate ties existed, too. The resulting local conflicts divided families and destroyed friendships. When the war ended, the bitter hatreds remained and feuding continued into the twentieth century.Other horrible aftereffects of the war were less evident than the feuds but equally debilitating. When "home rule" returned to Kentucky following the Compromise of 1877, democratic, ex-Confederates again assumed control of the state government and took revenge against their wartime opponents from the mountain counties through political and economic retaliations.' Not surprisingly, the quality of life in Appalachian Kentucky grew worse as roads and schools suffered from discriminatory funding. When this plight was "discovered" nationally, a great missionary intrusion to the mountains began. Thousands of teachers and preachers came "with souls afire" to lift the people of Appalachian Kentucky from their "cultural depravity".' In retrospect, one of the great ironies of this mountain mission was the fact that, during this same period, the Kentucky mountaineers produced their own hero in the war against illiteracy, and her efforts won national and international recognition. She was Cora Wilson Stewart and her "Moonlight School" program destroyed illiteracy in her home county and became a model for similar adult education programs throughout America and eventually the world. 7 169 �write and declared that he would gladly exchange twenty years of his life for the ability to read and write. Another man, a young ballad singer, sadly told Mrs. Stewart that he had forgotten many beautiful songs that had been passed down to him by his ancestors "before anybody came along to set 'em down." 16 Against this backdrop of educational need, Cora Stewart fashioned her plan. She decided to hold classes at night, since the majority of illiterates were employed during the day. She informed Rowan County teachers of her plan, and they unanimously volunteered their assistance. On September 4, 1911, county teachers visited each home in their district and personally invited attendance at the first session that was scheduled to begin the following night. Approximately 150 were expected; 1,200 arrived. Twelve hundred persons with 1,200 sad stories about why they could not read and write came determined to improve themselves. They wanted to read their Bibles, write to their children, and sign their names rather than make "their mark'.' The youngest was eighteen; the oldest was a "school girl" of eighty-six. They applied themselves diligently. Many learned to sign their name the first night. Soon the county was a beehive of new writing activity, and people who had long led lives of quiet, illiterate desperation wrote their names whenever and wherever the opportunity arose. Many deposited their meager savings in banks for the first time for the pure joy of signing their names to the checks. That January, Sherman Porter, managing editor of the Lexington Herald, congratulated Mrs. Stewart "on behalf of the people of all Kentucky" for her devotion to her work and the special efforts she was making on behalf of "our best citizens when they are properly understood and appreciated."" Encouraged by this huge response, Cora Stewart began writing a short newspaper, The Rowan County Messenger, as a reader for her adult students. The paper was a combination of homilies and local news and also included lessons in history, arithmetic, and some memory work from literary classics like Longfellow's "Psalm of Life'.' The Messenger inspired much good-spirited interscholastic competition which resulted in physical improvements to the buildings as well as personal progress for the students." The next year, Rowan Countians requested a continuance of the"Moonlight School" In preparation for this second session, Mrs. Stewart sponsored an "Institute" or in-service training session. Teachers attended on a voluntary, non-compensated basis and discussed both teaching and recruiting methods. It was an opportunity for them to share their progresses, their sacrifices, and their disappointments, and to renew their commitment to another arduous year of working day and night. It was also one of America's first formalized studies of adult education methodology. Cora Stewart's extensive corresondence with educators in Kentucky and throughout the nation reflected both a growing interest in her work and a recognition of the "courage and sacrifice of the teachers in Rowan County."" The second year of the moonlight school was more successful than the first. Sixteen hundred students enrolled and 350 of them learned to read and write. Some individual progresses were remarkable: a lumberman doubled his salary after six weeks of schooling and two postmasters and four preachers learned to read and write. Children brought their parents and teachers brought their spouses. It was a time of progress and a rebirth of community pride. One trustee noted that the school in his district used "to drag along and nobody seemed interested." After three weeks of moonlight school, the people of his district "got together right" and made significant improvements in their schoolhouse. These revitalized schoolhouses once again became genuine community centers and the site of many civic and religious meetings. Also, during the second session, a "home department" of the moonlight school was 170 �Cora Wilson was born to Dr. Jeremiah Wilson and Annie Eliza (Hally) Wilson in 1875 and reared in Farmers, a community in the western part of Rowan County. She attended Morehead Normal School and the National Normal University in Lebanon, Ohio, and then began a teaching career in her home county in 1895. She quickly earned a reputation as an outstanding educator, and in 1901 Rowan Countians elected her to serve as county school superintendent.1 Success in Rowan County soon brought recognition from regional educators who often invited Mrs. Stewart to address teacher-training sessions and other groups interested in advancing public education. She was a "graceful, forceful speaker with a direct, clear message,...a rich vocabulary, and...an easy and attractive manner," observed B.C. McDougle of Eastern Kentucky State Norman School. McDougle, who heard Mrs. Stewart lecture on "That Child of Yours and His Parent" in 1908, commended her "fine presentation of some school problems that should be carefully studied by both teacher and parent" and felt that it would "do good wherever heard'.' • Her other regional presentations were equally well received." Following an address in Elliot County, the superintendent of county schools, D.F. Gray, commended, her efforts, "to urge our boys and girls into something higher and nobler in life" and pledged his support if Mrs. Stewart sought the presidency of the Kentucky Educational Association: "I think it would be real nice to have one of our home county girls at the head of educational affairs of our state, and I hope you will not hesitate to take advantage of any opportunity that may come your way." Voicing the sentiment of so many persons who heard her speak prior to 1910, Gray wrote: "We all enjoyed your lecture, but nothing you said gave me greater pleasure than your statement that the remainder of your life would be devoted to the cause of education."" Many others noted Mrs. Stewart's great commitment to public education. She was re-elected superintendent of Rowan County Schools in 1909, and two years later she was elected the first woman president of the Kentucky Educational Association." Most state educators echoed the sentiments of J.G. Crabbe, president of Kentucky Normal School, who warmly congratulated Mrs. Stewart and pledged support of her efforts. "Count on me," he promised. "I am sure the Association will prosper under your leadership."" Buoyed by this statewide support, Mrs. Stewart determined, as an addition to Rowan County's overall educational program, to launch an experimental program called the "Moonlight School" that was designed to combat illiteracy among the county's adult population. Cora Wilson knew many of the 1,152 illiterate persons living in Rowan County in 1911, and, having "served as a secretary" to many of them, she knew how much they needed and wanted to learn how to read and write." One older woman who lived by herself often walked seven miles to Mrs. Stewart's office in Morehead whenever she received a letter from her daughter who worked in Chicago. After a particulary long absence, the woman arrived with a letter one morning. In reply to Mrs. Stewart's offer of assistance, she reported that she could answer it for herself for she had learned to read and write. The lonely mountain woman had determined to break down "the wall" between her and her absent daughter Jane and had purchased a speller and studied '"til midnight and sometimes 'til daylight'.' She proudly demonstrated her success by reading the letter and penning a reply with Mrs. Stewart's advice." Mrs. Stewart had many other touching personal encounters with Rowan County adults who genuinely wanted to escape the bondage of illiteracy. One middle-aged businessman cried when he confessed that he could not read or 171 �established, and teachers like Gladys Thompson taught in the homes of individuals who were too old or ill to attend night classes." The success of the first two years prompted a third-year goal of wiping "illiteracy out of the county" completely. Before the school year began, school trustees canvassed their districts and took a census of the remaining illiterates, This list was given to the teachers who in turn recruited their recently "converted" students to help them. "Each one teach one" was their motto, and, as part of a great competition that was developing between districts, they zealously sought out all remaining illiterates and taught them without mercy. Like all competitions, this one occasionally transcended the sublime and reached the absurd. One trustee for example, declared that he felt confident that illiteracy would soon be totally removed from his district, since "there's only one illiterate over there, and he's a tenant on my place; I'm going to run him over into Fleming County'.' Whenever a district reached its goal, a ceremony was held in the schoolhouse and the former illiterates were presented with new Bibles as a reward for their accomplishments. Remarking on this phenomenon of change, one long-time resident said, "It used to be moonshine and bullets: but now it's lemondade and Bibles."21 When this enormous educational crusade commenced in 1911, Rowan County had numbered 1,152 illiterates. By 1914 only 23 remained-by Mrs. Stewart's count. Of these, 6 were blind or had sight problems; 5 were bedridden invalids; 6 were defined as "imbeciles and epileptics;" 2 had only recently moved to this county and 4 "could not be induced to learn." For promotional reasons, Mrs. Stewart undoubtedly inflated the success rate by employing a very casual definition of literacy. Her qualitative results, however, remain unchallenged. Cora Stewart did not stop to rest on her laurels. She immediately broadened her horizon and prepared to wage war against illiteracy in Kentucky." In 1913, she wrote Governor James B. McCreary and proposed a state commission that would focus on the state's 208,084 illiterates and eventually place Kentucky "in a better light before the world." The governor responded positively and, in 1914, inspired by Mrs. Stewart's speech which reportedly "swept the Legislature off its feet," the General Assembly unanimously created the Kentucky Illiteracy Commission, headed by Mrs. Stewart. Other members included President J.F. Crabbe of Eastern Kentucky State Normal School, H.H. Cherry, the president of the Normal School in Western Kentucky, and Miss Ella Lewis, the superintendent of Grayson County Schools. Barksdale Hamlett, superintendent of Public Instruction, also served as an exofficio member." To promote the state effort against illiteracy and, at the same time, to reward her original Moonlight School teachers, Mrs. Stewart took her Rowan teachers on a vacation of the northern United States and Canada. A trip to Niagara Falls highlighted the tour. Financial and moral support from private organizations, like the Colonial Dames, and from many church groups and civic-minded individuals soon followed." The Kentucky campaign against illiteracy quickly won national attention from both supporters and cynics. As a teaching device, in 1915, Mrs. Stewart developed an adult reading book entitled Country Life Reader, First Book which encouraged reading by dealing with a wide variety of subjects, including agriculture, politics, economic development, sanitation, and thrift. The following illustrates her dual emphasis on adult content and "moral" instruction: I shall pay my taxes. I pay a tax on my home. 172 �I pay a tax on my land. I pay a tax on my cattle. I pay a tax on my money. I pay a tax on many other things. Where does all this money go? It goes to keep up the schools. It goes to keep up the roads. It goes to keep down crime. It goes to keep down disease. I am glad the I have a home to pay taxes on." World War I rudely interrupted the quiet progress of Cora Stewart's educational programs. The European conflict that began in 1914 prompted America's declaration of neutrality. Soon, however, continued violations of U.S. maritime rights awakened American preparedness and military ardor. President Woodrow Wilson was re-elected in the fall of 1916, and the following April he asked Congress for a declaration of war against Germany to make the world "safe for democracy." By June, thousands of American men between the ages of twenty-one and thirty-one were registering for military service. The 700,000 illiterate national registrants included 30,000 Kentuckians." Cora Wilson Stewart and the Kentucky Illiteracy Commission responded immediately. Realizing that the regularly scheduled fall session of the moonlight school would be too late to serve the special needs of Kentucky's soldiers, Mrs. Stewart made a special appeal to the teachers of Kentucky, and by July 23, a summer school was in session." In genuine desperation, the soon-to-be soldiers assaulted their lessons. Letters and literacy took on an urgent, new, personal meaning to many young men who had never been away from their homes and "hollers."" As she had done with other groups of adult learners, Cora Stewart wrote a special reader for the unique needs of Kentucky's recruits. The Soldier's First Book was patriotic in cover, color and content. An armed soldier on the cover of the red, white, and blue text introduced lessons that dealt with war, guns, camps, flags, tent, bulletin boards, parade grounds, and the "rule of kings."" The bewilderment and humiliation that illiterates experienced in basic training was sad, but eloquent, testimony to the continuation and extension of Cora Stewart's work. Some carried letters in their pockets for days before gathering the courage to ask someone to read the home news and pen a reply. Others were frequently transferred because their commanding officers, themselves unschooled in many respects, confused inability to read and understand orders with lack of cooperation and commitment. A few were even imprisoned for "disobeying orders" simply because they could not read and understand them. Typical of the illiterates' despair, one young soldier timidly requested that a Y.M.C.A. volunteer worker address twelve envelopes to his mother. "Are you planning to write every day?" the volunteer queried. "You must be a dutiful son." "No, these are to last me a year," the soldier replied. "I promised my mother that I'd get some envelopes backed and that once a month I'd slip a dollar bill in one and mail it to her and by that she'd know that I was still alive."" During the war years of 1917 and 1918, Mrs. Stewart again focused attention on the soldiers' needs by prompting the Kentucky Illiteracy Commission to hold special moonlight school sessions for the wives, mothers, sisters, and sweethearts of Kentucky's fighting men. General Joh Pershing, Commander of the American forces in Europe, had requested that American 173 �women write "long cheerful letters telling everything that happens in the old home town," because the men were "hungry for news..." Meanwhile, The Soldier's First Book had been revised by the Y.M.C.A. as a teaching aide for all of our country's soldiers." When the war ended in 1918, Cora Stewart again adopted her campaign against illiteracy to the prevailing circumstances. A government agency distributed fifty thousand copies of her Country Life Reader to American soldiers in Europe. This new adult reader aided their educational progress while preparing them for a return to the current issues of civilian life-voting, taxation, soil conservation, transportation, and health. As the war was concluding, many former students of America's moonlight school were adapting Cora Stewart's program to European needs." Meanwhile, on the Kentucky home front, Cora Stewart and Sergeant Willie Sandlin, Kentucky's counterpart to Tennessee's Alvin York, were touring the state and promoting the work of the Kentucky Illiteracy Commission." The success of the Moonlight School Program and the contribution it made to the state, the nation, and the war effort encouraged the state legislature to make a small post-war appropriation to support the traveling expenses of seventy-five field agents for the Illiteracy Commission. These agents continued the program that Cora Stewart had started in Rowan County and constantly sought to educate the state's adults within the context of the major social and political issues of the day. A new dimension to the crusade against illiteracy in Kentucky involved extending the program to the state penal institutions. In 1919, literacy became a condition of parole, providing additional incentive to the learning efforts of state prisoners. The Literacy Commission also expanded its efforts by taking a census of the remaining illiterates in the state, thus charting a course for future action." Many other states launched adult education programs that were carefully patterned after Cora Wilson Stewarts Moonlight School and the Kentucky Illiteracy Commission. As the movement grew, it received support and encouragement from the National Educational Association and other national organizations. By the end of the second decade of the twentieth century, the campaign against illiteracy had blossomed into a national crusade. Ironically, after 1920 the social and political climate of Kentucky changed, and the state legislature did not refund the Kentucky Illiteracy Commission. As Americans moved into the Roaring Twenties and embraced new ideologies and adopted new heroes, the campaign against illiteracy became a part of the American dream and Cora Stewart achieved national prominence. In 1923, she was elected to serve a one-year term on the Executive Committee of the National Educational Association. That same year, she presided over the illiteracy section of the World Conference on Education in San Francisco. She subsequently played similar roles at Edinburgh in 1925, at Toronto in 1927, at Geneva in 1929, and at Denver in 1931. From 1929 to 1933, she chaired the Executive Committee of the National Advisory Committee on Illiteracy." This decade of national prominence also brought the story of Cora Wilson Stewart before the American public, and the "Moonlight School Lady" won awards and ever increasing recognition. In 1925, she received Pictorial Review's $5,000 achievement prize for her "contribution...to advance human welfare." She was also honored by the Kentucky Educational Association and the General Federation of Women's Clubs. A decade of honors and appointments culminated with her receipt of the Ella Flagg Young Metal for distinguished service to education in 1930." Throughout the thirties and forties, the "Moonlight School" idea was 174 �adapted to meet the increasingly diverse needs of the national adult education movement. Meanwhile, advancing age and health problems forced Cora Stewart to accept a cameo role in this national epic-drama. She moved to Pine Bluff, Arkansas, to be near her sisters and subsequently moved to various rest homes in North Carolina. She died in South Carolina on December 9, 1958 and is buried in Tryon, North Carolina.In retrospect, Cora Wilson Stewart emerges as a significant pioneer leader in America's burgeoning, twentieth century adult education movement. She also merits recognition as a major figure in the national crusade against illiteracy, although her methodologies have been challenged and altered by subsequent generations of educators. Her greatest achievement, however, was the human progress she fostered among the mountain people of eastern Kentucky. As a role model, a friend, and a champion of personal and regional advancement, Cora Stewart earned the love and respect of the people of Appalachian Kentucky. Their progress is an enduring tribute to her hard work, self-sacrifice, and vision for a brighter future. Their success is her greatest monument. Notes 1. George T. Young, interview, November 19, 1979; Quoted without reference to the author in the Cora Wilson Stewart Papers, Box 1, Department of Special Collections, the University of Kentucky Libraries, Lexington, Kentucky (hereinafter cited as CWS Papers UK). The author is deeply grateful to Mrs. Grace Yoder of Morehead, Kentucky, for sharing materials that her parents, the late George and Sadie Brown, had left to her. 2. There is no definitive study of the Appalachian experience in Kentucky. For a synoptic overview, see Carol Crowe-Carraco, The Big Sandy (Lexington: The University Press of Kentucky, 1979). For some insight into the difficulties encountered by Appalachian miners of this period, see John W. Hevener, Which Side Are You On? TheHarlan County Coal Miners, 1931-1939 (Urbana: University of Illinois Press, 1978), pp. 1-11, and Howard B. Lee, Bloodletting In Appalachia: The Story of West Virginia's Four Major Mine Wars and Other Thrilling Incidents of Its Coal Fields (Parsons, West Virginia: McClain Printing Company, 1969). See also Also Archie Green, Only a Miner: Studies In Recorded Coal-Mining Songs (Urbana: University of Illinois Press, 1972), chap. 7. 3. For an eloquent elaboration on the Civil War's role in the Appalachian experience, see Gratis Williams, "The Southern Mountaineer in Fact and Fiction" (Ph.D. dissertation, New York University, 1961). This monumental, three volume, sixteen-hundred-page study was abridged and edited by Martha H. Pipes and published in four successive issues of Appalachian Journal beginning with vol. 3, no. 1, Autumn 1975. An interesting reassessment of the theme of Appalachian isolation is Gary S. Foster, "Appalachian Isolation in Perspective," Appalachian Heritage 8 (Winter 1980: pp. 34-37 4. Some well-known examples of violence, emanating from the Civil War, in eastern Kentucky include the "Underwood War" in Carter County; The Hatfield-McCoy Feud which resulted in twenty-six deaths in Pike County, Kentucky, and Logan County, West Virginia; the Brammer Gap Killings in Lawrence County; the feuds of "Bloody Breathitt;" and various Guerilla conflicts that occurred after Appomattox. For more information see Harold Wilson Coates, Stories of Kentucky Feuds (Knoxville, Tennessee: HolmesDarst Coal Corporation, 1942), pp. 3-46; Henry P. Scalf, Kentucky's Last Frontier (Pikeville, Kentucky: Pikeville College Press, 1972), p. 279. G. Elliott 175 �Hatfield, The Hatfields (Stanville, Kentucky: The Big Sandy Valley Historical Society, 1974), pp. 12-14, 24; Virgil Carrington-Jones, The Hatfields and the McCoys (Chapel Hill, North Carolina: The University of North Carolina Press, 1948), p. 18; Mrs. A.J. Davidson, Josie M. Davidson: Her Life and Work (Prestonburg, Kentucky: privately printed, 1922), pp. 1-10; J. Tandy Ellis, Report of the Adjutant General of the State of Kentucky: Confederate Kentucky Volunteers' War, 1861-1865, Vol. 1 (Frankfort: The State of Kentucky, 1915), pp. 338-42. 5. An elaboration of this theme, as it applies to the Appalachian experience in western North Carolina, is found in James H. Horton, Theda Perdue, and James M. Gifford, Our Mountain Heritage, ed. Clifford R. Lovin (Franklin, North Carolina: The North Carolina Humanities Committee and the Mountain Heritage Center, Western Carolina University, 1979), pp. 70-123. 6. For an interesting historical overview, see Richard B. Drake, "The Mission School Era in Southern Appalachia, 1880-1940," Appalachian Notes 6 (1978): 1-8. See also F. Scott Rogers, "The Missionaries' Effect on the Appalachian Self-image," Appalachian Notes, 1 (Fourth Quarter, 1973): 1-8, esp. p. 2; and Jim Wayne Miller, "Where Do You Come From, Where Do You Go? Appalacahians as Immigrants in Their Own Land," Mountain Review 2 (July 1976): 40-41; and Bill Best, "A Case for Appalachian Scholarship," Mountain Life and Work 46 (November 1970): 16-18. 7. The only adequate scholarship that focuses on Cora Wilson Stewart's life and contributions is Willie Everette Nelms, Jr., "Cora Wilson Stewart: Crusader Against Illiteracy" (M. A. thesis, University of Kentucky, 1973). The gracefully written study focuses "on her career as an educational reformer...and her contributions to adult education..." (hereinafter cited as Nelms, Crusader Agains Illiteracy"). A more specialized, synoptic, published version of this study is Willie E. Nelms, Jr., "Cora Wilson Stewart and The Crusade Agains Illiteracy In Kentucky," The Register of The Kentucky Historical Society 74 (January 1976): 10-29. Another helpful work is Mrs. Stewart's promotional recollections: Cora Wilson Stewart, Moonlight Schools For the Emancipation of Adult Illiterates (New York: E.P. Dutton and Company, 1922). This work is, in spite of biases induced by purpose and time, a valuable primary source (hereinafter cited as Stewart, Moonlight Schools). 8. Some basic biographical information on Cora Wilson Stewart can be found in a small brochure used to commemorate the restoration of the "Little Brushy School" on the campus of Morehead State University in 1973. Harold Rose, ed., "The Cora Wilson Stewart Moonlight Schoolhouse" (Morehead, Kentucky: Morehead State University, 1973). See also Autograph Books I-II, CWS Papers UK. 9. B.C. McDougle addressed "To Whom It May Concern," July 30, 1908, CWS Papers, Box 2, UK. 10. See, for example H.R. Dysard, lawyer in Grayson, Kentucky, to Cora Wilson Stewart, July 29, 1908; Mannie E. Fields, superintendent of Morgan County Schools, September 25, 1908; and C.C. Adams, superintendent of Schools, Grant County, Kentucky, to Coral Wilson Stewart, October 7, 1908, CWS Papers, Box 2, UK. 11. O.F. Gray, superintendent of Elliot County Schools, to Cora Wilson Stewart, August 12, 1910, CWS Papers, Box 2, UK. 12. Kentucky Educational Association, Proceedings of the Fortieth Annual Session (Louisville, 1911), p. 9. A brief chronology of some of Cora Wilson Stewart's achievements introduces the index to the Cora Wilson Stewart Papers. See "Biographical Information." CWS Papers, Index, UK. See also Helen Deiss Irwin, Women in Kentucky (Lexington: The University Press of 176 �Kentucky, 1979), pp. 119-20. 13. Everett L. Dicks to Cora Wilson Stewart, June 30, 1911, and J.G. Crabbe, President of Kentucky Normal School, To Cora Wilson Stewart, July 6, 1911. CWS Papers, Box 2, UK. See Also J.S. Dickey, president, Bowling Green Business University, to Cora Wilson Stewart, July 30, 1911, B.C. McDougle to Cora Wilson Stewart, June 30, 1911, and W.C. Kozes, superintendent of Carter County Schools, to Cora Wilson Stewart, July 1, 1911. CWS Papers, Box 2, UK. 14. U.S. Census Bureau,Thirteenth Census of the United States (1910) Population, vol. 2, p. 749. 15. Stewart, Moonlight Schools, pp. 8-13. 16. Ibid. 17. Glenna Flannery Gearhart, interview, December 12, 1979; Stewart, Moonlight Schools, Chap. 3; Sherman Porter, Managing editor of the Lexington Herald, to Cora Wilson Stewart, July 29, 1912, CWS Papers, Box 2, UK; Conie Mauk Foster, interview, January 4,1979. 18. Stewart, Moonlight Schools, pp. 21-31; Glenna Flannery Gearhart, interview, December 12,1979. 19 .Stewart, Moonlight Schools, pp. 32-37; George T. Young, interview, November 19, 1979. Mrs. Lafon Riker, chairman of the Health Committee of the Kentucky Federation of Women's Clubs to Cora Wilson Stewart, February 9, 1914, CWS Papers, Box 2, UK. 20. Stewart, Moonlight Schools, pp. 38-46; Glenna Flannery Gearhart, interview, December 12,1979; Louisville Courier Journal, December 29,1912. 21. Stewart, Moonlight Schools, 47-56. 22. Ibid, p. 55; Louisville Courier Journal, February 18,1912. 23. Stewart, Moonlight Schools, pp. 57-69. 24. Cora Wilson Stewart to Governor James B. McCreary, December 16, 1913, and McCreary to Stewart, February 19, 1914, quoted in Stewart, Moonlight Schools, pp. 56-61; Lexington Herald, February 12, 1914 and Frankfort State Journal, February 14, 1914. Kentucky Illiteracy Commission, First Biennial Report, 1914-1915 (Louisville, 1916), p. 8. 25. Glenna Flannery Gearhart, interview, December 12, 1979; Stewart, Moonlight Schools, pp. 62-63. 26. Cora Wilson Stewart, Country Life Reader, First Book (Atlantic: B.F. Johnson Publishing Company, 1915). 27. Stewart, Moonlight Schools, p. 82, see also pp. 145-194. 28. Cora Wilson Stewart, president, Kentucky Illiteracy Commission, "To The Teachers of Kentucky," n.d., quoted in Stewart, Moonlight Schools, pp. 82-85. 29. Stewart, Moonlight Schools, pp. 81-105. 30. Cora Wilson Stewart, The Soldier's First Book (New York: Association Press, 1918. 31. Stewart, Moonlight Schools, pp. 81-105, esp. p. 97. 32. Ibid, pp. 101-3. 33. Ibid, pp. 103-5. 34. See a poster proclaiming "public speaking tonight at the Presbyterian Church, 7:30, Mrs. Cora Wilson Stewart, eloquent Kentucky woman, and Sergeant Sandlin, famous World War speaker, on the most interesting topics of the day." CWS Papers, Box 1, UK. On September 26, 1918, Sergeant Willie Sandlin single-handedly destroyed three German machine gun nests and killed twenty-four German soldiers. See Harry M. Caudill's Boone Day Address, "Eastern Kentucky and the History of our Commonwealth," The Register of the Kentucky Historical Society 79 (Autumn 1979): 291. 177 �35. Stewart, Moonlight Schools, pp. 112,117, and 112; Nelms, "Crusader Against Illiteracy," Chap. 3. 36. Stewart, Moonlight Schools, chap. 12, passim. The Cora Wilson Stewart Papers, housed in University of Kentucky libraries, contain a wealth of informantion, including letters and photographs, of the "Moonlight School" adaptation in other states. 37. For more detail, see Nelms, "Crusader Against Illiteracy," chap. 4. 38. CWS Papers UK; Nelms, "Crusader Against Illiteracy," chap. 5. 39. "Biographical File," CWS Papers UK. 40. CWS Papers, Box 1, UK; Rose, ed., "The Cora Wilson Stewart Moonlight Schoolhouse," The Cora Wilson Stewart Moonlight Schoolhouse contains several show case displays of Stewart memorabilia. To commemorate her efforts in the state, national, and international crusade against illiteracy, Morehead State University acquired and restored the one-room school where Cora Wilson Stewart began her teaching career. The "Little Brushy School" stands on the university campus today as a museum and monument to her work and a constant reminder to the educators who continue her mission of educational services in the mountain regions of Kentucky. 178 �UNTYING SOME KNOTS IN KNOTT COUNTY: TWO EDUCATIONAL EXPERIMENTS IN EASTERN KENTUCKY William Terrell Cornett Abstract In 1902 the first rural "settlement" institution in America opened its doors at Hindman, Knott County, Kentucky. Twenty-one years later, Alice Lloyd began her junior college on nearby Caney Creek, an extension of the settlement school idea into higher education. Together these two educational facilities have long experiemented with solutions that would untie some of the persistently knotty cultural, social, educational, financial, and governmental problems which have plagued this and other eastern Kentucky counties. Begun as a charity mission, yet with high vocational and academic standards, these Appalachian schools, having adapted to changing times and new demands, still serve as educational models. As counties go, Knott County in eastern Kentucky was typical of much of rural Appalachia at the turn of the century: small in area and in population, rather isolated, conservative, and economically deficient. Not the kind of place suited for true innovation, most onlookers would have guessed. Yet by the time the first quarter of the new century drew to a close, the societal, occupational, and mental complexion of Knott and surrounding counties had begun to change — overtly due to .the coming of large scale coal-mining operations, but just as importantly (however less noticeably) because of the success of two educational experiments in Knott County. Conducted within eight miles of one another, established under similar circumstances and for somewhat similar reasons, these two experiments in mountain education constitute a remarkable page in Appalachian and in American history. Both were carried out by dynamic, headstrong Victorian women who faced nearly impossible odds, and whose intelligence, compassion, and single-mindedness brought the success they so desperately hoped for. These two experiments were called the Women's Christian Temperance Union (WCTU) School and the Caney Creek Community Center School. But they were more than what either name implied; they were nothing less than new ways of life for the mountains. Today the names are changed but their sense of mission remains. The WCTU School became Hindman Settlement School (at Hindman, Kentucky), while the Caney Creek Community Center School (at Pippa Passes, Kentucky) is now better known as Alice Lloyd College. In this study we will look at similarities and differences between these two schools, and at some of the ways (many times radically innovative, but occasionally reactionary) that each approached the common goal of untying some of the knotty social, vocational, and educational problems of Knott County and its surroundings. Knott County, Kentucky, was created in 1884, the 119th (or next to last) county to be formed in Kentucky, and was named for the incumbent governor, James Proctor Knott. For the first decade and a half of the county's 179 �existence, life continued in its accustomed pattern. Moonshining and internecine warfare vied with the legal trades of farming, logging, and hunting as the principal occupations of the people. Isolation prevailed. Then in 1899 an eighty-year old man named Solomon Everidge set in motion a process that quietly changed that old order once and for all. That summer two wealthy young central Kentucky women, May Stone (18677-1946) and Katherine Pettit (1869-1936) came to Hazard in neighboring Perry County and set up tents from which to operate mini-courses in practical homemaking and the three R's. Having heard of their goings-on, and possessing the stamina to walk twentytwo miles barefoot, the patriarchal "Uncle Solomon" came from Hindman to watch. The novelist Lucy Furman later created an account of how Everidge, after observing the two women all day, expressed his eagerness to have them start a school in his own area: "When I were just a little chunk of a shirttail boy, hoeing corn on yon hillsides, I would look up Troublesome, and down Troublesome, and wonder if anybody would come in to larn us anything. And as I got older I follered praying for somebody to come. I growed up, nobody come. My offsprings, to grands and greats growed up; still nobody come. And times a getting wusser everyday—" 'Would they come?" he asked.1 The women did not get to Hindman at the forks of Troublesome immediately. Two other summer camps were held before the women with their "brought-on cloth houses" (the tents) fulfilled Uncle Solomon's request. The year was now 1902. Miss Stone and Miss Pettit soon marshalled much local support-not in money—but in gifts of land, building supplies, and promises of labor from Uncle Solomon's neighbors, and the WCTU School was begun in earnest. Although both were Wellesley graduates, the two women (who were beginning to be called "the quare women" by the locals because of their unconventional, unmarried lifestyles and because of a streak of seeming impracticality) had very limited training and experience as teachers. But they approached their new work with hope and determination. They responded vigorously to what historian Arnold Toynbee referred to as the nineteenthcentury doctrine of "challenge'.' The new school deep in the backwoods was surely a real-enough challenge, but it was also a "mission" in something of the same sense that other mountain schools, established by religious denominations, were seen to be. Not only would the WCTU provide "uplift" by means of general and, in particular, vocational education, it would also attempt to instill hatred for drinking and feuding. In those early years success with the quality of temperance came slowly. Although the feuds (such as the Jones-Wright war) had largely passed anyway, in 1915 the WCTU School renamed itself the Hindman Settlement School, in no small degree because the very obvious "temperance" part of their uplift program had generated considerable local resentment and because the other member groups of the State Federation of Women's Clubs of Kentucky were also major co-sponsors. The most obvious need for the change in name came about fittingly, because it was realized how much like the experimental Toynbee Hall (in London) and Jane Addams' Hull House (in Chicago) the Knott County school had become. The two urban institutions were called "settlements" since the founders had settled among the working class poor, and offered classes in language, sanitation and health care, practical trades, and domesticity to all who would "improve" themselves. The school at Hindman was seen more or 180 �less as a rural counterpart of these endeavors, and thus Hindman Settlement School became the first rural "settlement" institution in America and in the world.2 The new name was doubly appropriate since in mountain speech a "settlement" was a small town. By 1915 Hindman was certainly that, and at the school there were enough buildings to pass for a town itself. The school begun in 1902 at Hindman was not the first one the town had known. In the 1890s "Professor" George Clarke had maintained a "subscription school" for elementary students, but this attempt had been beset with constant problems. His old classroom building became one of the new schools first structures. Apparently local residents (such as Uncle Solomon Everidge) wanted a school that had a broader-based curriculum and more signs of permanence than the Clarke school show at that time. The new school started by "the quare women" was located on the right fork of Troublesome Creek, a few hundred yards from the main street of downtown Hindman. The situation of the school on a floodplain of the unpredictable and aptly-named creek posed many difficulties later. (Finally, after a series of both fires and floods, the school was slowly rebuilt on higher ground.) In 1902, however, all these problems were in the future. The immediate problem was that of proper staffing. Word of mouth had assured enough students, but Miss Stone and Miss Pettit had to find teachers with the same spirit of adventure that they shared. Through college friendships and letter-writing they soon had a faculty, and this informal employment procedure continued for several years. Almost all these early staff members were women. They were graduates of impressive schools: Wellesley, Vassar, Mt. Holyoke, Bryn Mawr. And they were promised little pay. One of the first to respond to the call was Lucy Furman (1870-1958), a western Kentucky writer whose upcoming books and articles were to be thinly disguised fictions concerning events and persons in Knott County. Her writings, one of which was mentioned previously, will be discussed in more detail momentarily. Soon came Ann Cobb (1886-1960) and Elizabeth Watts (born 1890), wno, along with Furman, devoted practically their entire working lives to the school. Many others came for short stints—some of them simply donating their time. With students and teachers secured, the school entered into its life of service. An elementary program was established for the youth of the county. Plans for a high school were drafted. Thoughts were given to preparing young people for college. But the heart of the Hindman Settlement offerings was an industrial arts program which, in many ways, was the forerunner of the modern vocational-technical school. Typical courses along these lines included scientific farming, animal husbandry, blacksmithing, woodworking, use of machines and tools, practical electricity, and applied mathematics. As male students moved along in the elementary grades, they began such specialization. Girls were on a basically separate-but-equal footing. Classes for them were typically provided in general housekeeping, sewing, weaving, basketmaking, (a course also open to men), cooking, personal hygiene, and manners. Every student fit in somewhere, if not all that well in the classes, at least in the mandatory work program. All students worked, regardless of background work-sometimes as much as four hours a day, depending on the need. This work was the principal fee exacted by the school from its students. In most cases this arrangement was the only means for them to attend and pay room and board. And since the school existed by private donations alone, a steady work program assured that the Hindman Settlement School would at least have an ongoing program of maintenance. 181 �While it is true that the school at Hindman emphasized manual training and good homemaking as its overriding educational concerns, it should not be inferred that academic subjects were neglected. As students advanced from grade school classes through high school they were met with an array of courses ranging from American history to Latin. That the humanities were stressed is made clear in the comment made by a 1920 graduate named Guy Crawford, who remarked in an interview that the teachers at Hindman made him take "a lot of Latin, English, and stuff like that-which I didn't need-and not enough math and science-which they didn't have much of."3 Such early graduates as folklorist Josiah H. Combs, the first Kentuckian to receive a Ph.D. at the Sorbonne, attest to the concern which the humanities received in the overall Hindman program. It has been shown how, in the early days, Hindman School set out to fight drinking and feuding. Out of this same reforming spirit came the emphasis on church attendance. Students had a choice of denominations, but they had to go to church each Sunday they remained on campus; and for many years students attended a sort of Sunday evening Bible school-also required. The Hindman Settlement was never actually a mission school like those founded in the surrounding area by Dr. E. O. Guerrant and the Rev. Harvey Murdoch, but there always was an atmosphere of mainstream Protestant Christianity.4 Some of the more recent criticism of the school has been directed at this type of religious climate, in part because of a certain denial of the value of local fundamentalist religion by the Hindman staff. However, this aspect was not necessarily the end-product, as some revisionist historians have charged, of a colonialistic mind-set. Nor was the cultural fabric the school found itself imbedded in all that scorned. The basketmaking, weaving, and other "fireside industries" stressed traditional mountain patterns of design. And there was a careful cultivation of folksong and folkdance material. As early as 1907 Katherine Pettit was sending off locally collected songs to Harvard's George Lyman Kittredge and to nationally prestigious folklore journals. In 1917 musicologist Cecil Sharp spent some time at Hindman uncovering there some of the oldest and most fascinating ballads on his American collecting tour. Others interested in capturing disappearing folkways-such as novelist John Fox, Jr., folk-scholar Olive Dame Campbell, and photographer Doris Ulmann-visited the Settlement in those early years. It was this early interest in folk studies which soon motivated several faculty members to try their skills at writing. Lucy Furman was the prime example of the Hindman-inspired author. Direct from her experiences at the school came Mothering on Perilous (1913), Sight to the Blind (1914), The Quare Women (1923), The Glass Window (1925), and The Lonesome Road (1927). Each was published by reputable Boston or New York firms. (Miss Furman had already produced Stories of a Sanctified Town in 1896, but it is for her writings about the mountains that she is remembered.) Ann Cobb's Kinfolks, a book of dialect poetry, was published by Houghton Mifflin in 1922. Don West (born 1907) wrote many of the poems in Crab Grass (1931) while employed at Hindman. James Still (born 1906) spent many years at the Settlement, as librarian and teacher. From his stay there and from his forays into the surrounding countryside came Hounds on the Mountain (verse, 1937), River of Earth (novel 1940), and On Troublesome Creek (short stories, 1941), plus some of his subsequent writings, (Still gained a national reputation early, and he remains, of course, one of southern Appalachia's most honored living writers.) These and other members of the Hindman faculty also published much in magazines and journals (most of it presently uncollected), and 182 �assured that their school would maintain a high degree of intellectual ferment. Thus the experiment at Hindman achieved results surely unimagined at its beginning in 1902. In that first quarter century or so the physical plant of the school greatly expanded. From log cabins and cheap board-and-batten structures rose substantial buildings of hamsome stone and solid weatherboarding. The wooden buildings were almost invariably painted a dark brown to blend in with the earth and surrounding greenery. Uncle Solomon's gray old cabin was preserved as a museum and sales office. A school farm put food in the dining hall tables. Graduates of the manual training programs found jobs with the coal companies or could confidently pursue self-employment. Schoolteachers, engineers, doctors, nurses, lawyers, bankers, writers, singers, housewives, church workers, and farm agents were set on their career paths at Hindman. Congressman Carl D. Perkins (born 1912), some members of "the Singing Family of the Cumberlands" - the Ritches (including Jean), vocational education leader Walter Prater (born 1920) and poet Albert Stewart (born 1914) all attended Hindman Settlement School. By 1930 it was apparent that the experiment was a success. The school thrived well enough as the depression gripped the country. The recently formed public school systems of Knott County and her neighbors could even begin to pick up some of the programs that the Settlement had initiated, reminding one of Elizabeth Watts's oftrepeated words that "the best social workers are those who work themselves out of a job." The success of Hindman Settlement School prompted similar institutions to come into being. The first direct offspring of Hindman was Pine Mountain Settlement School, opened in 1913 in Harlan County, Kentucky, by Katherine Pettit. The John C. Campbell Folk School, created by Olive Dame Campbell in 1925 at Brasstown, North Carolina, bore something of the Hindman stamp, although Hindman never thought of itself as a folk school in the Danish sense, as did Brasstown. Grade schools and high schools sprang up all over the Hindman service area after the school proved itself a lasting and not a temporary experiment, and after state public school funding became more of an economic reality. Yet of all the trails of social change the Settlement helped blaze, that which opened in 1916 to one Boston-born visitor to Knott County was perhaps the most promising. Alice Lloyd (1876-1962) and her mother, Ella Geddes (1851-1945), had come by horse and buggy to Ivis, about three miles southwest of Hindman by the summer of 1916 to an unused Presbyterian outreach mission post called Hope Cottage. From there the two women hoped to engage in social work for a time and to escape the debilitating effects of the Massachusetts winters. Both the Geddes and the Lloyd families had been fairly monied, but by the time the two women arrived at Ivis their resources had been seriously depleted, so much so that Mr. Lloyd planned to remain in Boston and pursue his career. Even from the vantage point of our time, the childless Mrs. Lloyd appears quite modern and certainly "liberated"-not only in the manner of her separation from her husband, but also due to her unusual background as editor of a female-produced newspaper called The Cambridge Women's Chronicle, and as a reporter for the Boston Globe and other New England journals. She neither came to teach nor to stay. She primarily entered eastern Kentucky to regain her health, to perform a limited amount of social service, and, since she was an amateur sociologist, to study the local mountaineers--"natives," as she called them. A bout with spinal meningitis had left her tired and her right side partially paralyzed. She came south to rest and, hearing of the availability of a rent-free house from a Boston church group, decided to come to Knott 183 �County. Then, in almost no time, her plans were changed and she had found an entirely new calling; and just as suddenly her personal problems took a back seat. In the fall of 1916 an illiterate but persuasive dirt farmer from nearby Caney Creek appeared at the door of Hope Cottage and began to work the same sort of spell on Mrs. Lloyd and Mrs. Geddes that Uncle Solomon Everidge had on the women with the "cloth houses" seventeen years earlier. If they would come and start a school on his creek, fifty-year-old Abisha Johnson asked, then he would let them have some of his land free, for as long as they wished it. Johnson wanted his children and his neighbors' children to get the education others were receiving in Knott County; so he had come to ask these educated "furriners" for their help. Distances were long in Knott County in 1916, and he did not want the Caney children to have to board at Hindman and elsewhere — he wanted a new school. (An apocryphal story tells of "Bysh" Johnson remarking that he wanted his children to grow up "not liken the hog, but unliken the hog," and that a'vision' sent him to the women.)5 The request from this "Summonser," as Alice Lloyd later called him, was no doubt both shocking and thrilling. The answer, after some deliberation, was yes, and the spring of 1917 found Mrs. Lloyd and her mother snugly ensconced in a tiny board-and batten-shack on Johnson's land not far from the head of Caney Creek, ready to begin work. Letters and other recorded statements from Mrs. Lloyd indicate that she held a number of views closely akin to Social Darwinism, especially in regard to genetics. She also possessed something of the sociologist's defeatism when confronted with cultural imbreeding, as well. But being the Puritan that she was, she saw a chance for success, and she drew pleasure from the rejuvenating possibilities of such a challenge. Although a Radcliffe product, she was not a licensed teacher. Nevertheless, her strong grounding in classical education and her awareness of modern pedagogical trends gleaned from reading left her not entirely unsuited for the task. Her most outstanding assets, though, were her stubbornness and her leadership ability. And leadership was what she was most interested in. As her fledgling school got underway in her home (now referred to as the "Founder's Shack") she wrote dozens of letters on her Oliver No. 9 typewriter to college friends and Boston acquaintances, for books, clothes, money, and teachers. "The leaders are here" was her constant refrain. Not only could boys and girls be trained to do manual tasks and homemaking, they could also learn to take on the work of area leadership and service promoted by stiff academics-but not all boys and girls. She was interested in helping those of obvious superiority-and those she determined herself. The requests sent out in her letters were soon filled. Local children enrolled in the school. With land secured, dormitory and classroom buildings were erected on the narrow bottom land along the creek; pole-supported buildings climbed the hillsides. Caney Creek families donated labor, materials, and food —just as in the early days at Hindman. Since Alice Lloyd promised to stay out of the community's religion, politics, and moonshining, she got along quite well in her new surroundings~so well, in fact, that she opened a new building called the Caney Creek Community Center. From this building Mrs. Lloyd administered her elementary school, founded a high school and, in 1923, a junior college, ran a clothing exchange, oversaw manual training classes, distributed Christmas presents to needy children, established an outreach program, and engaged visitors of all kinds. (The term "community center" remained submerged as a decription for her particular brand of social improvement until the 1960s when the Federal Government's War on Poverty made it 184 �a part of the new bureaucratic jargon.) By the time her students had progressed to the point of needing the creation of the Caney Junior College in 1923, her community center was developing into the "sociological laboratory" she had envisioned. It no doubt looked like folly to many to open a college on Caney Creek in 1923, but the good experiences with her other schools caused Alice Lloyd to remain optimistic. The need for an area college was great. Students were not that hard to get; indeed, there was soon a waiting list. Well-trained teachers, such as June Buchanan (born 18937), who helped initiate the college program, came for short sojourns but stayed much longer. From the beginning the college curriculum took pre-emption over the older elementary and secondary schools departments and arts and crafts program. And the contrasts between the Caney way and Hindman way were considerable. Besides the usual strictures of no smoking, drinking, guns, or gambling, Mrs. Lloyd added "no unauthorized meetings with the opposite sex." This requirement was one of the bestknown tenets of the school on Caney Creek, only to be relaxed at Mrs. Lloyd's death in the early 1960s. The idea of mandatory uniforms, which Hindman had only toyed with, became a reality at Caney. (This rule was also allowed to lapse shortly after Mrs. Lloyd died.) Daring young men often circumvented Mrs. Lloyd's no-dating rule by climbing a tree next to the girls' dormitory at night. This was known as "wahooing." But woe unto him who was caught wahooing! Expulsion was the general sentence. The uniform for girls consisted of the old-fashioned New England boarding school apparel of long white skirts, white middies, knee socks, and low-heeled shoes. The boys were expected to wear coats and pants of subdued colors, white shirts, and necktiesto classes and to meals. Mrs. Lloyd justified the non-romantic requirement by saying courtship interfered with studies and might lead to marital inbreeding (since many students were blood relatives). She defended her stance on uniforms by invoking the name of democracy. At Caney Junior College humanities and social studies were emphasized. There was a great interest in drama and music-although few of the productions dealt with mountain material, as often did the faculty-written plays at Hindman's Christmas and May Day celebrations. (Later, however, the Student Crusades and Voices of Appalachia Choir stressed the Appalachian experience in their national tours.) As at Hindman, students were poor and a work program was central in defraying costs. Teacher-training was early seen as the prime duty of the college. Then followed commitment to pre-law and premedical courses of study. The school's early graduates were often sent to such schools as Harvard and Tulane, but after Mrs. Lloyd purchased the Caney Cottage in Lexington, Kentucky, for her scholarship students (generally male), most Caney associate-degree holders went to the University of Kentucky. An unwritten pledge, no longer in effect, required Caney graduates to return to the mountains. Throughout the twenties and thirties Hindman Settlement School and Caney Junior College often stood in basically friendly competition with one another, especially in assisting the opening of other schools in the area. The heads of the two schools occasionally had personality clashes, but amicable relations were usually soon restored. As the two schools entered the forties the feelings of contention subsided as it was observed that the clientele of each diverged more and more. The 1950s as had the 1930s brought some degree of hard times to both institutions—enrollments declined, donations diminished, and the need for their particular kind of education lessened. The early 1960s forced Hindman Settlement School to phase out its boarding program, and more and more of the old responsibilities were taken over by the county school 185 �system. In later years the Settlement functioned more as a secondary school; therefore, plans for the now-completed Knott County Central High School practically sounded the death knell of the school as it was. In similar fashion Mrs. Lloyd's school had to deal with competiton from the new University of Kentucky community college system and other private and state-supported regional universities. However, the 1960s were years of seeking alternative forms to so-called assembly-line education. Because of those needs both schools survived: Hindman Settlement to become more oriented towards community arts, crafts, and recreations programs; Caney Junior College (renamed Alice Lloyd College at the founder's death) to move towards an emphasis on Appalachian Studies and developing four-year status. Although greatly changed, both schools still make their contributions with much of the old tone of purpose. It would be hard to imagine eastern Kentucky today without the impact of the two schools. Those who believe in the vacuum theory of social groups would say others would have come into the area and done much as Miss Stone, Miss Pettit, and Mrs. Lloyd. Perhaps so, but any substitutes would have been, of necessity, clearly different. Would others have stayed as long? Would there have been another woman with the iron will of Alice Lloyd, or another Ella Geddes, starting her life over at 65? Maybe such speculation is idle, but why did so many of the denominational schools in the area fail when these two succeeded? Why did the nearby Carr Creek Center School, sponsored as an experiment by the Daughters of the American Revolution, have to close relatively soon after opening? Why did so few writers come from the faculties of the other schools? Alice Lloyd College lays claim, among others, to folklorist Marie Campbell (born 1900), poet William Howard Cohen (born 1927), Homespun Winter Verna Mae Slone (born 1914), and the Appalachian Heritage Magazine, edited by poet Albert Stewart (born 1914). Why were so few well-known alumni (such as Congressman Carl D. Perkins, who attended both Hindman and Alice Lloyd) produced by the denominational schools? If, in reference to the definition of the Southern Regional Education Board, a settlement insititution in the Southern Appalachians is "a private, nonprofit, rural organization designed to promote and provide programs, services, and development with the immediate community or nearby surrounding area in which it is located," then, perhaps, the other schools did not promote and provide what was really wanted by the community or area. Perhaps it was simply survival of the fittest. For whatever reason, though, Hindman Settlement School and Alice Lloyd College thrived. Today the two schools still teach, as we move toward the twenty-first century. Both have young, dynamic leaders who are hopeful and pragmatic. From the Settlement go art, music, and recreation teachers to add new dimensions to local public school instruction. Alice Lloyd College belongs to an outreach program called ALCOR, (which originally stood for Alice Lloyd College Outreach), and operates the highly respected Appalachian Learning Laboratory (APPLAB)--an oral history project and photographic archives. Some have called these schools anachronisms. But the donors would not agree, nor would the alumni. As long as these schools perform needed services, why should they close? Today the appearance of austerity has left both schools. Both are more stable financially and both have new building progams underway. There is an easy relationship between the institutions. For example the present director of the Hindmand Settlement formerly headed by APPLAB at Alice Lloyd College, 186 �ind Albert Stewart of Alice Lloyd's Appalachian-Heritage conducts the Appalachian Writers' Workshop at Hindman each summer. Such cooperation augurs well for the future of these two private, nonsectarian schools. On Alice Lloyd's grave at Pippa Passes (so named by Mrs. Lloyd in celebration of a Robert Browning poem) can be seen the quote: "All service ranks the same with God." Perhaps that sentence would be the fitting epitaph for the visionary founders of both schools. Their service to the poor, but deserving, mountain students might seem outdated, their upper middle-class values grating, yet their attempts to forge bonds of friendship and service were sincere. Their achievements were incredible, considering the odds. The schools these women founded can claim the distinctions of being both firsts of a kind and continuing success stories today. NOTES The author wishes to thank Mr. Michael L. Mullins, Executive Director of Hindman Settlement School, Dr. Jerry C. Davis, president of Alice Lloyd College, Miss June Buchanan, Mrs. Charlotte Madden, Mr. Albert F. Stewart, and Mrs. Grey Crawford for their cooperation toward research in this paper. 1. Lucy Furman, The Quare Women (Boston: The Atlantic Press, 1923), p. 20. 2. Lucy Furman, Afterword to Sight to the Blind (New York: The Macmillan Company, 1914), p. 77. 3. Interview with Guy Crawford, Whitesburg, Kentucky, January 27, 1980. Crawford is a retired civil engineer. 4. Guerrant established several Presbyterian high schools and academies, and Murdoch founded Buckhorn School and Witherspoon College. 5. Interview with June Buchanan, Pippa Passes, Kentucky, December 12, 1979. 187 �This page intentionally left blank �V: Values and Culture in Appalachia 189 �POETRY AT THE PERIPHERY: The Possibility of People's Culture in Appalachia* by P. J. Laska Abstract The paper addresses the rise of regionalism and cultural pluralism as the major feature of A merican cultural life of the past decade. Poetry is seen as the bellwether of these tendencies in the arts. The evidence of a review of the seventies shows a major break with the past, so much so that an anthology like Donald Hall's Contemporary American Poetry (1972) would appear today changed beyond recognition. Poetry developments in Appalachia have been at the forefront of these changes in the American literary scene. The paper examines some of the reasons that lie behind this "decade of dispersal. " This discussion is followed by a conceptualization of the present that sees regionalism offering new possibilities for the renewal of the genuine peoples culture of Appalachia. * Although an editorial decision was made not to publish papers that had appeared in earlier publications, "Poetry at the Periphery" was accepted for publication in this volume prior to its publication in another journal. The Editor thanks the West Virginia Art New and Hyperion for granting permission to reprint this article. Introduction There are those for whom Appalachian culture is no more than "a region of the heart." The metaphor here is one of emotion and feeling, rather than one of perception of reality. The suggestion is that Appalachian culture is more past than present and more desire than fulfillment, and that therefore, it is accessible only as folk culture. In this paper I suggest a different approach to Appalachian culture, one that links the folk and heritage concepts to the idea of a living people's culture. What I mean by "people's culture" is something significantly different from mass culture and something clearly distant from the elitist culture of modernism. In Appalachia it includes the surviving part of that native folk culture that once gave a degree of identity and unity to life in these mountains. I don't want to get into a debate over the extent to which what is living about the culture exists as remenant of a way of life that has been broken up by the twin forces of industrialization and modernization.1 The important question for my purposes is whether these remnants and the tremendous enthusiasm for them will develop a living value in the present, and whether "the mountain experience" and the "things Appalachian" will encompass reality as well as history. At this juncture I think it is the poets of the region who are pressing this question upon us, and what follows is my attempt to explain the significance of their work. I Side by side with the pursuit of heritage and regional self-consiousness, which has been largely a scholarly, intellectual effort, there has been a virtual 190 �explosion of activity on the part of writers and poets of the region. One critic has written recently that, "Poems are pouring out of the region as if a sensitive nerve had been touched."2 He wonders whether all this activity will ultimately be classified as a famous literary movement. My own view is that something more basic, more revolutionary than a mere interest in literature is behind this upsurge. The outpouring of poetry in Appalachia in the past decade is part of a larger development which we have begun to see in the cultural life of the country. I would argue that in the past decade Appalachian poets have been at the forefront of a significant change emerging in American cultural life--a change that constitutes a major break with the past and with the cultural hegemony of urban modernism. To substantiate this rather large assertion I offer the following brief survey, which will probably not convince anyone but may enable me to get a foot in the door. An urban cultural hierarchy has been in place in this country since at least the early fifties, probably since the War period. Politically, it has been decidedly right-wing, or very conservative, as has been the dominant politics of the nation. In the early fifties what survived of a left-wing cultural opposition was driven into hiding by a right-wing hysteria that came damn close to elevating another Hitler (some say he later came to power only to be dethroned by newspaper reporters). This cultural opposition has been slow in its return to public life. The "Beat Movement," which began in the fifties was not left-wing. It was hardly political at all. It was, however, opposed to the formalism and careerism of the established poets clustered around American universities. This urban cultural hierarchy had at the time enough power to reduce any cultural movement that rejected its standards of taste to the status of a peripheral phenomenon. And this is what happened, in spite of the media interest in the Beats. The net effect of non-recognition and ridicule was a status of cultural pariah for a whole group of writers whose literature and lifestyle flouted the dominant cultural values. Donald Hall's influential anthology of American poets, originally published in 1962, contained no Beats, no blacks and few women. The upheavals of the sixties brought a change to this picture of the contemporary poetry scene. In the second edition of his Contemporary American Poetry (1972),3 Hall added more poets, including Allen Ginsberg, whom he admits having misjudged. More importantly, though, he included two black poets and was turned down by a third (Amiri Baraka, then Leroi Jones). This little background survey illustrates what is an obvious truth to many, that social forces are the strength of cultural forces. It is also a truth that is born out by developments of the seventies. The seventies have seen a continuation of social upheaval in America centered around the family and racial and ethnic identity. I think it is fair to say that if Hall were to attempt a new edition of his anthology for the seventies it would have to include some of the poetry from these movements, more from the black and women's movements and also perhaps from the American Indian movement, each of which has generated several anthologies of poetry. Toward the latter part of the seventies there has also appeared a lot of poetry to which the Canadian poet Tom Wayman has given the label, "New Realism." Wayman has anthologized some of this work in two collections of Canadian poetry 4 and is now putting together a third anthology of "new realism" poetry in the U.S. He uses the rather narrow rule of selecting poetry by poets who have worked at the jobs they write about. In the U.S. there are an increasing number of the little poetry magazines that feature what we could call "new realism" poetry in a broader sense than Wayman's. Some of the ones I have seen are Quindaro (Kansas City), Cultural Corespondence (Providence, R.I.), Working Cultures (Washington, D.C.), 191 �West End and Nostoc (Boston), Main Trend (New York), and The Unrealist. Also, established literary journals Ike Minnesota Review, Praxis and Left Curve all feature poetry which embodies social and historical perspectives and which recognizes that we are social beings shaped by the labor and technology of our metabolism with nature. An anthology of the seventies would also have to take account of the rise of regionalism in American culture. The poetry upsurge in Appalachia is contemporary with a revival of poetry in other regions of the country. Regional markets for poetry are evident all across the country, and these markets are in fact part of the mainstay of the small press publishing business. As a result certain poets have a large following in the area in which they live and publish but are virtually unknown or attract little interest outside that area. This is the case, for example, with Charles Bukowski in southern California, Ann Darr in Washington, D.C., and Tom McGrath in Minnesota, although the latter also has a reputation as a political poet going back to the fifties. I include the large urban centers as regions in the sense that there is a localized poetry audience listening to poets in their midst. The "region" can be entirely ersatz in this sense. Away from the urban centers we find poets taking localism more seriously than as a literary game, some to the point of becoming consciously regionalist. It is difficult to imagine the work of Vincent Ferrini apart from the Gloucester's fisherman and the Cape Ann area of Massachusetts. In his latest book, Know Fish,' Ferrini returns to the Italian-English dialect of his immigrant parents and writes some of his best poems. David Budbill, a regional poet in northern New England, is another example of a poet who uses dialect. In his book, The Chain-Saw Dance, 6 he writes of the people of the northern Appalachian mountians and reproduces some of their speech. This sort of thing is going on outside the national literary network. But network money, in the form of subsidies from the National Endowment for the Arts, has in the past couple of years made possible a number of anthologies based on some sort of geographical definition. California, New Jersey, New York, Washington, D.C. and its suburbs, even Hawaii, have all seen anthologies of their poets. In some cases they have more than one. So far, it has been in the heavily populated urban areas of the country that the money has tended to concentrate. The South, however, is represented by White Trash, an anthology whose catchy title belies its academic content. Although Appalachia has as lively a poetry scene as any of these other places we don't yet rate an anthology in the eyes of NEA. I've tried proposals without success, and so have others. There is much irony in the fact that Appalachia, whose poets probably have a stronger sense of regional identity than any other section of the country, cannot get support for a representative anthology. There are reasons for this, of course. I suspect you are aware of them. Certain prejudices exist about the periphery and about the possibility of poetry or any other art this far from the "center." And perhaps there's something more. It comes out when you compare the tone and content of Appalachian poetry with that of other sections of the country, particularly with that of the national network and with that of various urban scenes. Take a production like Mucked, for example.' It is a small homemade anthology whose occasion was the disastrous flood of the Tug Fork River that nearly wiped out the town of Williamson. The dozen or so poets represented there are a good cross section although their best work may not be included. What is there, taken as a whole, is significant. Literary critics reading this poetry will notice that nostalgia and anger are the predominant tones and that politically and morally sensitive subjects are the main content. But unless these critics have some grounding in the region's history of struggle against exploitation, which has in one way or 192 �another affected the lives of everyone who has lived here, unless they have that, they will miss the importance of what is happening in this work. It is a form of art that, consciously or not, aspires to contribute to a form of life that is significantly different from what is accepted as everyday reality in the urban centers of power. These Appalachian poets, and others not represented here, are not involved in a mere literary game of getting into print, although what they are doing obviously has an important literary aspect. They are engaged in something more fundamental~a struggle to have a culture at all, a real culture that has a base in the life of the people and in which poetry becomes a folk form rather than an aspect of literary consciousness. In the work of Appalachian poets with roots here the very conception of art seems different, not just because it is more political or more critical or more didactic, but because it seeks to break down the wall that separates literature from life.' It is art that seeks to be involved in the life of the people, and tries to do this at a time when there is very little poetry being written which commits itself to the world of people, and their history, their struggles and their work.' Our poets are therefore out of tune with most of what goes on in the national poetry network, and are by choice I think, closer to a regional, folk conception of art. When I look at the decaying modernist alternative, it seems to me a difference well worth encouraging. II We can look at what is happening in the country culturally from the side of the old, which is breaking up, or from the side of the new which is just beginning to appear. What is breaking up is the cultural hegemony of the metropolis. By this I mean specifically the rule of big city cultural life, its ability by controlling the production of art to define the standards of perception and taste, as well as the modes of enjoyment, in American society. What has appeared on the horizon to replace it is the regional focus of populist cultural developments that threaten to break down the traditional hierarchy in the arts and perhaps create new hierarchies in its place. The bureaucratic scaffolding for such regional hierarachies is already in place in many states. One's reaction to this cultural dialectic is likely determined by whether one's politics are populist or elitist. Those who lament the passing of the old order talk about the seventies as "a decade of dispersal," and argue, for example, that Robert Lowell is the last of the great American poets because of the scattering of cultural focus and the fracturing of the national audience. Daniel Bell, the sociologist who pronounced the end of ideology in the fifties, argues in a recent book that American society is experiencing a crisis of values and that the most pressing problem is the loss of the center.10 He and others are concerned to re-establish the central clearing-house concept of culture even if it takes a new idealogy to do it. But the reaction of elitists to the breakup of the cultural core cannot be better illustrated than in the recent flap which saw NBA (National Endowment for the Arts) move to withdraw its block funding from CCLM (Coordinating Council of Literary Magazines) when the latter, dominated by small magazine editors, voted to disperse their monies in equal amounts to all applicants. With action equal to their conviction, the CCLM Board refused to sit in judgment of the relative merit of the various, diverse literary magazines around the country and thus refused to play the role of ProTern Cultural God that had been alloted to them. For this betrayal of elitist trust and bureaucratic authority, the Board of CCLM was roundly criticized, castigated, and ridiculed. Now CCLM continues to dispense its monies under a different board that is willing to behave more like Guardians of the Poetic 193 �Gate, but NEA moved to set up its own awards to applications from literary magazines, thus extending the control of its own panel of successful careerists in literature. So the fight is on. The arts are no longer divorced from politics. And although Congress continues to appropriate large funds for the arts without much debate, the day of floor fights may not be far off. In an article last year entitled, "Post Post-Art Where Do We Go from Here?" Douglas Davis described our cultural situation as a problem of perception." We are "tumbling into infinitely complex sub-sets...older, tighter structures are decentralizing, spreading...[and] we do not clearly perceive the premise behind the action." Davis sees elitist culture as posed at the end of modernism without being able to define what is "post-modern." This is a humbling experience for Davis, who concludes that, "Small has to be beautiful now." What I find interesting is that Davis takes for granted that the end of modernism means the end of progress. Apres moi, le deluge. "Each of the great Modernist states," he says, "is breaking into component parts, the reverse of the Global Village metaphor." As though he had looked into an abyss, Davis is engaged in the desperate search for a new metaphor to stem the tide of decentralization '' Before we' re engulfed.'' Those whose politics are of a populist bent are likely to view what is happening as a positive development which opens up new possibilities. The thought that never seems to occur in these decline-of-the-West discussions is that decentralization brings with it the possibility of genuine people's culture. The unity of art and life that occurs in folk culture is Utopian to modernists (with their conception of art as commodity and museum pieces) and they are unable to take it seriously. Yet from the Appalachian vantage point, in which the remnants of real folk culture are still immediate, it can be taken seriously. And those who do take it seriously will have a very different attitude to what is happening to modernist culture. My own attitude is summed up in the statement by John Berger that: Imperialism "can no longer accomodate reality."" Berger was referring to the national wars of liberation in underdeveloped countries. But the point seems equally applicable to cultural imperialism inside the U.S. In a wide sense culture is the shared beliefs which inform our work and its shaping physical existence. Cultural pluralism allows many shapes and elaborations as real. The cultural imperialism of mass culture resulting in a bureaucratically controlled consumption, cannot permit any real pluralism because it would mean the end of the mass market in many areas of life. This imperialism has taken its toll on the psyche of the population. The results are evident in the alienation and unreality that people experience and in the proliferating psychological and religious attempts to counter the meaninglessness of everyday life. The cultural life of a people cannot be successfully controlled or managed unless the power to shape life, poesis as the Greeks called it, is taken away from the people. Poesis, lies at the basis of culture. It is the origin of all art, literature, drama, and even of language and thought itself. Originally, folk artist only embodied and articulated what was the common creation of the whole people, their style of life. The people created the form of life, the artist recorded it through mimesis. It was an understanding of this that led Vico to say, for example, that "the Greek peoples were themselves Homer," 11 by which he meant I take it that Homer was the recorder of the language and thought and actions of the early Greek peoples and that his poetry came from the people and was not, as the modern way of thinking makes us believe, from his personal invention. For the purposes of power what matters is that poesis come under the 194 �control of an elite. This is an old story. In ancient times, the priestly caste maintained control of cultural life by guarding the secrets of the hieratic script. Written language for the few and the illteracy of masses over the centuries gave us a hieratic ideology which says that the power of poesis is the special gift of the few. In modern culture it is known as the gift of genius. Creative activity devolves upon certain exceptional individuals who become hierophantic figures. What is creative in the culture is supposed to exist in their work. The living culture of the folk, with its union of art and life, is broken up into an elite producing the "high art" of novel experiment on the one hand, and a mass culture entertainment industry on the other. Both are virtually empty of any real content. The elitist "high art" defends itself against the charge of emptiness and irrelevance by the argument of art for art's sake, which says that the value of the work lies in how well it deals with its own challenge, and not in any articulation of human meaning and truth." The argument uses the autonomy of art as an ideological defense. It says that the absence of the human dimension is not a permissible criticism. So long as there is something novel in the work to serve as evidence of genius, any reference of human reality is inessential. It sees no struggle between form and content or between reality and unreality because everything takes place on the side of the individual's imagination. The old dualism returns. What appears in the imagination somehow escapes "the withness of the body," to use Whitehead's phrase for our material condition. But the dues have to be paid somewhere, and they are paid through loss of meaning. Obscure, meaningless, and trivial works of art come to predominate and art is alienated from the people. The proliferation of novelty in a void is a necessary consequence of the theory and its practice. And since the only judgment of any importance about the merit of these works concerns their intrinsic qualities, we naturally have to have a captian-critic to tell us whether a new work is metal or dross. > It turns out that the problem with modern culture is the cult, that is, the hieratic clique. Historically, the tendency has been for the cult to dislodge the spontaneous genius of the people and install its own rules, which had something secret and mysterious about them. Now the opposite appears to be taking place. People's ignorance about the power of poesis withing themselves, and the cultural heritage of fear and self-deprecation that comes with ignorance, is giving way everywhere to interest in the arts. Also, in Appalachia the emergence of oral history, folklore, and heritage studies has begun to reclaim some public space and funds for what was once a flourishing people's culture. The decentralization toward regionalism is a positive development, full of possibility for bringing together art and life in the region. To paraphrase the words of the French poet, Tristan Tzara: Poetry being everywhere, it is necessary to give it back to the people, to all individuals. • III Folk culture and people's culture are not identical in concept, but I think they are closely interrelated. They are on a continuous line and I think it can be shown that what survives of the folk is part of people's culture. Both are populist conceptions of culture that reverse the elitist form. They are not derived from theory or ideology but arise in response to real needs. They develop around the interchange of artists and craftsman with the people. If Appalachian poetry is seen as inclusive of mountain folk, blues, gospel, and grass songs, as well as the songs of work and protest, then I think we can document this contiuous line. It's not something that I could attempt here, but it is something that should be attempted. 195 �There is a tendency in modern poetry and modern criticism to pooh-pooh the song, to downgrade its aesthetic value as poetry. Modern poetry anthologies don't usually include songs that had popularity over the period covered by the anthology. I think this highlights the antilyrical, antipopulist bent of modern poetry. In the days of the oral tradition, prior to the book revolution, song was the main form for the poem to take. I'm not suggesting that the new Appalachian poets should all start writing songs. The song is only one form of poetry, and the limits of the musical form resulting from use of rime and fixed beat make it inappropriate for certain purposes. My point is that thematically the early Appalachian poetry, whose form is the song, is closely linked to the new poetry coming out of the hills. The folk themes and the political themes are inseparable because our people's lives have been and are now filled with struggle. When we get our representative anthology, I hope it will show this. In the past the Appalachian poetry of song was an organic part of a genuine folk culture. The modernist break has been felt as the break from the lyric form." This break was progressive in that it opened up new forms for poetic work, but the price was paid in terms of alienation because its avant garde experimentalism tended to downgrade the folk as passe' and to set modern poetry apart from people's culture. It remains to be seen whether Appalachian poetry, which is now consciously finding itself, will become an integral part of that collectivity that the folk represents in a way that modern poetry could not. To become part of the life of the people it will have to be a poetry in which the poem responds not merely to the challenge to itself but responds to the felt but perhaps unarticulated needs of the people. What makes poetry valuable to the people is not the novel linguistic inventions but the experience of the people that is articulated. In this sense Tristan Tzara was right when he wrote: "All poetic work is valuable only to the extent that it is lived."" Thepoesis at the basis of popular culture is both real and repressed. We can think of the removal of this repression as the liberation of poetic power on the part of the people and as the fulfillment of the idea of art. It is an idea that traces its beginnings in the old work songs, whose practical function in one way or another assisted the laborer or assuaged his pain. Think of the prudential advice offered in the "The Miner's Lifeguard,"Union miners stand together Heed no operators tale Keep your hand upon the dollar and your eye upon the scale. Or the humor appropriate to the asurdities of mining low coal as in Turner's "Lignite Blues," Bumps all along to skin your back You lay your wire and hang your track. Or of the surreal quality of the dream in which freedom is symbolized by a seagull in "Coal Loadin' Blues," Thought I heard a sea-gull Way down in the ground; Must've been those miners A-turnin' that coal around. Real freedom, free time and free mind, is the fulfillment of the idea of art. It is 196 �a revolutionary break to get poetry away from the cult and back into the life and consciousness of the people. In his last work the German philosopher Herbert Marcuse wrote that, "truth of art lies in its power to break the monopoly of established reality...to define what is real."" What he seems not to have seen is that art only has this power when it is in the hands of the people. Appalachian people's culture is a real possibility for our generation. We have now the opportunity to nuture the growth of that organic relation between past and present, between poetry and people, as existed in the old folk world, and still exists in many countries where economic and social control is maintained through legalized terror and a genuine people's culture survives underground or at the periphery of public life. I want to conclude this paper by examining some of the obstacles that stand in our way and have to be confronted if we are to make the most of this opportunity. First, there is the theoretical obstacle of our own perception of our situation and how we conceptualize it. David Walls's core-periphery model has done much to reshape our thinking about the region. It is less problematic to understand Appalachia as a peripheral region within the social and physical geography of "late captialism'.' It will be obvious how much the model is at work in this paper. But the model has an important drawback in the cultural sector, and it is well to remember in this context that it is only a model." The limitation of the core-periphery model lies in the fact that in the present situation it is economically applicable but rapidly becoming culturally inapplicable. Culturally, the core is disintegrating at the same time as the Appalachian "periphery", along with other regions of the country, are experiencing a cultural renaissance. It is possible for the cultural core of American capitalism to become so weakened that there will no longer be any justification for speaking of Appalachian culture, or that of any of the other regions, as peripheral. Theoretically, then, we should remember that there is no periphery without a core. Of course, the breakup of the "core" does not imply that a regional people's culture will emerge in its place. Other changes in the cultural superstructure are consistent with the continued functioning of American capitalism, even in its more or less dysfunctional "late'/ or post-Keynesian stage. One cannot say, for example, that the economics of American capitalism rules out an elitist cultural dispersal. The economic base of capitalism is consistent with the development of cultural pluralism under the control of regional elites." The important thing for capitalism is that a bureaucratic society of controlled comsumption be preserved." Is it not understandable then, that in Appalachia the money flows in the direction of cultural heritage programs and not in the direction of contemporary programs which nourish a living people's culture, and that would, in the words of the French philosopher Lefebvre, "create a culture that is not an institution but a style of life"?- The practical obstacles to people's culture have to do with where the money goes and where it doesn't go. State and private investments have been lavished, even squandered, on the collection and preservation of the remnants of folk culture in museums, libraries, and heritage centers. Little or nothing has gone for festivals of the arts, artists, and writers fellowships and residencies, or for contemporary people's theater; and there has been no money for our poetry anthology, a pittance, really, in comparison to what has been spent. Heritage is a safe investment so long as it does not materially affect the present. A contemporary people's culture, on the other hand, is risky. Just how risky is stated with the exhortation of a mountain preacher in a recent paper by Gratis Williams, when he says that Appalachians are a people, 197 �who have risen from our long fast in the mountains, the agony of our neglect and abuse, and the sharp thorns of perfidy that have been our anguish, and are now shaking our hides and flexing our muscles as we reach for the control box that determines our destiny." To the extent that this assessment is true, the "periphery" will turn out to be more like the front lines. Its truth value makes it dangerous to the established order because it identifies the fate of a culture with the action of the people. This is an important and far-reaching perception. Socially and politically, a division takes place when there is serious talk about reaching for the control box. We know that the box is ultimately outside Appalachia, but a good many in the region who support the folksy heritage concept of culture are tied in with those whose hands are on the controls. The controllers will permit a plurality of ethnic identities; their agents will give grants to assist in their development. What they will ridicule and condemn is the possibility that these identities should have a living value in the present, one that possesses real social power such that the people of the region gain control over their destiny. Our self-conscousness has brought us to a crucial juncture. Now is the time to invest in contemporary work in an unparalled manner. Heritage and "roots" are not enough for a living identity. We need to take another look at folk culture and recognize that the folk are the people of the present, in need of a living culture. Folk culture must extend into the present as people's culture. If it doesn't, we will lose it all. Notes 1. The remnant character of Appalachian culture is seen best perhaps in our architecture. The architecture of building and design is the external form of culture, and in Appalachia these forms, the hill farm houses and barns, the coal camps, company stores and stables, even the distinctiveness of the small towns are fast disappearing, and the new forms of urban and suburban modernism, the shopping malls along the interstates, are springing up with characteristic uniformity. 2. Frank Steele, "Two Kinds of Commitments: Some Directions in Current Appalachian Poetry," Appalachian Journal6 (Spring 1979): pp. 228. 3. Donald Hall, ed., Contemporary American Poetry, 2nd ed. (Baltimore: Penquin Books, 1972). 4. Tom Wayman, ed., Beaton Abbott's Got the Contract (Edmonton: Newest Press. 1974), and A Government Job At Last (Vancouver: MacLeod Books, 1977). 5. Vincent Ferrini, Know Fish (Storrs, Connecticut: The University of Connecticut Library, 1979). See also Ferrini's Selected Poems (same publisher, 1976). 6. David Budbill, The Chain Saw Dance (Johnson, VT.: The Crow's Mark Press, 1976). 7. Bob Baber and Jim Webb, Mucked (Richwood, W.Va.: The Southern Appalachian Writers Co-op, 1978). 8. The movement of proletarian literature which developed in the thirties had this as a conscious theoretical aim: "[A] synthesizing third factor is added to the Aristotelian pity and terror - and that is militancy, combativeness. The proletarian katharsis is a release through the action - something dismetrically 198 �opposed to the philosophical resignation of the older idea. Audaciously breaking through the wall that separates literature and life, it impels the reader to a course of action...." In Philip Rahv's Essays on Literature and Politics, 1932-73 eds. Porter and Dvosin (Boston: Houghton Mifflin, 1978), p. 281. 9. Cf., Eric Homberger, The Art of the Real: Poetry in England and America Since 1939 (Rowan, 1977), pp. 175-215. 10. Daniel Bell, The Cultural Contradictions of Capitalism (New York: Basic Books, 1976). 11. The Village Voice, June 25, 1979, ppp. 37-41. 12. John Berger, Art and Revolution (New York: Pantheon Books, 1969), p. 157. 13. The New Science of Giambattista Vico, trans. Bergin and Fisch (Ithaca, N.Y.: Cornell University Press, 1970), p. 270, Para. 875. 14. In mass culture the question of the meaning and intergrity of art does not arise since the values of art are secondary to moneymaking. 15. Aristotle raises the question, at the beginning of the Poetics, of "how the fables must be put together if the poetry is to be well-formed." Hieratic criticism has made much of the criteria of form. What it has usually meant is the "interposition of technical imperatives between the poet and 'reality'." (Homberger, The Art of the Real, pp. 86-87). The modernist movement in poetry and art began with a progressive challenge to receive techniques and campaigned for the poet's right to invent. The weakness of modernism has been in not returning to the criteria of 'reality'. 16. "The Dialectics of Poetry." in Surrealism and the Postwar Period, excerpted and translated by Peter Boffey in Invisible City, Numbers 21-22, November, 1977, p. 10. 17. The modernist direction in poetry beginning with imagism was strongly influenced by the new experiment in the art of painting. 18. Petter Boffey, trans., "The Dialectics of Poetry." 19. The complete songs from which these verses are taken are found in George Korson's Coal Dust on the Fiddle (Philadelphia, University of Pennsylvania Press, 1943). 20. Herbert Marcuse, The Aesthetic Dimension: Toward a Critique of Marxist Aesthetics (Boston: Beacon Press, 1978), p. 9. 21. A model is a conceptual tool with which to grasp and structure the facts. It will grasp some facts and not others. We should expect this, especially in the present period of transition involving what may turn out to be the cultural disintegration of the core. 22. An altered superstructure could even include the breakup of the cental TV networks as we know them into various forms of regional networks, or cable networks, with an expanded market based on local variations for products stamped out in the studios of Hollywood and New York. And even the latter coul conceivably disperse into various regional locations. 23. Cf., Henri Lefebvre, Everyday Life in the Modern World (New York: Harper & Row, 1971), chapter 2. 24. Ibid., p. 203. 25. Gratis Williams, "The Appalachian Experience," Appalachian Heritage, 7 Spring 1979, p. 11. 199 �ALTHER AND DILLARD: THE APPALACHIAN UNIVERSE Frederick G. Waage Abstract This paper explores the viewsoftwo writers, Lisa Alther and Annie Dillard, on contemporary Appalachian nature and culture. While the two authors focus on quite different realms of Appalachia, they are both concerned with returning to native peoples and places. Each author demonstrates in her own way that this return can only be genuine if it takes into account the incomplete, mysterious, and contradictory environment of present day life. Lisa Alther and Annie Dillard are two women in their mid-thirties, whose very different prose works, Kinflicks and Pilgrim at Tinker Creek, express contemporary Appalachian nature and culture in remarkably similar ways. The primary setting of Alther's novel is Hullsport (read Kingsport) Tennessee; its structure of increasingly recent flashbacks chronicles the heroine's escape from Appalachia as she grows from adolescence into midwomanhood; whereas its narrative present describes the return to Hullsport of the autobiographical protagonist, Ginny, and her vigil over her dying mother. In her return she penetrates deeper (topographically and emotionally) into the essence of Hullsport while her mother slowly dies; she sets up house in the cabin where she was born, which was built by her grandfather, the founder of Hullsport, as an escape from the town he created. Dillard's lyrical, Waldenian narrative is centered on her house by Tinker Creek and Tinker Mountain, on the Roanoke Valley edge of the Appalachians near Salem, Virginia. It moves through time from winter and early spring to winter solstice again, and through a pattern of escapes and returns between the immediate, tiny, local observations of Tinker Creek's nature, the world's nature in its diversity, and the metaphysics of the cosmos. The movement through the year towards winter ("...Tinker Creek makes a sharp loop, so that the creek is both in back of the house, south of me, and also on the other side of the road, north of me. I like to go north, "-p.4) is also, paradoxically, a movement towards a deeper, or warmer, understanding of paradoxes in existence.' Both Alther and Dillard are "pilgrims" in literal and figurative senses. Their literary personae move through literal space and time, of course. Alther moves first through the different social milieux of Hullsport, then to a fashionable women's college near Boston, and finally, before her return, to Stark's Bog, Vermont, the rural antitype of Hullsport. Dillard moves to different spaces and places around Tinker Creek and Tinker Mountain, always returning to her house, which is much less physically real to the reader than the external moments and places she describes. Dillard is, in her literary persona, a solitary pilgrim; Alther's journey is to a great extent defined by the human culture, the different social environments, that encompass Ginny, her heroine. Only in her chapter "Nightwatch" does Dillard extensively evoke the presence, problems of human settlements in "untamed" nature. In this chapter she visits the Lucas place, a "secluded magic garden" (p. 216)~a formerly cultivated, now overgrowing, property, whose centerpiece is a deserted mountainside cottage, "mostly porch" (p. 218). 200 �Here she spends the night. This cottage is the contrary of her own house, where she can examine things under a civilized microscope by artificial light. It is a habitation, but scarcely: very open and deserted, its "five windows framed five films of the light and living world" (p. 219). All human structures have retreated, so that in this almost-cottage Dillard can both inhabit her own natural environment and be a non-alien presence in that of non-human creation. Here she approaches a condition of total awareness, "firmness"—the goal of her pilgrimage-both in her human consciousness and in the pure otherness of pre-thought creation: "A kind of northing is what I wish to accomplish, a single-minded trek toward that place where any shutter left open to the zenith at night will record the wheeling of all the sky's stars as a pattern of perfect, concentric circles" (p. 257). There is a remarkably similar cottage at the polar center of Alther's novel— the one built by Ginny's grandfather, Mr. Zed, founder of Hullsport, as his "primitive" retreat from the civilized corruption he created. Here Ginny was born, and here she lives on her return to Hullsport, while she waits out her mother's slow dying. She too finds this cabin abandoned, and must, like a first pioneer, clear it of kudzu vines, (originally planted by her grandfather to overgrow the city he repudiated). Her main enterprise in this cabin is her attemped mothering of baby chimney swifts, "unnaturally" abandoned by their parents after their nest falls down the cabin's chimney. Her attempt to transcend her human condition and become the birds' mother (an enterprise of taming that half of herself rebels against), ironically unsuccessful, parallels the attempt of her mother's body to transcend the powers of human medical expertise by dying. In this, her mother is ironically successful. No coagulants can stop the progressive rupture of her capillaries; blood runs symbolically throughout this novel, as, at the end, Ginny is unable to commit suicide and spill her own blood. Here, literally torn between the needs of her human mother and her non-human bird-chicken-an irreconcilable mingled attachment to, and rejection of, two worlds and two identities-she is in the same metaphysical position as Dillard is in her cottage, but Ginny as a pilgrim cannot unmesh herself from the world. She cannot achieve a fixed, firm identity as a woman or as a human. Ginny's search is different from Dillard's, in that her desires move inward toward knowing the One (herself) rather than outward toward a circumpolar All. It is similar in that both writers' personae experience the "Way" to true knowing as through intimacy with geographically, biologically minute concrete and particular things. For Dillard, ...the microscope at my forehead is a kind of phylactery, a constant reminder of the facts of creation that I would just as soon forget" (p. 123). Above other "intricate" particularities that are also totalities, is the sight, through the microscope, of indefatigable red blood cells in the tail of her goldfish: "...lying in bed at night, imagining that if I concentrate enough, I might be able to feel in my fingers' capillaries the small knockings and flow of those circular dots, like a string of beads drawn through my hand" (p. 127). Alther's Ginny finds truths higher than the cosmic philosophies her college mother-figure, Miss Head, worships (Spinoza's, Schopenhauer's, Descartes's works), when she experiences death by scraping cells from her cheek and watching them die under her microscope: "The paragraphs in the book of life and death were multicelled organisms. Cells were dying continuously in this same fashion in Aida's body, in my body, in Miss Head's body" (p. 205). She also experiences elemental birth on the microscope slide: "Professor Aitken!" I shrieked. He came rush-rushing over, his 201 �white coat flying behind him. "Something strange is going on with my protozoa!" He peered through my microscope. "Oh yes," he said... They're exchanging genetic material." "What does that mean?" "It's equivalent to what happens in human conception.... (p. 208) Ginny's microscopic insights become ultimately personal for Ginny in the battle to keep the cells inside her mother's body; her death seems to have a life of its own. Both pilgrims seek to reconcile this sort of contradictoriness in elemental things by experiencing life in its most closely knit manifestations, where the fewest abstract formulations apply: Just think: in all the clean beautiful reaches of the solar system, our planet alone is a blot. Our planet alone has death...The faster death goes, the faster evolution goes. If an aphid lays a million eggs, several might survive. Now, my right hand, in all its human cunning, could not make one aphid in a thousand years. But these aphid eggs-which run less than a dime a dozen, which run absolutely free-can make aphids as effortlessly as the sea makes waves. Wonderful things, wasted. It's a wretched system. (Dillard, p. 178) Their perception of, and desire to reconcile, contradictions seem to me bound with two determinants in their natures as writers-their femaleness and their Appalachian environment. Alther's heroine, and Dillard's literary "self," are dissatisfied with the formulary security imposed on phenomena by male consciousness. Women are privileged (or "cursed") to experience physically, pre-ideologically, within themselves, the human extremes of birthing and dying, and the sinuous experience which allies the human and the non-human. Both women acknowledge and accept a "passivity" (versus male activity) as inherent in their sexuality. For Ginny, the passivity sometimes becomes a caricatural social willingness to be seduced by male ideologies. For Dillard it is realized as a mystical "innocence," "...the spirit's unself-conscious state at any moment of pure devotion to an object" (p. 83). Self-consciousness "does hinder the experience of the present"-but in traditional male, scientific terms, selfconsciousness, "the curse of the city and all that sophistication implies" (p. 82), is necessary to the objective apprehension of the experiential present. Dillard is quietly and only implicitly, opposed to a "male" objective distancing which makes false simplicities out of true complexities. She likens it to her youthful belief that English was the only language (pp. 106-7); beginning French, "I realized that I was going to have to learn speech all over again." She never explicitly associates sexuality with false or true perception, but in some telling scenes, the categorical and manipulative are clearly male. Once, where she is camping, children are playiang with newts.: One boy was mistreating the newts spectacularly: he squeezed them by their tails and threw them at a shoreline stone, one by one. I tried to reason with him, but nothing worked. Finally he asked me, "Is this one a male?" and in a fit of inspiration I said, "No, it's a baby." He cried "Oh, isn't he cute!" and cradled the newt carefully back into the water, (p. 112) 202 �Dealing with males, the male-ing boy is destructive; but his identity is yet unfixed enough for him to be an "innocent" mother when confronted with a "baby." All the males in Ginny's life—beginning with her authoritarian industrialist father, the Major-tend to err destructively or self-destructively by imposing their simple formulas on irreducible social reality. Ironically they often are winners, while she is a loser, because their obstinacy in constructing the world in their own image is so inflexible. Only older men-her grandfather, Mr. Zed, or the retired family doctor, Dr. Tyler-have gone beyond virility and dogma to become as anarchistically innocent as she is. Her first love, Joe Bob Sparks, is inflexibly ideal as a local football hero who becomes the local football coach, and is re-encountered by Ginny living in self-conscious plastic suburban splendor with a plastic wife, who has plastic breasts. Her second lover, Clem Cloyd, seemingly Joe Bob's motorcyclesque opposite, is actually his brother as an absolutist. Because of his self-consciously humiliating, crippled leg, he becomes absolute for degeneracy and self-indulgence, then for Death (whom he defies as he takes Ginny on manic motorcycle rides), and finally, on Ginny's return to Hullsport, for his own primitivistic evangelistic sect, of which he is the priest. Clem, reformed, still taunts death; his flock's immunity to copperhead bites at the snaketaming ritual Ginny attends is an ironically false transcendence of the barrier between human and non-human which Ginny cannot overcome with her swifts. Ginny's female lover, Eddie, with male role as well as name in their relationship, destroys herself in seeking total control and possession of her. Ira, her Vermont husband, fails her by seeking to mold her to the repetitious domestic, commercial, and sexual rituals that structure his public and private identity. Hawk, her final lover before her return to Tennessee, has found in her the ideal partner for a pseudo-Eastern, erotic-mystical ritual of transcendence, built up to by weeks of self-denying discipline. Ironically, its preparations so exhaust him that he falls asleep, as irrational physicality reasserts itself, at the point of fulfillment. Dr. Vogel (bird in German, earthbound opposite of Ginny's swifts), her mother's doctor, lives only through his medical jargon and ritualized experimentation. Like Hawk's sleep, her mother's death has a cause beyond the ken of the most elaborate male structures of apprehension: "Even on the perfectly ordinary and clearly visible level, creation carries on with an intricacy unfathomable and apparently uncalled for" (Dillard p. 134). Every man, or male-defined person, Ginny encounters eventually becomes, in assurance of knowledge, insufficient to Ginny's awareness of circumstances that contradict their truths (although she often interprets their rejections as her own inadequacy in fulfilling their needs). It is hard to believe the author doesn't feel this male inadequacy of apprehension to be biologically inherent, rather than culturally induced. For example, here Ginny is resisting the propaganda of her family and Ira's urging that she have a second child: "...Well, we can't have just one child." Ira said. "Why not?" "But people don't have just one child. Jesum Crow, Ginny. Besides, you want a son, don't you?" (p. 403) The trouble is that women are emotionally incomplete without men, and must be pilgrims until they unite with men who will inevitably either recreate them or demoralize them. Sexuality, in Dillard's book, "Fecundity," implies psychological warfare-symbolized by the battle between the organic feminist commune of "Soybean People" Ginny and her friends form in Vermont and 203 �the snowmobiling native men, led by Ira, who try to drive them out. When Ginny's jealous lover Eddie intentionally (?) kills herself on a captured snowmobile at the height of the war, Ginny capitulates emotionally to Ira, the male general, and by this victorious union of enemies (sort of akin to Ginny's protozoan vision) the Amazonian commune collapses inward and eventually dies. The women understand that the war is symbolic. The men "innocently" experience it only as the literal recapture of their sporting ground. Compounding the irreconcilable destructiveness of sexuality is the difference between male identity as experienced by men themselves, and as experienced by women. The formulaic absolutism of men is perceptual, not real. They know, in Dillard's terms, only English, whereas women know several languages. Women can see in male behavior inconsistency, paradox, doubleness, while men see themselves through this same behavior as creatures of order. Dr. Vogel can never experience himself as other than a serious scientist, but Ginny sees his fanaticism for science as similar to her own obsessive wandering. In one of the novel's most studiedly funny scenes, Ira, following step by step his guidebook to exotic sexual techniques, trying to arouse an orgasm in Ginny, arranges a gymnastic feat involving their hanging handcuffed from a beam in his ancestral house. Ginny drops the key to the handcuffs. Throughout their surrealistic attempts to free themselves, Ira faults her for botching a very reasonably structured experience. He cannot see that in this adventure he "is" in total contradiction to his self-perceived identity as a lucid, pious, ailAmerican businessman. Dillard also believes that male limitations are more in perception of behavior than in behavior itself. Through the ajar door of the Ichthyology Department in a famous university she sees ...two white-coated men seated opposite each other on high lab stools at a hard-surfaced table. They bent over identical white enamel trays. On one side, one man, with a lancet, was just cutting into an enormous preserved fish he'd taken from a jar. On the other side, the other man, with a silver spoon, was eating a grapefruit. I laughed all the way back to Virginia, (pp. 84-85) Neither man could perceive the total incongruity of their mutual behavior; the woman, cursed by ignorance and exclusion, can. Contemporary Appalachia is self-contradictory. For Alther and Dillard it becomes a place uniquely qualified to embody their vision of the irreconcilable and their search to reconcile. For Dillard, the self-contradiction is in western Virginia's biological and topographical diversity-it contains the world: It's a good place to live; there's a lot to think about. The creeks, Tinker's and Calvin's~are an active mystery, fresh every minute. Theirs is the mystery of the continuous creation and all that providence implies: the uncertainty of vision, the horror of the fixed, the dissolution of the present, the intricacy of beauty, the pressure of fecundity, the elusiveness of the free, and the flawed nature of perfection. The mountains-Tinker and Brushy, McAfee's Knob and Dead Man-are a passive mystery, the oldest of all. Theirs is the one simple mystery of creation from nothing, of matter itself, anything at all, the given, (p. 3) For Alther, it is in the social contradictions of a human culture in the process of acute change, whose loss of assurance, traditional moorings, creates and 204 �mirrors collectively the heroine's own. Since the Hullsport setting of Alther's novel has been controversial, it is profitable to focus on how the novel actually uses this setting. Generically, Kinflicks is self-consciously a picaresque novel, starring a wandering female Quixote of the lineage of Moll Flanders. Like a great many picaresque novels, it is set in a time of turmoil, unsettled life, violence done to basic truths; in this case the time is the late 1960s and early 1970s in the United States, dominated by social rebellion and the Vietnam war. As in real-life Kingsport, the Hullsport plastics factory run by Ginny's father-which violates nature with pollution and traditional rural culture by creating a blue-collar, urban proletariat in the mountains-is converted into a munitions factory for the Vietnam war. The Vietnam war, similarly, is defoliating nature and ravaging an agrarian people. Hullsport is the war brought home. Ginny is Virginia, the comically virginal, innocent wanderer. Her main adventures occur in three stylized locales. Hullsport is seen in two aspects. It is experienced generally in the flashback chapters which cover her younger years. Here real southern aristicracy and aristocratic traditions mingle in a melting pot with nouveau riche aristocracy (like Ginny's father) and its prefabricated traditions; with earthy, unrepentant, and ultimately "lawless" hillbilly culture, represented in her grandfather's family from Sow Gap, Virginia; with mercantile and working-class culture, created and drawn to Hullsport by her father's factory, in various stages of rise to the bourgeois splendor of development or subdivision living. In the narrative present scenes of Ginny's return to Hullsport, the main focus is on two places in but not of Hullsport-the sterile, self-contained Community Hospital where Ginny's mother dies, and the fecund, self-contained cabin land which her grandfather established, and where she lives. Hullsport's caricatural dissonance, inward and with its natural environment, is microcosmically that of mid-century America as well as of its failed Model Virgin, Ginny, who is inwardly divided: in her memories she's an "I," but in the present scenes she's a self-alienated "Ginny." Hullsport, the Model City planned concentrically like Washington D.C. in the symbolic year 1919, has been degenerated and corrupted from its male maker's abstract plan by its very unplanned, fecund growth (like a paradoxical cell under Ginny's microscope). Her grandfather did not foresee ...that six times as many people as he had planned for would one day want to leave the farms and mines and crowd into Hullsport, and that clumps of houses for them would ring the hexagon in chaotic, eczema-like patches, (p. 15) Ginny is torn between her need to nurture life as a woman, and her rejection of her mother's role as a traditional, passive wife and mother; the Appalachians are torn between the static purity of the traditional farming and mining life and the destructive progress of their cities' growing industrial economy. Ginny, as adventuress, returns to Hullsport not only because her mother (and symbolically her mother's way of life) is dying, but also by her need for truth. The dissonance of this changing world, so easy for her to parody, is also more authentic, because unsettled, than where she has been. It is a growth-anddying in simultaneity, more true to her complex vision of life than are the more beautiful, harmonious, self-contained places farther north and east. "There is not a guarantee in the world...Oh, your needs are guaranteed...But you must read the fine print. 'Not as the world giveth, give I unto you." '(Dillard, p. 277) The other two dominant places in Kinflicks are "guaranteed," as masculine 205 �formulae are, illusorily impregnable. Worthley, modelled on Alther's college, Wellesley, is expressed in and through Miss Head, the philosophy teacher, whose Okie youth was analogous to Ginny's except that her parents fought, rather than compelling, her intellectual advancement. Miss Head experiences the world purely intellectually, with her "Head", and through the world-systems of the philosophers she teaches. Like Ginny's mother, her one lover was a soldier who left her to fight in Europe; unlike her, she didn't marry or have babies by him: "Well, he was killed. In Belgium. But that's beside the point" (p. 194). Actually, invulnerable Worthley is totally vulnerable. In a battle of surrogate parents of Ginny's allegiance, Miss Head loses to Eddie, the radical fellow-student who first becomes her lover when they are "hidden" on the roof of their dormitory. The previous day Ginny has discovered her freshman neighbor, Bev Martin, losing consciousness from an overdose of sleeping pills in the dorm bathroom. She merely watches her while debating in her mind the ethics of suicide; Eddie saves Bev's life without reflection by instantly making her drink salt water to induce vomiting. Schopenhauer's and Miss Head's philosophy almost implies death: '"We must, without reserve, regard all presented objects, even our own bodies, merely as ideas, and call them merely ideas'" (p. 235). This evasive "male" abstraction (Miss Head's refuge from her femaleness and vulnerability) is agonizingly conflicted in Ginny's being with Eddie's immediate sensuality, which harmonizes with the direct experience of nature, the "ecological" philosophy derived from her biology class: I plucked a leaf off a forsythia bush and stared as it as though I had never seen a leaf before. Its atoms and subatomic particles were identical to those making up my fingers...Our earth was a burned-out hunk of mineral ash, but we-this leaf and Eddie and Bev and I-we were star stuff. Our bodies were almost entirely made up of light volatile elements. We had origins far grander than the cinder we inhabited would indicate. What affected one segment affected us all. (p. 236) She accepts Eddie's passion and rejects a comforting "intellectual" vision, symbolized by Worthley, which denies life and paradox. Northern Vermont, where Ginny and Eddie finally settle after leaving Worthley, is seemingly a place whose elemental, earthy life-patterns harmonize with Ginny's new belief in physical interdependence. Ironically, the farm the "Soybean People" establish, and the hostile neighboring town of Stark's Bog, are both such "perfect" cultural expressions of this belief that Ginny comes to experience them as of the same absolute nature as Miss Head's philosophy. Eddie's possessiveness becomes so total there also that it loses its nature as liberating passion. It demands of Ginny as much self-diminishment as will the heterosexual domesticity of its sequel, her marriage with Ira. Stark's Bog (Charlotte?), Vermont, is the opposite of Hullsport. Its population is ethnically homogeneous, ingrown, secure, so impervious to unexpected change, penetration by the outside world that weather is virtually its only topic of conversation. Ginny and Eddie's Soybean People, so much like the Stark's Boggers in their ingrown self-sufficiency, are rejected as "Communists, lesbians, draft-dodgers, atheists, food-stamp recipients" (p. 301). This is a microcosm of the United States during the Woodstock years. Their first attempt to "connect" with the Stark's Boggers, by giving blood at the local blood-drawing (a very symbolic event) is a disaster. To Ginny, "it gave me a great feeling of kinship to know that my plastic bag would nestle in the 206 �blood bank next to theirs. We were all in this business of life together" (p. 302). (Later in time, Ginny will similarly give blood to her mother, under more fatal circumstances). This personification of life on the lab slide is contradicted by social reality when Ira thanks the women ("girls") "for helping out our boys in Vietnam" at this special wartime blood drawing; the Soybean People are stunned to have inadvertently aided the Enemy. The bloodletting in Vietnam is supported both by Hullsport and Stark's Bog. With her marriage to Ira Bliss, after Eddie is ironically decapitated by a wire she herself has strung to destroy his snowmobilers, Ginny attempts individually to transform herself into a native of Stark's Bog. Initially she experiences herself as succeeding. When her radical friends visit and ask if she has succeeded in infiltrating the enemy and "laying the trip on them" (p. 396), she realizes that "by the time I had infiltrated to the heart of Stark's Bog, I had become a Stark's Bogger . . . People became what they did." Seeing how Ira's patriarchal ancester, Father Bliss, "lived on through his genes" in the people around her, as well as the ancestral stone house she inhabits (antitype of her own grandfather's imitation ante-bellum mansion, of wood, which her dying mother sells), she determines to have a child of her own to possess likewise "a hostage against death" (p. 397). Her motivation in bearing her daughter, Wendy, is itself an act of separation from her adopted culture: to perpetuate her own identity in rivalry with Father Bliss. Her refusal to fulfill Ira's desire to have a second child-relinquishing her individuating relationship with Wendy-is another. Her ultimate one, the ultimate failure of her "northing," is her clandestine affair with Hawk. This affair culminates in Ira's expulsion of her, without Wendy, when he finds them attempting Hawk's Oriental love ritual in the Bliss family graveyard. The symbolic mingling of contraries dominates Ginny's relationship with Hawk, whose aim in his "religion " is preversely like hers during her whole pilgrimage: "You are the eternal feminine principle. I am the eternal masculine principle. As we mate, we will balance opposing forces and requite our longing for wholeness" (p. 470). The wholeness Hawk seeks is one of abstractions, however; the senses become "principle." He fragments the already shaky wholeness of Ginny's union with Stark's Bog. He arrives there as a pilgrim, with a pack. He is a native Southerner (Atlanta), who fought in Vietnam, fled the army to Canada, and is passing through Stark's Bog heading south for home after covertly re-entering the country. He is, for Ginny, like a piece of Hullsport transferred north. He contains, unreconciled, the contradictions that have driven her from firmness (as fellow-Southerner and Canadian, soldier and war-resister, drug-taker and intellectual absolutist, virgin—he transcends ejaculation-and tyrannical male). His "impossible" identity is most like that of Hullsport. By getting Ginny expelled from the edenic Bliss world, he draws her back to the chaos of her own origins ('"I have to get south,' he muttered "-p. 495). In Hawk the actual inner chaos that American male culture variously reduced to pretences of order has broken through and become a personal reality; so Hullsport will eventually break through the power of other places to captivate Ginny into their different illusory versions of wholeness. Hullsport-and by extension the new, changing South as a whole-is a provincial place, but one more expressive of essential reality than the Big World outside. Ginny's daily trips between the edenic, primitive birth-cabin of her grandfather and the ultramodern hospital where her mother is uncontrollably dying are more "globegirdling" than her pilgrimages through America, just as Annie Dillard, in walking along Tinker Creek, explores the entire universe. After her mother has died, and before her failed attempts at suicide which 207 �end her story, Ginny tries to phone Hawk at his parents' home in Atlanta. She finds from his father (an ex-General) that Hawk has arrived, half-dead, but is now in the VA Hospital, diagnosed as a paranoid schizophrenic: Hawk's father sounded faintly pleased: His son was not an army deserter, he was sick. His son was not rejecting his father's way of life-his son was crazy. "I see," she said weakly, "I'm very sorry." "Well, at least, he finally came home and faced up to his responsibilities like a man," his father said cheerfully, (p. 513) Ultimate male responsibility just like ultimate insanity, here expresses all the irreconcilables of Hullsport's world which have continued to drive Ginny in different directions-from Clem's brother Floyd's illegal bar, the Bloody Bucket, which he can disguise in an instant as a fundamentalist chapel, to her initiation into sexual excitement with Joe Bob Sparks at Brother Buck's revival meeting, to her rural glory as Persimmon Plains Burly Tobacco Festival Queen while being princess of a plastics fortune, to, in the "present," her unnatural success as a mother in training her surviving young chimney swift to fly, and its irrational suicide flying into the cabin's closed window next to its open door. Alther and Dillard both demand a disabused acknowledgement of mystery as a prerequisite to resolving mysteries, either those of the universe or those of individual identity. Ginny's swift, choosing death at the moment it is empowered to live freely, is responding to the Indeterminacy Principle which Dillard often evokes, "...That something is everywhere and always amiss is part of the very stuff of creation..." (Dillard, p. 184). Dillard with praise and wonder, Alther with lyrical self-satire, affirm the importance to individual survival, of living in and working through an environment which does not disguise fundamental mysteries. The "pilgrimage" to a place of fixity where personal and cosmic truths are revealed, is a Hessean illusion. The effectual pilgrimage must be a return to native origins-in time and space-to the small and primal elements of individual and collective existence, Tinker Creek or Hullsport, the cells of our own blood, of our own trees' leaves. NOTES 1. All quotations are from Lisa Alther, Kin/licks, (New York: New American Library, 1977), or Annie Dillard, Pilgrim At Tinker Creek (New York: Bantam, 1975). 208 �WOMEN FOLK HEALERS OF APPALACHIA Karen Shelley and Raymond Evans Abstract This anthropological study looks at the role of the women as folk healers in Appalachian. Using data based on field research in Tennessee's Sequatchie Valley, the paper explores traditional and current practices of folk medicine. Beliefs in the curative powers of plants and other naturally occurring products of the environment provide the basis for both the prevention of disease and the restoration of good health. The paper sees the beliefs and practices of folk healing as part of the wider body of cultural adaptation to environmental conditions of the area. While the knowledge of medicinal plants and their application is part of the general body of folk traditions of .this area, preparing and administering these remedies are largely the activities of females. The importance of folk medicine in the lives of Appalachian people during the nineteenth and early twentieth centuries has been well documented in the historical and social science literature as well as the folklore of the area.' While both men and women healers traditionally contributed to the physical and emotional well-being of others, the role of women in the curing process is of special interest in the area of herbal medicine and maternal-infant care. This paper will consider some of the cultural factors within which curing behavior takes place and the nature of women's responisibilities and knowledge in these areas. The authors' current interest in the topic grew out of a study of healing arts and experiences in eastern Tennessee which was part of a grant funded by the Tennessee Committee for the Humanities. - The goal of this project, congruent with the aims of the T.C.H., is to organize a series of public dialogues involving both humanists in various academic disciplines and members of the community. The curative practices of faith healers, herbal specialists, and psychics as well as those of biomedical personnel are all part of the focus of concern.1 In an attempt to locate persons, who had knowledge of traditional healing and folk practices, the reseachers conducted interviews with residents of the Sequatchie Valley. This rural area is located northwest of Chattanooga in the Cumberland Plateau. The cultural boundaries of the valley include approximately seventy miles of fertile lowland country along the Sequatchie River and its bordering mountainsides. The area includes land in Marion, Sequatchie, Bledsoe, and a small portion of Cumberland counties (see Map I). Until recently, the resource of the valley provided a livelihood for its residents. At the close of the nineteenth century there was a brief economic boom when the Tennessee Coal and Iron Company established a coke oven complex and mining installation in Sequatchie County. There were also numerous other attempts at mining coal on the eastern side of the valley. The mining industry here is largely a low-profit, high-risk venture because of the irregular nature of the major coal seam.- Nevertheless, the numerous shaft and strip mines in the valley are evidence of the determination of the miners. Today, five population centers dot the floor of the valley. The largest town has approximately 4,000 residents, but the others, which are more typical of 209 �Map 1. The Sequatchie Valley. Sequatchle: (Adapted from L. Raulston and J. Livingood, A Story of the Southern Cumberlands, 1974, 149. ) the area, have no more than 2,000 residents each.' Of the total 34,551 persons living in Marion, Sequatchie, and Bledsoe counties in 1970, 85 percent of the people were classified by the census as rural, non-farm dwellers. This high percentage is atypical for Tennessee as a whole, where less than one third of the population in 1970 was classified as rural, non-farm.' The Sequatchie Valley residents are largely born and bred Tennesseans. Of the three-county residents, 87.6 percent live in their native state. Ninety-six percent of the people are white and many of these are descended from families who have lived in the region for five generations. 7 Most of the wage earners are employed in small-scale businesses, manufacturing, lumbering, and mining-related jobs/ While in the earlier part of this century most of the valley's people were farmers or stockbreeders or both, today the pattern has changed. Only 12 percent of the residents were classified as farmers by the 1970 Census and many of these landowners sup- 210 �plemented their incomes with industrial jobs. Twenty-six percent of the families had incomes below the poverty level in 1970 .'Although there is a growing pattern for people to find work outside the valley in Chattanooga and nearby areas, Sequatchie people much prefer to maintain their homes in the valley. For the older generation, particularly, life in Chattanooga is associated with the threat of a loss of intimate family ties and the security which extended family ties provided in the past. During the initial survey of our project, as informants were contacted, the emergence of some early patterns caused a re-evaluation of the scope of the project. References to persons who had experience and knowledge of folk healing were usually referrals to males. The typical format of the referrals can be seen in the words of one informant who said, "Yew ort'er go up thar ta Willuns Road en see Chals Nelmore's son yung Ben." Upon acting on the referral and arriving at "yung Ben's house',' the researchers found Ben (now about seventy years old) and his wife Lurleen. After passing pleasantries on the porch, we were invited inside and began to ask about wild herbs which grew on the mountainsides. Repeatedly, the man would volunteer a few candidates and then turn to his wife with a questioning look. The woman would then begin enumerating plant names, descriptions, and collecting procedures. Further questions concerning medicinal plants elicited more detailed information from female informants about drying and preparation techniques. When the informants repeatedly brought samples from their pantries and refrigerators to illustrate preparation methods, the interviewers realized that they were dealing not with just an exercise in ethnohistory but with elements of an on-going set of beliefs and practices. Although the following data are subject to further verification, some initial observations can be made on current folk medical beliefs and practices in the valley. In this area of eastern Tennessee traditional medicinal practices can be grouped into four main categories-herbal medicine, faith healing, psychic healing, and midwifery.10 While none of these categories were or are exclusively the domains of either males or females, the roles of women as lay practitioners and as specialists consulted by kith and kin are noteworthy. The four categories are discrete systems of curing, but they are ones which are not necessarily incompatible with one another. Although herbal medicine is primarily a lay tradition, there is a small degree of specialization in the sense that some persons who are thought to have greater experience and knowledge than others, are asked to give advice on the collection or preparation of some herbal concoctions. These persons are generally elderly women. The women in this category should be distinguished from a small number of other herbal specialists, both males and females, who package or bottle their products for sale. Further interviews are planned in order to establish more clearly the extent of traditional and current beliefs associated with faith healers and psychic healers. The focus of our immediate concern, however, is the role of women as herbalists. Before turning to consider the socialization process and female activities associated with the role of healer, we will first briefly consider the belief system of disease causation and curing operating in the Sequatchie Valley. Illness is attributed to a variety of sources and thus may be subject to several or a combination of curative procedures. Three different orientations exist. First, the germ theory of disease causation is acknowledged to be one possible reason for sickness. The most effective treatment, however, according to local tradition, does not necessarily follow a regimen prescribed by modern biomedical systems of thought. In cases of health failure, alternative treatment methods are evaluated and tried. Self-treatment, usually the first alternative, may employ herbal medicines, patent medicines, or supernatural assistance 211 �evoked through prayer. A combination of these methods is most often the course which is followed (see Figure 1). If this method fails then herbal specialists, faith healers, psychic or biomedical practitioners provide additional alternatives. Figure 1, A l t e r n a t i v e Curing Strategies A second category of beliefs explaining disease causation includes those which can be described as magical or religious. Afflictions which strike children or persons usually in good states of health are often believed to be supernaturally influenced. Religious testimonials at local church services are part of the oral tradition which give clues to the health ways and belief systems of community members. Prayers which evoke assistance from the Christian God provide the primary means of cure and source of guidance in the face of sickness believed to be of magico-religious causes. Illness is often perceived by people of the valley as a state of disequilibrium. One of the reasons for the bases of belief in the medicinal power of plants is that elements from the environment help to restore a sense of balance between the patient and his/her world. This concept of the cause of illness is similar to a traditional belief of the Cherokee Indians. According to this world view, harmony is the ideal state and results in good events. Events which are "bad" or undesirable like illness are the results of dis-harmony. Thus, sickness which arises out of states of disharmony can be cured by introducing the appropriate measures to restore harmony.'' The plural nature of the society in the Sequatchie Valley, like many other areas of Appalachia, is reflected in the use of multiple systems of curative strategies, as Figure 1 illustrates.12 The strong history and commitment to selfsufficiency in the economic sphere is also evident in the dependence on lay curing practices and the patterns of self-treatment. Since women are traditionally responsible for child care and nursing in the domestic sphere, they often rely on resources from their immediate environment. Within this context, then, we will turn to consider the traditional and current role of Sequatchie women in healing, prevention of disease, and childbirth. Traditionally, women had roles in the domestic sphere as wives, cooks, nurses, and teachers. Today, women still maintain these roles while 212 �taking on additonal ones as wage-earners. Even if a woman works outside the home, the traditional domestic responsibilities remain hers. Beyond the lay tradition of using herbs to ease the symptoms of colds and common childhood diseases, some women are considered by their neighbors and relatives to have special knowledge and skills in herbal arts. These women do not hang out shingles to advertise their skills. Rather, their reputation as advisors and consultants and as sources for dried herbs are well-known to people of the local area. Sequatchie women are not recruited into the herbal healing speciality because they possess any special supernatural attributes as is often believed to be the case of African and Native American healers.13 The primary factors involved in being an herbalist are (1) a belief in the healing powers of plants, (2) knowledge and skills in identifying, gathering, and preparing medicinal plants, (3) supernatural assistance from the Christian God, and (4) some on-the-job experience. Skills and artistry associated with herbal healing are acquired through the informal socialization process of young females. Sequatchie women most often acknowledged the source of their skills as their membership in a category of elder women, including mothers, grandmothers, and mothers' sisters. These women pass on their knowledge from one generation to the next. Long leisurely walks through the woods and trips back and forth between homes of kith and kin provided opportunities for learning names, uses, and habitats of medicinal plants. No evidence of formal apprenticeships have been found among the valley's female informants. The absence of a structured apprenticeship is in contrast to the socialization process of traditional healers among some Native American groups." Although the knowledge of herbal remedies and the responsibility for transmitting such knowledge usually rested with females, males were an additonal source of knowledge in certain families." One Sequatchie informant who is representative of this pattern learned many of her herbal skills from her mother who was a midwife in the valley. Her father, however, was an additional source of informaton and experience. He, like many other men of Appalachia, set out for the hills during 'sang season to dig ginseng (Panax quinquefollum).1*' Men who had an interest in the commercial value of herbs were particularly well-versed in the local habitats and seasonal variations of the quality of these herbs. Although ginseng is still used locally by female herbal specialists, its commercial value is primarily as an export. While some local root diggers sell to a drugstore proprietor who acts as a middleman, others sell directly to buyers in the Midwest. One individual produced documentation of selling dried ginseng in 1979 to a midwest company for $145.00 per pound. Goldenseal, which is a prolific plant in the region under study, is the other herb which has significant commercial value.17 The specific kind of knowledge and the extent of knowledge about medicinal herbs has often been underestimated. Herbal curing involves knowledge in at least five areas. First, most women who are experts in the medicinal value of herbs have knowledge of identifiable plant characteristics and knowledge of the kinds of habitats in which different species are found. While some of the herbs commonly used in the area under study grow in shaded areas near streams, others thrive primarily at higher elevations, or along roadsides and pasture land. A second area of knowledge these women have is an understanding of when to collect and which part of the plant should be collected. Some herbs are believed to have their greatest potency in the spring, while others are gathered in late summer or fall. Rather than collecting the entire plant, many herbalists are conservation-minded and try to collect only the parts which are needed. A third focus of knowledge includes drying techniques to prevent 213 �molding and to retain potency. Fourth, women are particularly knowledgeable about the preparation of herbal teas, salves, poultices, and other externally applied remedies. Admixtures of several herbs together with additions of flavorings are all part of the tradition which has to be learned. Finally, and perhaps most importantly, is the body of ethnoscience which specifies which plants have curative properties appropriate for use against certain diseases or complaints. The following table lists some of the herbs in current use in the Sequatchie. Common Name Scientific Name Folk Use Balm of Gilead Pupulus balsamifera Buds used to make a salve for wounds Blackberries Rubus villosus Wine made for stomach disorders; diarrhea Blackberry Roots Rubus villosus Tea for diarrhea Boneset Eupatorium Teas for colds; relieves symptoms perfoliatum associated with rheumatism Borage Borago officinalis Blood purifier Buckvine Mitchella repens Tea for kidney disorders Catnip Nepeta cataria Tea for newborns; tea for hives; teas used to induce drowsiness Cherry Tree Bark Prunus viginiana Cough syrup Clover Blossoms Trifolium pratense Tea for calming nerves Symphytom officinale Tea for calming nerves Comfrey Elderberry Roots Sambucus canadensis General health tonic Ginseng Panax quinquefollum Tea for symptoms associated with rheumatism; tea for bolt hives; tea for "female disorders" Goldenseal Tea for stomach disorders Hydrastis canadensis Heart Leaf Tea for colds; cough syrup Asarum canadense Ink Balls Ilex verticillata Tea for thrush Jimsonweed Datura stramonium Applied to boils Mullein or Verbascum thapsus Tea for colds; kidney disorders Rabbit Ears Allium cepa Onions Tea for hives; poultices for pleurisy, congestion, sore throat Pennyroyal Hedeomia Tea for colds; leaves contain pulegioides substance which acts as a mosquito repellant Pine Bark Pinus strobus Tea for diarrhea Polk Weed Phytolacca Roots boiled to make a bath americana for curing skin irritations; Berries used to make wine to relieve symptoms of rheumatism Rat's Vein Chimaphila Tea for calming nerves; colds umbellata Sage Eupatorium Tea for coughs; tonsilitis perfoliatum Sassafras albidum Sassafras General health tonic Sampson's Snake Aristolochia Tea for measles and pleurisy serpentaria Spice Wood Lindera binzoin Tea made from inner bark used to calm nerves Yellow Root Hydrastis Mouth ulcers; tea for stomach canadensis disorders 214 �Yellow root is one of the most well-known locally found herbs in the Valley. Residents can also purchase the root in powdered form from drugstores in the region. Its primary value is in relieving soreness from mouth ulcers. The root is also chewed as a way of cleaning the gums and teeth. A category of herbs used traditionally and having continuing popularity today are those which local believers cite as effective in the relief of symptoms associated with rheumatism. These concoctions are generally wines or mixtures of alcohol and herbs. Ginseng roots soaked in whiskey or wines made from polk berries or blackberries are currently in use. Tea made with the boneset plant is another remedy associated with curing arthritic discomforts. Medicinal herbs used for curing and easing the discomforts of infants and children are well-remembered by women who is past years acted as mid wives. In the case of home deliveries, catnip tea is given to infants before the mother is able to nurse. Small doses of teas made with fennel or catnip are cited as effective for infants suffering from colic. These same two herbs are prescribed for infants plagued with hives, which in years past was more common than it is today. These practices, like much of Appalachian folk medicine, were heavily influenced by Native American practices. In most Native American cultures, the primary objective of all obstetric practices was the ease and comfort of the mother. Southeastern Indians used an infusion of the bark of poplar, wild cherry, and dogwood given to the expectant mother at regular intervals." Numerous other remedies were used by Native American women during labor either to promote contractions or to relieve pain. The Alabama Koasatis used boiled roots of the cotton plant as an aid in the birt process." Native American infants also received herbal teas and herbal baths. Cherokee Indian infants were bathed in golden club and water every new moon. 20 In the Sequatchie Valley today many of the best-known and most often used herbs are intended to relieve discomforts of colds and flu. These herbs, according to local belief, act as mild diuretics and relaxants. Those most commonly mentioned are heart leaf, pennyroyal, and fever weed. Cough syrups made from cherry bark and heart leaves are also used to relieve symptoms associated with influenza. As has been demonstrated by the above data, traditional health care concepts and folk medicine practices are still a significant part of the lives of some Appalachian peoples. To a large degree, these traditions are kept alive by women who see curing as a part of their overall role as guardians of the family. Within this context, Appalachian people usually attempt to choose between modern and traditional health care systems or sometimes both on the basis of personal and cultural factors. These cultural implications should not be overlooked by those concerned with health delivery systems involving Appalachian people. A major factor is the rising cost of biomedical health care, particularly for those who cannot afford insurance. Another basic factor relates to scheduling. Many Appalachian people, particularly those who work outside their home community, cannot consult a specialist during normal office hours. Distance presents another problem to many people. For others, their traditional religious beliefs stress a dependence on God rather than medicine for healing. A final factor is the traditional Appalachian concept of selfreliance and distrust of outsiders which creates a strong tendency to depend on family and traditional means of curing. 215 �NOTES 1. Marion Pearsall, Little Smokey Ridge (Lexington, Kentucky: University of Alabama, 1959: Jesse Stuart, "New Wine in Old Bottles/' Kentucky Folklore Record 12 (1966): 105-7; 13 (1967): 20-24; Grady M. Long, "Folk Medicine in McMinn, Polk, Bradley and Meigs Counties, Tennessee, 19101927," Tennessee Folklore Society, Bulletin 28 (1962): 1-7; Mary B. Williford, "Income and Health in Remote Rural Areas," Ph. D. Dissertation, Columbia University, 1932; John Parris, These Storied Mountains (Asheville, N.C.: Citizens-Times Publishing Co., 1972); Augustin Gattinger, The Medicinal Plants of Tennessee Exhibiting Their Commercial Value (Nashville: F. M. Paul, 1894); Arnold Krochmal, A Guide to Medicinal Plants of Appalachia, Forest Service Research Paper (Washington, D.C.; U. S. Forest Service, 1971). These are only a few of the noteworthy sources on folk medicine in Appalachia. 2. "The Art of Healing" was a grant funded by The Tennessee Committee for the Humanities awarded to Dr. Clive Kileff, University of Tennessee at Chattanooga. The authors acknowledge Dr. Kileff's continuing interest and cooperation. 3. Additional funding is presently being sought by the authors to conduct further household surveys on the use of traditional and biomedical curative practices in the Sequatchie Valley. 4. Earl C. Case, The Valley of East Tennessee, Bulletin 36, State of Tennessee Geological Survey, 1925, p. 51. 5. U.S. Bureau of the Census, Census of Population: 1970, General Social and Economic Characteristics. Final Report PC(1)-C44, Washington, D.C., 1971, p. 167. 6. Ibid., p. 168. 7. Ibid., pp. 325-31. 8. Leonard Raulston and James Livingood, Sequatchie: A Story of the Southern Cumberlands (Knoxville: University of Tennessee, 1974), pp 213-230. 9. U.S. Bureau of Census, General Social and Economic Characteristics, pp. 365,369, 371. 10. Helen Bullard and Joseph Krech, First Hundred Years (Crossville, Tennessee: Private Publication, 1956), p. 90. 11. William H. Gilbert, The Eastern Cherokee, 133 (Washington, D.C.: Bureau of American Ethnology, 1943); James Mooney and Frans M. Olbrechts, Swimmer Manuscript, Cherokee Sacred Formulas and Medicinal Prescriptions, 99 (Washington, D.C.; Bureau of American Ethnology, 1932). 12. Marion Pearsall has written about a similar pattern for rural Kentucky. Marion Pearsall, "Healthways in a Mountain County," Mountain Life and Work 36 (1960): 7-13. 13. Virgil Vogel, American Indian Medicine (Norman: University of Oklahoma Press, 1970), p. 12. 14. David Jones, Sanapia: Comanche Medicine Woman (New York: Holt, Rinehart, and Winston, 1972). 15. For information on female herbalists, see Ellen J. Stekert, "Focus for Conflict, Southern Mountain Medical Beliefs in Detroit," Journal of American Folklore 83(1970); 126. For reference to male knowledge of herbal remedies, see the prepared comments by Marion Pearsall to E. Stekert, "Healthways," p. 150. 16. Marie B. Mellinger and Bill Stiles, "Sang Season," Foxfire 2(1968): 2832, 72-77; Marie B. Mellinger, "Sang Sign," Foxfire 2 (1968): 47-52. 216 �17. Nelson Coon, Using Plants for Healing (New York: Hearthside Press, 1963), p. 139. 18. Frank G. Speck, "An Adendum to Catawba Indian Herbal and Curative Practices," Manuscript on file with the American Philosophical Society. 19. Vogel, American Indian Medicine, p. 222. 20. Mooney and Olbrecht, Cherokee Sacred Formulas, p. 76. 217 �RELIGIOUS LANGUAGE AND COLLECTIVE ACTION: A STUDY OF VOLUNTARISM IN A RURAL APPALACHIAN CHURCH Michael Vaughn Carter Abstract This study is a theoretical inquiry into the nature of collective action in the local church, with application to an evangelical Protestant congregation in the southern Appalchian region. More specifically, the study examines the various interrelationships between the use of religious language in the church and the organization of the church as a voluntary association. A case study approach was utilized in which the author became a participant observer for two years while serving as pastor in a rural church in southwestern West Virginia. The study also reveals several implications in relation to a culture of poverty analysis of Appalachian culture and religion. Statement of the Problem Religious language has been traditionally understood as a means of communicating the spiritual message of the church (Whiteley, 1964: 40-50). The local church, unlike other voluntary associations, relies upon its message of spirituality as the primary motivational attraction to its present and prospective members. It does not use coercion, or to any large extent selective benefits, in sustaining a viable membership. The church of the southern Appalachians articulates a message which is embodied in an idiosyncratic language system. Although the Christian-Biblical symbols used are traditional to Protestant Christianity, they sometimes differ in meaning from one local church to another due to subcultural differences and denominational interpretation. If the local church relies upon language in attaining new members and in the continued motivation of existing members, then the following two questions arise: (1) Is there an association between religious language and collective action in the local church? (2) If there is such an association, is it positive in sustaining collective action or is it negative in prohibiting collective action? These questions acquire greater significance when applied to the local church of the Appalachians. Previous writers who have examined the Appalachian church describe it as housing "fatalistic" frontier religion which has an "individualistic" emphasis as opposed to a "social concern" (Weller, 1965, 1970, 1978; also see Brewer, 1962; Caudill, 1963; Erikson, 1976). Jack Weller (1965, 1978) one of the foremost exponents of this position concludes that the religion of the Appalachian is "personalistic," which in turn leads to a "socially passive ethic." This prevailing view originates from a "culture of poverty" paradigm (Lewis, 1966) but has also been integrated into the terminology of a variety of Appalachian theorists.1 In general, these descriptions of the Appalachian church result in an overall impression that the church exists only to serve the extreme individualism found within the subculture. And, no doubt, people do affiliate or attend the local church for personal reasons. This point need not be contested. But are these descriptions completely accurate? Does the religion of the Appalachian 218 �exist solely to satisfy some inherent trait of extreme individualism? Is there no collective consciousness? It is the purpose of this paper to examine these questions in view of Olson's (1971) theory of collective action. By doing so this approach demonstrates that the local church provides an array of "generalized benefits" which can only be accrued from collective action, not extreme indivdidualism. These "generalized benefits or collective goods" must be reevaluated in lieu of the previous descriptions of Appalchian religion. Religious language is then seen as a vital link in the ability of the local church to provide these "generalized benefits." Objective of the Study The study's objectives are essentially threefold. First, the theoretical framework defines the purpose of organization and the implications posed by the "free rider" problem, which is inherent in collective action based on voluntarism. 2 The size or scale of the organization is also considered. Religious language is then recognized as establishing a set of common "terms and condition" which are instrumental in the organizing of the local church. The second objective is the elaboration of a theoretical model. It is designed to examine the associational or nonassociational relationships between collective action types and the symbolic language of the church. The third and final objective is the application of the model to a specific congregation in rural Appalachia. Thus, a brief summary is presented of a case study (Carter, 1979) of a rural parish in southern Wayne County, West Virginia, where the writer served as pastor September 1977 to September 1979. THEORETICAL FRAMEWORK The church, like any organization or voluntary association, exists so as to serve the common interests of its members. Mancur Olson (1971: 15) states: "The achievement of any common goal or the satisfaction of any common interest means that a public or collective good has been provided for that group."3 In other words, the provision of "collective goods is the fundamental function of organizations generally." By collective it is meant that no one is excluded from the "benefit or satisfaction brought about by its achievement." Even those who do not pay or contribute to the collective good cannot be "kept from sharing in the consumption of the good, as they can where noncollective goods are concerned." The local church provides an array of collective goods and services, e.g., worship, education, congregational singing, fellowship dinners. They are usually available for both the membership and the surrounding community. Therefore, if the church is a provider of collective goods it must also engage in the process of collective action; for in fact, the collective goods are the end result of a process of collective action. The Free Rider Problem "The free rider" problem is always present in collective action based on voluntarism. Olson (1971: 21) describes the problem as follows: "Though all of the members of the group. . .have a common interest in obtaining the collective benefit or good, they have no common interest in paying the cost of providing that collective good." Each member within the organization would, in fact, prefer that someone else pay the entire cost of the collective good. This 219 �phenomenon of allowing an unequal distribution of the burden of collective action to occur can be called "the free rider" problem. It may occur to some extent in both large and small voluntary associations. The "free rider" problem consists of two stages. The first is an "assurance problem," and the second, a "commitment problem." In the "assurance problem," the participant needs to be assured that his or her action or contribution, whether it be money, energy, or time, is a shared collective event and not an individual enterprise. The ability of each individual to derive a full benefit from his or her own contribution depends upon the contribution of others. If the participant suspects that other members in the organization will not engage in a similar manner of collective action, an incentive is created for withholding one's own contribution. The second stage is the problem of maintaining a commitment to the provision of the collective good. If the participant has been assured that fellow members will contribute, another opportunity exists for the "free rider." Once he or she is assured of the contribution of others, the "free rider" can continue to enjoy the collective good without contributing to the collective action. This inherent problem of sustaining collective action has traditionally been confronted in one of two ways. The first is by coercion or compulsion; and the second by rewards or selective benefits (Olson, 1971: 13; see also Parsons and Smelser, 1954: 50-69). Size or scale of the voluntary association adds a dimension which is usually overlooked when considering viable options in seeking a solution to the "free rider" problem. Human organizations, including the church, must then be analyzed according to scale (Simpkins: 1977), whether it be large, small, or intermediate in size. It is then necessary to consider the implications posed by size to the voluntary association. The Large Organization. It would seem plausible that large organizations of an emotional or ideological element would not need to resort to a coercive or reward system in order to sustain collective action. One such example is patriotism usually draws its strength from a common ideology as well as culture or common religion. But, to support the modern state, taxes are compulsory by law. Collective action based upon voluntarism will not support most large organizations (Olson, 1971: 13). Max Weber (1947: 319-320) recognized this when he spoke of "leveraging" individuals through a selective benefit, reward, or special sanction, so that individuals might have a greater incentive to contribute. The Small Organization. In some small organizations each of the members, or at least one of them, will discover that personal gain or interest in the collective good goes beyond the entire cost of providing some degree of the collective good. There are some members in these organizations who would be better satisfied even if they had to provide the entire collective good by themselves than to go without it. This would occur if the benefit exceeded the cost for the individual (Olson, 1971: 34). The single most important point is that a small group, association, or organization may very well be able to provide the members with a collective good simply because of the individual attraction of the good. The Intermediate Organization. In an intermediate organization a member may or may not acquire enough of the generalized benefit to justify his or her own contribution. Groups of this size are large enough that an individual would not find it profitable to pay for the entire collective good; yet, the group would sufficiently notice the loss of only one member. If a member decides not contribute. the cost will noticeably rise for the others in the group; they too 220 �may then refuse to contribute and the collective good would cease. On the other hand, a member might realize that he or she would be worse off without the collective good even though a contribution had to be made. Therefore, the member might or might not decide to contribute for the provision of the collective good. The result is indeterminate (Olson, 1971: 43). The local church is just one organization which falls into the intermediate classification. Although it can be found as both large and small, it is primarily an organization that belongs in the intermediate category. It is the size of this organization which renders it indeterminate as to whether it (the local church) will provide enough incentive for the provision of collective goods. Therefore, the church like other intermediate organizations may or may not be able to sustain enough collective action to supply an optimal level of collective goods. If the church is to continue the provision of collective goods, it must then overcome the inherent problems (i.e., assurance and commitment) of collective action. Collective Action and the Local Church in Appalachia The local church in the Appalachians stands as a curious institution when interpreted through a culture of poverty paradigm. This paradigm maintains that the subculture of the Appalachians is one of self-generating or cyclic poverty (Walls, 1976). Moreover, the organizations therein do not exist to provide Olson's concept of a "generalized benefit," but rather to meet the "personalistic" needs caused from the subculture's extreme individualism. Jack Weller contends that the Appalachian cannot engage in collective action, except it meet individualistic needs; hence, he or she must rely upon the outside, more general culture for assistance. The puzzle within the culture of poverty analysis of collective action in Appalachia can be summed up with the following question: How does one account for the omnipresence of voluntary associations, i.e., the local church, which depends upon collective action over time? It is with this question that a culture of poverty analysis becomes somewhat anomalous. The local church, in its varied forms, is one voluntary association that can be found throughout the Appalachians. Its survival, according to a culture of poverty paradigm, has been in a subculture of (questionable) nonjoiners. In other words, the local church in Appalachia has been to overcome subcultural traits, as well as inherent problems of collective action. How then does one explain the prevalence of the local church, much less its continued provision of collective goods? In the upcoming discussion, language will be linked to culture and the local church so as to set forth a plausible answer. Culture, Language, and Organization A culture and the organizations contained within depend upon the existence of common languages. Human communication and human transactions cannot occur without reference to the common understanding which is inherent in a common language (Olson, 1978: 5). Language is especially important due to its ability to affect human interaction. Whorf has emphasized that language as a system of "conceptual categories tends to shape and channelize thought processes" (Ostrom, 1977: 2). The church must depend upon language if a common understanding is to prevail among the membership. People cannot effectively participate in the 221 �affairs of the church without first knowing what the "terms and conditions" are. Furthermore, the participation in the church, as a social organization, implies that the members are in some basic agreement about the "terms and conditions and standards of value that guide the endeavors" of the membership whether it be in individual or collective action (Ostrom, 1978: 5). If a general agreement does not prevail and the people do not perceive their interest being served, one cannot expect the membership to participate constructively in the affairs of the local church. The church has developed a highly specialized langauge system. This langauge system for the Protestant Church is virtually uniform in content, but not in application. Cultural traits such as language patterns and modes of organization differ from one cultural setting to another. The language of the church, although basically the same as far as Christian terminology is concerned, is not always applied in like manner. If an analysis is made of religious language, whether it be an examination of the analogy, the statement, or the parable, signs and symbols must be understood within the "subcultural ethos" (Stackhouse, 1972) of which it forms a part. Because signs and symbols have a cultural meaning many social scientists have either misquoted, misunderstood, or simply ignored their importance (Madden, 1968). In summary, the church stands as one social organization which provides an array of collective goods, but does not rely upon the conventional methods of motivation, such as coercion or selective benefits, (to any large degree). The primary type of leverage lies in the symbolic nature of a highly specialized language system. Collective action, must in part, be motivated by this symbolic mode of communication. THEORETICAL MODEL The purpose of the theoretical model is to analyze the composition of religious language when it accompanies collective action events in the local church. It is designed to show the association between certain religious symbols and voluntaristic acts in the congregation. The model is based upon the working hypothesis that religious language serves as an instrument of collective action in the local church. The highly specialized language system of the church has traditionally been viewed as a system antagonistic to the process of social organization (Whitley, 1964: 42). Contenders of this view believe the church to be a divine fellowship, not a social organization. Language may however perform two functions. The first function of religious language is to communicate the spiritual message of the church. But it also, secondly, establishes a set of common terms and conditions among people as necessary for a viable social organization. The model (as shown in Figure 1) is composed of two complementary sections. The first half analyzes the symbolic material found within religious statements; and the second half distinguishes three criteria so as to establish collective action typologies. Symbolic Types Religious statements can be analyzed in terms of five symbol types: (1) God Type, (2) Commitment Type, (3) Pragmatic Type, (4) Eschatological Type, and (5) Environmental Type. The God Type. This symbol is any symbolization which directly refers to a superior being, force, or intelligence defined as being "Godlike." In most 222 �THEORETICAL MODEL FIGURE 1 ��instances it will be revealed through one of the three trinitarian concepts of God the Father, Jesus Christ the Son, and the Holy Spirit. Each of these have various derivations, e.g., Lord, Heavenly Father, Master, Good Shepherd. The Commitment Type. Symbols in this category place an obligation on the individual to support a specific cause or event within the work of the church. Some "commitment" symbol usage would seem to be imperative in any voluntary association due to the constant need for volunteers. Commitment is expressed in a variety of ways within the evangelical church. It is most vividly portrayed by the "altar call" which is voiced by forms of challenge or questions such as: "Won't you give your heart to Jesus?" The Pragmatic Type. The "pragmatic" symbol is closely related to the commitment symbol; however, the distinction lies in the difference between commitment to a future obligation and performance of that obligation. This symbol is related to actual participation in the provision of collective goods. Examples such as "I'm working for the Savior" or "I do what the Lord would have me to do," emphasize performance in the present as opposed to commitment for the future. The Eschatological Type. The "eschatological" type symbol refers to a futuristic and otherworldly event or place. "God's Heaven and Satan's Hell" are the most common examples. Others include "the Second Coming" (of Christ) and "Armageddon." Many times this symbolization will appear in phrases such as: "a land of no more tears," or "when the roll is called up yonder I'll be there." These, no doubt, convey a powerful emotional yearning within the local church. The Environmental Type. This type provides a means of characterizing the immediate surroundings of the church. Titles of hymns and sermons often tell of the environmental setting. One case in point found in the Appalachians is that of the folk hymns "God Walks the Dark Hills" and "The Unclouded Day." These vividly portray this symbolic type within a specific cultural ethos. Collective Action Types The second half of the theoretical model is composed of three attributes so as to establish collective action typologies. These attributes are to distinguish (1) type of action, (2) type of leadership for initiating the action, and (3) degree of congregational involvement. First, within the church, collective action occurs in one of two modes: contributions of money and contributions in kind. Second, it is initiated by either the pastor or a member or officer of the congregation. And third, collective action takes place with various degrees of congregational involvement, ranging from an individual to the entire congregation. These criteria are not entirely inclusive nor mutually exclusive; however, they do yield a manageable classification system when examining the evangelical church in Appalachia. The Application The application of the model rests upon Ostrom's (1978: 5) observation that "people cannot effectively participate in the affairs of the community without knowing what the terms and conditions are." These terms and conditions for the church rest in the symbolic meanings found within its highly specialized language system. Religious symbols establish a set of terms and conditions which then act as common instruments of collective action in the provision of 225 �collective goods in the church. The five symbolic types and the three examining criteria for collective action provide this model with an operational set of parameters. By cataloging the symbol type and observing the three criteria of collective action, associations will or will not exist between the two respective halves of the model. The utility of the model lies in the association between langauge and the church to sustain collective action for the provision of collective goods. SUMMARY OF CASE STUDY This is a brief account of an in-depth case study about a rural church located in the southern half of Wayne County, West Virginia, near the town of Fort Gay (pop. 700).4 Since its founding in the late 1860s the church has affiliated with the American Baptist Convention due to their early evangelization of West Virginia. Organizationally, the church is congregational in polity and led by a minister employed by majority vote of the congregation. The current membership is 125, with approximately 85 active members. The difference between formal membership and active membership lies primarily in outward migration rather than lack of participation. Doctrinally the church is conservative-fundamental, although distinguished by its heterogeneous membership in terms of social class. For instance, the Sunday School superintendent is a retired banker; the treasurer, a retired school teacher; the clerk, a housewife; and the board of deacons is composed of skilled technicians and farmers, as well as a top administrator for the State Department of Welfare. FINDINGS OF THE CASE STUDY Three things appear to be necessary to connect language with collective action at this Appalchian parish. First, the symbols must be recognized as "spiritual." If the symbols are not associated with the spirituality of the church then the congregation does not find them compelling. Second, the symbolic expression must contain a reference to the "God" type symbol. This symbolic type provides an authority base for undertaking collective action, one that is well recognized within, as well as outside, the church community. Third, the symbolic expression must contain the "pragmatic" type symbol, the use of which depends upon a general sense of commitment articulated separately through "commitment" type symbols. The expression may or may not contain "eschatological" or "environmental" symbols. The pragmatic symbol, though it can stand alone, acquires greater weight if associated with eschatological or environmental symbols, or both. The eschatological type symbol is also helpful in establishing the spirituality of a symbolic expession. Collective action, whether it be "contributions of money or in kind," occurs with a high frequency at this rural church. The members rise to meet a variety of challenges in the provision of collective goods. For example, if money is needed for a new fixture in the church, it is given by the congregation. If a family of the congregation needs financial assistance, it is provided. If volunteers are needed in Vacation Bible School, the members volunteer. If an individual is sick or hospitalized, assistance is made available. If a fellowship dinner is "potluck," food appears by the carload. The congregation provides these plus many more collective goods because of their 226 �deep sense of commitment to this voluntary association and the members within. If asked why, their response is voiced through one or a combination of the five symbolic types previously mentioned. Symbolic language in this church works as an instrument for overcoming the "free rider" problem inherent in collective action. First, the language is addressed to the "assurance problem," i.e., the need for each member to be assured that others will contribute by articulating a ground of authority and jointness and establishing a shared sense of congregational participation in the provision of collective goods. The combination of "God" type and "pragmatic" type symbols, e.g., "working for the Savior," or "giving your all to Jesus," convey pragmatic terms and conditions which carry the assurance that those who believe in "the Savior" will "work." Second, the language addresses the "commitment" problem, i.e., the need for individuals to feel committed once assured of other's contributions by providing an authoritative means of expressing a continuing commitment to the church. The occasion for expressing commitment at this rural parish is most often the altar call. By responding to the altar call, individuals manifest signs of commitment. In addition to coming forward, individuals articulate their sense of obligation through symbolic expressions both to the pastor and the congregation. To "give your heart to Jesus" is to make a basic commitment with a profound sense of personal obligation. SUMMARY AND CONCLUSIONS Local church congregations throughout America and especially in rural Appalachia are for the most part "intermediate" sized groups. This case study is one example. Given that collective action is indeterminate for this size of collectivity, what makes the difference at this rural parish in its ability to sustain congregational collective action on a voluntary basis? Religious language composed of meaningful symbolic expressions holds the key. Consensus is a necessary condition for voluntary collective action to occur. Language cannot elicit collective action in the absence of consensus. Language is an essential instrument in the act of sharing consensus. The congregation's consensus in this case study rests upon common terms and conditions embodied in a language system which is composed of symbolic types representing "God," "commitment," "Pragmatic action," "eschatology," and the "environment." Implications of the Study: Appalachia/America This study raises several questions in relation to Appalachian culture and religion as portrayed by several previous writers, especially the proponents of a culture of poverty paradigm. The study poses an anomaly for this paradigm in at least two points. First, in a culture of poverty analysis, Appalachian religion and culture are described as "fatalistic." The tentative conclusion reached by this research is that within the domain of the local church "spirituality" has been misinterpreted as "fatalism." Eschatological symbolism is not fatalistic for the congregation of this case study. To the contrary: rather than symbolizing passive acceptance and resignation, these symbols stir to action. Second, the general effectiveness of leadership in a process of collective action in the rural Appalachian congregation may depend on using the right language. Perhaps ministers who were educated outside the Appalachian region that failed to find viable collective action used the wrong language in communicating to the congregation. It would appear that Weller and others may 227 �have disregarded the importance of conservative Christian-Biblical symbols as instruments of collective action. Outside the Appalachian context, religious scholarship in the liberal tradition has held the principle of voluntarism in high esteem (Adams, 1976), while disparaging the use of conservative Christian-Biblical symbols. The results of this study would seem to indicate that the traditional liberal point of view is internally contradictory. Conservative symbolism may in fact be an important source of voluntarism and collective action in the local church congregation. Notes 1. A recent exception to this prevailing view of religion in Appalachia can be found in the introduction by B.B. Maurer and the theoretical supplement by John D. Photiadis to Religion in Appalachia (1978). Also, an exception to the prevailing view of fatalism concerning culture can be found in O.N. Simpkins's article on "Culture" in Mountain Heritage (1075). Jack Weller's position does have a minor difference from the culture of poverty thesis set forth by Lewis. The distinction for Weller is that the Appalachian simply has no culture or as he states, "mountain culture is inadequate..." (1965: 154-160). 2. The phrase "collective action based on voluntarism" could be replaced by the term "voluntary associations." The longer phrase is preferred because of the distinctions between the types of collective action. Collective action does not necessarily mean that it is based upon "the voluntary principle" (Adams, 1976). It may be action that is collective, but motivated by force (coercion), cooptation, or selective benefits; each one of these cases is not voluntaristic. The distinction for this study is imperative. Collective action within the parameters of this study is meant to refer "to the joint action of individuals organized to obtain a common goal, contrasted to the separate actions of individuals" (Carter, 1979). This joint action is maintained by voluntarism, "a principle of organization based upon the free and willing consent of individuals (Carter, 1979). 3. All quotes in this paragraph come from Olson (1971:15). 4. In the space of this paper the case study cannot be fully developed; therefore, the writer will only be able to give a brief summary of the results. The full study is contained in the masters thesis of the writer (See References). REFERENCES Adams, James Luther. On Being Human Religiously. Edited by Max L. Stackhouse. Boston: Beacon Press, 1976. Brewer, Earl. "Religion and the Churches." The Southern Appalachian Region: A Survey. Edited by Thomas R. Ford. Lexington: University of Kentucky Press, 1962. Carter, Michael V. "Religious Language and Collective Action: A Study of Voluntarism in a Rural Appalachian Church." Master's thesis, Marshall University, 1979. Caudill, Harry M. Night Comes to the Cumberlands. Boston: Atlantic Monthly Press Book, 1963. ______. The Watches of the Night. Boston: Atlantic Monthly Press Book, 1976. Erikson, Kai T. Everything in its Path. New York: Simon and Schuster, 1976. Hadden, Jeffrey K. The Gathering Storm in the Churches. New York: Anchor Books, 1969. Lewis, Oscar. The Children of Sanchez. New York: Random House, 1961. 228 �_____. "The Culture of Poverty." Scientific American, October 1966, pp. 16-25. Mauere, B.B. Introduction to Religion in Appalachia. Edited by John D. Photiadis. Morgantown: West Virginia University, 1978. Olson, Mancur. The Logic of Collective Action: Public Goods and the Theory of Groups. Cambridge: Harvard University Press, 1971. Ostrom, Vincent. "Culture, Science and Politics." Paper presented at Indiana University, 1977. _____. "Language, Reason, and Discourse." Paper presented in a workshop at Indiana University, December 20, 1978. Parsons, Talcott and Smelser, Neil. Economy and Society. Glencoe, Illinois: Free Press, 1954. Photiadis, John D. Theoretical supplement to Religion in Appalachia. Edited by John D. Photiadis. Morgantown: West Virginia University, 1978. Simpkins, O. Norman. "A Scale Approach to Community Development." Paper presented at Marshall University, August 1977. _____. "Culture." Mountain Heritage. Edited by B.B. Maurer. Morgantown: Binding and Printing Company, 1975. Stackhouse, Max L. Ethics and the Urban Ethos. Boston: Beacon Press, 1972. Walls, David S. "Central Appalachia: A Peripheral Region." Journal of Sociology and Social Welfare. 4(1976): 232-247. Weber, Max. Theory of Social and Economic Organization. Translated by Talcott Parsons and A.M. Henderson. New York: Oxford University Press, 1947. Weller, Jack E. Yesterday's People. Lexington: University Press of Kentucky, 1965. Religion Mirrors and Meets Appalachian Culture." _____. "How Appalachia in Transition. Edited by Max E. Glenn. St. Louis: The Bethany Press, 1970. _____."Salvation is Not Enough." Religion in Appalachia. Edited by John D. Photiadis. Morgantown: West Virginia University, 1978. Whitley, Oliver R. Religious Behavior: Where Sociology and Religion Meet. Englewood Cliffs: Prentice Hall, 1964. 229 �Goals for the Collection and Use of Appalachian Oral Materials in the 1980s Jay Robert Reese Abstract This paper suggests that, although the present state of Appalachian ressearch and study is healthy, new goals need to be set for the field. The sixty-year rush to record Appalachian culture has resulted in a large body of oral material that remains largely unused. The Appalachianscholar should now spend most of his energy and time on the cataloging, analysis, and use of material collected. There is a great need for an interdisciplinary method of indexing oral materials, an index of Appalachian oral resources, and a bibliography of Appalachian oral materials. Scholars must begin adapting this material to classroom use and must analyze it for answers to questions about Appalachian culture. The present state of Appalachian research and study seems healthy indeed. Not only are the traditional perspectives of Appalachian study (e.g., English, history and folklore) still productive, but their cohabitation, if not marriage, with the newer disciplines that examine Appalachia with respect to its social and political structure, its economy, and its natural environment seems possible. Where once only Berea College was synonymous with Appalachian studies, now almost every college and university in southern Appalachia is involved either in the preservation or the teaching of Appalachian studies, now almost every college and university in southern Appalachia is involved either in the preservation or the teaching of Appalachian life and culture. Even though Appalachian study centers, workshops, and programs abound, the interest necessary to support these diverse activities is not diminishing; in fact, it is growing each year. This new popularity of Appalachian study is forcing Appalachian scholars to question whether the study of Appalachia in the next decade should be based on the theoretical principles that have guided it for the last thirty years. This question seems especially pertinent for the traditional modes of Appalachian study that, to a large extent, have brought the discipline to where it is now. In short, now that we have arrived,where do we go from here? The specific question that must be addressed in 1980 is whether or not past justifications for Appalachian research, as well as methods of investigation resulting from these justifications, are viable for the next decade. Clearly they are not. The primary justifications for the collection of Appalachian materials since 1920 has been the imperative to record the folk ways and speech of the older Appalachians (those persons seventy years of age or more) before they and their ways of life cease to exist. This belief that the researcher's prime responsibility is to save quickly passing aspects of Appalachian culture from historical extinction engendered a method of collection that might be called, "rapid, random-recording research." For the past sixty years, the trained and the untrained, professional and the non-professional, the scholarly and the non-scholarly have flocked to the deep hollows to record the customs and speech of elderly Appalachians. Because of this sixty-year rush to record Appalachia, the usual prerequisites 230 �of scientific and scholarly research have often been ignored. Few field projects have been preceeded by sufficient scholarship to ascertain how the material collected would fit into the broad range of Appalachian research or even if it would duplicate already existing data. Seldom has thought been given to the future use of the material nor has it been collected as an aid in the solution of particular scholarly or cultural questions. Too often in the past researchers have had no clear conception of what they wished to elicit from their informants or why the information would be valuable. Instead, they would simply appear at the cabin door, tape recorder in hand, to ask an elderly person to reminisce over old times. After an hour of such enjoyable babble, the fieldworkers would return home satisfied they had preserved some endangered species of Appalachia. The above is not meant to disparage the research already accomplished. The result of this long rush to preserve Appalachia has produced an oral record of a culture that is undoubtedly unsurpassed anywhere in the nation. It is not unusual for the academician to be approached in his office by a person who claims to have hundreds of valuable tapes of oral interviews of "pure Appalachians" in the trunk of his car. It is also not unusual to find not only that they are there, but that they are indeed valuable. Almost every college within the Appalachian area has some type of collection of potentially valuable Appalachian material in one stage of disuse or another. The question of goals and objectives for the 1980s is not raised to criticize the past, but to evaluate directions for the future. It has been assumed that it is far better to duplicate previous studies than to chance valuable raw information being forever lost. The rush has been to record; the task of analyzing or even cataloguing has been left to someone else, to a later time. It is now, of course, later; we are that someone else and in all truthfulness we must admit that we have either suceeded or failed in meeting the first primary goal of Appalachian research. Either that culture that was rediscovered to America in 1920 has been preserved or it is lost to history forever. It is incongruous to use the same justification in 1980 that was so urgently voiced in 1920. A full six generations of seventy and eighty year old Appalachians have died since the original subjects were found living in their 1920 mountains. Either we are now in the rather embarrassing position of admitting that the old folk ways and speech did not die out as predicted (in which case one wonders if they ever will) or that the "preservation of the culture" justification is no longer valid. Certainly if any change has taken place in the Appalachians during the past sixty years, the twentieth-century-born seventy and eighty year olds we are interviewing today are not representative of the same culture as their 1920 counterparts, who were born in pre-Civil War, frontier America. The acceptance of the fact that we cannot still justify our research solely by a simple call to the preservation of passing folk ways and speech—because they are either passed or not passing at all-is important; for all of us still have a tendency to rush once more to the hollow. The simple observation that we may not need to spend all, or even most, of our energy collecting, that our time may now be demanded in different areas, has been obscured for several reasons, not the least of which is our love of collecting. To a true folklorist, oral historian, or dialectologist of our generation, field work is the magic of our universe. There is always a sense of loss when we finish an interview and must return to the everyday newness of our office. If we had wished to stay in our cement cubicles and talk with our collegues we would have become "regular" teachers, not the woodscolts we are. There are, of course, other reasons that may have hidden this simple observation from our mind's eye, such as the relative rate of cultural change. 231 �Although Appalachian culture has altered greatly since 1920, so has the culture of the rest of the United States. As a result even though for some time we have not been preserving (i.e., recording) what was identified somewhat romantically as the southern highland culture of the 1920s, there still appeared to be sufficient superficial differences between the manners and speech of a present seventy-year-old Appalachian and that of the youth-dominated culture of the 1960s and 70s, so that the preservation theory, if not examined too closely, seemed valid. It is obvious, however, that the type of information recently received differs greatly from that of 1920. Now, time and time again, the response to a question concerning a custom or a form of speech that was commonly found in 1920 is "I don't recall that in my lifetime, but now my parents and their parents said that." It is evident that much of what we are collecting, supposedly to preserve, is now second-hand, hearsay folk speech and culture. In recent years our over-reliance on the preservation justification has constantly forced us to present the exception as the rule in Appalachian research. Since the fifties field researchers have become aware of the increasing difficulty in finding Appalachian subjects who even approximate the romantic stereotype of the pure Appalachian as identified in 1920. Occasionally one encounters subjects who sufficiently resemble the traditional mountain man or woman for us to stamp "formed in Appalachia of pure, original, old cultural ways and speech" upon them, but generally for every acceptable subject encountered, a hundred must be rejected. The areas we go to record are more and more remote and less and less representative of the present Appalachian. Even then it is not unusual to head for the farthest hollow, go up an almost impossible mountain road, walk a mile or two, sit in a non-electric cabin by the side of a pristine fnountain creek and talk to an aged but talkative Appalachian only to find during the course of the interview that six other researchers have been there previously. Perhaps because of these occurrences, one notes that a subtle but significant perceptual shift has taken place in Appalachian research. The older Appalachian is no longer viewed in the same temporal frame of reference as his nonAppalachian contemporary, rather his behavior is compared to that of the dominant culture of the 1970s, a culture sixty or seventy years his junior. This is quite different from what was seen from 1920 through the 1950s. If one reads these early accounts, it is obvious that the ways of the Appalachian were always compared to the ways and customs of persons his own age in other part of the nation1. That is to say, the uniqueness of older Appalachians of 1920 did not result simply because they were old or because they differed from the younger generation, but because they differed significantly from other persons their age in other parts of the nation. Today, however, one might argue that to a large extent the Appalachian is considered unique not because he is an Appalachian, but because he is seventy years old. One wonders if most of the information we now receive from older speakers cannot be gathered from any seventy or eighty year old rural American. In truth, of course, we are no longer doing the same type of collecting that we once did. In recent years we have begun to investigate the total range of Appalachian culture. The older person is not the only subject who is examined, recorded, and taped. More and more as we conduct mutli-generational research which gathers information on middle-aged and younger Appalachians we are increasingly focusing upon contemporary rather than past cultural characteristics. Although we seem somewhat reluctant to admit this in public, it is nonetheless true. Even though our research has changed, we have not examined where we are going as a discipline. As a result we may end up at the end of the 1980s with another generation of Appalachians stored in our personal and 232 �institutional archives, as unused and perhaps as unusable as the first. Perhaps nothing is more indicative of the need for a new direction in our study of the Appalachian culture as the term "Appalachian studies" itself. Always before we have studied Appalachia; now we have programs of Appalachian studies, programs through which we attempt to teach others about the past and present nature of Appalachia. As we attempt to do this we find that we have collected large quantities of raw data, yet we must rely for the most part on the insights and works of those who wrote before any of that material was recorded.1 If it is clear that past justifications for Appalachian research and collecting are no longer valid, what are some suggestions for the decade to come? First, we must design our research projects with a great deal more care than we have in the past. Second, we must collect what is most needed and in such a way that it is most useful. The day when one could justify going up in the mountains to simply collect bits and pieces of Appalachia seems over. A researcher now should know specifically what he seeks, how that information will help the solution of a scholarly or cultural problem and whether or not similar material has been previously collected. One might even suggest that the collection of Appalachian material is no longer the prime responsibility of the Appalachian scholar. Certainly, some collecting of comparable data from younger informants needs to be undertaken, and as we find gaps in existing material they should be filled, but I would suggest that the principal need of Appalachian scholarship in the 1980s is not collection. We should spend most of our energies, our time, and our resources on the cataloguing, analysis, and use of the material already collected. One might argue that the reason the quality of cultural understanding of Appalachia reflected in most books and articles is still only slightly above moronic prejudice is not due to the lack of data, but due to our lack of analysis and explication of that data.» Perhaps we have played in the field too long and now we must work in our offices. When one surveys the last twenty-year period of the collecting of oral Appalachian material, whether it be folkloric, dialectal, or historical, two points are immediately evident. The first is that in spite of the limited money available for such projects, a large and significant amount of oral materials of varied quality have been collected. The second obvious realization is that these materials, except for a few notable exceptions, remain largely unused. Stored in university library special collections or upon the shelves of the collectors, they are-for all practical purposes-useless. In many cases, because of the fragility of the tapes on which they are recorded, they will deteriorate before they are ever used. To understand this problem one must realize a particular curse of the collector: in a year he can collect materials sufficient for lifetimes of detailed analysis. In general, the potential use of a collection is always greater than the original reasons for its collecting. Although most collectors would share their materials with other scholars and teachers, few persons know what they possess. Thus to a large extent, scholars have been forced to reduplicate the work of predecessors, often without even being aware of the reduplication. Even if a scholar is aware of other collections, because there is no standardized method of indexing such materials, there is no feasible and reliable way of learning if previously collected materials would meet his or her specific needs. One of the primary goals of Appalachian scholars in the 1980s should be the development and use of an adequate indexing system. The development of a standardized, interdisciplinary method of indexing oral materials is essential if such materials are to be efficiently used. At present, each discipline collecting oral materials-history, folklore, and dialectology-has no systematized method 233 �of indexing; therefore, each research project indexes materials according to its own particular interests. Because of this a scholar often finds that the very information he needs to determine if a particular tape or collection is of value to his particular research project is absent from the index. To understand this need, one must distinquish indexing from processing. The processing of oral materials might include such activites as the transcription of the tapes or the notation of musical scores. Indexing, on the other hand, provides specific information on certain technological, methodological, and contextual aspect of the materials. The information needed by a scholar of one discipline is not necessarily that needed by another. It is believed, however, that if dialectologists, oral historians, and folklorists consulted each other, a list of the basic information needed by each can be drawn up. The resultant index form might consist of two easy-to-use parts. One, which would contain more general information, would be used at the time of recording. The other, a more detailed list, would be utilized when the tapes are processed for use by the individual collectors. Both forms might be designed principally as checkforms so as to reduce the complexity of indexing; however, they should provide space for the insertion of written explanations or comments on certain predetermined aspects. The availability of such indexes, which might be compiled as the Index of Appalachian Oral Resources, would promote a greater exchange of research data among scholars and teachers. Another major need of Appalachian studies in the 1980s is the development of a comprehensive bibliography of Appalachian oral materials. Without one there is little chance that even the best oral materials will be extensively used by teachers and scholars. Such a bibliography should be annotated so as to provide a general sense of the contents and scope of various collections. It should also tell where further information on a collection can be obtained. Such an Index of Appalachian Oral Resources and a Bibliography of Appalachian Oral Resources should complement each other. The bibliography would serve as a means for a quick search of possible materials, while the index would provide more detailed information on the various collections, sometimes even on specific sections of a collection. After preparation, the information in bibliography and index should be collapsed and prepared for inclusion in a computerized research data bank that would be amenable to computerized bibliographical search systems. Because of the development of Appalachian studies during the 1970s there is need of a detailed and authoritative work on the nature and range of the new multifaceted discipline. Such a work should be, of course, descriptive, but it is important that it contain a list of terms and definitions as well as an overview not only of Appalachian studies but also of the relationship of various disciplines to Appalachian studies. Without such a general guide, it is impossible for scholars who study the field from diverse perspectives to have a clear and accurate conception of the total discipline. Even when collected materials have had a certain currency within the scholarly community, they have not reached a much wider and potentially extremely significant audience-that of the classroom teacher. The basic reason for this is that teachers are not trained in the adaption of raw research and resource materials to classroom use. That is to say, that even if teachers know that such basic materials are in a library close to them, the research will not be utilized because teachers are not trained to adapt them to their present curriculum needs. Therefore, another prime objective of Appalachian scholarship in the 1980s should be pedagogical. It should set as one of its goals the preparation of materials that will demonstrate to teachers how to adapt oral Appalachian materials to secondary and elementary classrooms situations and 234 �currently used curriculum materials. It should also develop sets of classroom materials-at least one for elementary and one for secondary use-that have been adapted from oral Appalachian collections so that teachers can actually see the potential of such materials. There is, of course, one other aspect of Appalachian scholarship that no longer can be ignored during the 1980s. We must analyze our collections and use the data to answer questions concerning the present and past state of Appalachian culture. It is only when we address questions of significance, with our arguments supported by the raw material we have collected over these many years, that we can hope to aid the nation to see the region as it exists or to be of use as the region redefines itself in the last twenty years of this century. It is time to use the materials that we have spent much of our lives collecting to reach a more accurate understanding of the nature of the Appalachian culture. Notes 1. See for example Maristan Chapman, "American Speech as Practiced in the Southern Highlands," Century 117 (March, 1929): 617-23. 2. The standard readings on Appalachia remain works such as John C. Campbell, The Southern Highlander and His Homeland (Russel Sage Foundation, 1921); Harry Caudill, Night Comers to the Cumberlands (Little Brown, 1962), Horace Kephart, Our Southern Highlanders (Macmillian, 1922). 3 Some insightful essays and books on the nature of Appalachian culture have appeared in recent years, such as Higgs and Manning's Voice from the Hills (Boons, N.C.: Appalachian Consortium Press, 1975) and recent editions of the Appalachian Journal; but impressionistic works such as Jack Weller's Yesterday's People (University of Kentucky Press, 1971) are still the rule. 235 �This page intentionally left blank �VI: ABSTRACTS 237 �MARY BRECKINRIDGE AND THE FRONTIER NURSING SERVICE: THE APPALACHIAN RURAL EXPERIENCE* Carol Crowe-Carraco During the early years of the twentieth century in rural Appalachia, the prenatal and postpartum treatment of mothers and babies was particularly appalling. Very often in the mountains of southeastern Kentucky, granny women, having no formal training in midwifery, "cotched" babies in their lard-greased hands; they knew nothing of prenatal, postnatal and pediatric care. In 1925 in isolated Leslie County, Kentucky, forty-four year old Mary Breckinridge, in cooperation with the area's residents, established a unique family-centered health care system, staffed by trained nurse-widwives. This organization came to be called the Frontier Nursing Service (FNS). Using medical directives developed by an advisory body of physicians from beyond the mountains and riding on horseback, the FNS nurse-midwives provided medical services to some ten thousand people in a 375 square mile mountainous area, which had no roads or licensed doctors. Since midwifery training was unavailable in the United States, most of the FNS staff were British nurse-midwives or American nurses who had trained abroad. By 1930 the FNS included a hospital-health center, administrative headquarters, six residential outpost nursing centers, and a referral service outside of the mountains. When WW H brought the departure of most of the British staff and the end of American overseas midwifery training, Mary Breckinridge began a graduate school of midwifery, which expanded in 1970 to include a department of family nursing, where nurse-practitioners receive training. In its fifty plus years, the FNS has faced many problems: falls from horses, jeep wrecks, snakebites, near drownings, and the opposition of many segments of the medical profession. Yet it continues to exist, and its record is amazing. At the end of 1979, the FNS had delivered 18,535 registered maternity cases with a loss of only 11 mothers in childbirth. Long before the principles of community involvement were enunciated, Mrs. Breckinridge recognized that in order for the FNS to be effective, the people themselves had to participate in making the decisions which affected their own welfare, and in the word of Mary Breckinridge, Appalachia's foremost nurse-midwife, "The glorious thing about it is that it works. " •The majority of this paper has appeared under the title "Mary Breckinridge and the Frontier Nursing Service" in The Register ofthe Kentucky Historical Society 76 (July 1978) 179-191. 238 �THE BLUE RIDGE PARKWAY: A UNIQUE PART OF RURAL AMERICA* GranvilleB. Liles Though the frontier is gone, there is still enough of rural America available in Appalachia to provide an opportunity to reshape public attitudes toward the land. The Blue Ridge Parkway and its adjoining lands offer Americans a starting point to better understand the land as a community to which we all belong. Following the Blue Ridge mountains from the Shenandoah to the Great Smokies for nearly 500 miles, the Parkway must be considered an integral part of the southern Appalachians. Begun in 1935 as the first rural parkway in the world, it has served as a model in design, land-use planning, and land-use practices. Unfortunately, in recent years, changes have been occurring so rapidly that, without proper planning, the unique beauty and quality of this part of Appalachia will be lost. We have the model and the precedent to move into a new era of cooperative land-use planning, but there is at present no cooperative force working towards this purpose. If this rural environment is to be preserved, Virginians and North Carolinians, as well as all Americans, will have to come to grips with some form of land-use control. Parkway officials have been criticized for suggesting zoning or other land-use controls as means of protecting the investment in the Parkway and the resources in that total corridor. This should not lesson recognition of the need for more aggressive action by the states, local governments, and citizens in seeking alternatives to such programs. This paper explores some key planning concepts in cooperative land-use planning that are part of an approved Statement of Management for the Blue Ridge Parkway, identified as Management Objectives, as follows: Safeguarding the Scenic Corridor Revising the Resource Management Plan A Comprehensive Access Plan Revising the Park-wide Land Acquisition Plan Perpetuating the Cultural and Traditional Highlands scene These objectives offer a challenge to the planner, politician, land owner, and the citizen to unite their efforts and develop the framework for a cooperative plan that will prevent or minimize adverse uses of this special region of America. This paper has been published as a booklet by the Appalachian Consortium Press, Boone, North Carolina, 1980. 239 �A HERITAGE OF REGIONAL LANDSCAPES: APPALACHIAN BAPTISTRY PAINTINGS* Jack Welch Scattered throughout West Virginia and the Appalachian region in churches which immerse for baptism are a series of landscapes that have not previously been documented and studied, either by folklorists or art historians. These paintings are characterized by their depiction of the Appalachian landscape, usually showing a combination of mountains, water in the form of rivers, streams, or lakes, and trees. There are never any people in these paintings. One could look at the paintings only as an artist's view of the region. Some of the paintings are primitive, such as that by Richard Liming in the Wileyville, West Virginia, Church of Christ. This painting shows a fresh stream flowing forth toward the baptistry itself, a bright yellow sky, and strong birch and oak trees surrounding the water. The colors are primary and vivid. Other paintings, such as those done by Dorothy Decker in the Emmanuel Baptist Church in Parkersburg and the Vienna Baptist Church in Vienna, West Virginia, show the subtle play of sunlight across spring mountains. In one a sycamore tree is coming into leaf, below which, in the clear water, a trout is darting. These are joyous, fresh paintings done in a very sophisticated style. Nine other paintings representing a variety of techniques are discussed in the article. Another approach to these paintings is to consider the religious significance. In those churches which have communion only once each month, the paintings are displayed at the time of the communion, indicating a belief in the religious value of the paintings. The absence of people suggest a Reformation suspicion of images in general, but this must be investigated further. As a twentieth-century phenomenon in America, indoor baptistries created some controversy among churches which traditionally baptized only with running water. The paintings did something to assuage the anxiety about these indoor baptistries. Finally, outdoor baptisms were often aesthetically beautiful, with the congregation gathered around a deep pool in a stream singing while the candidate was immersed. The painting reproduces somewhat the aesthetic effect of that outdoor baptism. In fact, one artist indicated that he saw the painting as a kind of set before which the actual baptism would take place. These paintings deserve much more analysis. The author is documenting other paintings now and is studying the scholarship which would help to explain their religious significance. •This paper has been published in Goldenseal 6 (April-June 1980): 40-46. 240 �BRINGING SISTER HOME: THE FIGHT FOR JOB EQUITY IN APPALACHIA Leslie Lillie This exploration into the economic and social status of contemporary Appalachian women begins with a fictional prelude that depicts an educated Appalachian woman frustrated by how little opportunity for self-realization is available for her sister and her friends. She wonders if the change being sought for women in Appalachia today will come soon enough to make any difference in their lives. The essay which follows this fictional statement considers the underlying reasons for this lack of advance. Primarily, the fault lies in a well-intentioned, but misguided, paternalism that has ensured that the poor of Appalachia are its women and children, that the best indices to poverty in the region are sex and maritial status, and that virtually all the relative increases in poverty in Appalachia in the last ten years have been among female headed households. The place created by women in the coal industry is not somehow a special frontier. A commitment must be made to provide women in Appalachia a full range of choices in occupations that are only nontraditional because women have been denied them. Educating women about their choices is a key factor, as well, in their struggle to achieve equal rights. MULTICULTURALISM IN SOUTHERN APPALACHIAN SCHOOLS: A Diagnosis and Attempted Prescription David N. Mielke Abstract A general analysis of the population of southern Appalachia reveals a high degree of monoculturalism and population stability. This monoculturalism and stability is supported by the number of residents who are native born, the absence of racial diversity, and the singular religious and political orientation of the people. The pervasive nature of Appalachian monoculturalism is also supported by the fact that values, beliefs, and attitudes of southern Appalachian people are very similar throughout the region. Although the influx of outsiders and media exposure have brought a growing awareness of the multicultural world to Appalachian people, a more directed effort is necessary to promote this outlook. Educational institutions have not done their part to foster a multicultural environment. Some prescriptive strategies are available, 241 �nevertheless, to assist the regional educational institutions in meeting multicultural needs while preserving the existing cultural traditions. First, political pressure on behalf of education still needs to be applied in state capitols. Second, care must be taken to see that state approved textbooks are as free from ethnic bias as possible. Third, teacher education institutions must provide teachers with the multicultural experiences and survival skills not provided by earlier formal education. The teacher has the further commitment to pass on an appreciation of multiethnicity in the classroom. American educational institutions are conservative, and the kinds of changes needed to meet the goal proposed here will be extremely difficult to obtain. Schools must respond to this need or Appalachian children will continue to occupy what has been labeled a "disadvantageous position. " APPALACHIAN YOUTHS IN THE JUVENILE JUSTICE SYSTEM: Clues in the Search for a Distinct Culture Phillip J. Obermiller and Dan McKee This paper presents the main streams of Appalachian scholarship and attempts to pose the basic questions about Appalachian culture which are implicit in them. With this overview as background, the discussion turns to a report of an attempt to discover whether a grounded theory of Appalachian cultural uniqueness can be derived from empirical research. The method chosen was a quantitative study of the juvenile court system of Hamilton County, Ohio. The county includes the city of Cincinnati and is a recognized port-of-entry for Appalachians coming to Ohio from eastern Kentucky. The response to cultural variety by the court system is observed and indications are found of a distinct cultural nuance in the court's decisions regarding white, black, and Appalchian youth. Because of this response, it is reasonable to adduce the existence of, at least, percieved culture among those affected by that institution. The final section of the paper provides a theoretical framework based on Thorsten Sellin 's concepts of conduct norms and culture conflict, which are helpful in understanding the etiology of conflicts experienced by Appalachian youth in the courts and in other institutional settings. Areas for further investigation (using Sellin's work) would be the sentencing patterns and the types of offenses for which the Appalachian juveniles were referred to court. 242 �PROBLEMS OF URBAN APPALACHIAN YOUTH IN CINCINNATI Larry J. Redden This paper examines four problems for migrant Appalachian youths in Cincinnati: the schools, unemployment, drug use, and the courts. Its analysis could apply generally to youths from any ethnic or racial subgroup who are having difficulty adapting to the American mainstream. Racial problems and school locations are the two main reasons for the high drop-out rate among Appalachian youths in Cincinnati. The incentive to complete high school may be low partly because of the lack of emphasis on formal education in the Appalachian community. The minimal number of employment agencies in Appalachian sections of the city exacerbates the problem of finding jobs. Social service agencies suggest that Appalachian youth use the counseling provided at Cincinnati public schools, but with the high drop-out rate of Appalachians, the highest of any group in the city, many youths, never take advantage of the service. The high number of youth involved in drugs or court cases stems from the radical disruption in lifestyle occasioned by the move to Cincinnati. Few resources for recreation exist in the new environment. Add to that the lack of success in school and in the job market, and it becomes easy to see why many youths fall into a pattern of delinquency. STRUGGLING TO STAY TOGETHER: BLACK AND WHITE MINERS IN WEST VIRGINIA AND ALABAMA, 1880-1910 Richard Straw Southern blacks played a major role in the development of early coal mine unionism in central Appalachia and the deep South. The study compares the contributions blacks made to the struggle to organize miners in the southern West Virginia fields with their efforts in the coal fields of the Birmingham district in Alabama during the years 1880-1910. In both areas great tension existed between racial beliefs on the one hand and economic and class needs on the other. Most of the behavior associated with Appalachian and southern workers, especially coal miners during this period, relates to the process of class formation, since few of these workers were a part of the industrial order before coming to the coal mines. This study compares miners' participation in and reaction to the new industrial world into which they were tossed. In both West Virginia and Alabama white working class belief and 243 �behavior cannot be squared with conventional assertions about white working class racism, since real and lasting cooperation existed between black and white coal miners during this period. The tremendous amount of evidence of blacks and whites working and striking together and continuing to do so in spite of public outrage and employer use of both white and black strikebreakers should make us rethink some, of the more commonly held generalizations about working class fear and hatred of blacks as competitors in the labor market ofAppalachia and the deep South. The diversity of the labor force with its predominance of unskilled blacks might have suggested that workers would be divided in a strike and other class activity; that workers might have chosen to organize separately; that they might have chosen not to join a union at all; or that they might have accepted the companies' paternalism as benevolent. But the pre-industrial and working class experiences of southern miners during this period significantly shaped their response to industrialism—the biracial UMW was their overwhelming choice. THE ASSIMILATION OF APPALACHIAN MIGRANTS Frank J. Traina Abstract The three counties comprising the region of northern KentuckyCampbell, Kenton, and Boone—have been a major receiving area for Appalachian migrants. This paper tries to determine to what extent Appalachian migrants in the area have acquired the economic and cultural characteristics of long-term residents, that is, become assimilated into the area population. They are compared with nonAppalachian migrants and the native born children of non-Appalachian migrants. The data used for the present analysis come from a recent study termed The Northern Kentucky Quality of Life Survey with a total of 240 completed interviews. The general pattern uncovered is improvement in economic measures as we go from Appalachian migrants to the children of Appalchian migrants, who even though native born, are often very similar to non-Appalachian migrants. The Appalachian migrants are the most culturally close to what have been described as Appalachian value traits. Moreover, they have the lowest education level and the highest completed marital fertility rates of the five groups. The children of Appalachian migrants have the next lowest scores indicating assimilation. But since the tatter's scores are different from the long-term natives we can confidently say they are only partially assimilated. In fact, the data demonstrate that even though native born they may be no more assimilated than are non-Appalachian mirgrants. Since the characteristics and attitudinal measures of the children on non-Appalachian migrants are frequently more mainstream than 'hose of the long-term residents, it is suggested that some long-term 244 �residents may be third, or more, generation Appalachian. But we have no data on grandparents. It is possible that even three generations is not sufficient for assimilation to take place? This is an area for further research. THE CULTURAL CONTEXT OF PHILOSOPHIC CRITICISM, FRANS VAN DER BOGERT* SOME SPECIAL PROBLEMS OF TEACHING INTRODUCTORY PHILOSOPHY AND THE OCCASIONAL ESSENTIAL RELEVANCE OF APPALACHIAN STUDIES FOR TEACHING PHILOSOPHY, H. PHILLIPS HAMLIN ACADEMIC PHILOSOPHY AND APPALACHIAN CULTURE, RICHARD A. HUMPHREY TEACHING PHILOSOPHY IN APPALACHIA: AN EXISTENTIAL APPROACH, GARY ACQUAVIVA The authors mentioned above presented their papers at a session of the conference entitled "Appalachian, American and Academic Philosophies. " Each author shares a concern for developing pedagogical techniques in philosophy courses that take account of the questions and needs of Appalachian students. This composite abstract will attempt to distinguish each author's particular proposals for meeting this end. Van der Bogert observes that when he first began teaching in the mountains oj North Carolina, he was struck by the proverbial difference between rates of verbal exchange in northern, urban, and professional subcultures and in southern areas like the Appalachian mountains. Faced with gaps of silence in the classroom, he found himself evolving from Socratic questioner into a lecturer and, as a result, undermining his attempts to interest students in philosophical questions. His answer to this impasse was to recognize that Appalachian people have different attitudes toward open expression of criticism than do members of the academic profession. Once aware of the prodiem, professors can discuss philosophic criticism with students before asking them to debate issues. If Appalachian students require a defense of criticism, then so do professional philosophers need their own defense of silence. In the interaction which occurs between teacher and students, silence serves as an integral part of the learning process, particularly as an aid in distinguishing what is essential from what is inessential. Ham/in makes his appeal for teacher awareness of Appalachian students in terms of the goals of a liberal arts program. If the humanities are ideally supposed to develop the whole person, then an introductory philosophy course that introduces the ideas of Aristotle 245 �without relating them to the concerns of the student has defeated that purpose. Hatnlin argues that the primary goal of any educator should be to know the interests of the students and to relate the course content to these interests. This goal is particularly worthy of pursuit in introductory philosophy courses where so many students have only this single exposure to the discipline. Otherwise, opportunities for gaining helpful philosophic perspectives may pass by irretrievably. Hamlin concludes by arguing that the tendency in academic philosophy has been to look for truth in universal terms, beyond any particular or regional outlook. Perhaps this attitude could be called into question. At any rate, teaching introductory philosophy students, and in this case Appalachian students, means knowing something about them and their region. Humphrey, in affirming this need, directly assesses the concerns of Appalachians as they relate to land, family, and religion. He states that philosophers need to have a better appreciation for the confusion Appalachians experience by living in a subculture that is in tension with mainstream America. He points to the Appalachians' identification with the land, the support of nuclear and extended families, and the heritage of the rural church as stabilizing forces in a period of rapid change. Philosophy teachers in Appalachia can promote a search for truth in a number of ways: ethics teachers should consider questions of timber rights, zoning ordinances, and subcultural values vis-a-vis mainstream American values in their classes; philosophy of art teachers need to look beyond barn styles to consider poetry, fiction, crafts, music, and other arts of the region; philosophers need to analyze the traditional religious beliefs and practices of the region. Acquaviva, like Hamlin, emphasizes the central place of philosophy within the liberal arts tradition. He suggests that the introductory philosophy course can address the questions of students as perhaps no other humanities course can, and that the existential philosophers provide the best material for addressing those questions. In order to approach teaching in an existential manner, the student/ teacher relationship must come into questions. The goal of the existential approach is genuine dialogue, and the use of technical dialogue or monologue disguised as dialogue on the part of the teacher interferes with his aim. The philosophy teacher should make the effort to project his interest in the points-of-view of his students' especially in the first call meeting. Ultimately then, all four papers affirm the Socratic Quest: "Know Thyself," as it applies to the Appalachian student. To encourage that search, philosophy courses must begin with the questions at hand. A failure to do so means not just a poor reputation for philosophy departments and a decline in liberal arts enrollment, but the loss of an opportunity for Appalchian students to develop philosophic perspectives that would be useful in assimilating new experiences. •Van der Bogert's article will be appearing in a forthcoming issue of Metaphilosophy. 246 �FILM REVIEWS: 'THEY SHALL TAKE UP SERPENTS," "GANDY DANCERS," AND "BUNA AND BERTHA" At the conference session entitled "The Spirit of Appalachia in Faith, Toil, and Song," Thomas G. Burton and John Schroder presented three films they had made on unique aspects of traditional Appalachian life. The funding for these films was provided by the Appalachian Consortium, the Tennessee Arts Commission, and East Tennessee State University. "They Shall Take Up Serpents" focuses on the practice of handling serpents as part of the religious service of the Holiness Church of Cod in Jesus Name in Carson, Tennessee. As demonstration of of their belief in the literal meaning of Mark 16:17-18, members of the congregation filmed in the course of the service speak with "new tongues," "take up serpents," "drink...[a] deadly thing [carbon tetrachloridej, " and "lay hands on the sick. " Rather than exploiting the sensational possibilities of the subject, the film zeroes in on the participants' view of the event. Serpent handling and the drinking of poison serve not as the purpose or objects of faith for this congregation, but as one of several manifestations of the Holy Spirit. "Candy Dancers" is an energetic piece that depicts life on the railroad as it once was: track aligning songs, "knocking slack" chants, station calls, and the work of laying crossties and spiking track by hand. This way of work represents a triumph of the rhythmic, lyrical spirit of men under hard, and sometimes oppressive, conditions. "Buna and Bertha'' presents a short sketch of two mountain women in North Carolina, Buna Hicks, "going on eighty-five, " and Bertha Baird, ninety-three years old. The film captures their sprightly, humorous outlook on life in an interweaving of songs, dulcimer playing, and autobiographical comment. 247 � Dublin Core The Dublin Core metadata element set is common to all Omeka records, including items, files, and collections. For more information see, http://dublincore.org/documents/dces/. Title A name given to the resource Appalachian Consortium Press Publications Description An account of the resource This collection contains digitized monographs and collections from the Appalachian Consortium Press. Creator An entity primarily responsible for making the resource Appalachian Consortium Press Publisher An entity responsible for making the resource available Appalachian Consortium Press Date Issued Date of formal issuance (e.g., publication) of the resource. June 1, 2017 Contributor An entity responsible for making contributions to the resource <a title="Digital Scholarship and Initiatives" href="http://library.appstate.edu/services/digital-scholarship-and-initiatives" target="_blank">Digital Scholarship and Initiatives</a> Publication URL https://www.uncpress.org/book/9781469636900/appalachia-america/ Digital Publisher Digital Republication Appalachian State University Dublin Core The Dublin Core metadata element set is common to all Omeka records, including items, files, and collections. For more information see, http://dublincore.org/documents/dces/. Title A name given to the resource Appalachia / America Description An account of the resource This volume of the&nbsp;<em>Proceedings of the 3rd Annual Appalachian Studies Conference</em>, held in 1981, offers a collection of some of the more important papers presented at the conference. Paper topics include labor and the economy; land in Appalachia; urban Appalachia; education; and values and culture.<br /><br /><a href="https://drive.google.com/open?id=1v6N1EfVdM4x96aW4DJtQvZX51qe9pUux" target="_blank" rel="noopener">Download EPub<br /><br /></a><a title="UNC Press Link" href="https://www.uncpress.org/book/9781469636900/appalachia-america/" target="_blank" rel="noopener">UNC Press Print on Demand</a> Subject The topic of the resource Appalachian region--Congresses Appalachian Region--Social conditions--20th century Appalachian Region--Social life and customs Land use, Rural--Appalachian Region Appalachian Region--Economic conditions--20th century Alternative Title An alternative name for the resource. The distinction between titles and alternative titles is application-specific. Proceedings of the 3rd Annual Appalachian Studies Conference Date A point or period of time associated with an event in the lifecycle of the resource 1981 Language A language of the resource English Creator An entity primarily responsible for making the resource Somerville, Wilson Publisher An entity responsible for making the resource available Appalachian Consortium Press Format The file format, physical medium, or dimensions of the resource PDF Conference proceedings Type The nature or genre of the resource Text Rights Information about rights held in and over the resource <a href="https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by/4.0/deed" target="_blank" rel="noopener">https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by/4.0/deed</a> Spatial Coverage Spatial characteristics of the resource. https://www.geonames.org/12212302/appalachia.html Source A related resource from which the described resource is derived <a title="UA 76 Appalachian Consortium records" href="https://appstate-speccoll.lyrasistechnology.org/repositories/2/resources/9" target="_blank" rel="noreferrer noopener"> UA 76 Appalachian Consortium records </a> Is Part Of A related resource in which the described resource is physically or logically included. <a title="Appalachian Consortium Press Publications" href="https://omeka.library.appstate.edu/collections/show/82" target="_blank"> Appalachian Consortium Press Publications</a> Temporal Coverage Temporal characteristics of the resource. 1980s Multidisciplinary/ Appalachian Studies https://omeka-test.library.appstate.edu/files/original/949da67f4f14d9e40c26ac7ab2db7375.pdf 1d894f27ab31affef94b61290595a44f PDF Text Text �THE IMPACT OF INSTITUTIONS IN APPALACHIA Proceedings of the Eighth Annual Appalachian Studies Conference Edited by: JIM LLOYD and ANNE G. CAMPBELL Managing Editor: JANE SHOOK �The Appalachian Consortium was a non-profit educational organization composed of institutions and agencies located in Southern Appalachia. From 1973 to 2004, its members published pioneering works in Appalachian studies documenting the history and cultural heritage of the region. The Appalachian Consortium Press was the first publisher devoted solely to the region and many of the works it published remain seminal in the field to this day. With funding from the Andrew W. Mellon Foundation and the National Endowment for the Humanities through the Humanities Open Book Program, Appalachian State University has published new paperback and open access digital editions of works from the Appalachian Consortium Press. www.collections.library.appstate.edu/appconsortiumbooks This work is licensed under a Creative Commons BY-NC-ND license. To view a copy of the license, visit http://creativecommons.org/licenses. Original copyright © 1986 by the Appalachian Consortium Press. ISBN (pbk.: alk. Paper): 978-1-4696-3687-0 ISBN (ebook): 978-1-4696-3689-4 Distributed by the University of North Carolina Press www.uncpress.org �Table of Contents INTRODUCTION, Anne Campbell TRIBUTES TO GRATIS WILLIAMS Loyal Jones David Williams Grace Edwards Charlotte Ross James Gifford I. II. III. IV. V. i 1 3 5 7 11 HEREAFTER EFFECTS ON THE HERE AND NOW: RELIGION AND REGION Passing Over Yonder, Howard Dorgan 14 GOVERNMENT AND TECHNOLOGY: CHANGE AND EFFECT ON A REGION Some Thoughts on Science and Technology in Appalachia, Ron Willoughby 24 CAPITALISM AND COAL: A REASSESSMENT Capitalism, Patriarchy and "Mens Work": The System of Control of Production in Coal Mining, Mike Yarrow 29 WORDS AND PHOTOGRAPHS: ENDURING IMAGES OF APPALACHIA Early Regional Photographers: Margaret Morley and William Barnhill in Western North Carolina, Richard Straw 48 JOCKS AND JUNKETS: COME PLAY AND STAY Sports and Play in Southern Appalachia: A Tentative Appraisal, Robert J. Higgs 57 Appalachian Documentaries: Hyping the Myth, Sharyn McCrumb 68 �Appalachia: A Tourist Attraction?, Melinda Bollar Wagner, Lynn Batley, Kai Jackson, Bill O'Brien, Liz Throckmorton 73 VI. BEFORE THE YELLOW BUSES: THE QUEST FOR EDUCATION Settlement School Goes to the People: Pine Mountain School's Community Centers at Big Laurel and Line Fork, 1919-1940, Nancy Forderhase 88 VII. ISSUES OF THEORY AND METHOD IN REGIONAL RESEARCH Class and Gender: New Theoretical Priorities in Appalachian Studies, Sally Ward Maggard 100 Beyond the "Traditional Mountain Subculture": A New Look at Pre-Industrial Appalachia, Mary Beth Pudup 114 VIII. ETHNICITY AND MOBILITY Blacks: An Invisible Institution in Appalachia?, Wilburn Hayden 128 Moving On: Recent Patterns of Appalachian Migration, Philip Obermiller and Robert Oldendick . . 148 IX. X. FREE AT LAST?: VIEW OF APPALACHIAN HISTORY Impact of the Company Town on Traditional Life, Dean Herrin 166 REALITIES AND MYTHS: MOUNTAIN POLITICS Hubbard's Branch of Mill Creek-1964-1984: Twenty Years After the War On Poverty, Warren Brunner and Tom Boyd 175 �INTRODUCTION The Appalachian Studies Conference first met in Berea, Kentucky in March of 1978. Since that time scholars, teachers and regional activists have continued to participate in an annual conference at which ideas and research, as well as personal experiences and concerns are shared. These meetings are composed of many facets — sessions which introduce research findings and theories; panel discussions with community and academic participants; creative presentations that highlight regional artistic endeavors; keynote speakers who share insights, observations and experiences; displays and exhibits which feature publications and programs offered by individuals, institutions and regional organizations; social gatherings where friendships are formed and renewed. These annual events have been held at state parks in Georgia and West Virginia; on campuses in Kentucky, Tennessee and Virginia; at a 4-H camp in West Virginia; and at the Blue Ridge Assembly in North Carolina. The return to Berea College, host of the initial gathering seven years ago, indicates that the Appalachian Studies Conference continues to be of value to those who participate in its annual activities. By rotating the site each year, the Appalachian Studies Conference Officers, Steering Committee and Program Committee attempt to feature specific locales and encourage attendance from neighboring areas. Each year the Program Committee selects a theme for the conference. The 1985 Program Committee chose to direct attention to the impact of institutions in Appalachia. Few people and regions have been as greatly effected by institutions as those in Appalachia. Whether it be religion, family, education, land development, culture, craft guilds or government agencies, all have contributed to shaping Appalachia and influencing its people. While the Committee planned the conference program with this overall theme in mind, we broadly interpreted the concept of institution. Thus the program offered a variety of topics and approaches which included a panel discussion on international perspectives relating to Appalachia, papers on turnof-the-century settlement institutions, as well as contemporary assesments of capitalism and coal. The papers in this publication are a sampling of those presented at the Berea meeting. Hopefully, these offerings as well as future programs of the Appalachian Studies Conference will continue to provide a forum for exchange, dialogue and understanding, and will contribute to the future of Appalachia. Anne G. Campbell, Chair 1985 Program Committee i �1985 Program Committee Anne G. Campbell, Chair Alan Banks Judi Jennings Carol Barrier Loyal Jones Andrew Baskin Jim Lloyd Malinda Crutchfield Sue Thrasher Rosemary Goss ii �Pictures Courtesy of Morehead State University �Pictures Courtesy of Morehead State University �Cratis Dearl Williams 19114985 When the tributes to Gratis Williams were presented at the Appalachian Studies Conference, Gratis lay ill in the Charlotte Memorial Hospital, after bypass heart surgery and a pacemaker. He had thought to be present, and because we knew Gratis, that he would be with us if it were physically possible, we half expected him to appear. But of course he didn't, although David, his son, was a part of the program. We put together a slide show of photographs of Gratis in different periods of his life and in his many roles. We played excerpts of his speeches, conversations and concerts. Then, some of his friends talked about him for a while, not always reverently, and we looked forward to greeting him and honoring him in person when the Appalachian Studies Conference meets in Boone next March. But Gratis died in May, and so our tributes to him now become our memorial statements. In fact three of us spoke at his memorial services. For years you could mention the name of Gratis Williams to those who knew him, and the immediate response you would get would be an appreciative smile, or perhaps a grin. Although we like to say that everyone is unique, we can describe most people by saying they are "like" so-and-so. Not so with Gratis. He was not like anybody else, and, furthermore, we know of nobody who can carry on his very special work in the world. No one else can explain the Appalachian character as he did, or reflect on or sing a ballad in his distinctive way. And speaking: whether his subject was Appalachian speech, folklore, cultural history, material folk culture or whatever, he was a lecturer without peer, with a precision and vividness of language and facial expressiveness that both amused and fascinated listeners. Already we're thinking that we shall never again hear such good stories in the night, told in that careful but sparkling and Chaucerian way. We don't look forward to attending the Appalachian Studies Conference with the scholarly tedium unrelieved by late-evening sessions with Gratis and his clusters of admirers. Gratis published his first regional essay when he was 17; called "Why a Mountain Boy Should be Proud," it appeared in the Louisa (Ky.) Louisian on December 12, 1927. Many other works were to follow: a master's thesis on folksongs of Eastern Kentucky; his New York University doctoral dissertation (1,650 pages), The Southern Mountaineer in Fact and Fiction, the definitive work on the subject of Appalachian literature to 1960 (once, showing this imposing work to a friend, Gratis remarked: "I just wanted you to admire the magnitude of the SOB"); a series of insightful and colorful essays on Appalachian speech; and numerous articles on a variety of Appalachian subjects. 1 �Although most of us knew him as a writer and lecturer or speaker at some notable event, to a great many others he was a teacher and administrator. His educational career included teaching in a one-room school, a high school, being a high school principal, a university English teacher, graduate dean and chancellor. Those who served with and under him spoke of his wisdom and vision. To me, Gratis was an ideal man, representing the essence of Appalachian culture combined with the best in the tradition of liberal learning. He was both erudite and earthy, at once profound, entertaining and delightfully honest in thought and language. We wish we could have just a few more of his insights and a few more stories in the night. Loyal Jones 2 �Remarks at the Tribute to Gratis Williams Loyal Jones remarked earlier that Gratis Williams is many things to many people, and from my vantage point that certainly has a ring of truth about it: he does indeed do many different things and, to that extent, is many different things. But from my unique vantage point, he is predominantly one thing. He is family. He is Papa. And it is as Papa that I shall speak of him tonight. Perhaps I should offer an explanation of why I find it important to speak of him as Papa. Those of you who have heard him tell the tales of our ancestors in Eastern Kentucky will recognize the almost magical qualities generated by the bestowal of familial titles upon the characters. Thus, instead of hearing about my ancestors as men named David or Jake or women named Mandy, I always heard about larger-than-life characters with magical names such as Pa Dave, Grandpap Jake, and Granny Mandy. For me, as a young listener to the family stories, the family history was transformed into legend, and the teller of the stories was not the man Gratis Williams but rather a larger-than-life participant in the legend, Papa. Perhaps someday he will settle into the family narrative as Pa Crate, but for now he remains simply Papa. It is, I suppose, somewhat awkward to have a roast without the body present. Papa has considered that dilemma and, in a sort of optimistic fatalism which I have heard described as characteristic of the mountaineer, has concluded that perhaps it is just as well that for this roast, the body could not be present. Since we are at Berea College, which awarded an honorary degree to "Daddy" King as well as "Papa" Williams, perhaps it is appropriate to summarize Papa's reflections upon not being able to attend his roast by recalling, and misapplying, famous words of Martin Luther King, Jr.: in the cool captivity of his hospital room, Papa feels safe from the searing flames of withering justice which this roast has produced. In actuality, modern technology in a sense has allowed Papa to be here. The roast has been video-taped, and one of those tapes is destined for Papa's eyes and ears. Thus, while the body is absent, the eyes and ears are present. See, I have only been speaking of him as Papa for a few moments and already he has assumed larger-than-life proportions. And, in conjunction with that, I would remind the roasters that next year's Appalachian Studies Conference will be in Boone, which should give Papa a year in which to prepare his rebuttal. He warned me before I came that he was sure that there was going to be "a lot of meanness" said about him. And, with that characteristic twinkle in his eye, he assured me that after reviewing the videotape he would clarify 3 �for me what was fact and what was fiction, what was accurate and what was meanness. In the spirit of Orwell's Winston Smith, I await such clarification. Papa asked me to convey to you some news of his status and progress in the hospital. He reports that the operation and the drugs have whittled him down to a plucky 115 pounds. Those of you who know him know that that is quite svelte. It is, in fact, exactly what his weight was toward the end of his sophomore year in high school. The weight loss has fatigued him a great deal, and he does not currently have the energy that has been spoken of tonight. His spirit, however, has not been dampened in the least, and he is happy to report, in his impish way, that while he lacks the energy and stamina to charm the female nurses in any active manner, his new physique seems to have prompted them to pay greater attention to him. He should be out of the hospital next week. He is progressing well, but more slowly than anticipated. His optimism, however, remains irrepressible. He is very sorry that he could not be here tonight. He had hoped even as late as last week to be able to attend, but he is not yet able to travel. He sends to all his greatest appreciation for this tribute. He conveys his love to the Appalachian region, the Appalachian people, and the scholars of Appalachia. This is, I think, in the end not so much a tribute to him as it is a tribute to you, the people and scholars of Appalachia, for what you see and admire in Gratis Williams is a reaction to who he is, and he is, in his own words, a complete mountaineer. What you see in Gratis Williams, even in the many different things which he can be to different people, is then a reflection of the Appalachian experience and of you as Appalachian people. This tribute in that sense is a tribute to you, the people and scholars of Appalachia, and that is the spirit in which he hopes that you will reflect upon the tribute. David Williams 4 �Tribute To Gratis: A Student's View Once upon a time, long, long ago, a child went out into the world to seek a fortune. The child's footsteps were directed toward the mountain and after climbing and climbing, and climbing at last she reached her destination. Although she had scaled seemingly dizzying heights, she found herself still at the foot of a mountain, Howard's Knob to be precise. "Wait here for instruction," she was told. Soon a parade of faces marched before her shouting out dates and times and places and calculations and formulas, babbling in Spanish, showing off in Chaucerian English, demanding, commanding, pushing, shoving, pulling. At the height of the chaos, out of the rabble emerged a single face, calm and kindly. The voice that spoke sounded like home, "Follow your own path, child. I will show you the way." And so she followed him, for his face was real, and not a mask, and his voice was true, not false. They traipsed through the New England woods that fringe Walden Pond and heard Henry David Thoreau talk about "stepping to the beat of a different drummer." They sat in the parlor of Ralph Waldo Emerson's house and listened to the philosopher say again and again, "Trust thyself." They watched shy Nat Hawthorne tell the story of the fallen woman who wore the scarlet A with dignity. They even rode the high seas on Herman Melville's Pequod, traveled through Europe with Henry James' American, returned to their own country to raft down the Mississippi with Huck Finn, and at long last came home again to the Southern Appalachian Mountains. To the child's amazement, a treasure trove awaited her even in her own land. The master of kindly face, calm manner, and familiar voice spoke, "You have seen the wonders of the world and the literary masterpieces that extole them. Now look at the riches around you." And he began to spin a tale about a boy named Jack and then to sing a song about a girl named Barbary. Those stories and those songs, just like the master's voice, sounded like home. The child felt good to know that someone else shared the entertainments she had grown up with, and more importantly, valued them. For she had labored under the mistaken notion that only customs and manners different from hers mattered—to the rest of the world. The master said again, "Follow your own path, child." And suddenly, she knew the way. Though her path was not free of brambles and briers and though it sometimes plunged into murky gloom, she followed it steadfastly, for the master was always there when she needed him to encourage and compliment and spur her onward. Just as he had promised, she found rubies and diamonds along the way, riches in her own land and among her own people. The story has no end, for the child is still following the path and the master is still encouraging her. This is where fact blends with fiction. In case you haven't identified the characters in this story, the master is Gratis Williams 5 �and I am the child. He has truly been my teacher, advisor, mentor, and friend for over twenty years now—in fact, from the moment I first walked into his classroom as a scared, shy college student at Appalachian State Teachers College. I have taken something like ten courses from Dr. Williams over the years, from undergraduate to graduate to post-graduate days. I have pursued a career that happily intersects with his. I have called on him for advice and help time and time again. Always he responds promptly, fully, generously. But he doesn't wait to be asked for help. He inspires through his letters, that come, unexpectedly, like treasures themselves. Most recently he wrote from his sick bed to offer congratulations for something he had read about. Every now and then, a colleague, a student, or a reporter asks me, "How did you get interested in Appalachian Studies?" I always answer with a name—Gratis Williams. Grace Edwards 6 �Remembering Gratis Williams Once and only once he spoke to me of the inevitability of this day, and he said that I was to wear a bright dress and tell all the people to smile and be happy. And he said this: "Remember me with joy and laughter, or don't remember me at all." He said that if anyone gathered here today had a good memory of him, it would be all right to tell it to Libby or David or Sophie or to someone in this fine extended family of Williamses and Lingerfelts. The folklorist in him understood that there is no finer monument to any man than good memories well shared. He wanted me to speak today because he knew my memories were happy ones. Sometimes two people meet and discover that they share the same magnificent obsession. Both of us had as young children become obsessed with the time and place into which we were born, with these mountains and the people who inhabit them. Each of us had studied Appalachia for many years before we met. The day we met, Gratis correctly placed my accent within twenty miles of my home, and I fell in love with him forevermore. He was my friend and mentor for seventeen years. I loved him as one loves a parent or only the rarest, only the very greatest, of teachers. For the next few minutes, I wish to share with you some of my great joy in remembering Gratis Williams. I remember Gratis pausing each morning to sniff the air, to take the measure of the new day, saying, "We do live in a pretty part of the world." I remember Gratis tramping through woods still wet with snow to see if the sarvis, that first harbinger of the mountain spring, was blooming yet. I remember Gratis stopping his car so suddenly that four cars nearly collided behind us so that he could glory over a Mail Pouch, tobacco sign painted on a West Virginia barn. I remember Gratis savoring good whiskey both here and abroad; and if it was homebrew, he'd shake the jar and watch the bead form, and turn to the crowd which had gathered to watch his antics, and taste, and say, "Now that's fine, finer than frog hair." I remember Gratis calling me in the early A.M. anguish he often knew with the dreadful news that the Red Bird Mission School had burned, or that Bill Plemmons was worse, or that we had lost that good man, Jesse Jackson. And I remember Gratis forever watching the faces of passers-by for evidences of the mountain heritage. "That looks like an Etheridge," he'd say. "Go and call him over here, Charlotte, for I want to know him." Once he stopped a woman on a Philadelphia street saying, "You have an Eastern Kentucky face." And when her shock abated, she told him she was from Harlan County, U.S.A. I remember him as always moving: bouncing across a footlog near my 7 �home in North Georgia, hurtling through Eastern Kentucky, skidding on gravelly coal near Neon, Kentucky, discovering that he had no brakes as we sped through the Cumberland Gap with Gratis yelling "Whoa, dammit, Whoa!" to his Chevette. I remember his foot slipping through a rotted board on a swinging bridge in West Virginia, and I remember him wading the Pigeon River with plastic garbage bags over his pantlegs so that I could show him an old graveyard on the other side. And I remember him always moving during that magic five-week trip we took together in England, Ireland, Scotland and Wales: riding the ferries with the spray in his face in the Outer Hebrides, buying tweeds in Scotland, sampling the pubs in Ireland, walking the Roman Wall dividing Scotland and England long after night had fallen, looking north toward Celtic lands. I remember him as always talking. When he got into a car and perched on the passenger seat, it was as if a switch had been turned. He could talk nonstop for hours as long as the car was moving. Mostly, he talked about Appalachia; some of his best informal teaching was done in these circumstances. But he also talked to people everywhere: to waitresses, and schoolchildren, and to old men on the courthouse steps, and to people in the street. When he wasn't talking, he was singing. His greatest disappointment in me was that I cannot carry a tune, so mostly, he sang to me. I remember one day of sheer serpendipity in the lowlands of Scotland when Gratis Williams sang the English and Scottish ballads for nearly six hours. I remember him as the consummate teacher. He was always observing his own culture, always asking the hard questions, always setting me tasks to enrich my understanding. Like all truly great teachers, he expected that the student should surpass the master. "Else what's a teacher for?" he'd say. His mind was analytical and his interests wide-ranging. Yet, his style was always narrative and anecdotal, for that is the Appalachian way. What I seem to remember most is the highly personal nature of his teaching. I can still hear his voice asking me to sing that verse from "Lambkin," the one about the false nurse, or laughing at me because I'd never thought to ask why cedar trees grew in straight lines on the hillsides. He would taste old paint to see if it was made with lead or buttermilk. He reminded me that only the rear doors of old cabins were ever painted, for blue paint kept the devil out. He taught me to observe the people of the region closely. "That's the Appalachian body type there." "Looks like Ernest Hartley." Or, "You must remember that family name; they came down the Holston on a flatbed raft and later fought at King's Mountain." He wanted me to know the places of legend and history. When he was able, we'd walk the historic landscapes together: whole sections of the Wilderness Road and of the Great Wagon Road from Philadelphia, the twists of Dark Hollow in Surry County where the pioneers veered southward into Carolina and the Yadkin country, and 8 �the old route from Wolf Cave south along the Holston to the Watauga settlements. In later years, he'd take his afternoon nap in the car while I made my way along the river looking for the place where they found Jenny Wiley, or edged along under the cliffs seeking the place where Indians tortured Boone's son, or found the site of some forgotten treaty. And it was always just as Gratis had said that it would be. For seventeen years, assiduously, he taught me. It was the most intensive educational experience of my life, and easily the most personal and the most exciting. There was such glory in his giving, and he was always teaching. I will remember Gratis most for the thing he did the best. He was consistently, obdurately, and unrepentantly Appalachian. From the day we met until the day he died, I never once saw him waver from the Appalachian point of view. He was the original autochthonous Appalachian; his very blood and sinew were sprung out of the ground that bred him. And his mind was like a clear spring of water bubbling upward through limestone. He was the perfect exponent of Appalachian culture in the last half of the nineteenth century, though he was born in the twentieth. He was Gratis Williams, mountaineer, and he was Appalachian to the fourth power. You have to admire that kind of singularity of purpose, that consistent vision. Gratis though that lives lived without passion were uncommon dull, and he was never dull. The secret of his charm was that his life was dedicated to the study and explication of his culture, his people, his mountains. He sorrowed for those whose lives had no such center, who seemed to be always searching for identity. If he had a fault—and he admitted to one—it was that he couldn't understand why this viewpoint was not universal. He could not comprehend why anyone, particularly one of his blood, would live in flat country. "What," he would demand of me, "do they rest their eyes upon if there are no mountains?" Several times a year he would leave some meeting or other in the strained silence which in him passed for high dudgeon. After a silence of a few miles he would turn to me and say, "I was not born to the middle class, nor do I aspire to it." "A thing like that could purely stultify a man's soul." "They do not have our values." There are certain images and sounds which will always evoke his presence. I will remember Gratis whenever I see the leaves on the trees turning their backs to the wind as they did on the August day when he first came to Boone in the year that I was born. I will remember Gratis whenever I see a man cutting spring onions into cornbread or digging new potatoes. I will remember Gratis whenever I see the first bloom of spring upon the mountainside. I will remember Gratis whenever I hear any of the five sounds which he thought just might be the very essence of Appalachia: the sound of fiddle music on the night air and the accompanying stomp of a barn dance, an Appalachian tenor with that high lonesome sound, an old woman singing ballads to the rhythm of her churn, hounds running foxes up the 9 �mountainside, and the sound of the human voice rising and falling, telling the old stories. Once, operating on some internal radar, for all the road signs were down, he found Ossian's grave in an Ulsterman's pasture. He stood for a long while in the soft rain. The next day in Belfast during an interview for the BBC, he spoke about the experience. He said that it was a very fine thing to be buried in a grave on a hill overlooking a beloved country. Now, the ashes of Gratis Williams begin the final journey home to a grave on a hill in the Williams family cemetery—Caines Creek, Lawrence County, in the kingdom of Eastern Kentucky. And some of us will remember him always. When I first knew him, I loved him because he was all our yesteryears. Now, I know that remembering him will color all of my tomorrows. And I will love him for all enduring time. Charlotte T. Ross 10 �In Memorium Gratis Williams was born April 5, 1911, on Caines Creek in Lawrence County, Kentucky. In 1924, his father took him by wagon to the countyseat town of Louisa and enrolled him in high school there. After becoming the first from Caines Creek to graduate from high school, Gratis was awarded a tuition scholarship and a workship by Cumberland College in Williamsburg. After a year at Cumberland, he returned to Caines Creek to teach a one-room school. With a broom in one hand and a bucket packed with chalk, erasers, dipper, and a record book in the other, Gratis walked the five miles from Elaine to his home, proud of his accomplishments and excited about his future: "I was now a teacher," he later recalled, "I remember the cool, dank stretches of the sandy road beside Elaine Creek and the dust on the tall weeds and the leaves on the sycamores, willows, and water birches as I strolled along. Occasionally, I would be blinded by the dust kicked up by a car, but after I turned up the Caines Creek road I saw no more cars. The afternoon was hot. Poison ivy along the fence rows and the trumpet flowers that dipped from the Virginia Creeper growing on posts were still and dark in the hot sun. I thought of my trip up the creek in the wagon a year and a half before when I held proudly on my knee the loving cup I had received at the high school commencement and how pleased I had been to find on the front page of the Big Sandy News a week later my picture and a writeup that Earl Kinner had prepared. I remembered the trip in the wagon less than a year before when my father brought me to Elaine to find a ride to Louisa where I left by train for Cumberland College. That had been a hard but pleasant year, for all of that. I had made good grades, earned extra credits, and felt confident that I would teach a good school. I had also felt more keenly the pinch of poverty and recognized more deeply than ever before that I was depressed much of the time. The running sore on my thigh had never healed. My left leg tired easily. But I also knew that I felt irrepressible joy, especially with other people, and that I would go on to the University of Kentucky where I would have the money I had earned as a teacher to support me without having to try to work and go to college at the same time." His approach to one-room school discipline was unique. He assumed "that all thirty-three of the children were capable, eager, and industrious." Proceeding on that assumption, he laid down no rules, as one-room school teachers before him had always done. Rather, he referred to "the desire of everyone to be thoughtful and considerate of others and to have others return thoughtfulness and consideration." With this as a guide, he observed, "we would most certainly get along well and enjoy school." Gratis was so successful in presenting his basic guidelines for conduct that it was not necessary all 11 �year to whip a child with a switch, the "traditional terminal punishment" for misbehavior in one-room schools. Cratis's keen sensitivity to other people's feelings and his compassion and appreciation for others became personal trademarks. As a one-room school teacher, he had "three little tow-headed girls" who could not buy toothbrushes for their oral hygiene class, and so Gratis asked parental permission to buy the brushes as presents. "The father and mother looked at each other for a moment. Tears came to the mother's eyes as she nodded her head slightly." The father said that he would like "for his girls to be able to do what the other children did," and he told Gratis that the children quoted him as the "pure Gospel." The father offered to repay him, but Gratis told him that he had not come to urge him to go into debt for the brushes, that he liked his little girls and they were doing so well in school that he wanted to give them the brushes...but did not want to run the risk of hurting (the parent's) feelings," and so he sought and received their approval. On his way back home, Gratis stopped at the country store and post office and bought three toothbrushes, a green one, a blue one, and a red one so that everyone could participate in the toothbrush drill. Throughout his career, Gratis extended this kind of loving help. I first met him in the summer of 1977 at a Berea College workshop in Appalachian history and literature. I had heard of him long before I met him, but, unlike many living legends, he equalled his advanced billings and exceeded his reputation. He enthralled audiences with his knowledge, and he captivated individuals with his charm. Not surprisingly, I was eager to involve him when I came to Morehead State University in 1978 to develop an Appalachian Studies Program. The following fall (November 28-30, 1979) Gratis served a consultancy at MSU's Appalachian Development Center. As always, he kept a hectic schedule gracefully. He met with the Appalachian Studies Advisory Committee, delivered a public lecture one evening, addressed several classes, and met informally with interested students and faculty. Afterwards, he submitted a detailed and extremely beneficial set of guidelines that provided intellectual, curricular, programmatic, and developmental cornerstones for our emerging program. His greatest effect, however, was on the individuals he encountered. One faculty member wrote to him: "Words have not the power to convey either my joy from or the positive effect of your three-day visit to our campus...! am delighted to have met a person with your knowledge of our cultural heritage and zest for sharing it with others. I eagerly await your next visit to Morehead." Another wrote that his lecture to her literature class "provided one of the finest academic experiences that our students could ever have." In June of 1980 and 1981 and again in 1984, Dr. Williams served as Scholar in Residence for MSU's annual Appalachian Celebration. I was impressed 12 �with the quality of his wide-ranging knowledge and appeal and with his enormous personal charisma. Again, his contribution were enormous and farreaching and the positive effects of his visits reverberated throughout the area long after he returned to his home in Boone, North Carolina, where he remained actively "retired" as a special assistant to the chancellor of Appalachian State University. On September 17, 1981, Gratis made the first presentation in MSU's "Our Mountain Heritage" lecture series. He maintained a regular interest in and support of our Program. Cratis's contributions to Morehead State University exemplify the type of assistance he gave throughout Eastern Kentucky. He worked closely with Ron Dailey and Mike Mullins at Alice Lloyd College and with the late Leonard Roberts at Pikeville College. He regularly taught in Berea College's highly regarded summer workshops. He served on the Board of Directors of the Hindman Settlement School and as Chairman of the Alumni Board of Cumberland College. His contributions to Eastern Kentucky institutions illustrate the service he provided throughout Southern Appalachia. Yet, it seems to me that his greatest contribution was his positive influence on individuals. Gratis had an uncanny ability to become a part of peoples' lives. Like a modern day Johnny Appleseed, he went about The Southern Mountains planting wisdom, and joy, and good advice, and whenever he returned he found lifelong friendships in bloom. Gratis was consummately human. He revelled in a well told story, a good party, a hearty chuckle, or a mischievous giggle. Ifet, for all his down-to-earth qualities, he transcended his humanity and became a mythic and heroic being. All of us are children at heart; all of us once joyously looked forward to a visit from Santa Glaus or the Easter Bunny. After we got older, we looked forward to a visit from Gratis. Life is a series of beginnings and endings. I do not think Gratis would want us to view today as an ending, rather I think it is the beginning of a new phase of our relationship with him. We can no longer seek his advice and we can no longer draw strength and comfort from our visits with him, but we can do the things he would want us to do and we can rely on both memory and the written word for his guidance and inspiration. Like Tennyson's Ulysses, Gratis became a part of all that he met. The part of us that is Gratis is now more than a gift—it is a responsibility. Although he received many honors and awards, (including honorary doctorates from Morehead State University and Marshall University) his most significant awards are not inscribed on plaques or printed handsomely on diplomas or books; they are written with love and admiration on the hearts of hundreds of people like me who are forever grateful for his friendship, advice, and good company. Gratis made his mark upon the immortal mind! He set fires of love and learning that will brighten to all eternity. James M. Gifford 13 �HEREAFTER EFFECTS ON THE HEAR AND NOW: RELIGION AND REGION Convenor: Chester R. Young, Cumberland College Frontier Baptists and Changing Values, 1821-1910 John L. Bell, Jr., Western Carolina University Impact of Church and School in Black Communities in Jackson County Victoria A. Casey, Sylva, North Carolina Passing Over Yonder Howard Dorgan, Appalachian State University Passing Over Yonder by Howard Dorgan When Old Regular, Regular, Primitive, Union and some Missionary Baptist associations print minutes of their annual sessions they include obituaries for members who died during the previous year. This isn't an honor reserved just for leaders of the association or for leaders of the affiliated churches. Instead, all members—and sometimes nonmembers—may have their obituaries printed in these pages. It's just a matter of someone in the family composing the document and submitting it for publication. The cost of printing is borne by the association, with only a small charge to families wanting to include a picture of the deceased. Placing an obituary in the association's minutes constitutes a final tribute and farewell too important to overlook, and Old Regular families in particular are quite diligent in this duty to the deceased. In this subdenomination, the document is often read at the funeral, and once the statement is published, it is preserved in the family papers as an important memorial for the deceased. It will be read and reread in years to come. Occasionally, an individual will write his or her own obituary, with some member of the family then updating the document at the actual time of death and adding whatever sentiments seem appropriate. Such was the case for Alice Belcher, who on July 24, 1980, authored the following statement about herself: I will now try with the help of my good Lord to write my obituary. I was borned February 10, 1899. At Lookout, Ky. I was the daughter of the late Dave Mercer and Alfire Castle Mercer. I was married (to) Bowes Belcher, June 8, 1920. To this union was borned six children. One boy and five girls. The boy and 14 �was horned six children. One boy and five girls. The boy and one girl were still horned, leaving four girls. Vivvan died in 1970....I have eight grand children, eleven great grand children. One sister Mrs. Viola Hall of Manchester, Ky. I love them all very much. I wount all my Brothern and Sisters to pray for them all. I joined the Old Regular Baptist Church at the Little Hattie Church in May 3, 1950. I was baptized by Elder Jim Green and Fon Bowling. I all ways love to go to church. I love all my brothers and sisters. I fell and broke my hip and did not get to go. I prayed to the good Lord to let me get well so I could go. I could not get off the porch with out help. I set at home by my self so many long days. I hope this life will soon be over. I wont have to suffer and set alone. Cheldren remember the good council Mother gave you. Be good to each other. Read the bible. It will not tell you anything wrong. I hate to leave my family, but God is able to take care of them, if they will only listen. Have mine and Daddy picture put in minutes. My husband has been gone for sixteen long years. I miss him so much. Written by Sister Alice Belcher, Wife and Mother. By God's help, I love you all. Mother passed from this life February 4, 1984. At the age of 84 years, 11 months and 25 days old. Mother was a devoted mother and a loving grand mother. A dedicated Sister in the Church for over 33 years. She has fourteen great grand children now. Daddy passed from this life October 4, 1964. We miss them so very much. But we know they are together up in heaven (where) there will be no more sorrow, truble or pain to bare. If we take mothers advice, by the grace of God we will meet them in Heaven some sweet day. With all our love, Her Daughters. Phyllis, Etta, Geraldine.1 Small associations, such as the Senter District Primitive Baptists and the Little River Regular Baptist, devote only a few pages to obituaries, but the Union Baptist Association and the Sardis Association of Old Regulars run twenty to twenty-five pages of memorials, while the Union Association of Old Regular Baptist regularly publishes fifty or more pages of these farewell statements. My attention is directed at the Sardis and Union associations of Old Regulars. Written by "left to mourn" husbands, wives, children, or other loved ones, these obituaries serve not only as farewells to deceased brethren, but also as opportunities for writers to make summation remarks about life, to 15 �affirm basic beliefs, and to call other family members to needed repentance and change. For the most part, the statements are unsophisticated and straightforward defenses of the "earthly life" contributions of respective Brothers or Sisters, augmented by calls to the living to remember and emulate. Frequently, eulogies make pointed reference to individuals who must change their lives "if they are to follow the deceased into heaven," and occasionally the statements become apologias for the deceased, as if to say, "This individual was a person of goodness and worth: God should take note of the stars in his or her crown and open wide the gate." A basic format seems to be followed in these obituaries. First, there is the traditional opening statement, usually a comment about the personal pain involved in writing the document, along with a suggestion that the eulogist feels himself or herself inadequate to the task at hand and thus must call upon God for inspiration and guidance. Next, there is a succinct review of the departed's life, with particular emphasis upon the family left behind. An account of the deceased's descendants is usually provided, and pride seems to be taken in the extensiveness of the list of children, grandchildren, and great-grandchildren. Then, statements are made about how important the individual was to family, friends, neighbors, and church; and it's particularly necessary to note how much the deceased will be missed: All us children can say that Papa (Elbert [Ebb] Fuller) was the best example we could follow for our lives. We have lost something so Precious that can never be replaced here on earth. We all hope the Good Lord will strengthen us and help us take care of our dear mother. Papa and Mommy were so good to each other that all Mommy has to worry about is the loss of Papa which will be hard... I had a good papa here on earth. Jesus took him to heaven. He knew what he was worth. Sister Fannie (Hale) was a pillar in the Church for the 61 years that God blessed her to spend in the Church. She baked the bread to be served in our Communion meetings from the time I first can remember until these last few years when her health wouldn't permit her to continue. She seemed always present when her name was called. Her warm felt, kind and sweet spoken words of counsel would be good for each of us as we journey through this lane of life.2 Near the close of an obituary there traditionally will be a statement to the effect that the departed has merited redemption and the rewards of heaven. This passage serves as a final note of assurance to loved ones that all is well with the deceased's soul. Often it will be supported by some brief narrative illustrating the departed's own awareness of imminent death and 16 �subsequent passage to "glory": So many times we have heard Mom (Dollie Barley Ratliff) tell of her experience as she would cast her eyes toward Canaan's Land. She led a good Christian life, and her influence will continue to give faith and hope to the ones who knew and loved her... The night before her passing, even while enduring severe pain and suffering, Mom continued to quote verses of scripture from the Bible. She seemed to know that the death angel was near and sincerely believed in God's mercy and goodness... (Mom is) resting in Ratliff Family Cemetery awaiting the coming of Christ, and to go home with Him to live forevermore in that country where sorrow and trouble are unknown. 4 Occasionally a church member will compose an obituary for a deceased friend or loved one who was never church affiliated or ever baptized. Motivated by a desire to give his friend or loved one the best send-off possible, or by a wish to assuage fears of the family, this obituary writer will find something that projects a glimmer of hope for the departed. The 1983 minutes of the Union Association of Old Regulars, for example, contains a memorial statement for Thestil Edward Slone, killed in a coal mining accident at the age of thirty-three. Written by the deceased's uncle, Elder David Slone, the obituary notes that the nephew had been divorced from his first wife and had remarried, producing two children by each union. Although no details are given for the divorce, this termination of the first marriage may have been the basis for Elder Slone's remark about his nephew doing wrong; for Old Regular churches generally exclude from their memberships all divorced individuals, "except those who have put away their companion for the cause of fornication."4 At the point in the obituary when Elder Slone ordinarily would have given assurance of the deceased's eternal salvation he had the following to say about his nephew: Although he did wrong things in life, we all have sin(ned) and come short of the Glory of God. He never joined any Church, I have told him you must be Born again. Many times, he would ask me questions concerning the Bible what Jesus said. If he made Peace with Jesus before he died, he is better off, than any of his family and friends left here on earth... To all the family and friends of Thestil Edward be good to one another, and when you can't do any thing good for one, please don't do them any wrong, and make Peace with Jesus while you have life and opportunity.5 One common way obituaries are closed is to turn the discussion away from the deceased and to direct an urgent admonition at remaining members 17 �of the family, particularly the children. This admonition will call upon these "left behind" individuals to straighten out their own lives so they will be able to reap the same rewards claimed for the deceased: I want to say to Bob and Louise and all the other children if you get to where I feel Mother is you must repent and be born again. To do that when Jesus Christ reveals himself to you, you must believe in him and obey his spirit....He'll deliver your soul from the dead state to a lively hope in the Lord Jesus Christ....My hope is that you will repent and be born again and we'll all live together in a land where there is no more dying, but peace and love, joy and rejoicing.6 Reflections On Life These obituary writers believe the pleasures of life to be centered in the circumstances of family, community, and church, with establishment of warm or loving interpersonal relations taking priority over other accomplishments—such as building careers and massing estates. When "good" things of life are mentioned they are noted as being found in the family setting, in relationships with friends and neighbors, in traditional activities of the church, and in a personal conviction of spiritual salvation. The "bad" things of life are centered in hard and drudging work, in travails of poverty, in sufferings of ill health, in pains of losing loved ones—particularly children and spouses, in worries over unconverted loved ones, in struggles for personal salvation, in loneliness of old age, and in the slow movement of time when one is ready to "pass over yonder." In general, "Mom" is lauded for the wonderful nurturing she gave her children, for memories she left in the minds of these children, for spiritual guidance she provided, for loyal devotion she accorded her husband, for the abundance of friends she had, who subsequently mourned her death, for service she gave her Brothers and Sisters in the church, for her faithfulness in church attendance, and for the "joy" of her singing, shouting, and other forms of religious expression. "Papa" is lauded for years of hard work, for diligence in being the family provider, for firm and righteous counsel, for love of his children, for dedication to his wife, for ability to endure hardships, for faithful service to the church, for generosity to family and friends, and for his personal religious testimony. Mother and Poppy 0°nn and Margaret Raines) will be remembered by all who know them for what they were, hard working, honest, praying, God Fearing people... The old home doesn't seem like home without Mom and Poppy sitting on the porch. 18 �porch. No one could tell a story like Poppy and no one understood like Mommy. All her children were tender and beloved in her sight. She wouldn't leave home for anything if she was expecting any of the children to visit... Some of the children would travel hundreds of miles to be with them whenever they could, if only for a weekend... The family gatherings won't be the same now, with vacant seats at the long table where mother had prepared hundreds of meals for the family, friends and the church.7 Little is said in these obituaries about careers. Work is sometimes mentioned, but usually not in any detail. A father will be praised for having worked hard all his life, and frequently a man will be identified as a retired miner, farmer, mechanic, poultry raiser, etc. Often mention of a life's work will be made only in reference to hardships endured: A mother is praised for years of struggle to raise eight children, five of whom survived; a dad is lauded for thirty-one years of service to the furniture industry; and a son's early death is attributed to a coal mine accident that broke his back. The dominant image of labor, as depicted in these obituaries, however, is not a negative one. In fact, labor is probably more frequently mentioned as a dignifying factor than as something to the contrary, and there are occsional glimpses of lives that have been particularly fulfilled by labor: Bob (Williams) had resided at this farm for about 50 years and worked very hard, he and his wife, to raise their children, and continued to work after the children left home, raising a garden and canning and freezing so we and our families could have fresh vegetables and country meat when we visited the farm to see Grandpa and Grandma, and they insisted everybody take some back to the city. He achieved self satisfaction and pleasure from his long weary hours on the farm, something very few of us accomplish. Dad was a team driver by trade, I suppose the men in his profession called him a Mule Skinner, that was many years ago when logging and lumber was the largest industry around Virginia and Kentucky, and when coal mining became the primary industry, he worked several years at Harmon Mines on the tipple and then retired from public works to live out his remaining years swapping and bartering and farming which he truly enjoyed, because it required running around the country in his pick up truck and meeting and talking to the people. Most everybody around in that country knew him. Daddy loved to listen to the old time singing in the Old Regular Baptist Church, and he liked the preaching, but he had his preferences of preachers. He died from a heart attack, while cutting briars on his farm 19 �in the late afternoon and we truly believe he would have wanted to go this way.8 The overall perspective on life presented in these obituaries is strongly positive but romanticized. There are allusions to hard work and references to personal sufferings, but the broader image is one of perseverance, happiness, and love. Real hardships of life seem forgotten when these final summations are recorded, and deceased individuals are depicted as having made it through this temporal life with courage, fortitude, and joy, while providing inspiration, strength, and loving counsel to those fellow travelers of lesser talent, experience, or grit. Life, therefore, is pleasurable if lived well, with particular emphasis upon one's personal duty to family and church. Furthermore, a clear sign that you have indeed lived well is the multitude of loved ones and friends left behind to speak highly of you and to mourn your passing. Have you been an inspiration to your family, friends, neighbors, and fellow church members? Have you suffered bravely, prayed fervently, sung joyously, loved generously, and struggled diligently? If you have, then people will remember your example and thus be strengthened themselves. When your name is called out in future memorial services there will be good things to mention about your life. The elder will stand before the church, read aloud your name, and then stop and say: "He loved to sing the old songs of Zion"; "She thrilled us with her joyous shouting"; "He always had a kind word for each Brother and Sister"; "She suffered her hardships bravely"; "He was a favorite with all the children and young people"; "She maintained a warm, loving home, and kept it open to her neighbors and church brethren"; "He was poor in earthly goods, but rich in spirit"; "She was a witness to all her children and grandchildren"; "He served as moderator of our church for twenty years"; "She always baked the communion bread"; "They always filled their seats in church." Reflections on Death One ironic characteristic of these obituaries is that they generally communicate the idea that life, though often troubled, is basically good, but that death is even better. In one way or another, these farewell statements proclaim the passing of the loved one to be something positive, not of course for those left behind, but for the individual who "departed this world." There is the pronouncement that death has removed the deceased from a painful existence, either of a physical, emotional, or psychological nature. There is the judgement that death is allowing a reunion with loved ones gone on before, frequently with the prayer that the "circle be unbroken." There is the conclusion that death is bringing "rest" to one whose life was marked by long, hard, and continuous work. But most important of all, there is the 20 �declaration that death is opening the door to a kingdom of eternal joy, peace, beauty, and union with God. The death of an infant or child, however, presents a difficult problem for rationalization. If the deity calls us to death, just as he calls us to redemption, why does he occasionally call so early? In relationship to the whole scenario of life, sin, redemption, death, and eternity, where does the stillborn infant—or the child who dies before reaching the age of accountability—fit? The only rationales emerging fairly consistently from these farewell statements are (1) that the supreme being occasionally sees a new life that is suffering and decides to take that individual directly into heaven and (2) that sometimes the supreme being wants infants and small children as angels to round out or "decorate" his kingdom: (Stacey Wayne Deel) was born February 26, 1980 at the Appalachian Regional Hospital at 2:20 a.m. and God called his precious soul to come to be with him at 3:35 a.m... The doctors said he didn't get the right kind of blood circulation to develop right. His lungs weren't developed and he couldn't breathe on his own. They kept him alive as long as they could. But the Lord told him "Come home and live with me where you'll never have to suffer and can breathe."9 There is some confusion in these obituaries concerning the precise sequence of the events through which the redeemed go to make it to heaven. Some statements clearly depict the deceased as already being in heaven, both in soul and body; others speak of the dead as having simply gone to a resting place to await the final judgment; and still others suggest that the soul has gone to heaven, while the body is remaining in the grave to await judgment day: If Brother Charles (Ramey) could speak back now he would say—Children it's so beautiful up here, lay everything down and strive for this heavenly land where no sad news ever comes. Now all we can say is "Sleep on Daddy (Sugar Slone) and take your rest until that great day when God shall awake the dead, then we can all go home with him where trouble will always be a stranger." I believe that he (Charley Hopkins Deel) is now resting from all his labors and his soul is taking that sweet rest in the city of God, waiting for the Great Resurrection Morning when that soul and spirit will reunite with that body that is sleeping in the earth. Then the Lord will give him a long white robe and a crown of 21 �Glory that will never fade away. He will go to a heavenly home where troubles and sorrow will all be done away with, where all is peace and love forevermore.10 This last excerpt apparently best represents the formal beliefs of the Old Regular Baptists relative to death and resurrection. Elder Edwin May, Moderator of the Sardis Association of Old Regulars, has told me that confusion develops in obituaries relative to this issue simply because the writers of these documents generally are not the elders of the church but are laymen who get their "beliefs all mixed up." The correct doctrine of Old Regulars, he said, is that at death the soul of a redeemed individual goes directly to heaven, while his or her body remains at rest until final judgment when all of the souls and bodies of the redeemed will be reunited.11 I find myself liking the idea of giving the deceased this kind of farewell. I like what it does for the family and what it apparently does—before the fact—for the person who dies. A member of the Old Regular faith knows that he or she will be memorialized in a minimum of three ways—the funeral, the annual memorial services, and the obituary. In addition, families may elect to stage yearly individual memorials for their departed loved ones, either in the home or in the church. All of these memorials, I assume, produce in the minds of church members the conviction that they will never be forgotten. After all, every year at the regularly scheduled Memorial Day service an elder will position himself behind the "book stand" and read the name of every deceased member of the church, pausing occasionally to comment on the virtuous accomplishments of a particular Brother or Sister. In addition, there will always be that obituary in the association minutes. These factors alone will constitute a form of immortality. END NOTES 1. Minutes of the Union Association of Old Regular Baptists (Johnson City, Tennessee: Interstate Graphics, 1984), 45. 2. Minutes of the Union Association of Old Regular Baptists (Johnson City, Tennessee, 1979), 64; Minutes of the Sardis Association of Old Regulars (Published by the Association, 1983), 35. 3. Minutes of the Union Association of Old Regular Baptists Gohnson City, Tennessee: Interstate Graphics, 1980), 58. 4. Minutes of the Sardis Association of Old Regular Baptists (Published by the Association, 1983), 9. 22 �5. Minutes of the Union Association of Old Regular Baptists (Johnson City, Tennessee: Interstate Graphics, 1983), 66. 6. Minutes of the Union Association of Old Regular Baptists (Johnson City, Tennessee: Interstate Graphics, 1984), 31. 7. Minutes of the Union Association of Old Regular Baptists (Johnson City, Tennessee: Interstate Graphics, 1981), 44. 8. Minutes of the Union Association of Old Regular Baptists (Johnson City, Tennessee: Interstate Graphics, 1982), 57. 9. Minutes of the Union Association of Old Regular Baptists (Johnson City, Tennessee: Interstate Graphics, 1981), 30. 10. Minutes of the Union Association of Old Regular Baptists (Johnson City, Tennessee: Interstate Graphics, 1980), 52, 63, and 59. 11. Interview of Elder Edwin May, February 15, 1985. 23 �GOVERNMENT AND TECHNOLOGY: CHANGE AND EFFECT ON A REGION Convenor: Tyler Blethen, Western Carolina University Government Regulations and their Effects on the Grade C Diary in Southwest Virginia Ricky Cox, Radford University Producing Old Handicrafts with New Technology: An Example Pat Meisel and Bob Hughes, Georgia Southern College Some Thoughts on Science and Technology in Appalachia Ron Willoughby, Radford University Some Thoughts on Science and Technology in Appalachia by Ron Willoughby The theme of this conference is "The Impact Of Institutions In Appalachia." The use of the word "in" rather than "on" is appropriate because it allows us to discuss some aspects of Appalachia's relationship to the rest of the world that we don't always appreciate. It is widely recognized that the rest of the United States has had a great impact on Appalachia, but Appalachia has also had a major impact on the rest of the United States, and indeed the rest of the world, for within our region have occurred events of great scientific and techological significance. In this paper I will discuss in general terms the subject of science and technology and give examples of how, through science and technology, Appalachia and the rest of the world have impacted on each other. Let me begin by distingishing between science and technology. Science is the pursuit of knowledge of the physical world, without regard to whether or not that knowledge might have some "useful" application. Technology is the application of the knowledge science has created to purposes that human beings deem desirable and/or necessary. Together science and technology are the carrot and the stick of change in human society. Science lures us with the promise that knowledge is power, and technology fulfills that promise by giving us some measure of control over our environment. Science and technology exist in a symbiotic relationship that has proved amazingly successful. In its infancy science was done using only the human senses. As our knowledge expanded it became necessary to extend our senses by the use of various types of devices such as the telescope. Technology provided those devices, and scientific knowledge continued to expand, requir- 24 �ing ever more sophisticated devices. Increased knowledge allowed technology to provide those more sophisticated devices. It has never been a smooth progression, but it has been one that works, and it continues today. The technological impulse has been so pervasive throughout man's history that it is perhaps the distinguishing characteristic of homo sapiens. Our penchant for technological applications has given us a competitive edge in the struggle for survival, and has in recent years allowed us to live in such comfort as was unimaginable only fifty years ago. But this very success has created an uncritical attitude toward technology, an attitude that whatever can be done should be done. The result is a juggernaut which rushes forward faster and faster, like a man running downhill, until the very technology that has assured our survival is now, ironically, the greatest threat to our survival. There are also symbiotic relationships among technologies. The Tennessee Valley Authority (TVA) was established to build a series of flood control dams in upper East Tennessee. The dams were also equipped with water turbines to produce electricity from the water that flowed through the dams. The availability of cheap electricity attracted industry to the area, which meant cash in the pockets of the people. This cash, along with the availability of cheap electricity, created a demand for consumer goods, including electrical appliances. As prosperity spread, the demand for electricity eventually outran the ability of the hydroelectric plants to produce it, and TVA began building coal-fired steam generating plants. This produced a greater demand for coal, and the coalfields boomed. But as metallurgy and manufacturing technology advanced, sophsticated machinery was developed that gave us the ability to mine coal by stripping off the tops or sides of mountains instead of tunneling into them. The result was a cheaper way to mine coal, by use of a smaller work force which kept the cost of electricity down and fulfilled a growing demand. We can see from this example how different technologies feed off one another, each giving impetus to the other. But there is more to the picture than this. There is the question of how the relationship between technologies affects people. Large institutions, such as governments and large industries, evaluate nearly everything on the basis of short-term, large-scale statistics, usually economic statistics. On this basis the electric power-coal mining symbiosis, illustrated by the TVA example which is common across the country, has worked well. On the average, most people are economically better off because of the availability of cheap coal. But when one looks beyond the averages, beyond the short-term economic aspects, at more subtle questions, it is obvious that the blessings are mixed. On a local scale, for instance, increasing mechanization in the coalfields increased production and profits, but decreased employment. Leaving stripped land unreclaimed kept coal prices down, but did serious damage to the environment both visually and physically and reduced the quality of life in these areas. How does one balance the well-being of the minority against the well-being of the major- 25 �ity? Must there always be a group that suffers in order that a larger group (or a more powerful group) may prosper? These are the fundamental questions that create a tension between those who wish to go "forward" without hindrance and those who would go slowly, if at all. Generally it is a healthy tension, tending to exert restraint on technological development but not smother it. It forces us to consider more carefully than we might otherwise do, the effects of technological enterprises. But even after we have considered them, the course of wisdom is seldom clear, and wisdom is something that neither science nor technology claim to produce. The difficulty of reaching wise decisions is obvious in the dilemma posed by strip mining in Appalachia. If reclamation is required, the cost of coal will go up and demand will drop. What then will coal miners do for a living in a one-industry region? But if reclamation is not required, what will the area look like, and be like, at the turn of the century? Either way, do the children in coal mining Appalachia have a future in the region? Beyond the borders of Appalachia, the increased use of coal has meant a higher standard of living for virtually all Americans, through jobs in industrial plants and/or access to cheap electricity. Steel production and cheap energy are often cited as the backbones of American industry. But if coal is essential to the production of steel and is used to produce the major portion of electricity used in this country, what are we to conclude about the importance of coal and Appalachia to the United States? While coal usage is vital to America's economy, it has at the same time contributed to at least two serious and wide-spread threats to the environment well beyond Appalachia: Acid rain and an increasing concentration of carbon dioxide in the earth's atmosphere. These are subtle, long-term threats of the type that our political system finds particularly difficult to deal with. But problems they are, of current and continuing concern, and they must be dealt with. Like the benefits of coal usage, they are a part of Appalachia's impact on the rest of the country. If coal is one of mankind's oldest energy sources, nuclear energy is one of the newest. It is not entirely coincidental that Appalachia harbors both, for Oak Ridge was chosen as a major nuclear energy site, not only because it was isolated, but because of its proximity to TVA's electricity. It is a city built hurriedly in 1942, primarily to manufacture components for atomic bombs. It grew up almost overnight, like toadstools after a rain, in an area that had been farmland. It was a boom town of hastily erected frame buildings inside a chain-link fence guarded by soldiers who wouldn't admit anyone without a pass. Local people found jobs there in abundance, producing in urgent secrecy things whose functions were unknown to them. But many more workers were needed than could be provided locally, and they came from everywhere, especially from other parts of Appalachia. East Tennessee was inundated with change like the spring floods that came before TVA domesticated the rivers, and when the flood receded, there was the Atomic 26 �City, cast up on the bank like old tires, clorox bottles and refrigerators. The Atomic City. The name conjured images of progress, of vitality, of energy, and it advertised itself proudly. Today the frontier boom town is gone. You can drive into the city without having to show a sentry your pass. The sidewalks are concrete, not boards; the streets are asphalt instead of mud; and the buildings are of brick, glass and concrete. Oak Ridge is now pretty much like any city in America with its shoppping centers, pizza place, and Friday night football games. It represents physically the impact that the rest of the country can have on Appalachia. People came from outside to build the city and to live and work there, and the area and its people are dramatically different as a result. Conversely, the world is dramatically different because of Oak Ridge, or at least because of nuclear energy, which Oak Ridge was and is so important in developing. Here, too, things have changed. The once bright dreams of cheap, abundant electric energy from nuclear fission are now tarnished. Slogans like "atoms for peace" have not been able to erase from the mind the overwhelming image, born in 1945, of a roiling mushroom cloud. Like Oak Ridge, Green Bank, West Virginia was chosen as the site of a governmental installation because it was in an isolated area. But unlike Oak Ridge, secrecy was not the motive. Green Bank is in a region where man-made radio signals are relatively weak, making the detection of radio waves from space easier. It was therefore the perfect site for the National Radio Astronomy Observatory (NRAO). Green Bank is a village of a few hundred people located in a wide, shallow fertile valley. The principal occupation is farming, and cattle graze matterof-factly in fields adjacent to huge radio telescopes. When the observatory was first established, the site was felt to be too remote to attract permanent staff members, so the administrative headquarters was established in Charlottesville, Virginia, which has a more cosmopolitan atmosphere. The principle activity at NRAO is listening. The radio telecsopes are giant earhorns used to eavesdrop on the whispering cosmos. It is an activity that cannot be rushed. One simply sits and listens, and the rotating earth sets the immutable schedule of what can be heard, and when. Because of this there is a measured quality to life at Green Bank. It moves in time to the ancient rhythms of the seasons, much like life on the land. The very nature of the activities at Green Bank encourages a contemplative atmosphere that is in step with the natural surroundings. Since there are no production facilities there is no need for a large labor force. The available jobs are filled by the local people, and in the cafeteria at the observatory (the only public place to eat in Green Bank) one can buy the quintessential Appalachian dish—brown beans and cornbread. Instead of overwhelming the valley and its residents, the observatory has blended into the surroundings. A first time visitor is always startled by the sharp contrast between the radio telecsopes and the otherwise pastoral 27 �surroundings, but no one else notices. NRAO is an Appalachian place visited by astronomers from all over the world, and major discoveries have taken place there. The impact of NRAO on the rest of the world is large, but NRAO lies lightly on the landscape of West Virginia. Oak Ridge and Green Bank present marked contrasts in style and temperament, mirroring the different impacts they and the world have on each other. At the same time, they mirror the contrast between science and technology. Oak Ridge was born in a whirlwind and leans forward eagerly toward the future. As a symbol of nuclear power, it embodies the paradox of modern technology, simultaneously offering hope and threatening disaster. Green Bank is a more contemplative place where esoteric knowledge is produced that is unlikely to result in any "practical" applications. What that knowledge is likely to do is to help us understand our place in the cosmos a little more clearly. For a region whose people have an especially strong sense of place, that would be an appropriate gift to the world. BIBLIOGRAPHY Anderson, Don N. "Megatrends and the Mountains (Reflections on Technology and Human Values)," Consortium News, Volume 9, Number 3, November 1984, pp.5-9. Caudill, Harry M. Night: Comes to the Cumberlands. Boston: Little, Brown and Company, 1962. Groueff, Stephane. Manhattan Project: The Untold Story of the Making of the Atomic Bomb. Boston: Little, Brown and Company, 1967. Groves, Leslie R. Now It Can Be Told: The Story of the Manhattan Project. New York: Harper, 1962. Hathaway, J.W. "Response to Megatrends and the Mountains (Reflections on Technology and Human Values)," Consortium News, Volume 9, Number 3, November 1984, pp. 13-14. Hauser, Alan. "Response to Megatrends and the Mountains (Reflections on Technology and Human Values)," Consortium News. Volume 9, Number 3, November 1984, pp. 11-13. Hyatt, S. Aaron. "Response to Megatrends and the Mountains (Reflections on Technology and Human Values)," Consortium News. Volume 9, Number 3, November 1984, pp. 9-11. Thompson, Marilou Bonham. Abiding Appalachia: Where Mountains and Atom Meet. Memphis, TN: St. Luke's Press, 1978. Truit, Willis H. and Solomans, T.W. Graham. Science, Technology and Freedom. Boston: Houghton Mifflin Company, 1974. 28 �CAPITALISM AND COAL: A REASSESSMENT Convenor: John Gaventa, Highlander Center Capital Versus Labour in the Appalachian Coal Fields Vic Allen, University of Leeds Capitalism, Patriarchy and "Men's Work": The System of Control of Production in Coal Mining Mike Yarrow, Ithaca College Capitalism, Patriarchy and "Men's Work": The System of Control of Production of Coal Mining by Mike Yarrow I. Introduction Harry Braverman's (1974) Marxian analysis of the developing labor process under capitalism has stimulated a burgeoning literature on the subject (see for example Nichols and Beynon 1977, Burawoy 1978 and 1979, Clawson 1980, Dix 1977, Edwards 1979, Elger 1979, Friedman 1977, Littler and Salaman 1982, Stark 1980, and Zimbalist 1979). Although there have been differences within this work, it has been based on the common assumption that the labor process, and more broadly the system of control or social relations of production under capitalism, is a product of the class antagonism between capital and labor (Edwards 1979). Feminist analyses of "women's work" have asserted that patriarchy as well as capitalism provides principles by which the work assigned to women is organized. They have added gender antagonisms to class antagonisms in their analyses of the social relations of production in clerical work (Davies 1974, Garson 1972, Howe 1977, Kanter 1977) and nursing (Ehrenreich and English 1973, Gamarnikow 1978). If this feminist intervention in the Marxist analysis of the system of control of labor is helpful in understanding "women's work," then it may also be applicable to "men's work." Here I wish to explore the extent to which coal mining, as "men's work," is organized by the logic of patriarchy as well as the logic of capitalism. The logic of capitalism, according to Marx, derives from the condition of labor as a commodity and the goal of capital to make profits. Workers become commodities as they rent their capacity to work to a capitalist for a certain duration. As with other commodities, the owner has the right to use the workers as s/he wishes. In order to make a profit, the capitalist must get his workers to create a product worth more than s/he pays them in wages. 29 �Since the amount of production can vary tremendously and the worker, who does not have the power to create and gain from the product as s/he wishes, is not very motivated to produce, capital must control labor to coerce maximum feasible production. Capital has used a number of strategies to increase its control over resistant workers, including Taylorist organization of the labor process (Braverman 1974, Clawson 1980), machine design (Braverman 1974, Noble 1979), domestication of labor unions (Aronowitz 1973, Burawoy 1981), controlling state regulation (Burawoy 1981), bureaucratic control of the work force (Clawson 1980, Edwards 1979), and the ceaseless quest for docile workers (Pollard 1963). Workers have struggled against these attempts at control with a variety of tactics which, when successful, have provoked new management strategies (Edwards 1979). Thus, the logic of capital with respect to organizing its labor centers on efficient, i.e., cheap and effective, control. What then is the logic of patriarchal domination with respect to relations among men? As Stewart (1980) points out, one theme of patriarchal domination is the identity of interests of all men in the subordination of women. The brotherhood so created tends to be egalitarian, to stress similarities and promote bonding of the community of men as superiors to women. As Kanter (1977) found, in the sex-segregated milieux of the office, this patriarchal brotherhood is mobilized against women interlopers in managerial jobs. But what role might it play in an exclusively male work setting, as coal mining has been in this country until the 1970's? It would seem to promote an egalitarianism diametrically opposed to capital's control project. There is also a hierarchal principle of relations between men under patriarchy. Under paternalism — rule of the father — some men are seen as "naturally" more powerful, wise, self-disciplined, fatherlike, than others. Thus, they should relate as fathers to the subordinate childlike men (Stewart 1980). The superordinate "father's" relationship to each "son" is personal and specific; he may have favorites among his "sons" and is able to exercise power in arbitrary ways on the authority of his presumed superior qualities and his interest in the welfare of all (Edwards 1979: 26-7). He dominates in the subordinate's best interest. Although there may be tensions, even fear and hatred of the powerful "father," there is assumed to be a harmony of interests. The "father" may be demanding, but he is personally committed to his subordinates and owes them reciprocal obligations for their loyal service. In analyzing the social relations of production of underground coal mining, I will explore the extent to which these contradictory principles of brotherhood and paternalism are operative. In a study of how the struggle between capital and labor, and "fathers" and "sons", combine to shape the social relations of coal mining, it is important to look at the historical development of these relations. The current control system has developed out of an earlier system and cannot be understood without appreciating its origins. Remnants remain from that 30 �earlier system, especially in the miners' modes of coping with control attempts. At the turn of the century, as the demand for coal expanded, new coal fields were developed, often in sparcely populated rural areas where the coal operators had to build towns next to their mines to house their workers. The system of control which developed in these coal camps can be characterized as "piece-rate paternalism." In the following sections, I will analyze this control system and the changes it has undergone since 1930. II. Coal Camp Paternalism A. Social Relations of Production During the early "hand loading" era, large mines were laid out with a central mainline entry tunnel connecting scores of "rooms," tunnels that branched off from it at right angles every 80 feet or so. These rooms were occupied on a long-term basis by coal loaders working individually or with partners. They used their own hand tools to pick, blast, and shovel the coal from the "face" at the end of their rooms into small rail cars, which they then pushed out to the mainline tunnel. The full cars were picked up and replaced with empties by mules and later small locomotives which pulled them out of the mine (Dix 1977: 8-14). In this individualized labor process, the only need for coordination was the delivery and retrieval of coal cars with the coal loaders production pace. This did not work very smoothly. One study in 1923 found that loaders spent 23% of an 8-hour day waiting for cars (Dix 1977). The coal loaders were essentially treated by subcontractors and paid by the ton, after deductions had been made for any rock found in the coal. With this piece-rate system, the mine owner bought the miner's intention to mine coal in paying him by the product. Giv^n_thi^cjmirolj2jaikjrito the terms of the labor exchange, supervision could be minimal. Mines with more than a hundred coal loaders spread over miles of tunnels typically had one mine foreman who might make the rounds once a day or less frequently. Tonnage payment was an efficient means of control, not only because it required little supervision but because it forced the miners to absorb the inefficiencies of the system (e.g., loaders were not paid for work that did not produce coal, such as cleaning up the rock after a cave-in or for the time spent waiting for empty cars.) Reliance on tonnage pay as the primary control mechanism fostered a self-concept among coal loaders of being independent craftsmen, and they guarded their prerogatives zealously. They claimed proprietary right to their rooms, even when absent, and walked out of the mine when they had earned enough for the day (Dix 1977). Miners exerted considerable craft control over their work, deciding how to do it and training apprentice miners to the craft, with or without a union to back up their claim for autonomy (Goodrich 1925). These conditions fostered an assertive autonomous stance, which Suffern (1926) called "a psychology of independence" and Goodrich 31 �(1925) dubbed the "miner's freedom." Tonnage pay also focused attention on the rate of exploitation — miners were aware of the discrepancy between the price the operator got for the coal and the price he paid them (Brophy 1964). To increase the rate of profit at stable prices, operators had to lower the rate of payment which tended to provoke resistance. The operators, therefore, often resorted to indirect means by docking a miner's pay excessively for rock in the coal, or by shortweighting his coal (Dix 1977). Miners' response to these widespread violations of the terms of the exchange was to organize and demand union checkweighmen. Thus, tonnage pay as a control mechanism had its limitations. Operators augmented their control repertoire by mobilizing aspects of patriarchal domination, both inside the mines and in the camps. In the mines the foreman used his power to assign rooms and coal cars to reward productivity and loyalty: the good "sons" got preference. They also attempted to adapt the preexistent conception of manliness to meet their needs for a productive and tractable workforce. They appealed to valued male traits of physical prowess, mastery, competitiveness, and toughness to get production. The structure of the labor process with its stress on individual production lent itself to this appeal. Miners had to be ready for the next delivery of coal cars or it meant they could not keep up with "good miners" (Brophy 1964). One 70-year old Yugoslav I interviewed remembered a foremansponsored competition between himself and a black hand loader, to see who could load the most cars in a day. Also, miners who let their concern for personal safety interfere unduly with their ability to get out-as much coal as possible from under a cracking roof before it caved in, were ridiculed (Brophy 1964). Miners resisted these operator attempts to use patriarchal forms of domination. They took pride in their individual production, but when operators attempted to turn this pride to their own ends through divisive manipulation, the miners tried to resist. They demanded the "square turn," equal, distribution of coal cars, and condemned miners who stole coal or otherwise tried to take unfair advantage of their workmates (Brophy 1964). The miners valued assertive independence from the boss and cooperation and concern for each other's safety. They realized that there was a necessary, though tension-charged, connection between the miner's ability to assert his independence at work and his ability to defend it by struggling collectively with his buddies (Goodrich 1925). B. Social Relations Beyond the Mines Unsuccessful in controlling the labor process, the early operators extended their control project to the miners' lives outside the mines. Coal camps were run as paternalistic fiefdoms in which the operator owned the housing, schools, stores, and churches, and hired doctors, storekeepers, school teachers, preachers, and guards. The miners were paid in scrip, redeemable 32 �at the company store. Often the frequent layoffs resulted in debt bondage to the operator. Attempts to challenge the system of control led to being fired, evicted, and blacklisted from mines in the region. If miners appealed to authorities beyond the coal camp, they typically confronted county officials beholden to the operators. For example, in Logan County, West Virginia, Sheriff Don Chafin was paid a royalty for every nonunion ton mined in the county (Nyden 1974: 34). This paternalistic system of control, was one in which the lives of the miners' families were profoundly dependent on the "favors" of the operators who were viewed by themselves, the local press, politicians, and small dependent middle class, as architects of progress and benevolent guardians of their employees (Gaventa 1980, Tarns 1963). Miners were viewed as irresponsible children whose carelessness caused accidents and who needed close supervision in the company towns to be protected from corrupting influences (Dix 1977, Gaventa 1980, Tarns 1963). The paternalism of the coal camps was reflected in a patriarchal family structure. Excluded from the one industry in the region, women could augment family income by gardening and taking in laundry and boarders, but they were economically dependent on their husbands. Operators reinforced the patriarchal family by giving preference to "family men" in hiring and layoffs (Corbin 1981). The economic responsibility of the patriarchal father role forced miners into dependent son roles versus the operators. Operators stressed family responsibility in claiming childlike loyalty. But there is evidence that miners felt the contradictions. In the early battles for union recognition, miners often articulated their fight as a struggle for their children (Corbin 1981). Their position as dependent worker-sons of the operators did not allow them to provide adequately for their families. The most fundamental contradiction in the patriarchal aspect of the system of domination was between the miners' assertive individualism at work and their child role in the coal camp. The social relations of production encouraged, even required, assertive independence which was frustrated by the smothering paternalism of the camp. To the extent that the operator could keep his miners beholden to his largesse, both inside and outside the mine, this contradiction was suppressed. To the extent the miners were able collectively to assert their individual autonomy at work and found reason to question the benevolence of the operators' paternalism, the contradiction became oppressive. The contradictions within coal camp paternalism were heightened by the contradictions between paternalism and the logic of capitalism. In this early period, the coal industry was very competitive and subject to periodic overproduction. Thus, survival was contingent on keeping costs down. This meant keeping wages low by fiat or deceit, providing few amenities in the coal camps and few safety precautions in the mine. When demand declined, the work force could not be carried. John Brophy depicts his family's existence in the central Pennsylvania coal fields at the turn of the century as involving fre33 �quent moves from one squalid camp, with a frequently unscrupulous operator, to another (1964). The authority of the patriarch is difficult to maintain under such conditions, where concern for the "sons" on which their loyalty is garnered seems to get lost in the scramble for economic viability and profits. Justus Collins, a prominent mine owner at the turn of the century, alludes to the contradiction in a letter of advice to his brother who had recently been appointed superintendent of one of his company's mines: Maintain good discipline at all times at your places, especially around the stores and offices, but it has always been my policy to pay small heed to those things which are purely a personal matter with my employees—it is very easy to draw the distinction—we are not running a Christian Endeavor Camp Meeting nor a Sunday School, yet a certain amount of decency and order must be required of our people. In this connection, never lose sight of the fact that the sole purpose of the organization is to make money for their stockholders (quoted in Dix 1977: 43). Coal paternalism also contradicted the system of bourgeois democracy where workers as commodities were subject to their employers' control, but as citizens outside of work were entitled to freedom from control. The operators insisted that they were only exercising their property rights, while the miners raised strike demands for abolition of company guards, payment in scrip, and other operator control mechanisms. In the bloody Paint Creek-Cabin Creek strike of 1912-13, miners and their outside supporters called the coal camp system of control un-American, and compared it to Czarist Russia (Corbin 1981). In these early strikes, the women struggled along with the men. It was equally their fight — for a living wage and for emancipation from coal camp tyranny (Corbin 1981). This infringement by wives on the male preserve of protecting the family caused some friction, but was generally treated as an exceptional condition and traditional roles were reestablished after the strikes. C. Conclusion Capital's project of controlling labor in the early coal mines met with many difficulties due to the absence of machine control of the labor process and the inability, given the special conditions of the mines, of adequately overseeing the workforce. In these unfavorable conditions, operators used a piece-rate labor exchange as the most efficient control mechanism. But miners organized to collectively resist many of its control features. Capital, therefore, went outside of the mines and mobilized elements of patriarchal domination to achieve greater control. The resulting control system, coal camp paternalism, while effective for many years in many locales, contained serious contradictions. There was the contradiction between the miner's role as son of the paternalistic operator, patriarch of his own family, and brother to his workmates. 34 �Although these three roles could be isolated to some degree, they were experienced as contradictory when they confronted each other under certain conditions. There was also often a contradiction between the capitalist logic of cost cutting in a competitive industry and the paternalist logic of caring for the loyal "sons." Miners resisted this control system as workers, brothers, and citizens. As workers, they organized both informally in the mines and formally in unions, to fight for higher wages, an end to the abuses of the piece-rate system, and their employers' arbitrary power. As brothers, they developed a counterdefinition of manliness to that of the operators. While the operators stressed responsibility to family and employer, hard work, competitiveness and loyalty, the miners stressed autonomy and independence versus the boss, cooperation and fair dealing with workmates and opposed treatment as children by the patriarch. As citizens, miners demanded the freedoms they were denied under coal camp paternalism. Coal camp paternalism has been most successful in isolated regions of central Appalachia—southern West Virginia, eastern Kentucky and Tennessee—where cosmopolitan ideas of democracy and the rights of labor were remote, where other industries did not provide alternative employment and control systems, and where, due to control of county government, coal operators could back up their rule of their camps with state power. Coal camp paternalism has been weaker in cosmopolitan, multi-industry regions such as western Pennsylvania, northern West Virginia and Ohio (Nyden 1978). It has also been weakened when economic crises forced wage cuts and layoffs, thus bringing the benevolence of the patriarch into question. Both the bloody Paint Creek-Cabin Creek strike of 1912-13 and the great union drive of 1933 were preceded by wage cuts (Barkey 1971, Tams 1963). III. Union Paternalism Coal camp paternalism crumbled slowly as a result of a number of factors. As the coal companies expanded, the personal rule of the patriarch gave way to more bureaucratic procedures. The miners union, supported by the new deal administration, asserted miners' rights both in the mine and camp, thus blunting the absolute and arbitrary power of the operator. Better roads and automobiles allowed miners to escape the coal camps. The progressively mechanized and cooperative labor process of coal mining made the piecerate system impractical. Coal operators are still searching for an effective new system of control, while miners are engaged in a variety of forms and levels of resistance. In 1933, with Federal support for unionization, John L. Lewis, already president of the United Mine Workers since 1920, launched an energetic organizing drive with the paternalistic slogan "The President wants you to join the union." (Baratz 1955: 49). In two months over three-fourths of the country's coal miners joined. This firm establishment of a miners' union 35 �in most coal fields of the country doomed coal camp paternalism. It resulted in two decades of conflict between the union and operators, including eleven national strikes and many smaller ones. Out of these struggles, often mediated by the Federal Government, miners won significant gains in wages and benefits, and John L. Lewis won the miners' undying loyalty. Thus, coal camp paternalism was replaced by union paternalism. Lewis controlled the whole organization in a paternalistic style and insisted on making all major decisions. His success, as well as his bombastic authoritarian style, legitimated his claim to the mantle of the patriarch which the miners had just wrested from the operators. In grand paternalistic style, Lewis insisted that the miners were not yet ready for union democracy. Gaventa (1980) argues that faced with the awesome power of the operators, miners, particularly those in areas where coal camp paternalism was still intact such as eastern Kentucky and Tennessee, wanted to be championed by their own union strong man. In 1950, as the coal industry started losing markets to oil, and mechanization resuced demand for mine labor even more, Lewis came to terms with the operators. The result was a period of twenty years with no major strikes and close cooperation between the union leadership and the unionized companies. Lewis and then Boyle ruled the union with a strong hand, appointing district officials and staff and using them to enforce labor peace in conjunction with the operators. Gradually, after two decades of decline, production and demand for labor started expanding in the late 1960's. The new young miners hired as a result were less awed by the paternalism they found in the mines and the union. They were more impressed with the neglect of health and safety and compensation benefits during the period of cooperation (Nyden 1974). Gradually a movement built which on its second try in 1972 was successful in ousting Boyle and electing a reform president. With the election of Miller, the period of union paternalism came to an end, and the mid-1970's were a period of unprecedented power exercised by rank-and-file miners. This second crisis of management's system of control has led to renewed efforts to find a workable control system. In the following section we will explore the complicated dynamics of the developing system. IV. The Current System: Union Brotherhood vs. Bureaucratic Control A. The Social Relations of Production During the golden age of Taylorism in the 1920's there were repeated calls for increasing the control of the coal mine labor process. Mine superintendent Thomas Stroup in 1923 thought that it would be necessary a la Taylor "to abolish the contract system, to mechanicalize (sic) the mines thoroughly," and "to standardize every operation down to the minutest detail so that no responsibility of any kind will fall on the worker" (quoted in Dix 1977: 62). The U.S. Coal Commission of 1923 called for the introduction of a loading machine which, by concentrating the workforce, would make closer super36 �vision possible (Dix 1977: 64).* But the process of mechanizing and Taylorizing the production process in underground coal mining was fraught with problems. The first wave of mechanization substituted machines for most of the hand tools used by the hand loaders; it is now known as the "conventional mining system." Many of these machines were large electric-powered, rubbertired vehicles. The typical crew of twelve worked in five "rooms" and their connecting breakthrough tunnels. The machines rotated between the five coal faces, first undercutting, then drilling, blasting and loading the coal onto "shuttle cars," which are conveyer belts on wheels. Shuttle cars transported the coal to rail cars or the head of a stationary conveyer belt. After a room was cleared a team of two came to roof bolt the newly exposed section of roof. Roof bolting, laminating the immediate rock layers with long expansion bolts, had been substituted for timbering to allow room for the equipment to move round. Each of these twelve member crews had a foreman. The crew members had to cooperate closely to avoid endangering each other and to achieve high production with a minimum of breakdowns. No sooner was this "conventional" mining system established than it began to be replaced by the continuous miner system. The continuous miner is a huge machine which gouges the coal from the face and deposits it on the "shuttle cars" thus eliminating undercutting, drilling, blasting and loading. Continuous miner sections typically develop five tunnels but only work three at a time. Crew size is reduced to 6-8 miners and a foreman. These changes in systems involved many of the "reforms" which the "scientific managers" had called for but the result was not the undisputed managerial control of the labor process they had anticipated. Mechanization resulted in higher productivity but, since the miner still controlled the speed and direction of the machine, it did not result in significant loss of power or skill. Specialization occurred as each miner's job was defined by the machine s/he operated but with frequent job rotation, the miner's skills were not fragmented. It was in mangement's interest to have a versatile, broadly trained workforce so that if a machine operator was absent the whole section would not be crippled. Mechanization and the increasingly cooperative nature of the labor process made attribution of production to individual miners impossible so payment by the ton was converted to hourly pay. With this change in the terms of the labor exchange, management lost a powerful work incentive but gained flexibility in introducing new technologies and speed-ups. Although the production workforce was concentrated in a smaller area and the level of supervision was increased twelvefold from 1980 to 1969 (Seltzer 1977: 57), miners have been able to retain considerable control of the labor *It is interesting to note that machine loading was rapidly introduced finally after reunionization. It was then, during the Depression, in spite of the industry's financial straights, that the need for a new control system was urgent. 37 �process. First, an increasing proportion of the underground workforce (50% in 1969), works away from the coal face tending the miles of track, conveyer belts, cables, waterpipes, and air courses which are required in a mechanized coal mine (Dix 1977). Typically these support workers are only infrequently overseen by foremen with many miles to cover. Second, even at the production face where supervision is the most intense, miners still have many effective means for exerting some control of the labor process. A miner describes how a foreman can be disciplined by the miners he is supposed to control: You can stop production just like that. But you got to know what you are doing. I mean everybody knows what's going on usually. You can stop it legally. You can pull safety on them. You can stop and check your water sprays after every third buggy (shuttle car). 'There is not enough water on this miner (continuous miner)!' 'It's a Federal law.' You can stop and set all of your timbers just right, you know. If you work to rule you can really hurt them, and then you can deliberately sabotage the stuff. You can run over cable. You can just drive your buggy real slow. 'Can't you go any faster?' 'No sir!' Nothing in the contract that says how fast you have to work. (Interview June 23, 1978. Southern West Virginia) Miners can use their control of the machines, and the protection of the union contract and the mine safety laws to slowdown. Even on a modern section the foreman cannot be everywhere at once. The hourly wage rate makes uniting a crew for a slowdown easier because their paychecks are not jeopardized while the foreman is vulnerable because he is evaluated by the production of his section. Mine management has not been able to turn miners into routine workers with simple stipulated tasks partly because of the unpredictability of the conditions which necessitates quick alterations in procedures but also because to get good production, miners must take shortcuts with safety. These violations of Federal and state laws cannot be stipulated by management.* For miners to have a significant influence on the labor process through these and other power resources, they must achieve unity. Several aspects of the work seem to foster unity. First, it allows good communication between miners. The workforce at most mines is relatively small. Miners typically work on a shift with 20 to 100 "buddies." There is ample time to communicate with their fellows without being overheard by management. Miners spend forty minutes to an hour each day dressing for work and showering after work in the bathhouse. The ride to their work locations in the mine takes fifteen minute to an hour, and they take rest breaks and machine breakdown breathers throughout the day. *For a more detailed analysis of the struggle for control in the current labor process see Yarrow, 1979. 38 �Second, the work necessitates cooperation among miners. Production involves coordination which is not totally designed into the machinery and layout of the labor process. Instead, members of the crew must anticipate each other's actions so as to avoid bottlenecks and help out when a member runs into trouble. High production is a collective achievement, and so is safety. Operating huge machines in tight, dark, explosive surroundings requires watching out for your "buddies." Shoddy work is not shipped out as on an assembly line but creates the environment in which miners have to work for the next few weeks, Thus, there are typically strong collective efforts to socialize a new recruit to work safely and think about his "buddy." Their common struggles with the foreman protected by the union contract and the miner's willingness to strike locally to prevent disciplinary action against a mate, also reinforce solidarity. B. Current Management Control Attempts Faced with the effective unity of their workforce, coal operators have in the past decade tried various techniques to dissolve the miners' solidarity and nullify their power resources. Richard Edwards, in his book, Contested Terrain (1979), describes three type of management control systems which succeed each other in the historical development of capitalism but may all be used in varying degrees by one firm. "Simple control," the personal paternalistic control of the small entrepreneur, was followed by "technical control" which seeks to design control of the pace and movements of work into the physical organization of the production process through machine design and detailed division of labor. Due to the special conditions of mining and the collective resistence of miners, the attempt to establish technical control was relatively unsuccessful. Technical control, according to Edwards, is succeeded by bureaucratic control. Coal operators have recently turned to bureaucratic control measures in combination with simple and technical techniques in their desperate efforts to gain control of the labor process. 1. Technical Control The primary focus in the area of technical control is to develop a new production technology. The system now slowly gaining a foothold in underground mining (still less than ten percent of production) is the mechanized long wall systems used in Europe. With this system, a coal face up to 800 feet long is developed. A machine travels across the face shearing the coal onto a conveyer pan which moves it to a belt at the end of the face from whence it is transported out of the mine. In this system the roof is held up by huge hydraulic jacks. As the face is sheared, these jacks are advanced, and the roof caves in behind them. This system is potentially very productive. With a crew the size of that on a continuous miner section, it can produce several times as much coal. It also turns many of the jobs into relatively unskilled reptetitive operations calling for little judgement. The 39 �workforce is more tightly coordinated by the machine and its pace dictated. The long wall machinery, on the other hand, is very sensitive to geological and operational changes. It is not adaptable to many geological conditions of the relatively shallow American coal seams. It requires enormous capital to install, and it remains to be seen whether the long wall system will give management significantly more control or whether the miners will develop new effective strategies for exerting their control. All these difficulties with the long wall system have probably caused it to be adopted at a cautious pace. With technical control providing questionable prospects for a significantly more effective control system, the coal companies have resorted chiefly to simple, patriarchal controls and increasing use of bureaucratic controls. 2. Patriarchal Control Coal companies have attacked miners' unity with some "labors of division" which fit the logic of patriarchal control. Miners' unity was fostered by the increasingly social labor process, was protected by the union, and was strengthened in the mid-1970's by a strong demand for mine labor. It was formulated in terms of a brotherhood of male workers with common interests. To weaken the unity, coal companies used a variety of patriarchal control mechanisms to undermine the miners' brotherhood. One is the old paternalistic tactic of favoritism. Miners have fought to have jobs, overtime, and layoffs awarded purely on the basis of seniority to prevent favoritism, but the contract includes the criteria of comptence along with seniority in job allocation. Miners complain that foremen use this to reward favorites. Job allocation is a powerful control mechanism. For an older, arthritic and black lung miner, assignment to a strenuous wet job could be life threatening (Arble 1976). Miners have been concerned about the potential for increased paternalistic control provided by the replacement of the union-controlled health plan with private insurance carriers under contract with the coal companies. They fear the return to power of company doctors who have continued to be used in the coal fields to testify against miners' compensation claims. They also fear that the new system is divisive because miners who face difficulties with their health coverage may not share this problem with miners who work for other companies. Under the union-controlled plan, miners across the Eastern coal fields struck in 1977 when benefits were cut. Subleasing mines and operating them non-union have also increased paternalistic control. Since the long 1977-78 strike and the subsequent decline of demand for metalurgical coal, many large companies have been content to sublease their coal properties to small operators. The union contract provides that these lease operators must recognize the union if the original company was unionized. But because of their precarious finances, these operators have been able to convince miners to give up some of their contract rights. I visited a sublease operation in 1982 where a militant union local had given 40 �up enforcing safety provisions because a previous sublease operator had gone bankrupt, owing each miner thousands of dollars in back wages. Under these conditions, the miners are persuaded that they share the operator's interest in the viability of the company. Other companies have reasserted paternalistic control by avoiding the union altogether. They have been willing to pay higher wages to operate non-union. As in the past, foremen try to employ a capitalist patriarchal conception of manliness to divide and motivate miners. Foremen constantly encourage competition between sections and shifts in tons of coal mined. The 1978 contract allows production incentive bonuses, reinforcing the foremen's appeal to manly pride in production. Cautious miners may be ridiculed as unmanly. One told me of being assigned with two other men to lift heavy steel rails. The miner remarked that it looked like a four-man job. The foreman asked, "What's the matter? Aren't you man enough?" (Interview miner 143, July 1978. Southern West Virginia.) The foremen's leadership style is usually a gruff authoritarian machismo characteristic of male groups such as sport teams, fraternal organizations and the military (Stewart 1980). But it is used on miners who, although they participate in the same dominant patriarchal culture, retain their traditional classinformed definition of manliness which includes autonomy versus the boss. Miners also retain considerable control. Foremen must therefore be careful not to overstep the bounds by unduly insulting the manly dignity of their subordinates who might retaliate. On sections with particularly militant miners, foremen are forced to give up the authoritarian style completely and ask politely for work to be done. More typically a rough give-and-take between foreman and miners allows for both the assertion of authority and the protection of dignity. The miners' brotherhood makes it problematic for coal mine management to mobilize the capitalist patriarchal system of dominance to gain more control of production. Operators seeking to increase their patriarchal control might be expected to welcome women miners as a means of dissolving the brotherhood. Miners seem to fear the disruption of the brotherhood, as well as to fear the loss of pride in their claim to do work that is too arduous for women. Many have been socialized to the norm that gentlemen do not allow ladies to do such work. Working with women means they violate the norm with the resulting crisis of conscience and identity or doing the women's work as well as their own. Miners, as other male blue collar workers, have claimed high wages to support their patriarchal family roles. The low pay for "women's work" conversely has been legitimated as "pin money." Male miners may at some level fear the loss of the status "men's work." Operators have not generally welcomed women miners. Their opposition is stated in terms of their firm believe that women are not strong enough or sufficiently skilled with machinery to make good miners. Another product of foremen's participation in the dominant patriarchal culture is their 41 �ideological investment in having mining remain "men's work." Their opposition may also be based on a realization that their control system will be challenged if mining is no longer "men's work." Foremen will lose their appeal to machismo, and the underground work environment and labor process may have to be changed to take more account of miners' health, safety and comfort. Women have not been socialized to consider danger and discomfort, reaffirmations of their womanhood. Ironically, operators have gained a measure of control through the relatively high wages for blue collar workers that coal miners have attained through their years of struggle. Far from giving miners independence, these wages have financed their participation in consumerist mainstream culture. They have been able to obtain mortgages for homes in suburban developments removed from the coal camp. They must work to keep up the payments and, since mining is the only high wage blue collar work in many coal fields, they must work in the mines. This produces a new high wage dependency on the operator which fosters a fear of strikes and any actions which might put them in management's disfavor. Far from being a control system discarded as anachronistic by coal company management, simple paternalistic control is an important part of the control repertoire. The recent assault on union-administered health and pension funds and the union itself indicate a renewed determination by operators to return to this control system. 3. Bureaucratic Control In the period since the overthrow of union paternalism the coal companies have pushed for increasing bureaucratic control. Since the union president can no longer guarantee "labor stability" in return for wages and benefits increases, the companies have sought to negotiate control into contracts, to arbitrate it into the body of contract interpretation, and to litigate it into judicial decisions. In this effort, the Federal government and various other organs of the state have been most cooperative. They have tried to bring the coal industry in line with the industrial relations arrangements worked out since the New Deal. Bureaucratic control seeks to dissolve rank-and-file unity by dividing workers into many minute hierarchically arranged categories, and to prevent collective action on disputes by instituting formal, quasilegal procedures which isolate the worker from his workmates. Attempts to establish bureaucratic hierarchies among miners have not been very successful. The union-based seniority system does lead to a group of older workers with a larger choice of jobs and more stake in their pensions. But pay differentials are based on danger as well as skill, and young miners often take a stint at high paying dangerous jobs such as roof bolting to gain experience on a machine and then bid off to less dangerous lower paying work. This circulation between the pay grades defeats the establishment of a divisive merit- 42 �ocratic hierarchy. A few jobs such as electrician-mechanic require formal training and state certifications which acts as a barrier to easy access and establishes a certain distinction. Miners have fought divisions by insisting that all miners be part of the brotherhood. They use harsh initiation rituals for neophytes and practical joke sanctions against anyone seeming to set himself apart (Vaught and Smith 1980). During the period of rank-and-file mobilization, miners fought against great disparities in pay. In the last three contracts the pay differential between the highest and lowest paid union miner decreased to under ten percent. The operators have been more successful in establishing bureaucratic procedures for controlling conflict. In reform in President Miller's first contract in 1974, a fullblown grievance procedure culminating in an Arbitration Review Board was established. Miners found the grievance procedure long and drawn out and biased in favor of the operators. They did not accept it lying down. During the three years of the 1974 contract one of the biggest waves of wildcat strikes in American labor history occurred (Yarrow 1982: 168-169). Miners joined this battle in spite of a 1970 Supreme Court decision which allowed companies to sue for damages and get injunctions against wildcat strikes (Seltzer 1977: 529). Massive wildcat strikes were conducted in the summers of 1975 and 1976 against the injunctions. The 1976 strike was successful in forcing a judge in Charleston, West Virginia, to revoke an injunction and enormous fines (Nyden 1978a). This confrontation, between the operators' attempts to institute bureaucratic control and the fiesty brotherhood of miners' resistance to it, was a standoff. The operators went into negotiations for the next contract determined to restore "stability and improve productivity in coal" (Bituminous Coal Operators Association Opening Statement October 6, 1977). The contract finally adopted tacitly included an Arbitration Review Board decision which allowed operators to summarily fire wildcat strike instigators. The level of wildcats has been low ever since. The operators have also been successful in instituting bureaucratic procedures for dealing with absenteeism and weakening union organizing. As stated above, miners have used safety provisions as a power resource. Operators have sought to bring these provisions under more bureaucratic control so that individual miners or union safety committees may be penalized for "unreasonable" use of their right to refuse work or to stop production if they believe they are in "immanent danger." Recent court decisions and the 1981 contract have weakened miners' ability to maintain union representation and to organize non-union mines. The union organizing efforts are increasingly constrained by legal regulation. Although a personnel officer from an industry with more fully developed bureaucratic control would be dismayed by the coal industry, bureaucratic procedures are gradually being established. The resistance is not only from the miners. As described above, management is still wedded to patriarchal controls such as favoritism which contradicts bureaucratic procedures. Some 43 �of the bureaucratic procedures negotiated in national contracts have been honored in the breech especially by the smaller independents who tend to be more committed to simple control. But at least for the time being, with a protracted slump in the demand for coal labor, the operators seem to have won a crucial round in the institution of bureaucratic control by establishing bureaucratic regulation of conflicts. V. Conclusion The control system in coal mining has gone through a dramatic evolution in this century. Throughout that evolution, coal operators have relied heavily on patriarchal forms of domination in the struggle to gain control of the labor process and the miners. Under coal camp paternalism and then union paternalism, the patriarchal form of hierarchy among men was used in the face of ineffective technical control systems. Currently, technical control is still ineffective and remnants of paternalistic control are still employed along with an increasing use of bureaucratic procedures. Miners have responded to these control systems by also employing claims to elements of patriarchal culture. They have aggressively asserted their rights as craftsmen and men to autonomy from demeaning supervision. Thus, the control of coal mine labor is a contested terrain both in terms of concrete decision-making power and in terms of ideology with both capital and labor struggling over the definitions of the rights and obligations of labor and the rights and obligations of men. Out of the fray has come a conception of coal mining as men's work which entitles miners to certain prerogatives but also allows management to ignore certain amenities. Goldberg (1980) has suggestd in her analysis of "women's work" in the office that application of elements in Edwards' three control systems produces contradictions which can foster a militant feminist job consciousness. This may also be the case for "men's work" in coal mines. Certainly there is a contradiction between paternalistic favoritism and bureaucratic principles of fairness, and between formal safety rights recognized by the bureaucratic system and safety as a matter of trusting in and obeying the "Father" under paternalism. But the three systems also are congruent in their denial of decisionmaking power to workers, and they reinforce each other. It may therefore be the relative weakness of technical control which causes problems for the composite system. To explore how this may work in the current control system I will describe briefly how that system seems to be experienced by miners. My tentative conclusion is that the failure of technical control in underground coal mining in conjunction with the compensatory use of paternalistic and bureaucratic control mechanisms creates a characteristic montage of experiences promoting a militant male working-class consciousness. What are the salient features of the control system, and why does it foster a male specific class consciousness? Because of the failure of technical con- 44 �trol, the labor process provides miners with the experience of relative strength vis-a-vis capital and promotes unity. Compare the miner to the typical assemblyline worker. The assembly-line worker's job pace, movements and coordination with other workers are determined by the line. The line is, as the architype of technical control, capital's ideological apparatus par excellence because it convinces the worker of his or her powerlessness while mystifying the exact locus of power in the mediating machine* Because of the effectiveness of technical control of the labor process in this case, foremen are freed from the driving function and chiefly perform bureaucratic control functions to keep the line supplied with workers. The coal miner controls his or her own machine. Production is the result of a skilled, cooperative effort by a section crew. The exercise of management power is unambiguously communicated by the foreman's orders. Moreover, miners become aware over time that the foreman's goal of production and their goal of survival conflict; the veneer of paternalistic concern is peeled off by exposure to unavoidable class conflict. The assembly-line worker's job experience tends to lead to a feeling of powerlessness and insignificance, which is congruent with the feeling of being a child under paternalistic control and being a number under bureaucratic control. S/he is likely to respond by leaving the job (the turnover rate has been thirty percent a year in car assembly plants) or by resignation punctuated by brief episodes of frustrated rebellion. The coal miner's work, in spite of the horrible working conditions, involves satisfying experiences of intense comraderie with "buddies," of the exercise of skill, and of the collective exercise of power vis-a-vis capital. Attempts to control the powerful miners' brotherhood whether by paternalistic or bureaucratic means, are viewed as an assault on miners' manhood and brotherhood. They contradict a position of power and community already won. This mix of collective power with subordination seems to be fertile ground for the development of rebelliousness because the subjects of the imposition of control face it with confidence, and a heightened sense of loss of entitlements. It is this mix which the current control system has in common with the fundamentally different coal camp paternalism. Under that system miners experienced power and autonomy in the mine and subordination in the camp. Under the current system power and subordination are experienced in direct confrontation at work. *Autoworkers from the Linden GM Plant in New Jersey suggested that older workers who have been on the line for a number of years tend to "get beaten down by the line" and do not oppose GM's power. 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"Toward a Marxist Theory of the Labor Process: Braverman and Beyong." Politics and Society 8:3-4, 1978. .Manufacturing Consent: Changes in the Labor Process under Monopoly Capitalism. Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1979. Clawson, Dan. Bureaucracy and the Labor Process: The Transformation of U.S. Industry, 1860-1920. New York: Monthly Review Press, 1980. Corbin, David Alan. Life, Work and Rebellion in the Coal Fields: The Southern West: Virginia Miners, 1880-1922. Chicago: University of Illinois Press, 1981. Davies, Marjorie. "Women's Place is at the Typewriter: The Feminization of the Clerical Labor Force." Radical America 8:1-37, 1974. Dix, Keith. Work Relations in the Coal Industry: The Hand-Loading Era, 1880-1930. Morgantown, W.: Institute for Labor Studies, West Virginia University, 1977. Edwards, Richard C. Contested Terrain: The Transformation of the Workplace in the Twentieth Century. New York: Basic Books, 1979. Ehrenreich, Barbara and Deidre English. Witches, Midwives, and Nurses: A History of Women Healers. Oyster Bay, N.Y.: Glass Mountain Pamphlets, 1973. Elger, T. "Valorisation and De-Skilling: A Critique of Braverman." Capital and Class 7, 1979. Friedman, A. Industry and Labour: Class Struggle and Work and Monopoly Capitalism. New York: MacMillan, 1977. Garson, Barbara. All the Livelong Day. New York: Penguin Books, 1972. Gaventa, John. Power and Powerlessness: Quiescence and Rebellion in an Appalachian Valley. Urbana, 111.: University of Illinois Press, 1980. Goldberg, Roberta. Dissatisfaction and Consciousness among Office Workers: A Case Study of a Working Women's Organization. PhD. dissertation. American University, 1981. Goodrich, Carter. The Miners' Freedom: A Study of the Working Life in a Changing Industry. Boston: Marshall Jones, 1925. Howe, Louise K. Pink Collar Workers: Inside the World of Women's Work. New York: Putnam, 1977. Kanter, Rosabeth. Men and Women of the Corporation. New York: Basic Books, 1977. 46 �Littler, C. and G. Salaman. "Bravermania and Beyond: Recent Theories of the Labor Process." Sociology 16:2, 1982. Noble, David. "Social Choice in Machine Design: the Case of Automatically Controlled Machine Tools, and a Challenge for Labor." Politics and Society 8:3-4, 1978. Nyden, Paul. Miners for Democracy: Struggle in the Coal Fields. Ph.D. dissertation, Columbia University, 1974. . "Rank-and-File Organizations and the United Mine Workers of America. The Insurgent Sociologist 3, 1978. , and Linda Nyden. Showdown in Coal: The Struggle for Rank-and-File Unionism. Pittsburgh: Miner's Report Pamphlet, 1978 a. Pollard, Sidney. "Factory Discipline in the Industrial Revolution." Work and Society. Mary M. Robisehon et a/, (eds.). Detroit, Mich.: Wayne State University, 1977. Seltzer, Curtis. The United Mine Workers of America and the Coal Operators: The Political Economy of Coal in Appalachia, 1950-1973. Ph.D. dissertation, Columbia University, 1977. Simon, Rick. The Development of Underdevelopment: The Coal Industry and It's Effects on the West Virginia Economy, 1880-1930. Ph.D. dissertation, University of Pittsburgh, 1978. Stark, David. "Class Struggle and the Transformation of the Labor Process: A Relational View." Theory and Society 9:1, 1980. Stewart, Katie. "The Marriage of Capitalist and Patriarchal Ideologies: Meanings of Male Bonding and Male Ranking in U.S. Culture." Women and Revolution. Lydia Sargent (ed.). Boston: South End Press, 1981. Suffern, Arthur E. Coal Miners' Struggle for Industrial Status. New York: MacMillan, 1926. Tams, W.P. The Smokeless Coal Fields of West Virginia. Morgantown, WVa.: West Virginia University Library, 1963. Vaught, Charles and David Smith. "Incorporation and Mechanical Solidarity in an Underground Coal Mine." Sociology of Work and Occupations 7:2, 1980. Yarrow, Michael. "The Labor Process in Coal Mining: Struggle for Control" Case Studies on the Labor Process. Andrew Zimablist (ed.) New York: Monthly Review, 1979. .How Good Strong Union Men Line It Out: Explorations of the Structure and Dynamics of Coal Miners' Class Consciousness. Ph.D. dissertation, Rutgers University. 1982. Zimbalist, Andrew. Case Studies on the Labor Process. New York: Monthly Review, 1979. 47 �WORDS AND PHOTOGRAPHS: ENDURING IMAGES OF APPALACHIA Convenor: Jim Lloyd, Western Carolina University Mary Prescott Montague: Last of the Appalachian Local Colorists Dexter Collett, Asher, Kentucky The Schoolmarm Motif in Appalachian Fiction Heidi Koring, Lincoln Memorial University Early Regional Photographers: Margaret Morley and William Barnhill in Western North Carolina Richard Straw, Radford University Early Regional Photographers: Margaret Morley and William Barnhill in Western North Carolina by Richard A. Straw Southern Appalachia has been extremely fruitful ground in which hundreds of photographers in this century have found a rich source of inspiration for their art. Among the earliest regional photographers were Margaret Morley and William Barnhill. Morley's book, The Carolina Mountains, appeared in 1913 and though it contained only twenty-four photographs, her images chronicle the everyday lives of mountain people all over western North Carolina in an engaging and sensitive manner. Her best works show women doing the tasks that filled their days and defined their place in pre-industrial mountain society. Her photos are an open and deliberate attempt to capture what she believed to be the honesty and straightforwardness of life in the Southern Highlands. William Barnhill arrived in western North Carolina from Philadelphia in 1914 and immediately set out to record on film all aspects of mountain life in Madison and Buncombe counties. He was probably the first photographer to make pictures of mountain culture for his own enjoyment. He was independent and worked for no newspaper, no editor, nor did he have a studio of his own.1 He was something of the vagabond and set out to photograph the region to satisfy his own curiosity and inner drive. For this he is certainly unique in the history of early Appalachian photography. His works are significant historical documents of Appalachian life in the early 20th century (although he did not mean for them to be) and are remarkable for their artistry and lack of bias or romanticism. What is especially amazing about his photos is that they were kept in private hands for over The author would like to thank Richard Dillingham of Mars Hill College for all his kind help and support. 48 �a half century until published in American Heritage and Life magazines in 1969 and 1970 respectively. The half century dormancy of BarnhilPs photos removed them from the mainstream Appalachian image makers who gained national recognition during the 1930s and who determined much of the country's perception of the region. Margaret Warner Morley was born February 17, 1858 and lived for a decade after the publication of The Carolina Mountains.2 She is not well known and in fact, information on her life is scarce. She is best remembered for a long string of children's books on the lives of birds, insects, and small animals. The Carolina Mountains was her only major work for adults. Morley was born in Iowa, but her family moved to Brooklyn, New York while she was young, and it was in the East that she received her formal education. She was drawn to teaching and graduated from New York City Normal College in 1878. Her main interest was biology, and she pursued that subject at several different schools in Chicago and Massachusetts. It was in connection with data she prepared for her classes that Morley began to gather material for her books (17 in all). Coming at a time when nature study was being established as a definite part of grade school courses, her books had some pioneering importance. In addition to the specific information in them, her books offered important moral lessons to children about being kind to animals and conservation. It is unknown exactly why she initially chose to go to western North Carolina, but once she was there, she was enthralled by the scenery and the environment, so much so that she spent part of each year for twelve years at the resort community of Tryon, south of Asheville. From her base at Tryon she explored the surrounding mountains and described them in lavish and loving detail. She also took pictures. Her photographs show us a personal image of the mountain environment with little of the influences that premeated her writing. Because she grew up and she was educated in the 1870s and 1880s, it is most likely that Morley came into contact and read the works of local colorists who published stories about Appalachia in the popular magazines of the day. Perhaps this was the impetus which drove her to go to western Carolina. It was the local colorists who created the notion that Appalachia was a strange land inhabited by a distinct and peculiar people who were unchanged from an earlier period of American history. The static image, as Ronald Filer calls it, had become accepted as fact by the 1890s when Morley first began to travel to Tryon.3 She created in her writing and especially in her photos a dichotomy between herself and her readers on the one hand and the natives on the other. This hinders her prose but improves her photography because her images stand alone and neither she nor her audience are a part of the scene. That is why her photographs lack sentimentality and an attachment to what was thought to be quaint. The images unfold before us without our interference or justification. By the time Morley published her photos, railroads, economic develop49 �ment, and an influx of northern missionaries and teachers had brought vast changes to the mountains. Obviously the image of mountain life that she presented was that of a passing and vanishing age. This provides a key to why she sought out scenes which depicted everyday life and the material aspect of the highlanders' world. She was comfortable writing about and photographing nature and, therefore, she sought in her photography to highlight the relationship that existed in pre-industrial Appalachia between nature, home, and work. That fiber which held the fabric of this world together, the connection between land, home, and family is the dominant theme of her photos and suggests that she was at least suspicious of the changes that she could not help but witness around her. The old life of the high country was passing away, and she worked hardest with her photos to preserve that image. Her photos do not strike a condescending chord, rather they stand as documents and reflect the positive side of her perceptions. She did not have the painter's license to leave anything out of her photos, and thus they appear as clear evidence of pre-industrial reality. Morley was an outsider and she was in the mountains to observe. She described in detailed photos the mountain peaks, the coves, the streams, the animals, and of course, the people. She liked the mountain people with whom she visited on her nature treks, and they emerge from her work as neither pathetic nor heroic. Perhaps her awareness of change stimulated her to document a lifestyle as it had been during a time when land, family, and work intertwined in a stable, workable, and balanced society. A contemporary of Morley's, although there is no evidence at present that they ever met, was William Augustus Barnhill. He was a free spirited and adventurous individual who began vacationing in the South during the first decade of this century. In 1910 he decided he would like to move to western North Carolina, and he began to correspond with the Secretary of the Asheville Board of Trade about the possibility of locating in that resort city. In 1913 Barnhill read Horace Kephart's book, Our Southern Highlanders, and was convinced that western Carolina was the place for him. He moved there in 1914 and spent the next three summers photographing the land and people within a twenty-five mile radius of Asheville. In 1917 he went off to World War I, returned to Asheville in 1918, and worked as a commercial photographer until 1922 when he moved to Cleveland.4 Barnhill was quite taken by Kephart's descriptions and photos of mountain life and when he moved to North Carolina he went to Bryson City to meet Kephart and to show him some of his photos. Kephart was impressed and told him he would use some of them in a future book on the mountains. Kephart died, however, before the book was written. Like Kephart, Barnhill was a dedicated hiker who backpacked with his camera into remote mountain areas. Barnhill's photos are striking representations of the texture of mountain life. They are sensible and believable and like Morley's, are free of much bias and romanticism. His images are also primarily of people work50 �ing: women churning butter, knitting, spinning, weaving, drying foods, men splitting shakes, plowing or hoeing corn. His photos are a record of agricultural self-sufficiency in a time when one's ability to work the land defined the quality of life. Many of Barnhill's photos are set on or around Mt. Mitchell. He made the first of many trips there in the summer of 1914 accompanying a party which included a motion picture photographer who was making publicity photos in the area.5 In the summer of 1915 a party of newspaper editors who were attending a conference in Asheville were taken on a courtesy trip to Mt. Mitchell and again Barnhill went along. During this trip he took pictures of what he saw on the way and solicited orders from a sample album he had made previously along the railroad.6 Barnhill had an entrepeneurial bent and did not pass up an opportunity to sell his photographs. It is curious that he has stated in an interview that he was not aware of the historical value of his photographs until the 1950s but had he been, he probably would have sold them earlier.7 When the Perley and Crockett Company of Black Mountain, North Carolina started an excursion trip over the logging railroad to Mt. Mitchell, Barnhill had a photographic concession, and he later shared a photographic and souvenir business with the owner of Camp Alice at the foot of the mountain.8 Barnhll spent days at a time hiking into the mountains around Asheville, and his enormous curiosity drove him to record as much of what he saw as he could. His motivation was simple. As he has said, "I wanted to have a record of where I'd been to have something to talk about."9 He won the confidence and friendship of the people with whom he came in contact and lived with them for short periods of time. He moved freely and obtained intimate photographic studies of their way of life. He photographed the people he met because, "I was as interesting to them as they were to me."10 There is no evidence that Barnhill consciously attempted to alter the culture of the region or to present a specific image of it to the public. He did not select those images that fit with outside expectations of what "mountain people" were like. Instead he sought to record what he saw around him because he was aware of its existence and he was somehow stimulated by its presence. "What I've seen there is just what I've seen with my own eyes."11 His photos are so important in this context because we are able to look at them without wondering about his intentions or for whom he worked. He did not even think of himself as a documentary photographer and has claimed that, "Documenting is the last thing I consider."12 Barnhill had no special interpretive message to convey through his images, although from the distance of time, we are grateful for his meticulous attention to detail in people's lives. He stimulated others to document the region, but he did not discuss his photography with them. He claims, "I wouldn't talk much that way, not that I had intentions of covering up, but I was just making pictures. That's what I wanted to do and that was my 51 �answer. My story was there."13 The rare comment he has made about his work concerns his interest in process and design and how they operated in an orderly fashion in mountain society. He photographed the pottery works in the Beech Community of Madison County, for example, and he made a series of photos that show the process by which wool is worked into cloth. He sought in his images a natural composition which would illustrate the essence of a moment suspended in time but not outside or removed from the system of which it was a part. His images are, an artist's expression not those of a cultural politician. His photos are, "what came out of me...what I saw."14 Like Morley, Barnhill photographed people engaged in all facets of work, and he was particularly interested in what we now refer to as mountain crafts. He was, however, unaware of the intentional revival of certian crafts in Appalachia at that time, and he has said his only interest was his curiosity about how people "made every simple thing."15 Neither did Barnhill attempt to make a statement about the changes that had altered tradition in the mountains nor did he use his photos to illustrate how people were losing the selfsufficiency that he so admired. He was, in his own words,"just photographing people."16 Barnhill's images can be classified into three styles: record photos, character photos, and process photos. The first type is simply the image of what happened before the eye of the photographer, and he recorded it to capture a moment in time; the character study was the product of his interest in the different people he met, and these photos resulted from his attraction to a particular face, the look in an eye, the turn of a head, or a certain nuance of appearance; the process photo captured what he saw as the organic design of life, and he recorded the process because he admired its orderliness and function, not to document its existence. What Barnhill vigorously pursued was an accurate image of the people he met. He sought to portray their individuality, to know each one's different story, but not to lose sight of their place within the larger group. He is sensitive to the pitfalls of image making but believes that his early work was neither influenced by an awareness of nor an avoidance of Appalachian stereotypes.17 The result of this approach is that Barnhill's photos stand above later works by photographers such as Doris Ullman because his photos have a candid, genuine look to them. Barnhill developed a relationship with his subjects that was based on mutual curiosity tempered with a straightforwardness that each could respect of the other. Barnhill did not have to ask people to pose for him because he was so comfortable around them, and they accepted him completely. He cannot remember anyone talking to him or asking him anything about what he was doing. No one questioned why he was taking their photos. He did not have to beg people to sit for him and in fact, he is adamant about how unposed his photos were. Most of his photos have a spontaneity to them that suggests that he just happened to be 52 �someplace at the right time. For example, one of his photos is of a man salting sheep on Craggie Mountain. When he took that shot the man did not look at Barnhill or even bother to ask what he was doing.18 To describe another of his photos Barnhill states, "I started setting up the camera and I don't remember saying anything. And she didn't ask me anything. Just like that one...with the woman with the wagon out of Weaverville with the strange costume and all. She just stopped along the road and I set up my camera and she just looked at me like the oxen, without much expression. They were just curious, I think. I don't remember talking at all. Tell them how to pose? I never asked them..."19 In order to fully understand the importance of historical photography it is necessary to ask certain questions. For example, what are our perceptions as viewers, and what were the motives and goals of the photographer? Photos clearly guide and fashion our most basic sense of reality and many of our most cherished images of the past have come from frozen pictorial descriptions more so than from the written word. "Photos are magical illusions, matchless pieces of information, descriptions of things, scenes, and persons infinitely more vivid than words...They seem miniature worlds, not copies but the things themselves."20 Photos are certainly historical documents, but they are also experiences in their own right because they give us the opportunity to witness the past as if it were, momentarily, at least, present. The historian Michael Lesy pioneered the study of photos not simply as illustrations of history but also as revealing documents and expressions that are a source of insight as well as information.21 What makes this true is our ability to read the picture, to reconstruct some small drama before the taking of the photo that evokes more than meets the eye. The viewer defines to some extent what is depicted as reality in a photo through his own imagination and relates this to other images he has seen and then he determines if the image is representative or fanciful. To the historian the most difficult task is to decide if a given photo is a fairly reliable image of what did exist. Would the photographed scene have taken place even if the camera had not been present? Documentary photographers have a great deal of power to manipulate a scene, but they are limited by their desire to show us what is there. It is because of this that the photographic image is the closest we can come to an objective representation of past reality. Equally important is to know by what criteria the photographs were originally made. Both Morley and Barnhill photographed a place and time which was passing into history before them. They were both alien to their subject matter but were drawn to it either out of curiosity or to document it for other outsiders. What Barnhill has said about his motives does not lead one to conclude that he consciously helped to shape the image of what was defined as Appalachia. The fact that over fifty years later his photos influence our image of what the region was like during the early 20th century is not equivalent to saying that he went there to intentionally reveal 53 �a particular image of the mountain people through his photography. He did of course do this through his choice of subjects and settings, but what is crucial is whether he did this with the intent to change or present the culture according to his selective view. The evidence does not support the argument that he did. Margaret Morley was in the mountains to study nature and to write a book about the region and its people, and she took her photos to supplement her prose. Morley clearly tried to present an image of the mountains to the outside world, and her view was so popular that a copy of her book was for many years in each guest room of the Grove Park Inn of Asheville. What is fascinating about her choices is that she photographed images and scenes that are remarkably similar to BarnhilFs. This suggests two possibilities. Either Morley and Barnhill shared a vision of the region which was already well-established in the national mind, or they both were drawn quite naturally to those aspects of the region which appealed to their artists' imagination and sensitivity. Unfortunately, we know very little about Morley, and it is therefore difficult to speculate on her motives. She was a naturalist and had a driving curiosity to discover the relationship between various aspects of the natural world so she pictured the people in her photos close to nature, outdoors, walking, and working. She caught them as they were, and there is little visible evidence of posing in her work. Morley's photos are lasting historical documents and are not overly endowed with romantic or sentimental visions of Appalachia's past. One possible explanation for this is that her subjects appear to be in control of her photos and she was, therefore, in a position to depict them very nearly like they appeared to her. Taken individually and as a group, what do the photos of Barnhill and Morley reveal to us about Appalachia? Barnhill did not consciously attempt to rearrange aspects of the culture for public consumption. Certainly his work has an impact upon our perception of what Appalachia was like during the pre-industrial era, but the photographer was not motivated by a desire to create or alter the image of the region that is laid before our eyes when we look at his photos. Morley, however, is much more difficult to understand. Her photos certainly depicted what she wanted her readers to see but was she photographing selectively to present a preconceived image of the region that would support the assumptions popularized by the local colorists of her youth? If this is true, do her photos present an accurate image of the mountain people at the turn of the century? Since they so closely parallel Barnhill's we can assume they do. Most of their photos are middle distance and distant views which suggest that there was a unity to this life, that every event had its place in the overall scheme of things. This approach to photography gives a detached feeling as if one is viewing a drama unfolding. There is no suggestion that the people in any of their photos are posing for an audience. Most are off alone, apparently unconcerned with the photographer, without the sense 54 �that the intrusion of the camrea has in any way altered their ordinary patterns of behavior. In the end, photographs, like any other historical document, exist in two worlds, that in which they were made and that in which they currently exist. But they cannot tell us everything regardless of how carefully the photographer sought to capture reality. They retain, as works of art, a precious amount of mystery that fires our imaginations, and as historical documents they stimulate us to learn more about the region so we can compare the visual image with the literary image. Fortunately Morley and Barnhill are two sympathetic and sensitive photographers whose lives and work are vital in understanding what Appalachia has been and continues to be. FOOTNOTES 1 Sam Gray, "Mountains and Valleys and People in 'The Back of Beyond,' " The Arts Journal (Asheville, N.C.), February 1982, p. 3 2 For general biographical data see, New York Times, February 15, 1923. 3 For a complete discussion of the static image and its impact on Appalachian history see, Ronald D. Eller, Miners, Millhands, and Mountaineers: Industrialization of the Appalachian South, 1880-1930. (University of Tennesse Press, 1982), pp xv-xxvii. 4 Asheville (N.C.) Citizen-Times, August 19, 1979. 5 Interview, William A. Barnhill by Polly Cheek, Richard Dillingham, Linda March, and Rob Amberg, Mars Hill, N.C. November 17, 1982, p. 41. Appalachian Room, Mars Hill College. 6 Ibid, p. 42. 7 Conversation by the author with Richard Dillingham, Mars Hill, N.C., January 25, 1985. 8 Asheville (N.C.) Citizen-Times, August 19, 1979. 9 Interview, William A. Barnhill by Polly Cheek, et al., p. 28. 10 Ibid, p. 33. 11 Ibid, p. 60. 12 Ibid, p. 60. 13 Ibid, p. 50. 14 Ibid, p. 51. 15 Ibid, p. 68 16 Ibid, p. 70. 17 Ibid, p. 60. 55 �18 Interview, William A. Barnhill by Richard Dillingham, Mars Hill, N.C. August 24, 1983, p. 38. Mars Hill College Oral History Program, Mars Hill College Archives. 19 Interview, Barnhill by Polly Cheek, et. al., pp. 36-37 20 Exhibitions Staff, The American Image: Photographs From the National Archives, 1860-1960. (National Archives and Records Service, 1979), p. ix. 21 One of several books which illustrates this concept is, Michael Lesy, Bearing Witness: A Photograhic Image of American Life. (Pantheon, 1982.) 56 �JOCKS AND JUNKETS: COME PLAY AND STAY Convenor: Russell Dachert, Western Carolina University Sports and Play in Southern Appalachia: A Tentative Appraisal Robert J. Higgs, East Tennessee State University Appalachian Documentaries: Hyping the Myth Sharyn McCrumb, Virginia Polytechnic Institute Appalachia: A Tourist Attraction? Melinda Hollar Wagner, Lynn Batley, Kai Jackson, Bill O'Brien and Liz THrockmorton, Radford University Sports and Play in Southern Appalachia: A Tentative Appraisal by Robert J. Higgs Wright Morris in The Territory Ahead says that no matter where we go in America today we will find what we just left. As far as sports and play are concerned, I would not want to argue with that assertion in the least. Once, not really so very long ago, sports and play in Appalachia were quite different from those forms found elsewhere, but not any more. Athletics and recreation are essentially the same across the American landscape as are the problems, which, it seems, are forever increasing. In fact writers from this region have been among the first to decry the now familiar dehumanizing trends in sports, and they have continued to speak out on issues as a few examples will make clear. Sherwood Anderson who made Southwest Virginia his permanent home was one of the first Amerian writers to regard the athlete as a cultural symbol and to suggest that sports are art forms providing the possibility of relief from the world of commerce. He also saw, like Johan Huizinga and others, the reverse occurring, the world of business encroaching upon the domain of sports and the athlete becoming a specialist and a celebrity. Thomas Wolfe was witness to the same complex and shifting scene in American sports. In Nebraska Crane of The Web and the Rock and You Can't Go Home Again he created an enduring hero of natural strength and virtue who could do what Wolfe himself could not, "remain detached from the fever of the times" and go home again. In Jim Randolph in the The Web and the Rock he shows an opposite type of hero, one who is victimized by all the flattery that his athletic success has fostered, and he succinctly paints a devastating picture of alumni and fans who are all too ready to 57 �bestow praise, providing there is a victory of course: They fill great towns at night before the big game. They go to night clubs and to bars. They dance, they get drunk, they carouse. They take their girls to games, they wear fur coats, they wear expensive clothing. They are drunk by half time. They do not really see the game and they do not care. They hope their machine runs better than the other machine, scores more points, wins a victory. They hope their own hired men come out ahead, but they really do not care. They don't know what it is to care. They have become too smart, too wise, too knowing, too absurd to care. They are not youthful and backwoodsy and naive enough to care. They are too slick to care. It's hard to feel a passion from just looking at machinery. It's hard to get excited at the efforts of the hired men.1 Indeed Arthur Miller was only echoing Wolfe a quarter of a century later when he said, "There doesn't seem to be any humanity left in big-time sports...people go to watch a machine operate. That wipes out the connection between spectator and team. The human side is out.2 Wilma Dykeman also suggests that the human side is out or perhaps going out. In a few pages in Return the Innocent Earth describing the big game between Jackson (read the University of Tennessee) Dykeman identifies every reprehensible facet of the do-or-die game: the bromidic mentality of the Alumni, the post-season bowl lust, the swelling arrogance sure to come with victory, and most of all "the dark malevolent growl" that "moves through the multitude." Is this, Dykeman seems to ask, sublimation of violence or the incipient weening of an awakening monster? Deborah Einemann (Dykeman's character), a Jew and citizen of the world, had "heard this crowd before—in Germany of course. So too had Nobel Prize winner Elias Canetti heard crowds before, as he makes clear in his unsettling book, Crowds and Power. What type of men make up the machines that characters in Dykeman's novel witness? Dan Jenkins gives us his version in his novel Semi-Tough in his picture of TJ. (Torn Jock) Lambert: They say that when TJ. was in college at Tennessee, he kept a mad dog chained up in his room in the dorm and used to feed it live cats. They say that instead of going down the hall to the toilet, TJ. had a habit of taking a dump in his closet. And when it got smelling so bad in his room that even TJ. would notice it, they say he would throw a bunch of newspapers on the closet and set fire to the whole thing.3 Some would say that Jenkins surely jests and I suppose he does, yet in 58 �another sense he is right on the money in description of T.J. in college in the athletic dorms for he has found the spot—second only to the frontier cat house—where anecdote and macho lore blur into fables of studliness. If one were to look for a character reminiscent of the world beater and ringtailed roarer out of the literature of the old Southwest, there is only one place to turn, the athletic dorm at what Mark Harris called SSU (Southern State University). The picture in Gary Shaw's Meat on the Hoof of the athletic dorm at the University of Texas would tend to confirm this observation. No doubt Lisa Alther is jesting too to a degree in a chapter entitled "Walking on the Knife's Edge or Blue Balls in Bible Land" in her novel Kinflicks, but she has also zeroed in on the very real problem of muscular Christianity in our culture which seems sometimes to be headquartered in the very heart of Appalachia. Note the following prayer of Brother Buck during the city-wide Preaching Mission in the cavernous gymnasium of the Civic Auditorium in Hullsport as Ginny and Joe Bob obediently hold hands, "sweating and trembling." "Let us pray," Brother Buck instructed. "Father, our Coach, hep us, Father, to run Thy plays as Thou wouldst have them run. Knowing, Lord that Christ Jesus Thy quarterback is there beside us with ever yard we gain, callin those plays and runnin that interference. Hep us, Lord, to understand that winnin ball games depends on followin trainin. Hep us not to abuse our minds and bodies with those worldly temptations that are off-limits to the teammates of Christ.... ....and hep us, Celestial Coach, to understand that the water boys of life are ever bit as precious in Thy sight as the All-American guards. And when that final gun goes off, Lord, mayst Thou welcome us to the locker room of the home team with a slap on the back and a hearty, 'Well done, my good and faithful tailback.' " "A-man," Brother Buck added as an afterthought. "A-man," echoed the rest of us.4 This type of satire of muscular Christianity has become commonplace in the last few years but it is timely and needed as long as evangelists insist upon the heretical notion that sports are the bridesmaid of religion and slant their proselytism accordingly. Jerry Falwell, Oral Roberts, and Billy Graham all acknowledge the power of sports in attracting converts, and Falwell has said that he wants to build "Champions for Christ." "Presumably," says Sheryl Hoffman about the techniques of Falwell and Roberts, "the Lord likes to see his favorite team win, and trouncing the heathens from the state college up the road proves, in its own inexplicable way, that the institution's theology was right all along."5 59 �What does all this mean for us in Appalacia today? It means, I think that sports and play in Appalachia and elsewhere have become either ends in themselves or means of serving the goals of religion, patriotism, or commercialism. If we look at the last Super bowl game, watched by 115 million, and the half-time program put on by the Air Force as a recruiting effort and remind ourselves of all the links between sports and religion, we must admit, I think, the distinct possibility that we have become a leisure-class society characterized by the four occupations of sports, government, warfare, and religion, as identified by Veblen in Theory of the Leisure Class. The rise of competitive sports and the decline of imaginative and unregulated play provide an index of the extent that a society has moved toward a leisure class of what Veblen would call a barbaric culture. Basically, the difference between sports and play is the difference between paidia and Ludus. These terms, coined by Roger Caillois in Man, Play, and Games represent principles which permeate all types of play. Paidia is a type of "uncontrolled fantasy, frolicsome, impulsive, or capricious"; ludus is the tendency toward "effort, patience, skill, ingenuity."6 Ludus lends itself to rigid competition, complexity, organization, and to easy alliance with the state; paidia by contrast, is unstructured, simple, and highly individualistic in the sense that the player is not so tightly bound by rules, and even secretive in that the nature of the play depends to a large extent upon the imagination of a limited number of participants. In ludus, the player displays ingenuity in the method or technique by which he attempts to win highly competitive contests already well established within a particular culture. In paidia ingenuity is displayed in the inventiveness of the player in creating new games, on adopting variations, as his ability, as it were, to entertain himself. The principles of ludus and piadia are always bound together, but, as Caillois points out, they always move in any game, and I would add in any culture, in opposite directions. Again, what is true elsewhere is true of Appalachia, and the big switch seems to have begun in the 1920's, though much research is needed to document this tentative assertion. The one thing we do know for sure is that things have not always been this way, if we trust observations of earlier observers. The children, says Horace Kephart in 1913, "play few games, but rather frisk about like young colts without aim or method."7 "The young people of the mountains," wrote John C. Campbell in 1921, "as a whole do not know how to play." Even when they do play, he says, they wish passionately to win and are inclined to take whatever means necessary to reach a goal. What is missing says Campbell, in addition to sportmanship, is organization, which organizations would provide: The Young Men's and the Young Women's Christian Associations might also find a special field for service in supplying and stimulating recreation. The young people of the mountains as 60 �a whole do not know how to play. They need to be directed into lines of wholesome vigorous activity. No definite program can be suggested. Here, as elsewhere, it will not be enough to supply the means. There must be definite fostering and supervision, and in places a traditional and religious opposition must be overcome, sympathetically and tactfully. The greater use of music—of community singing in particular—would be helpful, as well as the encouragement of games in which all may take part, folk dancing, and sports of various kinds.8 It may have been true that "as a whole" the mountain children in 1921 did not know how to play, but as Pamela Henson showed in her unpublished paper "A Study of Children's Play in Appalachia," based on a survey of numerous texts, it is certainly not altogether true. Mountain children did know how to play to a significant degree. In her survey of games in Kentucky, Tennessee, and West Virginia, Henson "found 277 games with distinctive titles, all collected since 1930. After classifying these games....Henson discovered that of those that could be identified, 136 used words, while 28 were non-verbal. Eighty were exclusively played outdoors, thirty-five indoors, and forty-nine could be played either place. Perhaps the most interesting discovery is that thirty-four of the games required only one player, fortytwo could be played with a minimum of two players, thirty with three, seventeen with four, fifteen with five, fifteen with ten players and one required twenty-two."9 Henson's study is valuble since all of her conclusions on various games are telling. In the case of jump rope, which is essentially a West Virginia game, Henson found that "none of the 63 jump rope games...entailed competition between jumpers." Among her conclusions Henson cites a "rarity" of competitive and team games, and games which entail assumption of roles."10 The games Henson surveyed reflect a clear divergence from the dominant American culture, (p.36) In appendix 1 it is evident that children's games of all sort, relatively simple and unorganized, are, according to Caillois' classification, forms of paidia. They are also, especially some of them such as counting-out rhymes, quite familiar to anyone raised in Appalachia and, say, over fifty years of age. They are also disappearing though I have no data to support that claim. Also disappearing are the almost pure examples of paidia that Caillois calls "tumult", "agitation", and "immoderate laughter," which also helped to define traditional Appalachian culture in the form of tall tales and practical jokes. That tumult and agitation existed on a wide scale throughout the region, we have on authority of one in whose honor this conference was established, and in his discussion of George Washington Harris's Sut Lovingood, in whom tumult abounded most gloriously: Sut's pranks, which belong to that low type of humor that derives its relish from the sight of gore and the infliction of pain 61 �APPENDIX I Classification of Games by Roger Caillois AGON (Competition) PAIDIA Tumult Agitation Immoderate laughter Kite-flying Solitaire Patience Crossword puzzles LUDUS Racing Wrestling Etc. Athletics ALEA (Chance) Counting out rhymes Heads or tails not regulated Betting Roulette Boxing, Billiards Fencing, Checkers Simple, complex, Football, Chess and countinuing Contests, Sports lotteries in general MIMCRY (Simulation) Children's initiations Games of illusion Tag, Arms Masks, Disguises Theater Spectacles in general ILINX (Vertigo) Children "whirling" Horseback riding Swinging Waltzing Volador Traveling carnivals Skiing Mountain climbing Tightrope walking NB. In each verticle column games are classified in such an order that the paidia element is constantly decreasing while the ludus element is ever increasing. upon others, are in the mainstream of mountaineer humor, which is preserved intact from the wild and boisterous frontier. That Sut's counterparts have not appeared in the fiction of the mountains to any marked degree merely indicates that polite taste excluded them. The pranks that Sut rigged on his enemies have been the stock in trade of his counterparts in the mountain country down to recent times. Such pranks as turning snakes and lizards loose in church, throwing nests of hornets among praying congregations, howling their sins at the mourner's bench, tying cans of lighted kerosene to dog's tails, multilating cats, dogs and horses, luring preachers, sheriffs, candidates for office, and school teachers into compromising situations with women, and frustrating weddings have their local adaptations in the oral traditions of most mountain communities.11 Praise God, it might be said, that such forms of play and humor are no longer prevalent in the region if existent at all, and enough has been said in derogatory vein about such sadistic practices that it is not necessary for me to add another note of outrage. Edmund Wilson, remember, called Sut "not a pioneer contending against the wilderness but a peasant squatting in his own filth." He also acknowledged that the Yarns is "by far the most repellant book of any real literary merit in American literature." Sut's hatred, Wilson contends, "is directed against anybody who shows any signs of 62 �gentility, idealism of education."12 "Hatred," I believe, is much too strong a word, reflecting a fundamental misunderstanding of the nature of play, or the ranges of play, on Wilson's part, and he also fails to see, as others of Sut's detractors have, that Sut's pranks are directed for the most part against institutions or representatives of institutions, preachers, politicians, and teachers and pretense in general. Indeed one could easily imagine Sut letting loose a bag of lizards during the height of Brother Buck's sermon in the Hullsport auditorium in Alther's novel or for that matter, recalling the scene in Return the Innocent Earth, in a section of Neyland Stadium either during the pre-game prayer or during a heroic goal-line stand on which some commercial bowl bid depends. Can we not say, in fact, without being charged with absolute sadism, "Sut, where are you now that we need you?" The point I wish to emphasize to a degree and defend is not infliction of pain upon man and beast but a sense of independene in forms of play and a rejection of blind acceptance of organized games that lend themselves so easily, especially with promotion techniques of the modern world, to perverse relationships with commerce, religion, and the nation state. There is a case to be sure for rules and structure, but how far do we go from the spontaneity of paidia that has always been a distinguishing feature of sports and play in Southern Appalachia? Note that unregulated athletics, racing, wrestling, etc., is a feature of paidia and it is such forms of competition, indeed usually violent, that were a distinctive feature of the people who formed a very large part of the population of the region. I speak of the Scotch-Irish whose contests are described by Reverend Edward L. Parker in The History of Londonderry: Their diversions and scenes of social intercourse were of a character not the most refined and cultured; displaying physical rather than intellectual and moral powers, such as boxing matches, wrestling, foot races, and other athletic exercise. At all public gatherings, the "ring" would be usually formed; and the combatants, in the presence of neighbors, brothers, and even fathers, would encounter each other in close fight, or at arms length, as the prescribed form might be; thus giving and receiving the well directed blow, until the face, limbs and body of each bore the marks of almost savage brutality. All this was done, not in anger, or from unkind feeling toward each other, but simply to test the superiority of strength and agility.13 Note that in these contests there are no material prizes, and, apparently, little or no animosity between competitors or combatants; and though the body pain in boxing matches can easily be imagined, the injuries would appear to be minor compared to those in any ordinary football game in Southern Appalachia where I have seen as many as eight people carried off the field in a single game. Still the contests of the Scotch-Irish seemed brutal 63 �to observers and no doubt contributed to the image they acquired of a "pernicious and pugnacious" people in the mind of easterners in the United States. Franklin, for example, regarded them as "violent, narrow-minded drunkards—white savages," as pointed out in Vengeance and Justice: Crime and Punishment in the Nineteenth Century American South by Edward T. Ayers who goes on to present this composite picture: A Particularly virulent strain of violence entered the South in the culture of the Scotch-Irish, the majority of whom chose the South for their home in the eighteenth century. In Carl Bridenbaugh's language, the Scotch-Irish were "undisciplined, emotional, courageous, aggressive, pugnacious, fiercely intolerant, and hard-drinking." All observers agreed that the Scotch-Irish had little patience for legal forms and found quick recourse in their guns, knives, or fists. "It appears to be more difficult for a North-ofIrelander than for other men to allow an honest difference of opinion in an opponent," a contemporary and sympathetic biographer of Andrew Jackson argued, "so that he is apt to regard the terms opponent and enemy as synonymous." Southern mountain culture, indelibly dyed by the Scotch-Irish origins of so many early settlers, became famous for its sensitivity, as Horace Kephart observed, "to any disparaging remark or imagined affront.14 This is also a point of Campbell in his call in 1921 for reform of play in the mountains without specific reference to the Scotch-Irish but mountain youth in general: The Highland boy has, however, little knowledge of play as play. When he plays he plays to win. In contests of any kind he wishes passionately to be the victor, and if he finds defeat threatens him he is too inclined to give up or take what means he can to reach his end. He is, more-over, very sensitive and swift to take offense. Ridicule, or the suspicion that someone is "throwing off on" him, he cannot bear, and he is quicker with the knife, or, when he is older, with the pistol, than with the fists. Thus he incurs the reproach of being, in popular parlance, a "poor sport," one who does not know the art of "playing the game to a finish," regardless of what it costs. It must not be inferred from this statement that he is a coward, although from a true sportsman's standpoint there is an element of cowardice in his failure to meet defeat squarely and honestly. In feats of daring the mountain youth is brave to recklessness, and as has been indicated in a previous chapter, no man in the country makes a more valiant soldier. He needs, however, to learn the code of honest sportsmanship—the 64 �code of the "good loser—which can best be taught through games which bring him into touch with his fellows in team-play and healthful competition.15 Without approving of quick recourse to gun or knife any more than the cruel pranks on man or animals, can one not ask where the American revolution itself would have been had the Scotch-Irish played the game of the British? Was not that spirited independence and suspicion of organizations, in whatever form, the very quality that made them, in the words of British historian Leeky, go "almost to a man on the side of the insurgents, they supplied some of the best soldiers of Washington."16 Though I cannot prove it at this point, I believe the Scotch-Irish are the key to the understanding of the history of sports and play in the region. Even the celebrated Grandfather Mountain Highland Games, "America's Braemer" appears to be almost an imported event when viewed in terms of the traditional play of the mountains,17 shaped so much, I suspect, by the proud and independent ScotchIrish. Their descendents, however, have, like most of the rest of us, embraced with open arms all the mass forms of sports and play that now surround us. Are there not corporate dangers in the present forms of sports and entertainment far outweighing those spontaneous, unregulated, and often violent forms of the older generations? Are there not dangers in crowds and heroworship, the two requirements for spectator sports that now surround us? Ring Lardner apparently thought so and in 1921, the same year that Campbell said the mountain children did not know how to play, voiced exactly the same complaint about the dominant culture. We do not know how to play in America, said Lardner: because (1) we lack imagination, and (2) we are a nation of hero-worshiper s.... But hero-worship is the national disease that does most to keep the grandstands full and the playgrounds empty. To hell with those four extra years of life, if they are going to cut in on our afternoon at the Polo Grounds, where, in blissful asinity, we may feast our eyes on the swarthy Champion of Swat, shouting now and then in an excess of anile idolatry, "come on, you Babe. Come on, you Baby Doll!"18 Over a decade later Lardner is still disenchanted with the anile idolatry of crowds as seen in his novel Lose With a Smile. The narrator, Danny Warner, is a busher from Booneville, Missouri, and in his letters home he tells his girl friend what life is like in the big leagues: Some of the boys has got nick names like wear they come from like 1 of the pitchers Clyde Day but they call him Pea ridge 65 �Day because he comes from a town name Pea ridge and he was the champion hog caller of Arkansaw and when he use to pitch in Brooklyn last yr he use to give a hog call after every ball he throwed but the club made him cut it out because the fans come down on the field every time he give a call and the club had to hire the champion of iowa to set up in the sand and call them back.19 In such satire the heritage of frontier humor is alive and well, and the object of attack, sports fans, seems today as deserving of such treatment as ever. Here, then, is the familiar situation again. As in so many other aspects of Appaclahian life, the effort in sports has been not to learn from the mountain culture but to transform it in imitation of mid-America. No doubt in the 1920's many mountain kids profited from new teachers and coaches bringing to them new knowledge of new sports, but could not America then (and now) have learned just as much from the habit of mountain kids "who frisked about like young colts without aim or method"? A whole new series of books proposing alternative forms of play and non-competitive games20 were in effect anticipated by children of Appalachia for over the past one hundred years. There is, in fact, or has been, an Appalachian physical education if we care to look back and see. It is a way of play quite at odds with the modern sports industry which reflects the same traits as the rest of modern society. The old ways were not perfect by any means, but their virtues were hidden, not proclaimed and boosted as are the supposed ones of modern sports. To the degree that contemporary sports and play are reformed, they will in fact move back toward the old order, toward fun, simplicity, spontaneity, and naturalness, toward paidia, the spirit of childhood. 66 �ENDNOTES 1. Thomas Wolfe, The Web and the Rock (New York: Harper, 1939), p. 122. 2. "Human Side is Out of Sports—Miller," Knoxville News Sentinel, February 13, 1986. 3. Dan Jenkins, Semi-Tough (New York: New American Library, 1972), p. 6. 4. Lisa Alther, Kinflicks (New York: Alfred A. Knopf, 1975), p. 42. 5. Sheryl J. Hoffman, "Evangelism and the Revitalization of Religious Ritual in Sport", unpublished article scheduled for publication in summer issue of Arete: The Journal of Sport Literature. 6. Roger Caillois, Man, Play, and Games, trans. Meyer Bararh (New York: Free Press, 1961), p. 13. 7. Horace Kephart, Our Southern Highlanders (New York: Outing Publishing Co., 1913), p. 259. 8. John C. Campbell, The Southern Highlander and His Home (Russell Sage Foundation: New York, 1921), pp. 319-20. 9. Quoted in Bernard Mergen: Play and Playthings: A Reference Guide (Westport, Conn.: Greenwood Press, 1982), p. 208. 10. Pamela Henson, "A Study of Children's Play in Appalachia," unpublished paper, Georgetown University, 1973), p. 36. 11. Gratis Williams, "Sut Lovingood as a Southern Mountaineer," Appalachian State Teachers College. Faculty Bulletin, 1966, p. 3-4. 12. Edmund Wilson, "Poisoned," Voices from the Hills, eds. Robert J. Higgs and Ambrose N. Manning (New York: Frederick Ungar Co., 1974), p. 414. 13. Quoted in Henry Jones Ford, The Scotch-Irish in America (Princeton, N.J.: Princeton University Press, 1915), p. 243. 14. Edward L. Ayers, Vengeance and Justice: Punishment in the Nineteenth Century American South (New York: Oxford University Press, 1984), p. 22. 15. Campbell, p. 126. 16. Quoted in Ford, p. 208. 17. For a history of the Scottish games in North America, see Gerald Redmond's masterful study, The Sporting Scots of Nineteenth Century Canada (Rutherford, N.J.: Fairleigh Dickinson University Press, 1982). 18. Ring Lardner, "Sport and Play," Civilization in the United States: An Inquiry by Thirty Americans, ed. Harold E. Stearnes (New York, 1922), p. 461. 19. Ring Lardner, Lose with a Smile (New York: Scribner's, 1933), p. 2. 20. In addition to the Bibliography in Play and Playthings see Recreation Alternatives: Ways to Play, 1978; Jeffrey Sobel, Everybody Wins, 393 Non-competitive games for young children (Walker and Co., 1983); and Nora Gallagher, Simple Pleasures, Wonderful and Wild Things to do at Home (Addison-Wesley Publishing Co., 1981). 67 �Applachian Documentaries Hyping the Myth by Sharyn McCrumb The "hill-billy" stereotyping of the Appalachian region by Hollywood feature filmmakers is a well-known phenomenon, easily recognizable by those familiar with the region. More subtle is the distortion of Appalachia by documentary filmmakers who have perpetuated old stereotypes and generated a few new ones in an effort to sell tourism or local products. Advertising has been an institution in Appalachia for most of this century—from barns plastered with "See Rock City" signs to the souvenir salesmen at the Floyd Collins mine incident. In the past fifty years, the selling of Appalachia as a region of "Disneyland" has progressed from "hillbilly" motels and Hatfield and McCoy outdoor dramas to include the film medium. In a chronological sampling of documentaries made over the last half century, it is interesting to note the shifts of emphasis from one decade to the next as filmmakers try to inform the outside world about Appalachia. After viewing a score of films made between 1930 and 1983, I found it difficult to believe that all these places described were actually the same region: 19th century throwbacks carding wool, unspoiled wilderness, industrial centers, and the costumed inhabitants of the Land of Oz were all offered by one film or another as "Appalachia". Over the years, filmmaking techniques became more sophisticated, and the films became more commercially oriented, but they seemed to come no nearer to presenting any kind of worthwhile introduction to the region; recent documentaries have changed Appalachia into another roadside attraction, designed to see that a tourist and his money are soon parted. This paper will examine the various media stances presented as "Appalachia" leading up to the most recent and atrocious incarnation, which is designed to convince the world that the "normal" Appalachian town is Gatlinburg, Tennessee. The oldest available documentary film on Appalachia was made in 1932 68 �by a now-defunct company known only as "Educational Productions". The title, "Primitive America", is the perfect representation of the attitudes of the filmmakers, who contend that Appalachia is the last stronghold of the "true pioneers" on the North American continent. The film shows mountain people making their own candles, spoons, chairs, etc., with no indication that they may also own cars, listen to radios, and live down the road from the Oak Ridge nuclear research center. Children Must Learn, a 1940 film made by New ^brk University, contends that children in rural Appalachia are hampered by ignorance and a tradition which resists change. The filmmakers claim that the children cannot relate to stories in standard textbooks, and that they should be given reading matter containing vocational information, such as the techniques of contour plowing and raising goats, so that they can be taught something "useful" besides literacy skills. These documentaries represent the "Deliverance" view of Appalachia, often reflected in feature films: that the region is a land that time forgot, bypassed by progress and education. Such films were made by outside groups of filmmakers, who used isolated incidents—and often staged events—to create the impression that this was the way of life for the entire region. For example, a woman who bought her household linens at J.C. Penny's in Knoxville, but who knew how to spin, might be asked to haul down the spinning wheel from the attic and give a demonstration for the filmmakers. The camera presents an image of a woman spinning cloth, and the audience is invited to believe that this is the norm in the southern highlands. One of the worst examples of the "primitive Appalachia" documentaries is a 1957 film distributed by the Virginia Department of Education, "Southern Highlanders". The narrator is the community's schoolteacher, who explains that the mountains are "shrouded in mists, like an old man's memory". She speaks indulgently of the people — sounding rather like a missionary: "People who still live by simple, honest values while the world grows complicated around them." In the film, the schoolteacher navigates the back roads in her new Ford Fairlane to observe her neighbors making sugar on a sorghum press and generally maintaining a nineteenth century lifestyle. What these people need, she concludes, is a good dose of progress: "They need no longer be slaves to the mountains, if they listen to the music of the future." The film's message seems to be that Appalachia is a backward place, but that there is hope for civilization there, eventually. By the mid-sixties the prevailing attitude toward Appalachia was that it was America's backyard — a nice place to visit if one went properly prepared. Happy Holiday—Camping in the Smokies, a 1966 American Oil Company production, urges suburban families to pile into their Winnebagos and head for the 'unspoiled wilderness' of the Smoky Mountains. The only indication of human habitation in the region — other than the camping tourists—is Gatlinburg, Tennessee, pictured as a strip of flashy gift shops. The film gives the impression that Appalachia is a land without schools, churches, factories, 69 �or ordinary people — since all the non-tourists appear in pioneer garb. Unfortunately this distorted image of the region — a wilderness punctuated by gift shops — became the accepted myth employed to lure tourists into the mountains. Subsequent films followed this format, sinking deeper and deeper into the trap of hyping the region as one vast 'Disneyland' existing for the amusement of 'normal' America. A strong motive for making this sort of film was the fact that the various commercial tourist attractions in the region could be sponsors of the film by paying part of the production costs in exchange for a feature spot in the film. North Carolina offered prospective tourists Variety Vacationland, a midseventies film by Doubles Film Productions, written and edited by Hugh Morton, the owner of Grandfather Mountain. Since this film was meant to interest visitors in the entire state of North Carolina, eastern attractions such as Kitty Hawk and the Lost Colony Outdoor drama were included; the western North Carolina region was represented by Grandfather Mountain, Tweetsie Railroad, Linville Caverns, and the Oconoluftee Indian village at Cherokee — all attractions charging an admission fee of several dollars. The 1976 film Holiday in the Sky, by Walter J. Klein Films of Charlotte, N.C., offers the same paid-sponsor format in an even more unattractive package. The film is narrated as a series of "postcard" texts addressed to the folks back home from a vacationing family. "I saw the Bible come alive at Christus Gardens," lisps the eight-year old. While scenes of the Three Mountaineers Craft Shop near Asheville occupy the screen, the audience hears 'Dad' telling the folks: "This is the kind of place you'd like to be lost in for ten or twelve years." Other paid-attractions visited by the family include: Ruby Falls, Dinosaur Land, and the Kingport-Johnson City Econotravel Motor Lodge. There is no hint in the film that between all these costly attractions there are free national parks where nature can be enjoyed, and that towns and farms full of ordinary people (as opposed to tin men and talking scarecrows) also populate the mountains. Probably the most widely-circulated tourist film advertising the southern Appalachian region is a 1980 movie made for Kodak by Hugh Morton. The Southern Highlands, available on free loan to any group who wishes to borrow it, is a detailed collection of tourist-trap vignettes covering North Carolina, Tennessee, and western Virginia. The audience is urged to pack its camera for a wonderful series of photo opportunities as they visit Rock City, Ruby Falls, Lost Sea, Christus Gardens, Gatlinburg, Frontier Village, Biltmore House, Grandfather Mountain, Blowing Rock, Ghost Town in the Sky, Luray Caverns—and most revolting of all—The Land of Oz, where Dorothy and her magical friends will pose with visiting tourists for heartwarming vacation pictures. It is no wonder that people believe the Dukes of Hazard after seeing documentary films depicting the region as an endless stream of commercial fluff. Ruby Falls and Luray Caverns are over-hyped commercializations of authentic natural phenomena, but there is no excuse for some of 70 �the man-made contrivances which are featured to represent the region: Ghost Town in the Sky is a western town, complete with shoot-outs and saloon girls; Christus Gardens is an imitation Holy Land on the wrong continent; and The Land of Oz is nowhere near Kansas and certainly 'no place like home' as far as Appalachia is concerned. The film was sponsored by the entrepreneurs who profit from the tourist's visits, at the expense of the region's national image. The state governments of the Appalachian states have entered the competition for the tourist dollar, using state production teams to film public relations movies inviting visitors to vacation there. The approaches vary greatly: all are better than the paid-attraction films, but most leave something to be desired in the search for a balanced presentation of the region. The Tennessee Department of Tourism offers Follow Me To Tennesee, featuring a plethora of nature shots, and more emphasis on history than on artificial theme parks, but the dignified-tone of the film is marred by the on-screen narrator, a "pioneer" in a deerskin outfit and coonskin cap. He makes an incongruous presence, chatting to the audience about water-skiing on the Mississippi. Kentucky did not respond to requests for the loan of a state film on tourism. Their ads say that such films must be requested one year in advance; apparently, a vacation in Kentucky is not a thing to be undertaken lightly. North Carolina lists a number of tourist films most of which are no longer available. Variety Vacationland, one of the sponsored films, served as the North Carolina film for this study. West Virginia seems to be trying hard to live down the standard media image of Appalachia. One of its films, The Hills Are Alive, a 1982 production, features a breathy, Tinkerbellvoiced narrator reciting the poetry of West Virginia poet laureate Louise MacNeil (sing-song rhymed couplets) to a panorama of wildlife and forest shots of West Virginia. White-water rafting and outdoor recreation is emphasized; regional accents are not present in the film. The second West Virginia publicity film, Wild, Wonderful West Virginia, is a 1982 Ellis Dungan production for the West Virginia Chamber of Commerce. Its target audience seems to be the executives of national corporations, and perhaps middle management people who have just been transferred to the region. After a few wildlife shots, the visuals and narration emphasize progress and potential in science and industry. There are shots of steel mills, hospital operating rooms, open-classroom elementary schools, and buildings on various college campuses within the state. The second half of the film shows golf courses, suburban brick homes, an art gallery, and a symphony orchestra. This approach makes one think that West Virginia doth protest too much. In producing such a scrupulously ordinary, non-regional picture of their state, they have sacrificed any individuality the state possesses. The symphony, hospitals, college campuses, and factories are all twentieth-century bland, and they could have represented South Dakota, Vermont, New Jersey, 71 �or Arizona without changing any aspect of the film. This could have been an all-purpose, interchangeable state promotional movie, for any state you chose. The result is a film which lacks in interest and character what it gains in dignity. There is a delicate balance between pioneer-garbed narrators and characterless hospital-and-art-gallery films, but the state of Georgia has managed to find the happy medium. Georgia, a 1982 production by the Georgia Department of Natural Resources, is a beautifully filmed pictoral tribute to the state. The musical background is Georgia On My Mind, a nice touch to individualize the film. Instead of bombarding the viewer with statistics as the West Virginia film did ("sixth state in mineral production"), the Georgia film paints an impressionistic portrait of the state, as described by residents of the various regions. In characteristic regional accents, off-screen voices describe Atlanta, the Georgia mountains, the Savannah coastal region, and the southern marshes, with affectionate pride. The Appalachian segment features an articulate man with a mountain accent, who describes the region: "These mountains have been through the fire and the ice, and now they're just resting." Excellent cinematography is exhibited in shots of a school bus on a mountain road, a small town's main street, a farmer beginning his morning chores, and nature shots of white-water rapids and panoramic mountain vistas. "If you get used to walking on unlevel ground," the narrator says, "You won't ever want to live anywhere else." The film features no tourist attractions, no costumed natives, not even any breath-taking natural wonders — just a few native Georgians talking affectionately about their regions. The film leaves the viewer with a warm, positive feeling about the state which was missing in every other tourist film in this study. Georgia, one feels, doesn't want to trick you out of your money, or put on an act, or try to impress you with their industry — but if you want to drop in for a visit, they'll be nice to you. The film maintains the dignity of the state without sacrificing its individual flavor. Film-making and avertising have become considerably more sophisticated in the past decade. Georgia reflects this new low-key approach to tourism, but it also indicates a healthy change from the apologetic "primitive America" films of the thirties and forties, and from the "carnival barker" approach of the past two decades. The message in Appalachian tourism of the eighties seems to be: "We are proud of our regional character, but we're not backward or strange. Come and visit, but don't expect it to be Disneyland." It is a message the rest of America has needed to hear for a long time. 72 �Appalachia: A Tourist Attraction? by Melinda Dollar Wagner, Donna Lynn Batley, Kai Jackson, Bill O'Brien, Liz Throckmorton Hypothesis: Commercialization of Cultural Difference We want to make clear that we are neither advocating nor decrying tourism per se. We are not, in fact, studying tourism. Our study is not on the numbers of people coming to the region, nor is it on the attractions that Appalachia actually offers or does not offer. Rather, we are examining the literature of the tourist industry to study the image of Appalachia which it projects. Our study of the image of Appalachia as it is portrayed in tourist literature was born as a child of Wagner's (1981, 1982) theory that the image of Appalachia serves as an "alter ego" for urban American or middle American culture. Wagner's hypothesis is that America looks toward the image of Appalachia as its opposite, perhaps what it once was and might be again. This hypothesis is borrowed from anthropologist Victor Turner's (1969) delineation of "community" and "communitas" which he says every society must have. "Community" is Turner's label for a society's social structure. It is a norm-governed, institutionalized and abstract structure which delineates how people behave toward one another according to the roles they play. "Communitas," on the other hand, represents spontaneous, immediate, and concrete relationships among human beings as human beings, rather than as role bearers. Communitas suggest what "could be;" it is the crucible which holds human potentialities and universal human values. Turner (1969:203) sets forth the idea that society "needs" both: Society seems to be a process rather than a thing—a dialectical process with successive phases of structure and communitas. There would seem to be—if one can use such a controversial term—a human"need" to participate in both modalities. 73 �Thus the image "non-Appalachian America" has of Appalachia may serve as a "communitas." This image of Appalachia represents middle America's opposite — a less complex, community-oriented, rugged society. Like the American Indian, Appalachia is viewed in sentimental retrospect by an urban population which longs to free itself of its mechanized, computerized bonds and live in simplicity, at least for awhile. By looking toward its opposites, middle America may thus identify and appreciate itself through contrast. For example, if middle America is individualistic, then Appalachia is seen as collective. If middle America is task-oriented, then Appalachia is seen as person-oriented. If middle America's music is classical and rock and electrified, then Appalachia's music is "folk," "traditional," and acoustical. If urban America is concrete and pavement, Appalachia is mountains and trees. We hypothesized that this desire to find "cultural difference" in Appalachia would be reflected in the literature of the tourist industry. By embarking on an analysis of the travel literature of each state, we set out to see if there is indeed an image of "cultural difference" displayed in this medium. It is not surprising that we should look to tourist literature to see if the image we expected to find was "played out" there, for tourism itself may indeed serve a "communitas" function. Modern tourism along with "much expressive culture such as ceremonials, the arts, sports, and folklore" serve "as diversions from the ordinary, which make life worth living." Tourism is "functionally and symbolically equivalent to other institutions that humans use to embellish and add meaning to their lives" (Graburn 1977). The most obvious example of this might be the pilgrimage, and we should note that Batteau has identified the "pilgrimages" of outsiders into Appalachia during the troubled time of the 1930s and 1960s as one of the "forms that have figured prominently in the image-making of Appalachia" (along with myth, journalism, and to a lesser extent commodity) (Wagoner, Batteau, Green 1983). As pilgrimage, as well as in its less serious forms, tourism is supposed to offer us "re-creation," a difference from the workaday world, a getting away from it all. "Tourism provides a... counterpoint to ordinary life." (Graburn 1977:24) Tourism, then, is an "alternative state" (Graburn 1981:470) wherein one may seek the opposite of his everyday "social structural" world. Tourism thus is akin to rituals which embody communitias by carrying their participants through a "liminal" state (a state of transition, or marginality, or being on the "threshold") (Turner 1969). For a tourist, just as a participant in ritual, is "out of the normal, everyday social-structural and cultural environment and beyond its social and moral constraints." The tourist is outside his normal space and outside his normal time (Akeroyd 1981:468). The history of tourism within Western civilization gives further fuel to our thought that an image of Appalachian otherness would be perpetuated 74 �in the tourist literature of today. In medieval Europe, travel was for religious purposes, as in pilgrimages or crusades. People of that day (who could afford to) travelled to religious retreats on spiritual quests for truth. This truth was to be obtained by reflection. The Renaissance brought with it the view that "truth lay outside the mind and spirit" (Graburn 1977:24). Travel then turned way from seeking for truth as religiously understood toward exploration of facts as scientifically understood, and to an appreciation of the "high culture" of Europe. The Industrial Revolution brought with it, among other things, safer and cheaper travel for the bourgeoisie. It also spawned "the romanticism that glorified nature and the countryside" (Graburn 1977:25). The aftermath of World War I had the effect of further loosening the hold of the aristocracy on tourism as a recreational activity. During the 1920s the aristocracy and its pleasures were further relegated to the realm of the "stuffy," and there was heightened interest in the lifestyles of common people. Ethnic or cultural tourism became popular; folk music and jazz were sought after (Graburn 1977:26). Tourism as a product of industrial societies became a "search for the natural and the simple" (PiSunyer 1981:475). This brief history of Western tourism shows that the motivations for tourism have evolved from the religious, cultural, historical, and educational to, more recently, a seeking after the themes of nature, recreation and ethnicity. Thus we were expecting to see a commercialization of a longing for cultural difference in the tourist literature of the Appalachian area. Another reason for choosing tourist literature as our medium is that tourism is a major activity in the area. It has been hypothesized that tourism "is quite likely to become the world's largest business by the end of the 20th century" (Sutton 1967), and the Appalachian region is no slouch in this regard. Since the 1950s, the Southern Appalachians have been considered one of the principal tourist areas of the country. Among national parks, the Great Smoky Mountains and Shenandoah are annually ranked among the leaders in numbers of visitors. Related attractions such as the Skyline Drive and the Blue Ridge Parkway have a high volume of usage (Morris 1967). In monetary terms, Virginia has a two billion dollar a year tourist industry, which is "as big an industry as agriculture and is more than equal to the combined dollar value of the industries of forestry, mining, and fishing" (MacCord 1981). West Virginia sees 1.4 billion dollars a year in "direct travel industry expenditures"; a figure which is "exceeded only by manufacturing" in that state. (Appalachia 1984). IMAGES WE EXPECTED TO FIND/TYPES OF TOURISM To summarize what we expected to find, let us clarify what the tourist/seeker seeks. A common task in socieities the world over seems to be an attribution of meaning through a process of defining "Culture" in 75 �opposition to "Nature." (This is the same process we go through when we seek to discover the meaning of any concept; we find out what it is not.) For the same reason, "communities" seek "communitias," in rituals, or by imagining it or seeking after it. Thus the highly "Cultured" city dweller seeks after Nature in two forms: One is to seek nature in the purest form, to get out "into" Nature, and the fewer people (bearers of Culture) around the better. But you can also get close to nature through Nature's "children" — the peasants of the world. "Interaction with them is possible and their naturalness and simplicity exemplifies all that is good in Nature herself (Graburn 1977:27; See also Batteau 1979 on Culture seeking after Nature). The seeking after Nature in its purest form has been labelled "natural tourism" by those who study tourism, and of course, we expected to find this in the tourist brochures from the Appalachian region. "Natural tourism" includes driving and hiking through mountains and countryside, sight-seeing things like natural land formations. This kind of tourism is represented in the tourist literature by pictures of landscapes that look as though they were taken from cars on scenic highways, and by pictures of natural "oddities" like the Natural Bridge in Virginia. As an example, we offer this ear-jangling put together of downhome and media hype: "we've set aside some of the prettiest country you'll ever see... We call 'em State Parks... and all in the middle of some of the prettiest country the good Lord ever made." The kind of "cultural difference" image we expected to find has been labelled by those who study tourism as "ethnic" or "cultural" tourism. This is communing with Nature through her children or their artifacts. It includes the "picturesque, vestiges of a vanishing life-style... with old-style dwellings, horse-drawn carts and plows, and handmade rather than machine-made crafts." Activities may include meals in rustic inns and folklore performances (Smith 1977:2). This kind of tourism includes the seeking after crafts, music, and dance. To further explain what sort of cultural tourism we thought we would find, it is necessary to clarify that there are at least two constellations of images of Appalachia, which sometimes overlap. These "types" correspond to the distinction made by Batteau and Green between "stereotype" (a popularized cartoon-like image) and "archetype" which relies on "some basic ideas within our cultural understandings," is akin to myth and legend, and harbors dichotomies like those included in the social structure/communitias model discussed earlier. (Wagner, Batteau, Green 1983). The first might be called a "hard" image; these are the stereotypes which have been played out in cartoons, jokes, television series, and advertisements. This stereotype relies on the slouch hat, the moonshine jug, the rifle, and Snuffy Smith's junkedup cabin. The "softer" image emphasizes values that have been repeatedly attributed to Appalachia: a sense of beauty, modesty, self-reliance and pride, fatalism, collectivism (a person-orientation, as opposed to a task orienta- 76 �tion), love of land, religiosity, family loyalty, and a slower, laid back pace of life (e.g. Jones 1972). Added to this should be artifacts and activities such as stringed instruments, folk and bluegrass music, clogging, quilts and quilting, and handmade wooden furniture, toys, etc. We did expect to find Appalachian "cultural difference" to be heavily commercialized by the tourist industry. We expected this commercialization, to be of a "soft" type — i.e. using the more subtle images such as bluegrass musicians, quilt makers, etc. as opposed to "hard" stereotyped images of lazy, moonshine-drinking hillbillies. Let us reiterate that we did not expect to find a "hard" exploitation of Appalachia through stereotypes such as the L'il Abner character. At least, we did not expect to find this in the official literature of the state travel bureaus. We did not expect to find this, and we did not find it. Before we tell you about our method and our findings let us clarify the remaining types of tourism which students of tourism have identified. (The types of tourism discussed here have been adapted from Smith 1977 and MacCord 1981). "Recreational tourism" is often the beach and the package of coastline activities, and "sexy pictures and images" that attract tourists who want to "relax or commune with nature," but in a comfortable way with the conveniences that a resort-type place can offer. This type of tourism also includes ski resorts and large, glamorous cities with a night life, like the "Big-A" (Atlanta) as shown in the Georgia travel literature (Smith 1977). "Historical tourism" stresses the past, with tours of historical structures (like the "covered bridges" we found in abundance in the West Virginia literature) and reconstructions of past environments (like Williamsburg, Virginia). "Industrial tourism" would include tours of factories, mines, mills, and the like. An example would be the Museum of Atomic Energy at Oak Ridge, Tennessee. Thus, we thought we had good reason for looking for a commercialization, some might say an exploitation, of cultural difference in the travel literature, and we set out to see if it was indeed there. Keep in mind that our research is not aimed at determining whether the Appalachian region is actually culturally different from the rest of the United States. It has been "imaged" as if it were, and we wanted to see whether this image prevailed in the tourist literature. Whether these cultural differences are actually to be found in the area is beside our current point. We simply wished to see if they were used as part of the "come on" in the tourist literature of the Appalachian states. The method we used to test this hypothesis was to request travel literature from each of the 13 states recognized as part of Appalachia by the Appalachian Regional Commission. We did this by writing to the Tourist Division of each state government. In fact, we wrote two letters, using two different addresses, 77 �to each state office. In one letter, we requested literature on "travel and recreation" in that state, and in the other we specifically stated an interest "in the Appalachian area of the state." Our point here was to compare the separate sets to see whether the information would be different in the general state brochures and in the specifically "Appalachian" ones. Most of the states sent the exact same package in reply to both requests. Georgia and South Carolina sent no reply to the "Appalachian" request. North Carolina sent one extra item — a list of hotels — in answer to the "Appalachian" request. Tennessee was the only state that sent different materials to the two different requests. In Kentucky, the general literature came from the Office of Tourist Development, while the literature for the "Appalachian" request was sent from the governor with a special letter. Otherwise, it was the same packet of information. Originally all 13 states were analyzed (Anthropology 411 1984), but for purposes of this paper, we have narrowed our focus to these seven states: West Virginia, Virginia, Kentucky, Tennessee, North Carolina, South Carolina, and Georgia, and will discuss only these in the remainder of the paper. Analysis was done on the content of text, pictures, and on the feelings one got when looking at the literature. We gradually worked our way from broad, overall images of the material, to more detailed and specific things which included more concrete data such as the number of times certain images appeared or certain phrases that were used. We then looked for patterns which our analysis had shown were common in the literature. FINDINGS In general we found that commercialization of a soft "Appalachia as different" image was little in evidence. "Variety" is the Spice of Tourist Life Each state's literature has a particular theme. In no state was Appalachia — either its cultural or its natural attractions — the main emphasis in the tourist literature. For most of the states, the main emphasis was "VARIETY" — something for everyone. This was true even of West Virginia, which, of all the states, we expected to lean most heavily on its Appalachian heritage. Out of the seven states, four had variety or something for everybody as their theme (West Virginia, South Carolina, Georgia, and North Carolina.) Tennessee had the theme of "recreation or outdoors." Virginia stressed "history." 78 �Kentucky's theme was "bluegrass." The literature of the four "variety" states used all four types of tourism discussed earlier. All of the coastal states took advantage of their beaches as the major tourist attraction, while the land-locked states, Tennesee, Kentucky, and West Virginia, promoted outdoor recreation, including hiking, sight-seeing and a variety of other activities. Appalachian seems to become lost in the innumerable pages of golf, tennis, rafting, skiing, swimming and other recreation activities as well as the history and heritage of other sections in the states. Appalachian culture may be a tourist attraction, but to the states in which it lies, it is just one among a variety of choices for the potential vacationer. All of the states except Tennessee and Kentucky sent us a main book (a "big beautiful book" as they advertised it), and many of them accompanied this with smaller brochures about particular places. These books were all divided into sections (ranging from three to eleven sections), each section emphasizing a different thing to see, thus underscoring the VARIETY available within the state. Each travel section was given a name under which the activities, events, attractions, and accommodations in that area's vacation spots were listed, described and illustrated. In five of the states, these sections were geographically determined and labelled. For example, Virginia's book was divided into Northern Virginia, Tidewater, Eastern Shore, Central-Southside, Shenandoah, and finally, the Highlands. In North Carolina and Georgia, however, the books were divided and the sections titled by relating them to history or the type of people who live there or once lived there. For example, in North Carolina's literature, one of the sections was called "The Birthplace of English America" and another was called "The Land of the Sky," an area where many Indians lived. Within these books, the placement of the section which would be considered Appalachian differed. In four states it was the last thing in the book (Virginia, Kentucky, South Carolina and West Virginia); in two states it was at the front (North Carolina and Georgia). Appalachia as "Historyless" In most of the literature, Appalachia appeared "historyless." There was little to indicate that any history had ever taken place here, other than a few references to Daniel Boone. In some of the states, history was a major part of the discussion of several of its areas, but not mentioned at all in the Appalachian section of the state. One student noted that it seemed as though Appalachia had no people and no culture, just land and natural beauty. "Appalachia" Rarely Used We found that the word "Appalachia" was not much in evidence. No 79 �state used the word "Appalachia" to label the Appalachian region of its state, instead they used labels like "High Country," "Mountaineer Country," or "Highlands." (See the following chart which lists these labels for each state, along with the predominant theme of each state's literature and the kinds of tourism found in each state.) When the word Appalachia was found, it was used to refer to geological phenomena, or it was used as part of a proper name, such as the Appalachian Mountains, the Appalachian Plateau or the Appalachian Trail. That is, it was very rarely used to refer to culture or to cultural traits. South Carolina did not use the word at all in its literature. Virginia used the word only once, to refer to the "Appalachian Plateau." In Georgia, the word Appalachia wsa used only when referring to the Appalachian Trail. Appalachia as (Nearly) "Cultureless:" Cultural Images Found: Arts and Crafts With the exception of South Carolina, all of the states portrayed some part of the traditional images of Appalachia in their travel literature. Thus we found some emphasis on Appalachian culture in nearly all of the states, but not nearly as much as we had expected to find. The cultural aspects which we did find were quilting, traditional music, dancing, and festivals which featured all of these. Arts and crafts were the predominant form of "cultural" tourism. The most popular Appalachian images included: mountain or Appalachian arts and crafts in general, quilts, and stringed instruments like the fiddle and the dulcimer (all found in 5 of the 7 states); square dance, folk dance, flatfoot or clogging, and hillbilly or mountain costume (in 3 of the 7 states), moonshine and stills, love of land, folk music, and a relaxed, rural atmosphere (in 2 of the 7 states). (See the chart which delineates the items of cultural tourism found in the various states.) As an example, Virginia's literature, which made very little mention of Appalachian culture, did say "And there's the Southwest Virginia Museum at Big Stone Gap, for a close-up look at mountain culture and customs. There you'll find... century old quilts, b'ar guns and a homemade still." Likewise, the Northeast Georgia Mountain region sports a "down home atmosphere" with "rustic accommodations available from friendly people who are as widely known for their cleverly fashioned handicrafts as they are for their delicious country food." Listings of things to do included many arts and crafts festivals and fiddlers' conventions such as Tennessee's "Old Time Fiddler's Championship" with "flatfoot dance... and non-electric instruments." The pictures also showed these particular facets of the image of Appalachian culture. In Tennessee, pictures depicted men with long white beards, men playing fiddles, old women quilting, and log cbins. One picture depicts 80 �SUMMARY OF PREDOMINANT THEMES AND TYPES OF TOURISM FOUND IN THE TOURIST LITERATURE STATE PREDOMINANT THEME OF THE LITERATURE LABEL FOR THE TYPES OF APPALACHIAN TOURISM IN THE LITERATURE SECTION TYPES OF TOURISM IN THE APPALACHIAN SECTION West Virginia Variety N,H,R,C,I/N,R,C "Mountaineer Country" Virginia History H,R,N,C/N,R,C "Shenandoah," "Highlands" Kentucky Bluegrass R,N,H/N,R,C "Eastern Kentucky" North Carolina Tennessee Variety Recreation Outdoors "High Country" Georgia Variety R,N,C/N,C, N,R,H,C/N,R,C H,R,N,C/N,R,H South Carolina Variety; Beaches R N,R, "East Tennessee "Pioneer Territory," "Northeast Georgia Territory" "Up Country Carolina" Key: Types of tourism: C—Cultural (includes Indian as well as Appalachian) H—Historical I—Industrial N—Natural R—Recreational The types of tourism for each state are listed in the order which indicates which form was most prevalent in the literature of that state. a man in overalls with a mule; another is of a woman in traditional garb who is sewing on a quilt. Another shows some men sitting in front of a log house in flannel shirts and overalls playing music on banjo, guitar and fiddle while a couple of other men watch and carve on pieces of wood. Virginia's "Highlands" section pictured a mill, a rocking chair and a spinning wheel, a man making a dulcimer, a barn on a hill, a banjo player, a guitar player, and people on a porch. Kentucky's literature included a man playing fiddle, a picture of a chair in the woods with a shawl and some pottery sitting on it, and pictures of bluegrass musicians, log cabins and a mill. The travel literature of Tennesse, West Virginia, and Kentucky gave the strongest of these images of the Appalachian region(s) of their states, by including more pictures, phrases, and events that convey an "Appalachia as culturally different" image. But this still represented a small portion of all the images to be gleaned from the literature of the state. For example, in Kentucky's literature, the pictures described above were drowned in the overriding emphasis on "bluegrass." There were twenty-two pictures of horses 81 �Items of Cultural Tourism Found in Tourist Literature x indicates that this item is present in the state's literature in the literature, greatly outnumbering those with an "Appalachian" emphasis. "Bluegrass" was the most often used word in this literature, appearing sixteen times. Appalachia as "Nature" Much more in evidence were representations of natural attractions such as mountains, water, trees and other scenery. Mountains and scenery seem to be the universal symbols used to represent Appalachia. Our research showed a preponderance of beautiful pictures of the sun setting over rows of mountain ridges. Morris' (1967) article on "The Potential of Tourism" in the Ford study emphasizes the "diverse natural features" of the area, including mountains, ridges, gorges, valleys, rivers, caves, and forests. The only thing the area lacks is natural lakes, and the dams have taken care of that. All this is joined with mostly moderate temperatures and a comfortable relative humidity to make it nice for the tourist. A listing of the attractions Virginia has to offer says "Virginia is hard to beat for variety" when it comes to natural attractions. There are "waterfalls, natural tunnels and bridges, caves, cliffs, peaks, scenic 82 �overlooks, dunes, virgin forests, areas and streams for hunting and fishing, streams for canoeing, open water for boating and water-skiing, mineral and fossil deposits" (MacCord 1981). SUMMARY AND THOUGHTS ON WHY THERE IS LITTLE COMMERCIALIZATION OF CULTURAL DIFFERENCE Thus, we thought we would find commercialization of cultural difference, and found instead largely an ignoring of cultural differences. We found a nuance of cultural tourism, drowned in other forms of tourism. While our purpose was not to theorize why we found what we did, but rather to simply look to see what was there, we have given this some thought. First, we have to consider what tourism is. It is, after all, an industry — "an organized industry, catering to a clientele who have time and money and want to spend them, pleasurably, in leisured mobility" (Smith 1977:15). Areas thought to be the most profitable and best liked by vacationers may predominate in the literature of the state. Some of us have suggested that the tourist industry may not view communion with culture as lucrative, compared to communion with beaches, golf courses, restaurants, and motels. In other words, cultural tourism itself may not be considered profitable. (Although others of us have argued that it certainly is made much of in other areas; for example, Pennsylvania "sells" its Amish population to the point of genuine exploitation, and the literature we looked at used its Indian population as a "selling point" whenever possible.) Secondly, we need to remember who produced the literature we used as our sample. This literature came from the "Tourist Division of each state government. The few examples we had of a stereotyped negative image came from privately produced and distributed advertising of privately owned tourist traps. We may not find a commercialization of cultural difference in the state-produced literature for the same reason that Virginia has mandated that its plantations now be labelled "grand manor houses." (The state NAACP objected to this, saying it was a not so subtle way to rewrite Virginia history, and that a plantation should be called a plantation.) We call this a "blandifying" of the literature, a sanitizing of it to make it bland enough so as not to offend any particular group. Some of the students to whom we have presented our findings have suggested that perhaps the makers of tourist literature themselves have only a negative stereotype of the Appalachian region, and do not want to project this in the literature, and so project no image at all. Third, since the Appalachian region is just one part of most of these states, it is logical that they would not give it more than its "quota" of notice in their travel literature. Fourth, perhaps, after all, Appalachia is not actually different, and the tourist industry knows that better than we academics do. (This is not to be 83 �construed as a fact, merely a perhaps.) A more theoretical argument, and one which might lay the foundations for our next paper, is that if the cultured person is truly seeking Nature, any view of a culture to be found in that Natural setting (albeit a culture that is thought to be "different" from the tourist's own) only interferes with the Nature-seeking. If you want cultural tourism you can go to "Amish Country" or you can hobnob with the natives in New Guinea. But Appalachia is portrayed as one of America's last bastions of uncultured Wilderness (which you can see from a car). APPENDIX The following are examples of attractions and activities, taken from the travel literature, that each state claimed to offer. All of the states, except two, are divided on the basis of Appalachian and nonAppalachian sections. Tennessee and West Virginia could not be divided this way because one did not have a major book that divided the state into specific sections and one was entirely Appalachia. The examples from the Appalachian section of each state are more detailed and specific to give a clear idea of the images of Appalachia presented in the literature. The non-Appalachian sections are more generalized to give an overall picture of what that state offered. WEST VIRGINIA glassmaking companies coal mine tours Hatfields and McCoys museums horse racing fishing Coal Festival Country Festival "shimmering lakes" "luxurious resorts" barns Civil War battle grounds "mountain heritage" "Appalachian arts and crafts" quilts "mountaineer" "mountain arts and crafts" "Appalachian craftsmen" Appalachian Wildwater, Inc. 13 out of 81 pictures of mountains 4 out of 81 pictures of covered bridges "racing rapids" country inns mills Mountaineer Dinner Theater VIRGINIA Appalachian Section mill Sugar Maple Farm Festival Natural Chimneys Natural Tunnel "pioneer legends" rocking chair guitarist barn on a hill stringed instrument concerts deer Southwest Virginia museum at Big Stone Gap Old Fiddler's Convention Natural Bridge Winchester Apple Blossom Festival "handmade quilts" "homemade stills" sunsets banjo player people on porch man making a dulcimer Barter Theater caverns "century old quilts" Cumberland Gap 84 �Non-Appalachian Section Williamsburg people visiting historical houses skiing hiking beaches mountains "unspoiled natural beauty" Old Church Tower Woodrow Wilson Birthplace battle re-enactments canoeing rafting amusement parks trees Old Capital City of Richmond KENTUCKY Appalachian Section mountains lakes "bluegrass music" The Appalachian Celebration Kentucky Logging Show Sorghum Festival Annual Hillbilly Days Festival dancing Black Gold Festival clogging "bean soup dinner" "moonshine demonstration" Berea College boating fishing Morehead State University Appalachian Collection Harvest Festival Appalachian Development Center Jesse Stuart Nature Preserve crafts square dancing folkdancing folk music Great American Dulcimer Convention Non-Appalachian Section fishing tubing old houses historic documents mountains chair with a shawl on it mill horse racing historical monuments mills sunsets old cabins log houses NORTH CAROLINA Appalachian Section Hollerin" Festival New River Appalachian Trail 7 out of 9 pictures in this section are of mountains Collard Festival Grandfather Mountain Scottish Festival "authentic mountain life exhibits" quilting Non-Appalachian Section mountains restaurants beaches pine trees 85 �TENNESSEE hiking "flatfoot dancing and non-electric instruments" Seventh Annual Dulcimer Conventions Squaredancing "pioneer crafts" "folk festival" women quilting log cabins mountains 31 arts and crafts festivals listed fishing hunting Andrew Jackson Home Jonesborough — oldest town in the state fiddle playing woodcraving Old time Fiddler's Championship Appalachian Music Frontier Days "hammer and mountain dulcimers" "fiddle contest" men playing fiddles men with long white beards men in suspenders, dirty work clothes, and hats state parks men in overalls with mule pulling cart sailing men in flannel shirts playing banjos and guitars quilting men carving sticks GEORGIA Appalachian Section Lookout Mountain Appalachian Wagon Train "rustic accomodations" cat on a fencepost "Indian lore" Craftsmen's Fair "friendly people" "delicious country foods" Mountain Arts and Crafts Festival Birthplace of Sequoia Old Time Fiddlin' Convention "cleverly fashioned handicrafts" waterfalls southern plantations Sorghum Festival "a down home atmosphere" farmlands The Gold Rush Days Non-Appalachian Section water plantations Sioux Indians trees tennis colonial houses seafood Indian culture and heritage amusement parks golfing fishing SOUTH CAROLINA Appalachian Section mountains waterfalls camping crafts lakes Rock Bluff hiking rafting Non-Appalachian Section beaches sailboats seafood golfing The Grand Strand Pee Dee Country sun bathers women water restaurants Historic Charleston Thoroughbred Country 86 �REFERENCES CITED Anthropology 411 Appalachian Cultures Class. 1984. Appalachia: A Tourist Attraction. Radford, VA: Radford University Appalachian Studies Program. The authors and their chapters are: Marcia Cooper — ARC; Daphne Carr — New ^fork; Barry Sites—Pennsylvania; Susan Finley — Maryland; Ben Steinberg — Ohio; Carl Rhodes — West Virginia; Liz Throckmorton — Virginia; Lorna Smith — Kentucky; Tami Stark — North Carolina; Bill O'Brien — Tennessee; Jeff Jarvis — South Carolina; Kai Jackson — Georgia; Lynn Batley — Alabama; Kelly Morris — Mississippi; Ana Sutphin — Blue Ridge Parkway. Their work has been used throughout this paper. Akeroyd, Anne V. 1981. Comments on anthropology of tourism, Current Anthropology, October. Appalachia. 1984. Recreation and Tourism. Appalachia, May-August. Batteau, Allen. 1979. The American Culture of Appalachia. Paper presented at the annual meeting of the American Anthropological Association, Cincinnati, Ohio. Craburn, Nelson H.H. 1977. Tourism: The Sacred Journey. IN Smith, Valene, Ed., Hosts and Guests. University of Pennsylvania Press. 1981. Comments on Anthropology of Tourism. Current Anthropology, October. Jones, Loyal. 1972. Appalachian Values. Twig Magazine. MacCord, Howard. 1981. Your Locality and the Travel Industry. Virginia Travel Council Morris, John W., 1967. The Potential of Tourism. IN Ford, Thomas R., Ed., The Southern Appalachian Region: A Survey. Lexington: University of Kentucky Press. Pi-Sunyer, Oriol. 1981. Comments on Anthropology of Tourism. Current Anthropology, October. Smith, Valene. 1977. Introduction. IN Smith, Valene, Ed., Hosts and Guests. University of Pennsylvania Press. Sutton, W.A. 1967. Travel and understanding: Notes on the social structure of touring. International Journal of Comparative Sociology 8:218-23. Turner, Victor. 1969. The Ritual Process: Structure and Anti-Structure. Chicago. Aldine. Wagner, Melinda Bollar. 1981. America's Alter Ego. Radford Magazine. Fall. 1982. Appalachia in America's Future: Alternative Cultural Forms. IN Simon, Rick, Ed., Critical Essays in Appalachian Life and Culture. Boone, NC: Appalachian Consortium Press. Wagner, Melinda Bollar, Allen Batteau, and Archie Green. 1983. Images of Appalachia: A Critical Discussion. IN Buxton, Barry, Ed., The Appalachian Experience: Proceedings of the 6th Annual Appalachian Studies Conference. Boone, NC: Appalachian Consortium Press. 87 �BEFORE THE YELLOW BUSES: THE QUEST FOR EDUCATION Convenor: Gerald Roberts, Berea College Toward a Definition of Folk Schools Pauline Cheek, Mars Hill, North Carolina Settlement School Goes to the People: Pine Mountain School's Community Centers at Big Laurel and Line Fork, 1919-1940 Nancy Forderhase, Eastern Kentucky University Northern Presbyterians in Southern Appalachia: Mountain Mission Schools Barbara Hempleman and Joan Moser, Warren Wilson College Settlement School goes to the People: Pine Mounain School's Community Centers at Big Laurel and Line Fork, 19194940 by Nancy Forderhase "Located high above the road in a woodland in one of the wedge shaped valleys peculiar to this region of the Southern Appalachians is the little log cabin settlement. Pine Mountain towers above—a formidable barrier between it and the big outside world. Nevertheless, here lives a bit of 'the outside': two 'fotched-on' teachers, an industrial worker and a nurse supplement in many ways the meager educational opportunities through classes in cooking, preaching in the little log cabin house and in their own lives, the gospel of health."1 This picturesque introduction to Line Fork, an extension center of Pine Mountain School, was a capsule description of mountain community work sponsored by the settlement school by the mid-1920's. Pine Mountain Settlement School, founded in 1913, was a complex and multifaceted institution. Building on the experience of the Hindman School which had begun in 1902, {Catherine Pettit and Ethel deLong launched a project to establish a similar school in a more remote region of Kentucky on the 'far side' of Pine Mountain. These two energetic and enthusiastic women hired Mary Rockwell, an architect from Kansas City, to draw up a master plan for the school grounds and future buildings which would be built as money was raised. They embarked upon a fund raising campaign and began to construct the first buildings at the beautiful site near Greasy Creek.2 88 �Those first four years from 1914 to 1918 were busy ones as Pettit and deLong struggled under primitive conditions to get the school operating efficiently. Several major buildings, including Big Log House, Laurel House, Open House, Far House and the Mary Sinclair Burkham School were constructed.3 After the completion of the first structure, Big Log House, deLong, in an enthsusiastic publicity letter to friends, discussed the blend of the old and the new found in Big Log House: "Typical of its aims, too, is the juxtaposition of loom and dictionary, spinning wheel and globe, home-made baskets and victrola!"4 The women also coped with farm problems. During the first year, Katherine Pettit, who particularly enjoyed farming, supervised adequate ditching of the farm, the planting of grape vines, fruit trees and berry bushes, as well as a garden. In subsequent years, Pine Mountain workers, with advice from expert agriculturists, planned for future farm operations and constructed a barn and corn crib.5 An equally important project was a reservoir designed to insure an adequate and pure water supply for the little community.6 Getting supplies to Pine Mountain was a constant problem as well as a major expense for the school, and by 1916 Ethel deLong and another Pine Mountain worker, Celia Catheart, initiated a major fund raising drive with a goal of $50,000 for constructing a road over the mountain.7 The physical plant was one of enormous number of obligations borne by the Pine Mountain administrators. Organizing the school, supervising teachers and other personnel, and overseeing the children's physical welfare as well as their academic needs absorbed considerable time and effort on the part of deLong and Pettit as the capacity of the school expanded from thirty-three pupils in 1914 to seventy children in 1918.8 In that year Ethel de Long's personal responsibilities increased as well when she married Luigi Zande, an Italian stone mason who had been working at Pine Mountain.9 Despite the backbreaking responsibilities shouldered by the two leaders of Pine Mountain Settlement School in those early years, they continued to plan for future directions of work for the school. Like their counterparts in the urban settlement houses, Pettit and deLong Zande believed their obligations extended beyond the school grounds to the community at large. From her earliest days in the mountains, Pettit had enjoyed visiting mountain families. Those friendships she cultivated in the community helped to create a positive image for Pine Mountain School and made its community work easier.10 Lack of health care was a pressing problem in the mountains. The women of Pine Mountain hired a nurse the first year of the school's existence to help cope with the medical necessities, and in 1917, the school sponsored a tonsils clinic.11 In subsequent years, Pettit and deLong Zande invited dentists and doctors to participate in other clinics — dental, trachoma, hookworm, and the like.12 While these medical services provided for the community were beneficial, Pine Mountain School workers were equally interested 89 �in preventive health care. In 1914, in an article written to garner support for the school in the Smith Alumnae Quarterly, deLong Zande deplored the lack of medical knowledge. "They are utterly ignorant of the germ theory of disease. Knowledge of sanitation is as foreign to them as it has long been to the rural population of the north... "13 Pine Mountain workers continually taught preventive health lessons to the children of the school, and as time passed, carried these health lessons to children and families in the surrounding rural schools and communities.14 Pettit and Zande were concerned about other problems in the mountains beyond the boundaries of the school property. Although they frequently extolled the virtues of the individualistic mountain people in their publicity letters and fund raising efforts, they realized that excessive individualism, a well known mountain characteristic, could be a handicap in community development, especially as the mountain regions were experiencing dramatic changes. The railroad had wound its way into the remote parts of the hills, and this enhanced transportation mode was opening up the coal regions to exploitation. Like many workers from outside the region, Pine Mountain women, perhaps reflecting a widespread anxiety in American culture about the onrush of modernity, viewed these changes with ambivalence.15 In an article written for Survey magazine, deLong Zande presented an idealized view of the mountain people, using such adjectives, as Virile' and 'vigorous' to describe them. "Poverty you find; lack of knowledge you find; conditions needing to be corrected; still, here are a people to bring hope to America."16 In another article in 1914, she warned of the problems related to the rapidly developing region: A new problem has come to the hills from the encroachments of the world outside. Every year the railroads push farther and farther into the hills for coal and timber, and the cheapest ideals come in with them first... (Young people believe) nice people outside do not work with their hands and they want to escape the contempt of the outside world. Store clothes, chewing gum, cigarettes, and superficial scorn of farm or housework, are its first gifts to the primitive folk in the heart of the hills.17 These negative aspects of modern society, at least in the eyes of the Pine Mountain women, became a special cause for concern with the outbreak of World War I. The war produced a great demand for coal, and this demand contributed to a tremendous boom in the coal fields of eastern Kentucky. Coal camps and new coal towns sprang up almost over night; indeed, the mountains were changing. In the summer of 1918, Zande visited Evarts, a rapidly growing coal town, and was most distressed at what she saw. She had visited the area three years before," ...when it was beautiful beyond my power to tell you, and where if people's homes weren't clean, they had at 90 �least privacy and beauty about them and a dignified independence, and no vulgar surroundings."18 By 1918, the scene had changed. "... I felt that the worth-while things had been taken away; they cannot raise their food, they have no smoke house, no privacy, the houses being set so close together with no yards, the toilets were indecent, much worse than the old mountain method of no closets at all..."19 Zande insisted that the inhabitants of the camp had learned only "...the veneer of modern life," and lamented that "...the future of the mountain people look(ed) very dark... unless the condition of mining camps can be elevated someway (sic)."20 In 1918 and 1919, Zande worked hard to find solutions to the problems of the mining camps. As a product of the fact-finding generation of the Progressive Era, she believed that the coal towns needed to be studied in order to identify the problems and to seek solutions to those problems. To that end, she searched for some organization which would sponsor a survey of the mining camps of Eastern Kentucky. Unable to persuade the Women's Board of Home Missions of the Presbyterian Church to take up the survey, Zande contacted persons connected with the Kentucky Child Labor Committee, and managed to get the National Child Labor Committee to conduct a survey of conditions in Harlan County.21 Pine Mountain lent its financial support to the study in which results were published in The American Child.22 This increasing concern with changing conditions in the mountains led the women of Pine Mountain to seek support for neighborhood extension centers. Pettit and Zande were influenced by the ideas of John C. Campbell whom they had known during their years of mountain work. Early in 1918, Pettit wrote Campbell, asking him if Pine Mountain should undertake community work in its neighborhood.23 Campbell strongly approved of the extension idea. He maintained that workers would receive more community support if they lived among the people and provided positive examples of a better way of life. Certainly Pine Mountain School was an outstanding example of an excellent educational institution, but he insisted that the school could be even more influential if some of its workers lived in the neighborhood.24 Campbell's endorsement of the extension centers seems to have been a positive source of support for projects they were already contemplating. Both Zande and Pettit had been in contact with Harriet Butler, formerly a worker at Hindman Settlement School. Butler and a friend, Dr. Grace Huse from St. Louis, were anxious to come to the mountains to begin an extension center. After a lengthy correspondence, the two women agreed to come to Kentucky to begin their work at Big Laurel in the spring of 1919. Pettit and Zande were especially anxious for this project, aptly labeled Medical Settlement, to get underway because they recognized the great health needs of the area and believed Huse and Butler would fill a void.25 Plans for Medical Settlement almost went awry early in 1919, when the 91 �newly constructed Mary Sinclair Burkham School House burned to the ground. Although the staff was saddened by the death of a worker and four students, Pettit and Zande insisted the work of the School should continue and they looked forward to the opening of Medical Settlement in the summer of 1919. Work began on the doctor's house that summer; by the fall, Dr. Huse and Miss Butler, her assistant, were firmly installed at the Medical Settlement and their medical work began.26 At the same time that Huse and Butler were establishing the beginnings of a working relationship in the community of Big Laurel, Pettit and Zande were going ahead with plans for a second extension center. In 1918, the county school superintendent, A.C. Jones, had asked Ethel Zande to supervise eleven district schools in the area near Pine Mountain School.27 Anxious to improve the quality of the public schools, Zande enthusiastically took up the challenge. To aid her in this work, the Pine Mountain administrator chose Marguerite Butler, a young woman who had been associated with Pine Mountain School since 1914. Butler made frequent trips into remote parts of the county, and as a consequence, became intensely interested in extension centers. Her work provided the foundation for the newest community center, Line Fork.28 In the summer of 1920, the two young women, Isabella McClannan from Louisville, and Martha Van Meter of Lexington, spent the summer at Line Fork teaching school. They had gone to Line Fork at the urging of Mrs. Field, a school trustee. Members of the local community met and agreed to provide the logs and labor for a permanent extension center. The women at Pine Mountain School were especially encouraged by the project because the local citizens were providing the initiative and support for the center. They quickly recruited a nurse, teacher and industrial worker, and Line Fork became the second extension center to be established in the vicinity.29 The first five years of work at Big Laurel and Line Fork were a time of enthusiasm and perhaps unwarranted optimism. Pine Mountain's Notes contained frequent references to the work of the extension centers, and Zande's and Pettit's constant correspondence and appeals for funds from their long list of potential donors made financial support for the centers one of their highest priorities.30 Brochures describing the work of Medical Settlement and Line Fork were prepared to send out to friends of Pine Mountain.31 As Pettit and Zande looked forward to the future, those two outposts were just the beginning of work in the region. In a letter written to a potential donor in Lexington in 1919 Pettit stated: "As we see our extension work in about ten years from now, there will be a chain of such settlements through the country, all related to the Pine Mountain School and financed by it...I wish I could give you a picture of the various little communities where we want to start work,—Incline, the Line Fork, Little Laurel, Abner's Branch and Cutshin."32 Both Big Laurel and Line fork workers believed they should provide, 92 �by example, community development. Because the Medical Settlement at Big Laurel had the services of Dr. Huse, its primary role was to provide adequate medical attention to the people in the area. Although the local residents may have been a bit skeptical about the services of a woman doctor, they were quickly won over by the quiet ways of Dr. Huse who was called upon to perform innumerable medical tasks, from attention to 'risins', cuts and bruises to infections caused by hookworm and trachoma. The settlement school was especially proud of her work with delivering babies and caring for young children. "The only 'diplomy doctor' in a circle of twenty five miles, she rides her horse Billy by day and night, wet, hungry, muddy, frozen, exhausted, to take care of the sick and introduce little newcomers to a world incredibly happier and more wholesome because of her." Those newborn babies would be healthier toddlers because of the Medical Settlement's preventive health care programs and classes for young mothers. "As we remember the sore-mouthed, sore-eyed, sore-headed, fly-covered babies of three years ago, suffering too from sick stomachs or locked bowels, we rub our eyes at the rosy, fresh babies of today.33 Line Fork's activities were directed by a public health nurse, teacher and industrial worker, and much of the work was carried out through school activities. In a December, 1924 issue of Child Health Magazine, Anne Ruth Medcalf, the public health nurse at the community extension center, described some of the community projects that she had used to teach better health habits. In 1921, she began a health program for the schools. Through stories and games, she demonstrated simple health practices such as washing one's hands and hair and keeping the head free of lice. She weighed the children monthly and instituted toothbrush drills with shaved dogwood sticks which were used for toothbrushes. At the community center she began babies' clinics, and the center sponsored a dental clinic as well as a tonsils, adenoid and trachoma clinic.34 One community project sponsored through the school was a hot lunch program. The school bought the original equipment, and children brought from home, 'pokes' from which they made napkins, dish clothes and towels, and a curtain partition for the 'kitchen.' The children planned the meals, and cooked and served them. Initially, some opposition existed, as the boys in the school objected to doing 'woman's' work, and the students were reluctant to try new foods; however, the teacher and industrial workers, with moral support from the nurse, won the children over. Workers at Line Fork believed that valuable lessons in cooperation, nutrition and health standards were being taught by the hot lunch program. As they saw it: The development of cooperation is the keynote of community work. With this group of individualists, for such are the people in these creeks and hollows, it is seen that this spirit of cooperation must be developed from its very beginnings. The people will 93 �come to 'meetings' simply because they are meetings. "Ib graft upon these meetings the spirit of self-service and self-training, a feeling of comradeship, a desire to live and to feel the better things of life, is the problem of the industrial worker. It is felt that the work so far carried out has made some steps in this direction: the school lunches, the Sunday meeting for the adults for general discussion and interchange of ideas, and the recreational activities for the young people.36 From 1924 to the early 1930's, medical and community work continued at both centers. Dr. Huse and Harriet Butler left Big Laurel in 1924, and the Pine Mountain administrators found another woman doctor, Alfreda Withington, a former surgeon who had worked with the Red Cross in France.37 Withington, like many other women who had come to the region in the past, fell in love with the mountains. In 1932, she published an account of her mountain experiences, printed over a three months' period in The Atlantic Monthly. Along with her descriptions of midnight trips into remote hollows to minister to the sick, she also included her impressions of the mountain people.38 During Withington's tenure at Big Laurel, a series of teachers and industrial workers attempted to continue the community work begun by Huse and Butler. From the irregular reports sent to Pine Mountain, the impression was one of an uphill struggle to keep the community center going. Although workers attempted to maintain a garden and provide a variety of programs for the young people, attendance lagged. In 1929, a typical report to the Pine Mountain authorities, described the Big Laurel situation as "...one long struggle against the results of illiteracy, lack of employment, moonshine, guns, and a quick temper.39 Here, where a large percentage of the older people, and even some of the younger ones, cannot read or write, there is little in the way of mental recreation that they could enjoy. Added to this is the fact that, due to the isolation of the settlement, there is little work to do outside of work in the mines and lumber camps, and one can see how many an hour that might profitably have been spent for reading or constructive work is turned over to mischief and unlawful practices. Where fathers and grandfathers for years past have been in the moonshine trade, and sons observe the free use of it every day, these same sons can hardly be expected not to follow in their fathers' footsteps. And breaking of the law brings fear of the law, hence the need for guns. And the carrying of guns, in turn, brings fear of each other, and a lowering of the value of life.40 Workers at Line Fork were experiencing some of the same frustrations 94 �as those being felt at Big Laurel. After the departure of Anne Ruth Medcalf in the mid-1920's, the two district schools in the Line Fork area returned to local control, and the workers lost an important source of contact with the community.41 Recruitment of workers for the extension center was a constant problem, and it was difficult for the Pine Mountain staff to supervise the activities. In the fall of 1926, a middle-aged couple, Robert and Ida Stapleton, assumed duties at Line Fork. They had served as missionaries in Armenia, and Mrs. Stapleton, a doctor, provided medical attention for the neighborhood. The couple remained at Line Fork until 1937. While their presence at the extension center provided a continuity in leadership at Line Fork, their interminably detailed reports from the settlement, indicated that they were more interested in saving souls than in fostering community development.42 By the 1930's, the first generation of leadership at Pine Mountain was ending. Ethel deLong Zande had died of cancer in 1928, and Katherine Pettit was in retirement. The new director, Glyn Morris, reluctant to give up the Big Laurel settlement, searched for new directions and financing for the centers. One such plan suggested a cooperative farming project for the community, a grade school taught by teachers from Pine Mountain to prepare students for entry into the Settlement School, and continued medical work emphasizing a preventive health program and sanitation and clean up campaigns. Morris also cast about for financing for the centers and corresponded with New Deal agencies to see if federal funds could be found for the centers. None of these efforts were successful, and as the 1930's ended, Pine Mountain's work with extension centers was coming to an end.43 Pettit's and Zande's dreams of a chain of community extension centers in the shadow of Pine Mountain did not come to fruition. Nevertheless, their vision and efforts represented the idealism, energy and enthusiasm of a remarkable generation of women dedicated to the improvement of the quality of mountain life. Initial efforts for fund raising and staffing the two centers were successful. Interested donors gave their support to the project, and the women who staffed the centers at Big Laurel and Line Fork possessed the necessary idealism and self-sacrifice needed to work in the remote, mountainous regions of eastern Kentucky. Most of them were well acquainted with mountain life and understood the obstacles that would have to be overcome if the area were to develop. By the mid-1920's, however, that initial enthusiasm waned. Although Ethel Zande showed a continual devotion to Pine Mountain, her time and attention were divided between her young children and her losing battle with the cancer that claimed her life in 1928.44 Katherine Pettit was no longer a young woman by the middle of the decade, and she spent increasing periods of time away from Pine Mountain on extended trips.45 As time passed, staffing became a problem. The self-sacrificing generation of Women Progressives no longer stood ready to take up the challenge of mountain work, and it 95 �became more and more difficult to recruit and supervise individuals who would work in those remote centers. Only a dedicated missionary couple like the Stapletons would choose to remain in the region, and their approach to community development was limited. In his thorough and excellent study of Pine Mountain Settlement School, James S. Greene suggests that moonshining was a major problem in the area and inhibited community develepment. Although workers made major efforts to provide alternatives to the production and consumption of alcohol, they did not substantially alter the local mores.46 An even more fundamental problem recognized by mountain workers was the lack of community spirit and cooperation. Workers, not only at Pine Mountain, but elsewherre in eastern Kentucky, were continually frustrated by this problem and never seemed to overcome it. This frustration could be seen in the letters of Alice Cobb, the Pine Mountain secretary in the 1930's who wrote to friends familiar with the extension centers and asked their advice. Cobb explained that the extension centers were a financial burden on Pine Mountain School because it did not have the monetary resources necessary to support a good staff and effective program there. Yet Cobb was reluctant to give up the centers. "That means admitting that we've failed, and that the hopes, and unselfish labor, and thousands and thousands of solicited dollars spent there for these many years, have been sunk in a hole."47 At the same time, however, she was pessimistic about the potential of the centers to effect fundamental changes in attitudes. She held out some hope for the children, but little for their parents whose habits and patterns of living were already set by the time they reached adulthood.48 Ruth Campbell, a friend who responded to Cobb's request for advice, was equally pessimistic about the future role of the centers. She pointed out that the people "...have been exposed to medical training, parties, preaching, at times to cooking and sewing classes and home nursing; and the children have been exposed to Pine Mountain for years on end; and yet Greasy has not changed its spots." She recognized, however, that the mountain communities were changing, and perhaps the extension centers in their present form were no longer needed "...with the increasing ease in getting about in that remote section. The families will ever more easily be able to go to Pine Mountain, with the shrinkage of mileage and the trucks and autos that are pervading even Greasy and its tributaries."49 The visionary plans of Pettit and Zande had not been fully realized, but many of their ideas about community development would be revived in the 1960's by another generation of reformers who, with federal support, would 'rediscover' Appalachia. 96 �FOOTNOTE 1. Anne Ruth Medcalf, handwritten manuscript, Line Fork File, 1920-41, Microfilm edition of the Pine Mountain Settlement School Collection, Berea College Archives, (hereafter cited as PMSS). 2. Articles of incorporation of the Pine Mountain Settlement School, PMSS; for a good description of the work of Mary Rockwell, see: Buildings of Mary Rockwell Hook, 1916-40 file; Publicity file, letters, 1914-1921, PMSS; the best description of all the school's activities during the Pettit-deLong Zande years can be found in James S. Greene, III, "Progressives in the Kentucky Mountains: The Formative Years of Pine Mountain Settlement School, 1913-1930," (Ph.D dissertation, Ohio State University, (1982). 3. For a brief, chronological account of Pine Mountain building activities, see Evelyn K. Wells, "A Record of the Pine Mountain Settlement School, 1913-1927," typescript, pp. 6-10, PMSS. (hereafter cited as Wells, History). 4. Ethel deLong to friends, Nov. 14, 1914, Publicity file, PMSS. 5. Wells, History, pp. 6-9, 31. 6. Ibid., pp. 8-9 7. An extensive correspondence about the road fund can be found in the Pine Mountain records. See Celia Catheart letters in General Correspondence, 1916-18, PMSS. Catheart conducted a surprisingly sophisticated fund raising campaign in several cities. For a detailed account of the road campaign and subsequent problems connected with building the road, see James Greene, "Progressives in the Kentucky Mountains," pp. 335-48. 8. Wells, History, pp. 6-8. 9. Ibid, p. 26. 10. Greene, "Progressives in the Kentucky Mountains," pp. 268-72; Katherine Pettit to Frances P. Tanner, Jan. 4, 1929, Katherine Pettit letter file, PMSS. Pettit's letter is typical of many examples in the Pine Mountain collection describing her friendship with the mountain people. She took frequent trips into the remote mountain areas and visited with the families. 11. Wells, History, p. 9 12. Ibid, pp. 9, 11, 14-16, 37-40. 13. Ethel deLong, "The Appeal of the Kentucky Mountains," Smith Alumnae Quarterly, 3 (April, 1914), 164. 14. Wells, History, pp. 37-40. 15. From my research and reading on outsiders' views of Appalachia, I have come increasingly to believe that at least part of the interest in the region came from anxieties present in American culture caused by confusion and concern about the rapidly changing society of late nineteenth and early twentieth century America. Those who romanticized the simple, primitive nature of Appalachia seemed to be searching for traditional values which they might find in the isolated region—hence the fascination with the ballads and crafts of the region. I have been influenced by the account of antimodernism found in T.J. Jackson Lears, No Place of Grace (New York, 1981). See pages 60-96 for his discussion of the arts and crafts movement. 16. Ethel deLong, "The Far Side of Pine Mountain," Survey, 38 (March 3, 1917), 627-9. 97 �17. Ethel deLong, "The Appeal of the Kentucky Mountains," Smith Alumnae Quarterly, 3 (April, 1914), 165. 18. Ethel Zande to Elisa Kendrick, July 15, 1918, Gen. Corr., 1916-18, PMSS. 19. Ibid. 20.. Ibid. 21. Ethel Zande to Mrs. F.S. Bennett, Aug. 27, 1918, Oct. 15, 1918, Jan. 9, 1919, March 17, 1919, April 22, 1919; Ethel Zande to Mary Carter, May 12, 1919, Ethel Zande to Mr. W.W. Swift, May 5, 1919; Ethel Zande to Calvin Kendall, Jan. 29, 1919, Gen. Corr., 1919, PMSS. 22. Mable Brown Ellis to Ethel Zande, June 26, 1919; Ethel Zande to Marguerite Butler, Aug. 20, 1919; Ethel Zande to Mabel Brown Ellis, c. late 1919, Ethel Zande to Owen Lovejoy, Feb. 16, 1920, Gen. Corr., 1919, PMSS; Mabel Brown Ellis, "Children of the Kentucky Coal Fields," The American Child, 1; (Feb., 1920), 285-405. 23. Katherine Pettit to John C. Campbell, Jan. 4, 1918, Gen. Corr, 1916-18, PMSS. 24. See brochure describing work at Big Laurel and Line Fork in Big Laurel file and Line Fork History file, PMSS. Although Campbell had died by the time these brochures were printed, he was still considered to be the leading authority on mountain work, and obviously the Pine Mountain administrators believed it important to receive an endorsement from Campbell's writings on the subject. 25. Ethel deLong to Harriet Butler, Jan. 17, 1917, Feb. 7, 1918; Katherine Pettit to Harriet Butler, May 7, 1918, July 15, 1918, Sept. 13, 1918, Feb. 26, 1919, Big Laurel file, PMSS. 26. Details of the fire are found in the Gen. Corr. file 1919. For a vivid account of the fire, see Marguerite Butler letters and Evelyn Wells letters, PMSS. The Gen. Corr. file of 1919 also contains many examples of appeals for money for Big Laurel. Typical letters include: Katherine Pettit to Mrs. B.F. Achison, May 22, 1919, Katherine Pettit to Dr. Norman Bridge, Sept. 6, 1919; Ethel Zande to Mary Carter, May 12, 1919, Ethel Zande to Mrs. Fitz, July 10, 1919, Gen. Corr. file 1919, PMSS. 27. Wells, History, pp. 11, 42; Abner C. Jones to Ethel Zande, July 8, 1919, July 14, 1919, Extension centers file, PMSS. 28. Marguerite Butler to Mother, c. June, 1919; Marguerite Butler to Jeannette, c. Summer, 1919; Margurite Butler to Mother, c. Fall, 1919; Green, "Progressives in the Kentucky Mountains," pp. 296-303. 29. Wells, History, pp. 44-5; Isabella McLennan McMeeking, "The Beginning of Line Fork," typescript; Martha Van Meter, "Memories of Line Fork," typescript, Line Fork history file, PMSS. 30. Notes from the Pine Mountain Settlement School, Feb., 1919, Oct., 1919, Nov., 1920, Nov., 1921, March 1922, Nov., 1923, May 1924, April, 1926; (hereafter cited as Pine Mountain Notes); Angela Melville to Mrs. Haggin, March 13, 1920, Katherine Pettit to Mrs. F. Beachamp, Sept. 15, 1920, (Katherine Pettit) to Mr. Gray, Peabody Coal Company, Nov. 3, 1920; Ethel Zande to Mrs. Kate W. Baker, July 12, 1921, Ethel Zande to Gertrude Gladwin, Aug. 21, 1921, Ethel Zande to Anna Bogue, Oct. 25, 1921. Ethel Zande to Harriet Clarke, Aug. 21, 1922, Katherine Pettit to Ruth Dennis, June 20, 1922, Ethel Zande to Edna Fawcett, Oct. 25, 1922, Ethel Zande to Mary E. Abercrombie, Dec. 14, 1923, Ethel Zande to Darwin Martin, July 2, 1923, Ethel Zande to Elizabeth Bolinger, June 9, 1924, Katherine Pettit to Major D.J. Burchette, July 5, 1924, Ethel Zande to Luella Latta, Mar. 21, 1924, Gen. Corr. file, 1920, 1921, 1922, 1923, 1924, PMSS. 31. Brochures, Line Fork history file, Big Laurel file, PMSS. 32. Katherine Pettit to Miss Watson, Oct. 23, 1919, Extensions centers file, PMSS. 98 �33. Brochure, c. 1923, Big Laurel file, PMSS. While the rhetoric in these brochures may have been somewhat exaggerated, the records indicate that the people in the neighborhood gratefully accepted medical assistance and did not object to a woman doctor. 34. Anne Ruth Medcalf, "In the Line Fork Country," Child Health Magazine, 5 (Dec., 1924), 503-511. 35. Ibid. 36. Elizabeth Smith, report, 1923-4, Line Fork file, PMSS. 37. Wells, History, pp. 43-4. 38. Alfreda Withington, "The Mountain Doctor," The Atlantic Monthly, 130 (Sept., Oct., Dec., 1932), 257-67, 469-77, 768-774. 39. Report of community work at Big Laurel, March 30, 1929, Big Laurel file, 1927-37, PMSS. 40. Ibid. 41. Wells, History, p. 45. 42. The Stapletons wrote long reports with minute, irrelevant details included in them. See those reports in Line Fork file, PMSS. For information about recruiting efforts, both for Pine Mountain school and the extension centers, see corr. file throughout the 1920's and 1930's. 43. Glyn Morris to Presbyterian Board of Foreign Missions, July 12, 1932, July 13, 1932, Tentative Outline for Social and Economic Survey of Big Laurel Community, n.d., Glyn Morris to Leonard Doyle, March 14, 1934, Olyn Morris to Earl Mahew, KERA, March 11, 1936, Glyn Morris to Rexford Tugwell, Sept. 26, 1936, Glyn Morris to C.R. Conley, Dec. 10, 1936, Big Laurel file, 1927-37, PMSS. 44. Pine Mountain Notes,Sept., 1928. PMSS. This issue contains a number of tributes to Ethel Zande. 45. Katherine Pettit to Miss Bartells, Aug. 13, 1925, Gen. Corr., 1925; (Catherine Pettit to Miss Browne, Dec. 6, 1926, Gen. Corr., 1926, PMSS. Katherine Pettit was a very active woman and loved to travel. In addition to her frequent treks throughout the mountains, she traveled elsewhere. In 1926 she took a trip around the world, and in the early 1930's she went to Latin America. A small collection of her letters in the Pine Mountain papers includes her short diary of her trip to Latin America. It was quite an adventure. 46. Greene, "Progressives in the Kentucky Mountains," pp. 323-35. 47. Alice Cobb to Miss Campbell, Jan. 22, 1937, Big Laurel file, 1927-37. 48. Ibid. 49. Ruth Campbell to Miss Cobb, Feb. 2, 1937, Big Laurel file, 1927-37, PMSS. 99 �ISSUES OF THEORY AND METHOD IN REGIONAL RESEARCH Convenor: Herb Reid, University of Kentucky Class and Gender: New Theoretical Priorities in Appalachian Studies Sally Ward Maggard, University of Kentucky Beyond the "Traditional Mountain Subculture": A New Look at Pre-Industrial Appalachia Mary Beth Pudup, University of California, Berkeley Class and Gender: New Theoretical Priorities in Appalachian Studies by Sally Ward Maggard ABSTRACT Scholarship in Appalachian Studies has failed to address the contemporary and historical particularities of women's relationship to the region's social institutions and its history of social change. Treatment of Appalachian women includes: a romantic view of pre-industrial 'womenfolk' tilling soil and raising babies; a romantic view of post-industrial 'womenfolk' still raising babies while making quilts and apple butter; a ridiculing attack on Appalachian mothers which posits faulty child-rearing as the cause of a perpetuating culture of poverty; a slippery focus on 'the family' which assumes all household members have identical experiences and interests; and the 'Mother Jones syndrome' which attempts to recover Appalachian women as historical actors but which misrepresents their history as a collection of biographies of a few-great-women-of-courage. Recent efforts to document and analyze the everyday worlds of the region's working-class and ordinary people has made little improvement. Women are either missing in these works, or are treated as appendages of men. In the new social history of the region, women appear as flag-wavers who manage soup lines during industrial strikes, or as loyal family members who stand-by-their-men on a day to day basis. This otherwise promising work in Appalachian Studies too often turns out to be the history of the common man in a man-made world. 100 �But what difference does it make to study women? Doesn't this just add a small overlooked piece of the pie — an addition which may add to the flavor of the pie but does not alter its basic structure? Recent research on the relationship between class-based and gender-based structures of power suggests othewise. Analysis informed by a sustained attention to gender challenges essential theoretical and methodological tenets of class analysis. This paper examines the manner in which gender shapes the way women and men experience class, argues that the intersection of class and gender should be a theoretical priority in Appalachian Studies, explores new analytic tools for class/gender analysis, and re-examines recent social history of the region. Introduction During the decade since the Appalachian Studies Association was formed in 1977, the academic field of Appalachian Studies has come of age. Hundreds of courses are taught each year in college and high school classrooms. Research has been published in prestigious journals in each of the disciplines the Association incorporates. Books treating Appalachian topics have received national and international acclaim. Scholars from the United States and a number of other countries have established a solid international connection, as comparative research flourishes on many Appalachian-related issues. Given the overall health of the field and the variety of scholars attracted by its interdisciplinary nature, it is surprising that so little Appalachian scholarship touches on the experiences of women and their place in the region's history. On the one hand, disturbing stereotypes of mountain women plague much Appalachian scholarship. On the other hand, many scholars deny that any new understanding of the region's history or social organization would emerge from a systematic examination of women's lives. This paper offers some reflections on the treatment of women in Appalachian research and suggests that Appalachian scholars could do well by paying attention to recent developments in feminist and marxist scholarship. In particular, the argument is made that sustained attention to gender relations is essential to understanding such popular Appalachian Studies topics as work, community, class divisions, social change, and collective protest. The importance of gender relations in shaping the central features of a social system is equated with the importance of class relations. The interaction of gender and class is identified as a theoretical and empirical priority, and new analytic tools are discussed. The many myths of the mountain woman The 'Daisy Mae' image of mountain women as ignorant, barefoot, and pregnant has been slow to die. A variation of this image informs a ridicul101 �ing attack on Appalachian mothers by those social scientists who posit faulty child-rearing practices as the root cause of the region's persistent poverty (Loof, 1977, 1971; Weller, 1965). Equally troublesome is the 'womenfolk' image of mountain women. 'Womenfolk' are said to be stalwart individuals who hold families together in times of trouble. Pre-industrial 'womenfolk' are described s industrious tillers-of-the-soil who have babies and stand by their men (Eller, 1982). Postindustrial 'womenfolk' are described as just as industrious — only now they are being industrious in coal camps or mill towns. They, too, have babies and stand by their men (Eller, 1982; Corbin, 1981). In other words, 'womenfolk' are thought to help things along somewhat, and they do bear the next generation. Other than that, they don't seem to have much to do with the course of history. Above all, 'womenfolk' are marginal people. In a related theme, mountain women are 'family'. In a near reflex action, scholars in Appalachian Studies, and many other fields as well, tend to equate women with the family. The assumption is that the family is somehow the essence of women's existence. Or, as Catherine MacKinnon writes: ...women become 'the family', as if this single form of women's confinement (then divided on class lines, then on racial lines) can be presumed to be the crucible of women's determination (1982: 525). 'The family' here is a slippery concept with little explanatory value. It serves as a dumping—or lumping—ground for all of women's lived experiences. Another treatment of mountain women could be called the 'Mother Jones syndrome'. Some scholars have begun to recognize Appalachian women as historical actors in their own right. Biographies and oral histories of women who were leaders in community organizations, work-place struggles, or social services do add information about women's behavior and their perceptions. But the danger in this approach is that it can misrepresent women's history as the collection of biographies of a few-great-women-of-courage. The 'Mother Jones syndrome' in Appalachian Studies parallels what historian Gerda Lerner (1976) termed 'women's contribution history'. As feminist scholars began to search for women's historical record, their early focus on biography resulted in an 'add-on' approach which did not challenge traditional male-defined interpretations of history. The result in labor history provides a good example of the problems which resulted. Women were portrayed as supporting male leaders—an assumption which implies united women in a united movement and ignores conflict within social classes as well as the particular experiences of women (Lewis, 1981). Recent scholarship in Appalachian Studies covering an exciting range of topics has dramatically improved our understanding of the region's 102 �history and social order. A growing number of scholars are at work unfolding the mechanics and consequences of the industrialization of the region, probing the causes of rebellion and containment of protest, detailing the nature of community life, scrutinizing the political economy of development strategies, and exploring sources of cultural and social psychological conflict (Eller, 1982; Corbin, 1981; Gaventa, 1980; Whisnant, 1980; Banks, 1983-84). While this new scholarship represents fresh insights and approaches, as a whole it is seriously inadequate in its treatment of women (Maggard, 1984). Women are either missing in these works, or are treated as appendages of men. They appear as flag-wavers who manage soup lines during industrial strikes, or as loyal family members (usually as 'wives') backing up husbands, sons, fathers on a day-to-day basis. In short, we still know very little about the everyday lives, pressures, motivations, and histories of Appalachian women. Above all, we lack any sense of them as active human beings shaping the course of the region's history. Introducing gender But what difference does it make to study women? Doesn't this just add a small overlooked piece of pie — an addition which may add to the flavor of the pie but which does not alter its basic structure? Recent research on the relationship between class-based and gender-based structures of power suggests otherwise. As a way to lead into this discussion, I will first touch briefly on some of the issues identified as feminist scholars began to attempt a coherent theory of women's oppression under contemporary capitalism. I will then point to some promising new direction in research on class and gender. Finally, I will speculate about the implications of these issues for Appalachian Studies. Feminist theory has called attention to the ways in which reproduction and family roles operate to construct women's lives in general. These roles are said to result from a gender-based division of labor which creates a fundamental inequality between women and men felt throughout the social structure. Gender is identified as a social category as fundamental as social class in shaping the central features of the social system. Marxist analysis locates individuals in the class structure by their relation to the prevailing means of production, a method heavily focused on economic relations and frequently on an individual's relationship to the wage economy. Any set of people with a common relationship to the economic order are said to form a class. It is assumed that these people share certain objective situtations which shape the interests they will pursue ordinarily or in the long run, as well as their consciousness of the way their worlds operate. Feminist scholars have been uncomfortable with the tendency among 103 �marxist practitioners to gloss over sharp differences in the objective conditions of the lives of women and men who occupy the same social class position. In addition, there is a tendency in class analysis to overlook forces which may divide women themselves who are grouped in the same class. Women's class position has traditionally been located simply by connections to men or to family. Recent feminist scholarship challenges this oversimplification and attempts to identify the central importance of gender-based inequality to the class structure. The relationship between class and gender is one of the most pressing concerns on the agenda of these scholars today (Petchesky, 1983; Bene'ria and Sen, 1983; Goldberg, 1983; Kessler-Harris, 1982; Rapp, 1982; Hartmann, 1979; Tilly and Scott, 1978). It is increasingly recognized as a priority by marxist scholars as well (Burris, 1982; Benenson, 1980; Seccombe, 1980). Efforts to link gender and class include arguments that women constitute a reserve labor force; that women's lower wages provide extra surplus value to employers; that women as managers of household consumption shore up capitalist consumerism; that housework and the reproduction of workers is central to capitalism; and that women as mothers reproduce not only laborers and capitalists, but also the psychodynamic of sexuality which underpins capitalism (Hartmann, 1979; MacKinnon, 1982; Rapp, 1979; Kaplan, 1982; Chodorow, 1978; Dalla Costa and James, 1979). The overall result of these efforts is a general agreement that production and reproduction cannot be treated as separate spheres. The precise nature of their interaction, however, remains problematic. If production and reproduction are not separate, what is the specific relationship which binds them? To what degree are they autonomous? How does their interaction affect women's and men's interests and needs? When do class-based and genderbased interests lead women and/or men to act together collectively? Debates about connections between gender and class are frequently at a high level of abstraction. They are complicated by competing and contradictory uses of such key concepts as patriarchy, reproduction and ideology, (Barrett, 1980; Burris, 1982). Attempts by radical feminists to treat patriarchal social relations as autonomous from (pre-dating and/or logically distinct from) capitalist economic relations are frought with problems. At the same time, efforts by socialist feminists to treat gender relations as simply 'functional' to (i.e. created by and/or subsumed under) the capitalist economic order are equally unsatisfactory. Space does not permit a recounting of these arguments or an analysis of the conceptual snares which have developed. The central problem which remains, however, is the identification and interpretation of specific relationships at any given point in time between gender, modes of production, and modes of reproduction. Concrete, empirical, historical research is required 104 �to move analysis of the class/gender connection further. Empirical research and new theoretical directions Examples of this kind of research are available and help to illustrate the issues raised in this paper. Two very useful recent studies are (1) Ann Game's and Rosemary Pringle's analysis of gender, the labor process, and technological change and (2) Harold Benenson's dissertation on the structure of the American working-class since World War II. The Game and Pringle study examines the reorganization of work and the allocation of jobs during periods when new technology is being introduced. The authors' intention was to build on research on the intentional use of technology by management as a tool to control the labor process and the work force (Edwards, 1979; Burawoy, 1979; Braverman, 1974). By considering the gender context of the implementation of technology, Game and Pringle expected to elaborate on the idea that the sexual division of labor is 'functional* to capitalism. They expected to find examples of manipulation of the sexual division of labor by management to obscure its own interests in technological innovation (such as the displacement of or deskilling of labor to increase productivity and surplus value). Defining the sexual division of labor primarily as functional to capitalism suggests that gender inequality is merely a side effect of economic relations under class society. Or to put it another way, that gender inequality is a product of class exploitation. Game and Pringle found, however, that they had to treat gender in a more fundamental manner in order to make sense of the reorganization of the work process and the division of jobs which accompanied technological change. Case studies of manufacturing, banking, retailing, computing, nursing, and housework, revealed a much more complex pattern of relations in the struggle over technology than was expected. Beyond the predicted, classdefined struggle between workers and management over machines, a second set of relations shaped the conflict — a struggle between males and females over work reorganization. Two sets of relations were operating, mediating, overlapping, and contradicting each other. The logic of the reorganization of work that emerged was related to more than the dynamics of class conflict. It was also related to the dynamics of the construction of gender identity. Notions of 'masculinity' and 'femininity' are continually produced and reproduced through a myriad of daily rituals and processes — including relationships at work. Game and Pringle found that the reorganization of work and introduction of technology disrupts and threatens these processes. In such times, gender relations and the power relations they embody become highly visible. In each of the cases studied, the process of renegotiating disrupted gender relations was just as important as, and was frequently in conflict with, the imposition of capitalist rationalization of the labor process. 105 �Game and Pringle concluded that gender inequality cannot be treated as a reflex or appendage of class relations. Instead, it must be considered as a central defining feature of contemporary capitalism. As they suggest: ...there is nothing inherent in a job that makes it male or female. The gender definition of jobs, and sexual division of labor, are socially and historically constructed (1983:23). Study of the labor process, they concluded, requires that the economic real is examined in relation to the sexual and symbolic. Harold Benenson (1980) also argues that our understanding of class society has suffered from an artificial isolation of the economic sphere from broader social dimensions. The result has been a failure to recognize deep divisions within social classes and profound differences between class modes of life. Benenson argues first that the meaning and determinants of membership in a class are not the same for all members of that class. Second, he argues that this is because members' lives are structured by fundamental relations outside production. Third, he targets patriarchal relations of authority, the sexual division of labor, and family relations under capitalism as central aspects of social structure. These forces create sharp differences between men and women in determining class position and in modes of participation in class activity. According to Benenson, traditional assumptions of class theory underlie our failure to understand class dynamics. His research on post-war occupational and family change in America challenges those assumptions. For instance, Benenson rejects the dominant orientation in class analysis which treats the unit of analysis as the individual worker. This orientation treats the worker as divorced from social relationships outside work, and the analysis occurs solely within the bounds of the economic structure of employment. This framework, he argues, marginalizes the significance of change in the social composition of the workforce, or in the family relationships and sexual bases of employment patterns. Benenson also rejects conceptions of a uniform, generalized impact of narrowly economic processes (crisis, unemployment, labor intensification) upon an undifferentiated 'class as a whole'. He rejects the focus on the single employed family member (usually the male wage earner) as the simple connection of family members to the economy. He argues that indispensible forms of human activity — such as social reproduction — cannot be dismissed as unimportant or tangential to class analysis. Static notions of workplace organization and job characteristics, an exclusive 'point of production' determinism in analyzing conditions which shape class relations, and a government statistics approach to classifying and counting the abstract individual wage-earner in isolation from family and social relationships are all problems in contemporary class analysis. Rosalind Petchesky (1983) builds on Benenson's work. She places heavy 106 �emphasis on reproduction and fertility as determinants of female class position. Petchesky has proposed a class/work/fertility schema for analyzing different positions for women within traditionally defined class groupings. Her model points to distinct differences in experience, consciousness, and objective class position for "many if not most women" (1983: 232). Both Benenson and Petchesky explore the way gender determines the experience of class, and vise versa. Age at the birth of first child, age at marriage, and number of children, for instance, are identified as variables in class position of females. Early marriage, early childbearing, and high fertility can lock young women into "a pattern of lifetime exclusion (from the labor force) which is established very early on" (Benenson, 1980: 188). On the other hand, the consequences of early marriage, early childbearing, and high fertility are quite different for middle-class professional men's wives than for working-class women who have similar fertility patterns. This work, like Game's and Pringle's, demonstrates that the interaction between gender and class is essential to understanding capitalism, work, and other spheres of existence. Much additional research on class and gender recognizes the need for reconceptualization and new theoretical orientation. While space does not allow a full review, the following is a list of some additional priorities which have been identified: (1) the identification of specific varieties of forms of patriarchal relations under differing modes of production, and over time within a single mode of production (Hamilton, 1978; Humphries, 1977); (2) the redefinition of 'the community of work' as necessarily involving more than paid wage laborers (Tilly, 1981; Hufton, 1971); (3) the role of unions in institutionalizing gender-based conflict which divides the working class and discourages females from union activism (Cook, et. al., 1984; Milkman, 1980; Jameson, 1977; Nash, 1975); (4) the causes/consequences of the failure of reform movements to recognize women's interests and address gender inequality (Bene'ria and Sen, 1983; Graham, 1977; Hufton, 1971; Thomas, 1967); (5) recognition of the difference in material interests and motivations during class conflict for women and men and analysis of the consequences for the form, content, and outcome of collective action (Petchesky, 1983; Goldberg, 1983; Jameson, 1977; Nash, 1977; Scott, 1974); (6) analysis of 'class struggles of the marketplace' and their importance in class conflict along with analysis of the importance of women's roles as administrators of wages (Humphries, 1977; Rapp, 1982; Tilly, 1981; Tilly and Scott, 1978). Empirical, historical research is required to suggest new directions scholars need to explore in order to develop a more successful understanding of the central features and history of contemporary capitalism (Burris, 1982; Barrett, 1980; Young, 1980; Seccombe, 1980). 107 �Class, gender, and collective protest In my own research I am exploring the connection between production, reproduction, and collective protest. In particular, I am looking at the gender context of two labor disputes in the early 1970s which mobilized large numbers of rural, working-class women in central Appalachia: (1) a strike for union recognition at a Pike County, Kentucky hospital where over two hundred non-professional hospital employees (five out of six of whom were women) maintained a twenty-four hour picket line for over two years; (2) a mining strike in Harlan County, Kentucky, which led to the formation of a militant women's auxiliary on behalf of one hundred eighty male miners striking for over fourteen months for union recognition. The question of such a high degree of involvement by women in these coalfield community disputes underlies my research. The objective is to use the two cases of activism to explore factors which may help explain it. An intensive case study approach provides the opportunity to read back into the objective situations and motivations underlying collective protest. As indicated above, recent research suggests the need to look at family situations to understand how women will react to political action, union organizing efforts, and strike activities. A central question of my research is the degree to which relationships inside households — not just relationships in the workplace — affect women's responses to work and their attitudes toward labor organizing. The research involves an attempt to elaborate new analytic tools to study the class and gender intersection. In particular, theoretical priority is placed on the concept of household economy as a set of complex processes structured by gender, shaping different objective conditions for different members of a household, and thereby mediating the way individuals experience social class. In order to empirically study household economy, I am developing profiles on the composition and operation of households for a sample of women involved in each strike. These profiles include information such as: the number of people living in each home and their kin or non-kin relationships; incomes, savings, and sources of non-cash support available to households; marriage and fertility characteristics; consumption patterns and debts; paid work experiences of all household members; division of labor regarding housework, child care, and the elderly; age and education; condition of the housing unit itself; and networks among women which link households. I am also looking at variations in the ways women participated in the strikes. I am collecting data on the degree and form of women's involvement, women's perceptions and leadership roles, and the duration of involvement. I am particularly interested in discovering whether or not household patterns are related to protest involvement, the central empirical question 108 �of the research. The two strike contexts permit comparison across an important dimension — relationship to the wage economy. In Pike County, women organized to protect their own wages and to control their own work situations. In Harlan County, women organized to protect wages earned by other members of the household and crucial to family survival. If household economy does influence women's collective protest within each case, it will be important to see if those patterns hold when women's relationships to waged labor vary. If patterns do not hold across cases, the breakdown of differences will be drawn out for theoretical speculation and the development of hypotheses for further research. Conclusions Recent theoretical and empirical work on class and gender raises questions about concepts and perspectives which inform Appalachian research. While important new scholarship on work, community, class divisions, and collective protest has greatly improved our understanding of the region, it is important that Appalachian scholars respond to challenges raised by innovations in class and gender analysis. Attention to gender relations as they are historically constructed under contemporary capitalism suggests the need to redefine definitions of the composition of the workforce, bases of employment patterns, consequences of economic processes, the unit of and boundries of analysis of class relations, and the historical construction of work relations in the region. A more elaborate and differentiated definition of community structure and history is called for, as is a more complex approach to divisions within classes and family structure. The study of quiescence and rebellion becomes even more complex when new theoretical perspectives are applied to class, community, and family composition. These new perspectives help pave the way for more adequate incorporation of such social dimensions of class as age, race, and ethnicity. The implications of recent work on class and gender for academic scholarship are substantial. They are equally important for those interested parxis of political activity. Efforts to challenge management control of the work process and production, efforts to build viable community organizations, efforts to address the state and advocate for human rights or peace all require an understanding of gender relations as historically constructed under capitalism. Finally, the road to academic and practical reconsideration of basic assumptions about gender relations is difficult. Scholars and activists face much resistence in attempting to analyze or address gender-based inequality. The intellectual excitement that comes when conceptual blinders are lifted and more adequate understandings of our lives and histories begin to emerge 109 �is just reward for the effort. A new vision of a future family, work, community life based on human dignity and respect depends on incorporating an understanding of forces which divide and degrade people, including gender inequality. 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Thomas, Edith 1967 The Women Incendiaries. London: Seeker and Warburg. Tilly, Louise A. 1981 Paths of proletarianization: organization of production, sexual division of labor, and women's collective action. Signs 6 (winter): 400-17. 112 �Tilly, Louise A. and Joan W. Scott 1978 Women, Work and Family. New York: Holt, Rinehart and Winston. Weller, Jack 1965 Yesterday's People: Life in Contemporary Appalachia. Lexington, Kentucky: University Press of Kentucky. Whisnant, David 1980 Modernizing the Mountaineer: People, Power, and Planning in Appalachia. New York: Burt Franklin. Young, Iris 1980 Socialist feminism and the limits of dual systems theory. Socialist Review 50/51 (MarchJune): 169-88. 113 �Beyond the "Traditional Mountain Subculture": A New Look At Pre-Industrial Appalachia by Mary Beth Pudup "Let us now come to the Highlands—a land of promise, a land of romance, and a land about which, perhaps, more things are known that are not true than of any part of our country." John C. Campbell The Southern Highlander and His Homeland Introduction Appalachian Scholars are fond of quoting John Campbell on the persistent misunderstanding of the region, and indeed much recent scholarship has had the explicit goal of setting the historical record straight. This paper attempts a critical, yet friendly reading of this work, arguing that despite its significant achievements, certain aspects of Appalachia's economic and social history remain poorly understood. The central problem identified is a simplistic view in preindustrial Appalachia. While the region's twentieth century industrial history has been carefully analyzed, the preindustrial era largely remains a terra incognita surrounded by dense thickets of "invented tradition." Analysis of both preindustrial economic activities and social class formation has been effectively precluded by adherence to romantic notions of a traditional mountain subculture. The net result has been a static protrayal of preindustrial Appalachia as a halcyon backdrop to the region's harsh industrialization experience. This paper takes a new look at the preindustrial era. It argues that during the nineteenth century, local economic and social pre-conditions were established which propelled the region along a path of dependent capitalist development. The term dependent is used specifically to denote Appalachia's historic reliance on absentee capital financing of industrial development, and how such development took place to satisfy non-local resource demands. The paper is divided into two parts. In the first section, I attempt to demonstrate the continuity between old and new visions of preindustrial 114 �Appalachia as a regional subculture. I then discuss how this essentially cultural definition of the era has obscured some of the structural processes underlying the region's economic develoment trajectory. In the second section, I make similar arguments concerning preindustrial social processes. I suggest the search for appropriate models of Appalachian regional development has proceeded at the expense of concrete historical analysis. As a result, a social relations internal to the region have been made to conform a priori with a variety of frameworks, prohibiting the region's history from "speaking for itself." In the conclusion I suggest some priorities for future regional historical research. A few caveats are in order. By openly criticizing the definition of the "traditional mountain subculture," I do not wish to imply that preindustrial Appalachia — or the present-day region for that matter — somehow lacks culture. Indeed there is considerable evidence to the contrary, although rarely is it enunciated in terms of a coherent concept of culture. Second, by structurally linking the preindustrial and industrial economics, I am not suggesting they represent a teleological path of development. What happened in Appalachia at the turn of the century was the conjunction of several historically constituted processes which are the subject of the author's dissertation (Pudup forthcoming). Finally, this paper raises issues specific to research on the central Appalachian coal fields, although it bears relevance for the study of noncoal dominated areas of the region as well. Beyond the "Traditional Mountain Subculture" A commonplace assertion voiced at the turn of the twentieth century held that Appalachia was a region where nothing much had changed since the earliest years of its settlement. Freeholding households cultivated small subsistence plots in 1900 just as they had during the 1820's, using the most rudimentary implements of tillage. Appalachians engaged in little commercial intercourse among themselves and, taken together provided few commercial links between Appalachia and the rest of the nation. Since transportation routes followed meandering creek beds, movement on foot and horseback was plagued by either mud or dust, depending on the season. The various waves of immigration that had broken on American shores throughout the nineteenth century had largely bypassed the region. Settled principally by persons of Scotch-irish, German, and English extraction, these groups mutiplied and divided among themselves, lending Appalachia a rather distinct and coherent social and cultural identity. These perceived conditions captured the imagination of many contemporary observers of the American scene. In scholar journals and popular literary magazines of the day, Appalachia became identified with melancholy, bucolic notions of a traditional American past. As self-subsisting tillers of the soil, the region's people seemed to have preserved much that was con115 �sidered intrinsically American: rugged individualism and a dogged determination to survive. From this identification of place with time, what Henry Shapiro has called the "invention of Appalachia," emerged a vision of Appalachia as a regional subculture — at once part of and apart from America. This powerful vision has of late received extensive critical scrutiny, most notably by Shapiro himself (1978) and David Whisnant (1983). Shapiro's and Whisnant's books, Appalachian On Our Mind and All That Is Native And Fine, respectively, concern material and ideal aspects of a preindustrial Appalachian culture. They question the veracity of our understanding of that culture, given the ways it has been perceived by and for us. Both have been enormously influential in re-interpreting the historical development of Appalachian regional identity, which, as they demonstrate, has been consistently defined by people and institutions located outside the region. In this sense, both have been much-needed palliatives to the seemingly endless stream of literature depicting Appalachia as a region where "time stood still," inhabited by "yesterday's people." So, too, are they part of a wider recent effort to re-interpret the actual economic and social history of the region. This history has been written m6st frequently as an isolated and backward subculture becoming, in essence, ever more backward and isolated. Through an extraordinary interpretive leap, the region once celebrated as a traditionally American subculture became condemned as a culture of poverty. Historical accounts singled out Appalachia's social and economic isolation as the root cause of all its problems. Recent scholarship has turned this historical argument on its head (e.g. Lewis, et. al. 1978; Gaventa 1980; Eller 1982). Chronic regional poverty, it is argued, has resulted not from isolated but from the very opposite: Appalachia's particular form of integration into the United States economy and society. A rather glaring light is cast on the irony that Appalachia's subsistence economy was "discovered" and codified as traditionally American at precisely the time it was being undermined by capitalist development. The agents of disruption were absentee capitalists who flocked to the region and gained control over its natural resources. In doing so, they exerted a form of colonial domination, forever altering the intimate relationship between the land and the people. Since then, the argument goes, the region has been subject to national and international economic fluctuations over which it has had no control. The Appalachian people have derived few of the benefits which can accompany capitalist development. A new and equally powerful vision thus emerged from recent scholarship: that of a region suffering cultural, economic, and social deprivation at the hands of outsiders. This new vision of Appalachia substantially incorporates the one put forth at the turn of the century. Both share an idealized view of the preindustrial era. In fact, although recent scholarship has been highly critical of the invention of Appalachia as a regional subculture, it has breathed new life into melancholy stereotypes. This suggests certain blind spots persist in 116 �"corrective" scholarship. I would argue these blind spots are two: the identification of Appalachia's preindustrial economy solely as a subculture; and a failure to analyze the region's history as continuous process. 1 would argue further that the latter problem follows rather directly from the former. Historian Ronald Eller's work renders well the continuity with early idealizations of preindustrial Appalachia. He begins his book Miners, Millhands, and Mountaineers (1982:3) thusly: "Few areas of the United States in the late nineteenth century more closely exemplified Thomas Jefferson's vision of a democratic society than did the agricultural communities of the southern Appalachians. Long after the death of Jefferson and long after the nation as a whole had turned down the Hamiltonian path toward industrialism, the southern Appalachian Mountains remained a land of small farms and scattered open-country villages.... Nowhere did the self-sufficient family farm so dominate the culture and social system as it did in the Appalachian South." In Eller's view, one more generally shared by regional scholars, the preindustrial era was governed by the "traditional mountain subculture." This subculture was characterized by a set of material practices surrounding subsistence production (and reproduction) of individual households (e.g. farming and home manufacturing), and related mentalite emphasizing strong kinship affiliations, individualism, and traditionalism (cf. Knipe and Lewis 1971:26-27). Perhaps the most frequently claimed element of the traditional mountain subculture is the deep attachment the Appalachian people developed with the land on, and from which they lived. To quote Eller again at length (1979:85): "Perhaps more than in other rural areas, the physiography of the land itself shaped the development of culture and social patterns in the mountains. Each community occupied a distinct cove, hollow, or valley and was separated from its neighbors by the rim of mountains or ridges.... Economic and social activities were largely self-contained within these geographic "bowls," with individual households relying upon themselves or their neighbors for both the necessities and pleasures of life. The land was such a dominant factor in mountain culture that neighborhoods often drew their names from the creeks or branches which penetrated the settlement..." Rather than merely attack the obvious romanticism of Eller and his counterparts, it is important to emphasize that their view of the traditional mountain subculture is not simply an intellectual one, but a profoundly 117 �political one as well. After decades of scholarship depicting Appalachh as a culture of poverty, a new generation of scholars, many with roots in the region, clearly perceived the need to assert a new view of Appalachia which re-claimed for its people a role as rational human agents. Moreover, eulogizing a benevolent mountain subculture helped this generation of scholars carve into sharp relief the economic and social dislocations accompanying capitalist development in the region. My criticism of this view of preindustrial Appalachia is that it fails to recognize that the material practices which formed part of the region's subculture were also the structural bases of the region's preindustrial economy. Preindustrial economic activities, like subsistence farming, are frequently described but rarely analyzed as such. One is given the distinct impression that the region lacked an economy until the twentieth century. The problem bears directly upon and is perhaps best illustrated by a further problem: the failure to consider Appalachia's economic development as a continuous historical process. Appalachian economic history, as written, is polarized between subsistence agriculture (nineteenth century) and natural resource extractive industrial development (twentieth century). A decade or two of absentee capital investment in resources and transportation is the bridge spanning the two eras. Historians correctly signal absentee capital penetration as the harbinger of change. But they seem to accept uncritically that industrial development would be dependent upon absentee capital financing. The entire process of industrialization in Appalachia is analyzed consistently as a response to raw material demands existing outside the region. Scholars have rarely asked why such demands did not exist locally, or why investment in extractive industries was not financed by local capital. So quick to affirm the deleterious relationship between absentee capital and Appalachia's people and resources, they have not yet explored what alternative development path the region's economy might have followed. Implicit acceptance of the necessary role played by absentee capital suggests that the preindustrial economy has not been examined, in dynamic terms, for its self-generating development potential. For this reason, there exists little ostensible continuity between the preindustrial and industrial eras of economic history. A more correct view, I believe, is that the preindustrial economy failed to generate demands for the region's raw material resources. By the same token, it failed to generate capital locally which might have been invested in industrial development. National demands for raw materials and absentee capital filled these local vacumns, In this view, absentee capital and demand are not just the historical bridges spanning the preindustrial and industrial economies, but are the structural bridges as well. In his attempt to advance regional debates beyond the colonial hypothesis, Richard Simon has been the only scholar to point to this structural relationship, although he does so only in passing. Simon's work analyses 118 �the "development of underdevelopment" in southern West Virginia, has wider applicability throughout the coal fields. He claims: "...it was inevitable that in the undeveloped West Virginia economy in 1880 resources would be developed by absentee owners for export—There was no internal market in which manufacturing could be developed and from which commodities could be exported or coal consumed. The only market for West Virginia's resources was in the industrial northeast" (1981:190). A complex argument is made by Simon, one part of which is that West Virginia lacked the capacity for developing its own resources. But for what reason? As Simon continues: "...there was little financial capital in West Virginia with which to build the railroads and open the mines... In the southern part of the state, which had remained agricultural, almost the entire initial investment had come from outside capital" (1981:180-181). Thus Simon relates "inevitable" absentee capital investment to the fact that southern West Virginia had "remained agricultural." He does not specify, however, just what it was about the area's agriculture that forged this relationship. The need for such specification becomes apparent in light of the historical development of other regions in the United States (and world) whose economies were also governed by agricultural production (cf. Moore 1966; Brenner 1976). For different forms of agriculture can, and indeed have precipitated, distinct patterns and processes of industrialization, depending on such things as the social organization of agriculture, the extent to which it is integrated into markets, and the particular structure of the markets themselves. In the midwest, for example, a highly competitive and commercialized household agriculture gave rise to industries both supplying farm inputs and processing farm outputs. Such industries developed in tandem with agriculture, through investments made by independent classes of merchants and manufacturers. Midwestern agriculture was both a source of capital and a market for manufacturing in the region. By contrast, in the south, plantation slavery was the predominant form of commercial agriculture. The plantation system fettered that region's industrial development during the antebellum era. Its social and economic legacies contributed to the narrowlybased, and highly repressive nature of subsequent southern industrialization (cf. Post 1982; Billings 1979, 1982). The historical differences between the midwest and the south illustrate some of the ways in which agricultural production has profoundly shaped regional industrialization. This general point holds for the central 119 �Appalachian region. Coal industry development in Appalachia did not result solely from the unfolding of some inexorable geographic logic of the industry, or of the larger economy of which it formed a part. Although the coal industry arouse to satisfy demands existing many hundreds of miles away from the region, its specific timing and investment patterns were largely governed by prevailng conditions of the local preindustrial economy. However quaint or picturesque it appears in hindsight, the preindustrial economy has exactly that — an economy — and as such possessed its own internal logic. Subsistence production practices satisfied most demands of the local population. The household was not only a "unit of production and consumption" as in the midwest, but more specifically, the household was the unit of consumption for most of what it produced. This resulted in a shallow, if not non-existent social division of labor in the mountains which was manifest in the lack of an internal commercial market for goods and services. Thus, industries which might have tapped the region's raw material base, like farm implement manufacture, did not develop. Local market conditions delayed industrialization until external demand for coal and timber penetrated the region. This same set of conditions also had implications for the pattern of investment in resource-based industries. Households did produce surpluses, but these were strictly what remained after subsistence needs were met. Surplus items were traded with local merchants, but local commerce took place on barter terms, effectively prohibiting either trading party from accumulating much in the way of liquid capital assets. These barriers to local capital accumulation generated a chronic local shortage of money capital. The net effect was that absentee capital was the principal source of investment in the region's resource industries and transportation infrastructure. From the Region as Class to Classes with the Region A related set of issues will now be raised concerning how regional scholarship has treated social class in preindustrial Appalachia. There seem to be two main currents in its treatment. The first derives from the colonial model and thus treats the region tout court as a class exploited by outsiders. The second equivocates, to the extent that it suggests class distinctions might have existed during the preindustrial era but didn't matter, and what really matters is the class structure created by capitalist development. The argument in this section is that both share an idealized view of preindustrial Appalachia, which fails to account for how the preindustrial class structure left "openings" for the entrance of an absentee capitalist class. Furthermore, although the importance of a "local elite" is often hinted at, the composition and actions of this elite are rarely specified. A spirited debate among regional scholars took place during the 1970's over what new theoretical framework would best explain Appalachia's rela120 �tionship with the rest of the United States (and world). Scholars sought to remove the stigma of isolation attached to culture of poverty theories, and demonstrate how Appalachia's endemic poverty had resulted from the opposite condition. A variety of frameworks were advanced, including the dependency model (Arnett 1978); the world system (core-periphery) model (Conti 1979; Walls 1978); the uneven development model (Simon 1978); and the internal colonialism model (Lewis and Knipe 1978). The last of these has exerted the most pervasive influence on regional scholarship. Indeed, the colonial model has gained such currency that its central tenets need not be reviewed here. Owing to its undeniable appeal, the model singlehandedly re-directed regional research. It underpins John Gaventa's pivotal study Power and Powerlessness (1980) as well as Ronald Eller's Miners, Millhands, and Mountaineers (1982). The colonial model provided the raison d'etre for the monumental work of the Appalachian Land Ownership Task Force (1983), and a host of other works too numerous to mention. To be sure, the colonial model has been dealt its fair share of criticism. David Walls, (1978:326) in particular, has found the model "strained at some key points— especially on the issue of forced, involuntary entry. Richard Simon has been perhaps the most vociferous critic of the colonial model. He concedes that it transcends merely blaming the victims of poverty. But he suggests the model implies absentee capitalists behave in a manner inherently different from local caipitalists (Simon 1981). Furthermore, it imputes a degree of self-conscious, cohesive action to absentee capitalists belied by historical evidence. But perhaps most important for Simon, the colonial model reifies the idea that Appalachia has been exploited by outsiders. The region is assigned a one-to-one correspondence with social relations of exploitation and domination, and thus is portrayed as a class in itself (Simon 1983-84). In doing so, the colonial model fails on its own terms in explaining at least one central feature of the so-called "colonialization complex." This failure stems from its grossly over-simplified view of social life in the mountains prior to capital penetration. Somewhat ironically, then, the colonial model actually perpetrates some of the very same stereotypes it sets out to quash. An unabashedly romantic view of preindusrial Appalachia is the fulcrum on which the colonial model rests. The colonial model necessarily endorses this view, since its entire analysis centers on the violence done to the traditional mountain subculture by outside agents of industrialization. Such romanticism enforces a simplified view of preindustrial social life. Preindustrial Appalachia is likened to a "society approximating an Asian or African country" and its people described as "natives" and "illiterate, simple mountain farmers" (Knipe and Lewis 1978). There is a double irony here. By imputing social simplicity to African and Asian countries, which in fact has been shown otherwise, the colonial model evinces a racism akin to that it bemoans. Furthermore, the colonial model helps to immortalize the commonplace stereo121 �type of a region inhabited by illiterate natives. But much more than irony is at stake. An essential role in establishing and maintaining the "colonialization complex" is given to "the natives who became colonizers of their own people" (Knipe and Lewis 1978:22). Local colonizers are dependent upon absentee capitalists and thus ally themselves with outsiders. Yet the colonial model does not account for the emergence of the local colonizers themselves. In fact, with its elementary social view of preindustrial Appalachia, it cannot do so. To the extent that it presupposes a region populated by simple country folk, one is left to wonder exactly who the local colonizers could have been. What is clearly missing from the colonial interpretation of Appalachian regional development is an understanding of actual local social conditions during the preindustrial era. The need to formulate such an understanding can be found, took, in other regional scholarship which departs from the colonial model. Its point of departure lies in explicitly assigning to "local elites" a significant role in capitalist development. Since it shares a common set of themes, this scholarship need not be reviewed in its entirety. Only the central tenets of the argument will be discussed here. The common starting point is that social class divisions were virtually absent or unimportant to preindustrial Appalachia. Statements to the effect that "we're all kin" are taken as evidence of scant social differentiation among the population. Thus, kinship displaced class, while the preindustrial economy itself exerted a levelling effect on class differentiation. Once this egalitarian view is asserted, however, it is usually followed by a somewhat sheepish admission that while class was sublimated, class distinctions did exist, and eventually became very important. To quote Eller (1982:11-12): "The dominance of a democratic ethos, however, did not mean the absence of a class structure in nineteenth century Appalachia....Class distinctions did exist in the larger community, county and region...The southern mountain country contained a minority of wealthier, landed families whose economic power and political influence set them off as elite group...these wealthier families provided the political leadership in the mountains and often controlled local commercial enterprises...their political influence, access to resources, and contacts with the outside placed mountain elites in a strategic position to benefit from economic change." According to this argument, class remained a latent source of social division in the mountains until the late nineteenth century, when absentee capitalists began taking notice of the region's resources. Only then was it made manifest. The question then turns to what role the local elite performed during capitalist development. The consensus here is that local elites were 122 �followers rather than leaders, merely riding the development bandwagon drawn by outsiders. Citing evidence from local newspaper editorials, Arnett (1978:36) states "many of the citizens of the area— especially merchants, professionals, and real estate agents— welcomed capitalists, whatever their nationality, with open arms." Eller echoes this view (1982:57): "native middle class entrepenuers served as effective brokers for absentee investors and as energetic missionaries of the new industrial faith." In doing so, Conti (1979-80:52) claims "this local leadership pursued essentially a 'modernizing' role, diffusing change from the American metropolis to the Appalachian hollers." Only Batteau (1971:32) has assigned to local elite a more provocative role: "in every form of major development...the pioneering enterpreneurs were not outsiders, but locally born and raised entrepeneurs from such towns as Hazard and Paintsville." In large measure, this argument surrounding the role of local elites is founded on a few well-worn examples of local tycoons like John C.C. Mayo, C. Bascom Slemp, and Floyd Day. Nonetheless, these men, particularly Paintsville native John Mayo, are treated as the exception rather than the rule (cf. Caudill 1982; Turner and Traum 1984). Thus, although scholarship admitting the existence and importance of local elites represents a saluatory departure from the strictly colonial interpretation of Appalachian development, a number of issues remained unresolved by it. One may ask first whether Batteau is correct in asserting members of the local elites were actually the "pioneering entrepeneurs— that is, leaders rather than followers. If so, this would certainly destroy more than a few shibboleths within the domain of Appalachian studies. But more important, one may ask what, if any, was the "typical" situation in the mountains. Did each county have its own local elite, or was the elite "really" only a handful of prominent individuals region-wide? Existing scholarship identifies an elite in nearly every county, but, because such work paints the picture in broad strokes only, it tells little about the actual composition of the elite at the local level, and the routine detail of their activities both before and during Capitalist development. Finally, to the extent that the local elite is accorded economic and political power and prestige, one may ask why its members did not oppose absentee capital penetration, and pursue industrial development by themselves. Local demand for the region's raw materials might have been scarce, but external demand was mounting. Why then did local elites not rise to meet this demand? The task of resolving these issues, I would argue, must begin with an understanding of the social class structure that had emerged in preindustrial Appalachia in tandem with its economy. This economy had been governed by a subsistence logic, with little extra-household commerce or industry. Limited surplus production generated little local capital accumulation. In social terms, this meant there had developed a large class of direct producers and only a small commercial class. Dependent as it was on the vagaries of 123 �household surplus production, the mountain commercial class did not, and indeed could not become the vanguard capitalist class in the region. Thus, the issue of whether a local merchant-centered elite were leaders or followers is rendered moot. There existed very real barriers to its collective ability to accumulate capital on a large enough scale to finance industry or infrastructure investments. Its relatively weak economic position, in turn, created space in the local social structure for an absentee class of investors. Only when Appalachian regional development is viewed as a continuous historical process, in its economic and social dimensions, does this become apparent. I would argue further that such a "long view" is necessary for understanding precisely what roles local elites did perform in capitalist development. For by suggesting that they could not become the vanguard capitalist class, I do not wish to negate their importance. One critical reason why so much equivocation has surrounded "who they were" and "what they did" is that regional scholars have been wont to define and explain mountain elites in terms of pre-determined models. Thus for Arnett, (1978) they are part of the "infrastructure of dependency"; for Conti, (1979) they are Sicilian-like "broker capitalists"; and for a large number of scholars, they remain "local colonizers." No systematic attempt has yet been made to study the preindustrial mountain elites in a specific place, through time, in order to permit them to define and perhaps even explain themselves. And, it might be added, to illuminate the "typical" situation. In this regard, one is wise to heed the words of historian Edward Thompson (1963:11). Although written in another context, they bear direct relevance for the Appalachian case: "The question of course, is how the individual got to be in this 'social role', and how the particular social organization (with its property rights and structure of authority) got to be there. And these are historical questions. If we stop history at a given point, then there are no classes but simply a multitude of individuals with a multitude of experiences. But if we watch these men over an adequate period of social change, we observe patterns in their relationships, their ideas, and their institutions. Class is defined by men as they live their own history, and, in the end, this is its only definition." Conclusion Three years ago David Whisnant sounded a call for a "a second level of Appalachian historical analysis and writing" with "more tolerance for abiguity, irony, paradox, and contradiction" (1982:117). This paper represents a preliminary move toward that goal. In reviewing the main currents of recent Appalachian historical scholarship, three overlapping research priorities 124 �have emerged: the development of appropriate comparative frameworks; the need for micro-level analysis; and the use of "new" information sources. Each of these will be discussed briefly. The Appalachian region is frequently compared with other so-called underdeveloped areas of the world, particularly with nations of the third world. Although such comparisons— especially those between different coal fields— have often been quite fruitful, I believe historical research must begin with comparisons a bit closer to home. Appalachian regional scholarship as a whole presupposes a process of regional formation which itself must be explained. The most elemental historical forms of social and economic differentiation took place within the boundaries of the various states which comprise the Appalachian region. Thus, before we begin to study Appalachia as a region possessing some set of common characteristics, we must first explain, for example, how the east Kentucky mountain area became differentiated from the rest of the state of Kentucky (and so on for the mountains of western North Carolina, eastern Tennessee, northern Georgia, etc.). One issue around which an intra-state comparative focus becomes critical is internal improvements, like transportation. During the nineteenth century, most internal improvement programs were undertaken by state governments, owing to the reluctance on the part of the federal government to become involved in ostensibly local development projects. Since the Appalachian region was notoriously lacking in improved transportation infrastructure until the twentieth century, we must ask how and why state policies discriminated against the mountains. Another issue is the promotional campaigns organized by many states to attract outside industrial investors. To what extent, if any, did mountain politicians participate in these campaigns? These, and other questions pertaining to intra-state differentiation can lead to a second level of comparative work much needed in Appalachian studies: among different areas of the mountains (e.g. western North Carolina and eastern Kentucky). Finally, they can provide a firm basis upon which larger-scale comparative research can be undertaken: between Appalachia and other U.S. and world regions. The second priority for regional historical research concerns the need for micro-level analyses in Appalachia. Thanks to the pioneering work of the past decade, we now have a rather clear outline of the contours of Appalachian social and economic history. Yet as this paper has tried to show, we still know relatively little about the content of this history at the local level. Aside from processes governing social class formation, there is work to be done on the intersection of class and kinship, demographic history, inheritance practices, land use, and local-level politics. This leads directly to the third research priority: the use of "new" information sources. To the extent that the transmission of social "information"; during the preindustrial era in Appalachia was governed by oral tradition, regional historical research can not make use of the common set of qualitative tools 125 �used by economic and social historians (such as diaries, letters, mercantile account books, newspapers). Owing to this very real problem of historical recovery, which is more than a scholar's methodological dilemma, we may never know certain things about the region's past. Yet this does not foreclose the possibility of meaningful historical research. A variety of public records, maintained at the county, state, and national levels, can be used to address many historical problems. A few examples will make clear the potential abundance of historical information that does exist. Tax assessments were made on an annual basis in most counties. These assessment books, many of which have been placed in permanent storage in state archives, detail the ownership of a variety of forms of real and personal property. Not only do these records permit cross-sectional analyses of property ownership, but longintudinal ones as well. Deed records of course contain information on real estate transfers. But based on evidence from east Kentucky, deed books were also used to record many other economic transactions, such as loans and tenancy arrangements. Finally, county court order books permit a reading of the conduct of local politics. The three research priorities identified here are by no means exhaustive, but they will help to fulfill the challenging agenda of a "second-level" of Appalachian historical research. BIBLIOGRAPHY Appalachian Land Ownership Task Force, 1983. Who Owns Appalachian Landownership and Its Impact. Lexington, Ky.: The University Press of Kentucky Arnett, Douglas, 1978. Eastern Kentucky: The Politics of Dependency and Underdevelopment. Unpublished PH.D. Dissertation, Duke University Ball, Richard, 1968. "A Poverty Case: the Analgesic Subculture of the Southern Appalachians" American Sociological Review 33 pp. 885-895 Batteau, Allen, 1971., "The Contradictions of a Kingship Community" in Robert L. Hall and Carol B. Stack, eds. Holding Onto The Land And The Lord; Kinship, Ritual, Land Tenue And Social Policy In The Rural South. Athens: University of Georgia Press Billings, Dwight, 1979. Planters And The Making Of A "New South"; Class, Politics And Development In North Carolina. Chapel Hill: University of North Carolina Press Billings, Dwight, 1982. "Class Origins of the 'New South': Planter Persistence an Industry in North Carolina" in Michael Burawoy and Theda Skocpol, eds. Marxist Perspectives. Chicago: University of Chicago Press Brenner, Robert, 1976., "Agrarian Class Structure and Economic Development in Pre-Industrial Europe". Past and Present No. 70 pp. 30-75 Campbell, John C., 1921. The Southern Highlander And His Homeland. New York: The Russell Sage Foundation Caudill, Harry M., 1982. "The Strange Career of John C.C. Mayo". Filson Club Quarterly 56 pp. 258-289 126 �Conti, Eugene, 1979. Mountain Metamorphosis: Culture and Development In East Kentucky. Unpublished Ph.D. dissertation, Duke University. Conti, Eugene, 1979-80. "The Cultural Role of Local Elites in the Kentucky Mountains: A Retrospect Analysis". Appalachian Journal 7 pp. 51-68. Eller, Ronald D., 1979. "Land and Family: An Historical View of Preindustrial Appalachia". Appalachian Journal 6 pp. 83-109 Eller, Ronald D, 1982. Mines, Millhands and Mountaineers: Industrialization of the Appalachian South, 1880-1930. Knoxville: University of Tennessee Press. Gaventa, John, 1980. Power and Powerlessness: Quiescence and Rebellion in an Appalachian Valley. Urbana: University of Illinois Press. Knipe, Edward E. and Helen M. Lewis, 1971. "The Impact of Coal Mining on the Traditional Mountain Subculture" in J. Kenneth Moreland, ed., The Not So Solid South: Anthropological Studies in a Regional Subculture. Athens: University of Georgia Press pp. 25-37. Lewis, Helen, et al., eds., 1978. Colonialism in Modern American: The Appalachian Case. Boone, NC: Appalachian Consortium Press. Lewis, Helen and Edward Knipe, 1978. "The Colonialism Model: The Appalachian Case" in Lewis, et. al., eds., 1978. pp. 9-31. Moore, Harrington, Jr., 1966. Social Origins of Dictatorship And Democracy. Boston: Beacon Press. Post, Charles, 1982. "The American Road to Capitalism". New Left Review No. 133 pp. 3-51. Pudup, Mary Beth, forthcoming, Land, Class, and Rural Transformation: The East Kentucky Coal Fields, 1870-1920. Ph.D. dissertation in progress, University of California, Berkeley. Shapiro, Henry D., 1978. Appalachia On Our Mind: The Southern Mountains and Mountaineers in the American Consciousness, 1870-1920. Chapel Hill: University of North Carolina Press. Simon, Richard, 1981. "Uneven Development and the Case of West Virgina: Going Beyond the Colonialism Model". Appalachian Journal 8 pp. 165-186. Simon, Richard, 1983-84. "Regions and Social Relations: A Research Note". Appalachian Journal 11 pp. 23-31. Turner, Carolyn Clay and Carolyn Hay Traum, 1983. John C.C. Mayo; Cumberland Capitalist. Pikeville, Ky.: Pikeville College Press. Walls, David, 1978. "Internal Colony or Internal Periphery? A Critique of Current Models and an Alternative Formulation" in Lewis, et. al., eds., 1978 pp. 319-349. Walls, David, 1978. Central Appalachia in Advanced Capitalism: Its Coal Industry Structure and Coal Operator Associations. Unpublished Ph.D. dissertation, University of Kentucky. Whisnant, David, 1982. "Second-Level Appalachian History: Another Look at Some Fotched-On Women". Appalachian Journal 9 pp. 115-123. Whisnant, David, 1983., All That is Native and Fine; The Politics of Culture in an American Region. Chapel Hill: University of North Carolina Press. 127 �ETHNICITY AND MOBILITY Convenor: Elizabeth Barrett, Appalshop Blacks: An Invisible Institution in Appalachia? Wilburn Hayden, Jr., Western Carolina University Moving On: Recent Patterns of Appalachian Migration Philip ]. Obermiller, Northern Kentucky University Robert Oldendick, University of Cincinnati Long Journey Home Elizabeth Barrett, Appalshop Blacks: An Invisible Institution in Appalachia? by Wilburn Hayden, Jr. ABSTRACT The institution of black invisibility is defined and discussed in terms of its impact on the social-economic status of blacks in the Region. Using counties with close to 4000 or more blacks, 20 concentrated areas were identified. These concentrations center around the following conditions: I. CoalIndustrial Site; II. Major University or Military Base; III. Urban Center; IV. Combination of I and III; and V. Combination of II and III. Seventy five (75) percent of all blacks in the Region were in the 63 counties while only 37% of whites. The third concentration and the two (2) combintion concentrations (the combinations included urban) accounted for 15 of the 20 concentrations, 74.4%. The paper identifies high urbanization of blacks as a factor that contributes to the institution of black invisibility. Thus, as a group, the black experience compared to whites as a group is very different in the Appalachian Region. The concept of "black Appalachia invisibility" was first put in print and defined by Clarence Wright in 1973.' Ed CabbelPs article2 seven years later provided support for the concept through an informal survey of blacks in the Region. Cabbell identifies two myths that are useful in understanding the concept: (1) "...the number of black people in the mountains is inconsequential."3 and (2) "...Appalachia is a land of 'poor white hillbillies' beset 128 �solely with 'white problems' and not the 'color problems' that plague the rest of America."4 He further concludes that these myths have resulted in the failure of scholars and analysts of the Region to focus on the existence and plight of black Appalachians, thus causing blacks to be a neglected minority within a neglected minority (people of Appalachia).5 Black invisibility as an institution within the Region will be defined as the view of Appalachia as a white Region justifying the formal and informal collections of customs, practices, beliefs and attitudes that lead (led) to ignoring the plight, contributions and experiences and to unequal social and economic conditions of blacks as a group. There are two constructs which are important to understanding the definition: view and group. View is the holding to and acting on an unsubstantiated judgment or opinion. Turning now to the construct group, when there are few minority individuals or when a majority member develops a close friendship with a minority individual, the individual in the majority group may see the minority individual or friend as separate from the minority group. As one moves throughout the region it is clear that individual blacks appear to escape unequal treatment by whites. Both blacks and whites have learned to accept the institution of black invisibility which creates the appearance of a high level of tolerance for the individual(s). The tolerance level quickly shifts to unequal treatment when the institution is challenged. For example (this example is to illustrate a point and does not negate the many exceptions) even today there are hollows, communities or counties that demonstrate and maintain that blacks are not welcome. The white residents of these hollows, communities or counties may work daily alongside a black individual and develop a positive relationship. The non-work association is maintained in a neutral setting or in the black community. Seldom is the black allowed social contact within the white residents' setting. If the black raises the issue, the friendship begins to shift. The white resident now sees the black individual as a member of a group—visible—desiring to be an equal. The invisible institution of blacks is seen by some as a positive factor. This perspective sees invisibility as important to the lack of racial tension and the perception of greater freedom in the region for blacks. By being invisible, blacks are (were) not singled out as a significant threat to the order of the white domain, thus able to co-exist. But with this perspective, many blacks suffered discrimination as individuals. The invisibility meant that blacks could be ignored by the institutions of the region (particularly employment). The invisibility of blacks may well be singled out as a major cause for the high degree of poor housing, higher proportion of poverty and unemployment, lack of ownership of large holdings of land, a small voice in the political and governmental decisions or services, and a- lesser social status. An examination of the 1980 census data will be presented to determine how the extent black invisibility is more than a view about blacks as a group. The census identifies 1,575,368 blacks living in 397 counties in the region. The 129 �total population for the region is 21,019,681. The black population is 7.8% of the region which is about 4% less than the percentage of blacks (11.8%) in the country as a whole. Table I is a distribution by race for the 13 states. American Indians represented 0.1% of the region numbering 29.373. Others represented 0.5% and numbering 110,146 which are primarily individuals who failed to be identified by race. TABLE 1 STATE POPULATION DISRIBUTION IN THE APPALACHIAN REGION AS DEFINED BY THE ARC STATES AND PERCENTAGES Alabama Percentage TOTAL 2,448,121 100.0 WHITES 1,926,125 78.7 BLACKS 486,438 19.9 AMER. INDS. 2,721 0.1 OTHERS 32,837 1.3 Georgia Percentage 1,104,081 100.0 1,027,236 93.0 71,048 6.5 2,387 0.2 3,410 0.3 Kentucky Percentage 1,078,076 100.0 1,056,048 98.0 18,394 1.7 809 0.1 2,852 0.3 Maryland Percentage 220,132 100.0 212,358 96.5 6,419 2.9 171 0.1 1,184 0.5 Mississippi Percentage 481,717 100.0 346,080 71.8 133,569 27.8 654 0.1 1,414 0.3 New York Percentage 1,082,794 100.0 1,053,887 97.3 15,592 1.5 3,950 0.3 9,365 0.9 North Carolina Percentage 1,217,514 100.0 1,094,682 89.9 112,137 9.2 7,041 0.6 3,654 0.3 Ohio Percentage 1,262,503 100.0 1,229,540 97.4 26,715 2.1 1,944 0.2 4,304 0.3 Pennsylvania Percentage 6,103,923 100.0 5,741,637 94.1 332,121 5.4 4,608 0.1 25,557 0.4 835,095 100.0 654,155 78.3 176,481 21.2 675 0.1 3,784 0.4 Tennessee Percentage 2,090,517 100.0 1,955,618 93.5 120,775 5.9 2,506 0.1 11,618 0.5 Virginia Percentage 505,487 100.0 493,412 97.6 10,618 2.1 352 0.1 1,098 0.2 West Virginia Percentage 1,929,122 100.0 1,853,437 96.0 65,061 3.,4 1,555 0.1 9,069 0.5 20,359,082 100.0 18,644,215 91.6 1,575,368 7.8 29,373 0.1 110,146 0.5 South Carolina Percentage TOTAL PERCENTAGE 130 �Alabama has the largest number of blacks at 486,438 and third largest percentage of 19.9%. The largest percentage is 27.8% from Mississippi with the fourth largest black population of 133,569. The state with the smallest percentage was New York at 1.5% and the eleventh largest population of 15,592. The state with the smallest number of blacks was Maryland at 6,419. Table 2 is the ranking of each state by the number and percentage of population. Table 2. Ranking for Each State by Number and Percentage of Blacks. Number States 1 Alabama Georgia 7 10 Kentucky Maryland 13 Mississippi 4 11 New York 6 North Carolina 9 Ohio 2 Pennsylvania 3 South Carolina 5 Tennessee 12 Virginia 8 West Virginia Percentage 3 5 12 9 1 13 4 10 7 2 6 10 8 For most scholars and people in the region these numbers are no surprise, yet blacks as an invisible institution remains. WHY? A closer look at the census data provides some light to the question. Table 3. Number of Concentrations and Counties for Each State Number of Concentrations 2 1 0 1 2 1 3 1 • 3 1 2 0 3 TOTAL 131 Number of Counties 19 6 0 1 9 1 4 1 7 6 2 0 6 20 States Alabama Georgia Kentucky Maryland Mississippi New York North Carolina Ohio Pennsylvania South Carolina Tennessee Virginia West Virginia 62 �The mean number of blacks per county was computed at 3,968. County maps for each state were used to plot counties with near or more than 3,968 blacks. Twenty (20) concentrations consisting of 62 of the 397 counties were plotted. These counties were 15.6% of the total counties. Kentucky and Virginia were the only states to have all of its regional counties with less than 4,000 blacks. Table 3 is the number of concentrations and number of counties. Table 5 are the counties for the 20 concentrations. The concentrations resulted from three conditions and two combinations of the three: (I) Coal or Industrial Site; (II) a Major University or Military Base; (III) an Urban Center; (IV) Combination of I and III; and (V) Combination of II and III. Five (5) of the 20 concentrations of 23.8% were in the first two conditions. Twelve (12) or 57.1% concentrations were from Urban Environments. The three remaining concentrations were combinations with an urban setting. Thus 74.4% of the counties were urban (see Table 4). Table 4. Number of Concentrations by the Five Factors for Each State States I Alabama Georgia Kentucky (none) Maryland Mississippi New York North Carolina Ohio Pennsylvania South Carolina Tennessee Virginia (none) West Virginia 1 TOTAL 2 1 II III IV 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 2 V 1 1 2 2 3 11 1 2 The total number of blacks in these concentrations was 1,157,986. This number represents 73.5% of the total number of blacks. Thirty-six point six percent (36.6%) of all whites were found in the counties that formed the 20 concentrations. According to an Appalachian Regional Commission report, 74% of the 1980 U.S. population lives in an urban environment while 48% of the total Appalachian population lives in an urban environment.6 The conclusion was made "...that Appalachia remains essentially a region of small towns and rural areas."7 The conclusion, though accurate for white Appalachia, is not the case for black Appalachia. The ARC report falls to the fate of the institution of black invisibility. Black Appalachians live in urban environments. For twenty-six point five percent (26.5%) of the blacks, 132 �TABLE 5 COUNTIES FOR THE TWENTY CONCENTRATIONS FOR EACH STATE ALABAMA Concentration: 1 Lauderdale Lawrence limestone Madison Morgan Concentration: 2 Pickens Tuscaloosa Walker Jefferson St. Clair Etowah Calhoun Talladega Shelby Randolph Tallapoosa Cambers Coosa Elmore GEORGIA Concentration: 3 Floyd Bartow Polk Carroll Gwinnett Hall MISSISSIPPI Concentration: 5 Marshall PENNSYLVANIA Concentration: 12 Erie Concentration: 6 Chickasaw Clay Kemper Lee Lowndes Noxub ee Oktibbeha Concentration: 13 Mercer NEW YORK Concentration: 7 Chemung NORTH CAROLINA Concentration: 8 Buncombe Concentration: 9 Forsyth Concentration: 10 Rutherford Burke OHIO Concentration: 11 Jefferson MARYLAND Concentration: 14 Washington Concentration: 14 Allegheny Beaver Fayette Washington Westmoreland SOUTH CAROLINA Concentration: 15 Anderson Cherokee Greenville Oconee Pickens Spartanburg TENNESSEE Concentration: 16 Knox Concentration: 17 Hamilton WEST VIRGINIA Concentration: 18 Fayette McDowell Mercer Raleigh Concentration: 19 Cabell Concentration: 20 Kanawha 133 �the report is accurate, and the case of the institution of black invisibility may be argued, especially since non-urban black Appalachians are a subminority of a minority of a minority. Realizing that blacks in the region are found in the same environments as most blacks in the nation, it is not difficult to see why the institution of black invisibility exists. The social and economic conditions for blacks in the region are very different from whites. To acknowledge and respond to the difference requires the visibility of blacks in the region. By not ignoring the difference, black individuals as a group may be able to do in the region what has not occurred in the rest of the nation — move toward equal treatment. This means shifting some of the analysts, resources and services to the urban struggle, life, and social and economic conditions of the visible black Appalachian. One final note that can be concluded from this study that speaks to the region as a whole is the increasing urbanization of the region. With 48% of the region living in urban environments in 1980, it is clear that by 1990 the majority of Appalachia will be living in urban centers. Thus, the focus of Appalachian Studies and resources may need to include the urban invisible Appalachian. 134 �POPULATION DISTRIBUTION BY RACE FOR THE TWENTY CONCENTRATIONS OF BLACK APPALACHIAN IN COUNTIES WITH 3,990 OR MORE BLACKS ALABAMA Concentration: 1 Lauderdale Lawrence Limestone Madison Morgan Region Total Percentage Concentration: 2 Pickens Tuscaloosa Walker Jefferson St. Clair Etowah Calhoun Talladega Shelby Randolph Tallapoosa Chambers Coosa Elmore Regional Total Percentage State Total Percentage Total Amer. 80,546 30,170 46,005 196,966 90,231 433,918 100.00 370,652 83.5 Blacks 7,845 5,074 6,539 39,069 8,816 67,343 15.2 21,481 137,541 68,660 671,324 41,205 103,057 119,761 73,831 66,298 20,075 38,676 39,191 11,377 43,390 1,455,867 100.00 1,899,785 100.00 12,451 99,335 63,547 444,426 36,935 88,806 97,313 50,922 58,982 15,173 28,096 25,222 7,411 33,585 1,062,204 73 1,432,856 75.4 8,978 37,405 4,839 223,759 4,128 13,809 21,074 22,745 6,947 4,869 10,451 13,894 3,950 9,655 386,503 26.5 453,846 23.9 79,800 40,760 32,386 56,346 166,903 75,649 451,844 100.00 69,305 35,889 27,518 46,484 161,144 68,461 408,801 10,237 4,720 4,832 9,679 4,154 6,762 40,384 90.5 8.9 113,086 100.0 107,150 94.7 5,049 4.5 89 .1 798 .7 29,296 100.0 13,598 46.4 15,577 53.2 39 .1 82 .3 People Whites 72,375 23,013 39,351 154,782 81,131 Indian 99 40 36 439 98 712 .2 12 101 98 520 51 121 215 45 106 10 13 14 08 28 1,342 .1 2,054 .1 Others 227 2,043 79 2,676 186 5,211 1.1 40 700 176 2,619 91 321 1,159 119 263 23 116 61 08 122 5,818 .4 11,029 .6 GEORGIA Concentration: 3 Floyd Bartow Polk Carroll Gwinnett Hall Region Total Percentage 89 96 _ 59 295 143 682 .2 169 55 36 124 1,310 283 1,977 .4 MARYLAND Concentration: 4 Washington Percentage MISSISSIPPI Concentration: 5 Marshall Percentage 135 �Concentration: 6 Chickasaw Clay Kemper Lee Lowndes Monroe Noxubee Okitibbeha Region Total Percentage State Total Percentage Total People 17,853 21,082 10,148 57,061 57,304 36,404 13,212 36,018 249,082 100.0 278,378 100.0 Whites 11,393 10,482 4,592 45,224 37,224 25,560 4,629 23,305 162,409 65.2 176,007 63.2 Blacks 6,434 10,540 5,512 11,645 19,601 10,827 8,534 12,355 85,448 34.3 101,025 36.3 Amer. Indian 22 05 44 09 94 07 47 12 240 .1 279 .1 Others 04 55 — 183 385 10 02 346 985 .4 1,067 .4 NEW YORK Concentration: 7 Chemung Percentage 97,656 100.0 92,629 94.9 3,957 224 846 4.1 .2 .8 160,801 100.0 146,125 90.9 13,943 193 .1 540 .3 243,683 100.0 182,647 59,403 24.4 451 .2 1,182 75 53,787 72,504 126,291 100.0 530,775 100.0 47,159 66,953 6,534 5,213 20 95 243 114,112 90.4 442,884 83.4 11,747 9.3 85,093 16 115 .1 759 .2 317 .2 91,564 100.0 85,956 5,000 93.9 5.5 123 .1 484 3 388,780 100.0 265,589 68.3 121,135 31.2 384 .1 1,672 Percentage Concentration: 13 Mercer Percentage 128,299 100.0 122,258 95.3 5,521 106 .1 414 .3 1,450,085 204,441 159,417 217,074 392,294 2,423,311 100.0 2,940,390 100.0 1,288,989 191,964 153,093 208,957 383,903 2,226,906 91.9 150,077 11,644 5,844 7,324 6,527 181,416 1,104 9,915 NORTH CAROLINA Concentration: 8 Buncombe Percentage Concentration: 9 Forsyth Percentage Concentration: 10 Rutherford Burke Region Total Percentage State Total Percentage OHIO Concentration: 11 Jefferson Percentage 8.7 .4 74 2,039 .4 PENNSYLVANIA Concentration: 12 Erie Concentration: 14 Alleghany Beaver Fayette Washington Westmoreland Region Total Percentage State Total Percentage 2,614,753 88.9 136 4.3 7.5 308,072 10.5 169 137 256 267 1,933 .4 664 343 537 1,597 13,056 .1 .5 2,423 15,142 .1 .5 �SOUTH CAROLINA Amer. Indian 109 37 227 43 73 Total People 133,235 40,983 287,913 91,811 79,292 201,861 835,095 100.0 Whites 109,823 32,800 235,210 43,656 72,794 159,872 654,155 78.3 Blacks 22,895 7,988 50,842 48,037 5,849 40,870 176,481 21.2 Concentration: 16 Knox Percentage 320,494 100.0 288,675 90.1 28,806 426 .1 2,587 9. Concentration: 17 Hamilton Percentage State Total Percentage 287,740 100.0 608,234 100.0 229,976 308 .1 734 .1 1,616 518,651 85.3 55,840 19.4 84,646 13.9 57,863 49,899 73,932 86,821 268,515 100.0 53,276 42,401 68,483 79,408 243,568 90.7 4,321 7,378 5,030 6,862 23,591 8.8 41 25 65 59 190 .1 Concentration: 19 Cabell Percentage 106,815 100.0 101,627 95.1 4,488 4.2 70 .1 630 Concentration: 20 Kanawha Percentage State Total Percentage 231,414 100.0 606,744 100.0 215,953 93.3 561,148 92.5 13,776 6 41,855 155 .1 415 .1 1,530 Concentration: 15 Anderson Cherokee Greenville Oconee Pickens Spartanburg State Total Percentage 136 675 .1 Others 408 158 1,584 75 576 983 3,784 .4 TENNESSEE 80. .8 .5 4,203 .7 WEST VIRGINIA Concentration: 18 Fayette McDowell Mercer Raleigh Region Total Percentage 137 6.9 225 95 354 492 1,166 .5 .6 .5 3,326 .5 �STATE POPULATION DISTRIBUTION IN THE APPALACHIA REGION AS DEFINED BY THE ARC Whites 1,926,125 78.7 1,027,236 93.0 1,056,048 98.0 212,358 96.5 346,080 71.8 1,053,887 97.3 1,094,682 89.9 1,229,540 97.4 5,741,637 94.1 654,155 78.3 1,955,618 93.5 493,412 97.6 1,853,437 96.0 18,644,215 91.6 Blacks 486,438 19.9 71,048 6.5 18,394 1.7 6,419 2.9 133,569 27.8 15,592 1.5 112,137 9.2 26,715 2.1 332,121 5.4 176,481 21.2 120,775 5.9 10,618 2.1 65,061 3.4 1,575,368 7.8 Amer. Indian 2,721 0.1 2,387 0.2 809 0.1 171 0.1 654 0.1 3,950 0.3 7,041 0.6 1,944 0.2 4,608 0.1 675 0.1 2,506 0.1 352 0.1 1,555 0.1 29,373 0.1 Others 32,837 1.3 3,410 0.3 2,852 0.3 1,184 0.5 1,414 0.3 9,365 0.9 3,654 0.3 4,304 0.3 25,557 0.4 3,784 0.4 11,618 0.5 1,098 0.2 9,069 0.5 110,146 0.5 ALABAMA—Counties in Appalachia Population State Total 2,448,121 1980 1,926,125 486,438 2,721 32,837 Whites Blacks Indian Others 12,029 35,761 97,313 25,222 17,185 26,942 11,424 11,925 42,209 3,675 02 56 215 14 13 09 04 04 68 08 69 90 28 121 07 22 19 44 STATES AND PERCENTAGES Alabama Percentage Georgia Percentage Kentucky Percentage Maryland Percentage Mississippi Percentage New York Percentage North Carolina Percentage Ohio Percentage Pennsylvania Percentage South Carolina Percentage Tennessee Percentage Virginia Percentage West Virginia Percentage TOTAL PERCENTAGE Total of Counties in Appalachia 1. 2. 3. 4. 5. 6. 7. 8. 9. 10. 11. 12. 13. 14. 15. 16. Bibb Blount Calhoun Chambers Cherokee Chilton Clay Cleburne Colbert Coosa Cullman De Kalb Elmore Etowah Fayette Franklin Total 2,448,121 100.0 1,104,081 100.0 1,078,076 100.0 220,132 100.0 481,717 100.0 1,082,794 100.0 1,217,514 100.0 1,262,503 100.0 6,103,923 100.0 835,095 100.0 2,090,517 100.0 505,487 100.0 1,929,122 100.0 20,359,082 100.0 Total Persons 15,725 36,459 119,761 39,191 18,760 30,612 13,731 12,595 54,519 11,377 61,642 53,658 43,390 103,057 18,809 28,350 7,411 60,928 52,538 33,585 88,806 16,378 26,991 138 598 21,074 13,894 1,550 3,633 2,268 647 9,146 3,950 528 939 9,655 13,809 2,396 1,301 Amer. 1,159 61 12 28 35 19 3,096 08 117 91 122 321 28 36 �ALABAMA con't Total of Counties in Appalachia 17. Jackson 18. Jefferson 19. Lamar 20. Lauderdale 21. Lawrence 22. Limestone 23. Madison 24. Marion 25. Marshall 26. Morgan 27. Pickens 28. Randolph 29. St. Clair 30. Shelby 31. Talladega 32. Tallapoosa 33. Tuscaloosa 34. Walker 35. Winston Percentage Total Persons Whites Blacks 51,407 671,324 26,453 80,546 30,170 46,005 196,966 30,041 645,622 90,231 21,481 20,075 41,205 66,298 73,831 38,676 137,541 68,660 29,953 48,990 444,426 14,457 72,375 23,013 39,351 154,782 29,250 64,444 81,131 12,451 15,173 36,935 58,982 50,922 28,096 99,335 63,547 21,818 2,150 223,759 ,975 7,845 5,074 6,539 39,069 100.0 78.7 701 1,016 8,816 8,978 4,869 4,128 6,947 22,745 10,451 37,405 4,839 69 19.9 Amer. Indian 188 520 11 99 40 36 439 35 62 98 12 10 51 106 45 13 101 98 27 Others 79 2,619 10,010 227 2,043 79 2,676 55 100 186 40 23 91 263 119 116 700 176 8,039 0.1 1.3 GEORGIA—Counties in Appalachia Population State Total 1980 1,104,081 1,027,236 71,048 2,387 3,410 Total of Counties in Appalachia Total Persons Whites Blacks Amer. Indian Others 8,702 21,354 40,760 56,346 36,991 21,856 51,699 12,333 4,774 54,573 14,748 79,800 27,958 15,185 11,110 30,070 166,903 25,020 75,649 18,422 6,520 25,343 10,762 17,747 19,685 26,104 11,654 32,386 8,240 18,139 35,889 46,484 36,683 19,929 50,406 12,076 4,614 51,348 14,638 69,305 27,628 13,631 11,071 28,794 161,144 23,658 68,461 17,103 5,402 22,528 10,170 15,788 19,596 25,005 11,346 27,518 36. 37. 38. 39. 40. 41. 42. 43. 44. 45. 46. 47. 48. 49. 50. 51. 52. 53. 54. 55. 56. 57. 58. 59. 60. 61. 62. 63. Banks Barrow Bartow Carroll Catoosa Chattooga Cherokee Dade Dawson Douglas Fannin Floyd Forsyth Franklin Gilmer Gordon Gwinnett Habersham Hall Haralson Heard Jackson Lumpkin Madison Murray Paulding Pickens Polk 139 450 3,189 4,720 9,679 228 1,892 1,041 192 _ 2,966 36 10,237 05 1,529 14 1,185 4,154 1,266 6,762 1,305 1,118 2,739 222 1,942 36 1,041 292 4,832 12 20 96 59 18 10 41 22 160 96 _ 06 55 124 62 25 211 43 163 30 169 44 89 288 19 23 63 295 35 143 _ 37 06 02 28 1,310 61 283 14 12 336 08 41 21 04 — 64 34 09 12 37 12 36 �GEORGIA con't Total of Counties in Appalachia Amer. Indian Others 93.0 2,320 401 2,529 6.5 32 48 02 34 60 22 234 0.2 09 48 12 11 69 28 400 0.3 KENTUCKY—Counties in Appalachia Population State Total 1980 1,078,076 1,056,048 18,394 809 2,852 Blacks Amer. Indian Others 64. Rabun 65. Stephens 66. Towns 67. Union 68. Walker 69. White 70. Whitfield Percentage Total of Counties in Appalachia 71. Adair 72. Bath 73. Bell 74. Boyd 75. Breathitt 76. Carter 77. Casey 78. Clark 79. Clay 80. Clinton 81. Cumberland 82. Elliott 83. Estill 84. Fleming 85. Floyd 86. Garrard 87. Green 88. Greenup 89. Harlan 90. Jackson 91. Johnson 92. Knott 93. Knox 94. Laurel 95. Lawrence 96. Lee 97. Leslie 98. Letcher 99. Lewis 100. Lincoln 101. McCreary 102. Madison 103. Magoffin 104. Martin 105. Menifee 106. Monroe 107. Montgomery 108. Morgan 109. Owsley 110. Perry Total Persons Whites Blacks 80 2,646 56,470 10,120 65,789 9,381 10,345 19,021 5,624 9,336 54,021 9,669 62,626 100.0 10,466 21,763 5,638 Total Persons 15,233 10,025 34,330 55,513 17,004 25,060 14,818 28,322 22,752 9,321 7,289 6,908 14,495 12,323 48,716 10,853 11,043 39,132 41,889 12,000 685,004 17,945 30,239 39,982 14,121 7,754 14,882 30,687 14,545 19,053 15,634 53,352 13,525 13,962 5,117 12,353 20,046 12,103 5,709 33,763 Whites 14,682 9,696 33,352 54,259 16,923 25,022 14,768 26,489 22,357 9,302 6,893 6,908 14,472 12,086 48,440 10,221 10,600 38,933 39,782 11,984 24,362 17,799 29,847 38,588 14,061 7,712 14,858 30,306 14,499 18,259 15,366 49,712 13,493 13,897 5,050 11,979 18,955 12,057 5,699 33,068 140 524 319 858 1,078 43 07 22 1,789 347 10 388 — — 237 230 620 441 133 1,927 — 5 128 322 309 31 35 06 302 29 762 195 3,185 01 07 51 358 1,063 21 05 639 08 02 39 45 17 12 04 08 08 01 _ — 07 — 46 — _ 04 99 04 38 08 17 22 17 02 12 25 10 12 62 46 12 10 02 09 14 15 02 09 19 08 81 131 21 19 24 36 40 08 08 — 16 — — 12 02 62 81 12 27 10 53 1,063 12 05 06 54 07 20 11 409 19 48 14 07 14 10 03 47 �KENTUCKY con't Total of Counties in Appalachia Total Persons Amer. Indian Whites Blacks 81,123 11,101 45,803 13,973 19,049 13,708 17,022 33,396 6,698 80,631 10,970 45,131 13,935 18,657 13,581 16,612 33,109 6,686 320 100.0 98.0 1.7 0.1 MARYLAND—Counties in Appalachia Population State Total 220,132 212,358 1980 6,419 171 111. 112. 113. 114. 115. 116. 117. 118. 119. Pike Powell Pulaski Rockcastle Rowan Russell Wayne Whitley Wolfe Percentage Total of Counties in Appalachia 106 564 03 293 109 365 205 02 37 15 23 13 23 05 22 19 04 Amer. Indian Others 135 10 85 22 76 13 23 63 06 0.3 1,184 Total Persons Whites Blacks 80,548 26,498 113,086 78,841 26,367 107,150 1,315 55 5,049 50 32 89 342 44 798 100 96.5 2.9 0.1 .5 MISSISSIPPI—Counties in Appalachia Population State Total 1980 481,707 346,080 133,569 654 1,404 Total of Counties in Appalachia Blacks 120. Allegany 121. Garrett 122. Washington Percentage 123. 124. 125. 126. 127. 128. 129. 130. 131. 132. 133. 134. 135. 136. 137. 138. 139. 140. 141. 142. Alcorn Benton Chickasaw Choctaw Clay Itawamba Kemper Lee Lowndes Marshall Monroe Noxubee Oktibbeha Pontotoc Prentiss Tippah Tishomingo Union Webster Winston Percentage Total Persons Whites 33,036 8,153 17,853 8,991 21,082 20,518 10,148 57,061 57,304 29,296 36,404 13,212 36,018 20,918 24,025 17,739 18,434 21,741 10,300 19,474 29,443 5,066 11,393 6,459 10,482 19,055 4,592 45,224 37,224 13,598 25,560 4,629 23,305 17,600 21,379 14,744 17,651 18,688 8,267 11,721 3,427 3,087 6,434 2,530 10,540 1,333 5,512 11,645 19,601 15,577 10,827 8,534 12,355 3,278 2,579 2,978 100.0 71.8 141 Amer. Indian Others Others 3,000 2,014 7,637 16 44 09 94 39 07 47 12 _ 58 08 85 38 08 116 122 — 04 — 55 114 — 183 385 82 10 02 346 40 09 09 17 15 11 — 27.8 0.1 0.3 681 44 — 22 02 05 �NEW YORK—Counties in Appalachia Population State Total 1980 Total of 1,082,794 1,053,887 Total Whites Persons 51,742 51.080 213,648 207,921 83,088 85,697 146,925 142,757 92,629 97,656 48,848 49,344 48,263 48,820 46,210 46,824 58,230 59,075 29,710 29,207 17,412 17,686 97,553 99,217 49,032 49,812 86,638 81,657 100.0 97.3 NORTH CAROLINA— Counties in Appalachia Population State Total 1,094,682 1980 1,217,514 Total of Total Counties in Whites Persons Appalachia Counties in Appalachia 143. Allegany 144. Broome 145. Cattaragugus 146. Chautauqua 147. Chemung 148. Chenango 149. Cortland 150. Delaware 151. Otsego 152. Schoharie 153. Schuyler 154. Steuben 155. Tioga 156. Tompkins Percentage 157. Alexander 158. Alleghany 159. Ashe 160. Avery 161. Buncombe 162. Burke 163. Caldwell 164. Cherokee 165. Clay 166. Davie 167. Forsythe 168. Graham 169. Haywood 170. Henderson 171. Jackson 172. McDowell 173. Macon 174. Madison 175. Mitchell 176. Polk 177. Rutherford 178. Stokes 179. Surry 180. Swain 181. Transylvania 182. Watauga 183. Wilkes 184. Yadkin 185. Yancey Percentage Total without Forsythe Percentage 24,999 9,587 22,325 14,404 160,801 72,504 67,746 23,250 9,367 22,097 14,276 146,125 66,953 63,739 243,683 7,217 46,495 58,580 25,811 35,126 20,178 16,827 14,428 12,984 53,787 33,086 59,449 10,283 23,417 31,666 58,657 28,439 14,884 100.0 18,304 6,553 21,959 182,647 6,837 45,495 56,296 22,839 33,391 19,763 16,627 14,270 11,735 47,159 30,574 56,321 7,676 22,071 31,098 55,681 26,969 14,610 89.9 973,831 100.0 912,035 93.7 18,933 6,619 24,599 142 15,592 3,950 Blacks Amer. Indian 173 3,266' 580 229 411 1,723 9,365 Others 260 2,050 306 1.5 433 224 68 127 106 103 72 66 195 53 140 0.3 112,137 7,041 3,654 Amer. Indian Others 2,021 3,957 277 236 254 431 230 96 984 413 2,674 Blacks 1,668 203 182 90 13,943 5,213 3,874 395 54 2,556 59,403 _ 790 2,008 507 1,549 25 3 15 38 193 95 47 196 12 47 451 376 80 126 2,418 64 28 21 34 32 20 34 56 1,714 846 151 194 254 311 201 112 485 314 2,167 0.9 56 14 31 — 540 243 86 38 — 37 1,182 4 130 150 47 122 2,493 2,804 1,354 227 9.2 32 22 56 13 14 0.6 48 20 94 30 74 105 143 13 74 121 116 103 33 0.3 52,734 6,590 2,472 339 159 30 1,187 6,534 2,373 2,929 101 1,240 425 5.4 0.7 0.2 �OHIO—Counties in Appalachia Population State Total 1980 Total of Counties in Appalachia 1,262,503 1,229,540 26,715 1,944 4,304 Total Persons Whites Blacks Amer. Indian Others 750 08 892 108 46 98 48 18 93 16 50 25 123 163 36 05 53 123 29 10 104 95 186 144 11 87 21 902 283 54 74 387 160 162 163 21 44 91 28 32 484 96 25 06 43 185 06 35 81 302 224 181 13 201 97.4 2.1 0.2 0.3 PENNSYLVANIA-Counties in Appalachia Population State Total 5,741,637 6,103,923 1980 332,121 4,608 25,557 186. Adams 187. Athens 188. Belmont 189. Brown 190. Carroll 191. Clermont 192. Coshocton 193. Gallia 194. Guernsey 195. Harrison 196. Highland 197. Hocking 198. Holmes 199. Jackson ZOO. Jefferson 201. Lawrence 202. Meigs 203. Monroe 204. Morgan 205. Muskingum 206. Noble 207. Perry 208. Pike 209. Ross 210. Scioto 211. Tuscarawas 212. Vinton 213. Washington Percentage 24,328 56,399 82,569 31,920 25,598 128,483 36,024 30,098 42,024 18,152 33,477 24,304 29,416 30,592 91,564 63,849 23,641 17,382 14,241 83,340 11,310 30,978 22,805 65,004 84,541 84,614 11,584 64,266 24,255 53,719 80,616 31,463 25,413 127,153 35,354 28,882 41,236 17,617 32,611 24,045 29,330 30,305 85,956 62,120 23,355 17,366 13,631 79,390 11,275 30,927 22,380 61,280 81,684 83,539 11,552 63,086 100.0 Total of Counties in Appalachia Total Persons Whites 214. 215. 216. 217. 218. 219. 220. 221. 222. 223. 224. 225. 226. 227. 1,450,085 77,768 204,441 46,784 136,621 62,919 147,912 183,263 6,674 53,285 112,760 43,362 83,578 38,971 1,288,989 76,755 191,964 46,556 135,166 62,605 146,512 179,282 6,648 53,051 109,376 42,918 83,096 38,675 Allegheny Armstrong Beaver Bedford Blair Bradford Butler Cambria Cameron Carbon Centre Clarion Clearfield Clinton 143 25 1,644 1,631 353 89 835 464 956 577 496 729 152 08 230 5,000 1,470 225 05 514 3,642 — 06 240 3,327 2,447 Blacks 150,077 888 11,644 148 1,039 97 845 3,508 10 43 1,704 256 276 162 27 134 39 50 22 Amer. Indian 1,104 27 169 39 76 39 108 71 09 25 79 35 67 18 Others 9,915 98 664 41 340 178 447 402 07 166 1,601 153 139 116 �PENNSYLVANIA con't Total of Counties in Appalachia 228. Columbia 229. Crawford 230. Elk 231. Erie 232. Fayette 233. Forest 234. Fulton 235. Greene 236. Huntingdon 237. Indiana 238. Jefferson 239. Juniata 240. Lackawanna 241. Lawrence 242. Luzerne 243. Lycoming 244. McKean 245. Mercer 246. Mifflin 247. Monroe 248. Montour 249. Northumberland 250. Perry 251. Pike 252. Potter 253. Schuylkill 254. Snyder 255. Somerset 256. Sullivan 257. Susquehanna 258. Tioga 259. Union 260. Venago 261. Warren 262. Washington 263. Wayne 264. Westmoreland 265. Wyoming Total Persons Whites 61,967 88,869 38,338 388,780 159,417 5,072 12,842 40,476 42,253 92,281 48,303 19,188 227,908 107,150 343,079 118,415 50,635 128,299 46,908 69,409 16,675 100,381 35,689 18,271 17,726 160,630 33,584 81,243 6,349 37,876 40,973 32,870 64,444 47,449 217,074 35,951 392,294 26,432 61,640 87,342 38,238 265,589 153,093 5,030 12,707 39,920 41,170 91,009 48,105 19,143 225,763 103,790 339,744 116,000 50,271 122,258 46,690 68,145 16,557 100,046 35,608 18,138 17,564 159,715 33,334 80,982 6,290 37,687 40,695 31,751 63,832 47,297 208,957 35,806 383,903 26,235 100.0 94.1 Blacks 214 1,063 03 121,135 5,844 09 107 420 926 903 43 08 1,072 3,101 2,101 1,699 102 5,521 110 822 20 96 21 57 62 335 124 66 43 19 149 875 305 21 7,324 Amer. Indian 17 146 09 384 137 22 11 51 55 74 51 06 62 64 113 122 114 106 24 24 25 83 17 12 22 52 33 49 06 73 35 34 59 83 256 Others 96 318 88 1,672 343 11 17 85 102 295 104 31 1,011 195 1,121 594 148 414 84 418 73 156 43 64 78 528 93 146 10 97 94 210 248 48 537 45 6,527 107 30 267 14 1,597 5.4 0.1 0.4 SOUTH CAROLINA-Counties in Appalachia Population State Total 654,155 835,095 1980 176,481 675 3,784 Total of Counties in Appalachia Percentage 266. Anderson 267. Cherokee 268. Greenville 269. Oconee 270. Pickens 271. Spartanburg Percentage 70 Amer. Indian 76 Total Persons Whites Blacks 133,235 40,983 287,913 91,811 79,292 201,861 109,823 32,800 235,210 43,656 72,794 159,872 22,895 7,988 50,842 48,037 5,849 40,870 109 37 277 43 73 136 1,584 100.0 78.3 21.2 0.1 0.4 144 Others 408 158 75 576 983 �TENNESSEE—Counties in Appalachia Population State Total 1980 Total of Counties in Appalachia 272. Anderson 273. Bledsoe 274. Blount 275. Bradley 276. Campbell 277. Cannon 278. Carter 279. Claiborne 280. Clay 281. Cocke 282. Coffee 283. Cumberland 284. DeKalb 285. Fentress 286. Franklin 287. Grainger 288. Greene 289. Grundy 290. Hamblen 291. Hamilton 292. Hancock 293. Hawkins 294. Jackson 295. Jefferson 296. Johnson 297. Knox 298. Loudon 299. McMinn 300. Macon 301. Marion 302. Meigs 303. Monroe 304. Morgan 305. Overton 306. Pickett 307. Polk 308. Putman 309. Rhea 310. Roane 311. Scott 312. Sequatchie 313. Sevier 314. Smith 315. Sullivan 316. Unicoi 317. Union 318. Van Buren 319. Warren 320. Washington 321. White Percentage 2,090,517 1,955,618 120,775 2,506 11,618 Total Persons Whites Blacks Amer. Indian Others 888 1,102 138 888 118 44 01 05 768 611 1,526 06 18 162 600 2,607 04 — 04 1,199 3,004 431 164 08 99 168 57 06 42 46 08 25 29 22 09 11 21 08 53 05 67 308 03 61 01 46 08 426 32 68 11 25 08 11 17 28 16 13 42 45 34 69 17 46 12 145 18 16 04 30 89 09 3,455 25 230 319 53 19 90 33 11 79 217 48 30 18 96 12 126 08 145 1,616 13 86 09 57 28 2,587 45 138 56 27 06 56 39 10 01 18 521 94 134 23 22 98 15 361 40 02 06 73 393 30 5.9 0.1 0.5 70,256 9,478 77,770 67,547 34,923 10,234 50,205 24,595 7,676 28,792 38,311 28,676 13,589 14,826 31,983 16,751 54,422 13,787 49,300 287,740 6,887 43,751 9,398 31,284 13,745 320,494 64,043 9,125 74,859 64,392 34,643 10,022 49,647 24,202 7,545 28,020 36,725 28,600 13,282 14,795 29,587 16,595 53,010 13,772 46,747 229,976 6,833 42,778 9,367 30,259 13,623 288,675 2,594 320 2,582 2,668 170 187 426 314 112 668 1,340 06 268 02 2,279 136 1,233 02 2,341 55,840 38 826 21 922 86 28,806 24,416 7,431 28,700 16,604 17,575 4,358 13,602 47,690 24,208 48,425 19,259 8,605 41,418 14,935 143,968 16,362 11,707 4,728 32,653 88,755 19,567 27,745 23,262 7,279 27,745 16,430 17,493 4,340 13,566 46,359 23,458 46,731 19,161 8,548 41,112 14,308 140,855 16,300 11,689 4,714 31,351 85,269 19,097 100.0 93.5 28,553 41,878 28,700 28,055 39,629 145 421 2,043 �VIRGINIA— Counties in Appalachia Population State Total 493,412 505,480 1980 Total of Counties in Appalachia 322. 323. 324. 325. 326. 327. 328. 329. 330. 331. 332. 333. 334. 335. 336. 337. 338. 339. 340. 341. 342. Alleghany Bath Bland Botetourt Buchanan Carroll Craig Dickerson Floyd Giles Orayson Highland Lee Pulaski Russell Scott Smyth Tazewell Washington Wise Wythe Percentage Total Persons Whites 14,333 5,838 6,349 23,270 37,989 27,270 3,946 19,806 11,563 17,810 16,579 2,937 25,956 35,229 31,761 25,068 33,366 50,511 46,487 43,890 25,522 5,284 6,131 22,093 37,839 27,126 3,938 19,673 11,152 17,400 16,002 2,919 25,804 33,211 31,412 24,887 32,669 48,990 45,555 42,863 24,541 100.0 97.6 13,923 10,618 Blacks 356 553 198 352 Amer. Indian 12 01 1,098 Others 42 — 11 798 857 910 09 13 14 09 — 03 06 05 10 03 44 52 28 14 22 39 19 38 11 40 115 41 — 36 21 51 17 09 19 99 21 10 81 178 115 132 60 2.1 0.1 0.2 65,061 1,555 9,069 Amer. Indian Others 1,124 21 94 08 94 384 354 550 06 89 1,867 300 157 594 1,304 WEST VIRGINIA-Counties in Appalachia Population State Total 1980 1,929,122 1,853,437 Total of Counties in Appalachia Total Persons Whites 343. Barbour 344. Berkeley 345. Boone 346. Braxton 347. Brooke 348. Cabell 349. Calhoun 350. Clay 351. Doddridge 352. Fayette 353. Gilmer 354. Grant 355. Greenbrier 356. Hampshire 357- Hancock 358. Hardy 359. Harrison 360. Jackson 361. Jefferson 362. Kanawha 363. Lewis 364. Lincoln 16,639 46,775 30,447 13,964 31,126 106,815 8,250 11,265 7,433 57,863 8,334 10,210 37,665 14,867 40,418 10,030 77,710 25,794 30,302 231,414 18,813 23,675 16,416 44,764 30,064 13,795 30,792 101,627 8,187 11,246 7,406 53,276 8,256 10,059 35,992 14,714 39,183 9,816 76,384 25,711 27,389 215,953 18,673 23,632 146 Blacks 154 1,701 297 75 248 4,488 12 04 04 4,321 37 121 1,539 107 1,035 203 1,014 16 2,733 13,776 61 04 22 45 16 11 20 70 04 03 08 41 19 05 25 10 38 08 45 15 40 155 09 14 47 265 70 83 66 630 47 12 15 225 22 25 109 36 162 03 267 52 140 1,530 70 25 �WEST VIRGINIA con't Total of Counties in Appalachia 365. Logan 366. McDowell 367. Marion 368. Marshall 369. Mason 370. Mercer 371. Mineral 372. Mingo 373. Monongalia 374. Monroe 375. Morgan 376. Nicholas 377. Ohio 378. Pendleton 379. Pleasants 380. Pocahontas 381. Preston 382. Putman 383. Raleigh 384. Randolph 385. Ritchie 386. Roane 387. Summer 388. Taylor 389. Tucker 390. Tyler 391. Upshur 392. Wayne 393. Webster 394. Wetzel 395. Wirt 396. Wood 397. Wyoming Percentage Total Persons 50,679 49,899 65,789 41,608 27,045 73,932 27,236 37,336 75,024 12,873 10,711 28,126 61,364 7,910 8,256 9,919 9,952 38,089 86,821 28,734 11,442 15,952 15,875 16,584 8,675 11,320 23,427 46,039 12,245 21,874 4,936 93,648 35,993 100.0 Whites Blacks Amer. Indian 48,290 42,401 63,186 41,198 26,799 68,483 26,334 36,162 72,270 12,611 10,583 28,051 58,051 7,713 8,207 9,814 9,814 38,012 79,408 28,385 11,422 15,806 14,634 16,411 8,648 11,297 23,245 45,920 12,228 21,800 4,905 92,510 35,504 2,149 7,378 2,263 823 382 40 25 91 29 11 65 24 11 82 17 08 15 44 04 01 15 45 25 59 37 08 67 23 29 07 04 18 22 09 13 01 49 34 96.0 3.4 0.1 247 135 5,030 804 1,100 1,536 204 104 03 2,126 171 25 70 55 52 6,862 216 04 25 1,097 109 08 03 91 21 — 05 13 Others 200 95 249 134 100 354 74 63 1,136 41 16 57 1,143 22 23 20 38 — 492 96 08 54 121 35 12 16 73 76 08 56 17 266 73 0.5 NOTES 1. Clarence Wright. "Black Appalachian Invisibility—Myth or Reality?" Black Appalachian Viewpoints, 1 (August 6, 1978) pp. 1-3 2. Edward J. Cabbell. "Black Invisibility and Racism in Appalachia: An Informal Survey." Appalachian Journal, 16 (Autumn 1980) pp. 48-54. 3. Ibid., p. 48 4. Ibid. 5. Ibid. 6. ARC Staff. "Appalachia: The Economic Outlook Through the Eighties." Appalachia, 16 (December 1984) p. 5. 7. Ibid. 147 �Moving On: Recent Patterns of Appalachian Migration by Phillip J. Obermiller and Robert Oldendick Although European mapmakers and explorers designated Appalachia as a graphic area as early as the sixteenth century, the notion of Appalachia as the locus of a particular culture, social structure, and political economy evolved much later, principally in the era following the Civil War (Shapiro, 1978; Walls, 1977). Local-color writers, educators, church people, and others used the purported physical and social isolation of Appalachia to explain the cultural uniqueness and lack of economic development of the region (Shapiro, 1977, 1978). By the turn of the century Appalachia and its people had been labeled as "different" and "deficient"; as a consequence, Appalachia was defined clearly as a major social problem by the beginning of the twentieth century (U.S. Department of Agriculture, 1935; Vance, 1962). Such a problem must be defined before it can be treated. This step in the process requires the gathering and analysis of data; in the case of a large geographic "problem area" like Appalachia, researchers often seek information about the basic demographic processes of the area, including rates of fertility, mortality, and migration. The decline in fertility in Appalachia which began at the turn of the century and intensified in the 1950s, has been well documented (Ford and Dejong, 1963; Murdock and McCoy, 1974). Mortality rates for what was then called "The Alleghenny Region" were compared with those of other regions of the country as early as 1860 (Walls, 1977). According to at least one demographic historian, significant outmigration from the mountains had already begun in the 1830s (Barren, 1977). The study of Appalachian migration patterns provides the most useful demographic approach for understanding not only the problems but also the social and economic dynamics of the region. Migration has been a key factor in both the early growth and the later loss of population in Appalachia (Belcher, 1962; Brown 1972). It serves as a clear indicator of the economic conditions prevailing in Appalachia and its subregions at any given time (Brown and Hillery, 1962; Peoples Appalachian Research Collective, 1972). 148 �Moreover, theories of Appalachian cultural uniqueness and social isolation can be tested readily through studies of inmigrants and return migrants (Anglin, 1983; Garkovich, 1982), through studies of outmigrants (Schwarzweller, Brown, and Mangalam, 1971; Philliber, 1981), through comparisons of migrants with nonmigrants (Uhlenberg, 1975), and through international comparisons of Appalachian migrants with similar groups (Marger and Obermiller, 1983). Although migration studies make an important and useful contribution to our understanding of the Appalachian experience, patterns of recent Appalachian migration have been neglected. No effort has been made to compare current (1980) Appalachian migration patterns with previously collected data on earlier Appalachian migration patterns, nor have recent Appalachian migration flows been compared with national migration trends. In this paper, we will attempt to update the study of Appalachian migration. We will begin by examining the principal studies of Appalachian migration, and will describe the data set used in the current study. Next, we will present an overview of Appalachian migration for the period 1980-81, including a brief analysis of migration flows at the state level. This discussion will be followed by a description of current migration streams to selected urban areas, along with the change in migration to these areas that occurred between the late 1960s and the early 1980s. We will summarize these findings with a survey of recent patterns of net Appalachian migration by national regions, census divisions, states, and selected urban areas. To illustrate the underlying dynamics of these general migration patterns, we will examine two case studies, outmigration from Appalachia to Harris County (Houston), Texas, and inmigration into the Appalachian counties of Eastern Kentucky. In conclusion, we will discuss these findings both in light of the changes and continuity in Appalachian migration patterns over time and in terms of the relationship between these patterns and national migration trends. PREVIOUS STUDIES The field of regional studies has identified two basic economic options that affect migration: the distribution of economic opportunities to regional populations primarily through the creation of jobs, which inhibits migration, or the distribution of regional populations to external areas of economic opportunity, which encourages migration (Cumberland, 1973). Carter Goodrich and his associates (1936) recommended the later option as a result of a study they made in the mid-1930s, which included eight-four coalproducing counties in the Cumberland Plateau. The study advocated that the number of farmers and miners in this area be reduced through the outmigration of more than a quarter of the area's population (Goodrich et. al, 1936: 122-123). Brown and Hillery (1962) documented the fact that many persons did, 149 �in fact, leave the southern Appalachian region during the twenty-year period between 1940 and 1960. Although a great deal of movement took place within the region, southern Appalachia also experienced a net loss of over thirteen percent of its population between 1940 and 1950, and a net loss of nineteen percent between 1950 and 1960 (Brown and Hillery, 1962: 59, Table 9). In his review of the 1970 census data, James S. Brown (1972) notes that between 1960 and 1970, outmigration from southern Appalachia continued at a considerably lower rate, resulting in a net loss by migration of five percent for the decade (Brown, 1972: 138). During the 1960s, the metropolitan areas within southern Appalachia increased by nearly eight percent, principally through inmigration, since natural increase had declined significantly during this period; with the exception of those in Georgia, the nonmetropolitan counties in each of the ten states with Appalachian areas experienced an overall loss due to net migration (Brown, 1972: 135-138). Paralleling national trends in rural-to-urban migration, the majority of Appalachian migrants moved to large, industrialized metropolitan areas. Clyde B. McCoy and James S. Brown (1981) have documented in some detail the migration stream systems from southern Appalachia into major metropolitan areas of the country. Their study identifies the thirty top-ranking metropolitan destinations for southern Appalachian migrants, as well as the particular migration stream systems between West Virginia and Kentucky and the ten metropolitan focal areas for these systems (McCoy and Brown 1981). Although the rate of outmigration decreased over the thirty-year period ending in 1970, McCoy and Brown, find a great deal of consistency in the direction and proportions of Appalachian migration to the metropolitan focal areas they have identified. The major finding of the Apalachian Regional Commission's Report to Congress on Migration (1979) is the turn around in net Appalachian migration. An analysis of the Social Security Administration's continuous work history sample for 1965, 1970, and 1975 indicates that Appalachian migration changed from a net loss to the region in the period of 1965-70 to a net gain in the period 1970-75. The pattern of outmigration also changed: while Northern states remained the destination of the greatest number of Appalachian migrants, states in the South showed the largest gain in the percentage of Appalachian migrants received (Appalachian Regional Commission, 1979b: Tables 11-3 and 11-4). The report concludes that most outmigrants enjoy greater incomes than they experienced while in Appalachia, and quickly gain income parity with workers in the areas where they settle (Appalachian Regional Commission, 1979b: 15). THE CURRENT STUDY The data for this study were compiled by the Bureau of the Census for the Internal Revenue Service (IRS) from the Individual Master File, which 150 �includes a record of every individual income tax return form 1040 and 1040A for 1980 and 1981. The Area-to-Area Migration Flow Data were developed by matching the social security numbers (SSNs) on returns filed in each year. When identical social security numbers were found, the counties of residence on each return were compared to see whether they matched. A match in county of residence was counted as an instance of nonmigrant; when the counties did not match, the taxpayer was considered an outmigrant from the county of residence in the base year, and an inmigrant to the county of residence in the subsequent year. The final step in the process was to tally the exemptions on all subsequent year forms which had identical SSNs with the base year, and to categorize them as either nonmigrant, inmigrant, or outmigrant. (See Notes 1,2, & 3.) The figures derived from the IRS Area-to-Area Migration Flow Data have several limitations which should be noted so that the data presented here may be evaluated properly. Individuals who fail to file tax returns, those who are not required to file returns, and those who innate the number of exemptions on their returns all detract from the representativeness of the data. In addition, the IRS has applied rules for suppression and aggregation to the data set in order to make it manageable and to protect the anonymity of individual taxpayers. (See Note 4.) These characteristics of the data set make it impossible to calculate the exact volumes of migration or to describe the social characteristics of the migrants. The IRS data set, however, does have attributes not found in other sources of migration data such as the decennial census, the current population survey, or the Census Bureau's annual population estimates (Rogerson and Plane, 1985). First of all, it is inclusive: taxpayers and their dependents include ninety percent of the population. (See Note 5.) Also, it is timely: the IRS data allow the tracking of annual fluctuations in migration. It is specific: the IRS data can be analyzed at specific regional, subregional, state, and county levels for particular years and series of years. Finally, it is extensive: the IRS data allow the tracking of inmigrants and outmigrants, as well as county to county migration flows. Other characteristics of this study were also worth noting. The definition of the Appalachian region and the definitions of metropolitan, urban, and rural counties within the Appalachian region employed in this study follow those used by the Appalachian Regional Commission (Appalachian Regional Commission, 1979a). (See Notes 6 & 7.) The "urban areas" referred to throughout the study are actually the counties in which the cities named are located; these areas are not necessarily congruent with the commonly used designations of urban places, urbanized areas, or metropolitan statistical areas (Weller and Bouvier, 1981). In addition, the data present migration flows for one year only; estimates for more extensive period cannot be extrapolated accurately from this small base. In spite of these limitations, however, the data presented in the following 151 �sections of this report provide a current and fairly accurate picture of Appalachian migration patterns. Morever, these patterns can, with reasonable confidence, be compared with previously established patterns of Appalachian migration and with recent trends in U.S. internal migration. THE FINDINGS In the twelve months covered by this study, slightly more individuals left the Appalachian region than entered it. Table 1 shows that the leading sources of outmigrants were the metropolitan counties in Appalachia. These counties, which had 49 percent of the region's 1980 population, accounted for 55 percent of the outmigrants. The urban counties had 25 percent of the population and 24 percent of the outmigrants; the rural counties, which had 26 percent of the population, contributed 21 percent of the outmigrants. We found similar percentage distributions among metropolitan (54%), urban (23%), and rural (23%) Appalachian counties for the flow of migrants into the region. TABLE 1. 1980-81 Appalachian migration by county type.1 Destination Origin Metropolitan Urban Rural Out of Region Metropolitan 119,418 34,699 22,157 281,845 Urban 35,147 22,262 30,452 119,830 Rural 22,831 29,475 41,365 119,671 Out of Region 289,752 127,870 114,123 — 1980-81 Net Mi;'ration —10,399 'For county typology see Appalachian Regional Commission, 1979. Source: IRS Area-to-Area Migration Flow Data. Internal migration flows within Appalachia indicate that rural counties are the most frequent destinations for those who leave rural counties; of all rural-county outmigrants 44 percent moved to other rural counties, 32 percent to urban counties, and 24 percent to metropolitan counties. Similarly, metropolitan counties are the most popular destination for those who leave metropolitan counties; of all metropolitan county outmigrants, 67 percent moved to other metropolitan counties, 20 percent to urban counties, and 13 percent to rural counties. Residents of urban counties, however, tend to move to either rural or metropolitan counties, with a preference for the latter. In the period 1980-81, 40 percent of all urban county outmigrants moved to metropolitan counties, 34 percent to rural counties, and only 26 precent to other urban counties. Table 2a shows the non-Appalachian states with the most significant 152 �migration flows during the period under study. When we compared inmigrant flows with outmigrant flows, it became apparent that reciprocal flows exist between Appalachia and California, Florida, Illinois, New Jersey, and Texas. The flows from Indiana and Michigan to Appalachia are substantially oneway streams; few migrants move to these states from the region. The flows from Appalachia to Arizona and Massachusetts are also substantially oneway, but in the opposite direction: few migrants from these states move to Appalachia. TABLE 2a. Migration flows to and from the Appalachian region for selected states, 1980-81.' Migrants to Appalachia (N) 5,135 2,136 2,122 1,946 1,836 1,724 1,266 Migrants from Appalachia State (N) Florida Illinois New Jersey California Michigan Texas Indiana 10,734 10,465 4,849 2,207 1,141 525 431 State Florida Texas California Arizona Illinois Massachusetts New Jersey TABLE 2b. Net Appalachian migration for selected states, 1980-81.1 Net Gains 8,741 5,599 2,903 1,795 State Texas Florida California Arizona Net Losses -995 -1,266 -1,691 -1,784 State Illinois Indiana New Jersey Michigan 'Tables do not include states with Appalachian counties. Source: IRS Area-to-Area Migration Flow Data. The non-Appalachian states that show the most significant net gains in migrants from the region were Texas, Florida, California, and Arizona, in that order. Those showing the most significant net losses are Michigan, New Jersey, Indiana, and Illinois. Table 3 presents a more precise view of recent Appalachian migration. The table includes those non-Appalachian counties that had a net gain or loss of 200 or more migrants from the Appalachian region in 1980-81. Since the counties are invariably metropolitan, the name of the chief city in each county is used to designate the "urban area." 153 �TABLE 3. Selected urban areas ranked by net Appalachian migration, 1980-81.1 Urban Area Houston Nashville Tampa/St. Pete. Phoenix Dallas Los Angeles Lexington W. Palm Beach Columbus Jacksonville Anaheim Charlotte Ft. Lauderdale Mobile Jackson San Diego Washington Roanoke Louisville Indianapolis Dayton Cleveland New York Chicago Miami Detroit Cincinnati Atlanta Net Migration 6,570 From Appalachia 7,883 3,140 5,314 2,992 3,684 2,047 1,635 1,537 1,482 940 838 691 623 593 576 492 401 345 320 221 207 1,658 2,851 2,745 1,126 4,365 948 643 2,033 2,163 1,162 554 767 331 860 300 -0395 1,616 813 1,112 644 52 -243 -258 -463 -630 -632 -1,024 -1,046 -1,420 -1,933 -5,670 4,366 9,995 To Appalachia 1,313 2,174 692 412 121 1,369 1,805 288 3,674 325 50 1,457 1,671 761 209 447 110 653 543 258 858 2,246 1,445 2,136 1,690 1,472 6,299 15,665 'Table excludes urban areas in the Appalachian region. Source: IRS Area-to-Area Migration Flow Data. Houston and its environs had the largest net gain in migrants from Appalachia of any non-Appalachian urban areas in the United States: it had over twice as many migrants as the second and third highest-ranked urban areas, Nashville and Tampa/St. Petersburg, and well above three times as many as Phoenix, Dallas, and Los Angeles, which ranked fourth, fifth, and sixth respectively. Atlanta was the chief among those urban areas that sent more migrants to the Appalachian region than they gained, and had by far the highest combined Appalachian in- and outmigration. These facts must be interpreted with caution, however, since the county in which the city of Atlanta is located, Fulton County, shares common boundaries with five Appalachian counties. Similar conditions exist for the counties in which Cincinnatti, Lexington, Roanoke, and Montgomery are located. Although these areas are likely to have high rates of exchange with neighboring counties, a situation that fulfills the technical definition of migration, their position in the ranking becomes somewhat ambiguous when compared with urban areas much more distant from Appalachia. 154 �Table 4 presents a comparison of the thirty top-ranked metropolitan destinations for Appalachian migrants for the periods 1965-70 and 1980-81. Nine of the destinations found in the earlier ranking—Washington, Detroit, Baltimore, Columbia, Dayton, Norfolk, Richmond, New York, and Louisville—have been replaced in the more recent ranking by Houston, Lexington, Montgomery, Ft. Lauderdale, Phoenix, Dallas, Mobile, West Palm Beach, and Jacksonville. The positions of Atlanta, Birmingham, Chattanooga, Knoxville, and Philadelphia have remained fairly constant in each order, while Chicago and Cleveland rank significantly lower in 1981 than in the previous order. Pittsburgh, the Winston-Salem/Highpoint/Greensboro area, Charleston, and Greenville have all moved to substantially higher positions in the 1981 ranking. TABLE 4. Top-ranking metropolitan destinations for migrants from Southern Appalachia, 1965-701 and for migrants from the Appalachian region, 1980-812. Rank 1 I 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 10 11 12 13 14 15 16 17 18 19 20 21 22 23 24 25 26 27 28 29 30 1965-70 1980-81 Atlanta Washington Detroit Birmingham* Knoxville* Chicago Chattanooga* Cleveland Los Angeles Nashville Huntington* Huntsville* Baltimore Columbus Tuscaloosa* Cincinnati Greenville* Charlotte Charleston* Columbia Tampa Dayton Norfolk Richmond New York Louisville Roanoke Winston-Salem*/Highpoint/Greensboro Pittsburgh* Philadelphia Pittsburgh* Atlanta Birmingham* Houston Knoxville* Chattanooga* Nashville Greenville* Cincinnati Columbus Tampa/St. Pete. Charleston* Winston-Salem*/Highpoint/Greensboro Huntsville* Huntington* Los Angeles Lexington Montgomery Ft. Lauderdale Phoenix Charlotte Tuscaloosa* Dallas Cleveland Mobile W. Palm Beach Chicago Jacksonville Philadelphia Roanoke *Located in the Appalachian Region. Table excludes urban areas in the Appalachian region. 'Source: McCoy and Brown, 1981. 2 Source: IRS Area-to-Area Migration Flow Data. 155 �TABLE 5. Net Appalachian migration to selected urban areas by census regions and divisions, 1980-1981. Census Region South Census Division Net Migration Urban Area South Atlantic Tampa/St. Pete., Fl. West Palm Beach, Fl. Jacksonville, Fl. Charlotte, N.C. Ft. Lauderdale, Fl. Washington, DC Roanoke, Va. Columbia, S.C. Greensboro, N.C. *Huntington, WV. Baltimore, Md. •Charleston, WV. Miami, Fl. *Greenville,S.C. Atlanta, Ga. 2,992 838 623 576 492 221 207 63 36 19 -37 -434 -1,046 -1,054 -5,670 Nashville, Tn. Lexington, Kv. Mobile, Al. Jackson, Mi. *Huntsville, Al. *Knoxville, Tn. Tuscaloosa, Al. Montgomery, Al. Louisville, Ky. "Chattanooga, Tn. *Birmingham, Al. 3,140 940 401 345 267 256 168 -101 -243 -503 -1,183 East South Central West South Central West Houston, Tx. Dallas, Tx. West Pacific 6,570 1,537 Los Angeles, Ca. Anaheim, Ca. San Diego, Ca. 1,482 593 320 Phoenix, Az. 1,635 West Mountain Northeast Middle Atlantic New York, N.Y. *Pittsburg, Pa. -632 -1,789 North Central East North Central Columbus, Oh. Indianapolis, In. Dayton, Oh. Cleveland, Oh. Chicago, 11. Detroit, Mi. Cincinnati, Oh. Indicates urban area in Appalachian region. Source: IRS Area-to-Area Migration Flow Data. 156 691 -258 -463 -630 -1,024 -1,420 -1,933 Division Region Totals Totals 9,420 -2,174 3,487 8,107 2,395 4,030 1,635 -2,421 -5,037 -2,421 -5,037 �As elsewhere, we advise caution in examining this table because two different geographic definitions were used in constructing the rankings (see note 6). In the later ranking, the definition of Appalachia includes counties in the states of New York, Pennsylvania, and Ohio, while the earlier definition excludes counties in these states. This difference, for example, could be the principal reason behind the radical change in the ranking of the Pittsburgh area between one period and the other. When net migration figures for selected urban areas are categorized by census regions and regional divisions (Table 5), a clear pattern emerges. For 1980-81 the urban areas in the Northeast and North Central regions show losses in Appalachian migration—2,421 and 5,037 respectively—while Western states show a net gain of 4,030. Urban areas in the South have a regional net gain of 9,420 migrants from Appalachia. At the divisional level, net losses occur in urban areas located in the South Atlantic states despite substantial net gains in Florida, in East North Central states (5,037), and in the Middle Atlantic states (2,421). Net gains are recorded for urban areas located in the states of the East South Central (3,487), West South Central (8,107), West Pacific (2,395), and West Mountain (1,635) divisions. In Table 6, which depicts the case study of Appalachian migration flows to the Houston urban area, it is evident that nearly three-fifths of the Appalachian migrants to Houston come from the Northern Appalachian subregion, slightly over two-fifths from Southern Appalachia, and a negligible number from Central Appalachia. These proportions parallel closely the distribution of the donor counties by subregion. In relation to total regional population, Southern Appalachia is proportionately represented in the Houston migration flow, Northern Appalachia is overrepresented, and Central Appalachia is underrepresented. All the states with Appalachian counties with the exception of Virginia contributed to the Houston area migration flow. Pennsylvania and Alabama are overrepresented in this migration flow, both in number of donor counties and in proportion of the regional population. The numbers of migrants to Houston from Tennessee, West Virginia, New York, and Ohio are roughly proportionate to their respective states share of the regional population, but underrepresented in number of donor counties. Houston, in contrast is attracting Appalachian migrants from metropolitan counties in quantities vastly disproportionate to the number and total population of those counties. Only one in five of the migrants to Houston came from urban counties within the region; only three out of every hundred came from rural Appalachian counties. Table 7 summarizes the case study of inmigration to the Appalachian counties of Eastern Kentucky. In 1980-81 22,535 persons moved into Kentucky's Appalachian counties, and about one-fifth of these came from major areas. The figures indicate that most of the movers in this area are internal 157 �TABLE 6 1980-81 Appalachian migration to Harris County, Texas, by Appalachian subregion, donor state, and county type.1 Donor counties to Harris Co. SUBREGIONS Northern Southern Central Totals: STATES PA AL TN WV NY OH GA SC NC MS KY MD VA (%) (N) (%) (N) 57 41 6 104 55% 39% 6% 10,123,604 7,995,784 2,114,947 20,234,335 50% 40% 10% 4,453 3,231 25% 17% 13% 11% 8% 11% 5% 2% 3% 3% 1% 1% 0% 100% 5,995,097 2,427,024 2,073,647 1,949,644 1,083,266 1,262,558 1,103,941 791,587 1,217,723 482,712 1,077,095 220,132 549,909 20,234,335 54% 39% 7% 100% 9,901,104 5,107,839 5,225,392 20,234,335 2 3 3 1 1 COUNTY TYPES *Metropolitan Urban Rural Totals: Migrants to Harris Co. (N) 26 18 14 11 8 12 5 Totals: 1980 Population of subregions, states, and donor counties2 0 104 56 41 7 104 100% 100% 30% 12% 11% 10% 5% 6% 5% 4% 6% 2% 5% 1% 3% 100% 49% 25% 26% 100% (%) 199 56% 41% 3% 7,883 100% 2,921 1,772 869 589 467 462 269 158 156 145 40 35 37% 22% 11% 7% 6% 6% 3% 2% 2% 2% 1% 1% 0% 0 7,883 100% 6,018 1,678 76% 21% 3% 187 7,883 100% 'For subregional definitions and county typology, see Appalachian Regional Commission, 1979. Source: Pickard, 1981a. All other figures are from IRS Area-to-Area Migration Flow Data. 2 migrants; that is, they moved from one county to another within Eastern Kentucky. The rest of the local moves are split fairly even between nonAppalachian Kentucky counties and counties in the Appalachian areas of West Virginia, Ohio, Tennessee, and Virginia. Inmigrants to Eastern Kentucky come principally from urban areas in Kentucky and Ohio, followed by Michigan, Indiana, West Virginia, and Illinois. The chief urban donor areas include Lexington, Cincinnati, Louisville, Detroit, and Columbus. DISCUSSION Although the evidence is incomplete, the much remarked-upon "migration turnaround" of the 1970s which saw the first net gain in migration to Appalachia in five decades, may have come to an end in the early 1980s (Picard, 1981a, 1981b). This finding would correspond to a national trend detected in the early 1980s, in which the flow of migrants to rural America 158 �TABLE 7 1980-81 migration into Kentucky Appalachian counties from selected donor areas. From Contiguous State Areas (N) 15,129 1,279 528 422 320 105 Kentucky (App. Cos.to App. Cos.) *Kentucky (Non-App. Cos. to App. Cos.) *West Virginia "Ohio Tennessee Virginia From Urban Areas by State Kentucky Lexington Louisville (%) (N) 78% 22% 1,805 507 / I AAO/ \ \L\J\J /Q) Ohio Cincinnati Columbus Dayton Hamilton/Middletown Mansfield 542 307 240 214 38 Michigan Detroit Battle Creek 40% 23% 18% 16% 3% (100%) 401 39 Indiana Indianapolis Ft. Wayne/Elkhart/So. Bend 91% 9% (100%) 221 133 62% 38% (100%) 119 36 77% 23% (100%) 150 100% (100%) West Virginia Huntington Charleston Illinois Chicago lotal mmigrants (%) 85% 7% 3% 2% 2% 1% (100%) (N) 2,312 (%) 49% 1,341 22,535 100% 3% 150 21% 7% 155 4,752 (%) 9% , ,354 79% 28% . . . 440 (N) 17,783 3% (100%) *Less inmigrants from urban areas in these states. Source: IRS Area-to-Area Migration Flow Data. decreased notably from that of the mid-1970s (Agresta, 1985; Population Reference Bureau, 1982). Within Appalachia, however, the migrants' preference for rural counties over urban counties continued from the 1970s into the 1980s, but the flow of internal migrants away from metropolitan counties appears to have ended (Picard, 1981b). the most frequent destinations for internal migrants in this study were metropolitan counties, while the least frequent were the formerly popular urban counties. Appalachian migrants also reflect national preference in their choices of which states to enter and which states to leave. The 1980 census data docuument a preference for destinations in Texas, Florida, California, and Arizona 159 �and a disinclination to stay in Illinois, Indiana, New Jersey, and Michigan (Robey and Russell, 1983). The national migration flows to states in the South and West and away from the North and East are paralleled by the Appalachian migration patterns presented in this study (Rogerson and Plane, 1985). In their choice of urban destinations, migrants from Appalachia go where jobs are available, but probably encounter intense competition from other migrants upon arrival. Eight of the top-ranked urban destinations of Appalachian migrants are among the twelve urban areas projected to have the greatest population growth between 1980 and 2000: Houston, San Diego, Dallas, Los Angeles, Phoenix, Anaheim, Ft. Lauderdale, and Tampa/St. Petersburg (Holdrich, 1984). Similarly, six of the top-ranked urban destinations of Appalachian migrants are among the twelve urban areas projected to have the greatest gain in employment between 1980 and 2000: Houston, Los Angeles, Anaheim, Dallas, San Diego, and Phoenix (Holdrich, 1984). Although recent Appalachian migration patterns parallel national patterns of migration, they diverge significantly from historic patterns of Appalachian migration. Brown and McCoy (1981) found high correlations among the rankings for the metropolitan destinations of Appalachian migrants in the 1950s, 1960s, and 1970s. Despite some inconsistency in the way the data were gathered for the 1965-70 study and the 1980-81 study, we noted a substantial change in the pattern of migrant destinations in the 1980s. The change is clear and consistent throughout the county, state, and regional levels of analysis. The focus of Appalachian migration has shifted from the cities and states of the Northeast and Midwest, and has now turned toward the cities and states of the South, Southwest, and West. The study of outmigration from Appalachia to the Houston area provides some insight into the nature of these migration flows. A sizeable portion (24%) of the migrants in the Houston flow came from nonmetropolitan counties. About one in two came from Northern Appalachia, more than one in three from Pennsylvania, and one in six from the Pittsburgh area. This migration stream is likely to be a mixture of upwardly mobile urban business people and professionals seeking career advancement in Houston; unemployed blue-collar workers from the declining manufacturing industries in Northern Appalachia; entry-level job seekers leaving areas of small population and few opportunities; retirees seeking a better climate; and relatives of members of each of these groups. The composition of this stream, as far as it can be accurately characterized, may serve to approximate the other streams of outmigrants identified in this study. The immigration to Eastern Kentucky adds another aspect to the migration picture. The migration flows into this area come almost exclusively from the North, with only two lateral flows, Louisville/Lexington and Charleston/Huntington. These migrants are likely to be return migrants, with social and cultural roots in Appalachian Kentucky (Anglin, 1983). 160 �Although some may be retirees, they are younger on the whole than the networks of kin and acquaintances who drew them back (Garkovich, 1982). They may be looking for work in the coal industry or in service jobs that wax and wane with the fortunes of the coal business. Others are visitors, biding their time and accumulating whatever resources they can for the next move in search of work. CONCLUSION Three major conclusions can be reached on the basis of this study. First, it appears that patterns of outmigration from Appalachia changed substantially between the 1960s and 1970s and the early 1980s. The urban areas that serve as the focal points for current Appalachian migration flows are now more likely to be found in the Southern and Western states than in those of the Midwest or Northeast. Second, it appears that patterns of internal migration within Appalachia have changed between 1970 and 1980. Migrants within the region are moving to metropolitan counties at higher rates in the 1980s than in the previous decade. Third, outmigrants from the Appalachian region move in a fashion quite similar to other internal migrants in the United States. Current Appalachian migration streams flow toward the same general receiving areas as do the larger national migration streams. In their patterns of "moving on," recent Appalachian migrants are less similar to earlier migrants from Appalachia than to their contemporaries in other parts of the country. NOTES 1) Only the returns in which the SSN in 1980 matched the SSN in 1981 were included. Reasons for nonmatches include errors in entering or reading the SSN, individuals marrying and having the second SSN on a joint return, deaths, failure to file, and falling outside the guidelines for filing. 2) Some reasons for differences in the number of exemptions between matching 1980 and 1981 returns are births, deaths, marriages, and dependents leaving the status of dependent. Since the 1981 data are the most recent, they have been interpreted as being the best indication of the actual number of exemptions. 3) Exemptions for blindness and age were not included in the final tally. 161 �4) When the number of returns indicating movement from one county to another were ten or less, they were aggregated into the appropriate larger category: "same state" or one of the four census regions. The present study makes no allocation of the exemptions in these categories. In addition, if county-to-county migration did not account for at least 0.5% of the migrants to the county of destination on the inmigration data set or at least 0.5% of the migrants from the county of origin on the outmigration data set, this information was not presented by county but included in a larger geographical category. This resulted in roughly one-third to two-fifths of the data being reported on a higher geographical level than the county-to-county level. Consequently, the figures presented in this study for county-to-county migration are quiet conservative. Finally, since different aggregation rules may be in effect for inmigration and for outmigration data, the results produced from the two data sets are not necessarily symmetrical. An example may help to illustrate the discrepancies this may cause. In the inmigration data, where Elk County, PA, is the county of destination, the records show that 21 returns were filed by people who migrated from Allegheny County (Pittsburgh), PA. The outmigration data, in which Allegheny County is the county of origin, have no separate record for these 21 returns that indicate relocation in Elk County, but have them aggregated with other "same state" movers. These returns represent four percent of the returns for migrants into Elk County, and accordingly they are listed individually in the inmigration data; however, they account for less than 0.5% of the returns for migrants from Allegheny County, and therefore are aggregated in the "same state" category in the outmigration data. This aggregation procedure causes underestimates of the county-to-county migration into counties with large populations and underestimates of the county-to-county migration out of these counties. With this in mind, we have used the outmigration data set when counties with large populations were the place of destination, and the inmigration data set when these counties were the place of origin. 5) The 1980 census was conducted on April 1, 1980, and the data for the base year in this study were collected on April 15, 1980. The total exemptions for a random sample of Appalachian counties averaged 83 percent of the total census population for these counties. The difference between the national average (90 percent of census totals) and the Appalachian average may be attributed in part to the region's high incidence of poverty, which may place many individuals below the minimum income requirement for filing a tax return (Appalachian Regional Commission, 1982a, 1982b). 162 �6) Consensus is lacking on a geographic definition of the region. In 1894 William G. Frost defined "the Mountain Region of the South" as consisting of 194 counties (Walls, 1977); John C. Campbell (1921) included 254 counties in the "Southern Highlands"; the U.S. Department of Agriculture (1935) variously designated 205 or 236 counties as the "Southern Appalachians"; Brown and Hillery (1962) define "Southern Appalachia" as 190 counties; McCoy and Brown (1981) employ four different definitions of the region, one of which includes 303 counties; Philliber (1981) includes 396 counties in his study of Appalachian migrants; and the Appalachian Regional Commission (1979a) defines the region as 397 counties. This study adopts the most inclusive definition in order to obtain the greatest range of comparability with similar research. 7) The working lists of metropolitan, urban, and rural counties used by the Appalachian Regional Commission were revised in light of the 1980 census data. The county lists used in this study follow the ARC revisions of June 30, 1983. REFERENCES Agresta, Anthony 1985. "The Migration Turnaround: End of a Phenomenon?" Population Today, 13:6-7. 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Goodrich, Carter, Bushrod W. Allin. C. Warner Thornthwaite, et al. 1936. Migration and Economic Opportunity: The Report of the Study of Population Redistribution. Philadelphia: University of Pennsylvania Press. Holdrich, Martin K. 1984. "Trends: Prospects for Metropolitan Growth." American Demographics, 6:33-37. Longino, Charles F., Jr. 1984. "Migration Winners and Losers." American Demographics, 6: 27-45. Marger, Martin N., and Phillip J. Obermiller. 1983. "Urban Appalachians and Canadian Maritime Migrants: A Comparative Study of Emergent Ethnicity." International Journal of Comparative Sociology, 24: 229-243. McCoy, Clyde B., and James S. Brown. 1981. "Appalachian Migration to Midwestern Cities." P; 35-78 in Wm. W. Philliber and Clyde B. McCoy, eds., The Invisible Minority: Urban Appalachians. Lexington: The University Press of Kentucky. Murdock, Steven H., and Clyde B. McCoy. 1974. "A Note on the Decline of Appalachian Fertility, 1930-1970." Growth and Change, 5, 39-42. Peoples Appalachian Research Collective. 1972. "Urban Migrants: Industrial Heartland Refugees." Special Issue. Peoples Appalachia, Vol. 2, No. 7, (July). Philliber, William W. 1981. Appalachian Migrants in Urban America: Cultural Conflict or Ethnic Croup Formation:1 New York: Praeger. 164 �Pickard, Jerome. 1981a. "A Decade of Change in Appalachia." Appalachia, 14: 1-9. 1981K 'Appalachia's Decade of Change = A Decade of Inmigration." Appalachia, 15: 24-28. Population Reference Bureau. 1982. "U.S. Population: Where We Are; Where We Are Going." Population Bulletin, Vol. 37, No. 2, Qune). Robley, Bryant, and Cheryl Russell. 1983. "Trends: Altered States." American Demographics, 5: 34-36. Rogerson, Peter A., and David A. Plane. 1985. "Monitoring Migration Trends." American Demograpics, 1: 27-47. Schwarzweller, Harry K., James S. Brown, and J.J. Mangalam. 1971. Mountain Families in Transition. University Park, PA: The Pennsylvania State University Press. Shapiro, Henry D. 1977. "Appalachia and the Idea of America: The Problem of the Persisting Frontier." Pp. 43-55 in J.W. Williams, ed., An Appalachian Symposium. Boone, NC: Appalachian State University Press. 1978 Appalachia on Our Mind. Chapel Hill, NC: The University of North Carolina Press. Uhlenberg, Peter. 1975. "Noneconomic Determinants of Nonmigration: Sociological Considerations for Migration Theory." Rural Sociology, 38: 296-311. U.S. Department of Agriculture. 1935. Economic and Social Problems and Conditions of the Southern Miscellaneous Publication No. 205. Appalachians. Vance, Rupert B. 1962. "The Region: A New Survey." Pp 1-8 in Thomas R. Ford, ed., The Southern Appalachian Region: A Survey. Lexington: University of Kentucky Press. Walls, David S. 1977. "On the Naming of Appalachia." P. 56-76 in J.W. Williamson, ed., An Appalachian Symposium. Boone, NC: Appalachian State University Press. Watts, Ann DeWitt. 1981. "Cities and Their Place in Southern Appalachia." Appalachian Journal, 8: 105-118. Weller, Robert H., and Leon F. Bouvier. 1981. Population: Demography and Policy New York: St. Martin's Press. White, Stephen E. 1983. "Return Migration to Appalachian Kentucky: An Atypical Case of Nonmetropolitan Migration Reversal." Rural Sociology, 48: 471-491. 165 �FREE AT LAST?: THREE VIEWS OF APPALACHIAN HISTORY Convenor: Judi Jennings, Kentucky Humanities Council The Significance of Ingle's Ferry in the Settling of the Appalachian Region Laura Binder, Radford University Impact of the Company Town on Traditional Life Dean Herrin, University of Delaware Whitfield County, Georgia: Slavery Politics on the Edge of Appalachia Derrell C. Roberts, Dalton Junior College Impact of the Company Town on Traditional Life by Dean Herrin In October of 1897, the Big stone Gap Post, of Wise County, Virginia, reflected on recent change in the county: Two years ago, along the banks of Callahan creek...was a gloomy wilderness... The advent of the railroad, breaking the stillness of this grand and wild mountain district, was not more wonderful to the ordinary native than the sudden springing into existence of Stonega.1 The "gloomy wilderness" had been replaced by a mining town, which was soon to become the base of operations for the Virginia Coal and Iron Company. Labor recruited from the mountains was supplemented with immigrants from southern Europe and southern Blacks. Houses, churches, mine structues, and roads all appeared where once only a few isolated cabins had stood. A physical transformation had taken place on the banks of the Callahan, a transformation that occured many times throughout Appalachia around the turn of the twentieth century. The story seemed to be the same everywhere: traditional, agricultural patterns of life were disrupted and replaced by the industrial rhythms and structures of mine camps. Farming the land gave way to mining the earth as the primary occupation of the region. Many native Appalachian mountaineers fled this industrial invasion, moving further into the mountains to re-establish the way of life they knew best. Others, however, saw in the coal camps opportunity, excitement, money, or a host of other real and imagined enticements. Mountain cabins, plows, and seasonal work rhythms were given up for company housing, coal cars, and 166 �industrial whistles. But the break with tradition was never complete. Older cultural patterns were drawn upon to help in the adjustment to newer patterns. Tradition informed and guided innovation. This study of one particular coal camp, Stonega, Virginia, will focus on life in these camps, on the patterns of associations formed by those who lived in the camps, and on the preservation of tradition. Tradition was not easily preserved. Coal camps were perceived by some as not only the active agents in the physical transformation of Appalachia, but as agents in the transformation of traditional Appalachian society. The establishment of coal camps and the subsequent rise in the population of Appalachia were welcomed by many observers of the mountain region as solutions to its "community problem." Unaware or unimpressed by the communalism afforded by court days, or the local church, or through shared farm labor, the sociologist Edward Alsworth Ross wrote in The New Republic in 1924: In the mountains between Pennsylvania and Georgia are pocketed three million old-line Americans who illustrate the social effects of isolation as vividly as Albania or the Caucasus.2 Others also pointed to the supposed lack of community in the mountains. "Lack of good roads has caused an undue isolation, has prevented cooperative activity and the realization of the ideals of a modern community life...", wrote one journalist. Another suggested that an "over-developed individualism" had resulted because "there is no cohesive community life..."3 Samuel Tyndale Wilson, in his mission-study text of 1906, The Southern Mountaineers, believed that: The industrial invasion will introduce much evil, but it will, in part at least, prepare the way for better things. It will break up the isolation. Shiftlessness will disappear if the awards of labor are forthcoming. The days of no trade and no money are passing away. The mountaineer sees it, dreads it, and will profit by it.4 Whether or not mountaineers who moved into Stonega "profited" by it is beyond the scope of this paper, but they did form not simply a community, but several different types of community in the camp. By "community" I mean a shared set of values and interests that distinguishes one group from another. A recent study asserts that class consciousness was the primary definition of community among miners in southern West Virginia in the early part of this century.5 Community based on class feeling was present but not dominant in Stonega before the 1930s, coexisting with other "communities" based on race, ethnicity, and such factors as religion and location in camp. 167 �The physical structure of Stonega helped to determine community. Built largely in 1896 and 1897, the town was divided into various sections representing class, racial and ethnic divisions. The Immigration Commission, created by Congress in 1908 to investigate the living conditions of immigrants in American industry, reported that mining camps in Wise County were segregated "principally because of the desire of the employees themselves for segregation."6 Whether the coal company named the various sections of Stonega is unknown, but the names are indicative of the social ordering in the camp. Black laborers were housed in Red Row, Slavetown, Creek Row, Smokey Row, and Possum Trot, locations near the coke ovens. Immigrants, mostly Hungarians and Poles, lived in Hunk Town. The rest of the camp was made up of native white Americans, some from the Appalachian region and others brought to Stonega from nearby states. They lived in such areas as Quality Row, Avondale, and Church Hill. Employees may have preferred living in segregated parts of the camp, as the Immigration Commission reported, but the coal company most clearly maintained this segregation in the assignment of houses. In a letter describing the condition of vacant houses in two other Stonega Coke and Coal Company* camps in Wise County, a company official ranked them in the following order: 1) 2) 3) 4) 5) For First-Class Americans For Low-Class Americans For Foreigners For First-Class Colored Labor For Low-Class Colored Labor7 At the top of the housing scale were those houses intended for the supervisory personnel of the company, such as the superintendent of the camp, the company doctor, and other officials. These houses were large, three-story, fourteen to sixteen-room structures occupying the section of town known as the "Park", which simply by its name evokes a pastoral scene set apart from such sections as "Smokey Row" and "Possum Trot". Company clerks and store employees, and certain skilled employees, such as electricians were housed nearest the Park, in the section known as "Quality Row". These houses were two-story, and as with most other houses in Stonega, were semi-detached and intended for two families. Each unit in Quality Row houses had four rooms in its half. The most common type of house built in Stonega was the two-story, double-pen type, found in almost all sections of the camp, and occupied by all groups. The cheapest form of housing consisted of tworoom shacks, built in the Possum Trot section and intended for Black labor. These houses were so identified with Black workers that one former resident of Stonega only remembered them as "colored people-shacks". The final house type constructed by the company was a one-story, four-room house, twenty-one of which were built in 1910 to house the workers of the com*The Virginia Coal and Iron Company's successor. 168 �pany's carpentry shop.8 The segregated sections of Stonega and the selective assignment of houses were indicative of company attitudes toward miners. Since the development of the Stonega field, the native Appalachian population had been looked down upon by the intruders. When General John Daniel Imboden was first promoting the area in the 1880s, he commented once on how he had told a group of investors all about Wise County and, ...how nice it was ...and interested them so much that when our road is built they are coming out to see for themselves. They think it must be delightful to see and mingle with primitive people.9 Stonega Coke and Coal Company's annual report for 1917 referred to the Wise County natives who the company first encountered as "at least two hundred years behind the civilization of the more densely populated sections of the United States."10 The. Appalachian mountaineers were not simply culturally inferior; they were culturally deficient. A Stonega resident and office clerk who wrote a weekly news item for the Big Stone Gap Post, contributed the following in 1903: We rise to remark that the only thing Stonega needs to make it the most desirable place on the globe, is for the cultured people who come here to reside, to disseminate their culture by using their talents in reaching out and helping those who have not been so highly favored...11 Blacks and immigrants were also considered among those who had "not been so highly favored", with frequent disparaging remarks found in company reports, letters, and news items in the Big Stone Gap Post.12 This attitude on the part of the company helped foster a class solidarity among the miners, a solidarity of "us" versus "them". But class solidarity of the miners was also tempered by divisions of race and ethnicity, divisions made more acute by the company's labor problems. The 1917 annual report for the Stonega Coke and Coal Company claimed that since the establishment of the coal industry in the Stonega area, the shortage of labor had been the most serious problem faced by the coal operators. As the mining and coking operations had increased at Stonega in the late 1890s, and as other mines opened in the region, the native population was unable to provide the necessary number of workers.13 To obtain the necessary labor, large numbers of men were brought into the Stonega area "on transportation" between 1895 and 1920. In 1899, 1,000 men were imported to the region, while in 1900, the figure rose to 1,377. From 1915 to 1920, the Stonega Coke and Coal Company imported a yearly average of 2,260 workers.14 Many of the workers imported into the region were either recently-arrived immigrants, or southern Blacks. The annual report for 1900 listed a monthly average of 1,405 workers on the company's payroll for that year. Of these men, 49.5 per cent were 169 �native whites, 31.8 per cent were Blacks, and 18.7 per cent were immigrants, mainly Hungarian.15 Many of these men brought in from outside the area did not stay long in Stonega, however. The usual procedure was for the company to pay the travel expenses of the worker to the mines, and then take out so much every month from the worker's paycheck until the transportation costs had been reimbursed. Upon arriving in Stonega, some workers left the camp and hired on with other local mine operators, thereby avoiding the transportation fee. Most of the coal companies in Wise County, including the Stonega Coke and Coal Company, were active in trying to lure workers away from one another. Others left because they did not like the work, or the area, or both. Transportation men who left the area in 1916 reported that they had to sneak away at night, as the company had guards who were watching them. For the period 1905 to 1915, 18.8 percent of all men brought into Stonega on transportation left without working.16 Native workers also moved from camp to camp, to increase wages, to escape harsh conditions, or for a variety of other reasons. One might assume that the mobility of mine workers would have prohibited any formation of "community" in the coal fields, but as David Corbin has shown for West Virginia, miners' mobility led to the creation of a large community uniting isolated company towns.17 Each company town afforded miners a sense of identification, whether derived from occupation, church membership, kinship ties, or ethnic affiliation. Most migrant miners found "communities" to fit into in each coal camp. The different racial and ethnic communities in the coal camps helped to support and sustain the families of Stonega. Native whites, immigrants, and Blacks all occupied separate sections of Stonega, and maintained tightknit communities around these sections. Each group had its own church, its own fraternal orders, and its own customs. Fraternal organizations in particular reflected both mutual support among the miners and ethnic and racial separation; five lodges were established for native white miners, two each for immigrant and Black miners, and one even for wives of white miners.18 Traditional values and preserved patterns of life were also instrumental in maintaining community. The immigrant population in Stonega was particularly adept at maintaining strong ties with the "old world". A Roman Catholic priest who served Stonega reported that at certain times of the year, such as First Holy Communion, Confirmation, or the consecration of a new church, one "would imagine to live for the time in a village of the former Austrian-Hungarian Empire."19 The occupation of mining itself enabled all groups in Stonega to uphold certain work traditions, particularly those associated with agriculture. The company complained in its 1902 annual report that "the insurmountable difficulty is to prevail upon the employees to work sufficient time to get the yield out of the plant equal to its capacity."20 Part of the problem stemmed from the method of mining used in the early Stonega mines. Most miners 170 �were paid not by the hour, but by the amount of coal they loaded. The shift usually began about seven in the morning, but the miner was free to come and go as he pleased. He bought his own tools and blasting powder, and he decided when he had loaded enough coal. The distances between working places in the mines, and the small number of supervisors meant that most miners worked all day without seeing a boss. In a sense, the miner sold the coal to the company. The editor of Coal Age described mining as late as 1921 as similar to a "cottage industry, only the cottage is a room in the mines." The process was very similar to a tenant farmer "selling" his crops to the landlord, and many miners in Stonega had indeed been tenant farmers before coming to the camp. 21 There were other ways in which miners maintained touch with their agricultural past. Many miners operated farms near Stonega and would leave the mines periodically throughout the year to tend to their crops. Many others in the camp maintained gardens and kept cows, chickens, and hogs. The company, of course, became frustrated with the seasonal work habits of the miners: "It is impossible to maintain the discipline necessary to get the efficient results desired and possible." The company began mechanizing their mines after 1915, but it encountered "prejudice against trying anything new" on the part of the miners. Jerry Bruce Thomas has reported that the tonnage system of mining persisted in the coal industry long after machinery made it obsolete.22 Besides maintaining a traditional work discipline, residents of Stonega resisted certain ideoilogical aspects of camp life, often in subtle ways. Freedom of choice was protected by the miners, who patronized peddlers and local stores, even though the company went so far as to fire employees who allowed competing salesmen into their company homes.23 Traditional habits were maintained by the miners, who refused to drink piped water, even though the company warned of a contaminated water supply and threatened to fire workers who continued to drink well water.24 Religious independence was claimed by the miners as evidenced by the complaint of the coal company in 1904 that attendance was very poor in the church it had built and continued to support.25 Old customs of entertainment were still enjoyed by the miners, as they gambled and drank illegal whiskey and "layed of?' work days after particularly boisterous weekends.26 Residents of Stonega did not completely reject the capitalistic and industrial ideology sponsored by the coal company, but the adjustment to camp life was eased somewhat by the maintenance of traditional patterns of life. The company was also able to use tradition to its advantage. When more workers were needed, Appalachian natives who were felt to be influential with mountaineers were asked to recruit workers from the hills. A Catholic priest was hired to attract immigrants to Stonega. Bake ovens were built behind some houses in Stonega, so that the company could "get some Hungarian families to locate there..." But as with work habits, most tradi171 �tional patterns of behavior was considered by the company to be objectionable and "peculiar."27 Many miners saw each other as "peculiar" as well. Immigrants were subject to Americanization efforts. One local priest complimented the "foreigners" on their flag-raising during World War I, and claimed that they "bought liberty bonds until they had to borrow money to pay their regular bills."28 Most buildings and events at Stonega were segregated into white and black sections, and many white Stonega residents recalled in interviews that "people knew their place." The different racial and ethnic groups at Stonega coexisted peacefully most of the time, but there were occasional outbreaks of violence. The Big Stone Gap Post for May, 1898, reported a fight in which "nearly all nationalities were represented."29 A more typical pattern of interaction was described by a local priest, who related the trouble that Appalachian natives had with understanding the Roman Catholic faith of the immigrants: It is their conviction that the Catholics believe neither in Christ nor in the Bible, that they worship the Virgin and adore pictures, that they are a mixture of Mormons, Jews and Mohammedans, and that it is safer not to fool with them.30 Traditional cultural patterns were not destroyed in Stonega. In fact, each group's preservation of past cultural behavior was one factor that created boundaries between racial and etchnic groups in Stonega, and was a principal reason why class feeling and behavior was only one of several relationships formed by the miner in Stonega. The transition from an individual farmstead to a coal camp thrust the Appalachian mountaineer into a new industrial environment in Wise County, Virginia. In the camp the miner belonged to various "communities" that further aided in the adjustment to an industrial setting. The miner was at any one time, a member of a certin social and economic class, a work group, a church, a lodge hall, a family, and perhaps other groups as well. The miner's membership in these communities and his adaptation of past cultural values to the coal camp gave the miner a sense of security and self-identity in a new environment. NOTES 1. Big Stone Gap (Virginia) Post, 7 October, 1897. 2. Ronald D. Eller, Miners, Millhands, and Mountaineers (Knoxville: University of Tennessee Press, 1982) pp. 33-38; Margaret Ripley Wolfe, "Aliens in Southern Appalachia: Catholics in the Coal Camps, 1900-1940," Appalachian Heritage6 (Winter 1978) :44. 172 �3. Henry D. Shapiro, "Appalachia and the Idea of America: The Problem of the Persisting Frontier," in An Appalachian Symposium: Essays Written in Honor of Gratis D. Williams, ed. J.W. Williamson (Boone, N.C.: Appalachian State University Press, 1977), p. 51. 4. Henry D. Shapiro, Appalachia on Our Mind: The Southern Mountains and Mountaineers in the American Consciousness (Chapel Hill, N.C.: University of North Carolina Press, 1978) p. 159. 5. David Alan Corbin, Life, Work, and Rebellion in the Coal Fields (Urbana: University of Illinois Press, 1981). 6. U.S. Congress, Senate, Reports of the Immigration Commission — Immigrants in Industries, S. Doc. 633, 61st Congress, 2nd sess., 1911, Part 1, Vol. 2, "The Bituminous Coal Mining Industry in the South," p. 211. 7. E. Drennen to D.B. Wentz, 4 October 1915, Westmoreland Coal Company Collection, Hagley Museum and Library, Greenville, DE, Accession (Ace.) 1765, Series (Ser.) II, Box 385, Virginia File No. 17; "Houses and Buildings, 1914-1918." 8. D.B. Sayers to E. Drennen, 26 July 1915, Westmoreland, Ace. 1765, Ser. II, Box 385, Virginia File No. 17: "Houses and Buildings, 1914-1918"; Stonega Coke and Coal Company Annual Report, 1917, Westmoreland, Ace. 1765, Ser. II, Box 211, pp. 25-26, 39: Transcript No. 24, Interview with Joseph Tony, Big Stone Gap, Virginia (December 1972), Oral History Collection, Emory and Henry College, Emory, Virginia. 9. Eller, Miners, p. 49. 10. Annual Report, 1917, Westmoreland, p. 3. 11. Big Stone Gap Post,, 24 December 1903. 12. Annual Report, 1917, Westmoreland, p. 7; Big Stone Gap Post, 31 March, 1898: Big Stone Gap Post, 24 July, 1902. 13. Annual Report, 1917, Westmoreland, p. 3. 14. Annual Reports,1915-1920, Westmoreland: "Virginia Coal and Iron Company: Annual Report of Operating Department (1899 and 1900),"Westmoreland, Ace. 1764, Ser. I, Box 4. 15. "Virginia Coal and Iron Company: Annual Report of Operating Department (1900)," Westmoreland. 16. E. Drennen to D.B. Wentz, 19 November 1913, Westmoreland, Ace. 1765, Ser. II, Box 385: A.H. Reeder to J.B. Newton, 5 July 1906, Westmoreland, Ace. 1765, Ser. II, Box 443, Virginia File No. 125: "Va. Iron, Coal & Coke Co. 1905-1923"; Annual Report, 1915, Westmoreland, p. 10. 17. Corbin, Life, Work and Rebellion, p. 42. 18. Big Stone Gap Post, 8 June, 1899: 9 October, 1902; 30 July, 1903; 6 August, 1903. 19. "Sacred Heart Church of Stonega and Missions," unpublished MS. (in author's possession), St. Bernard Abbey, Cullman, Alabama, p. 4. 20. "Annual Reports to the Stockholders (1902)," Westmoreland., 173 �21. United States, Department of Justice, "Memorandum (Earnest Randolph)," dated October 29, 1915, Straight Numerical File 182363, Record Group 60, National Archives; Richard M. Simon, "The Labor Process and Uneven Development: The Appalachian Coalfields, 1880-1930," International Journal of Urban and Regional Research* (March 1980): 55. 22. Jerry Bruce Thomas, "Coal Country: The Rise of the Southern Smokeless Coal Industry and Its Effect on Area Development, 1872-1910," (Ph.D. dissertation, University of North Carolina, 1971), p. 206; Big Stone Gap Post, 30 June, 1904; Annual Report, 1918, Westmoreland, p. 7; "Annual Reports to the Stockholders (1902)," Westmoreland; Annual Report, 1916, Westmoreland, p. 31. 23. Wise County Court Records, File No. 2285, Wise County Courthouse, Wise, Virginia. 24. D.B. Wentz to A.H. Reeder, 20 January 1909, Westmoreland, Ace. 1765, Ser. II, Box 416, Virginia File No. 9: "Small Pox at Stonega and Osaka 1904-1911." 25. A.H. Reeder to D.B. Wentz, 8 August 1904, Westmoreland, Ace 1765, Ser. II, Box 360, Virginia File No. 12: "Churches 1904-1909." 26. Transcript No. 24, Interview with Joseph Tony. 27. A.H. Reeder to D.B. Wentz, 8 July 1907, Westmoreland, Ace. 1765, Ser. 11, Box 416, Virginia File No. 9: "Small Pox at Stonega and Osaka 1904-1911"; C.G. Duffy to R.E. Taggert, 8 Apiril 1916, Westmoreland, Ace. 1765, Ser. II, Box 384, Virginia File No. 107: "Houses Leases 1915-1916"; Big Stone Gap Post, 24 July, 1902. 28. "Sacred Heart Church of Stonega and Missions," p. 4. 29. Big Stone Gap Post, 26 May, 1898. 30. Wolfe, p. 48. 174 �REALITIES AND MYTHS: MOUNTAIN POLITICS Convenor: Ron Eller, Mars Hill College Hubbard's Branch of Mill Creek—1964 and 1984: Twenty Years After the War on Poverty Warren Brunner, Berea, Kentucky Tom Boyd, Berea College Boss Hoggism—Fact or Fiction: The View from Eastern Kentucky Stuart Sprague, Morehead State University Hubbard's Branch of Mill Creek —1964 and 1984: Twenty Years After the War on Poverty by Warren Brunner and Tom Boyd Introduction What we attempt here is a naturalistic study of an occurrence. The goal is not the testing of an hypothesis about the cause of events; we don't even plan to defend any hypothesis. Our ambition in this work deals with awareness of things — consciousness. Brunner and Boyd have been working together — reasoning, arguing, and at times even agreeing — in order to capture a tiny part of an occurrence in American history. This capture, if successful, has as its goal a heightening of our awareness of social change. What we attempt for the next 15 minutes is a manipulation of perspective, an addition to the social construction of reality of The War on Poverty. Our information comes from a variety of sources: Brunner's photographs taken in Mill Creek in 1964 and 1984, files and other information about the Appalachian Volunteer/Council of the Southern Mountains summer program, data about the area published between 1964 and 1984, visits with families that were the target of the program, and talks with some of the participants responsible for guiding the program. Photographers use image to make language. Sociologists use language (albeit at times jargon and numbers) to make image. Here we plan to make private worlds public to heighten the 175 �awareness of us all. Our presentation will be brief. We hope all will become sensitized to some reality of Hubbard's Branch and that the discussion of images and argument that follows will be the way we might begin to "make sense" out of Appalachian rural social change and The War on Poverty. The Economic Opportunity Act of 1964 proclaimed its goal was "to eliminate the paradox of poverty in the midst of plenty". (Harrington, p. 3) In January, during his State of the Union Message, President Johnson declared "an unconditional war on poverty". The Office of Economic Opportunity, which was created to fight this war, received considerable attention and never cost the government even one-percent of the federal budget. (Harrington, p. 21) Besides community action, a number of other programs to alleviate problems of low-income citizens were started and live on today as Head Start, Food Stamps, Medicaid, and the like. Today, awareness of this period of American history is often limited to the belief that such programs were gigantic, were handouts, and were unsuccessful. The Reagan administration's view seems to conform to this conventional belief in spite of other views. Even though the War on Poverty never got off the ground, it is blamed for some of the budget ills of the 1980's. As Michael Harrington puts it, "The savior that never was (has become) the scapegoat that is." (Harrington, p. 20) This assistance effort was not gigantic — America remains the Westernworld's most limited welfare state. (Harrington, p. 16) Such programs were not simply handouts — most required local aid and recipients had to demonstrate that they "earned" the amelioration of their problems. Finally, the efforts were not uniformly without impact — figures on life expectancy, levels of educational attainment, and nutrition crept up during the period after a variety of programs were put in place. As portrayed in the popular media and political pronouncements today, American awareness of The War on Poverty is a memory of events that never happened. (Harrington, p. 15) We construct images of what did happen in one tiny place in the Appalachian region of America. Hubbard's Branch of Mill Creek—1964-1984. The Appalachian Volunteer Summer Program: 1964 The Appalachian Volunteers started before the formation of the federal office of Economic Opportunity. The AV's earliest labors were in the Spring of 1964: these were work projects to improve school buildings using college students and local volunteer labor on Saturdays. In January 1964, the President's Appalachian Regional Commission sent a consultant to eastern Kentucky to investigate the feasibility of organizing and mobilizing a group of volunteers to work on the "grass roots" level of poverty in Appalachia. He focused on the Appalachian Volunteers of The Council of the Southern Mountains. (Conn, p. 10) During February, a lead article in Newsweek was 176 �titled "Poverty USA", and it had a special section on Appalachia. The description of Sargent Shriver's plans for OEO said that among other things, there were "...pilot programs on the drawing board (that) involve putting college students...to work as tutors for potential high school dropouts." (Newsweek, p. 36) Hubbard's Branch of Mill Creek in Clay County was possibly the earliest recipient of one of these programs. From June 8 through August 7 in the summer of 1964, college students taught reading, writing, and arithmetic and organized recreational activities in this community. The people on Mill Creek had requested school renovation, but as stated in the project report, "since school renovation appeared unnecessary and since a number of students had offered to volunteer their services during the summer, the idea of a community summer school project gradually developed". "The need for a program that would teach the three R's but, more important, would motivate the children of Mill Creek to want to learn was obvious." (CSM, Mill Creek Project Report, p. 3) The educational activities took place in the Hubbard Cemetery Missionary Baptist Church. The church voted to allow the use of the building for a summer school program. While on the project, the volunteers were given room and board by the Mill Creek residents. The proposal for funding said the college students would attempt to provide educational experiences for some 20 school age students and that this would bring to the community, "...a modern educational experience that goes far beyond anything that has been attempted in a similar eastern Kentucky community. (Project proposal, p. 1) The daily school activities ran from 8:30 to 11:30 a.m. and from 1:00 to 4:00 p.m. The "curriculum" included movies, records, painting, music made by a rhythm band, and reading. Field trips included parents, and the group went to Cumberland Falls, Levi Jackson State Park, and the State Capitol Building at Frankfort. While in Frankfort, Governor Breathitt met with them in the Capitol Rotunda. An excited news release accompanied by photographs went out from the Commonwealth of the Kentucky Department of Public Information. The budget for this summer school project was $775. It had $375 for supplies and field trips and $400 for living allowances and expenses of the volunteers. Equipment and books were borrowed from the Kentucky Extension Library Service and the Berea College Library. A basketball and goals were given by businessmen in Manchester, as was a car for the older boys to tear down and work on. All project documents stressed that the parents of the pupils assumed responsibility for providing meals and lodging for the volunteers. The original college student volunteers were from New York City (Union College) Detroit (Harvard College) and St. Louis (Cumberland College). Two additional volunteers, one from Massachusetts and one from Tennessee, joined the project after the midpoint replacing two of the originals who left for 177 �health reasons. Reports about the project say that, "For the first time, the children had become friends with someone whom they could admire and look up to who was not a school dropout..." One of the volunteers said the project goal was "not just to teach reading and writing, but to live with the people and to enter into their way of life". As officials described it, "The volunteer teachers became friends and possible symbols for what the children may try to become". The volunteer teacher taught the parents about the world and how 'outsiders' or formally educated people look at the world and life". (Project report, passim) At the end of the summer a VISA volunteer was assigned to Mill Creek to carry on other community work. Upon the completion of this earliest AV summer school program the Sunday Courier-Journal ran an article using a Brunner's photographs. It was entitled "Students Bring Light to Mountain Children", and under the heading "Volunteers pioneer classes at Mill Creek" the author, after giving details of program, community, families, and education concluded, "the Appalachian Volunteers need money in order to continue the school renovation and summer teaching programs". (Courier Journal, section 4, p. 4) The money did come in to support the Appalachian Volunteers: in 1965 the OEO came to play a major role in this support. Eight months after the completion of the project, in April 1965, the Coordinator of the CSM Education Projects wrote to the Director of the AV's about the Mill Creek project. He acknowledged that, "The Mill Creek project was one of the firm publicity and growth angles of the Appalachian Volunteers...". However, given this impact on the AV's, he wanted a better handle on the impact upon the families. "How are the residents of Mill Creek living now — as compared to conditions, human and environmental, before the project?" (CSM, letter April 16, 1965) The AV Director's response to the question included the facts that some students considered attending outside boarding schools, books were left behind for the one-room school, and the VISA worker was receiving community cooperation in a variety of efforts. The Appalachian Volunteer development effort has been described as encompassing three different strategies — issue organizing, community organizing, and the self-help programs which began with the early "enrichment" efforts such as this one at Mill Creek. (Whisnant, pp. 195-197) With the passing of 20 years can we any better respond to the question of how residents of Mill Creek are living now after their encounter with such "enrichment"? The Community In 1964, as now, Hubbard's Branch of Mill Creek was a dispersed residential area 22 miles from the county-seat of Manchester and about four miles up the creek from the local post office and stores of the nearest crossroads community. Then, as now, community activities were centered around its hillside cemetery and the annual homecoming the second Sunday in August 178 �each year. Transportation in and out of the community was on a dirt road that had wooden flooring on the bridges criss-crossing the stream. Today, it is much the same except for the new cement bridges crossing the creek. The post office has left the store that formerly housed it, migrating about 300 yards onto the blacktop and that much closer to Manchester. Carried on by a different owner on the same site, what was formerly Mrs. Hubbard's store is still a commercial venture. The summer school program was to assist the pupils that attended the Middle Mill Creek Elementry School — a structure that now is a family home. Education has migrated out of the community to the more modern consolidated elementry school about eight miles away and nearer the population concentrations. While some students in 1964 walked to the one-room elementary school others rode a bus out for more advanced education. Twenty years ago, according to the driver it was a 36 person bus, and today the same man drives a bus with a 65 child capacity. In the early 1950's, the Rural Electric Cooperative brought electricity to the community, (correspondence with Flem Messer, Jan. 1985) For the census enumeration district of which Mill Creek is a part, by 1980 electricity as a fuel for cooking was up 55% from the 1970 figure to 84% of the households using it. Between 1970 and 1980, coal and wood as heating fuels went from 100% down to 68% usage. What the census calls "complete plumbing facilities" were found in 4% of the homes in 1970, and now they are found in 44% of the homes in the area. Forty-five percent of the households are estimated to have telephones, and among the families on Mill Creek this includes one having that necessary modern adjunct, an unlisted telephone number. Housing conditions have changed. Both assistance programs and individual prosperity have led to new siding on homes and weatherproofing. Trailers have been brought in for housing returned migrants, and some new homes are the result of the regional franchise effort 'Jim Walker Homes' replacing the much earlier custom of building with local materials. The Mill Creek community in its physical and social aspects presents a face of stability in the continuation of the church, the cemetery and the annual homecoming celebration. It also demonstrates deep change in the transfer of institutions from local scope and size to county and regional ranges of taste and control. The community is within the Red Bird Purchase unit of the Daniel Boone National Forest, thus a major land owner is the federal government. Their policy for land use is not one promoting homesteads and family life. Private landholding within the forest area is common, and it is on that land that community life continues, but the National Forest is still a major force. When the husband in one of the four original households participating in the summer program died, the spouse sold the land and moved out of the community. The Forest Service later purchased this land and the homestead is gone. Federal ownership replacing private ownership is an important force of change that originates from outside the community and 179 �has a major impact upon it. The Families According to project records, six families and thirty-three children lived in this area of Mill Creek. Four of the families and twenty of the children participated in the summer school program. The project description said, "The families are related by geographical proximity, common church membership or association, and often by kinship". (Project description, p.l) These ties of horizontal or local level social interaction are found twenty years later in fascinating patterns. In 1964 of the four families in the program, one had seven members, two had nine members, and one had ten members. These four original households have become twenty-nine households encompassing the original generation and the new one. The original thirty-five persons have changed in group composition only slightly — three are now deceased, but there were also three additional births in the original families. Of all these persons, 49% (17) lived on Mill Creek in 1984. Eight people lived in nearby rural areas, seven in nearby county-seats, and three persons in 1984 lived away from eastern Kentucky. The program did open up the community to new experiences but, while one entire family group with descendants moved out of the community when the land was sold to the Forest Service, Mill Creek has not experienced the reduction in population found in other parts of Appalachia. Between 1970 and 1980 the enumeration district surrounding Mill Creek had a 12% decline in the number of housing units, an 18% decline in the number of residents, and an 11% decline in the number of families. There was also a shift in the model size of households from six or more persons to three persons. Mill Creek defied this pattern and at the same time, took part in it. Families still thrive on Mill Creek; children have moved away to stay, while others who left have returned to live near the original homeplaces, parents and siblings. One entire family-group, even though it moved over the ridge into the next county, keeps in touch through a variety of activities including the church homecoming. For the three resident and remaining family-groups, the first has gone from one to three households in the community, the second has gone from one to six households in the local area and the third from one to four households in Mill Creek. This change in twenty years, from four to thirteen households in this community, represents a 225% increase! At the same time, the family group that moved away plus "branches" of the other three make sixteen households living outside Mill Creek. Branches of Mill Creek stems are found as far away as Louisville, Arkansas and Illinois. Seventeen of the original thirty-five persons are still living today in this community, and the count of these plus their descendants and spouses makes a total of forty-six persons — a 31% rise in the 180 �population! At the same time, it differs in its family growth. Hubbard's Branch mirrors the surrounding enumeration area in one way — the model size of households. In 1964 model family size was 9 persons, and today it is three persons as in the rest of the area. One of the summer project volunteers, the teacher, was quoted in the final report: Through me and the other volunteers (the parents) realized their need to send their children to school, the need to learn more themselves and the need to think about their children leaving the mountains for a new life. (The children were given)...inspiration, enthusiasm and a desire for something bigger and better, something reaching into the world they had known nothing about. The community as a whole began to realize that they were people that could and should want to be a part of the whole world. (Final report, p. 7-8) Mill Creek families are now part of the wider world but at the same time, they have not rejected life in the community. Absence of particiption in formal education does not explain this view of "home". Participation in Formal Education During the summer school, formal education in 1964 was described in these terms: "Given such a set of circumstances of isolation, limited communications and poor schools, it is not unreasonable to expect to find the adults with little if any formal education and their children extremely limited and retarded in their school achievement level. Only one parent on Mill Creek had gone to high school. Of those able to read and write, very few had reached the eighth grade. Nearly half of the 20 children participating in this program were behind in their grade level from two to five years", (report, p. 3) What has taken place in the 20 year interval? Twenty-six children were alive in the four famiies at the time of the summer school with 20 of them attending "classes" in the church for nine weeks. The educational attainment for the 25 alive in 1984 was the following: ten had completed high school (38%), one completed high school and some college (4%), seven ended their education with some high school (27%) and eight ended their education with the eighth grade or less (31%). Of the adults in the four families in 1964 seven had only some elementary school and one had completed high school. Thus, in 1964 the adult model attainment of education was some elementary school, but for the children 20 years later, the model attainment of education is the completion of high school (42%). In the enumeration district surrounding Mill Creek, from 1970 to 1980 there was an increase in the level of schooling for the population 25 years 181 �of age and older. For this group, 14% of the population had completed high school or gone further. However, the 25 Mill Creek summer project children and siblings 42% had attained this same level. Taking only the 11 Mill Creek children resident in the community today 27% (3) have completed high school. Focusing only on the fourteen program participants that are not presently resident in Mill Creek, 57% (8) have completed high school. From these comparisons between generations inside the community and across the next generation comparing Mill Creek with the surrounding area, a greater participation in formal education is clearly seen. The claims made to questions of the impact of the program eight months after its completion were, "three students were considering going away to school", "the community for the first time is well-supplied with books", and there is "a greater awareness of the value and need for education on behalf of children and adults alike", (project report, pp. 11-12) In 1984, there is little evidence to the contrary. Even one person who was an adult in the 1984 group, expanded participation in formal education. After the husband died and the family moved to the next county in 1971, she got her GED high school diploma while raising the remaining children, (interview with family A) In America today, formal education and employment are closely linked in claims for the efficacy of schooling; the "need" for formal education is most commonly justified in terms of employment. Only rarely is the connection with citizenship mentioned. How did the summer school participants fare in terms of employment? Employment Patterns In 1964, the project proposal said, "The only sources of employment in the community are subsistence farming or coal mining", (proposal, p.l) According to 1980 census figures the enumeration district had Agriculture Forestry and Mining as the most common industry with 39% of the total employment, retail trade was next with 25% and the third most common employment was educational services, 10%. Between 1970 and 1980, the mean income had gone up by 147% and there was a 24% decline in the number of families classified as "poverty status". While these figures are less easily comparable, the best estimate is that during the decade there was also a 13% increase in persons receiving public assistance. Connected with these issues of "poverty status" and public assistance is the record of labor force participation. For the enumeration district in 1980 63% of the population sixteen and over were not in the labor force. The fate of the people on Mill Creek had been a variation on this employment theme. The twenty-five children that were program participants or siblings of participants have a deviant record of labor force participation, 15 (60%) are in the labor force and 10 (40%) are not in the labor force — a reversal of the enumeration district proportions. Adding the generation that were 182 �adults in 1964 gives a similar picture for the entire group of persons involved in some way with the program — 47% are not in the labor force and 53% are in the labor force. Of the 15 persons not in the labor force, 8 (53%) are housewives, 4 (27%) are simply not working, and 3 (20%) are retired or disabled. For the seventeen persons in the labor force the most common employment was in some aspect of coal, 6 (35%). Then school system employment accounted for 4 jobs (24%). The remaining employment consists of two factory workers, a mechanic, a nurse, a person in retail trade, a person in services, and one woman in military service. Of course, some of these persons are members of branch households located outside Mill Creek. Looking only at those persons resident in the program site in 1984, 4 are employed in coal related work (23%),4 are housewives (23%), 3 are working for the school system, 3 are retired or disabled, and 3 are without work. The program evaluation in 1964 said, "The immediate result of the Mill Creek Project is readily observable to anyone who knew the community before the program began. As a result of the summer project, the community has had a good exposure to the 'outside' world (project report, p. 11). Using "outside" and "inside" as appropriate images for the situation in 1964 is open to considerable debate; its inappropriateness in 1984 should be evident! Mill Creek program participants make up the American world — both "inside" and "outside". Remembrances: Two Versions Hubbard's Branch of Mill Creek 20 years after the start of The War on Poverty has changed perhaps in order to remain the same. Participation had been transferred to institutions outside the community. Family remains strong today and there are branches of these stem families scattered around. Participation in formal education had changed as has employment. But what is remembered of the program? In this case, the remembrances have two versions. The volunteer teacher in an interview during the summer and reports about the project present one version of remembrances The other version is the recollections of participants now entering adulthood or in the ranks of the almost elderly in 1984. 1964: "These are healthy intelligent and enthusiastic children. They responded extremely well to the things I tried to teach them". (Courier Journal, 1964) 1984: "I can remember me watching that film, that's me there", (child of family A, 1985) The most vivid recollection of the summer program was singing songs and playing games, (child of family B, 1985) Two of the participants from the same family who now still live in Mill Creek said the most important result of the AV program was the contact the children had with others of the community. They said they learned to get along with other children and learned about what was outside of Mill Creek. 183 �1964: "Rice Motor Company has donated a 1955 car for the older boys to tear down and work on as they learned the names and spelling of the different parts", (project report, p. 4) 1984: A young man who is a Honda mechanic with a GED and certificate from a welding school didn't remember much about learning, but he laughed and remembered the boys taking apart the car — they never got it back together again. 1964: "The parents were very cooperative". "They might not have understood the things I did, and sometimes they found them strange, but they were tolerant". (Courier Journal, 1964) 1984: "Part of the time we had classes in a barn!" (child of family B, 1985 "I think the project helped the kids a lot. I know it did my kids. It was a great thing. It encouraged kids to go on to school, to do things", (interview of parent in family A, 1985) 1964: "The individual families have had strangers come into their homes and leave as close personal friends", (project report, p. 10) 1984: "Everything is gone now. We had 100 apple trees when I sold the place. It's not the same. Everything changed". "I think about the good old days, when I was really happy up there. We didn't have anything, no money, but we had love and happiness." (parent in family A) Conclusion: The program evaluation in 1964 said, "Education and many of the expected material and cultural aspects of modern America are only abstractions to the average Mill Creeker". (project report, p.2) In 1984, it is very hard to make such a case. Material aspects of modern America are found in the community today such as Jim Walker homes, unlisted telephone numbers, and manufactured household furnishings to name a few. Branches of Mill Creek families engage in occupations as varied as nursing, military service, and factory labor receiving cultural and social messages as well as material benefits. Still some continuity is found. Families are close, they keep in contact, and where possible live near one another. Those who live away try to return each year for the homecoming in August. Even the stem family that moved out returns for this. Education varies and on the average is much greater than that found 20 years ago. Is America a different place because of this also? The War on Poverty has come and gone in the direct sense of OEO and the placing of volunteers in communities. The Appalachian Volunteers did go on to use the Mill Creek program, and other "enrichment" programs, as examples of their work— "useful publicity and growth angles" as it was described. Mill Creek was visited, photographed, and in turn visited others. Did their opening up their lives enrich other lives in America? Could the Appalachian Volunteers have received their initial financial support without the help of communities such as Mill Creek? As the August 1964 Courier Journal stated near its conclusion, "A pro184 �ject such as this is difficult to evaluate, partly since it produces few immediate tangible results. Its potential significance is long-range..." Results, tangible or intangible, for social events are not easily seen to come from one clear single source or even a few sources. Social life is much more complex than this search for a single cause will justify. We live in a world of interaction between numerous social, economic, and environmental forces. Nonetheless, of all the material we discovered and sifted through, one result can be directly attributed solely to the program and the impact of the summer effort. This is an event simple in its action and profound in its meaning — as profound as anything can be in the dynamics of family and community in Appalachia. In Clay County, there is a young woman born long after the summer program was over. She is a high school graduate, married with one child of her own, and they live in a rural area near Mill Creek. She is named Connie after the woman, the idealistic and maybe naive college student, that spent part of the summer of '64 on Mill Creek. This naming may be all the explaining we can give. 185 �TABLE 1: FAMILIES PARTICIPATING IN THE PROJECT IN 1964* FAMILY A Parents: Mr. and Mrs. A Children: Male Male Female Female Female Male Male Age 13 Age 11 Age 10 Age 9 Age 7 Age 6 Infant Completed Grade 6 Completed Grade 4 Completed Grade 3 Completed Grade 3 Completed Grade 1 Will be in Grade 1 Age Age Age Age Age 12 10 7 4 2 Completed Grade 2 Completed Grade 2 Completed Grade 1 Age 13 Age 11 Age 9 Completed Grade 4 Completed Grade 4 Completed Grade 1 Will be in Grade 1 Family B Parents: Mr. and Mrs. B Children: Female Female Female Female Female Family C Parents: Mr. and Mrs. C Children: Male Male Female Male Male Male Male Family D Parents: Mr. and Mrs. D Children: Female Male Male Female Female Male Male Male Age 6 Age 5 Age 4 Age 1 Age Age Age Age Age Age Age Age 18 16 14 12 10 6 7 4 Completed Grade 8 Completed Grade 3 Completed Grade 2 Completed Grade 4 Completed Grade 2 Will be in Grade 1 Schooling Not Possible *From project report (Names obscured by authors of this paper.) Note at bottom of page: "There is another man on Mill Creek who has 4 or 5 children but we have not been able to get him involved in the community or get him to send his children to the school program. Aside from him there is only one other person on the creek with children but they have not reached school age." 186 �TABLE 2: Original Plus Next Generation Households — 1984 Family A No. Persons 3 people 5 people 1 person 3 people 5 people 5 people 2 people 2 people 1. Mrs. A and 2 children 2. Male and family 3. Male alone 4. Female and family 5. Female and family 6. Female and family 7. Male and family 8. Male and family Place of Residence County Seat Nearby Rural Nearby Rural County Seat Nearby Rural Illinois Nearby Rural Nearby Rural 8 Households outside Mill Creek 0 Households on Mill Creek Family B 1. Mr. and Mrs. B. 2. Female and family 3. Female and family 4. Female 5. Female and family 6. Male and family 2 3 3 1 3 3 people people people person people people Mill Creek Mill Creek Mill Creek Arkansas County Seat Mill Creek 2 Households outside Mill Creek 4 Households on Mill Creek Family C 1. Mr. and Mrs. C and 2 children 2. Male's widow and family 3. Male and family 4. Female and family 5. Male and family 6. Male and family 7. Female and family 4 3 5 5 5 2 3 people people people people people people people Mill Creek Mill Creek Mill Creek Nearby Rural Nearby Rural County Seat Nearby Rural 2 Households outside Mill Creek 5 Households on Mill Creek Family D 1. 2. 3. 4. 5. 6. 7. 8. 2 5 6 3 2 3 3 4 Mr. and Mrs. D Female and family Male and family Male and family Female and family Female and family Male and family Male and family people people people people people people people people Mill Creek Mill Creek Mill Creek Mill Creek Louisville County Seat Mill Creek Mill Creek 2 Households outside Mill Creek 5 Households on Mill Creek Source: Interviews with families, Fall 1984 and Winter 1985 187 �TABLE 3: Demographic Change in Mill Creek 1964-1984 1964 Families on Mill Creek Persons on Mill Creek Mean Household Size 1984 4 35 13 46 X-8.75 Persons X-3.5 Persons % Increase or Decrease +225% +31% 1984 Residence of Persons on Mill Creek in 1964 Plus 3 Siblings Mill Creek Nearby Rural County Seat Outside East Kentucky 17 8 7 3 35 TABLE 4: Education of Program Participants and Siblings in 1984 Total Group Some Elementary Some High School Completed High School Some College Group Resident in Mill Creek Some Elementary Some High School Completed High School Some College 7 7 10 1 28% 28% 40% 4 4 3 0 11 36% 36% 27% 4% Group Resident Outside Mill Creek Some Elementary 3 Some High School 3 Completed High School 7 1 Some College 21% 21% 50% 7% 14 (Estimated Education in the Enumeration District — 1980 Census) Some Elementary 72% Some High School 14% 12% Completed High School Some College 2% 188 49% 23% 20% 8% �TABLE 5: Labor Force Participation for Program Participants: Siblings and Parents — 1984 Labor Force Participation Persons in Labor Force Persons Not In Labor Force 17 15 53% 47% Persons Not In Labor Force Retired/Disabled Housewife No Work 3 8 4 20% 53% 27% 6 1 1 35% Persons in Labor Force By Industry Coal Mechanic Nurse Operator School Employee Military Retail Trade Services •j 4 1 1 1 (Estimated Labor Force Participation in the Enumeration District— 1980) Persons in Labor Force Persons Not in Labor Force 12% 24% 37% 63% Sources and References Interviews with Families in Mill Creek and elsewhere, 1984 and 1985. 1970 Census of the Population, Clay County, ED0016. 1980 Census of the Population, Clay County, ED0038. Council of the Southern Mountains Papers, Berea College, Special Collections "Proposal to The Council of The Southern Mountains Educational Committee" no date. "Mill Creek Project Report" no date Letter from Coordinator Education Programs, CSM to Director of Appalachian Volunteers, April 16, 1965. "Students Bring Light to Mountain Children" The Courier Journal, August 9, 1964, section 4, page 4. Jim Hampton. Newsweek, "Poverty USA", Feb. 17, 1964, pp. 19-38. Philip Conn, "Appalachian Volunteers: An Experiment in Community Development", unpublished thesis, Institute of Social Studies, The Hague, 1966. Michael Harrington, The New American Poverty, New York (1984). David Whisnant, Modernizing the Mountaineers, "One-Eye in the Land of the Blind: The Appalachian Volunteers" pp. 185-219, New York (1980). 189 � Dublin Core The Dublin Core metadata element set is common to all Omeka records, including items, files, and collections. For more information see, http://dublincore.org/documents/dces/. Title A name given to the resource Appalachian Consortium Press Publications Description An account of the resource This collection contains digitized monographs and collections from the Appalachian Consortium Press. Creator An entity primarily responsible for making the resource Appalachian Consortium Press Publisher An entity responsible for making the resource available Appalachian Consortium Press Date Issued Date of formal issuance (e.g., publication) of the resource. June 1, 2017 Contributor An entity responsible for making contributions to the resource <a title="Digital Scholarship and Initiatives" href="http://library.appstate.edu/services/digital-scholarship-and-initiatives" target="_blank">Digital Scholarship and Initiatives</a> Publication URL https://www.uncpress.org/book/9781469636870/the-impact-of-institutions-in-appalachia/ Digital Publisher Digital Republication Appalachian State University Dublin Core The Dublin Core metadata element set is common to all Omeka records, including items, files, and collections. For more information see, http://dublincore.org/documents/dces/. Title A name given to the resource The Impact of Institutions in Appalachia Description An account of the resource This volume of the <em>Proceedings of the 8th Annual Appalachian Studies Conference</em>, held in 1986 in Berea, Kentucky, offers a sampling of papers presented at the conference. Paper topics include religion; government and technology; capitalism and coal; regional photographers; sports and play in Southern Appalachia; education; cultural and diversity issues; and history and politics.<br /><br /><a href="https://drive.google.com/open?id=1H72pT8Uk_FiyiJcwdCR6bPCXaqC8PLry" target="_blank" rel="noopener">Download EPub<br /><br /></a><a title="UNC Press Link" href="https://www.uncpress.org/book/9781469636870/the-impact-of-institutions-in-appalachia/" target="_blank" rel="noopener">UNC Press Print on Demand</a> Subject The topic of the resource Appalachian Region--Congresses Social institutions--Appalachian Region Appalachian Region--Social conditions--20th century Alternative Title An alternative name for the resource. The distinction between titles and alternative titles is application-specific. Proceedings of the 8th Annual Appalachian Studies Conference Creator An entity primarily responsible for making the resource Lloyd, Jim Campbell, Anne G. Date A point or period of time associated with an event in the lifecycle of the resource 1986 Language A language of the resource English Publisher An entity responsible for making the resource available Appalachian Consortium Press Format The file format, physical medium, or dimensions of the resource PDF Conference proceedings Type The nature or genre of the resource Text Rights Information about rights held in and over the resource <a href="https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by/4.0/deed" target="_blank" rel="noopener">https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by/4.0/deed</a> Spatial Coverage Spatial characteristics of the resource. https://www.geonames.org/12212302/appalachia.html Source A related resource from which the described resource is derived <a title="UA 76 Appalachian Consortium records" href="https://appstate-speccoll.lyrasistechnology.org/repositories/2/resources/9" target="_blank" rel="noreferrer noopener"> UA 76 Appalachian Consortium records </a> Is Part Of A related resource in which the described resource is physically or logically included. <a title="Appalachian Consortium Press Publications" href="https://omeka.library.appstate.edu/collections/show/82" target="_blank"> Appalachian Consortium Press Publications</a> Temporal Coverage Temporal characteristics of the resource. 1980s Multidisciplinary/ Appalachian Studies https://omeka-test.library.appstate.edu/files/original/1f7711c328bd7978c5934e4ba90ff24e.pdf ff493222d8fb4f2097a94583fe2d7c42 PDF Text Text �THE MANY FACES OF APPALACHIA: Exploring a Region's Diversity Proceedings of the Seventh Annual Appalachian Studies Conference Edited by: SAM GRAY Managing Editor: JACQUELINE STEWART �The Appalachian Consortium was a non-profit educational organization composed of institutions and agencies located in Southern Appalachia. From 1973 to 2004, its members published pioneering works in Appalachian studies documenting the history and cultural heritage of the region. The Appalachian Consortium Press was the first publisher devoted solely to the region and many of the works it published remain seminal in the field to this day. With funding from the Andrew W. Mellon Foundation and the National Endowment for the Humanities through the Humanities Open Book Program, Appalachian State University has published new paperback and open access digital editions of works from the Appalachian Consortium Press. www.collections.library.appstate.edu/appconsortiumbooks This work is licensed under a Creative Commons BY-NC-ND license. To view a copy of the license, visit http://creativecommons.org/licenses. Original copyright © 1985 by the Appalachian Consortium Press. ISBN (pbk.: alk. Paper): 978-1-4696-3684-9 ISBN (ebook): 978-1-4696-3686-3 Distributed by the University of North Carolina Press www.uncpress.org �Table of Contents INTRODUCTION, Sam Gray I. II. III. NORTHERN GEORGIA EXCEPTIONS: POLITICS The Reconstruction Careers of Joseph Brown and Benjamin Hill, Derrell Roberts vii 1 APPALACHIAN HANDICRAFT: COMMERCIALISM AND AUTHENTICITY Nineteenth Century Quilts in Macon County, North Carolina, Laurel Horton 11 INTERPRETING THE MOUNTAIN WOMAN'S EXPERIENCE Emma Bell Miles, Pioneer Folklorist of Appalachia, Grace Toney Edwards 23 The Science Poetry of Marilou Awiakta, Parks Lanier . 29 Going Home, Ron Willoughby IV. V. VI. 37 SOCIAL THEORY AND SOCIAL LIFE IN APPALACHIA: A PANEL A Contribution to the Critique of Political Economy, Allen Bateau 41 CURRENT RESEARCH IN COMMUNITY ISSUES Households and Families in Eastern Kentucky in 1900, Thomas A. Arcury and Julia D. Porter 47 PRE-COLUMBIAN CHEROKEES Pre-Columbian Cultural Contact Between Chibchan and Iroquoian Linguistic Groups, David K. Evans 57 �VII. NORTH GEORGIA WRITERS-PAST AND PRESENT These Also Climbed Parnassus: An Overview of Georgia Mountain Authors, Paul McClure 71 VIII. THE BUSINESS OF TRADITION: TRADES, HANDICRAFTS AND HOUSEHOLD ENTERPRISES The Shell Button Industry in Appalachia, Cheryl Claassen 77 IX. X. REGIONAL POETRY Faces of Appalachia in Poetry, Bennie Lee Sinclair 89 COMMUNITIES: PARTICIPATION OR RETREAT Progress Is Our Most Important Product: Decline in Citizen Participation and the Professionalization of Schooling in an Appalachian Rural County, Tom Boyd 107 ECONOMICS I: MACRO Surviving the 1990s: Inter-Regional Variation in Economic Problems, Thomas R. Shannon 125 Historical Perspectives on Energy, Industrialization and the Shaping of Appalachia, Ted Couillard 139 XII. NORTH GEORGIA MUSIC North Georgia Musicians and Groups in the 1920s and 1930s, Gene Wiggins 147 XIII. HISTORICAL DIVERSITY IN APPALACHIAN COMMUNITIES Diversity in Antebellum Mountain Life: The Towns of Western North Carolina, John C. Inscoe 153 XI. �XIV. THE THREE R'S: RESEARCH, RESOURCES, RECORDS The Great Smokies: Diverse Perceptions of the Park as a Resource, David Carpenter 169 XV. TOURISM THEN AND NOW A Plunge into the Past: Henry Ford and Friends Tour the Southern Appalachians, Charles Gunter 183 XVI. MOONSHINE AND BEYOND A Touch of Mountain Dew: Art and History of Whiskey-Making in North Georgia, Ray Rensi and Leo Downing 195 �This page intentionally left blank �Introduction In March of 1978 the first Appalachian Studies Conference was held at Berea, Kentucky. My memories of this event are surprisingly clear— the weather was fine, the company congenial and the energy, drawn from diverse places and personalities, was sharply focused. I recall that many individuals who have remained involved in the Conference over the years were instrumental in shaping with their words and concerns, the issues of that first conference and much of the agendae of those to follow. There were no papers read at Berea, instead, committees were formed upon an ad hoc and voluntary basis. The committees were actually discussion groups based on the various academic disciplines embraced by the notion of Appalachian Studies: Natural History, Literature, Geography, Folklore, History/Political Science, Economics, etc. The committees were supposed to distinguish and elaborate the issues and themes of Appalachian Studies and articulate intentions and strategies for the development and exploration of these issues. The eventual reports of the various committees were rendered on a Saturday afternoon too lovely for remaining indoors. These reports ranged from a somber call for a new text of Appalachian History to be written by the history committee to a delightful piece of impromptu theater (in verse no less) offered up by the literature committee. From these reports and the plenary session the following Sunday morning emerged certain ideas, issues and positions that were to become the durable content of each annual Appalachian Studies Conference. Three content areas can be identified from these 1978 Berea sessions. (1)A dichotomy between what was later designated "the action people and the creative people." At Berea, I believe two groups were designated, "the political types and the academic types," and the issue was which group would dominate the Appalachian Studies Conference. Neither ever did and the polarity has dimmed through the years for want of energy. This issue nevertheless serves some adaptive function for the continuation of the conference and is renewed annually. (2)A second theme that was evident at Berea in 1978 was the purposeful inclusion of women, workers, and minorities in the design and function of the ASC and in our political and cultural analysis of the region. This theme, related to the first, has also undergone a slight shift in energy levels through the years. It would be hard to imagine any conference or convocation of educations and students in the 1970's that could ignore this crucial issue. The difficulty has been in determining as a conference, the appropriate practices to address the issue. (S)Appalachian identity and regional autonomy constitute a third thematic current that has run strong in all the years of the conference. This complex of ideas and issues concerns the Idea of Appalachia itself Vll �and the various textures and perspectives that contribute to that idea. The long march of regional definition antedates the conference and will doubtless continue for as long as there are minds to reflect on the meaning of mountains. Some time near the end of that long day of words that began the Appalachian Studies Conference in 1978, Gurney Norman, native son and constant defender of the divine right of cultural deviancy, delivered a short, rambling address that delighted many, satisfied none and in a subtle way planted another thematic seed within the conference. Gurney's narrative that afternoon at Berea, like his novel, stories, and autobiography was a rich and varied amalgam of ideas, suggesting that regional identity, autonomy, institutions, images and issues are more diverse that homogeneous, more complex than simple and intricately connected to distant regions and institutions. This theme of cultural pluralism, of regional diversity and variation, adumbrated in 1978, achieved overt expression in 1984 at the Seventh Annual Conference held at Unicoi State Park, Helen, Georgia. Cultural diversity within a region that is presupposed to be a coherent whole is a theme that is difficult to access and delineate. It is one that moves sometimes in resonance with, and sometimes dialectically across the other established themes and issues in Appalachian Studies. The idea cultural diversity and interrelationship of social parts can be a useful intellectual tool. It is an idea designed to account for the complex textures of codes, texts, images, institutions, cultural and political transformations within the region, but one always in danger of evaporating into relativism or tautology. For better or worse, it is a part of the ongoing assessment of who we are and to whom (or what) we, as Appalachian people, are related. The Seventh Annual Appalachian Studies Conference at Unicoi State Park adopted the idea of diversity as the Conference theme. The conference did, in fact, enjoy more variety in the number and types of organizations and individuals attending as well as in papers and presentations. Budgetary and editorial constraints allow here only a remnant of the conference's diverse doings. It is our hope that these will offer the reader a glimpse of the varied texture of the whole cloth. Sam Gray January, 1985 Vlll �NORTHERN GEORGIA EXCEPTIONS: POLITICS The Reconstruction Careers of Joseph Brown and Benjamin Hill Derrell Roberts; Dalton Junior College; Dalton, GA North Georgia Politics: 1872-1880 Ellen Garrison; East Tenn. State Univ.; Johnson City, TN Aspects of 20th Century Politics hi North Georgia Carl Ross; Appalachian State University; Boone, NC Convenor: Sam Dayton; Mtn. Regional Area Planning Comm.; Gainesville, GA The Reconstruction Careers of Joseph Brown and Benjamin Hill by Derrell Roberts The New South as proclaimed by Benjamin H. Hill, a product of the Antebellum South, recognized the advantages of the economic and political concept of the northern states of the United States. Joseph E. Brown, son of the Georgia mountains and Civil War Governor, recognized the benefits of that system some years before. The differences in their backgrounds possibly explain why Brown accepted Reconstruction and the New South sooner than Hill. Even so, economics provided the central force that merged their ideas in the 1870's. Meanwhile, their personalities and political followers clashed on most issues prior to that time. Born April 15,1821 in the Pickens District of South Carolina, Brown's family moved to Union County, Georgia. In the community of Gaddistown, Brown worked on the small farm owned by the family and attended the rural school in the area. At the age of nineteen, he drove a team of oxen, given to him by his father, to the Anderson District in South Carolina. There he traded the oxen for room, board and tuition for a year to attend the Calhoun Academy. Back in Georgia, he opened a "three month school" where he taught and made enough money to return to yet another academy in South Carolina. Meanwhile, he paid off debts incurred in his first year. He returned to Georgia and settled in Canton in January 1844 and took charge of the town academy. There he taught school in the daytime, and at night and on Saturdays, he read law without the benefit of an instructor. Financially, the year was a profitable one, since he cleared enough to pay his school debts. During the next year, Brown spent more time reading law, for he had dropped his full-time teaching career and was teaching the children of a 1 �Canton physician for his room and board. The doctor later sent Brown to Yale Law School. But before he went to New Haven, he passed the Georgia Bar examination in 1845. He was graduated from Yale after a year there and in 1846, he returned to Canton where he began a very successful law practice. Then in 1847, he married Elizabeth Gresham, whose father was a South Carolina Baptist minister. Elizabeth was a devoted wife to Brown and a marvelous mother to their eight children (6 sons and 2 daughters). Benjamin Harvey Hill was born in Hillsboro, Jasper County, Georgia in 1823. His ancestry was traced to Ireland and Wales and his father, John Hill, moved to Hillsboro from North Carolina. Hill's father and family, though moderate in financial means, were influential people in their community of small farmers. Like many farmers of moderate means, the whole family worked on the farm and Hill worked alongside the family slaves his father had acquired. Meanwhile, he was reared with the common, positive concepts of education, religion (the Methodist Church), and temperance. Like Brown, the Hill's family moved, when he was ten years of age, to Long Cave in Troup County near LaGrange. At age sixteen, he went to Meriwether County to study with a minister who had graduated from Yale College. After a year there, he entered the University of Georgia at age seventeen in 1841 as a sophomore. Graduated from the University in 1844, he read law in Heard County, Georgia for a year and passed the examination for admittance to the Georgia Bar in 1845. In that year he settled into a law practice in LaGrange after he married Caroline E. Holt of Athens. In 1867, the family moved from LaGrange to Athens. Then in 1872, he moved from Athens to Atlanta where he lived until his death. His family included his wife, three daughters and two sons. In the 1850's, the careers of the two men began to parallel. Brown was elected to the Georgia Senate in 1849. Distinctive issues in those years included the Compromise of 1850, Georgia's state-owned Western and Atlantic Railroad and property rights for women. These issues still faced the General Assembly when Hill was elected to the State House of Representatives in 1851. Interestingly, both men served their terms and did not offer for re-election. While Hill, always on the border of financial ruin, retired to LaGrange to concentrate on his law practice for a while, Brown chose to run for another office. Elected judge of the Blue Ridge Circuit, Brown presided for a two year term. During that time, Brown remained a Democrat while Hill moved from the dead Whig Party to the Know-Nothing or American Party. By 1860, he was a supporter of the Constitutional Union Party. In any case, Brown was a consistent supporter of the Democrats (the major party) while Hill played a role as a member of the "opposition group." But there was 2 �another notable parallel in that in the national election of 1852, Brown served as an elector to the Electoral College for Franklin Pierce. In 1856, Hill was an elector for former President Millard Fillmore. In an unusual turn of events, Brown became the Democrats' candidate for Governor of Georgia in 1857. A large number of well-known candidates for the nomination provided a dead-lock which led to the proposal by Linton Stephens that Brown be nominated. Stephens' motion was accepted and Brown was nominated at the state convention. Meanwhile, Hill was nominated to oppose Brown by the American (Know-Nothing) party. The most significant issues for that election year involved national affairs. The Democrats were forced to endorse the Buchanan administration. At the same time, the state party platform condemned the territorial governor's activities in Kansas. On state questions, Hill and the American party members condemned the operation of the Western and Atlantic Railroad and advocated its sale, while the Democrats pledged to keep it and turn it into a profitable, effective operation. Even then, Hill was skilled in the art of debate and Brown was inexperienced. On several occasions, Hill clearly defeated Brown so that when leaders of the Democrats (Howell Cobb and Robert Toombs) discovered what was happening, they halted the debate. Toombs took Brown on a campaign tour of south Georgia where he could be taught. Toombs was a capable teacher and in a short period Brown developed a distinctive, "homey" speaking style that served him well in the remainder of his political career. The course of the campaign and the governor's election in 1857 developed an adversary relationship that continued between the two men for two decades. In that election, Brown defeated Hill by more than ten thousand votes while Hill carried two of the eight congressional districts. While Hill did not run against Brown again, he consistently opposed him and supported opposition candidates. For instance, by 1859, Brown was the undisputed leader of the Democratic party when he stood for re-election to the governship. Meanwhile, the American party was extinct and was replaced in Georgia by a state group known as the "Opposition party." Hill led the party but the candidate to oppose Brown was Warren Aiken of Cassville. Brown was easily re-elected in that campaign. He was also re-elected in campaigns against only nominal opposition in 1861 and 1863 and served as governor until June, 1865. Hill was elected to the Georgia Senate in 1859 as a strong Unionist. Logically, he would have been more comfortable following or joining Georgians like Howell Cobb and Robert Toombs. After all, he was a product of the "cotton" area of Georgia, owned slaves and was attuned to the Antebellum South. But it would appear that Brown from the mountains would have been more likely to have been a Unionist or nationalist 3 �and much less a part of the "Old South." The secession movement and convention in 1860 brought the two Georgia leaders to the arena in opposition to each other. Brown joined the majority of the Southerners in his support of John C. Breckinridge of Kentucky for the presidency of the United States. Hill and Alexander H. Stephens supported John Bell of Tennessee and the compromise platform of the Constitutional Union party. Hill made interesting attempts to lure votes from Breckinridge and Stephen A. Douglas to Bell, but to no avail. The eventual winner, Abraham Lincoln was not a factor in Georgia. Again, Brown's supporters with Breckinridge beat Hill's candidate by almost ten thousand votes in Georgia. The next battleground for the two was a Georgia's Secession Convention in Milledgeville in January, 1861. By that time South Carolina, Mississippi, Alabama, and Florida had already seceded, which made Georgia a pivotal state in the formation of the Confederacy. Hill appeared before the Secession Convention and made an eloquent plea against immediate secession and any dangerous or precipitate action. Hill believed that if existing laws regarding slavery were scrupulously enforced, all the problems of the South would be solved. Brown was not a delegate to the Secession Convention, but he was given a seat on the floor where he quietly went about his work promoting secession. If he had been true to his upbringing in the northern part of Georgia, he would have opposed slavery and secession, but to the contrary, he advocated both. Brown was partially responsible for showing the delegates from the mountainous part of the state the advantages of secession for their section, even though they had no slaves. He pointed out to them that if Georgia did not secede, the slaves would surely be freed, and the national government would reimburse the slaveholders for the loss of their slaves. That would cost the government about two billion dollars and result in higher taxes for everyone, including those who had not owned slaves. Brown said the slaveholder would use that money to buy up the land of small farmers, and the freed slaves would compete with poor whites for land and jobs. Another alternative was that slaves could be relocated which would cost even more tax money. Again, Brown's views won over Hill's ideas and secession was approved in Georgia by a vote of 208 to 89. H. J. Pearce, Jr.,: "So Hill was again overborne. He had been overborne in 1855 by the Democrats in the Fourth Congressional District, when they elected Hiram Warner; he had been overborne in the presidential canvas of 1856, when Toombs and Stephens won the electoral vote of the state for Buchanan; he had been overborne by Brown and the Democratic onslaught in the gubernatorial contest of 1857; he had been overborne by the Breckinridge party in the presidential campaign of 1860; and now in the Constitution Convention (for secession) of 1861 he had been 4 �overborne while leading a minority fight. If any public man of note in Georgia was not responsible for secession, it was Hill. —Secession had come." Once secession took place, Hill's role changed, and Brown, serving as Governor of Georgia adopted a strong "states rights" position. In that posture, Brown opposed all attempts to centralize the Confederacy in any way. He vigorously opposed the conscription of men for the Confederate Army by the Confederate Congress. In his view, the states of the Confederacy should have been asked by the weak central government to provide troops as needed. When the Congress persisted, Brown provided exemptions for large numbers of Georgians who would ordinarily have been conscripted. Predictable, he also objected to taxation by the Confederate government. His position was much like the advocates of the Articles of Confederation in the early development of the United States government. Needless to say, these and other positions led the Georgia Governor into direct conflict with Confederate President Jefferson Davis. Hill, on the other hand, might have been expected to have opposed the Confederate government, too. He had counseled for union and moderation and had bitterly opposed secession. Yet when the Confederacy was formed, he accepted the election by the Georgia General Assembly and became one of the state's Confederate Senators in Richmond. In that position, he was a strong supporter of President Davis, and thus was in conflict with Brown again. Hill was the Georgia spokesman for the Davis administration, and carried out several "trouble shooting" missions to the state. At the end of the Civil War, both men were arrested by Federal troops and imprisoned for a brief period. Hill was arrested in LaGrange and spent a short time at Fort LaFayette in New York Harbour. Brown was taken from the Governor's Mansion in Milledgeville to Carroll Prison in Washington, D.C. Upon their release, Hill returned to LaGrange to practice law and Brown settled in Atlanta where he was active in business and political affairs. Between 1865 and 1867, the two men were relatively inactive on the political scene because of the Reconstruction measures and the occupation of the state by Federal troops. Meanwhile, they both attempted to develop their financial resources, Brown in law and business and Hill in law and agriculture. It developed that Brown was much better adapted and inclined toward the business world than Hill was to agricultural pursuits. After his brief imprisonment, Brown returned to Georgia, moved to Atlanta and began to counsel acquiescence to the policies of President Andrew Johnson. Hill also accepted Johnson's plan of Reconstruction and pledged his support in his request for a parole from the President in July, 1865. Therefore, both men were relatively quiet during the first year and 5 �a half of Reconstruction. In February, 1867, Brown made a trip to Washington, D.C. with some Atlanta business and political associates. During those days, the Congressional Reconstruction plan was under consideration. Also, impeachment proceedings against President Johnson were just beginning. On his return to Atlanta from Washington, he found a letter from businessmen asking him for an opinion on the situation in the nation. Brown counseled acquiescence to the unpopular measures of Reconstruction and his public career took an unusual turn. The national and regional situation looked gloomy to him. Clouds covered the political scene and the Republicans were in a strong position in national affairs. The right to vote by freedmen had already been settled, he said. The only question now was whether or not former Confederate officials could vote. Therefore, suffrage for the freed slaves was a moot issue. Further, the Civil War had settled the secession question. Therefore, people from the North ought to be invited to bring their money to the South and help developments there. He said that the Fourteenth Amendment to the Constitution should be ratified immediately. Continued resistance might further endanger the enfranchisement of a greater number of Southerners and might eventually lead to confiscation of property. For all those reasons and more, Brown said that all Reconstruction measures should be accepted "without further hesitation or delay." No public figure was more publicly villified than Brown after his public letter. But it was Benjamin H. Hill who helped to focus the hatred of the public on Brown. With his scathing tongue and marvelous speaking style and with his pen, he called attention to the poor arguments and loopholes in Brown's public utterances nad notices. Between June and August, 1867, Hill wrote a series of articles for the Augusta Chronicle and Sentinel that he called "Notes on the Situation". Henry W. Grady called the "Notes" the "profoundest and most eloquent political essays ever penned by an American." In the first article, Brown was portrayed as one who had "urged us into secession as the only peaceful method of securing our rights; who afterwards led us to subjugation as the only method of escaping military despotism: and was then advising the acceptance "of proposed terms for a new Union." In another "Note," Hill described Brown as an ambitious politician who supported Reconstruction measures only because of the strength of the Republicans. The sufferings of Southern people did not matter to Brown, he charged. The former Governor was looking for political power even at the risk of becoming a traitor to his state. His most scathing criticism of Brown came in a description of how he had met the train of the incoming Union General John B. Pope who commanded the army of occupation. That night at a banquet in honor of the General, the former Governor responded to a toast to the honoree. Hill thought that any 6 �ordinary citizen would have been nauseated and he thought that Pope was too. Hill's "Notes" were very effective and were reprinted all over the state. They were widely discussed and quoted, and the general populance agreed with Hill. But Brown replied to Hill in a series hi the Augusta paper he called "Review of Notes on the Situation". While the Augusta editor hesitated to publish them for Brown, he wrote a short preamble to the first one in which he explained that the Chronicle whole-heartedly supported the views expressed by Hill. Nevertheless, he was willing to open his column to Brown to give him a chance to redeem himself. The tone of the preamble indicated that he did not think Brown could redeem himself, though. Brown began his rebuttal by calling attention to Hill's inconsistencies. He said that Hill started as a Democrat, then Whig, Know-Nothing, Opposition, etc., and then became a Unionist. As a Unionist, Hill urged disunion if Lincoln was elected. When Lincoln was elected, he opposed secession at Georgia's convention. Then he was elected to the Confederate Senate where he voted against conscription and then castigated Brown when he objected to the Confederate draft. On an occasion, he charged, Hill made an impassioned speech for the militia and enrolled in it. When the militia was activated, he claimed an exemption because he was a Senator. Congressional Reconstruction, he said, was not important. Congress had the power to do whatever it wanted to do in the matter. Georgia should accept the fact and restore its members to Congress in less than two years. Brown also lambasted Hill's objections to the new Georgia constitution. Even so, Brown played a significant role in the new document. Brown followed his "Review of Notes on the Situation" by continued political activity. In 1868, he identified himself with the Republican party, attended the national convention and spoke to the gathering. He went on to help elect Rufus Bullock the Republican Governor of Georgia. After Brown's unsuccessful campaign for United States Senator, Bullock appointed him Chief Justice of the Georgia Supreme Court. Otherwise, he made more public statements on Reconstruction and made a great deal of money in real estate, banking, Georgia mines, railroad investments and other enterprises. Hill gained a reputation in Antebellum Georgia as a magnificent speaker and that talent soared to new heights in the Reconstruction period. With his great speaking ability, he scoured Brown even before the publication of "Notes on the Situation." In July, 1867, he delivered a stirring speech against Congressional Reconstruction, Negro suffrage and Brown at Davis Hall in Atlanta. General Pope attended the speech and thought it a good reason why the South should have been considered conquered land instead of reconstructable states. 7 �Meanwhile, Georgia was reconstructed by a desegregated General Assembly, a Republican governor was elected and inaugurated and Hill and the majority of Georgia's white citizens were mortified. At a rally to support the national slate for the Democratic party in July, 1868, Hill delivered his "Bush Arbor" address. The rally took place in downtown Atlanta under the arbor to protect participants from the heat. He attacked the Republican Governor, the General Assembly and others who might have aided Bullock's election. Henry Grady remembered his boyhood sensation as he listened to the speech; watched Robert Toombs throw his hat in the air as a reaction; and Grady picked up Toombs' hat and returned it to him. Suddenly late in 1870, Hill announced that he had changed his mind about the Reconstruction policy. Since it was inevitable, Southerners should go ahead and bow to it and get it over with and move on to other issues. By finishing the process Georgia could "regain control of her own affairs." Needless to say, Georgians were stunned at the announcement. If Brown had been a traitor in reaching those conclusions, then how much more was Hill? Brown thought that the statements Hill made did "not look like the productions of the same mind." There is another interesting irony in this period, too, involving the two men; Brown was a leader in the Republican party and Hill was a spokesman for the Democrats. Another interesting announcement was made about the same time that Hill changed his political mind. It was reported that Chief Justice Brown had resigned from the Georgia Supreme Court to become the President of the Western and Atlantic Railroad Leasing Company. Further, one of the several stockholders hi the venture was Hill. Brown successfully pursued the lease by underground politics and interesting alliances involving Hill and others. The railroad prospered significantly under Brown's leadership and the stockholders were well rewarded. For the next ten years, Brown attended to economic affairs for most of the time. Even so, there were unusual political turns for him. In 1872, he led the Liberal Republican group in Georgia as they supported Horace Greely for President of the United States as opposed to President U. S. Grant. Then in 1876, he represented the Democratic party in Florida in attempts to turn the disputed votes there to Samuel Tilden. While he was unsuccessful in Tilden's behalf, he did manage to move smoothly back into the Democratic party. Hill bought several thousand acres of farm land in South Georgia and made an attempt at farming. He did not make nearly the money that Brown made in his ventures even though he was paid legal fees for one case in the range of $50,000 to $65,000. His speaking ability remained his most distinguished attribute. Even after his infamous change of mind in 1870, he made his most memorable speech in 1871 to the University of Georgia Alumni. Known as Hill's "New South" speech, he held the 8 �audience spellbound while he dismissed the "Old South" and cried out for a "New South." Hill's version of a "New South" would make better use of modern agricultural methods and use natural resources more efficiently as he promoted education at all levels. His address pre-dated Henry Grady's "New South" speech by several years. But Hill was not forced to remain in the political "dog house" as long as Brown. In 1875, he was elected as a Democrat to the United States House of Representatives to fill an unexpired term of a deceased incumbent. He was re-elected and served in the House until 1877. In the House, his most famous speech involved a debate with Rep. James G. Elaine in 1876. Elaine attempted to wave the political "bloody shirt" in the Congress. Hill, effectively defended Confederate President Jefferson Davis and the Andersonville tragedy. He accused Elaine of raising the issue to win the Republican nomination for President of the United States in 1876. In 1877, Hill was elected to the United States Senate where he was joined by Brown in 1880. In a political arrangement between Governor Alfred H. Colquitt, General John B. Gordon with Brown, Gordon resigned the Senate seat, Colquitt appointed Brown to the Senate and Brown supported Colquitt for re-election as governor. Subsequently, Brown was elected to the seat by the General Assembly and re-elected in 1884 to a full term that lasted to 1891. In the Senate he advocated internal improvements within the states, statehood for Utah and silver money among other rather liberal issues, though he was a staunch conservative, otherwise. During those years, too, he became an educational philanthropist and an active leader in the Southern Baptist Convention. In 1882, Hill died of throat cancer and Brown participated in a memorial service for him in Atlanta. Twelve years later, Brown died of respiratory problems. They are both buried in Oakland Cemetery in Atlanta. Hill made a great deal of money but spent it unwisely and indulged his family. He left his wife the house in Atlanta and ten thousand dollars. Brown left a fortune of one and one half million dollars at the least, but more probably several millions of dollars. As one attempts to compare the lives of the two men, various stereotypes of Brown's mountain and Hill's "Old South" cultures may be applied. When one does that, it is amazing in how many ways their expected roles are reversed until the early Reconstruction period. In that era, economics became the great concern and in the end, the two old enemies joined together in business ventures and in politics. Had Brown followed the stereotype of the nineteenth century mountain man, he would have clung to illiteracy as a way of life. There would have been a tendency toward clanishness and a reticence to leave the area of his birth. Religion would have been spasmodic and primitive in practice. Brown was the opposite of those and most of the other general characteristics of nineteenth century Appalachian Mountain folk. 9 �With sixty-five slaves in 1860, Hill might have been more the "fireeater" in preserving the culture in which he lived. He might have been much more "States right" oriented than he was before the War in Confederate affairs. Had he been more the "Old South" activist, he would have joined with Robert Toombs and countless others in "never giving up." Historians ought to be pleased that the two men did not fit the mold that their communities cast for them. If it had been otherwise, Brown might have been a mountain school-teacher and sometime lawyer at best. There would have been no political career that spanned all branches of state government and into the United States Senate. Further, there might not be a Georgia State-owned railroad today, much less the great personal fortune he developed. For Hill, he might have died an embittered "Old South" lawyer and "hack" politician. There might not have been his greatest speech on the "New South." Without the Hill-Blaine Debate, the "Bloody Shirt" politics might have been much worse. In closing, let us all be thankful for leaders who are willing to step out of the stereotype and the molds into which they are placed. The willingness to do that is one of the several attributes of leadership. �APPALACHIAN HANDICRAFT: COMMERCIALISM AND AUTHENTICITY Toward a Definition of Folk Art Mildred Dunevant; Appalachian State University; Boone, NC The Penland Family of Potters Terence Painter; Maggie Valley, NC Nineteenth Century Quilts in Macon Co., North Carolina Laurel Horton; McKissick Museums; Univ. of South Carolina; Columbia, SC Jewel Waters, North Georgia Woodcarver Bob Hughes, Pat Meisel; Georgia Southern College; Statesboro, GA Convenor: Bob Conway; N. C. Div. of Archives & History; Asheville, NC Nineteenth Century Quilts in Macon County, North Carolina by Laurel Horton One of the major tasks of present-day quilt historians is the examination of generally accepted assumptions about American quiltmaking traditions. In the Southern Appalachian mountains, that study is complicated and obscured by widely believed and exaggerated romantic notions of mountain life generally. As with most stereotypes these may be based on some truths, but the problem is that they obscure other truths which reflect the real variety of experience within mountain culture. The stereotyped picture, in its extreme form, goes something like this: That the Southern mountains were settled by refugees and misfits from Tidewater culture; that these unfortunate folks took advantage of the mountainous terrain to escape from authority in its various forms, so that they could make their moonshine, shoot their neighbors, and marry their cousins; that they avoided with suspicion any contact with the outside world, and consequently, had to grow or manufacture everything they needed to live, including all food, clothing and shelter; that as a result they were completely ignorant of events and products of the civilized world; that because of their isolation and remoteness, they preserved their backward self-sufficiency unchanged well into the twentieth century, and to hear some people, if you go back into the hollers far enough, you can still find people untouched by the outside world, sitting in their log cabins, speaking pure Elizabethan English, singing ballads, and making baskets and quilts. We can laugh at this exaggeration, just as we laughed at the distorted view of mountain culture when we used to watch "The Beverly 11 �Hillbillies." Still, we have never examined the assumptions behind the comedy. We assumed that there was some truth there without question. Two groups are partly responsible for purveying these distortions. The first group are the travellers, local color writers, and tourists who have flocked to the mountains in great numbers since the railroads arrived in the late 1800's. They saw what they had planned to see, spectacular natural beauty and people living as they imagined their pioneer forebears had lived. Because they were mostly urban dwellers, their first close look at rural America convinced them that they were travelling backward in time, visiting their "contemporary ancestors," and "yesterday's people." The second group were Northern social workers who sought to improve the h'fe of the mountaineers. Some did this by recruiting laborers for the growing number of cotton mills in and around the mountains. Others, who wanted to preserve the picturesque aspects of the area, taught mountaineers to weave coverlets, to make baskets and quilts, and to carve little wooden animals, all to sell to tourists. This is an oversimplified explanation of why we associate crafts with the Southern mountains. Several years ago at the North Carolina Quilt Symposium, a midwestern quilter told me she would be driving back home through the mountains and could I please tell her where she could stop off to see mountain ladies quilting. She had just spent three days with hundreds of quitters from all over the country, but she assumed that mountain quilters would be different, somehow pure and unaffected, and that they would be on display, perhaps under glass. These stereotypes prevent us from seeing the wide diversity that has always been a part of Appalachian life. The new field of Appalachian Studies has encouraged dozens of scholars to produce volumes examining the myths and realities of Southern mountain history and culture. For my part in this work I have chosen to study quilts made in one North Carolina mountain county prior to the crafts revival of the twentieth century, with particular emphasis on the changing range of fabrics available to quiltmakers. Fabric selection is possibly the single most important element influencing the way quilts look. To take a fresh look at mountain quilts, we'll start with geography. The Appalachian range is mountains, including foothills, plateaus, and six thousand foot peaks. Where there are mountians there are also valleys carved out by creeks and rivers. Some valleys are narrow, carrying fastmoving currents, some are wide and fertile. Between the mountains are gaps, formed by wind and water, through which animals and, later, humans, made trails. The Southern Appalachians are recognized by biologists and ecologists for the abundance and diversity of plant and animal life. The Cherokee Indians recognized the area as a good place to live when they came from the North and drove out the earh'er inhabitants. The Cherokee 12 �established small villages and a system of agriculture that supported their basic needs. A system of trails linked these villages to each other and to other tribes along the Atlantic coast, several hundred miles away, with whom the Cherokee traded for shells and for leaves of the Yaupon holly (Ilex vomitoria) which they used to prepare their Black Drink for ceremonial occasions. These trails also brought the first white explorers beginning with DeSoto in the 1600's, and followed by geographers, artists, botanists, and speculators, and especially trappers and traders. Early white traders introduced the Cherokee to aspects of their civilization. Some, such as small pox, had devastating effects. Others were considerably more welcome. Imagine being an Indian woman responsible for taking stiff raw deer hides and other furs and skins and making clothing for a family. Imagine a moment of realization upon seeing for the first time brightly colored cloth carried or worn by a white trader, then to discover that the price of this wonderful, labor-saving stuff is to be paid with those very pelts and hides they would replace. This represents a very major cultural innovation. Lest we tend to view such exchanges as accidental, haphazard, or infrequent, we must note that by 1707, the trade between the Cherokee and other tribes and white entrepreneurs operating out of Charleston, South Carolina, had reached such proportions and had become so lucrative that the colonial government of that state formed a Board of Commissioners to regulate the trade and license the traders. In 1716, this Board formed an official commercial treaty with the Cherokee Nation. John Henry Logan, in his History of the Upper Country of South Carolina, recreates a trading scene from this period: The smoke from a hundred campfires curls above the thick tops of the trees and the woods resound with the neighing of horses, and the barking of hungry Indian dogs. A large supply of goods has arrived from Charleston, and every pack-saddle came down from the Nation loaded with skins and furs, and these being now displayed to the best advantage, the work of barter begins. In the open air and in the trading-house are congregated a motley assembly of pack-horsemen, traders, hunters, squaws, children, soldiers, and stately Indian warriors—some silent and grave, seemingly uninterested in the scene; but the greater number loudly huxtering, and obstinately contending over their respective commodities in trade, in many barbarous tongues. The hunters from distant wilds want a supply of powder and ball, each squaw fancies some bright-colored fabric for a new petticoat or dress, while the warriors and old men eagerly demand guns, ammunition and blankets. 13 �The clamor begins, however, presently to subside, and at length the last bargain has been struck, and the goods and peltries have alike changed hands. The packs are once more made up; the goods for the Indian towns, and the skins for the market on the seaboard, and everything is again ready for the trail . . . The trains enter the narrow paths, and are soon far on their way, leaving the garrisons and agents of the posts to the dull monotony of the wilderness till their next visit. (1) Not all of the treaties made between the colonial and state governments and the Cherokee Nation were commercial. In a series of treaties the Cherokee ceded large portions of their land, in the vain hope that white settlers would be satisfied and would leave them the rest. Usually the land they gave up was already occupied by illegal white settlers. In 1817-19, the Cherokee ceded to the State of North Carolina the section which includes present-day Macon County. About this time Jacob Siler and William Brittain came into the area, bought an Indian cabin, and set up a store, to carry on trade with the Indians and to supply the needs of earlier settlers and the growing swell of newcomers, now that settlement was legal. Siler and Brittain hauled their wares by wagon and horseback over the mountain trails, from lowland trading centers to the south and east. Their wares would have included many of the same items earlier traded to the Indians, including iron cooking pots, guns and ammunition, blankets, and fabrics. The first settlers in Macon County claimed large tracts of fertile flat land along the Little Tennessee River and larger creeks. They selected the site of the old Cherokee town of Nikwasi for their own county seat of Franklin. Later arrivals took up the remaining available land on smaller creeks and in the steeper coves. Within a few years the larger landowners had established flourishing farms. They produced a wide variety of agricultural products and hauled their surplus grain, fruit, and livestock to market towns in the low country where they traded for a wider selection of goods than was available at local stores. Roads were poor in the mountains during the nineteenth century, just as they were nearly everywhere in rural America at that time. Passage over the mountains was slow so travellers expected their market trips to take many days. These well-to-do landowners formed a middle-class within the stratification of mountain society. Ronald Eller, in his book Miners, Millhands, and Mountaineers: The Modernization of the Appalachian South, 1880-1930, describes this group in this way: Usually the first to arrive on the land, such families had acquired large land holdings and by 1830 had emerged as a resident ruling class. More noticeable in the larger valleys and county seat towns, these wealthier families provided the political 14 �leadership in the mountains and often controlled local commercial enterprises. Their descendants, having access to resources and educational opportunities in the flatlands, became merchants, teachers, and lawyers. (2) To illustrate this point, here is a portion of a letter written by Laura Siler, a Macon County girl, to her favorite cousin, in which she entertains him with an ironic description of her boarding school experience in Asheville, which is 70 miles from Franklin and would have represented a journey of at least two days over two major mountain ranges: September 29, 1847 Dear Cousin Leon, Well as you are aware I am settled in for the present in the notable city of Asheville. A place unsurpassed in the known world for the intelligence, refinement, correct taste, generosity and hospitality of its inhabitants, qualities that could not but endear them to so warm hearted a creature as I, especially when with that extra warmth of heart is united a mind and taste so fully capable of appreciating the many excellencies enumerated. Hah! (3) The middle-class in Macon County formed a minority within the population, but its influence was felt by all. Even the residents of small farms higher in the coves would have been aware of this group as fashion setters in architectural styles, clothing, and politics. A middle-class household inventory in the mid-nineteenth century would have included looms and spinning wheels to produce home furnishings and everyday clothing for the family and any servants or slaves. Macon County farmers raised sheep, consequently wool was available for clothing and blankets at little cost. As we are now beginning to realize, quilts were not as commonplace in early America as was once thought. Until the widespread availability of inexpensive manufactured fabric in the second half of the nineteenth century, there simply wasn't an abundance of desirable fabric scraps. Most quilts which remain from that period are well-planned with the same fabrics throughout. We used to assume that there must have been large numbers of utilitarian scrap quilts that supplied the bedding needs of most of the population and that these quilts were worn out long ago, leaving no trace. But upon close examination it appears that in Macon County, as elsewhere during the early nineteenth century, blankets were cheap and available and quilts were special creations. A woman planning to spend the time and effort to make a quilt was likely also to have gone to the expense to purchase fabric especially for that quilt. The Siler family in Macon County, like most of their neighbors, had little access to cash money. They bartered and they maintained charge 15 �accounts with local storekeepers which were settled once or twice a year. A record of the Siler family account with T. C. Bryson's store for 1849 survives in the Siler Family papers in the Southern Historical Collection. This account shows us what was purchased during that year and the prices paid. Among other items are included the following: 10 yds linen 1 doz buttons IVt yd swiss muslin 2 pr ladies hoes [sic] 1 pr bl kid gloves 1 card hooks & eyes 10 yds calico 6 yds domestic 1 peice [sic] wadding 1 tooth brush 1 cake almond soap 40 p 10 p 60 p 40 p 1-00 10 15 p 15 p 5 15 10 yd dz yd pr yd yd (4) We know that the Silers were a well-to-do family. Laura Siler married a doctor who later was elected to the State legislature. Not everyone in the mountains could afford to buy almond soap and black kid gloves, but these existed side by side with home-made lye soap and hand-knitted mittens. The availability of goods and the steady commerce in and out of the area affected everyone. Every family had to come into town from time to time and country people were aware of what merchandise was available even if they couldn't often afford it. Some people have characterized the pre-Civil War and pre-industrial period in the mountains as a kind of golden age of comparative prosperity and well-being. The Civil War, the slow economic conditions and uncertain political situations afterward, followed by the exploitation of timber and minerals by outside interests and the advent of tourism in the late nineteenth century drastically altered the mountain region and its people. Traditional family life, agricultural patterns and the economic base were irrevocably changed. The problems which emerged during this period were not the result of the region being isolated from the outside world, but of the impact of modernization imposed by these outside interests. While there were places within the mountains that were at times comparatively inaccessible, there was never a period when mountain people were "cut off from the outside world." The trails and roads that brought people into the area didn't somehow close up behind them. Having dealt with the myths of isolation and self-sufficiency, we now have a proper framework through which to view the quilts. I am indebted to Laura Nelle Estes of Franklin for locating these quilts and arranging interviews with their owners. 16 �Rose of Sharon—made by Aunt Matt Anderson Circa 1860—83" x 85" A Rose of Sharon quilt was made, according to family tradition, by Aunt Matt Anderson, who worked as a live-in seamstress hired in the fall and winter to sew family clothing for Dr. and Mrs. A. C. Brabson and their eleven children. The Brabsons lived in the Riverside community south of Franklin in a large frame house which still stands. The fine work and precision reinforce the implication that this quilt was made by a professional seamstress. The seeming incongruity between the red and green fabrics in the blocks and the blue and tan tones in the border is attributable to fading of the cretonne prints of the latter. The batting in this quilt is wool, which is unusual for Southern quilts generally, but which may have been more available than cotton in the mountains. (5) 17 �Cotton Boll—made by Elizabeth Sanders Morrison Circa 1864-63'/!" x 80" A Cotton Boll quilt was reportedly made by Elizabeth Sanders, who was born in 1833, married William Morrison, and died in 1864. The present owner is the quiltmaker's great-granddaughter and still has the Bible that Elizabeth Sanders received for her eleventh birthday. The applique design is similar to a quilt owned by the North Caorlina Museum of History. The four-corner arrangement is fairly uncommon, more often associated with very large applique motifs. The applique has been sewn on a machine, so it appears that there were sewing machines in the mountains at an early date. (6) 18 �North Carolina Lily Variation—made by Margaret Gillespie Slagle Circa 1880—66'/*" x 75" An unusual quilt (7) was reportedly made by Margaret Gillespie as a young girl before her marriage to Henry Slagle in 1888. She was the granddaughter of Jesse Siler, an early Macon County resident, and the mother of the present owner. This quilt is a variation of the North Carolina Lily. The stems were apparently green originally but have now faded to tan. The most striking feature is the red gathered and appliqued "dahlia" flowers. One is missing, leading to speculation that someone at some point took it apart to see how it was made. 19 �Star Quilt—reportedly made by Mary Morrison Bryson Circa 1880—62" x 76'/z" A Star quilt was reportedly made by Mary Morrison Bryson, who was born on May 10, 1841, and died on May 10, 1918. She married Samuel Byers Bryson, who died in 1895. They had ten children, one of whom, Robert T., was the father of the present owner. The maker of this quilt was related to the husband of the woman who made the Cotton Boll quilt. Four corner pieced arrangements are even less common than in applique. Perhaps Mary got the idea from her in-law. The quilt contains an unusual combination of printed fabrics in red, white, pink, and blue prints, but as the fabrics are consistent throughout, this appears to have been intentional. (8) 20 �Burr—made by Harriet Love Anderson Stallcup Circa 1880—69'A:" x 75%" A Pine Burr quilt was reportedly made by Harriet Love Anderson Stallcup, who lived in Tennessee, was widowed there, and moved to Macon County with her second husband just after the Civil War. Harriet Stallcup was the great-grandmother of the present owner's husband. The fabrics in this quilt are typical of the late nineteenth century, although the blue, pink, and green combination is uncommon. By alternating two colors in the same block the maker has created an even more complex design than usual. In conclusion, these quilts made by early Macon County residents and handed down within their families do not fit the stereotype of isolation and self-sufficiency usually associated with mountain culture and mountain crafts. Doubtless there were quilts made from remnants of homespun, home-woven fabrics, and scrap quilts from more homely fabrics, but it seems there were also, at the same time, women who selected and purchased fabric in order to make formal, planned quilts. It is possible that these special quilts were the rule rather than the exception. These quilts 21 �are in many ways similar to nineteenth century quilts made elsewhere in the country. Since these are truly "mountain quilts" we must now expand our definition of that term to include them. Notes and References (1) Logan, John H., A History of the Upper Country of South Carolina, S. G. Courtenay & Co., Charleston, and P. B. Glass, Columbia, 1859, (The Reprint Co., Spartanburg, 1960), pp. 251-252. (2) Eller, Ronald D., Miners, Millhands, and Mountaineers: The Modernization of the Appalachian South, 1880-1930, The University of Tennessee Press, Knoxville, 1982, p. 11. (3) Ms. letter, Laura Siler, September 29,1847, in the Lyle and Siler Family Papers (#1818), Southern Historical Collection, Library of the University of North Carolina at Chapel Hill. (4) Ms. store account record, dated August 11, 1849, in the Lyle and Siler Family Papers (#1818), Southern Historical Collection, Library of the University of North Carolina at Chapel Hill. (5) Applique quilt, Rose of Sharon, made by Aunt Matt Anderson, Macon County, N. C., c. 1860. In collection of Betty Ann Bryant. (6) Applique quilt, Cotton Boll, made by Elizabeth Sanders Morrison, Macon County, N. C., c. 1864. In collection of Sue Waldroop. (7) Pieced and applique quilt, North Carolina Lily variation, made by Margaret Gillespie Slagle, Macon County, N. C., c. 1880. In collection of Harriet Slagle Setser. (8) Pieced quilt, Star, made by Mary Morrison Bryson, Macon County, N. C., c. 1880. (9) Pieced quilt, Pine Burr, made by Harriet Love Anderson Stallcup, Macon County, N. C., c. 1880. Bibliography Clark, Thomas D. Pills, Petticoats and Plows: The Southern Country Store. The University of Oklahoma Press, Norman, 1944. Eaton, Allen H. Handicrafts of the Southern Highlands. Russell Sage Foundation, New York, 1937. (Dover, New York, 1973). Eller, Ronald D. Miners, Millhands, and Mountaineers: The Modernization of the Appalachian South, 1880-1930. The University of Tennessee Press, Knoxville, 1982. Logan, John H. A History of the Upper Country of South Carolina, from the Earliest Period to the Close of the War of Independence. S. G. Courtenay & Co., Charleston, and P. B. Glass, Columbia, 1859. (The Reprint Co., Spartanburg, 1960). Lyle and Siler Family Papers (#1818) in the Southern Historical Collection, Library of the University of North Carolina at Chapel Hill. Shapiro, Henry D. Appalachia On Our Mind: The Southern Mountains and Mountaineers in the American Consciousness. The University of North Carolina Press, Chapel Hill, 1978. "Macon County" vertical file folder, Macon County Public Library, Franklin, N. C. 22 �INTERPRETING THE MOUNTAIN WOMAN'S EXPERIENCE Emma Bell Miles: Pioneer Folklorist of Appalachia Grace Toney Edwards; Radford University; Radford, VA The Science Poetry of Marilou Awiakta Parks Lanier; Radford University; Radford, VA Alma Kathryn Stripling Byer; Cullowhee, NC Going Home Ron Willoughby; Radford University, Radford, VA Convenor Nancy Joyner: Western Carolina University; Cullowhee, NC Emma Bell Miles Pioneer Folklorist of Appalachia by Grace Toney Edwards Allow me to introduce you to, or perhaps renew your acquaintance with, a woman whose impact on Appalachia has been significant. Hers is not the impact of a thundering explosion or even a great shudder, but rather that of a gentle rain that comes and goes, leaving behind it a soil refreshed and renewed. I speak of Emma Bell Miles, of Walden's Ridge, Tennessee. Her span on earth was relatively short, from 1879-1919, and her public career as a writer was even shorter — a scant fifteen years, from 1904-1919. Yet in that brief moment she produced two published books of prose, two books of poetry, at least fourteen short stories, more than a hundred newspaper columns, a dozen magazine articles, five volumes of personal journals, and scores of letters. Alongside the written products I must point to her art work: drawing, painting, illustrating, wall murals, and even some interior decorating. And these feats she accomplished while bearing and raising five children, keeping house for her husband, Frank Miles, growing a garden to help feed the brood, scouting the woods for blackberries and wild grapes, etc., etc. Her familial and domestic chores were not unusual for a mountain woman around the turn of the century, but her creative writing and her artwork certainly were. Miles is one of many women writers who chose the mountains and mountaineers as their subjects about this time. But she had a unique view not matched by others of her genre or time: she was a local mountain woman writing about her people. Although not mountain born, she was primarily mountain bred. True, she came out of a different culture from that of the mountains; her family heritage and education were different from those of most mountaineers. She was an only child; her parents were 23 �school teachers; and she was widely read and well educated by them. But these facts of difference gave her the bases from which she would later develop her dual perspective on mountain culture: that of outsider and insider. She was an insider by virtue of having lived on Walden's Ridge from the time she was ten years old and by virtue of having married a mountain man from one of the pioneer families and by virtue of having borne and raised a mountain family in a manner fairly typical of a Walden's Ridge lifestyle. She had five children over the course of seven years, starting with twin daughters in 1902. She lived in a series of small houses ranging from a tent to a tarpaper shack to a mountain cabin. She lived in poverty, for there was no way to make a living except through farming and occasional day labor; and Frank was not a steady adherent to either of those activities. Emma carried the burden of supporting the family through her writing and painting. I am making a case for her as an insider, but of course, the writing, sketching, and drawing were not typical among the women in a culture where illiteracy was the norm and utilitarianism the dominant force. In fact, Emma's exercising of these talents raised real suspicion among her husband's relatives and other mountain neighbors. As Grandma Miles, Emma's mother-in-law, was to say: "These here writers and typewriters will do to watch!"' In a culture operating largely through oral communication and by traditional standards, such suspicion is understandable. Indeed, it was such conflicts as the role of artist as perceived by mainstream culture and the role of wife and mother as perceived by the mountain folk culture that forever complicated Emma Bell Miles' life and in turn added much depth of insight and feeling to her writings. And it was the richness of the oral tradition that she so often turned to as subject matter for her works. Miles wrote a variety of types of things, as mentioned earlier, including both poetry and prose. Many of these works were filled with folklore of her own collecting, which she placed in context and analyzed according to quite modern trends touted by professionals today. She was nationally published in the popular magazines of her day and in her two books; the magazines carried her poems first, then an article on mountain music, and eventually her short stories. She was recognized in Who's Who in America and other leading biographies for several years. And yet she and her works virtually disappeared from the public mind for about fifty years or more after her death. Then in 1975 the University of Tennessee Press brought Miles' name back into the view of Appalachian scholars and followers by reprinting her 1905 book about life in the southern mountains. Although The Spirit of the Mountains revived her name, there are still many revelations waiting to be made about her total output of literary and artistic works. 24 �I make a claim for her today as one of the earliest pioneer folklorists of the Appalachian region. By 1900 she had begun to note the speech, the stories, the songs, the customs of her Walden's Ridge, Tennessee, neighbors. Though she was not trained as a folklorist and would never have called herself that, she believed that somewhere there was an audience who would like to read about "her people" in southeastern Tennessee. In 1904 she found that audience through a national publication, Harper's Magazine. Harper's accepted her article entitled "Some Real American Music" and ran it in the June issue. The article began with these words: "It is generally believed that America has no folk-music, nothing distinctively native out of which a national school of advanced composition may arise." Two paragraphs later she contended: "But there is hidden among the mountains of Kentucky, Tennessee, and the Carolinas a people of whose inner nature and its musical expression almost nothing has been said. The music of the Southern mountaineer is not only peculiar, but, like himself, peculiarly American."2 In the article Miles combined text, context, and analysis. She gave the words, and in several cases, music, for sixteen songs; she recounted the circumstances under which such songs might be sung and expressed the reactions of both performer and audience to the performance; she traced the lineage of several of the pieces back to their English, Irish, and Scottish roots; and she evaluated the significance of this mountain music in terms of the contribution it could make to a "national American music." One specific song which she gave "exactly as it was sung to me by two young girls in the mountains" began: It was a ladie bright; Each child she had was three; She sent them off to a Northern State, For to learn their gramarie. Though she made no specific analysis of the ballad in this article, she introduced it by saying: "The mountaineers sing many ballads of old England and Scotland. Their taste in music has no doubt been guided by these, which have come down from their ancestors."8 One year later in the book, The Spirit of the Mountains, she expanded the Harper's article to become Chapter VIII, still entitled "Some Real American Music." Here she suggests that "it should delight the heart of the student of English to compare the following instance ['A Ladie Bright'] with 'The Clerk's Twa Sons of Owsenford' and 'The Wife of Usher's Well.'"4 She also added a final variant stanza that she obviously had collected after she did the original research for the article. To place the chapter on music into its larger context, perhaps an overview of her framework for The Spirit of the Mountains is appropriate. This book contains ten chapters about mountain life, any one of which can be pulled out and read separately as an essay complete in itself. The setting 25 �is not specified as to which mountains are being described, but internal evidence continually points to the Walden's Ridge culture as the model for the author. However, she does fictionalize places and people in the book. She is not attempting a strict ethnography but rather is writing in the local-color travel book genre popular around the turn of the century. (Wilma Dykeman calls this the "parlor tradition" in contrast to the "frontier tradition" from which Sut Lovingood springs.)6 To follow the conventions of that genre, she must compare and contrast the folk culture she is describing with mainstream culture. That means approaching the subject from the outsider's view or at least from the outsider's standard of measurement. Thus, Miles adopts the persona of mountain school teacher for her narrator, which implies education in and exposure to mainstream culture. Yet she wants to build on her inside perspective and so establishes early in the book that she is o/the mountains, that she attended the same log church school which she now teaches. She dots her writing with we, us, our, and even more blatantly, with my people or my own people. Unfortunately, this inclusion of self sometimes seems superimposed and may produce the opposite effect of that intended. Ultimately she balances the duality of inside and outside perspectives to produce a book that shows both the quaint and the ordinary, the pretty and the ugly, the romance and the realism of the Tennessee mountain culture in the early 1900's. Let us pay attention again, now, to my claim that she was one of the pioneer folklorists for Appalachia. If one places Miles in the history of formalized folklore collecting in America, he finds that she was a very early collector and analyst who did all the right things according to today's standards: i.e. collected texts, provided contexts, and analyzed the function and place of the lore in the culture. Yet, as I said before, Miles would never have called herself a folklorist. She was a writer. Whether or not she was even aware of Francis James Child's mammoth work on The English and Scottish Popular Ballads, I cannot say. I can assert, however, that she gave the lie to Child's claim that all the old ballads were dead, for she had found several of them alive and well on Walden's Ridge, Tennesseemost specifically his #79, "The Wife of Usher's Well," sung to her as "A Ladie Bright." At the time she was writing these things, the American Folklore Society was only fifteen years old. A few isolated reports of bits of folklore had come out of the Southern Appalachians, but nothing on any great scale. Cecil Sharp, who is generally noted as the discoverer of traditional ballads in the mountains, was not to be heard of before 1916. Yet Emma Bell Miles collected ballads and folksongs and reported them in Harper's Magazine in 1904. Moreover, she showed how and when they were performed by the mountaineer; she placed him on the porch of his mountain cabin; she analyzed why he sings one kind of song and not another; why, for example, humor was so important in his music. She distinguished 26 �between songs sung by mountain men and those sung by mountain women. She saw a marked difference between male and female personalities and influences. The men, she believed, belonged to the "young nation, the young America." Thus, they sang songs of rollicking adventure or fun-loving ditties. The women, on the other hand, were of the "old race" because they lived with things that were old: their furnishings, their houses, their utensils were passed down through the generations and all had long histories and old traditions attached to them.6 The men came indoors only to eat and sleep and then were out again hunting, farming, sawmilling, whatever; but the women lived inside with the old things. Consequently, the women crooned the traditional ballads of death, desolation, and domestic problems while they worked at the loom or spinning wheel or knitting. Along with her collection and analysis of songs, Miles undertook a similar task with tales and legends. Without realizing what she did, she presented an interesting case study of how a piece of folklore is transmitted through the years and generations. She related the story of old Joe Winchester's search for the lost Cherokee silver mine. This was a family legend among the Winchesters, who were the people of Frank Miles' mother. Emma stated that she first heard the story as a child sitting on a sheepskin in front of a roaring fire in somebody's cabin. From then to adulthood she heard it several times from different people but with little variation. After her marriage she heard the story most often from Grandma Miles, who had a real flair for storytelling. But Grandpap was such a realist that he often squelched Grandma when she began to tell tales of questionable truth. Thus, the Joe Winchester story had practically dropped out of Grandma's repertoire so that one avenue of transmission was being sealed off. But Emma Bell Miles herself had picked it up and relayed it in print, in The Spirit of the Mountains,'' so that another avenue had opened up. And in all likelihood the legend was still alive in the oral tradition of other people on the Ridge since Miles had heard it from various sources. In such a fashion, then, is folklore transmitted—sometimes moving from oral tradition into print and then back out again, but continuing to live through the ages. In The Spirit of the Mountains Miles also discussed mountain dialect, proverbs, rhymes, superstitions, the supernatural, religion and a number of other topics revealing mountain culture. But the point I would leave you with is the significant contribution Miles made as one of the earliest folklorists, whether she knew it or not, in the Southern Appalachians. Long before Cecil Sharp, or Richard Chase, or Leonard Roberts, or Frank C. Brown, Emma Bell Miles was collecting and analyzing the lore of the mountains—all part of the oral tradition which she correctly saw as a valuable component of American literature, and certainly of American culture. 27 �And for this atypical mountain woman, it was the typical mountain experience of home and family that gave her the stuff of which her contribution was fabricated: she took it from her children, her husband, her relatives, her neighbors, the Ridge itself. She told her own story almost eighty years ago; and even though her voice was silenced much too early, at the young age of thirty-nine, today we are the heirs to this remarkable woman's legacy, Emma Bell Miles. Notes 'Emma Bell Miles, Unpublished Journal, Vol. II, MS, 2 June 1912. This and volumes I, IV, and V of the personal journals are in the possession of Judith Miles Ford of Aline, Oklahoma. The manuscript of volume III is missing; however, typescript versions are held by the Chattanooga-Hamilton County Bicentennial Library and by the Tennessee State Library and Archives. 2 Emma Bell Miles, "Some Real American Music," Harper's Monthly Magazine, June 1904, p. 118. "Miles, "Some Real American Music," p. 121. 4 Emma Bell Miles, The Spirit of the Mountains, A Facsimile Edition (Knoxville: The University of Tennessee Press, 1975), p. 163. "Wilma Dykeman, "Appalachian Literature," in Appalachia in Perspective, Series of Videotaped Lectures from the Stokely Institute for Liberal Arts Education, University of Tennessee, Knoxville, Tennessee, Summer 1983. 'Miles, The Spirit of the Mountains, pp. 68-69. 'Miles, The Spirit of the Mountains, pp. 88-97. 28 �The Science Poetry of Marilou Awiakta by Parks Lanier Cartoonist R. Hansen once drew a creature part woman, cockatrice, butterfly, and scorpion—beautiful but bizarre—demurely confessing to a curious little cupid, "My mother never speaks of that particular orgy." One can only feel sympathy for her, which is exactly how one feels when someone tries to discuss the paternity of science fiction. Like success, it has many fathers. Science fiction is a beautiful but bizarre creation, the result of a literary orgy which, some say, has been going on for thousands of years, at least since Gilgamesh, if not before.1 And the orgy is all the more interesting if one remembers science fiction's twin— or clonescience poetry. Science poetry is narrative poetry of estrangement set in an alternate world where the workings of science—biology, chemistry, physics, engineering, etc.—are a major cause or effect.2 Like science fiction, science poetry turns upon what Darko Suvin calls the "novum" or "novelty." "Now the novelty in SF," he says, "can either be a new locus, or an agent (character) with new powers transforming the old locus, or a blend of both."3 Earthlings may travel through time or space, or creatures from other times or other places may travel to earth. Science makes that possible. Science also makes possible "new powers transforming the old locus" without anyone going anywhere in space or tune. Like science fiction, science poetry is attentive to change or transformation. For example, in her poem "The Planet," Josephine Jacobsen takes us to the moon's Sea of Tranquility, from which we view beautiful earth with "green fields, green fields/ocean of grasses, breakers of daisies" (11. 9-10).4 With a similar image of green grass in mind, Knute Skinner, in "Imagine Grass," invites 29 �us to journey to "a far-flung star/of an unnumbered magnitude/Mount Palomar has never viewed," (11.10-12), but before we leave he reminds us: The planet that we plant upon rolls through its orbit of the sun, bending our grass upon the breeze. While far away the galaxies in a decelerating pace reach for the outer edge of space.6 (11. 1-6) Such a cosmic view, such a dramatic and sublime change of locus, is always thrilling. But so, too, is a transformation wrought on this earth, "the planet that we plant upon." Marilou Awiakta has taken such transformation as her subject in her collection of science poems Abiding Appalachia: Where Mountain and Atom Meet. Oak Ridge, Tennessee, 1942: first there was the mystery, "new powers transforming the old locus," as Darko Suvin expresses it. Marilou Awiakta says that when she was a child of seven living in Knoxville, city of her birth, she realized that, . . . a few miles away, we had a new frontier. Daddy went first, in '43—leaving at dawn coming home at dark and saying nothing of his work except, "It's at Y-12, in Bear Creek Valley." The mystery deepened. The hum grew stronger. And I longed to go. Oak Ridge had a magic sound . . . .8 In a recent article for MS. magazine, Marilou expands on this story. Her father did not even know how his job fit the mysterious work going on at Oak Ridge. He could go only to his place of employment, not to "the most secret part" guarded by a maze of fences. What lay within that area he did not know. He saw "long, heavy trucks coming in. What they're bringing just seems to disappear. Somebody must know what happens to it, but nobody ever talks about it."7 Something alien was being built, but not by aliens. A transforming force had come to Oak Ridge. "I can't imagine what," Marilou's father said. "I couldn't either," she says. "But I could feel its energy like a great hum."8 The writers of science fiction had "imagined what." The "fact" of atomic energy and the atomic bomb became one of the strongest claims for the predictive aspect of science fiction.9 John Campbell, editor of ^4stounding Science Fiction magazine, received a visit from government agents in 1944 after publishing a story about the use of an atomic bomb.10 30 �Lester Del Rey recounts that after his story "Nerves" appeared, a story about "an accident in a nuclear power station,"11 copies of Astounding Science Fiction which appeared at Oak Ridge were "immediately stamped secret, and the research workers were refused permission to read it unless they had top clearance. They had to go outside the government plant to buy the issue from the newstands, where it was freely available."12 Another editor, Philip Wylie, "received a similar visit [from government agents] in 1945; [also] . . . two comic-book stories featuring Superman were actually suppressed."13 The predictions were coming true, and Marilou was attracted to the alien city where gigantic bulldozers were leveling mountains or making new ones: So I kept listening to the hum, and longing . . . Mother said we'd go someday, in the fullness of time. And when I was nine the fullness came, exploding in a mushroom cloud that shook the earth. ("Genesis," 11. 52-55) Nothing was ever to be the same again. Marilou Awiakta quotes Einstein who, after the bombing of Hiroshima, said, "The unleashed power of the atom has changed everything save our modes of thinking, and thus we drift toward unparalleled catastrophe."14 To change "our modes of thinking" is one of the functions of Marilou's science poetry, something which her work has in common with the very best science fiction. For critic Darko Suvin, the essence of science fiction is estrangement. Science fiction, he says, is "the literature of cognitive estrangement";16 that is, it has "a different space/time location or central figures for the fable, unverifiable by common sense."16 There is something alien or unknown. But the aliens, says Suvin, "Utopians, monsters, or simply differing strangers [as they were at Oak Ridge] are a mirror to man just as the differing country [into which Black Oak Ridge was transformed] is a mirror for his world. But the mirror is not only a reflecting one, it is a transforming one, virgin womb and alchemical dynamo: the mirror is a crucible."17 This precisely is the metaphor which fits not only Marilou's subject, but her work as well. First the mirror showed destruction, the carnage of Hiroshima and Nagasaki. What was unknown and unseen "suddenly ... had an image: the mushroom cloud. It had a name: the atom."18 Looking west from Knoxville, Marilou had been lured by the hum of energy. "The atom was poetry in my childhood," she says, "images, rhythms—a presence beautiful, mysterious, dangerous... like the mountain. And I loved them both. Then the atom went awry .. . was alien" (Abiding Appalachia, p. 79). The mushroom cloud was not its only image. The cow in the next field, as docile as Keats's garlanded heifer "lowing at the skies" became an 31 �emblem of the atomic nightmare. A sacrificial beast, she was familiar but alien: She'd like to be a friendly cow, I know, But she's radioactive now and locked behind a fence . . . . . . It hurts my heart that I can't even stroke her head but as mother said, radiation's just not friendly. ("Test Cow," 11. 1-3; 7-10) The cow might as well be from Jupiter, or fallen out of one of the terrible Martian machines in The War of the Worlds. She is an alien mirror to man, and the reflection is ugly and scary. But, as Suvin reminds us, it is also transforming. As so often happens in science fiction, what first is alien and "awry" becomes familiar and comprehensible. The beast becomes beautiful. "I also saw the immense nurturing potential of the atom," Marilou says. "Terminal cancer patients came from everywhere to the research hospital. I especially remember one newspaper photograph of a man with emaciated hands reaching for the 'atomic cocktail' (a container of radioactive isotopes). His face was lighted with hope."19 Once again Marilou felt the poetry of the atom, an experience she records in "Star Vision": In my hand lying prone upon the grass I could see each atom's tiny starminute millions so far-flung so bright they swept me up with earth and sky in one vast expanse of light. ("Star Vision," 11. 6-12) No longer is she apart; she is a part. From her Cherokee foremother she had learned "this firm step of mind/that seeks that whole/in strength and peace" ("An Indian Walkes in Me," 11. 25-27). Admirers of Frank Herbert's Children of Dune will no doubt liken Marilou's experience of communing with her Cherokee ancestors to that of the twins Leto and Ghanima who were "born with a totality of genetic memory, a terrifying awareness which set ... [them] apart from all other living humans."20 Marilou's experience, however, is unifying and consoling, a healing vision which is also a record of poetic rebirth that Marilou has commemorated by adopting a Cherokee surname, Awiakta. 32 �"The atom has found its poetry again and I can feel love once more for its image and its sound," she says (Abiding Appalachia, p. 79). In addition to adopting a new name, for her life and work Marilou created an emblem of "the sacred white deer of the Cherokee, leaping in the heart of the atom The reverent hunter evoked the white deer's blessing and guidance."21 The deer is a symbol of reverence for life,21 the nurturing, mothering aspect of the atom. The little white deer is also a symbol of hope. "There will be no sign of hope," Marilou says, "except deep in the invisible, where the atom's mother heart—slowly and patiently—bears new life."22 Darko Suvin spoke of the alien mirror as "virgin womb and alchemical dynamo." Scientists at Oak Ridge had also perceived the powers of the virgin and the dynamo, calling the reactor " 'The Lady' and, in moments of high emotion, [they] referred to her as 'our beloved reactor.' "23 She inspired them to poetry. "In the control room," Marilou says, "they left a poem, 'To a Loyal Lady,' inscribed as 'thoughts from many hearts' " (Abiding Appalachia, p. 83). Marilou herself came to think of the nuclear reactor as a regal sister: In a nearby valley a new queen reigns. She is a deep pool clear and still and from the slender cylinder of her heart a blue glow rises a glow they call Cerenkov's fire . . . (Abiding Appalachia, p. 87) When her father told her that the graphite core was black, Marilou imagined "a great black queen, standing behind her shield, holding the splitting atom in the shelter of her arms."24 The maternal image is not unlike the iconography of Leonardo's Madonna and Child With St. Anne, where the Child emanates from the lap of the Virgin, who in turn sits upon her mother's lap. First there is Mother, then Daughter, then Cosmic Son. Like the backgrounds of Leonardo's paintings, the background of Abiding Appalachia, for all its atomic science, remains essentially pastoral. This other world is symbolized by the childlike language and unsophisticated memories of Oak Ridge's wooden boardwalks in "Beneath My Feet": "Dryin' out you smell so good/I like to lie against your wood" (11. 13-14). Darko Suvin feels that "the pastoral... is essentially closer to SF [than to fantasy];... SF has much to learn from the pastoral tradition," he believes, "primarily from its directly sensual relationships which do not manifest class alienation."26 The worlds of the pastoral and science 33 �fiction are alike, he says, in "[offering] no assurances as to the outcome of the protagonists' endeavors."26 In the unpredictable pastoral world, Marilou remembers her mother's advice: . . . always test the 'seems' of thingsbriars may lurk in the dew-drenched grass and jagged glass in heaps of leaves. The toughest sole can't bear these without a wound. (Mother's Advice While Bandaging My Stubbed Toe," 11. 5-9) Perfect advice for anyone undertaking atomic research, or for living in a world transformed by it, is her grandfather's advice, "Be plucky, like an Indian." At the beginning of Abiding Appalachia, Marilou evokes memories of the Trail of Tears and the martyrdom of "Tsali, his brother, and all his sons save one" (p. 21) who gave their lives that a remnant of the Cherokee might continue to live in their mountain fastness. Over and over her poems raise the haunting question, "If our atomic present —or futurebecomes our Trail of Tears, will we, too, be 'plucky like an Indian'?" We can be if we let the Indian in Marilou become the Indian in us, and if we resolve as she did, "And no more/could I follow any rule/that split my soul" ("An Indian Walks in Me," 11. 20-22). Fusion. Harmony. This is what explodes from the crucible that is the poetry of Marilou Awiakta. She says, "Mother had already taught me that in the holistic philosophy of my Cherokee ancestors, beyond surface differences, everything is in physical and spiritual connection—God, nature, humanity. Harmony. All are one: a circle. It seemed natural for the atom to be a part of this connection."27 In Abiding Appalachia, she says, "The language of science is coming round. The atom has found its poetry again and I can feel love once more for its image and its sound" (p. 79). Her phrase "coming round" suggests not only accommodation but also her sense of the sacred circle, symbol of unified life. Darko Suvin might see Marilou's reaching toward myth, folklore, or fairytale, expressed in Awi Usdi, small chief of the deer, as "committing creative suicide,"28 for he cannot bear that impulse in science fiction. Such transcendence antagonizes him, yet in science poetry, it seems to me, it is the perfect way to express that yearning which Suvin recognized as lying behind all great science fiction, "a hope of finding in the unknown the ideal environment, tribe, state, intelligence, or other aspect of the Supreme Good (or ... a fear of and revulsion from its contrary)."29 If it is "creative suicide" for science fiction to turn toward the mythical, the religious, the fairytale, in expressing hope of finding the ideal, it is quite the opposite for science poetry, since all poetry springs from an impulse 34 �that is essentially "mythical." As a fitting conclusion for her work, Marilou's final poem, "Where Mountain and Atom Meet," invokes "an aura from the great I Am/that gathers to its own/spirits that have gone before" (11. 6-8). It is precisely at that point of gathering, and at that point only, "where mountain and atom meet," and where we, too, may enter the sacred circle ourselves. NOTES 'Lester Del Key, The World of Science Fiction, 1926-1976 (New York: Garland Publishing Co., 1980), pp. 12-13. 2 The term "science poetry" is my own. The definition, however, is modeled on Darko Suvin's definition of science fiction in Metamorphoses of Science Fiction (New Haven: Yale University Press, 1979), p. 4. "Suvin, p. 79. •Edward Field, ed., A Geography of Poets (New York: Bantam, 1979), p. 327. 'Field, p. 32. "Marilou Bonham Thompson, Abiding Appalachia: Where Mountain and Atom Meet (Memphis: St. Luke's Press, 1978), p. 48. All citations in the text are to this edition. 'Marilou Awiakta, "What is the Atom, Mother? Will it Hurt Us?" MS. (July 1983), p. 47. "Awiakta, p. 47. 'Peter Nicholls, ed. The Science Fiction Encyclopedia (New York: Doubleday, 1979), p. 432. 10 Del Key, p. 108. "Nicholls, p. 432. "Del Key, pp. 108-109. "•Nicholls, p. 432. "Awiakta, p. 48. 16 Suvin, p. 4. "Suvin, p. 18. "Suvin, p. 5 "Awiakta, p. 47. "Awiakta, p. 47. "Frank Herbert, Children of Dune (New York: Berkley Publishing Corp., 1976), p. 4. 21 Awiakta, p. 48. 22 Awiakta, p. 48. 23 Awiakta, p. 47. "Awiakta, p. 47. 35 �'"Suvin, p. 9. "Suvin, p. 19. "Awiakta, p. 47. ^Suvin, p. 8. ""Suvin, p. 5. 36 �Going Home by Ron Willoughby "And God saw everything that he had made, and behold, it was very good." from Genesis 1:31, KJV "But it's the truth even if it didn't happen." One Flew Over the Cuckoo's Nest. I try to talk my mother out of going, but it doesn't do any good. Pardee is the place where she grew up and she wants to see it, or what's left of it, or the place where it was, one more time. So we drive over there, one hundred and fifty miles of four lane road that bulldozes its way across country, then up the narrow hollow on seven miles of one and a half lane humpbacked road that squirms through the woods, following the creek the way a puppy follows its mother. On the other side of the creek a railroad track tags along silently, only occasionally visible through the trees. On both sides of the hollow strip mine high walls follow the contours of the ridges as precisely as lines on a topographic map. We pass through Dunbar, where we lived for a while, where the company sold its houses to the miners, who fixed them up and settled down. Dunbar, population seventy-five, more or less, with no store, no post office, not even a gas station. Nothing but people and their homes. And the mountains. Two miles above Dunbar is Pardee, the end of the line, the head of the hollow lying in the lap of Pine Mountain. Here the road is still in use only because there is a stripping operation going on above Pardee. The blacktop is slowly crumbling and disappearing from the outside edges toward the middle, like a scab on a healing cut. We cross the creek and the railroad tracks, round one last bend, and are in Pardee. The hollow is little more than one hundred yards wide at this point. The road runs along the base of one ridge, and to our left is 37 �the creek, the railroad track and the opposite ridge. Once there were thirty or so houses lined up facing each other across the tracks, white as healthy young teeth. Now there are two teeth left, slowly rotting. The first building we come to is the old church, which stands apart between the creek and the road. It had been a little white clapboard building with a high peaked roof topped by a homemade wooden cross, and served as the center of social life in Pardee. Now it is being razed, and only the front wall is standing. I pull off the road in a cleared space beside the church. A bulldozer is already parked there, a giant yellow eraser waiting to finish rubbing out the last smudges of what had once been Pardee. I look at Mother. She is looking intently at the remains of the church, already back in a time and place that no longer exists. Eventually she nods. "I remember when your daddy and I came to Sunday school and church here," she says. "That was before we were married, mostly. After we were married we lived in Dunbar and Appalachia, and we only came here when we were visiting. Your daddy taught Sunday school some, and there was a piano. We'd sing hymns and have a big time." She is smiling. "And before that, when I was a little girl, we had square dances and parties here. And there was a Christmas program every year. One of the men would dress up like Santa Glaus and give us paper bags full of fruit and nuts and hard candy." We stand silently for a minute longer, then turn away, clunk across the creek on the old wooden-decked bridge, and walk slowly along between the rusty rails of the railroad track. The ditches and the old house sites are overgrown with weeds and blackberry bushes. The two remaining houses are both in the row away from the creek. We stop in front of the first one. The steps are gone and the boards are missing from the floor of the porch. There is no door, and the windows don't even have frames, much less glass. A few shreds of clear plastic hang in the windows and occasionally twitch in a passing breeze. Behind the house the wooded ridge rises steeply, waiting patiently to reclaim its own. The old house is too tired to resist. It sags like a man who has spent twelve hours at the coal face with a pick in his hands. "This is the house where Olin and Glad lived," Mother says. "I'm sure of it." Glad was one of mother's older sisters. She died in 1943 of a kidney infection. A few months after she died penicillin was introduced, and that same kidney infection would have been cleared up in ten days, without going to the hospital. Or so the story goes. I wonder how mother can be so sure this is the house. "And after Glad died, Mary and Rich moved in here." Mary is another of mother's older sisters. She lives by herself in the Wildcat near Big Stone, where she and Rich and several of their children moved in the early fifties. They bought a house and a little piece of land with the insurance 38 �money that they got when Johnny, their second son, was killed in Korea in 1950. Right after his eighteenth birthday. "And right over here," she points, "is where we lived." I shake my head. I vaguely remember what the house looked like, but there's no house there now, and I'm still not sure she can recognize any of these places with certainty. But it doesn't matter. She's certain. "Poppy used to work a twelve hour shift as the tipple foreman," she says. "We had a nicer house than most because he was a foreman. We had this beautiful white trellis in our front yard—do you remember it?— and Poppy told me after your daddy and I ran away to Harlan to get married that he had hoped the two of us would get married at home. We would have stood under the trellis. Said I was his last girl, and all the rest had run off to get married, and he'd hoped I would get married at home." She fell silent. I remember some other stories about Poppy Hall. About how he'd had a lot of money and property at one time, but had let his brother hoodoo him out of it a little at a time while he was drunk, so that in the end Poppy wound up as a mine foreman, and died in a rented house in Norton, while great-uncle Ben ended up rich. Or about how Poppy loved cars, used to buy a new one every year and keep it all shined up. My daddy told me about being with Poppy in his car once with Ray and Shine, two of mother's brothers. They'd just finished shining up the car and the windows were as clear as spring water. So clear that Poppy thought the window was down and spit a great gob of tobacco juice all over it. Daddy said that they were afraid to laugh out loud, so they nearly died because they swelled up ready to burst with all the laughs they swallowed. And mother told me about the time Poppy came home drunk, and for some reason got upset with Mary and tried to throw her out the window of the upstairs bedroom. Mommy Hall ran into the room and started pulling at him, and he turned and hit her. And then he fell down on his knees and cried out, "What have I done?" And after that Poppy never took another drink. Or so the stories go. Mother turned and pointed again. "Over there," she says "was the superintendent's house." This time I know she's right, because I can see the long flight of steps—there must be forty of them—leading up to an empty flat spot on the lower flank of the ridge. The house sat looking out over the rest of the camp like a corporate Big Brother, or so it must have seemed when the union and the company cops came into the hollow. Looking at the empty space at the top of the steps I have an eerie, childish thought: If I walked up those steps to the top, and if I stepped off onto the spot where the house had stood, would I disappear? We wander on up the railroad track toward the remains of the tipple near the head of the hollow, crossing the creek again by stepping from 39 �tie to tie. The water is visible about five feet down through the gaps between the ties, and I remember how terrified I was as a child to make this same crossing. The water seemed to be thirty feet away then, but I made the crossing anyway because I was even more terrified of being called "chicken" by my friends. We come to the company store a couple of hundred feet after crossing the bridge. "This is the new store," mother says. "I remember when the old one burned, and I remember them building this one. I loved that old store. Your daddy lived in a room on the second floor when he came up here to teach school. He and his roommate, the doctor, used to sit up at night and read Shakespeare aloud to each other." Like most of what mother was saying today, I had heard this before, and my mental image of this scene is from outside, down the hollow from the building. It is dark, and the stars are visible if you look straight up. The only other light is in the window of Daddy's room, a dim yellow glow in the blackness of the ridge in the background. In the earth's guts thirteen year old boys pick and shovel coal and breathe coal dust, while the words of Shakespeare drift like thin morning mist over the hollow. But some thirteen year olds didn't go underground, and Daddy was proud of the letters he got from his students, even decades later, thanking him for being here when they needed him. Even though he gave up teaching in his early thirties to take a job where he could earn a living, men and women who were his students in Dunbar and Pardee were still writing him when he died at sixty-nine. He left two children, two grandchildren, and a wife who had been his student in the seventh grade. We mount the steps to the porch of the "new" store, whose claim to fame is that some scenes from "Coal Miner's Daughter" were shot here, and look through the big windows. The plate glass lies in shards inside, and here and there among the debris is a baseball-sized rock. We turn away and look back down the hollow, where we can see all that remains of Pardee. The two decaying houses, the front of the church standing like the facade of a movie set, the long steps leading nowhere. In a moment I look at Mother. She has the relaxed face and unfocused stare of a newborn baby. In her mind she is building her own reality, with the creative power that is a wavering image of God, a deep Presence glimpsed in a wind-ruffled pond at dusk. Her faded blue eyes are the windows of a house in winter, and inside a young girl presses her nose to the frosted glass, looking out and listening to the faint voices outside. Perhaps one day Mother will become that young girl again, will open the door and go outside to become once more a part of that earlier time. But now, nearing seventy, she can only look through the girl's ageless eyes at the reality she has made. So she stands on the uneven boards of the porch, looking at what is, while the young girl presses her face to the window and sees what used to be. . . .and behold, it is very good. 40 �SOCIAL THEORY AND SOCIAL LIFE IN APPALACHIA: A PANEL Presenters: Mary Anglin; New School for Social Research; New York, NY Alan Batteau; Committee on Institutional Cooperation; Evanston, IL Bill Horton; Abingdon, VA Jim Foster; Emory and Henry University; Emory, VA Discussants: Tom Plaut; Mars Hill College; Mars Hill, NC Tom Shannon; Radford University; Radford, VA A Contribution to the Critique of Political Economy by Allen Bateau Unless they are connected with protest potential from other sectors of society no conflicts arising from . . . underprivilege can really overturn the system—they can only provoke it to shape reactions incompatible with formal democracy. For underprivileged groups are not social classes, nor do they ever even potentially represent the mass of the population. Their disenfranchisement and pauperization no longer coincide with exploitation, because the system does not live off their labor. They can represent at most a past phase of exploitation. Appalachia has been studied for a variety of reasons: Some seek a romantic escape from urban society in the construction of Appalachian folk; others look for a laboratory within which to perfect tool for the improvement of society at large. Others have hoped to discover amidst the oppression of the coalfields seeds of the eventual transformation of American society. In all cases there is the presumption that in some manner Appalachia is exceptional, even as its boundaries are artificially drawn to preserve that exceptionality. Yet every study of Appalachia contains within it assumptions about the nature of American society that belie this exceptionality. To the extent that one mis-understands American society, or is unclear on his or her assumptions, the resulting statements made about Appalachia will be misleading, romantic, or irrelevant. William G. Frost made such a mistake, being uncomfortable with the cultural pluralism in America, and 41 �thus blind to the ethnic diversity within Appalachia. Jack Weller made such a mistake, ignoring the macro-political and -economic bases of Appalachia's situation. My study of Appalachia has been motivated by the observation that conditions there present in unusually dramatic form processes of exploitation and oppression found in many corners of American society. One can observe there processes of oppression which, while not qualitatively different from those underway elsewhere in America, nevertheless are cast into sufficiently high relief to permit one to view a structure that elsewhere is rather opaque. The opacity of these processes in our everyday lives is what makes them work. This opacity derives from the fact that in most cases people are controlled and manipulated not through force and fraud, but through the manipulation of consciousness. I have been trying for several years to understand how this manipulation of consiousness occurs in a variety of places in American society; in the process I have arrived, I hope, at some new understandings not only of the quality of oppression but also at the structures through which people and groups are oppressed. I should first state some of the assumptions that have informed my study of Appalachia. I can reduce these to four statements, which after stating I will take the liberty to elaborate on. 1. America is a capitalistic society. 2. America is a continental society, embracing and assimilating to an unusual degree regional, ethnic, and other forms of diversity. 3. In America, the state—meaning the political and governmental apparatus at both federal and sub-federal levels—is large, powerful, and partially autonomous. 4. The dominant framework for authority in America is bureaucratic; in America, every form of large-scale organization, from corporate enterprise to religion to the state, is bureaucratized. If one takes exception to any of these statements, we are in trouble, for I have deliberately chosen those that seem to me to be least exceptionable. One may be uncomfortable with some of them, particularly with the emphasis they suggest; but such discomfort does not per se discredit the statements or their logical implications. To say that America is a capitalistic society means that it is divided by class, that surplus appropriation is a central dynamic, and that certain classes aggrandize themselves at the expense of others. For anyone who has taken a passing glance at the coal industry in Kentucky, such observations are commonplace. But (and this is a major qualification) if we must continually hark back to the coal industry to validate our statements about class, we are on shaky ground, particularly with regard to those districts and periods of Appalachia outside the coal industry's domination. I attempted to see how this would work for certain non42 �industrial spheres in eastern Kentucky, and suggested in an article in the American Ethnologist some revisions of our understanding of class. The observation that America is a continental society is hardly novel; yet it suggests some interesting problems. Continental societies are rather unusual—there are only four of them in the world (five if you count Canada) and they are all marked by a heightened tension between strong centripetal government and the centrifugal tendencies of linguistic, cultural, regional, religious, and ethnic diversity. This is not a particularly trenchant observation, yet it creates some difficult issues for those interested in the first: For the models we have—both conservative and radical, I might add—of capitalism and class struggle were derived from societies where this sort of diversity was less of an issue, and hence could with some plausibility (and arrogance, one might add) be dismissed as "false consciousness" or "bourgeois nationalism," or "traditional survivals." In the last thirty years, however, we have seen that nationalism—with the linguistic, religious, ethnic, and other affinities from which it is built up—is a revolutionary force. A major intellectual task is squaring such an observation with some of our assumptions about the workings of capitalist society. In a world context, American society is unusually assimilationist, managing to a far greater degree than nearly every other society to integrate these forms of diversity with minimal violence. Given the relative political salience of ethnic and class loyalties in different contexts, these assimilationist tendencies also suggest some problems for understanding American class structure. Now a major issue for us is whether these various non-economic affinities are reducible to distinctions of class or other economic relationships, or whether they are in their own right autonomous and alternative forms of consciousness. I'll return to this in a moment. The observation of a large and powerful government and political apparatus in America, and that of its legal-rationalistic structure, is also rather pedestrian. The crucial question is what significance one attaches to these facts. Is a large government merely a tool of capital, or does it represent an independent sphere of action? Is bureaucracy an instrument or a form of domination? While these questions might seem to border on the Thomistic—kind of like asking how many civil servants can dance on the header of a computer tape—they have serious implications for how one seeks to improve the lives of one's fellows, whether in the office or in the hollers. I began with the question of the role of human consciousness in the manifest processes of oppression. It is a metaphysical question that we cannot resolve here whether or not human consciousness is autonomous of or shackled to economic interests and domination. It is a metaphysical question, and no amount of professorial fudging ("partly yes, partly no") or dialectical backflips ("mutally reactive autonomous forces") will solve 43 �the problem. I will have to explain that I find the former assumption, of the autonomy of consciousness, more interesting, more plausible, and more productive for devising political strategy. Others may differ. But once I've taken this step, several interesting possibilities are opened up. One can discover a diversity of semantic values in economic processes; one can better explain ethnic and religious affinities; and one can suggest new political strategies. When we talk about how consciousness works, we are talking about forms, media, and contents of communication, about symbolic forms such as myth, ritual, and narrative, about processes such as persuasion, identification, faction, and sacrifice. All of these are symbolic processes, yet are very real in their political results. There is a well-developed literature of the systematic ways in which these symbolic processes work. I will elaborate on this in the discussion, commenting here only that they are irreducible to economic processes as one normally understands them. With an understanding of consciousness as an autonomous agency, we also find new ends of action beyond simply economic aggrandizement. Individual identity and group solidarity, for instance, are created through symbolic processes which are irrational from an economic standpoint. The symbolic bases of ethnic and religious affiliation are more understandable if one assumes that they are partially independent of economic interests. I would suggest also that with an understanding of these symbolic processes one arrives at a better understanding of ethnic and religious oppression, and ultimately at a new map of the class structure of American society, A paradox for me is how people who are well-fed and secure in their livelihood can feel oppressed. The answer of academic social science is to retreat into "relative deprivation." This suggests that nearly everyone can find an excuse to identify themselves as oppressed. But suppose we assume that people have an interest in more than just their economic and political situation; that they have an interest in such irrational matters as autonomy, identity, and group affiliation. Then anything that threatens these—threatens them symbolically, I should underscore, for that is how these things work—will be experienced as oppressive. Protestant fundamentalists find threats in sexual license, for such unpunished sin questions some of the axioms of their existence; most ethnic groups find stereotyping immediately offensive, not because it deprives them of their livelihood (although it can be used for that purpose), so much as because it stigmatizes and fragments their identity. For every act of oppression there is an oppressor; yet in a rational society, what drives the shaming, stereotyping, and fragmentation of this symbolic oppression? In a brief article I wrote a few years back, I suggested that in the kind of society we have today, "intangibles such as health and personal identity have become resources, placed on the market, and made into resources for surplus appropriation." Elsewhere I have sug44 �gested that some of the shaming rituals that Sennett described for the workings of bureaucracy were means by which those with relative power could "accumulate economic, political, and psychological capital at the expense of the inferiors." If you have indulged me thus far, you may think that this is an interesting metaphor, an extension of the meaning of surplus and capital into non-economic spheres. My intention however is literal, not metaphorical. You see, the genius of capitalism is that it continually places new segments of human experience on the market and extracts surplus value out of them. Three hundred years ago, before the industrial revolution, the notion that there might be a market in human labor was an outlandish one. A hundred years ago any notion of buying and selling human consciousness would seem pretty extravagant—yet now we have large advertising agencies engaged in just such a business. And if you think that identity is not for sale, then you haven't been to Bloomingdales. That which can be sold is alienable; that which is alienable is a prime target for the workings of a capitalist market. If one can move beyond the simple economistic view of capital, and see that capital can take on a variety of forms, then one is permitted a conception of "human capital" as those intangible, infungible, yet accumulable resources an individual or a group possesses. These resources include such matters as skills, social relationships, group solidarity, individual identity. Through their accumulation the individual achieves a degree of autonomy in the face of capitalist predation. Yet one of the critical issues we see in the workings of capital today is the appropriation or destruction of the diverse forms of human capital. Capitalism has been around for hundreds of years. It existed before the industrial revolution, and it will continue to grow even as industrial production employs ever-decreasing fractions of the American labor force. Bureaucracy has been around for thousands of years, and continues to grow and sequester new areas of human activity. If one is willing to abide by the evidence of states that have undergone socialist revolutions, then bureaucracy seems to be more durable than capitalism. The two have in common the facts of the oppression they create, albeit for at times dissimilar ends. The prospects for a revolution in this country leading to more equitable social forms rests more on messianic hope than on sober assessment of current possibility. Short of this, one can in fact find means to limit the encroachments of capitalism and bureaucracy. This requires a willingness to engage in confrontation and negotiation, rather than a retreat into sectarian avoidance; it requires not only knowing on which side (of several fences) you stand, but also who stands there with you and who your potential allies are. I began this discussion with an epigraph which I think is suggestive of the political significance of processes of oppression in Appalachia. The 45 �epigraph is not from any "post-industrial theorist" such as Daniel Bell, but from Jurgen Habermas. Habermas, in "Toward a Rational Society" is attempting to locate the zone of conflict and protest in a society where legal-rationalistic structures have broken out of their traditional restraints and have usurped the very framework of the society. He suggests that student protest may provide the zone of conflict he seeks. His conclusion here is based partly on an assumption that may have seemed plausible in 1968 that student activists were less directed toward professional careers than other students. In 1984 one despairs the protest potential among professionals or the proto-professionals found in most universities. Although one should not look for new ideas for fundamental change in the society from such classes, in certain kinds of situations they do represent potential allies for those who have worked out their own political agenda. Such negotiations with other classes and the powerful institutions of this society will always be like a card game in which the rules are biased in favor of your opponent— you can win at such games, if you know what you're playing for and are at times prepared to break the rules. If one is convinced that the only solution lies in revolution, then this will certainly sound like I am trying to lure the proletarian sheep into the den of capitalist wolves. The motive of seduction, however, is not mine; it is rather one of the important dynamics of how the system works. In American society, the sheep are continually lured into the wolves' den, and their (seemingly) voluntary participation in their own oppression is essential to the workings of the system. No one is coerced into purchasing his or her identity at Bloomingdales; few feel the immediate spur of poverty and hunger as motives to sell their labor; most could survive in comfort (if not security or prestige) with far less income than they currently have. But the American economy continues to work, consuming far more labor, creating far more environmental spoliation, producing far too many useless goods, accumulating destabilizing surpluses, because the overwhelming majority of the society has bought into its myths of happiness through consumption and upward mobility. These beliefs are essential to the survival of advanced capitalism. Finding an alternative yet equally persuasive set of beliefs, a new form of consciousness, if you wish, is a precondition and not a consequence of its demise. 46 �CURRENT RESEARCH IN COMMUNITY ISSUES Households and Families in Eastern Kentucky in 1900 Thomas A. Arcury/Julia Porter, University of Kentucky; Lexington, KY Poverty, Race and Class in Appalachian Cities Mike Maloney/Elizabeth Lilly; Appalachian Peoples Service Organization The Graying of Central Appalachia Rosemary Goss, Virginia Tech.; Blacksburg, VA Framework for Teaching Human Service Professionals About Appalachian Communities John McNutt/Marcia Barren, Tusculum College; Greenville, TN Convenor: Aaron Hyatt; Western Carolina University; Cullowhee, NC Households and Families in Eastern Kentucky in 1900* by Thomas A. Arcury and Julia D. Porter Figure 1: Percentage Distribution of Household Population by Age and Sex, Pike County and Ashland Samples, 1900 The purpose of this paper is to describe and compare the composition of rural and urban Appalachian Kentucky households hi 1900. This task is undertaken for two reasons. First, for much of this century the composition of the traditional Appalachian family and household has been the center of attention for both scientific and popular analysis. While several analyses of the Appalachian family have been presented since the 1940s (Brown, 1952a, 1952b; Stephenson, 1968; Hicks, 1976; Bryant, 1981; Batteau, 1982; Ford, et al, 1983), little quantitative or qualitative data have been presented for earlier periods. The second reason for analysis of Appalachian data from this period is that it allows an examination of the effects of rapid industrialization and urbanization on the household composition of a region in which subsistence agriculture had dominated previously. Beginning shortly before 1900 areas of Eastern Kentucky became involved in the large scale commercial exploitation of the region's vast coal reserves. The present study is the result of a preliminary investigation of household composition during this period. Data are abstracted from a sample of households listed in the 1900 census enumeration schedules for 47 �two communities: Ashland, the only city in Eastern Kentucky in 1900, and one rural enumeration district in Pike County. Traditional Appalachian Kentucky Household Composition This study is concerned with the eastern one-third of Kentucky included in the Southern Appalachian Region (see Ford, 1962). Little is known about this region's family and household composition at or before the beginning of the twentieth century. Research on the history of any component of the region's social organization has been limited. Eller (1982) provides a valuable analysis of Southern Appalachian economic change between 1880 and 1930 due to industrialization, particularly the commercial exploitation of the region's timber and coal resources. But his discussion of micro-level sociocultural change is limited. Campbell (1921) describes some specific examples of Appalachian households, but his concern is more with lifestyle than with the analysis of social organization. Due to the dearth of published historical material, ethnographic analogy is used to provide some background on turn of the century Appalachian household composition. Brown's research on rural Beech Creek, Kentucky (Brown, 1952a, 1952b; Brown, et al, 1963; Schwarzweller, et al, 1971) is the most completely documented study upon which ethnographic analogies are made. Brown found that the household consisting of a conjugal family, a husband, a wife and their dependent children, was the dominant form of household organization. These nuclear family households represented about 75 percent of all households in Beech Creek, with another 16 percent including a married couple with no children, and five percent including an additional family. Only three percent of all households did not contain a family. Marriage was almost universal among this rural Appalachian population. Age at first marriage was at about 23 years for males, and 18 years for females. Often a new couple stayed for about one year in the dwelling of one of their families of orientation, usually that of the husband. This accounts for all of the households with an additional family. Often the newlyweds first child was born before they established their own household. Within eight to ten years after marriage, the average couple in Beech Creek had 3 or 4 children. When the wives were from 37 to 45 years of age household size was at its maximum; most contained at least four children, and many had six or more children. The nuclear family household was the basic unit of production and consumption. Such families owned and farmed their land, made most of their tools and consumption goods, and were almost totally self-sufficient (Eller, 1979; Precourt, 1983). Labor differentiations were along age-sex lines, and there were an interdependence of age-sex roles. As the family 48 �worked the mountain homestead, economic roles and family roles could only be separated analytically (Brown, 1952a, 1952b). The ideal of the separate, self-reliant nuclear family household meant the extended family household was rare. The presence of the household head's siblings or other relatives only occurred in situations of extreme old age or youth when the individual could not care for himself. Most older couples lived alone, or if a spouse died, in a single person household, maintaining a separate household as long as possible. The aged parents of a household head or his spouse resided in his household only in cases when the parents could no longer care for themselves. Often in these cases, the younger family would come to live in the parental household. Nonrelatives were also rare in the rural Appalachian household. While the extended family household was a rarity in rural Appalachia, the extended family network was still an important part of the social organization. Several households containing related families usually lived in close proximity. This extended kin network, also called a "set" (see Batteau, 1982; Bryant, 1981,1983), could be counted on in time of crises. The help of these kin also allowed aged and other disabled individuals to maintain separate households. Ethnographic analogy with studies of more contemporary rural Appalachian households can be used to present some background on rural 1900 household composition, but similar research is not available for industrial Appalachian households. While this study examines the population of Ashland, Kentucky, it should be noted that this community does not totally reflect the rural Appalachian industrialization experience. Ashland existed as a city before commercial timber and coal extraction began. Most of the industrial workers did not live in cities, but in rural communities and company towns nearer to the mines. Oral history interviews and some published materials do indicate some changes in household composition. Native men who worked in the mines often moved their families to company towns or stayed at boarding houses. Methods Data for this study consist of a total of 300 households randomly selected from two localities in Appalachian Kentucky. The two localities were purposefully selected as representative of the two extremes of industrial and urban development present in the region hi 1900. As the more industrial locality, the city of Ashland was selected. A census enumeration district in Pike County (Magisterial District 2), as totally removed from commercial coal production as possible, was selected as the traditional non-industrial locality. A total of 150 households was randomly selected for each locality from the 1900 census schedules. For the specific Pike County area only the single enumeration district was sampled. For Ashland, all three of the city's central precincts were included. 49 �The four household structural types used in this study are adapted from those developed by Hammel and Laslett (1974): (1) nonfamily, (2) nuclear family only, (3) extended family, and (4) multiple family. Some variable definitions are dictated by the way they were recorded in the 1900 census. The ability to read and write was recorded instead of educational attainment. Literacy is defined here as the ability to both read and write. Migration can only be defined in terms of an individual's state or nation of birth. In this study we use a rough measure of the number of nearby households containing relatives. Similar to the method used by Smith, et. al. (1979), this method involves examining the ten households which precede and the ten which follow each sampled household on the enumeration schedules, and recording the number of households which contain the same surname as that in the sample household. The Household Population A comparison of the sample household populations neatly summarizes the differences between the two communities: one, Pike County, with a stable, homogeneous agricultural population; the other, Ashland, an industrializing, heterogeneous population in a state of flux. The age-sex pyramids (Figure 1) portray their differences. The Pike County pyramid indicates a population growing with high fertility. There does appear to FIGURE 1 50 �FIGURE 2 TABLE 1. State or Nation of Birth and Race of Sample Household Population by Residence Urban Rural State or Nation of Birth N Kentucky Ohio Virginia West Virginia Other U. S. Foreign born Missing Total Race White Black Total % N % 799 0 55 7 36 1 89.0 63.1 13.0 8.2 4.3 7.1 4.3 898 100.0 445 92 58 30 50 30 (5) 705 100.0 898 0 898 100.0 665 45 710 93.7 6.3 100.0 51 6.1 .8 4.0 .1 100.0 �be some outmigration of young adult males in the Pike County population, but there does not appear to be any significant inmigration . The bulge in the 15 through 34 age cohorts for Ashland indicates a population being affected by substantial inmigration. Fertility in the Ashland population also is relatively low. The lack of inmigration in the rural Pike population and the strong influence of inmigration in the urban Ashland population is substantiated when place of birth within the population is examined (Table 1). The great majority (89 percent) of the rural population is Kentucky born. Less than two-thirds (63.1 percent) of the urban population were born in Kentucky. A significant number of the urban population were born in the neighboring states of Ohio and Virginia/West Virginia, in other parts of the U.S., and even outside of the country. In addition to the ethnic heterogeneity of Ashland, there is also some racial variety. About 6 percent of Ashland's population is black; the entire rural Pike population is white. The rural sample is employed almost entirely in agriculture: 75.1 percent of the work force are farmers (Table 2). The only other significant TABLE 2. Occupations and Literacy of Sample Household Population by Residence _ Occupation Professional, Technical; Managers & Administrators Sales and Clerical Craftsmen Operatives All Laborers Farmers All Service Missing Not in the labor force Total Literacy Read and write Read only Neither Missing and Children Total Rural N 1 1 4 0 31 121 3 (2) (735) 161 300 61 196 (341) 557 52 Urban % .6 .6 2.5 19.3 75.1 1.9 100.0 53.9 10.9 35.2 100.0 N % 24 25 38 42 86 4 26 (18) (447) 245 9.8 10.2 15.5 17.2 35.1 1.6 10.6 500 8 44 (158) 552 100.0 90.6 1.4 8.0 100.0 �occupational group consists of laborers (19.3 percent), with most of these being farm laborers. The urban labor force is distributed among all the occupational groups with a significant proportion in each group except farmers. Finally, there is a large difference in the level of literacy of the two populations. Ninety percent of the urban sample can both read and write. In the rural population only 53.9 percent can read and write, with an additional 10.9 percent who can only read. Household Composition The characteristics of all Appalachian rural and urban sample households differ significantly on each dimension measured. The differences in the distribution of household types (Table 3) are the smallest of any variable. The rural population has a slightly greater proportion of nuclear family, and the more complex extended and multiple family types. The major differences hi structural types is the proportion of nonfamily households: only one such household (.7 percent) is present in the rural sample, but nonfamily households constitute 7.4 percent of the urban sample. A further difference is represented by the number of generations which the households span. In Pike County 10.7 percent of the households span one generation, and 18 percent span three or more generations; hi Ashland, 18.1 percent of the households span one generation and only 9.4 percent span three or more generations. Another major difference between the rural and urban Appalachian households is the number of persons resident, and some specific characteristics of these persons. The median number of persons in the rural TABLE 3. Distribution of Household Type by Urban-Rural Residence for Total Sample and Native Kentucky Subsample . ,, _ Household Tvpe Rural Urban N X2=10.488 df=3 N % 1 113 23 13 150 Nonfamily Nuclear Family Extended Family Multiple Family Total % .7 75.3 15.3 8.7 100.0 11 107 15 16 149 7.4 71.8 10.1 10.7 100.0 P<.05 53 �households is 6.4, while in the urban households the median number is 4.8. A large proportion of the inhabitants in the rural households are young children of the household head. The median number of children under the age of 18 in rural households is 3.8. Only 20.8 percent of the Pike County households have no children under 18 present, while 34.2 percent have five or more children under 18 present. Far fewer urban households have young children of the head resident; the median number of children under 18 is 1.6. Of the urban households, 36.9 percent have no children under 18 present, while only 5.4 percent have five or more children under 18 present. Unexpectedly, a significantly greater proportion of the urban households have older children of the head present. The specific composition of the rural and urban households can be further illuminated by examining the distribution of relationship to the household head by the sex of the residents (Table 4). A greater proportion of the urban population (both males and females) have the status of household head or head's spouse than does the rural population. Conversely, a greater proportion of the rural population have the dependent statuses of child or grandchild. A higher percentage of the urban population includes siblings or siblings' children of the head, as well as there being more nonrelatives in the urban households. Females are twice as likely to be heads in urban households as they are in rural households. Rural households appear to have a much greater tendency to have relatives living in nearby dwellings. Fewer than one-third of the Pike County households have no nearby households which do not share the TABLE 4. Relationship to Household Head by Sex by Urban-Rural Residence Malea Relationship to Household Head Rural Urban Femaleb Rural Head 141 30.3 128 34.9 11 2.5 Spouse 132 30.5 Child 275 59.1 183 49.9 247 57.0 Grandchild 29 6.2 12 3.3 13 3.0 4 1.1 13 3.0 Parent/Grandparent 2 .4 Sibling/Sibling's Child 8 1.8 7 1.5 16 4.4 Not Related 11 2.4 30 6.5 9 2.1 Total 465 99.9 373 100.1 433 99.9 aX2=29.601 bX2=23.031 df=5 df=6 P<.05 P<.05 54 Urban 20 5.9 120 35.6 151 44.8 4 1.2 12 3.6 12 3.6 18 5.3 337 100.0 �head's surname, while 82.5 percent of the Ashland households have no same surname households nearby. Of the urban households with nearby same surname households, most have only one such neighbor. Almost onefifth of the rural households have four surname neighbors, and another one-fifth have three such neighbors. Interpretation and Conclusions The data indicate differences in household composition are largely the result of industrialization in urban Ashland. The charateristics of 1900 rural Pike County households are very similar to those described since 1940 for more isolated traditional Appalachian neighborhoods (Brown, 1952a, 1952b; Bryant, 1981; Batteau, 1982). These characteristics include the presence of a large number of children, the infrequency of co-residing nonrelatives, the infrequency of co-residing siblings and other collaterals, and the tendency of relatives to live nearby. The 1900 Pike County data also indicate that children married young and left the parental household soon after marriage, and that older parents maintained separate households as long as possible. The differences found to exist in the household composition of the rural and urban samples suggest two general conclusions. First, intraregional variation existed in Appalachian Kentucky as early as 1900, a period when the region is considered to have been relatively isolated from the mainstream of American society. The second conclusion is that Ashland's experience is a forerunner of household composition change in many rural Appalachian communities with the coming of industrialization, particularly commercial coal production. The exact nature of household and family change in the rural industrializing communities deserves further investigation. "This project was supported by an Appalachian Studies Fellowship from the Appalachian Center, Berea College, Berea, Kentucky. REFERENCE Batteau, Allen 1982 Mosbys and Broomsedge: The Semantics of Class in an Appalachian Kinship System. American Ethnologist 9:445-466. Bryant, F. Carlene 1981 We're All Kin: A Cultural Study of a Mountain Neighborhood. Knoxville: University of Tennessee Press. 1983 Family Group Organization in a Cumberland Mountain Neighborhood. In Allen Batteau, ed., Appalachia and America: Autonomy and Regional Dependence. Lexington: University Press of Kentucky. 55 �Brown, James S. 1952a The Farm Family in a Kentucky Mountain Neighborhood. Kentucky Agricultural Experiment Station Bulletin 587. 1952b The Family Group in a Kentucky Mountain Farming Community. Kentucky Agricultural Experiment Station Bulletin 588. Brown, James S., Harry K. Schwarzweller, and J. J. Mangalam 1963 Kentucky Mountain Migration and the Stem-Family: An American Variation on a Theme by LePlay. Rural Sociology 28: 48-69. Campbell, John C. 1921 The Southern Highlander and His Homeland. New York: The Russell Sage Foundation. Eller, Ronald D. 1979 Land and Family: An Historical View of Preindustrial Appalachia. Appalachian Journal 6:83-109. 1982 Miners, Millhands, and Mountaineers: Industrialization of the Appalachian South, 1880-1930. Knoxville: University of Tennessee Press. Ford, Thomas R., ed. 1962 The Southern Appalachian Region: A Survey. University of Kentucky Press. Ford, Thomas R., Thomas A. Arcury, and Julia D. Porter 1983 Changes in the Structure of Central Appalachian Mountain Families and Households, 1958-1976. CDC Development Paper No. 19, Center for Developmental Change, University of Kentucky. Hammel, Eugene A., and Peter Laslett 1974 Comparing Household Structure Over Time and Between Cultures. Comparative Studies in Society and History 16:1, 73-109. Hicks, George L. 1976 Appalachian Valley. New York: Holt, Rinehart and Winston. Precourt, Walter 1983 The Image of Appalachian Poverty. In Allen Batteau, ed., Appalachia and America: Autonomy and Regional Dependence. Lexington: University Press of Kentucky. Schwarzweller, Harry K., James S. Brown, and J. J. Mangalam 1971 Mountain Families in Transition: A Case Study of Appalachian Migration, University Park: Pennsylvania State University Press. Smith, Daniel Scott, Michel Dahlin and Mark Friedberger 1979 The Family Structure of the Older Black Population in the American South in 1880 and 1900. Sociology and Social Research 63:544-565. Stephenson, John B. 1968 Shiloh: A Mountain Community. Lexington: University of Kentucky Press. 56 �PRE-COLUMBIAN CHEROKEES Pre-Columbian Cultural Contact Between Chibchan and Iroquoian Linguistic Groups David K. Evans; Wake Forest University; Winston-Salem, NC Man of Lightning (Film) Gary Moss; Georgia State University; Atlanta, GA Convenor: Theda Perdue; Clemson University; Clemson, SC Pre-Columbian Cultural Contact Between Chibchan and Iroquoian Linguistic Groups by David K. Evans Nowhere in this paper am I suggesting that the ancestors of the people in the mountains of North Carolina today known as the Cherokee, came from Central or South America. What I am saying, however, is that there is ample evidence to strongly suggest that much of the cultural past of these proud people may indeed have found its way up from the South. I will suggest that the people contacted by the whites, and called Cherokee, may well have been several peoples at an earlier date, and that fate and fortune, coupled with time, had welded the various cultures into one by the time of the first European contacts. My evidence for making this assumption will be archaeological, historical, linguistic, and ethnographical. If I were asked to say just when and where this research began, I would say it was in Amubri, on a June evening in 1972, after the arrival of the swallows, but before the bats. Amubri, a Bribri Indian settlement, has a Catholic Mission station on the plain at the edge of the mountains of the Talamanca rain forest in Southern Costa Rica. In June the swallows come, every evening, just before sunset. They dart about, ingesting insects on the wing. As the sun goes down behind the mountains, everything, including the birds in zig-zag flight, is cast in shades of red, orange, and gold, from the spectacular sunsets common to the region. Almost at once, when the light fades, the swallows vanish, and the bats appear for their share of the insects. For me the appearance of the bats was always a sign to pump up the gas lamps for the evening—so 57 �I know this research began before the bats took over where the swallows left off because there was still enough natural light in the sky to read by. My students, all team members of Wake Forest University's Overseas Research Center, were drifting back from the river, where they had bathed. My wife and one of the Catholic Sisters had gone to find a guitar string, and I had climbed the wooden steps to the upper balcony of the building that served as the church, the school, warehouse, lab for my students and home for the two German priests who presided over the mission. For two summers, among other things, I had been collecting clan names among the Bribri Indians and their mountain neighbors (and liguistic kin), the Cabecar. In checking these names against earlier accounts by W. M. Gabb and other writers of the last century, I had found that many were now extinct and long forgotten by all but the oldest of the Indians. That evening, as I climbed the steps to work on my data on the clans, Padre Bernado Drug, a German priest in his sixties with a huge salt and pepper beard, was waiting for me with a surprise—an original copy of H. de F. Pittier's work on the language of the Bribri, published in Vienna in 1898. Padre Bernardo knew that I had tried in vain to obtain a copy of this work. Although relatively little has been written on the Talamanca tribes, most that has has simply quoted extensively from two sources, Gabb (1875) and Pittier. Albeit slightly worm eaten and smelling of mildew, with ample evidence of having been wet at some time in its long existence, Pittier's work was indeed a surprise and a delight for me. And, as I sat in a hammock with the book in my lap, there was still enough daylight for me to read the names of the clans that existed in this remote part of Central America toward the close of the 19th century. Almost at once, I read the name Arauuak. Pittier translated this to be Die Donner Haus Leute, or "The Thunder House People." At once I wondered if the Arauuak could have been the Arawak, first described by Columbus as being the tall, peaceful, light-skinned natives he found on the island of Hispanola—now Haiti and the Domican Republic. One surprise followed another as I read Pittier that night, first in the fading light and later by the precarious glow of that spitting, hissing field lamp. For years I had wondered about the early accounts of the Arawak the Spanish had met during their first contacts in the islands of the Greater Antilles. I knew that Canoa was an island Arawak word, carried over into Spanish and picked up by English as canoe. And Pittier indicated that there once existed, among the Chibchan speaking Bribri I was studying, an ancient clan known as the Kgno-thuk-wak. This Pittier translated as "die schiffer" oder "die seeleute" (1898:30). In English, of course, this would be The Shippers or The People of the Sea, with Keno = boat, u = house, or clan, and wak = people or family. 58 �This was my first inkling that at least some ancient Bribri clans may have been seafarers. This led me to ask if it was possible that not only the Keno-thuk-wak were sea people, but that theArauuak (Thunder House People or People of Thunder) may have been mariners as well? I felt, that evening, that there was a strong likelihood that the island Arawak encountered by Columbus, and the ancient Bribri Arauuak were the same people. Speaking of the island Arawak, the American archaeologist, Irving Rouse, writing about the aboriginal inhabitants of the Greater Antilles, had written that "Arawak culture was . . . oriented towards the sea" ... he later noted that... "the Awawak were probably seafarers" (1951:260). One thing I thought was obvious, both the Bribri and the ancient Arawak of Columbus' time spoke the same or similar Chibchan dialect. The evidence for me, at that time, was the word Keno in Bribri, that Columbus rendered Canoa in Spanish. This, more or less, is where, how, and when this particular research began—all because of a rare work printed in Vienna in 1898, and a chance reading of that work in a bush mission station in Costa Rica—this, plus something else that came drifting up from my memory that evening, something I had read in the 1875 writings by William Gabb. I searched through my field copy and there it was—page 571—where Gabb, perhaps puzzled, had written, "... a curious coincidence exists in the fact that in the island of Santo Domingo (the Hispaniola of Columbus), where there are no venomous reptiles, a poisonous plant, retaining its native name, is called by the people, ki-be." Kebe, in Bribri, means snake, and Gabb had written the above as a brief footnote beside the word in this Bribri vocabulary. His "curious coincidence," to me of course, was now neither curious nor a coincidence, because I was beginning to believe that it was quite probable that at least some of the Caribbean inhabitants described by Columbus as Arawak were in reality "People of Thunder," and were, or had been at some time past, a clan of the Bribri. The Cherokee Connection Long ago, the 19th century Cherokee Chief, William P. Ross, in discussing the mysterious origins of his ancient people, was quoted as having said: "No response comes down the gallery of time from the silent recesses of the past. Echo alone replies, where and whence came they" (1893). That silence has puzzled me for the past decade or so, and this paper 59 �is an attempt to shed some light on the question, from "where and whence" came the Cherokee. I am under no illusion that I have discovered an ethnographic or linguistic or historical fact that is new, but only wish to bring my data to the attention of others who may be better qualified than I to examine these ideas. I am aware that it has long been the custom of some to relegate data such as I present in this paper into the limbo of fairy tales. Nevertheless in the light of the data present here, I hope that perhaps, behind these artifacts, myths, and legends, there may well lie a grain or two of historical fact. Archaeological Evidence There is today a great deal of archaeological evidence to support quite early migrations of people from the South into what is now Florida and the Gulf Coast. It may well be that many different small groups of people came up either the Central American—Yucatan—Florida route, or by way of islandhopping to Cuba and then crossing the 96 mile channel to Florida. The fact is, we have historical evidence that the Florida channel was crossed by Indian canoes and apparently quite frequently. Peter Martyr recorded that "natives of the mainland were accustomed to visiting the Lucayas Islands (Bahamas) in order to take pigeons, returning with their canoes laden" (Sauer:189). Carl Sauer thought that it may well have been such seafaring natives who informed the Spanish of a fountain of youth to be found on an island known to the natives as Bimini (Sauer:190). More solid evidence is to be found in archaeological sites such as Crystal River in Florida, where a temple site reported to be Mayan, dates to A.D. 440 (Bullen:861). And certainly the archaeology of Florida east of Pensacola Bay would seem to indicate that many groups may have visited the area more-or-less around the same point in time. Holmes tells us that, "The manner of occurence of the ceramic remains of the Gulf region is interesting. In many cases several varieties of ware are intermingled on a single site" (Holmes 1888:104). Of special interest to the possibility that there may be a Southern, tropical origin of some Cherokee cultural traits, however, is what Holmes wrote on the next page. He wrote, "Strangely enough, in the national collections from southwestern Alabama there are a lot of sherds exhibiting typical features of the peculiar pottery of New York State, which seem to belong to the Iroquoian tribes." Holmes went on the speculate, "that the museum record may be defective and that the association is accidental" (p. 105). It is possible, however, the Holmes' observation that Iroquoian-type ware was in the South is not 60 �"strange," nor is the fact that it associates so well with the North "accidental." It may well be that the museum records are in no way "defective," but that these records simply did not fit the preconceived notions of the archaeology of the 1880's. Holmes had noted that here and there along the Gulf Coast are certain pieces of pottery that do not affiliate with the ordinary ware, yet at the same time appear to present closer analogies with the wares of Yucatan and the Caribbean islands. It was noted that on the Gulf Coast of Florida, at Point Washington site, just South of Jolly Bay, several "exotics," or non-local ware are found. The "exotics" are the stamped ware of the Appalachian district to the North. Holmes went on to say that the techniques used among some of this ware gives . . . "a striking effect and reminding one of Central American methods of treatment" (109). What was so odd was that though typical of the Southern Appalachian mountains, homeland of the Cherokee, this stamped pottery was "seen at a glance to embody the commonest concepts of the Gulf Coast groups" (110). Another intriguing bit of archaeological evidence that may directly link the Cherokee with the cultures of the South is that in one mound, believed by Thomas to have been the work of the Cherokee, copper bells were found. Thomas apparently did not credit the ancient Cherokee with the ability to produce such copper bells, for in writing about a number of small copper "hawk-bells" found with the skeleton of a child, Thomas observed, "They are precisely of the form of the ordinary sleigh bell of the present day, but with pebbles and shell beads for rattles" (p. 34). He then added: "... that the bells indicate contact with Europeans must be conceded" (p. 35). This strikes one as a rather strange conclusion for Thomas to have drawn, and can be challenged on at least two points: 1. If the bells were indeed European artifacts, why would the Indians remove the usual metal ball or clapper and replace it with clay balls or shell beads? And, 2. I have seen many of these same type copper hawk-bells, with clay balls or small rock clappers, dug from pre-Columbian sites on Roatan Island in the Western Caribbean, and I have seen gold bells of the very same type, again with similar clappers, from the Limon Coast of Costa Rica and from Bribri grave sites in the mountainous interior of the Talamanca rain forest. 61 �Such bells are thought to have proceeded all known European contacts in the New World by centuries. In fact, Columbus reported such copper bells in the huge canoe he seized on his last voyage to the Indies in 1502. Linguistic Evidence What I hope to do in this paper is simply list some of the data that supports my theory that some aspects of the culture of the Cherokee, found in the Appalachian Mountains when the Europeans first made contact in 1540, had been in some ways influenced by cultures from the South, and that the primary influence may have been from seafaring Chibchan speaking peoples from the Antilles and Central America. We know, from early writers, that there were mysterious groups of people in contact with the Cherokee. One such people was known to James Mooney as the Taskigi. He wrote about them saying, "who or what the Taskigi were is uncertain and can probably never be known, but they were neither Cherokee nor Muscogee proper." He went on to add that... "It is not a Cherokee word, and Cherokee informants state positively that the Taskigi were a foreign people, with distinct language and customs" (389). Another mysterious group, well-known to those who have studied the Cherokee, is the Ani-kuta'ni. Of them Mooney writes, "Among other perishing traditions is that relating to the Ani-kuta'ni... concerning whom the modern Cherokee know so little that their very identity is now a matter of dispute, a few holding that they were an ancient people who preceeded the Cherokee and built the mounds, while others, with more authority, claim that they were a clan or society in the tribe and were destroyed long ago by pestilence or other calamity" (392). Joseph B. Mahan, Jr. writes... "Mooney continues to the effect that from the various statement, it would seem that the Ani-kuta'ni'were a priestly clan, having hereditary supervision of all religious ceremonies among the Cherokee. In consequence of having abused their sacred privileges, they were attacked and completely exterminated by the rest of the tribe, leaving the priestly functions to be assumed thereafter by individual doctors and conjurers" (184-85). Hayword, in his History of Tennessee, quoted a Cherokee as saying that the ancient priests of the Cherokee had been destroyed (249), and John Ross spoke of the Nicotani, described as a mystical, religious body, of whom the Cherokee people stood in great awe. Where they came from is no longer known, and all that can be said for certain about their passing was that they were massacred by the Cherokee themselves because one or more of them interfered with the wife or wives of a prominent Cherokee. It was said, "His wife was remarkable for her beauty, and was 62 �forcibly abducted and violated by one of the Nicotani" (MacGowan 1866:139). If they really existed, it would seem that Ross' Nicotani were probably the same Am-Aute'ra'described by Mooney. But who were these ancient, mysterious and foreign people among the Cherokee, and from where did they come? It is suggested here that they were Chibchan speakers, and that they had come, originally, from Central and possibly Northern South America, and had eventually reached the Gulf Coast and Florida via the islands of the Greater Antilles. Mooney further tells us that the Cherokee call themselves Ani-yunwiya, and he notes that this means "real people" or "principal people." Bantram (297) spelled it Ani kitu hwa, Mooney tells us that no occasion the Cherokee referred to themselves as Kitu'hwa, He noted that this was an ancient settlement on the Tuckasegee river and thought this might have been ". . . the orginial nucleus of the tribe" (1900:15). These bits of linguistic information from the Cherokee are of interest to my basic thesis that they, in their remote past, had been in contact with Chibchan speaking peoples from the South. The Cherokee term Ani,'used as a prefix, would make perfectly good sense even today to the Bribri with whom I have worked in the Talamanca rain forest of Costa Rica. The Bribri use the identical prefix Ani'to refer to "we." In their Chibchan dialect the prefix breaks down into a' (you) and ni' (me) to mean "we" or "us" as opposed to others. The suffix "wa" as found in the word kitu hwa, which Mooney tells us was also used among the Cherokee to describe a region, village and a dialect, as well as the people themselves, translates in Bribri to mean "people." The u sound, found in the middle of the Cherokee word kitu hwa translates into Bribri as "house" or "clan," and finally, kit, translates to mean a "cord" or a "vein" or "binding material" in Bribri. The CherokeeAni'-u-wa, taken together in Bribri, translates to mean "we people of the same house" and Mooney's "kit-u-hwa" translates to mean "People bound together, or "people of the same vein," or perhaps "people of the same blood." Bertram's spelling oiAni-kita-hwa would translate beautifully in Chibchan to this day, as We people bound of the same cord (297). But if the Cherokee call themselves Ani-kitu-hwa, then what does the word Cherokee itself mean, and from where did it come? The name Cherokee has no meaning whatsoever to the people known today as the Cherokee. Why? The answer, I believe, is because the word Cherokee is Chibchan and not an Iriquois word at all. Lying just to the South of the Bribri region in Talamanca, across the border in what is now Panama, there exists a large lagoon, known even today by its Indian n&me—Chiriqui. As with the Cherokee of Mooney's 63 �time, the Chibchan language lumped the inhabitants, the quiet bay, and other landmarks, as well as the entire region itself, under the term Chiriqui. Thus the people from this region were referred to as the Chiriqui (Sauer:127). It should be pointed out, however, that the Indians of this region would not necessarily refer to themselves as Chiriqui, unless specifically asked, "from where do you come?" More than likely, the Spanish would have asked them their name or "what do you call yourself?" to which they would probably refer to their clan or family name. It seems quite likely that something like this would explain why Columbus was so puzzled when he labelled all of the Indians of Haiti Arawak and then tried unsuccessfully to use them as interpreters on Cuba. The Spanish had asked them what they called themselves and they had replied Ara-u-wak, "Thunder House People," or "People of the House of Thunder." But Columbus had assumed that all Indians in the Antilles viereArawaks and spoke the same dialect and thus had run into translation difficulties later in Cuba. In returning to our discussion of the Central American region known as Chiriqui, however, Peter Martyr recorded other people of this region who did not appear quite like their neighbors. He tells of the Spanish fighting against men as "bearded as any bearded Christian." The record reads, "In this Escoria there was a breed of Indians much larger than the others and better conditioned" (Sauer 271). Apparently, these unusual Indians fought from mounds protected by palisades, the Spanish reported "forts made with two or three enclosures of timber and large trees and very great moat around" . . . and added ". . . these could well pass for good forts in Italy" (Sauer 271). We hear again, some two centuries later, of the Indians in the region of Chiriqui. An Englishman, by the name of John Cockburn, published a book in London in 1779, entitled "The Unfortunate Englishman" in which he gives an account of having been marooned in this region and having walked northward seeking an English settlement. In his account he tells of tall Indians of light skin, fighting from well-made forts, who had the habit of painting their faces red and black before battle. He adds that they were called by others in the region the Cherokee. Although Cockburn's Cherokee is simply an anglicized spelling of Chiriqui, it does present evidence that a people in that region of Central America were still being referred to by that name by others near the close of the 18th century (Cockburn 1779:147), and, that these people with the same name exhibited cultural practices of fighting from behind palisades with their faces painted, red and black. At once this brings to mind the practice of the Eastern Cherokee of the Appalachians. We are told that ". . . an oration by the war speaker anticipated the formal departure of a war party. When they ventured forth, 64 �they were elaborately painted red and black" (Oswalt 1973:509). Cockburn's account is intriguingly similar to a report written about the same time concerning Indians believed to have been the Cherokee in the mountains of Western North Carolina and Northern Georgia. Heckewelder's encounter with the Cherokee, later described by Thomas in 1890, reads as follows . . . "They are said to have been remarkably tall... it is related that they built to themselves regular fortifications or entrenchments from which they would sally out." Such fortification was described as "properly entrenchments, being walls or banks of earth regularly thrown up, with a deep ditch on the outside" (Thomas:12:13). It becomes clear that in 1540 De Soto's chroniclers were accurate in their descriptions of the mounds they passed by in the mountains of North Georgia and North Carolina. They had noted that such mounds were not only fortified with huge timbers, but protected by vast moats as well. This all too well brings to mind not only fortified, moat-ringed, mounds described by Cockburn in the Central American region of Chiriqui but the great mound known asEtowah in the Southern Appalachians of North Georgia. Etowah, likewise, is not a Cherokee word. However, following Pittier, one could translate.EJtow;a/i as Et-u-wak, meaning in Chibchan "that" or "it" "which was once of our people" (cf. Pittier:74). Again, if one considers the ancient name Mooney informs us the Cherokee used for themselves on occasion—Kitu-wha, and remember that in Mooney's day he found three dialects in use, it would seem possible that both words are of Chibchan origin and were perhaps introduced by those mysterious foreigners who for a time at least, resided with the Cherokee and were held by them in such awe (cf. Chiltoskey 1972:54). If we add to the above, place names found in the Central American region of Chiriqui and in the Appalachian mountain homeland of the Cherokee at the time of contact, we have even more linguistic evidence of possible contact. For example, Bartram notes that in 1777 he visited a war town called Coweta. He tells us the town was near or on the Chattahoochee River. On the Southeast coast of Costa Rica today, South of Puerto Limon and near the Rio Estrella, is located a town named after the Chibchan word for the district and an ancient Indian settlement. In Spanish this name has come down to us ca-hui-ta. A perfect English rendition of the Spanish is the name of Bartram's 18th century Cherokee war town—Cowetal Moreover, as with the Chibchan language, Mooney, writing about the Cherokee language in 1894, tells us "It may be noted that as a rule the Cherokee and some other tribes have no names for rivers or settlements." Just as with the people of Central America, Mooney noted that in the past, 65 �among the Cherokee "... The name belongs to the district, and is applied alike to the stream and to the town or mountain situated within it" (1894:xxix). My basic theory is that Chibchan speakers, at some time past, made their way northwards by sea, perhaps reaching the Gulf Coast and Florida as the archaeological record suggest. It is in this region that I am suggesting these Chibchan seafarers encountered Iroquois speaking Indians and, affiliating themselves with them, introduced words and cultural practices from the Antilles and Central America. One such word, which seems to support my theory of ancient contact between the Iroquoian linguistic family (of which most linguists agree Cherokee is related) and the now extinct Arawak of the Western Antilles, is "canoe." As noted at the beginning of this paper, the English word "canoe" is clearly derived from the Spanish canoa, which was taken directly from the Arawak word keno. I want to stress that this word was not only found among the now extinct island Arawak of Columbus' day, but is to be found today among both the Bribri of Costa Rica and the Northern Iroquoin speakers of New York and Canada. Dr. Marianne Williams, a noted linguist specializing in the Iroquoian language, upon my inquiring, informed me that, "... (concerning)... the words boat in Iroquoian, in Northern Iroquoian it is a nice, clean cognate set." Seneca — Kaawaa Cayuga — Kha' o" we — kah' o" weh Five Nations Onondaga Mohawk — Kahu we=ya — kahuwaku Oneida It would seem at a glance that if one takes the Bribri word for boat Keno and adds the Bribri suffix uak or wok, or u-wa to denote "clan," "tribe," or "people," then the Iroquoian word Kahoweh, with the proper tonal sounds, would be understood by the Bribri even today to mean "People of the Sea." It is probable that the non-seafaring Iroquois, simply transferred the entire name for the seafaring people they encountered into their language to mean boat. One more bit of evidence to suggest that this is precisely what they did is the rather unusual word used by the Bribri to denote net or woven bags. They used this word from the tiny bags carried over the shoulder by jungle hunters to large cargo nets with straps to fit the shoulders and head. The Bribri name for such bags is Chd'cara, a most unusual word. This same word among the Iroquoian dialects has retained the Bribri meaning in its entirety as well. I am told by Dr. Williams that Chdcara, 66 �the net carrying bags of the Bribri, would today among the Iroquois translate as "a container." Frank G. Speck, writing in the 1920's, theorized that the culture of the Cherokee, and perhaps the Iroquois too, may have had their origins in the tropical rain forests of the South. In building his case, Speck noted that none of the Southern tribes except the Cherokees, and possibly the Catawbas, "rimmed their baskets with a thin oak loop bound fast with a hickory fibre withe." He also noted that this particular characteristic of basket making is to be found in the Orinoco and Amazon basins. This is precisely from where many linguists and archaeologists think the original Chibchan language families dispersed northward (Speck 1920). Consider yet more linguistic evidence linking the Iroquoian dialects with the Chibchan speakers in the South. As was noted above, one of the five Iroquois nations is the Cayuga. Today the word is used among the inhabitants of the Bay Islands of Honduras in Central America, and elsewhere in the Western Caribbean to mean an Indian dugout boat. On Roatan Island, if the dugout has been finished with decking and small motor, it is referred to by the English term "dory." If it is roughly finished, unpainted and without motor, being propelled by paddle and rude sail, it is known to this day as a "cayuga," the very same word used today as the name of one of the 5 Iroquois Nations in New York and Canada (Evans:52). I would like to end this paper with a look at historical and ethnographic accounts that would seem to link the Cherokee with Antillean and Central American cultures in times past. At Puerto Limon, Costa Rica, the first Spanish landfall on the mainland of the New World, Columbus reported finding cloth made from the inner bark of certain trees. The Bribri call this cloth mastate (made from, among other species, the Brosimum costaricensis tree (Stone:22). There are many accounts of Cherokee bark cloth, the technique for making it, and its uses, and others before me have tried to link this cultural artifact with the South. And a Southern link seems also to be warranted to account for the method of poisoning fish, with the Bribri crushing the inner bark of the Habillo tree and the Cherokee poisoning their fish with toxin made by crushing horse chestnuts (Miling 1940:18). Mention should perhaps be made at this point of the blow gun, known today among both the Bribri and the Cherokee. The blow gun is most certainly a tropical hunting weapon. And both the Bribri and the Cherokee support shoulder bags in association with the blow gun. The difference here is that while the Bribri carry in their bag clay pellets and several bones to smooth and calibrate the unfired clay balls to match the bore of their blow guns, the Cherokee missile is a dart, supposedly poisoned. As for history, it too has something to add; for example, Carl Sauer, 67 �in his excellent account of the early Spanish Main, tells us that, "Dogs that did not bark were noted by Columbus. These were found throughout the islands, and later around the Caribbean and beyond. They were small, Las Casas said, the size of a lap dog, and were eaten—indeed were kept to be eaten" (1966:59). Listen now to Mooney, as he reminds us that De Soto was welcomed among the Cherokee somewhere near what is now the Western N. C. mountain town of Murphy. He tells us the Spanish were greeted in 1540 by Cherokees with "a little corn and many wild turkeys, together with some dogs of a peculiar small species, which were bred for eating purposes and did not bark" (1900:25, see also Ranjel, in Oviedo, Historia General y Natural de las Indies, I, p. 652, Madrid 1851). To go on now, and describe similar burial practices, similar medical practices, similar myths and artifacts, even a similar God in a similar heaven, would be possible but perhaps tiresome to the reader. What I believe at this point in my research, is that in seeking the Cherokee's past only in the North with their linguistic kin, the Iroquois, we have been but seeking a part of their cultural past. And that by turning Southward we may, to misquote the Cherokee chief with whom I began this paper, find indeed that if we look hard enough, and listen well, some faint response may indeed come down the gallery of time from the silent recesses of the past, and that, little by little, we may discover from "where and whence came they." BIBLIOGRAPHY Bartram, William 1928 Travels of William Bartram, Mark Van Doren, ed., (N.P.), Dover Publishers Bourne, E. G., Ed. 1904 Narratives of the Career of Hernando de Soto, 2 vol. New York Bullen, Ripley P. 1966 "Stelae at the Crystal River Site, Florida" American Antiquity, Vol. 31, no. 6: 861-865, October Cockburn, John 1779 The Unfortunate Englishman, London Columbus, C. 1930 The Voyages of Christopher Columbus, Newly translated and edited by Cecil Jane, London Conzemius, Edward 1926 On the Aborigines of the Bay Islands (Honduras), Roma, atti del XXII, Congresso Internazionale degli Americanist: Settembre 68 �Davidson, William V. 1974 Historical Geography of the Bay Islands, Honduras, Southern University Press Evans, David K. 1966 The People of French Harbour: A Study of Conflict and Change on Roatan Island, Honduras. University of California, Berkeley, Ph.D. Dissertation Unpublished Ford, James 1966 "Early Formative Cultures in Georgia and Florida," American Antiquity, vol. 31, no. 6, October: 781799 Gabb, Wm. M. 1895 On the Tribes and Languages of Costa Rica, American Philosophical Society, Vol. XIV, August: 483-602 Holmes, W. H. 1903 "Aboriginal Pottery of the Eastern United States," 20th Annual Report Bureau of Ethnology, Washington, D.C. Holmes, W. H. 1888 "Ancient Art of the Province of Chiriqui," 6th Annual Report, Bureau of Ethnology, Washington, D.C. MacGowan, D. J. "Indian Secret Societies" Historical Notes and Queries concerning the Antiquities of America X, (Morrisania, N.Y.: Henry B. Dawson) Mahan, Joseph B., Jr. 1969 Identification of the Tsoyaha Waeno Builders of Temple Mounds, (Ph.D. Dissertation, University of North Carolina, Chapel Hill Mooney, James 1894 "Administrative Report," llth Annual Report of the Bureau of Ethnology (1889-90) Smithsonian Institution, Washington, D.C. Mooney, James 1900 Myths of the Cherokee, 19th Annual Report of the U.S. Bureau of American Ethnology to the Secretary of the Smithsonian Institution 1897-98, Washington, D.C. Navarrete, M.F. De 1825-32 Coleccion de los viajes y descubrimientos, que hicieron por marlos espanoles desde fines del siglo XV, 5 vols., Madrid Oswalt, Wendell H. 1973 "The Eastern Cherokee: Farmers of the Southeast," This Land Was Theirs, John Wiley and Sons, New York Oviedo 1959 Historia general y natural de las India. Bib. Antores Espanoles, vol. 67-71, Madrid Pittier, H. deFabrega 1898 Die Sprache der Bribri— Indianer in Costa Rica Sitzungsberichte, Band CXXXVIII, Wien Ross, William P. 1893 The Life and Times of Honorable William P. Ross of the Cherokee Nation, Mrs. Wm. P. Ross, ed., Fort Smith Rouse, Irving 1964 "Prehistory of the West Indies," Science 144:499-513 69 �Rouse, Irving 1966 "Mesoamerica and the Eastern Caribbean Area," Archaeological Frontiers and External Connections, Handbook of Middle American Indians, vol. 4, Robert Wauchope, ed., 234-242 Sauer, Carl O. 1966 The Early Spanish Main, University of California Press, Berkely and Los Angeles Speck, Frank G. 1920 Decorative Art and Basketry of the Cherokees, Milwaukee Stone, Doris 1962 The Talamancan Tribes of Costa Rica, Peabody Museum of Archaeology and Ethnology, Harvard, Cambridge, vol. XLII, no. 2 Stone, Doris 1966 "Synthesis of Lower Central American Ethnology," Vol. 4, Handbook of Middle America Indian, Robert Wauchope, ed., Austin Thomas, Cyrus 1890 The Cherokees in Pre-Columbian Times, N.D.C. Hodges publisher, New York 70 �NORTH GEORGIA WRITERS—PAST AND PRESENT These Also Climbed Parnassus Paul McClure; N. Georgia College; Dahlonega, GA Works of Byron Herbert Reese Raymond Cook; Valdosta, GA Readings by Bettie Sellers; Young Harris College; Young Harris, G A Convenor: Julia Evatt; Elliiay, GA These Also Climbed Parnassus: An Overview of Georgia Mountain Authors by Paul McClure Most of the acclaim that has come to Southern Appalachian writers has come to those from Kentucky, Tennessee, and North Carolina. Relatively little recognition has been achieved by writers from the mountains of North Georgia, but they too have contributed significantly to our mountain heritage, from the early nineteenth century to the present day. Most nineteenth-century literature set in the Georgia mountains was produced by lowlanders, some of whom had at best an imperfect understanding of the region and its people. Probably the first of these was William Gilmore Simms, whose novel Guy Rivers (1834), involving frontier violence and intrigue in what is now the Cleveland-Dahlonega area, shows the influence of James Fenimore Cooper and Sir Walter Scott. However, it reveals little understanding of the Georgia mountains. After the Civil War came Sidney Lanier, whose poems show a great love for nature and the land. Especially noteworthy is "Song of the Chattahoochee," which personifies the wild, uncontrollable river singing happily in its mad rush "out of the hills of Habersham/Down the valleys of Hall," answering the call of Duty to water the plain. As a result mainly of this one poem, Lake Lanier and many other things in northeast Georgia have been named for this poet. Joel Chandler Harris is usually remembered as the creator of Uncle Remus, but he also wrote a few stories depicting north Georgia mountaineers. His long-short story "At Teague Poteet's," which appeared in a volume called Mingo and Other Sketches in Black and White (1884) reveals considerable insight into the hill-dweller's personality and lifestyle. The title character is so fiercely independent that he refuses to fight for 71 �either side in the Civil War. He shoots at recruiters for both sides when they approach his cabin. Later he gives the same treatment to "revenuers" when they approach his still. Another story, "Trouble on Lost Mountain," in the volume Free Joe and Other Georgian Sketches (1887), reveals the tragic results of the jealousy that separates two young mountain lovers because of the presence of a stranger in their midst, who, ironically, is unaware that he is the focus of the trouble until it is too late. The story presents all three characters sympathetically and ends on a note of pathos. Both these stories show Harris' keen ear for dialect as well as his understanding of human nature. Roughly contemporary with Harris was his friend Harry Stillwell Edwards of Macon, whose story "An Idyl of Sinkin' Mountain" takes place near Tallulah Falls. First published in Century Magazine in 1888, it was later included in Edwards' collection Two Runaways and Other Stories (1889). It is the story of a young, poverty-stricken mountaineer in his search for true love and a decent living. He eventually finds both on his own farm—a mica deposit is discovered there, and he falls in love with an orphan girl whom his mother had taken in but he had heretofore regarded somewhat as a sister. The story suffers from some lack of realism and from the author's imitation of the characters and dialect of Mary Murfree. Edwards, who knew little of the mountains in the 1880's, came to know them better in the 1920's, when he wrote several newspaper sketches with a mountain setting. The one native north Georgian to receive much literary fame in the nineteenth century was humorist Charles Henry Smith of Cartersville, known to his readers as "Bill Arp." He started writing in 1861 in the form of an "open letter" to President Lincoln, which he read to some of his backwoods friends near Rome, one of whom was named Bill Arp, who asked Smith what name he was going to use when he published the letter. Smith replied that he had not yet decided on a name. So Bill said, "Well, squire, I wish you would print mine, for them's my sentiments."1 Smith continued to use the name "Bill Arp" in over 2000 informal essays published as "open letters" in Atlanta newspapers and elsewhere until his death in 1903. These "letters" were collected in several books over the years; three of the best-known are Bill Arp, So Called (1866), Bill Arp's Peace Papers (1873), and The Farm and the Fireside (1891). Over the years the persona of Bill Arp changed from that of a semi-literate backwoodsman to that of a cultivated Southern gentleman who used impeccable English. But the earlier sketches, which used mountain dialect and rough frontier humor, are more interesting. In the early twentieth century, the most prolific of all Georgia mountain writers, Will N. Harben of the Dalton-Chatsworth area, wrote a number of novels and short stories which poignantly and faithfully depict the people of that region, although a few have their settings largely in 72 �other parts of the country. Although he published his first novel, White Marie, in 1889, he did not become really well known until his volume of short stories, Northern Georgia Sketches, appeared in 1900. It received favorable notice from William Dean Howells, who asked Harben for a novel to be published by Harper's. Harben's reply was the novel Westerfelt, which had been heretofore rejected but was published in Harper's in 1901. It is the story of "a common man dogged by guilt after the suicide of a girl who loved him hopelessly."2 Altogether Harben wrote over twentyfive novels and other books before his death in 1919. Of these, Ann Boyd (1906) is usually regarded as Harben's most powerful work of fiction. However, perhaps the most interesting of Harben's novels in terms of our Appalachian heritage is Pole Baker (1905). Though it begins slowly, it soon captures the reader's interest, not so much in the title character as in the whole cast, for it is more the story of a whole community than of one man. The irony is that Pole Baker, a poor, barely literate dirt farmer with a serious drinking problem, is throughout the novel a stabilizing influence on the rest of the community, including his wealthy friend Nelson Floyd. Floyd eventually emerges as the central character with an identity crisis to solve and problems in his love affair with Cynthia Porter, whose mother hates Floyd and tries both fair means and foul to separate the lovers. But with common sense and elementary investigative methods, Pole Baker solves Floyd's identity problem, brings the lovers together, and inadvertently finds a better life for himself as well. This novel, while somewhat inauspicious in terms of dialect and other local-color aspects, is more original in plot and characterization than most other mountain novels, especially those of the early twentieth century. It may be that Will Harben is one of the most underrated novelists of his age. Around the turn of the century Corra Harris, who as a Methodist minister's wife lived in several communities in north Georgia, began to write stories and articles for various periodicals. In 1910 appeared her first and most famous novel, A Circuit Rider's Wife. It tells the story of Mary Thompson's trials and joys as a minister's wife in rural north Georgia. Though influenced by the author's own experiences, it is not predominantly autobiographical. It later served as the basis for the popular motion picture I'd Climb the Highest Mountain, which premiered in the early 1950's. There were also two sequels to this novel: A Circuit Rider's Widow (1916) and My Son (1921). Corra Harris also wrote a number of other novels, all highly popular in their day but usually criticized today for their overt didacticism. She also wrote a few satires on small-town politics and on the church hierarchy. Some of her later books, especially My Book and My Heart (1924), are more obviously autobiographical than her earlier works. During the last several years of her life she lived in a cabin near Pine Log Mountain in Bartow County and wrote a column called "A Candlelit Column" for the Atlanta Journal, until her death in 1935. 73 �Her works were among the most wholesome and inspiring of popular fiction. Tastes in literature began to change in the 1920's, and that change was reflected in the works of Lillian Smith when she began writing in the 1930's. Born in Florida, she moved with her parents to Clayton in her teens. There her father managed a hotel and a youth camp, which she herself directed for a time. Her first novel, Strange Fruit (1944), with its story of an interracial love affair, outraged most Southerners and was banned as obscene in some places. Nevertheless, it was so popular that a dramatized version was performed on Broadway for a time. She also wrote a half-dozen other books, but like Strange Fruit, they can hardly be called Appalachian literature on the basis of setting or theme. Lillian Smith can be called a Georgia mountain writer only by virtue of her having resided in the region for a number of years. The first prominent Georgia mountain native poet was Byron Herbert Reece of Union County. A quintessential mountaineer, reared in the remote Choestoe Valley, he remained a dirt farmer as well as a poet his whole short, tortured life. Yet no poetry evokes the spirit of the mountains, of nature, and of the soil more than his. Though he published some poetry in obsure poetry journals as a youth, it was only after the encouragement and recommendation of Jesse Stuart that he received much notice. His first book of poetry, Ballad of the Bones (1945), was well received, as was his novel Better a Dinner of Herbs (1950). He served for a time as poet-inresidence at UCLA and later did the same at Emory, but ill health forced him to return home. For the last few years of his life he served as poet-inresidence and teacher at Young Harris College, near his home. His suicide in 1958 was a tragic waste of a prodigious talent. Another Georgia mountain native who became a notable poet is Don West. Born in 1906 in a one-room cabin in the almost inaccessible Devil's Hollow in Gilmer County, he grew up with very little schooling, but showed early a great love for books. His uncle, who had fought in World War I, saw to it that he had a chance to enroll in the Berry School near Rome, Georgia. There he learned fast, but he left Berry in his junior year as a result of his stand in favor of a teacher who was fired. Thus began West's involvement in controversy, his championing of those whom he regarded as victims of injustice, which has marked his career ever since. After working for a few years, he enrolled in Lincoln Memorial University, where he became a friend of Jesse Stuart and later became involved in more controversy. As a graduate student at Vanderbilt he received a fellowship to study in Denmark. At Vanderbilt he wrote his first book of poetry, called Crab-Grass (1931). He also attended other institutions of higher learning, but, as he puts it, "My real education has been beaten into me by the everlasting toil and hunger I've seen, by the struggles in textile and coal-mining centers, where our people were tolled down from the hills 74 �with fair promises of a better life .. ."' The poverty and oppression suffered by mountain people has been a major concern of his, and for this reason much of his poetry is anti-establishment. Its weakness is that it often sounds like propaganda, but some of his poetry rises to lyric heights comparable with that of the best mountain poets. During the last few decades he has lived mainly in West Virginia, where until recently he directed the Appalachian South Folklife Center. His principal books of poetry include Clods of Southern Earth (1946), The Road Is Rocky (1951), and O Mountaineers (1974). Poetry continues to flow from the pens of north Georgians today. Bettie Sellers of Young Harris, whose first book of poetry, Westward from Bald Mountain, appeared about a decade ago, now has published several other works and is currently engaged in a highly ambitious series of poems. She is only one of several north Georgia poets who are gaining a reputation outside the region as well as in it. In addition, such nationally known poets as James Dickey have set a number of their works in the Georgia mountains. North Georgians are continuing to produce prose, too. Terry Kay has written a delightful novel called After Eli, set in the Nacoochee Valley; Julia Evatt of Ellijay has attracted considerable notice with her "Leland Benjamin" stories; and Gloria Stargel of Gainesville has brought inspirational narrative back into vogue (at least in Georgia) with her autobiographical story The Healing, perhaps the most interesting contemporary prose writer in terms of our Georgia mountain heritage is Jimmy Townsend of Jasper, whose brand of homespun philosophy in Mountain Echoes, Wait Jest a Cotton-Pickin' Minute, and other works bears comparison to that of Mark Twain and Will Rogers. Still another prose writer of note is Lt. Gov. Zell Miller of Towns County, whose book The Mountains Within Me contains much of the essence of our Appalachian heritage. In view of this continuing and ongoing production of literature by people from the Georgia mountains, this heritage seems in no danger of fading into obscurity. In fact, the literary future of the region looks bright. NOTES 'Joseph H. Baird, "Bill Arp's Humor in the Bleak South," Atlanta Journal and Constitution Magazine, Oct. 18, 1970, pp. 18-19. •Robert Bush, in Southern Writers: A Biographical Dictionary, ed. Robert Bain et al (Baton Rouge: LSU Press, 1979), p. 200. 'In a Land of Plenty: A Don West Reader (Minneapolis: West End Press, 1982), pp. 6-7. 75 �This page intentionally left blank �THE BUSINESS OF TRADITION: TRADES, HANDICRAFTS AND HOUSEHOLD ENTERPRISES The Shell Button Industry in Appalachia Cheryl Claassen; Appalachian State University; Boone, NC Oral Histories of Appalachian Craftsmen Mont Whitson; Morehead State University; Morehead, KY Appalachian Ethnicity as Reflected in a Craft Cooperative Susan Keefe; Appalachian State University; Boone, NC Convenor: Gordon McKinney; Western Carolina University, Cullowhee, NC The Shell Button Industry in Appalachia by Cheryl Claassen The major motivating factor for collecting freshwater shellfish in the Eastern United States during historic times was the shell button industry which flourished from 1891 until 1930 in most regions. The button industry derived its raw materials largely from local populations, working rivers and streams from Wisconsin to Texas and east to the Appalachians (Georgia to Pittsburgh) and including New York and New England. After 1855 the shellfish populations in New England and New York rivers declined due to over harvesting and the shelling center jumped to Muscatine, Iowa in 1891.' The rate of spread eastward from Muscatine toward Pittsburgh and the western edge of the southern Appalachian Mountains was directly related to the rate of depletion of shellfish bed in the Mississippi-Illinois River system.2 Consequently then, the duration of the industry and the shelling activity shortens as one moves toward the Appalachians. Buttons were cut in Cincinnati and Cleveland by 1898 using Mississippi River shells.3 By 1912, the income from this industry was greater than $6 million yearly. From 1930 to 1940 plastics came to replace shell as the major raw material for buttons ending what was in most places no more than a 20 year long industry. Most button factories closed while some converted to plastic or military button manufacture. The largest factory in Muscatine, Iowa continues today to manufacture shell buttons, the only producer of this product in the U.S. A TV A warning of overfishing in 1933 apparently stopped the shelling on the Tennessee River but men returning home after WWII 77 �discovered the beds had recovered and shelling began immediately. Following a hiatus of over twenty years the Japanese demand for shell nacre revitalized the shellfishing activity in the Eastern United States. In the late 1950s, the cultured pearl industry of Japan got over 80% of its shell stock from the Tennessee River.4 Shellfishing activities resumed on the Ohio in Ohio in 1950. A single collector moved onto the Muskingum River in 1966, harvesting 35 tons of shell that year.5 Today several companies employ men full time on a seasonal basis to dive for deeper shell beds in numerous Eastern rivers. Unlike the days of shell buttons when the term "prospecting" characterized the activities of shelters, today shelters or divers are told where to dive, what species to take and in what quantity. Company owned tractor-trailers buy the shell from the divers at company specified locations. Two years ago (1981), the Tennessee Shell Company (President is Latandresse) began culturing pearls at two locations in this country. This development should insure the future of commercial shellfishing in the Eastern United States.8 Appalachian Shellfishing: Locations and Yields Although the major impetus for shellfishing was the button industry, shellfishing for pearls preceded the commercial collection of shells on several Appalachian streams, particularly the Powell, Clinch and Holston Rivers. In 1909 a government sponsored button potential assay trip to these rivers found that the pearlers had no awareness of markets for shells or the button industry,7 then 18 years old, in spite of factories as close as Clarksville, Kentucky and Knoxville. Pearling occurred primarily in the months of July, August, and September, used the same techniques for capture as were used elsewhere for shelling and relied on pearl buyers for marketing. Huge piles of discarded shells were observed by the government party visiting the Clinch, Holston, and Powell Rivers. Mr. J. Beopple, the Bureau of Fisheries agent conducting the 1909 survey of these rivers and legendary father of the shell button industry in America, instructed the local pearlers and interested persons in the market value of certain species of shell for the button industry. The commercial value of such shells was explained to the pearl hunters, who were advised to seek a market for this material. It was learned that few pearls had been found during the preceding summer, so that a market for the shells was practically necessary to supplement the income from the yield of pearls.8 Under Boepple's influence, a single car of shells reached the market (place unspecified) late in the 1909 season. The following seasons, 1910 and 1911, 78 �98 tons of shell from the Clinch and 56 tons of shell from the Holston were sold to button factories. Boepple rated the shells from the "Clinch and Holston Rivers as having the best mussels for buttons that I have seen in all my experience in the button business."10 Neither the tonnage nor the earnings beyond 1913 are known for these rivers, where shellfishing lasted into the 1940s. Pearlers had been in operation on the Cumberland River for at least 20 years when the government party of Wilson and Clark assayed the Cumberland shellfishery in 1914.11 Few species were found living above Cumberland Falls but from the falls to Celina, Tennessee, a distance of 175 miles, considerable pearling was underway with the activity tapering off south of this area at Carthage. One hundred men were often pearling at one bed near Rowena and at one time, 150 men on a single bed. The Caney Fork was said to have the best pearls available. "Our own observations, as well as records of people engaged in the pearl trade, indicate that pearling was once an important occupation in the upper river."12 Downriver from Carthage, pearling was a secondary activity to shelling. The major southern Appalachian rivers exploited by shelters collecting shells for factory buyers were the Ohio, as early as 1908,13 the Cumberland, and the Tennessee. Collection records from the Ohio River in Ohio from 1908 until 1963 (Table 1) indicate that the peak years of collecting activity were 1908 until 1922 with a hiatus from 1931 until 1950. TABLE 1 Ohio River Basin Commercial Shellfish Catch—1894-1963 (Thousands of pounds—thousands of dollars)" Av. Price Per Ton (Dollars) Total Pounds Total Value 1894 1899 1903 1908 1912-13 1922 1931 1950 1954 1955 1956 1957 1958 1959 1960 1962 1963 289 283 356 122 10 59 94 109 83 29 22 95 47 160 26,263 31,482 16,318 8,318 553 2,812 3,956 4,264 3,383 1,144 708 2,260 1,150 2,762 79 22 18 42 29 34 42 48 51 49 51 62 84 82 116 �From 17,000 to 31,000 pounds were taken each year during the peak period, 2054 tons of shell valued at $119,000 in 1912 alone.14 In addition, in 1926, commercial harvesting in Ohio was recorded on 25 Ohio streams. On the Cumberland in 1913, a catch of 1267 tons of shell valued at $22,000 was recorded. For the Tennessee River this same year, the figures are 906 tons and $11,000.16 In neither case is it possible to determine the proportion of the catch that came from outside Appalachia. Shelling on the Tennessee reached a standstill in the 1940s. Lesser regional rivers and creeks known to the author as shelling locations are the Scioto, Muskingum, Tuscarawas, Killbucks, Mohican, Sandusky, and Wills in Ohio,17 Clear Fork, Big South Fork, Beaver Creek, Goose Creek, Obey River in Kentucky,18 and the Holston, Clinch (particularly near Lone Mountain19), Power, Caney Fork, French Broad, and Stones River in Tennessee.20 (See the appendix for a detailed account of shellfishing along the upper Cumberland.) Catch figures for several rivers and streams for the years 1912 and 1913,21 1926,22 and the 1960s,23 are to be found in Table 2. TABLE 2 Catch Figures for Appalachian Streams Weight (ton) Water Body Muskingum Tuscarawas Killbucks Mohican Wills Clinch Holston 191213 1926U 1966" 1968 1969 1970 1926 1926 1926 1926 1913 1913 Value-Shell Value-Pearls 688 36 35 90 417 650 18 55 40 19 98 56 $14 ,000 $ 1,800 $ 65 $ 935 $ 2,475 $ 1,600 $ 430 $ 30 $100 $150 $ 0 Methods of Collection—Preparation of Shellfish In 1919, 70% of the shellfish gathered in the United States were taken by the Crowfoot bar, 5% by hand and 1% by dredge.24 The popularity of the crowfoot bar was due to its adaptability to a variety of riverine conditions and its ease of operation for even the inexperienced. Developed in 80 �1897, this method capitalized on the animals' instinct to clamp shut whenever disturbed. When dragging the foot over the bottom, any hooks that are caught between the values of the animal will be clamped down on. The crowfoot bar is raised periodically and cleaned of shellfish, then lowered again. The boat type most frequently employed in this operation is the John boat. Coker26 describes numerous other techniques. In 1967, the methods of collecting and handling mussels had changed little since 1891.26 Appalachian pearlers seen in 1909 on the Clinch River had developed two unique techniques for catching shellfish.27 One was the crude method of using an iron hook to pry the animal from the bottom and then push it into a tin can that was lowered to the bottom. The second innovation was to use a plow drawn by a strong team and working in 4 to 12 inch deep water, thoroughly plow up the bottom so that the mussels could be easily picked up. At campsites along a river, sometimes after transfer to a flat boat, shelters "cook out" the animals. Campsites were chosen for proximity to a good shell bed and by convenience to shade and wood.28 Tents or frame buildings were constructed. House boats or shanty boats are a common shelter. The cooker was frequently a vat 5' long, 2' wide and from 12" to 18" deep. It was suspended over a trench with a fire and fitted with a stove pipe to furnish draft. In many Appalachian areas this vat is similar to a molasses cooker.29 Driftwood was commonly used as fuel. The vat was and is today, filled with mussels and a small amount of water and then covered with burlap or gunney sacks. Steam eventually kills the shellfish relaxing the hinge muscles that hold the paired valves together. The meat is cut out and it along with any unsuitable shells—those too small or endangered or inappropriate species—are discarded. The water in the cooker was strained to recover any pearls; meats were explored for the same reason. Shellfishers More often than not shelters were and are today, itinerates living (then) on shantyboats or (now) in trailers or motels. Shelters worked an area either in an individual family group or formed a sort of camp town with a dozen or more families grouped together. Along the Cumberland River in Monroe County, an informant recalled seeing only Caucasian shelters.30 Some had huge families and most returned summer after summer to the same river. The Rose family, with eleven daughters, moved their shantyboat into Monroe County each spring, "cooking out" on shore and cooking meals both on shore and on boat. They wintered each year near the mouth of Greesy Creek, subsisting, like many shelters, on fur trapping.31 Other families covered greater territory. One family which reportedly began 81 �shelling "in the east" can be traced next to the Muskingum of Ohio, the Wabash in Indiana, the Ohio River and finally in Texas.32 Local people also shelled and pearled. Many of the shelters are nomadic and therefore move readily with their launches from a region of poor fishery to a better locality. It is often the case however, that in times of low water, when the mussels are easily obtained, the farm hands, miscellaneous laborers, and others engage temporarily in shelling, using any kind of available equipment or collecting by hand.33 Although itinerants shelled the Cumberland in Monroe County, Kentucky, local people such as the young Hascill Haile and his brother gathered shellfish only to look for pearls, discarding both shell and meat. Every other day, in the summer during low water, the teenage brothers would collect shellfish with a crowfoot bar while checking the family fish traps. They usually spent the entire day doing this. Haile soon began buying pearls locally for another buyer who visited the area periodically from Salina, Tennessee. Haile reports that he made "a lot of money pearling, more than working by the hour." He has retained several pearls in a private collection. Currently he makes guitars choosing Arkansas shells for the enlay work. Divers working for modern companies such as the American Shell Company of Knoxville or the Tennessee Shell Company of Camden, Tennessee, are only occasionally local people. As in earlier days the divers are itinerate, often traveling with their own and other families.34 Marketing Haile reports that buyers paid the itinerate shellers by the ton in the 1920s, then loaded the whole shells onto locally owned barges destined for a button factory in Nashville. Shells collected on the northern Clinch River near Lone Mountain were sold to factory buyers from Knoxville such as Patton's which closed in 1982. (In the mid 1930s the company had switched from the production of shell buttons to metal military buttons.35). Shells were transported to market on barges on the Cumberland, and by boxcar and wagon from the Clinch.38 On the Tennessee River, in 1956, the shellers got $60/ton with the meat in and packed in 200 Ib. boxes while middlemen such as Latandresse got $100/ton in the States and $480/ton in Japan.37 Known Ohio factories were located near or on the Ohio River. One factory was located between Ripley and Manchester,38 one on Brush Creek,39 and one in Manchester.40 The Manchester factory sent buyers to "comb the country from the Appalachians to the Rockies and from the 82 �Gulf to the Lakes to secure clam shells."41 The advent of restrictive legislation necessitated a reliance on foreign shell. In 1949 they were cutting only shells from India and the Persian Gulf at Manchester. The blanks cut in Manchester were then sent to Amsterdam, New York, for polishing and finishing.42 A noteworthy difficulty encountered in many places in Appalachia was high transportation costs. In areas remote from manufacturing centers shellers might own a cutting machine so that the button blanks could be punched out for sale to a buyer and the excess weight discarded. A cutting machine in 1919 cost about $16.43 Shell companies today are highly competitive enterprises. During interviews with personnel at both the Tennessee Shell Company and the American Shell Company, requests for information on the number of divers, diving locations and average weekly income were denied. It was possible to learn a few facts about the modern operation, however. Raw shell is sent to Japan where it is contracted out to cheap labor for cutting and polishing in Hong Kong, Taiwan, the Philippines, and Korea. Shells are bought from the divers in 100 Ib. lots and transported by tractor-trailer to the company.44 The collecting season is usually March until November but in some areas of the South individuals are willing to dive year round. The American Shell Company exports "a container or two each week."46 Discussion Several aspects of commercial shellfishing suggest future research topics. The shell button industry was a short-lived capitalistic enterprise that could, because of the length of its duration, provide an excellent case study of industrial capitalism. The processes typical of industrial development are extremely contracted and complete in this example. The itinerant life style of shellers has never been recorded or studied. Just how their ideological, social, and technological attributes compare with other American itinerant groups would be equally interesting. Itinerate shellers were both local seasonal laborers and "foreigners" hi an area. Similar seasonal wage labor was available in the lumber industry, beginning in the Ohio-Kentucky-Tennessee area hi the 1870s suggesting it could have served as a model for seasonal, and part time shell collecting. At convenient intervals during the cultivating and harvesting seasons and during the winter, the farmers went into the woods to cut saw logs and to snake or haul them to the nearest tributary capable of floating to a raft yard . . . These farmerloggers spent much of their tune in the woods during summer months between 1870-1935 cutting on their own property or working for larger landowners or timber buyers.46 83 �The economic impact of this activity during the first period of collecting on the lives of Appalachian citizens is quite elusive at this time. Shell prices per ton are the easiest to obtain. Table 1 gives annual prices and net value for Ohio River basin collections from 1908 to 1931. Boepple estimated the Clinch shells would bring $77 per ton. If this figure is correct, the 1913 market proceeds from Clinch River shell was approximately $7549 and $4312 for Holston River shelters. The number of people involved is a very elusive figure for any area or time period. Oral interviews with buyers appear to be the only possible means of estimating the number of people involved and the amounts realized in any one community. These figures are equally elusive in this second period of shellfishing activity. Company personnel are candid in their refusal to release information on the number of divers employed or their catches. The number of collecting permits issued in those states requiring permits will give some indication of this figure. In 1966 the mussel shell harvest from the Tennessee River was estimated at 5,468,000 pounds valued at $577,161.47 Unfortunately this figure includes areas outside of the Appalachian region. It is most likely that shellfishing never exceeded the economic contribution of other part tune labor in Appalachia. Pearling on the other hand, may have exceeded the earning potential of any other wage labor job available between 1890 and 1930. The highest price paid for a pearl from the Clinch River was $2,500, sometime before 1914. At Burnside, Tennessee, a personal collection of pearls valued at $20,000 was seen by Wilson and Clark. They also learned that one of the principal merchants in Carthage bought $15,000 worth of pearls every year. He generally paid between $20 to $300 for a single pearl in the years 1907-1909. Boepple's guide on the Holston River had found and sold approximately $14000 worth of pearls in that same time period. Hascill Haile reports making more money pearling than he ever did in wage labor. Again, the number of men involved in this activity is difficult to estimate. Many shellfish beds in the upper Cumberland River and in the Holston and Clinch Rivers were fished to the point of exhaustion. As many as 150 men worked a single shellfish bed in a single season on the Cumberland near Rowena. In contrast, four pearlers were encountered working beds on the Clinch October 31st, 1909. Most likely, large numbers of boys and men probably pearled at least one season in their lifetime during the period 1900-1930. The historical shell button and pearl industries are important from several standpoints. In both cases there are living participants who can provide much data on what are essentially unrecorded activities. These activities, in as much as they netted cash and facilitated the local participation in an expanding cash economy are unknown factors in the process of the mountaineer's acculturation. They also provided an avenue 84 �of exit from Appalachia for individuals and families. To what extent shellfishing influenced people in either regard is the major challenge of future research. FOOTNOTES 1. Irving Richman, History ofMuscatine County, Iowa (S. J. Clarke, Chicago, 1911), p. 303. 2. Robert E. Coker, Freshwater Mussels and Mussel Industries of the United States. Bulletin of the Bureau of Fisheries, Vol. XXXVI1917-1918, Document No. 865. (Government Printing Office, Washington, 1919), p. 32. 3. Clarence Clark, "Management of Naiad Populations in Ohio" mRare and Endangered Mollusks of the U. S., ed. S. E. Jorgensen and R. W. Sharp (1917), pp. 26-33. 4. Comments by Ben Jaco in Rare and Endangered Mollusks of the U. S., pp. 57-59. 5. Clarence Clark, "Management of Naiad Populations in Ohio," p. 29. 6. John Latandresse, personal communication, Oct. 1983, Camden, Tennessee. 7. J. F. Boepple and R. E. Coker, Mussel Resources of the Holston and Clinch Rivers of Eastern Tennessee, Bureau of Fisheries Document No. 765,1912. (Government Printing Office, Washington), p. 3. 8. J. F. Boepple and R. E. Coker, Mussel Resources of the Holston and Clinch Rivers of Eastern Tennessee, p. 9. 9. Ibid, p. 13. 10. Ibid, p. 11. 11. Charles B. Wilson and H. Walton Clark, The Mussels of the Cumberland River and Its Tributaries. Bureau of Fisheries Document No. 781,1914. (Government Printing Office, Washington), p. 42. 12. Charles B. Wilson and H. Walton Clark, The Mussels of the Cumberland River and Its Tributaries, p. 44. 13. Clarence Clark, "Management of Naiad Populations in Ohio," p. 26. 14. Robert E. Coker, Freshwater Mussels and Mussel Industries of the United States, p. 40. 15. Table 1 taken from Ohio River Basin Comprehensive Survey, Appendix G, Vol. 8. U. S. Dept. of Interior, Fish and Wildlife Service 1960. 16. Robert Coker, Freshwater Mussels and Mussel Industries of the United States, p. 40. 17. Clarence Clark, "Management of Naiad Populations in Ohio," p. 26. 18. Charles Wilson and H. Walton Clark, The Mussels of the Cumberland and Its Tributaries. 19. Lewis Kalter, TVA Island Wilderness Biological Survey (1935), p. 52. 20. John Latandresse, personal communication, Oct. 1983, Camden, Tennessee. 21. Robert E. Coker, Freshwater Mussels and Mussel Industries of the United States, p. 40. Source for all 1912, 1913 figures in Table 2. 22. Clarence Clark, "Management of Naiad Populations in Ohio," p. 26. 23. Ibid, p. 30. 85 �24. Robert E. Coker, Freshwater Mussels and Mussel Industries of the United States, p. 59. 25. Ibid. 26. Paul Parmalee, The Fresh-Water Mussels of Illinois (Illinois State Museum Popular Science Series, volume 8), p. 2. 27. J. F. Boepple and R. E. Coker, Mussel Resources of the Holston and Clinch Rivers of Eastern Tennessee, p. 10. 28. Robert E. Coker, Freshwater Mussels and Mussel Industries of the United States, p. 59. 29. Hascell Haile, personal communication, Oct. 1983, Tompkinsville, Kentucky. 30. Ibid. 31. Ibid. 32. John Latandresse, personal communication, Oct. 1983, Camden, Tennessee. 33. Robert E. Coker, Freshwater Mussels and Mussel Industries of the United States, p. 44. 34. John Latandresse, personal communication, Oct. 1983, Camden, Tennessee. 35. Paul Parmalee, personal communication, Oct. 1983, Knoxville, Tennessee. 36. John Latandresse, personal communication, Oct. 1983, Camden, Tennessee. 37. John C. Williams comments in Rare and Endangered Species of the U. S., p. 51. 38. Robert Genheimer, personal communication, Oct. 1982, Cincinnati, Ohio. 39. David Brose, personal communication, Nov. 1983, Columbia, South Carolina. 40. Kendall Rhoades, "Clam Shells and Buttons," Ohio Conservation Bulletin, June, 1951, pp. 14-15. 41. Ibid. 42. Ibid. 43. Robert E. Coker, Freshwater Mussels and Mussel Industries of the United States, p. 44. 44. John Latandresse, personal communication, Oct. 1983, Camden, Tennessee. 45. Interview with an official of the American Shell Company, Knoxville, Tennessee, Oct. 1983. 46. William Lynwood Montell, Don't Go Up Kettle Creek (University of Tennessee Press 1983), p. 85. 47. Development of Water Resources in Appalachia. Appendix G, Fish and Wildlife Resources. U. S. Dept. of Interior, Fish and Wildlife Service 1969, p. 16. REFERENCES CITED Boepple, J. F. and R. E. Coker 1912 Mussel Resources of the Holston and Clinch Rivers of Eastern Tennessee. U. S. Bureau of Fisheries, Document No. 765, Government Printing Office, Washington. Clark, Clarence 1971 Management of Naiad Populations in Ohio. In Rare and Endangered Mollusks (Naiads) of the U. S., ed. S. E. Jorgensen and R. W. Sharpe, (U. S. Dept. of the Interior, Fish and Wildlife Service, Bureau of Sport Fisheries and Wildlife Region 3. Twin Cities, Minn. 55111), pp. 25-33. 86 �Coker, Robert E. 1919 Freshwater Mussels and Mussel Industries of the United States. Bulletin of the Bureau of Fisheries, Vol. 36, 1917-1918, Document No. 865, Government Printing Office, Washington. Kalter, Lewis 1935 Island Wilderness Biological Survey. Tennessee Valley Authority. Montell, William 1983 Don't Go Up Kettle Creek. University of Tennessee Press, Knoxville. Parmalee, Paul 1967 The Fresh-Water Mussels of Illinois. Illinois State Museum Popular Science Series 8. Rhoades, Kendall 1951 Clam Shells and Buttons. Ohio Conservation Bulletin, June, pp. 14-15. Richman, Irving 1911 History of Muscatine County, Iowa. S. J. Clarke, Chicago. U. S. Department of Interior 1960 Ohio River Basin Comprehensive Survey, Appendix G, Vol. 8. Fish and Wildlife Resources. Fish and Wildlife Service. 1969 Development of Water Resources in Appalachia, Appendix G. Fish and Wildlife Resources. Fish and Wildlife Service. Wilson, Charles B. and H. Walton Clark 1914 The Mussels of the Cumberland River and Its Tributaries. U. S. Bureau of Fisheries, Document No. 781, Government Printing Office, Washington. 87 �This page intentionally left blank �REGIONAL POETRY Reading by: Don Johnson; East Tennessee State University; Johnson City, TN Bennie Lee Sinclair; Cleveland, SC Thomas Crowe; Webster, NC Convenor: Sam Gray, Western Carolina University, Cullowhee, NC Faces of Appalachia in Poetry by Bennie Lee Sinclair The Blue Ridge escarpment of South Carolina, as well as similar terrain in neighboring Georgia and North Carolina, has furnished contrast for much of my poetry. Here where highland and lowland abruptly meet, the mountains ever looming blue to those dispossessed of them, the abundant lights of the fertile piedmont taunting those who would resist its lure, the conflict of a century-and-a-half old migration is keenly felt. The necessary movement from hill country to mill country so typical of escarpment folk is subject of the following two poems. In the first the sustaining image, that of the radio, is particularly reminiscent of South Carolina where, in the late 1930's and early 1940's, the legendary Arthur Smith began his career playing bluegrass and country music on the state's first radio station WSPA, in Spartanburg. Hill-haunted listeners who cannot afford to move home again, though sometimes generations removed from the ridges, have continued to make that music the most popular in the area. BLUEGRASS & COUNTRY MADRIGALS I. Ours, the hardscrabble land. Out of the bones of mules sometimes the green corn grew, too late. Over-wet, or stony, or dry, always there were fields we could not negotiate— 89 �until the mills opened up new vistas, and we swarmed: tuning the night's radio for our lost and irregular theme. II. Listen! Whenever a straw-and-wind fiddle bends, bow to breast in the deep fields of night, a music begins— a system of vibrating strings that shakes the ruined valleys and hills asleep under concrete or slag; shakes awake a diminishing vision we only gather, like dew or kindling, out of the windows of Greyhounds or houses we left, as we pass. III. Pressed by this wind, the guitar (the poet's guitar of rain) descends in coded note-drops through awnings and roofs of a city until we also wake, children bewitched under sheets of tin to hear such music fall freely, piercing the walls of our high-rise down to that remnant of land we hold buried, somewhere beneath the sub-floor under our realized dreams. 90 �IV. And drowning this echo, the rain, a broken voice takes hold. Our roused heart, like a maverick banjo, sloughs up the mined-out steepsides braying (as if we still climbed a wilderness) until, near the top, we look down at our future, almost behind us and relayed in this system of strings—mere viscera stretched and strummed tight as our squandered soul, on its frame. V. Curtains of rags at the windows; rags on the table and doors; rags into cracks for the chinking; and rags into rugs for the floors; hot mustard-pack rags for the dying of croup or flu or cold— and yet, in the evenings, we sang: the clear chorus of those open spaces imbuing us, making us love them no matter how far we remain. 91 �VI. Surrounded by fresh, laundered linen in our new rooms that are vaulted like heaven, we wait the thesis of displaced seed or tuber: and in the darkness we hear a gentle rain, yet intricate as math far-fetched, fetched far and homeward for us (who have paid our dues in the fields gathering cotton, or wheat, or dust; and no one ever to tell us which are the roots that grow or may blossom again)— Listen! The next poem had roots in the childhood experience of accompanying my father in his search for bootleg and music. Born at Fruitland, North Carolina, he was the first of his family to leave the hills, a move he always regretted. I remember our 1940's wanderings—in his 1940 Ford, a black cloth flapping where the shotgun window would be—and the toe-tapping music, the moonshiners' wild children my playmates for the evening. I envision the narrator of this poem to be my alter-ego Polly Esther, who sings with the Textile Boys band. THE FIRST TIME EVER I HEARD YOU, HONEY, AS A ONE-MAN BLUEGRASS BAND The first time ever I heard you, honey, as a one-man bluegrass band, you were tuning it up when the music started up, coming right out of your skin: and I couldn't keep still and I couldn't say no to a sound so good for my soul; and I thought about my daddy and his old Ford— 92 �how we rode through the hills for a song— and I couldn't give it up and I wouldn't give it up, I'd been looking for you so long: a man who can make the banjo moan, a man who can stroke a guitar; a man who isn't afraid to sing like a slow-moving rattle-freight car; a man who can thump like a drum with his toes, hold the mouth-organ right with his teeth . . . you got me, honey, you don't even have to play no more, tonight, oh please . . . A major asset of escarpment highlands is the plentitude of water that springs from the ridges. Gravity flow spring water is a luxury flatlander, with dug well, cannot envision. My husband, potter Don Lewis, remembered visits to his great aunt's home in the North Georgia mountains as the happiest times of his childhood. Especially splendid to him was the spring that supplied her family with water. As he and I searched for land years later, springwater was his main requirement. Then, shortly after we found and moved to our dream place (more than a hundred acres with more than a hundred springs) a terrible year-long drought, the worst in the area's history, dried up springs and creeks. He was deeply affected by the drought, a depression that resulted in an artist's block that lasted until the rains at last came again. LORD OF SPRINGS The first day that we climbed our land I stood at the uppermost spring mesmerized, and it winter, by color: my husband—red jacket, blue jeanskneeling amid stone gray, algae green, to drink from that shining source; and by how complete he seemed rising satisfied like an animal or a god, droplets gleaming from his brown beard in that stark unscreened sunlight, who had always, in our search, considered water his Muse. 93 �Here, on this one tract wedged between mountains and rivers the Indians named "Saluda"— "Saluda": Land Where the Green Corn Grows— we had found two good-sized streams, a dozen lesser springs; the acreage itself well-forested and intact: and, though tin cans left by bootleggers rusted in mulch at the rim, and as we dug toward bedrock we sifted precious birdpoints the Cherokee had tossed in, it seemed in the aeons of flow few others had been, the grade much too significant for those just passing. For him, not house site or tenable field the priority, but days and weeks of his life engineering that high water down—the line an unwieldy plastic kink, a half-mile-long black snake recoiling and striking with strength— until at last the grand rush came, knocking the cup from my hand. Triumphant, we settled in accepting steadily rain, torrents, mists; only occasionally did we labor like pilgrims to that spring along the singing creek appositely: drought was something we never dreamed. Now, month after month, a year without rain. Against a tolling heart he climbs daily to that spring, a priest fearful the flame to go out, his water barely flickering. I step across those streams that once I could not leap, wake abruptly in the night escaping an ancient rite: blood for water, water for corn; 94 �and a persuasion of haunting voices chanting their sibilant name, Saluda. Am I as basic as they? What wouldn't I do to restore him? Over the ridge, a fire. In our cornfield parched stalks moan from its wind, the brown leaves clattering like sticks or primeval bones applauding sacrifice. Without, can it ever be the same, that origin or measure of his dreams, or mine of him? A powerful, lithe man—dark, with gifted hands—when he comes out of the shower glistening, erect, and I prepare for him, it seems to me this space—the dry creeks, the pond, the lakeshould be shaken by that tide his presence makes: and I share what the faithful prayed upon our mountain offering quartz or blood to the headspring: Downstream, the river waits, Saluda: downhill the seed corn holds new life, and feast, and future: but may all my blessings rise just here, with you, forever Lord of Springs. My father's parents, Effie Barton and Joseph Elim Sinclair, were eighth generation Southern Appalachioners: the Bartons, English who remain in the "Dark Corner" of South Carolina near Tigerville; the Sinclairs, Scots Highlanders who settled in the Bearwallow section of North Carolina. Because I am a writer, and interested, elders of both families (most now deceased) have over the years led me on lengthy tours of hillside farms and cemeteries, and told me family stories that will live only as long as someone remembers, or writes them down. In planning a poem about 95 �wildflowers, I was struck with a quote from Emerson (for whom my late father and brother, Waldo Graham Sinclair Sr. and Jr., as well as many of their Barton cousins, were named) that seemed a suitable epigraph for joining the images of flora and family. MY APPALACHIAN WILDFLOWERS "... whereby contrary and remote things cohere, and flower out from one stem . . ." Emerson Exuding truth these fragile flowers endure delicate as tears ten million years: innocent of strength appallingly they break like knifeblades out of the graywacke, a force like stars glistening and complex: and yet they do not last, but resurrect haphazard in the fields or on the steepslike ghosts they bloom: faces we have known, connecting us. I. In autumn, when the forest seems holding its breath, the spectacular lilac-blue gentian, its petals vivid as bright paper wings, glows along the brown creekbanks triumphant as some wise shaman instructing this student of flowers its standard, against death. Later, unravelling out of the snow, the sweet arbutus clings so tightly to the slope 96 �no thaw may pry it loose: its deceptive buds—little beads of the purest pearlescence— more persistent than even the children suffering rheum and phlegm who shall not manage to stir their hillside stones again. How clearly their cycles reflect us! Adorning cradle, altar, grave, the softness of their designation (Stellaria, Kalmia, Lobelia) belying though the mountains be slaughtered around us these preglacial, anteholocaust flowers will remain. II. Their division is magnificent: from the sallow Indian Pipe, a saprophyte illusory, ghostly white shrivelling on its stem, at zenith an unnoticed skeleton; to milkweed, in genesis undistinguished, later undergoing metamorphosis, bloom to chrysalis, releasing at year's end a silvery tuft, a lovely, flying skein spun finer than any thread—the unknown its seedbed. Galax, toad flax: in summer flowers strange as their names like generations past (remember "Aunt Kindness," and "Pleasant," her brother—twin?) 97 �come back to visit, recognition guaranteed of root or gene however diverse or common may seem the family. III. Violets, for instance. In merely one afternoon I catalogue sixteen explicit from one another in color, shape, leaf; and attend a clever neighbor actually capturing them in a bottle—so simple!—of jelly, its lavender held to the light astonishing; then witness, at dusk, roadside, a pencil-legged doe and her fawn likewise feasting on violets (the halberdleaved, yellow ones)— rolling the nuggets like butter onto their tongues. So much! And I have not even begun Violaceaen taxonomy; or the remedies, dyes, superstitions the true student must learn of them. IV. Sometimes, wading fields of cousins these ridges have hemmed in like daisies and mountains asters of flu, the old wars, sin— I think how the happenstance flowers adapt and carry on despite this constant winnowing by heat, cold, drought, flood, slide, gust, blade, rock, flame, craw, mole's whim: 98 �how again, and again each turning bloodroot heralds spring abruptly as new flesh, pale stalk a resilient green; and rue anemone, its leafy fringe poignant as old lace whispers into bloom. Whether camp or mine or town has been, or been moved on, the cabin gone, indomitable as kin these flowers peculiar to place whenever we climb toward home welcome us. Out of the evening mist like ghosts they bloom: faces we have known, connecting us. Like psalms they bloom: music that we live, uplifting us. As a small boy my brother learned to gather Indian artifacts on a great-uncle's farm, site of an ancient riverside village. By the time he joined the Order of the Arrow at the Boy Scouts' Camp Old Indian in northern Greenville County, S. C., in the 1940's, he was already an accomplished and responsible scholar of the woodland Indian culture. He had hiked the entire mountain range of South Carolina and chosen the area around Jocassee as his destined home. Here were the sites of two of the oldest Indian villages in the Southeast, Keowee and Toxaway, as well as some of the state's last virgin timber and great clumps of the rarest wildflower in the world, Oconee Bell. When he learned that all was to be inundated by a nuclear power plant and lake, it seemed that all his dreams were devastated. His personal life had not gone well, but he had hoped for a new life in that beautiful place. Ironically, the last time that my husband and I spent with him, before his sudden death from cerebral hemorrhage at age thirty three, was in a melancholy combing of that doomed place for artifacts. The following became an elegy for the land as well as the man. 99 �THE ARROWHEAD SCHOLAR 1967 In laurel caves above the river we hunt for arrowheads— intently scavenging for those lost cultures grounded in this shelf of sand and rock. Once, Siberian visionaries (dreaming food) hiked a sunken strait to forage, mutate, settle this primordial basin. Now, a dam begins to shroud it, locking in the secrets of the Cherokee, and those tribes older who survived prehistory to civilize this valley—only tenacious drifts of laurel high, at the new crater's rim, hide some final relic for those who care to race the drowning hour. For this, my husband and I have as our guide my brother, the Arrowhead Scholar, who can discern out of earth a handful of points, and each its story: the type of rock, the age, the use some hunter young and dedicate as himself found of it in the laurel there, or lost, of time and savagery, beneath our feet. He leads us with a ripened Eagle Scout's vision of sweet water, virgin air, forests plentiful of bone and wing above these vanished towns of Keowee, and Toxaway— 100 �and it is reincarnate in his glistening face as he steps among their leavings stirring no more sound than some ghost, until above us, in the greenery, he begins to sing as he catalogues our finds—a sentimental ballad of the maid Jocassee who went down here, swimming to her lover (his wife merely chokes for him of cancer, and disgrace) and he repeats that song, our father's mistakes with a constancy that perplexes me. Last winter, the doctors at the State Hospital sent him home (they said that he was sane) and now his labyrinth has grown until I could split my heart and wrap the pelt around him, suffering his long-ago face (and mine) pressed against the glass on Sundays (Daddy's visiting day) until our hope was passed. Instead, my offering is this redemptive afternoon in which he can forget that it has come again (the Sabbath) and his own son waits. This brutally uprooted past depends on his wandering hand to salvage while I and my husband (his keepers, and more— as long as we are in sight he believes in happiness) follow the tentative trail he makes through laurel and sawbrier, aware of the dizzying rim whenever the dark leaves part, before him. 101 �1970: ENVOI The dam arcs gently as a bird's great wing (the buzzard of Cherokee legend, whose span erupted these hills) and a shimmering Visitor's Center, impressive, of concrete and steel, welcomes my husband and me to a hydroelectric saga, the Story of Nuclear Energy woven of films, recordings, animation—but little is said of what once was here; of our lost Indian villages, only the names. From a crowded terrace we stare the freshly-reflected expanse where drown a thousand forest colors and, on the farther bank, I see my brother's sweat-curled hair flashing black amid the green, until the vision splinters into a flock of displaced, shrieking crows, and I remember his burst brain. Of that other, nothing remains except a sack of flaked stones gathered by that young man marked of scars some unhonored gambling debt had got him: yet, when I saw him last, laid out for Intensive Care with a towel loincloth, his reserve was a fine as any warrior's who might have carried them. I do not know what could have been. When Daddy failed us, we said it was the times were hard (so many dreams misplaced of dust and joblessness) 102 �and yet, our faith in better days turns out the same. Waiting outside those honky-tonks (the River Street Bar and the Dixie Grill, with Mama) to remind a staggering man of our claim; and later, when we buried him, I vowed myself out of soap opera while my brother—God knows— must have mistaken the role as freedom. Whatever, I shall not repeat this pilgrimage, for him. Technology has done this place in, in trust of the future, but I know (of the Arrowhead Scholar) that the past must be suffered again as it is today, in my brother's form, moving with his magnificent grace among the laurel there, which is no more. Acknowledgements: "Bluegrass and Country Madrigals appeared in San Jose Studies: Poems 1976; "The First Time Ever I Heard You, Honey, As A One-Man Bluegrass Band" appeared in The North Carolina Arts Journal; "The Arrowhead Scholar appeared in The South Carolina Review. All were included in the book THE ARROWHEAD SCHOLAR (Wildernesse Books, 1978) which received South Carolina's Winthrop College Excellence in Writing Award for 1978. The other distinguished poets who contributed to the Regional Poetry session were Thomas Rain Crowe and Don Johnson. Samples of their poetry follow. LOOKING FOR LAND Fast as the fool's trace whispers over high hills, I try to buy land. 103 �O, what a clown would come into this place so long looking for blood! How can any man Own a piece of the earth! A week too late, the silver goes back into the pockets of our ancient lives. And the land our children would love thickens as we walk away. Empty. Feet tired. Our hearts as heavy and as brittle as rust, in leaving behind this special place to die. Thomas Rain Crowe THE PERFECT WORK Love is the perfect work. A music which rings all the bells in the temple. A special wind in the treesListen to the way the drummer hits lovingly his drum. The way the dancer moves over the warm earth. And watch as children leave their bodies behind on the old logs around the fire and sing! The world is aglow in the shadows of the children singing. Of the sticks against wood. Of the heavy silent breathing of the old ones who sit off to the sides of the circle and pray. When I am at work in my garden I take off my shoes. I let my other hands embrace dirt. 104 �I plant myself in this place. And knowing what love is, I awake. In this place in my body. Full of dream music. Full of light! Thomas Rain Crowe SNAKE DOCTORS In the hills they call dragonflies "snake doctors." I knew snake doctors kiss bitten moccasins curing the sickness of snake fights. Peewee Worley, who was eight, had seen it, down behind Carruthers' barn: two snakes, fanged together poison-locked, until, as if by signal, they untied and lay there side by side unmoving, like two friends grown tired of wrestling. But when the dragonfly appeared, hovered green above their heads, then touched each one in turn just once and left, the life rolled slowly back along the slackened skins, building coils, allowing each to slip away— toward the chicken house, toward the trough, where Peewee found them both and hoed their heads off. 105 Don Johnson �This page intentionally left blank �COMMUNITIES: PARTICIPATION OR RETREAT Progress Is Our Most Important Product Tom Boyd; Berea College Getting Organized: Appalachian Participation in Urban Community Councils Phillip Obermiller; Northern Kentucky University Attributes of Rural Families John Photiadis and Lucille Bryant; Morgantown, WV Convenor: Esther Lefever; Director; The Patch, Inc.; Atlanta, GA Progress Is Our Most Important Product: Decline in Citizen Participation and the Professionalization of Schooling in an Appalachian Rural County* by Tom Boyd Of the 52 states and territories of the Union, on the basis of the number of illiterate white voters of native white parentage, Kentucky is 49, leaving whites in North Carolina, Louisiana, and New Mexico alone lower. (Biennial Report of Superintendent of Public Instruction 1907-1909) Fact: The least-educated adult population in the nation. In 1980 only 56 percent of those 18 and over had a high school diploma. Only 11 percent had a college education. Fact: One of the highest high school dropout rates in the nation. In 1981 Kentucky's rate was 33 percent; only eight states did worse. (Louisville Courier-Journal, Oct. 30, 1983) These comments, separated by seventy-five years of change in public education, give evidence of interest in the results of formal education; but their tone also indicates the way lack of educational attainments are managed as major stigmata in an urban, industrial society. The Commonwealth of Kentucky receives these signs as Saint Francis and others did—light marks symbolic of pain—Appalachian Kentucky carries the very wounds evidencing deep penetration. Efforts for improved public education in this century carry all the attributes of 'progress': increasing specialization of effort, increasing effi107 �ciency in management and administration, even greater expenditures for new plant and equipment. They have also been associated with the decline in citizen participation that has accompanied the strengthening of external ties binding local communities to a wider society goverened by professionals and urban middle class interests.1 This paper traces the history of change in formal education in Jackson County, Kentucky, a part of central Appalachia. A number of recent empirical researches carry on the documentation of educational deficiency in the mountains that has long been a part of the national definition of the region as a problem area. These contemporary efforts are noteworthy in that they strive to spread the blame to others than the victim; nonetheless they continue to provide evidence (now in the social science idiom of scales and tests) of the stigma of deficiency when students are examined or measured. DeYoung, Vaught, and Porter have demonstrated that on the Comprehensive Tests of Basic Skills in Kentucky, "... the school districts having the higher percentages of below average readers tend to come from Appalachia".2 In another study developing measures of school inputs, processes, finances, and outcomes DeYoung has concluded: Appalachian county school districts in Kentucky have poorer input, process, outcome, and financial characteristics than do non-Appalachian county districts or independent districts.3 Rech and Rech in a study of pupils in the Appalachian mountains of Western North Carolina and urban North Carolina used the Piers-Harris Children's Self Concept Scale along with interviews with many children. The scores obtained from the application of the self concept scale indicate significant differences between the two populations. The rural Appalachian children possessed a significantly more negative general self concept than did the urban nonAppalachian children.4 All of these studies conclude that the source of these problems lies, at least in part, in the separation between schools and the majority of the citizens of the rural areas of Appalachia. Jackson County in Eastern Kentucky is a very rural county; the 1980 census lists the population as 100 percent rural. One major newspaper in the state marked it in front page detail recently in the following terms: Only 28.6 percent of the county's adults have completed high school—the third-lowest ranking among the nation's 3,137 counties. Fewer than 40 percent have gone beyond the eighth grade. In last year's statewide testing, Jackson County ranked 167th out of the state's 183 school systems. Many people, including 108 �educators, seem to have grown tired of even hoping for better, "(emphasis mine) This fatigue on the part of educators and other observers—if an accurate assessment—is of very recent vintage. Jackson County, as the rest of rural America, has in the past been the object of many "hopes for the better". These efforts from outside the county and from the profession of education may explain many of the present conditions; they are rarely cited with such figures are given. The series of Biennial Reports of the Superintendents of Public Instruction in Kentucky from the turn of the century onward give evidence of aspirations for Jackson County schools. From 1899-1919 the section titled "Epistolary Reports of County and City Superintendents" also gives some of the thinking of the county superintendents on this subject. These aspirations and thoughts are all in the direction of centralization of power, consolidation of schools, and the adoption of management techniques as being progress for the county's schools. In the 1899-1901 report the State Superintendent praises the work of the teachers in the Commonwealth and goes on to say, "next to the work of the teacher in importance is the work of the (county) superintendent".6 Words of criticism are used when the subject of the management of school affairs is tackled. To say the present common school trustee system is an absolute failure would be probably too severe a criticism, but to say the least, it is unsatisfactory.7* The system of local trustee control was under attack for many years. At this time the duties of the local trustees were vast—a list of 16 activities covered everything fom school records, maintenance, and teacher employment to a pupil census and the duty "to urge upon parents the necessity of prompt and regular attendance of their children".78 The county superintendent received the trustees' reports every year but at this time he had little control over these locally selected citizens. The 1899-1901 report suggests a better form of management, The plan in brief is this: Place all the schools of the entire county ... under the management of a county board of education, to be composed of the county superintendent, and one member elected from each magisterial district of the county by the voters thereof... 8 The press for centralization of control and management was strong from the turn of the century onward. The Jackson County Superintendent, R. M. Bradshaw, in his report agreed with this direction of change and added further comments as to why it was obviously desirable. The present trustee system should be abolished and in its place 109 �a county board of education created, consisting of a member from each magisterial district having an educational qualification, elected by the people and exercising the same powers as the boards of education in our cities.'(emphasis mine) Here we first find the juxtaposition of educational qualifications and urban educational practices defined as progressive activity for this entirely rural area. In 1908 the County Administration Law brought this form of organization to all of Kentucky; it made the county the unit of administration and set up county boards. From 1909 onward Jackson County has had such a school board with six, and now five, citizens elected from the magisterial districts. However, at this time the sub-district trustee still existed. The 1914-15 Kentucky Educational Directory said the county had no graded schools and it listed 71 of these citizen-trustees who were to be found residing all over the county. In spite of the existence of county boards the sub-district trustees dominated affairs making it difficult for the county boards to bring about what some observers saw as progress— the consolidation of schools.10 In the 1907-1909 Biennial Report the state superintendent explained in detail his concern that the trustee system had an unfortunate tendency to allow "political influence" in school affairs as opposed to what would now be called "professional management" of these activities. His justification for embarrassment is telling: The old school district system which has prevailed in Kentucky until recently, was discarded in the Northern States nearly 75 years ago, and has been discarded in every Southern State excepting Arkansas.n(emphasis mine) The "politics" that derived from citizen involvement, as well as the knowledge that the practice of trustee management was abandoned elsewhere, were major arguments to justify the centralization of power in education and the removal of supervision from the hands of citizens. The issue of educational attainment as a qualification for the exercise of power was evident early on and the final stroke on the bill of indictment of trustees was the matter of cost and the efficiency of popular election. During the period of trustee control it was pointed out that much of the population of any area, and especially a rural area, was illiterate and it was from such a population that school officials were elected. One observer stated it succinctly. These men were good, honest, upright men but they had little or no education, and therefore they possessed a very limited vision of the possibilities of education, "(emphasis mine) The 1909-1911 Biennial Report records Superintendent Davis of Jackson 110 �County giving clear justification and need to reduce citizen participation in the name of economy and efficiency. I believe all vacancies in the office of subdistrict-trustee should be filled by appointment by the County Board of Education. I also favor the election of trustees "viva voce" compensating the trustees so elected with the money annually expended for holding school elections.13 The argument against trustees was clearly based on the believed superiority of central control; it was also linked with the fact that many citizens were unable, or unwilling, to make the necessary effort to provide a major modern structure for education—the consolidated school. Early on the Jackson County superintendent praised the idea of consolidation Unking it with the graded instruction found in urban areas. I . . . believe that we could consolidate several of our districts into one large district... and have a school building sufficient for four or five teachers; that is, a room for each grade, and then we might hope to have our schools graded as well as any college or normal school.14 The wishes of professional teachers were also used as a justification for consolidation in this period. It is my opinion that, with longer terms of schools, we would have more professional teachers, and with our little local schools consolidated, we would have better graded schools.16 The State Supervisor for Rural Schools in 1916 chided the citizens of the Commonwealth in terms of being once again behind the rest of the nation—now the new issue was this one of consolidation. He said the only hope for improvement (ie consolidation) was, "the enactment of laws standardizing public school buildings and making the State Department of Education responsible".16 Consolidation accompanied the transfer of power that had recently replaced the district with the county; but, the way to attain this newest goal for progress in education was to further transfer power from the county to the state level. Superintendent Chapman also invoked the newly popular idea of efficiency as a justification. "Consolidation in its best form [creates] a larger school where more efficient work may be done, or equivalent work at less expense."17 During the period 1899-1919 Jackson County attempted to meet these desires to conform to urban America but it was a difficult task and some cases of skepticism as well as despair are notable. Superintendent Davis in 1913 wrote: As to consolidation and transportation, it is impractable (sic) because the roads are so poor and there are so many mountains 111 �to be crossed by the pupils. The county being one of the poorest in the State, makes consolidation almost impossible. Where possible, it is, in my opinion, the one step needed in our schools.18 In 1919 Superintendent Minter echoed this assessment: We have no consolidated schools in this county. In most parts of the county the roads are so bad and the population so sparse that consolidated schools are impractical. About half the school population would be unable to attend for at least half the term.19 Nonetheless he ended his report on a note of hope lest deviant local conditions be seen as defeating progress. "A sentiment for better roads seems to be growing and this is the first step toward consolidated schools."20 Scrutiny of these documents and reports produces one area of stated pride in progress made during this time. A new form of equipment gave the county superintendent a noteworthy event for the 1914-1915 report. Since my last report we have built three new school houses and purchased and installed patent desks and seats in seventy of the schools in my county. [Our goal is]... to have comfortable school houses, with patent seats and desks, in every district of the county.21(emphasis mine) In the 1916-1917 report the spread of formal education and this new equipment go hand in hand. We have either built or repaired almost every school house in the county, have established nine new districts, and have furnished every school house in the county with patent desks during my incumbency.22 (emphasis mine) The purchase of manufactured desks and seats was, in this rural timberproducing county, an important symbol of the successful quest for progress on the part of this Superintendent. At least in this effort he could comply with the urban industrial standards sought by the profession of education. The historian Thomas Clark has described how 'patent' goods as symbols of real or imagined modernity spread across the rural South in an earlier period. Drummers and stores were agents of the new industrial age—in this respect so was the increasingly powerful school superintendent.23 From 1921 onward statistical tables dominate the Biennial Reports in a new format representing the theme of numerical accounting as an adjunct to efficient management. Statements of events, plans, and achievements—the epistolary reports of county superintendents themselves—disappear. The replacement is prepared by the State Department of Education that is growing in power. In his 1921 report the state superintendent writes of the county school administration law as the most important school legislation enacted by 112 �the General Assembly of 1920. Through this mandate the sub-district trustees are at last removed. Attention is now directed at the qualifications of the rural superintendent as being the major problem of management. The mirror for reflection remains an urban one. The county school administration law of 1920 was designed primarily and specifically to give to each county in the state ... better leadership. The superiority of the city schools to the county schools is primarily due to the better ability, the better preparation, and the better leadership of city superintendents as compared with county superintendents. [This law]... makes it possible to secure for the administration of county schools, the same sort of leadership that cities have enjoyed for years.24 When problems were described in detail the blame was clearly shifted to a person not having the requisite, new professional skills. "Too many county superintendents were not properly prepared, and did not have the administrative ability and educational leadership the position demanded."26 By 1940 the Jackson County School system still had many small schools. County-wide consolidation had proved to be difficult but there were some district level mergers to provide multi-grade and multi-teacher schools. The seventy-three schools in the county were still dominated by the one-teacher school; there were fifty-nine of these with the rest being eleven two-teacher schools, one three-teacher school, and two twelve-grade schools.26 The report of a teacher working on improvement of instruction illustrates transportation problems. The difficulties of transporation enter into teacher reports frequently. Jackson County has no railroad and few improved highways. Many of the rural schools are situated far from the main highways on dirt roads that become impassable in bad weather. The supervisors reached a number of these schools on horseback.27 For forty years comments of state, county, and other observers reflect awareness that consolidation is dependent upon road conditions; other aspects of the new structure received more sanguine attention. The State Superintendent of Rural Schools produced a fourteen page report extolling the virtues of consolidated schools. First. The consolidated rural school secures better buildings, better equipment, better teachers, better attendance, more sanitary conditions, greater school spirit and greater efficiency along all lines. Second. This type of school may become, and almost invariably does become, a community center and a rallying point for all 113 �the educational, moral and industrial forces of the community. Third. While the difference in cost between the one-room school system and the consolidated system is very little, if any, the advantages of the larger school are so much greater that they more than compensate for the difference in cost, should there be any. After all else has been said, the best argument for consolidation and transportation is that they get more children into school, keep them there better and for a longer time, and give them opportunity for more rapid progress, "(emphasis mine) It was believed that as roads were built consolidation would follow swiftly behind. Just to make sure readers would be aware this was the wave of the future the report concludes on a strong note. "As no successfully consolidated school, so far as is known, has ever returned to the old way . . . consolidation is surely beyond the experimental stage." (Chapman, 1917) The author of another study of the consolidation process in Kentucky in the 1920's got caught up in the mood of the times. "The history of consolidation in business, in manufacturing, in education has shown the key note of success."29 It was believed that such a process would attract and hold better teachers, give better instruction to the children, produce better buildings and equipment, and allow the teaching of new subjects.30 The growth of the consolidation movement could only be hindered by transportation problems, conservatisism of people, financial conditions, and inadequate leadership.31 From the 1920's onward consolidation was seen to be a natural extension of a process that produced efficiency in the growing urban, industrial economy. Outside the lack of physical resources the only things that could prevent it were deficient or inadequate people. A 1969 history of Kentucky small schools produced by the State Department of Education argued that the larger schools offered, ... better trained teachers, greater variety of curricular and extra-curricular activities, better adaptation on the part of graduates to the present social order, and better leadership in business, industry and government, resulting from a broader and better education, "(emphasis mine) During a fifty-year period the state abolished 98 percent of the one-teacher schools, most of the remaining ones were found in Eastern Kentucky. Three factors were cited as making this consolidation possible. First there was the obvious growth in the possibility of pupil transportation as school buses were developed. Second, "growth of population in small villages and towns ... made it necessary to abolish small schools and construct larger ones". And third, "from 1955 to the present, emphasis on accreditation 114 �and evaluation has been a large factor in the decline".33 The population shift away from rural areas aided consolidation, perhaps doing away with the personal inadequacies that led to opposition to the process as well. After 1955 the principle factor was the control of the State Department of Education with professional evaluation and standards being advanced as links with state financing of county educational programs. In 1961 Jackson County still had 31 schools—a reduction of 41 from the 1940 figure. Sixteen one-teacher schools remained in existence; the rest of the county's schools were five two-teacher, two three-teacher, five general elementary and three twelve-grade schools. The county had been loosing population over the years. From 1940-50 there was a 19.8% loss, from 1950-1960 a 18.5% loss, and from 1960-1970 there would be a 6.3% loss. Efforts to consolidate the Jackson County school system could finally be completed during the decade of the 1960's, roads in the county had been improved somewhat, there was some loss of population in the outlaying areas, and federal and state dollars were available for educational expenditure to bring change. This decade brought a further change at the state level; the yearly publication, Profiles of Kentucky Public Schools began to publish data that allowed comparison of schools in the rough terms of inputs to educational programs and the results of schooling. Such data collected for one county system over time allows us to compare time periods using these same variables. Table 1 gives data on the performance of the county system for the period 1966-67 (the first year such statistics were complete) to the present. Appendix 1 gives the method the State Department of Education uses to develop these educational indicators. Comparison with data for the entire state during the same time period allows us to view any changes relative to a wider norm for performance that is not solely urban. Looking at the change in these figures an assessment of the claims for consolidation can be made in its own terms of better buildings, greater efficiency, getting more children into school, keeping them for a longer time, and giving them opportunity for more rapid progress. Scrutiny of the fourteen-year period from 1966 to 1980 gives a picture of changes in the system as consolidation was completed and as the first group of pupils left schooling having had a full 12 years of the transformed, transportation-oriented rather than neighborhood-oriented, county school system. In 1980 the county has only five elementary schools and one high school. The elementary schools consist of three major multigraded schools in the larger population concentrations near the most important highway and two smaller more remote schools the State Department of Education has recommended the county close. The single consolidated high school, according to Department of Education figures, is thirty-five miles away from the more distant pupils; many children are on busses at 6 a.m. in 115 �order to reach high school by 8:15 a.m. By the 1981-82 school year transportation was 15.4% of total current expenses, and the county was derided by weathermen on television newscasts for being closed so often when ice was on these mountain roads.34 Figures 1-7 compare county and state figures and chart changes in teh educational indicators as the county system has begun to have an educational effort that includes approximately 3,000 miles of total bus travel on any given day. Facilities for schooling have changed dramatically since 1940, the three newest buildings are recognizable as schools found anywhere in the nation and the high school has had the most recent status benefit of modern construction—expensive removal of asbestos used in the construction of the library. All three have gyms for indoor physical education and the ubiquitous pursuit of prowess in basketball—patent desks and chairs abound. In 1966-67 the county pupil/teacher ratio was 27.7 to 1 and that was only one more pupil more than the state ratio of 26.6. By 1979-80 the Jackson County ratio declined to 20.7 and the state ratio was reduced to 21.0. In 1966-67 the percentage of students enrolled who were in attendance was 90.8%, the state average was 94%. By 1979-80 the county figure was 89.7% and the state 93%. During this period of culmination for the process of consolidation, the county did not improve its performance relative to the state averages for pupil/teacher ratio and percent attendance. Throughout the United States the 1960's and 1970's were a period of inflation as well as increasing amounts of money spent on public education. In 1966-67 Jackson County spent $346 per pupil when the annual current expenses were divided by the average daily attendance; by 1979-80 the figure was $1,184. The state change during the same period was from $357 to $1,452. In the initial period, expenditure in Jackson County was 97% of the state average, by 1979-80 it had dropped to 82% of the state figure. When the cost per pupil for instruction alone is considered the figure for Jackson County in 1966-67 was $253; by 1979-80 the amount spent was $772. The state change during the same period was from $280 to $970. The culmination of the consolidation effort led to the county declining from 90% to 80% of the state average of dollars being spent per pupil for instruction. From this view consolidation has not led to an increase in the county expenditure relative to the state average expenditure per pupil. This might be viewed as supporting the claims of greater "efficiency" that were promised by the proponents of the process. In the 1966-67 school year 57.5% of the Jackson County students entering ninth-grade in 1962 graduated from high school. These young people had come out of any one of twenty-six elementary schools. In 1979-80 the percentage had dropped to 46.2%. The dramatic drop this year may be due to the closing of the small private high school, but in years 116 �before this the figure had dropped below 50% five separate times and climbed above 57% only three times. The state figures for this period were 69% and 65%. Jackson County had a percentage point decrease of 11 and the state a decrease of 4 points. The early county figure was eight-tenths of the state percentage and the new figure was a decline to about seventenths of the state percentage. The 1966-67 school year saw 28.7% of the high school graduates entering college and by 1979-80 the figure was 23.9%. Ten times during this time period the percentage was below the initial figure and only three times was it above the figure for the students with the more neighborhood-based elementary education experience. During this same period the state percentage fluctuated much less; the initial figure was 42.4% and ending figure was 42.8%. For Jackson County the early figure was 68% of the state percentage and the later figure was 56% of the state percentage. Such figures do not demonstrate that the process of school consolidation improved the ability of the schools to "hold pupils" or to "motivate and prepare" them for higher education. The claims of educational improvement through school consolidation have not been supported in this Appalachian county. Things have stayed the same or declined further. More modern buildings have been built, the pupil/teacher ratio and expense per pupil have shifted. But there has been no increase in "getting more children into school", "keeping them for a longer time", and the "opportunity for more rapid progress"—if anything things have gotten worse and these figures don't necessarily show the entire picture. In Kentucky pupils may stop attending school at age 16; many of these dropouts never reached the ninth grade to be counted in the figures for percentage of ninth grade graduating from high school. Nonetheless, as the figures show, the new system did not greatly increase retention of the pupils that did reach the ninth level of state graded educational attainment. What social processes have gone on during the period from 1961 to the present? There has been increasing centralization in the distribution of educational facilities in this reduction from 31 to six schools. Schooling is, with two exceptions that are condemned to be closed soon, found in the population concentrations. There has also been a centralization of power and participation as the reduction in schools means a longer bus ride for pupils and greater distance for parents to travel to participate in school meetings, events and the like. This 'de-ruralization' of education has taken place in a county where more than two-thirds of the pupils are considered "economically deprived children". The state figure is 32%. These events have been organized, directed and managed by the profession of education from outside the county with some citizens accepting the process as progress. Opposition has not been totally absent. Some members of the Hisel 117 �community have recently thwarted attempts to close their two-teacher elementary school and the school board has supported them by going against the wishes of the Kentucky Department of Education, keeping this school open on a year-by-year basis. However, in some cases this has been used by newspapers, teachers, and educational administrators as further evidence of the backwardness of education in Jackson County rather than a wise decision in the face of a wrong policy.36 Evaluations of the effects of consolidation on school systems are not frequent in the social science literature of today. The conventional wisdom seems to be that it has been successful so there is no need for analysis; any problems are the result of incomplete or thwarted consolidation. Another view holds that it is a "natural" process not worthy of scrutiny. As Rosenfild and Sher point out in an article entitled "The Urbanization of Rural Schools, 1940-1970", By the 1960's consolidation, as a political issue, had ceased to be a legitimate subject of debate or policy analysis. Consolidation and other urbanizing practices were no longer perceived as reforms championed solely by the progressive elements of society. Rather, they had become accepted educational standards supported not only by the full range of the education profession, but also by the mainstream of American society.36 Claims of cost effectiveness abound in terms of "economies of scale" and greater efficiencies in larger schools. But at least one study has shown how after a certain size is reached new diseconomies of scale emerge in more busses, higher fuel costs, faster depreciation and the cost of new administrative specializations.37 Studies of the effect of consolidation on participation of citizens and students alike show results similiar to the ones found in Jackson County, but such studies are rarely, if ever, cited in state analyses. A study of high school size and student participation published in 1964 found that when students were transferred to a larger county high school they had a decrease in their participation in extracurricular activities and the amount of satisfaction associated with, "acquiring knowledge and developing intellectual interests".38 A case study of a school consolidation struggle in rural West Virginia showed how sides taken are often in terms of "experts versus amatures", "professional educators versus parents" etc. For members of the middle class (including professional educators) consolidation is an effective way to strengthen influence and control within the community, while furthering their aspirations for their children. Yet, to the rural poor and working class, consolidation represents an attempt to destroy what is often their only sphere of public influence and their last 118 �vestige of control over their childrens' education and socialization.39 Decline in participation is impossible to refute. It is often a result of consolidation that is admitted not as a cost but as something desirable in a "complex" world. When, it is admitted as a cost it is frequently justified as being necessary for the educational benefit of improved pupil performance—this study shows that such a benefit is a false assumption. The early consolidation studies took place in urbanized areas; they did not control for family economic conditions as an effect upon learning and thus showed some positive correlation between school size and student achievement. Recent studies demonstrate that when researchers control for I.Q. and socio-economic status the result is, "a complete reversal of the traditional conclusions about the correlation between size and achievement".40 A review of the literature, one author claims, shows that not one of the controlled studies demonstrates a positive correlation between size and achievement independent of social class.41 Jackson County has two-thirds of its pupils in the status the state measures and terms "economically deprived". We have seen that the impetus for consolidation in rural Kentucky came from comparison with urban areas. This is not unique to Kentucky or Appalachia; the process and the results in terms of participation are similiar in areas of the nation having a better reputation.42 In urban America community control of schools gave way to a "corporatebureaucratic model" as part of a drive "taking the schools out of politics".43 A similiar theme was sounded in the complaints about Jackson County and other rural areas. In American urban education this happened in a much earlier period, as state and county Superintendents often proclaimed in their early reports, and it was a major transfer of power from parents (many of them recent immigrants and most working class) to professionals. The professionals were not immune to forces for change themselves. From the turn of the century onward there has been considerable adoption of business values and practices in educational administration. At this time professional administrators in urban areas began to be perceived as business managers rather than educational philosophers.44 The demise of county "epistolary reports", and the State Superintendent replacing this with statistical reporting methods, in the 1920's, demonstrates this well as do all the surveys and cost accounting material that begins to appear at this time. In urban America at the turn of the century school boards were being reduced in size and their composition was changing, in that they were increasingly dominated by businessmen.46 Administrators responded to this pressure on their work in a positive way. A 1916 text book Public School Administration explained that businessmen, manufacturers, and 119 �bankers made the best school board members and those who would not be adequate were politicians, saloonkeepers, and uneducated or relatively ignorant men.46 The pressures for change in school board composition in Jackson County was largely from the profession of education not local businessmen! Even today, perhaps due most to the nature of the population in the county, the school board is not dominated by manufacturers, businessmen and bankers. Also, as we have seen, this school board is not pushing as hard as the state and the profession for the remaining consolidation effort. What does the future hold for Jackson County and the rest of Appalachian Kentucky? The commonwealth has seventy-three elementary schools with less than eight teachers. All of these small schools, having at least one instance of a teacher assigned to more than one grade, are slated to be consolidated into larger graded schools.47 As part of this the Moore's Creek and Hisel schools in the county will be closed. For Jackson County the State facilities survey recommends the construction of a new upper elementary school for all 7th and 8th grade pupils.48 It will be built next to the existing high school and means that two more complete grades will be bussed to the central education facility each day. Legislation pending in the 1984 Kentucky General Assembly will raise the minimum educational level for new school board members from an eighth-grade to a high school education. Jackson County has 2,313 citizens 18 years old and over who meet this educational qualification. In the future only 28.6% of the population will be eligible for participation as a school board member. In the 1981-1983 Biennial Report the Superintendent of Public Instruction has recommended the following, Election of county school district boards of education should be at large rather than by subdistricts so that the boards represent and advocate for a sound county-wide public education and not a regional or sub-district one.49(emphasis mine) When implemented this change will at last lay to rest the "problem" of the local interest and sub-district trustee, they have gone from 71 to five in number. With the adoption of this recommendation from the professionals there is no longer any assurance that peripheral areas will be represented and a county-seat population might produce all five school board members. The educational lights have gone out all over this central Appalachian county. During the past forty years the processes of centralization of power and consolidation have brought urbanization in the provision of schooling, the decline in local participation, and the alienation of citizens that occurs when the universal and whole, in this case socialization, is 120 �transferred into the hands of professionals alone. This has not been totally due to professionals. In every Appalachian county some citizens have seen it in their interest to promote this cause. They have accepted the ideology of individual advancement and social mobility and believed that the urban school—"The one best system"—was the way to attain it.60 They overlooked the fact that in such a distribution someone has to be on the bottom. In terms of stigmata Kentucky carries light marks symbolic of pain, but many Appalachian counties have had profound penetration leaving deep wounds. APPENDIX 1 Definition of Indicators used in Profiles of Kentucky Public Schools 1. Pupil/Teacher Ratio: This was calculated by dividing the enrollment obtained from the Superintendents' Annual Statistical Report by the total number of classroom teachers as reported on the federal and state salary schedules. 2. Percent of Attendance: Data on the Annual Statistical Report was used to calculate this by dividing the aggregate days attendance by aggregate days membership. 3. Annual Current Expenses Per Pupil in Average Daily Attendance: Data obtained from Annual Financial Reports collected by the Division of Finance from the local districts and the Superintendents' Annual Statistical Reports collected by the Division of Pupil Personnel. The total current expenses were divided by the ADA to arrive at the figure. Current expenses include administration, instruction, attendance services, health services, pupil transportation, operation of plant, and fixed charges. 4. Cost Per Pupil for Instruction: Instruction costs were calculated by dividing the total spent for Instruction by the average daily attendance. The total for instruction excluded money spent in this area from Title I and IV of ESA. (This exclusion is due to accounting requirements for federal reporting.) 5. Percent of Ninth Graders Graduating: The Superintendents' Annual Statistical Report submitted by the local districts to the Division of Pupil Personnel is the basis for this calculation. It lists the total graduates by age and enrollment by grades. The number of graduates was divided by the number of ninth graders enrolled three years ago. **In districts which have merged or experienced a significant enrollment increase or decrease the figures can be misleading. 6. Percentage of High School Graduates Entering College: The School Data Form is the source of graduates entering college. High School 121 �graduates are reported on the Superintendents' Annual Statistical Report and divided into the number entering college. 7. Percent of Economically Deprived Children: This was taken from records of the Office of School Food Services indicating the percentage of children eligible for free school lunch benefits in proportion to total children of school age in the district. NOTES 1. For a consideration of this process in a single Appalachian rural community see Tom Boyd, "Floating Down The Stream Of Time: An Appalachian Rural Community Confronting Mass Society", unpublished paper presented at the 1982 Appalachian Studies Conference. 2. Alan DeYoung, et.aL, "Evaluating Educational Performance in Appalachian Kentucky", Appalachian Journal, vol. 9, nr. 1, (Fall 1980) p. 54. 3. Alan DeYoung, "The Status of Formal Education in Central Appalachia", Appalachian Journal, vol. 10, nr. 4 (Summer 1983) p. 323. 4. Una Mae Lange Rech and Gregory G. Rech, "Living is More Important than Schooling: Schools and self concept in Appalachia", Appalachian Journal, vol. 8, nr. 1, (Fall 1980) p. 20. 5. The Louisville Courier Journal, "In Jackson County the schools are failing to end the poverty cycle", p. 1, October 30, 1983. 6. 1899-1901 Biennial Report, p. 11. TA..1899 Biennial Report, p. 14. 7B. Moses E. Ligon, A History of Public Education in Kentucky (Lexington: Univ. of Kentucky Press, 1942) p. 118. 8. 1899-1901 Biennial Report, p. 17. 9. 1899-1901 Biennial Report, p. 238. 10. Ligon, Op, cit., p. 214. 11. 1907-1909 Biennial Report, p. 15. 12. Ligon, op. cit, p. 119. 13. 1909-1911 Biennial Report, p. 68. 14. 1901-1903 Biennial Report, p. 160. 15. 1901-1903 Biennial Report, p. 160. 16. 1916-1917 Biennial Report, p. 273. 17. 1916-1917 Biennial Report, p. 277. 18. 1911-1913 Biennial Report, p. 101. 19. 1917-1919 Biennial Report, p. 27. 20. 1917-1919 Biennial Report, p. 27. 122 �21. 1914-1915 Biennial Report, p. 280. 22. 1916-1917 Biennial Report, p. 34. 23. Thomas D. Clark, Pills Petticoats and Plows: The Southern Country Store, (Bobbs-Merrill, 1944) p. 21. 24. 1920-1921 Biennial Report, p. 6. 25. Ibid, p. 7. 26. Mary J. Patterson, "A Demonstration in In-Service Education of Teachers", unpublished M.A. Thesis, University of Kentucky (1943). 27. Ibid, p. 66. 28. Kentucky School Report, 1916-1917, "Supplementary Report of J. Virgil Chapman, State Supervisor of Rural Schools", pp. 281-282. 29. Hattie C. Warner, "Consolidation of Rural Schools In Kentucky", unpublished M.A. Thesis, University of Kentucky, (1925) p. 21. 30. Ibid, p. 40. 31. Ibid, p. 29. 32. The Little Red School House in Kentucky, Division of Pupil Personnel Attendance and Accounting; State Department of Education; (June 1969) p. 2. 33. Ibid, p. 2. 34. Figures calculated from 1981-1983 Biennial Report. 35. Jackson County Sun, August 5, 1982, "Hisel School to remain open" p. 1. Jackson County Sun, May 12, 1983, "Hisel gets one-year reprieve" p. 1. Lexington Herald-Leader, May 13,1983, "Tiny School in Jackson gets 1-year reprieve", p. 1. 36. Stuart A. Rosenfeld and Jonathan P. Sher, "The Urbanization of Rural Schools, 1940-1970", pp. 11-42, in Jonathan P. Sher (ed) Education in Rural America: A Reassessment of Conventional Wisdom, (Boulder Colorado: The Westvies Press, 1977) p. 40. 37. Jonathan Sher and Rachel B. Tompkins, "Economy, Efficiency, and Equality: The myths of Rural School and District Consolidation", pp. 43-75 in Sher, op. cit., p. 46. 38. Roger G. Barker and Paul V. Gump, Big School, Small School: High School Size and Student Behavior, (Stanford University Press, 1964) p. 153. 39. Timothy Weaver, "Class Conflict in Rural Education: A Case Study of Preston County West Virginia", pp. 159-204 in Sher, op. cit, p. 161. 40. Sher and Tompkins, op. cit., p. 63. 41. Ibid, p. 64. 42. Wayne E. Fuller, The Old Country School: The Story of Rural Education in the Middle West, (Univ. of Chicago Press, 1982). 43. David B. Tyack, The One Best System: A History of American Urban Education, (Harvard Univ. Press, 1974) p. 7. 44. Raymond E. Callahan, Education and The Cult of Efficiency, (Univ. of Chicago Press, 1962) p. 120. 45. Ibid, p. 150. 46. Ibid, p. 151. 123 �47. Shirley Williams, "Jabez Elementary School: One for all, all for one", The Louisville Courier Journal, Jan. 9, 1983. Mr. Harmand Bisconti of the State Bureau of Instruction discusses these plans here. 48. Comparative Facilities Survey ofJankson County Kentucky School District, June 1973, Department of Education. 49. 1981-1983 Biennial Report, p. 81. 50. For a discussion of the rise of this vertical view of life as opposed to the horizontal view see: Berton Bledstein, The Culture of Professionalism, (Norton, 1978). *Funding for some of this research was provided by a James Still Fellowship administered through the Faculty Development Project of the Appalachian Center, University of Kentucky. Write to author for tables. 124 �ECONOMICS I: MACRO Appraising the Diversity of the Appalachian Economy Millicent M. Taylor; Tusculum College; Greenville, TN Surviving the 1990s: Inter-Regional Variation in Economic Problems Thomas R. Shannon; Radford University; Radford, VA Historical Perspectives on Energy and Industrialization in Appalachia Ted Couillard; Georgia Southwestern College; Americus, GA Surviving the 1990s: Inter-Regional Variation in Economic Problems by Thomas R. Shannon The national economy appears to be undergoing a major transformation with far-reaching social and political ramifications, Appalachia is participating in that transformation. However, because of its particular place in the traditional national economic division of labor and its particular heritage of economic, social, and political conditions, it is likely that the consequences of national trends on Appalachia are going to differ significantly from the consequences encountered in other regions. Moreover, the consequences of national economic trends are not likely to be completely uniform across the region. It is possible to identify certain common tendencies in the likely future economic development of the region1. Yet, it is also true that the region is characterized by considerable economic diversity. Traditionally, that diversity has been twofold in nature. First, many different types of economic activity have characterized the region. Second, many of those activities have been geographically concentrated in certain subregions of Appalachia, creating a geographical basis for diversity. More recently, to that traditional diversity have been added new economic activities of the sort formerly concentrated in the urban, industrial regions of the north. While less industryspecific and less geographically concentrated in specific subregions, there still has been some tendency for certain subregions to attract a larger share of this kind of new industry than others. Hence, a full understanding of the likely direction of economic change in Appalachia requires an 125 �understanding of the differential impacts of national trends on its different economic activities subregions. The present discussion represents a preliminary attempt to examine the differential impacts of national economic trends on the various economic activities and subregions of the southern two-thirds of Appalachia (West Virginia and the Appalachia counties south of it). Much (though not all) of the factual presentation will parallel a recent report of the ARC on near-term economic prospects of the region.2 However, this discussion will go beyond the ARC effort by more critically assessing the problems economic trends will create and by looking at the implications of those trends for developing strategies to improve regional economic conditions in the future. National Trends American industries are confronting increasingly intense competition from foreign procedures in both foreign and domestic markets. That competition is intensifying and spreading to more and more product markets. At the same time, the increasing size and conglomerate structure of American corporations has made them less dependent on continued success in one product line and better able to shift the location of their operations to different domestic locations or overseas. Hence, in response to increased competition (or simply to maximize profits) the large comporations have been shifting their production plants to low-cost areas. They have also been shifting their resources out of highly competitive, low-profit activities into such high-return activities as "high tech" products, resource extraction, financial speculation and the delivery of managerial, technical and financial services. The result has been the "de-industrialization" of many older industrial regions, the rapid growth of other regions in the United States and certain Third World countries, and the steady decline of whole industries (e.g. steel and autos). In addition, competitive pressures, the ability to relocate, and the willingness to disinvest in lowprofit product lines has led to corporate pressures on workers to make wage and other concessions. It has also resulted in pressures on government at all levels to provide subsidies and regulatory relief in return for either not moving plants or staying in business at all.3 Impact on Specific Appalachian Economic Activities and Subregions These general national trends, combined with the specific problems of particular types of economic activities which characterize various subregions, seem likely to create a number of problems as Appalachia 126 �moves into the 1990's. These problems are lilely to be compounded by the fact that the labor force in Appalachia is projected to grow substantially between 1980 and 1990. As a consequence, a ten percent increase in the number of jobs available will be necessary just to maintain unemployment at the levels which characterized the late 1970's.4 Coal: The coal industry is the most geographically concentrated economic activity in the region: almost 90 percent of all the coal produced regionally is produced in a small number of counties in West Virginia, Virginia, and Kentucky. For Appalachia as a whole (ARC definition) coal mining provides about 300,000 jobs, either for miners or for workers in minerelated industries. The "coal counties" also remain among the most distinctive of Appalachia's subregions in terms of such things as: degree of absentee landownership, low quality of public services, poor physical infrastruture, employment instability, low educational levels, and environmental deterioration.5 Overall, despite the partial recovery of the coal industry in the 1970's, the "coal counties" thus remain relatively socially and economically depressed. Moreover, the impact of national trends and problems specific to the coal industry are likely to mean that continued reliance on the coal industry will not provide these counties with adequate employment opportunities over the near-term future—even if the current economic recovery continues on the national level. Energy conservation and the stagnation of the North Central industrial region—the area most severely affected by de-industrialization—will mean slow growth for the utilities which have been the largest customers for Appalachian coal in the recent past. The rapid decline of the steel industry and the rapid conversion of its production technology wil depress coal demand even further. In recent years, about one-fourth of Appalachian production has been exported.6. However, intense price competition from foreign mines with low wage costs (e.g. South Africa) limits potential export demand. Growing concern about the sulphur content of much of Appalachia's coal because of acid rain also will be likely to depress demand. In addition, it is likely that Appalachian coal will continue to lose national market share to strip-mined coal in the West. Western coal has been gaining not only because of topography advantages, sulphur content, and the cost advantages of strip versus shaft mining, but also because increasing concentration and outside ownership of the coal companies has made them more able and willing to shift to the West to avoid unionized shaft mines in Appalachia. Overall, the result is the official estimates, which may be too optimistic, project only modest growth in the demand for Appalachian coal through the mid-1990's. The resulting growth in employment would be 63,000 additional jobs, and even 127 �that modest increase is premised on the dubious assumption that there will be no further increases in labor productivity because of mine mechanization or the shift to strip-mining.7 Thus, the challenge to residents of the coal-producing area is formidable. The coal industry is likely to remain a major source of employment, and the coal counties will continue to have to contend with the familiar and severe problems of coal mining. At the same time, these counties will need major new sources of employment, but the very conditions created by coal mining will create problems for attempts to attract new employers. Textiles/Apparel Textiles mills represent another traditional source of Appalachian employment which are both heavily concentrated in the region (about onethird of all employees in the industry)8 and certain areas of the region (nationally, 60 percent of all employees are located in the states of North Carolina, South Carolina, Georgia).9 Overall, about 200,000 workers are employed in textiles in the region.10 Textiles also represent one of the major industries in the United States particularly threatened by low-wage plants located in Third World countries. However, actual production of yarns, fibers, and fabrics is expected to remain high in the domestic industry. That is because basic textile production has a high potential for intensive automation. On the other hand, automation will involve the rapid closure of old plants, the bankruptcy or forced consolidation of smaller companies which lack capital to modernize, and the steady decline in employment opportunities in the industry.11 (Employment has been declining since 1976.) Given the nature of employment patterns in the industry, declining employment will have a particular impact on some kinds of workers. Most textile workers are unskilled, 51 percent of the workers are women, and 19 percent are black (nation-wide figures). The percentage of women and blacks in the industry has been increasing in recent years.12 Continued competition from foreign producers (who are also automating) is also likely to maintain pressures to keep wages low (currently, wages are 32 percent below the national average for all manufacturing),13 working conditions substandard, and work discipline harsh. The apparel industry is closely associated with textiles in terms of its location in the region and employs about the same number of workers. Nationally, employment in the apparel industry has been in decline since 1973, and the prospects for the industry are poor. It is the most laborintensive industry in the country (85 percent of all workers are produc128 �tion workers). Small firms, the fragmented nature of the market, intense price competition, and the nature of the work all mean that the industry is not in a position to automate. As a consequence, the industry has been extremely vulnerable to foreign competition from extremely low-wage producers overseas—despite some of the lowest wage rates in U.S. industry.14 Low wages, production speed-ups, the rapid development of urban "sweat shops" using illegal immigrants, and some federal limitations on imports have only served to slow the domestic industry's decline. Hence, major reductions in the region's employment opportunities in the apparel industry seem likely. This decline will especially impact on women workers who constitute 81 percent of the labor force.16 Employment declines in textiles and the apparel industry are serious problems for the region as a whole: about 10 percent of the labor force of the entire region (ARC definition) is employed in these industries.16 The concentration of workers in the Carolina's and Georgia and the frequent location of plants in small communities make the likely subregional and local employment impact especially ominous. Hence, the challenge in textile and apparel dependent areas is to find alternative employment opportunities for workers who are generally unskilled and predominantly women. Efforts of the recent past by particular communities to attract new textile and apparel plants is a "beggar thyself to beggar thy neighbor" game. These efforts rely on local government subsidies, opposition to labor unions, and the acceptance of low wages and end up attracting a limited number of low quality jobs of uncertain stability, continuing low living standards, and straining local government budgets only to (often temporarily) move employment from some other community in the region. Furniture Another traditional source of employment in the region has been the furniture industry, which is concentrated in a narrow north-south band centering in western North Carolina. It is also another labor-intensive industry and one which is just beginning to feel the impact of low-wage, foreign competition. Substantial foreign in-roads have occurred in the markets for low-priced furniture and furniture components, and imports now account for about 10 percent of total domestic sales. Prior to the recession of 1981-83, employment nationally was stagnant and larger producers were gaining market share.17 Hence, furniture dependent areas are likely to face stagnant or declining employment opportunities if they continue to rely on this traditional industry. Communities which rely upon smaller furniture companies as primary employers may face plant closings. Employees can be expected to face continued pressures in regard to wages and working conditions. 129 �Other Wood Products Another traditional source of employment in the region (about 200,000 workers region-wide) is actually expected to experience some employment growth: timber and wood-related products. Declining timber reserves in the Northwest and projected long-term world shortages are likely to increase the demand for timber from the Southeast, including Appalachia. Assuming sustained economic recovery, the ARC expects short-term employment growth of about 20,000 (compared to 1980) as early as 1987.18 Growth in timber cutting and processing (e.g. lumber and pulp) may provide some additional employment, but it will also raise other issues in areas where the industry expands: hillside erosion and attendant flooding problems, disputes over timber rights, worker safety (logging is one of the most dangerous occupations), road deterioration, unstable employment patterns, the continuing problems associated with outside land ownership, the appropriate taxation of large tracts of timber lands, and disputes over the use of federal forest land. The last period of largescale lumbering in the region brought with it massive problems which still linger, and the challenge is to avoid those problems this time around. Chemical and Related Products A significant concentration of chemical and related products plants providing over 100,000 jobs exist in Appalachian Tennessee and South Carolina. Although official projections for the chemical industry as a whole are for continued but slower growth,19 Appalachian plants tend to specialize in products destined for such industries as steel, textiles, and pulp and paper where demand is not expected to increase very much.20 In addition, the chemical industry may be faced with significant foreign competition which will have to be met by plant modernization. (Worldwide there is excess capacity in many sectors of the industry.)21 Such modernization would allow increased production but would not increase employment since chemical plants are highly automated and capital intensive. At the same time, locational factors work against the movement of the growing sectors of the industry into Appalachia.22 "Newer" Manufacturing Industries During the 1970's Appalachia did acquire a substantial number of new industrial jobs. These jobs frequently were in industries which were new to the region and represented branch plants of more traditionally Northern industries. Especially significant were plants for industrial electrical equipment, instruments, industrial machinery, consumer electronics, ap130 �pliances, and transportation equipment. Overall, these industries provide about 450,000 jobs region-wide (ARC definition).23 While less geographically concentrated than other, traditional industries, the greatest concentration of these plants is in the most southern part of the region -especially in a wide, low-density band west of Atlanta (which is now the most heavily industrialized area in the region).24 Nation-wide, industries such as machinery, electronics, and instruments are expected to grow and provide substantial increases in employment opportunities.25 However, to maintain its current share (7 percent) of this projected increase (of about 3 million new workers nationwide), Appalachia will have to continue to offer conditions which attracted these industries in the 1970's: wages below the national average, low rates of unionization, and a "congenial" business climate (e.g. low taxes). In addition, labor intensive sectors of even these industries (which were often the first "runaways" from the North to Appalachia) are likely to be attracted to overseas locations and much of the industry has a high potential for automation.28 Hence, particular plants and communities may be vulnerable to some employment loss, even if the region experiences a net gain. "High-Technology" Potential "Hi-Tech" industry (e.g. computers, aircrafts, drugs, scientific instruments) is the popular panacea for national economic problems. Actually the promise of high-tech is largely illusory both because the number of jobs which will be created will be very modest (about 1.5 million by 1990) and the kinds of jobs available in the industry are not what people think. Employment in the industry is sharply divided between small numbers of designers, technicians, and other professionals and a majority of relatively low-wage, low-skill assemblers. (About 60 percent of Silicon Valley's labor force is composed of low-wage production workers or clerical workers.)27 Pressures from foreign competition is already leading to the transfer of production operations overseas (e.g. Atari's plant closure in California). Hence, the potential number of jobs the region could attract in hitech is limited, and production workers would be in direct competition with Third World wage and working conditions. Headquarters operations are not likely to be attracted to a region which lacks amenities for "upscale" professionals and an established network of scientific centers.28 Military Production Clearly one of the growth industries of the decade has been military procurement. Military procurement has been a source of modest but 131 �significant employment in the region. Appalachia's role in the military production system has traditionally been concentrated in a few types of activities: production of non-weapons supplies by traditional industries (e.g. apparel), power production for nuclear processing by the TVA, and the production of nuclear and non-nuclear (e.g. gun powder and rocket propellants) ordinance on a limited number of government-owned, privately operated facilities. As a recent Highlander Center report demonstrates, while some jobs (usually low-wage) have been created and some communities are very dependent on those jobs, the region has paid a high price in terms of environmental abuse, union-busting by military contractors, violation of worker health and safety, tax avoidance by government facilities, and the like. Generally speaking, military production has consequently reinforced Appalachia's traditional role in the national economy rather than functioning as a "modernizing" force in the region. The "good" (high-pay, high-skill) jobs for weapons production have been located elsewhere.29 Hence, while military procurement activities may continue to provide employment opportunities and provide some modest additional employment, those localities in which such activities are located seem likely to be confronted with a host of problems which will offset those limited employment gains. Services Growth in the service sector was the most important source of employment gains in the nation and in Appalachia between 1970 and 1980. However, the regional growth did not parallel the national pattern in terms of the specific kinds of jobs created, the rate of increase in service jobs, or the resulting proportion of workers in the regional service sector by 1980. The type of jobs created region-wide (ARC definition) were concentrated (two-thirds of the total) in health services, retail trade, and educational services. Hence, two of the three major job categories which experienced rapid growth were in those service areas in which most jobs were both low-skill and low-pay. While that is true for most of the service sector, other areas in the service sector offer at least some additional employment in managerial and professional categories and major employment in clerical and related white collar categories (e.g. finance, marketing, wholesale trade, etc.). Related to this pattern was the fact that the gap in service levels (as measured by employment) between Appalachia and the rest of the country grew between 1970 and 1980 because service sector growth in Appalachia was below the national average. The end result is that Appalachia continues to have a much lower level of services, public and private, than the nation as a whole and relies much more on outside 132 �services -especially in the areas of finance, business, and technical services.30 That pattern seems likely to continue for a number of reasons. High quality business and professional services are oriented toward urban areas in general and corporate "headquarters cities" in particular. High service levels are also dependent on high average income levels and strong tax bases. Clearly, these are not conditions which exist in the region. Moreover, the major role of health services in the region is dependent upon federal policies and funding levels -both of which may change in the near future. Education is similarly vulnerable to funding cuts at the state level and the limitations imposed by local tax bases. Demographic changes almost assure limited growth or decline in educational employment. Hence, the disproportionate concentration of Appalachian service workers in retail trade seems likely to continue and will probable provide most of the projected growth in the service sector. Service sector growth is also likely to continue to be concentrated in the more urbanized counties of the region. SUMMARY It is hard not to be pessimistic about the economic prospects for most areas of the southern part of Appalachia. Traditional industries in the region are extremely vulnerable to the effects of national deindustrialization and foreign competition—in addition to a number of industry-specific problems. Some parts of the region are likely to continue to be dependent on resource extraction, with only modest prospects for employment growth and all the attendant problems associated with the coal and timber industries. There is some potential for growth in the newer industries which are concentrated in the southern-most part of the region, but overall manufacturing employment may decline, and pressures on wages and working conditions may intensify. Service sector growth will concentrate on a limited range of jobs which are disproportionately lowwage. IMPLICATIONS If this view of current economic trends and prospects is correct, it has some important implications for those who are seeking appropriate strategies for economic growth and "development" in the region. First, the diversity of problems and economic characteristics of the different subregions will require that any general strategy be flexible enough to be adapted to the specific needs of each particular area. No single, rigid and specific approach can work for all the different areas in 133 �the region. For example, communities facing the collapse of employment in apparel factories face significantly different problems from coal mining communities faced with stagnant average employment and rapid cyclical swings in employment. That is not to say that certain commonalities do not exist. They do. The issues of land ownership, exploitative labor relationships, weak public services, poor infrastructure, lower than average living standards, and the like are common threads which must run through any discussion of the region. On the other hand, the various subregions and different communities of the region will have to deal with very different specific problems and will have very different resources to deal with their problems. All of which suggests that developing strategies to create jobs and improve economic conditions at least must start at the subregional or local level. Second, regional diversity and the likely specific impacts of national trends on various subregions and industries provide additional reasons why the "economic development" or "modernization" model (i.e. the ARC approach of the 1970's) has such limited utility in the region. Simply trying to attract private investment (mostly in manufacturing) to "growth centers" or transportation corridors by building highways, training workers, subsidizing infrastructure, and planning industrial parks is a losing proposition. First, it oversimplifies the complex nature of the problems and needs of a diverse region—a problem which is not overcome by local planning commissions when those commissions are wedded to this general strategy. Second, and most fundamentally, such a strategy ignores national trends toward de-industrialization which: (a) limit the total potential for increases in industrial employment and (b)increasingly force Appalachian communities into competition with Third World countries in terms of wages, working conditions, and corporate subsidies. Appalachia is competing for a declining pool of jobs under conditions in which it can obtain additional manufacturing jobs only by attracting employers interested in docile, low-wage labor and a "friendly" regulatory and tax environment. Even the ARC staff seems to have finally acknowledged these problems and recent ARC projections are for a decline in total manufacturing employment in the region.31 That leaves those hoping to attract private investment in conventional ways essentially "whistling in the dark," hoping for growth in the service sector by pointing out that the region is currently "underserviced" and therefore has the "potential" for service sector growth. As we have seen, those hopes are probably not wellfounded. In short, trying to generate conventional investment in the region probably will not be enough in most areas. Third, if diversity precludes a single approach and attempts to attract corporation investments will not be enough, some alternative approach seems to be needed. At least some tentative directions in which such an approach might head can be suggested here. The need for subregional and 134 �often community-specific solutions implies the creation of organizations at those levels to plan and mobilize people and resources. The likely inadequacy of outside corporate investment to create enough of the right kinds of jobs implies seeking new kinds of economic activities, organized in new ways (e.g. local entrepeneurs, community organizations, etc.). For instance, to draw on the experiences of other places and other times, one recalls the very extensive producers' cooperative movement in the Midwest in the early part of this century and the much more recent development of large numbers of "mini-hydro" plants in New England (which have restored the abandoned mill ponds along the fall line). Movement in this direction is, ultimately, a political act and a political problem in that it involves such things as: generating community support for onconventional solutions, mobilizing community participation, getting cooperation or involvement from local or state government, and fighting the likely legal and political opposition of entrenched interests at all levels of government. It also will require regional cooperation in creating an organizational framework for such things as dealing with common problems (e.g. legal and legislative), sharing expertise, and obtaining and channeling outside assistance. To those who point the massive obstacles to such an effort and the past frustrations of such efforts there are several replies. First, there does not seem to be any alternative. Current economic trends are moving against the needs of the people of the region. While the traditional private sector will remain the dominant economic force and source of employment for the foreseeable future, it will not be enough by itself. Second, there are models, partial or flawed though they may be, of things that can and have been done within the context of the American system of political economy—especially in times of economic distress. Third, the beginnings of a cooperative framework and specific local organizations already exist and could provide a foundation on which to build.32 CONCLUSION Whatever the short-term effects of the current economic recovery may be, there are long-term structural changes occurring in the American economy which will have substantial and very often threatening impacts on the regional economy. The problems will vary substantially from community to community and industry to industry. However, it seems clear that waiting for outside corporate involvement to "solve" the problems of the region may entail a very long wait indeed. (Moreover, if the past is any guide, we would not like those "solutions" in any event.) Hence, communities and subregions in Appalachia need to begin to think in terms of how to tailor their resources to meet the particular problems they are likely to face. In doing so, they will have to rethink what constitutes ac135 �ceptable solutions to their problems and create new organizational structures to implement their new strategies. REFERENCES 'See Thomas R. Shannon, "Appalachia as an Enterprise Zone: Some Speculations on the Future of Federal Policy Toward the Region," Proceedings of the Appalachian Studies Conference: March, 1983 (Boone, N.C.: Appalachian Consortium Press, 1984). 2 "Appalachia: The Economic Outlook Through the Eighties," Appalachia, vol. 17, no. 2 (November-December, 1983), pp. 1-14. 'Shannon, op. cit. 4 "Appalachia: The Economic Outlook Through the Eighties," p. 1. 'William E. Hrezo and Thomas R. Shannon, Appalachian Atlas: A Portrait of the Southern Mountains (Radford University, 1984). '"Appalachia: The Economic Outlook Through the Eighties," p. 8. ''Ibid. U. S. Department of Commerce, 1983 U.S. Industrial Outlook (Washington, D.C.: U. S. Printing Office, 1983), p. 39-2; "Appalachia: The Economic Outlook Through the Eighties," p. 10. 8 1983 U. S. Industrial Outlook, p. 39-1. "Appalachia: The Economic Outlook Through the Eighties," p. 10. 10 "Ibid. "1983 U. S. Industrial Outlook, p. 39-2. "Ibid. p. 39-3. "Ibid, pp. 40-2-40-5. "Ibid, p. 40-4. ""Appalachia: The Economic Outlook Through the Eighties," p. 10. "7985 U. S. Industrial Outlook, pp. 42-8—42-9. ""Appalachia: The Economic Outlook Through the Eighties," p. 14. "1983 U. S. Industrial Outlook, pp. 9-1-9-15. 20 "Appalachia: The Economic Outlook Through the Eighties," pp. 11-12. 21 1983 U. S. Industrial Outlook, pp. 9-1—9-15 ""Appalachia: The Economic Outlook Through the Eighties," p. 12. "Ibid. "Hrezo and Shannon, op. cit. 2S "Appalachia: The Economic Outlook Through the Eighties," p. 12. "Ibid. ""Down in Silcon Valley," Multinational Monitor, vol. 14, no. 4 (April, 1983), p. 15. 136 �28 "Appalachia: The Economic Outlook Through the Eighties," p. 13. w Our Own Worst Enemy: The Impact of Military Production on the Upper South (New Market, Tenn.: Highlander Research Center, 1983). '""Appalachia: The Economic Outlook Through the Eighties," pp. 13-14 and 7. "Ibid. p. 4. S2 Steve Fisher and Jim Foster: "Models for Furthering Revolutionary Praxis," Appalachian Journal, 6 (Spring, 1979). 137 �This page intentionally left blank �Historical Perspectives on Energy, Industrialization and the Shaping of Appalachia by Ted Couillard Among the scholar-researchers the competent historian will be best able to discern those forces that have operated to produce the tragedy of Appalachia. This paper is an effort to point up my belief. From 1820 when the first "14 tons of coal" was mined America began its ascendancy among industrial nations. By 1850, only 10 million tons per year was produced. In 1890, 160 million tons was mined. In twenty years, from 1890-1910, however, the annual production of coal in the United States skyrocketed to 500 million tons per year.1 The growth of the American economy has been inseparably linked to the growth of the energy industry. That a cheap supply of energy could be guaranteed was an overriding concern of those who managed America's industrial affairs. These managers performed ably. Cheap coal was king until an even cheaper fuel, petroleum, replaced it just after World War II. Then began a period of almost thirty years when America showed the rest of the world what energy consumption levels in a high technology society could be. Suddenly in the winter of 1973-74 all Americans learned that if we were to continue our overprivileged ways we had to find a new source since we were wholly dependent upon a reliable supply of energy. Few, perhaps, have fully understood the indispensable role of energy in a modern industrial nation. For example, after the Civil War, the production of iron and steel for American industry required efficient fuels. Coal met this demand. It was abundant in America and such men as Henry Frick with his coke ovens in Connelsville, Pennsylvania, enabled Carnegie, the steel king, to meet the new demands for Bessemer steel for railroad building, or the enormous demands for structural steel. Generating of electricity was an essential step to industrialization also. Today our need for electricity is so great that coal is being replaced by 139 �nuclear plants for electrical production. Edison began producing electricity in the first electric generating plant in New York City in 1882. America was to be lighted by electric lights rather than the older kerosene lamps and gaslight from this time on. Electricity was cheap, convenient and efficient. After a supply of electricity was available, electric motors could revolutionize automation in almost all spheres of human activity. Today, the three fossil fuels, petroleum, coal, and natural gas supply about 95% of our energy needs. Hydropower accounts for a mere 4% and nuclear energy supplies less than 1% at this time. This picture will change by the year 2000 when 26% of the total energy needs will come from the fledgling nuclear industry. Percentages do not mean much when one considers that the rate of consumption of energy of all kinds will continue to skyrocket as we pass from decade to decade. Coal's demand to generate electricity will be greater than it has been in the past and the nuclear demands will be truly astronomical. In recent history Appalachia's character has been molded because of the production of coal from the region. No other single factor, or factors, has comparable impact upon the people and their present day culture. In Notes on the State of Virginia, Thomas Jefferson expressed his hope that America would remain a virtuous agrarian society. He advised that manufacturing should be avoided by Americans and that we should buy our goods from Europe. In European nations he told us Manufacture must therefore be resorted to of necessity not of choice, to support the surplus of their people. But we have an immensity of land courting the industry of the husbandman . . . Those who labor in the earth are the chosen of God, if ever he had a chosen people, whose breasts he had made his peculiar deposit for substantial and genuine virtue . . . generally speaking, the proportion which the aggregate of the other classes of citizens bears in any state to that of its husbandmen, is the proportion of its unsound to its healthy parts, and is a good enough barometer whereby to measure its degree of corruption . . . for the general operations of manufacture, let our workshops remain in Europe . . . The loss will be made up in happiness and permanence of government.2 In his own time, Thomas Jefferson was criticized for this view, but today that such a view could be held by an American of such intellectual stature is incredible. Jefferson's hope for an agrarian society was far afield. The U. S. is an industrial nation today surpassing all others. The poet, Walt Whitman, did not lament the fact that America's course was clear even before those giant strides toward industrialization had been taken. Whitman, like Jefferson, shared the view that the humble, virtuous man would comprise the polity and that all would be well. 140 �The story of Appalachia is the story of coal and industrialization. Many people—perhaps tens of millions over the past 100 years—are involved. Today the economic picture for Appalachia continues to be very gloomy. Coal rich West Virginia leads the nation in unemployment, while the ten poorest counties in Kentucky persist in unrelieved economic depression. If one disregards Reagonomics which has produced the current depression, and examines the relative national economic prosperity of about a decade ago, the pattern of economic life in Appalachia can be discerned. The per capita income of central Appalachians as late as 1970 was $2,306. The reality of what this means does not easily come home to us. The per capita income of nearly twenty million people in Appalachia is sharply less than for Americans elsewhere plunging large numbers well below the poverty line. Many impoverished Appalachians die from inadequate medical attention in the most remote and poorest areas. Hunger, disease, poverty, and illiteracy are never pleasant for anyone to contemplate for very long. America's need for coal has produced Appalachia. This story really begins somewhere around 1880 although coal mining was accelerating even earlier especially in Pennsylvania. Today America still needs coal. Into the foreseeable future this need will continue3, but changes have occurred that alter significantly the conditions of the past. Automation in the mines and technological advances in strip mining have reversed the need for a large work force to produce coal.4 Industrial America has needed coal to fuel factories which enabled people to have jobs. Thus the coal was centrally important to a healthy economy for the nation, and the economy of the nation, in turn, had to be an overriding concern of government. Moreover, government's responsibility has always been to insure that the military strength of America be sufficient for the nation's defense. Military strength depends upon the industrial efficiency of America. The simple law in economics that explains what happened to the Appalachians is the law of supply and demand. Everyone knows that the price of anything to be bartered, including human labor, depends upon how dearly it is wanted. If the supply of any commodity is greater than the demand, the price falls. If the demand is greater than the supply, the price rises. Such knowledge is dangerous in the hands of the wrong people. In a democratic society, when something is done to control the laws of supply and demand, extremely favorable results can accrue. This is, of course, wrong. Many would argue that government was less than vigilant about the rapidly developing energy industry in this country. The cheap supply of coal was needed for the new industries that were expanding so rapidly just before and just after the turn of the century. If the cost of this all important fuel for steel production, fuel for the factories, the railroads, the steamships and for the generation of electricity, was to rise, the 141 �reverberations throughout the whole economy could be disastrous. Millions of industrial workers were involved, and efficient regulation of industrial production depended upon a predictable, reliable, and continuous supply of cheap energy. The highly monopolistic coal industry was certainly able to deliver on this score. There was plenty of much needed bituminous coal in Central Appalachia. There was also a large native population there from which to recruit the needed miners. The energy industry was able to produce and deliver cheap coal only because it was able to control the laws of supply and demand of labor needed for coal production. Such choices—the tampering with these laws—are, however, not so easy for right-thinking people and government to condone. A monopolistic cartel such as that presided over by J. Pierpont Morgan and the railroad magnates under his control had enormous capital with which to achieve its objectives. It not only had this great economic power to make things happen, but it was also able to control large numbers of people who were part of its organization who also added to this enormous power to make things happen. The capital was supplied by Morgan and other financiers under his control. The government was interested in industrial expansion, a healthy economy, and an efficient fuel industry. Through manipulation of supply and demand laws as they regulate the barter of labor, the energy industry was able to guarantee that the workers would not rebel. Indeed they could not rebel. It appears that a slavery was imposed upon Appalachian miners that exceeded any contentions about demeaning slavery that the white masters of the antebellum south were supposed to have imposed upon the negroes for well over 100 years. To begin with, mining coal is probably one of the least desirable jobs that a human can have. Jefferson did not approve of the much better jobs that could be had in factories. What, for Virginians, would Jefferson's view be of the dangerous job of mining coal? Great risk of injury, and loss of life, accompanies the miner's job. In short, history proves that mining coal is just about the least desirable work a man can perform. This means that not many will willingly do it. And since not many will do it, theoretically the price of labor in coal mining should be expensive. If the labor costs go up, the higher price of coal production means higher prices to the factories and industries that use it. If the factories must pay more for coal, the products produced cost far more when they are marketed. With some items, it is not of national concern, but in the steel industry for example, it is extremely unfavorable to the American economy when rolled steel can be produced in Japan far less expensively than in the United States. Industry must compete. It is clear that coal production must be kept inexpensive. On this score—cheap production of coal—the energy industry has a remarkable record. They delivered coal in such abundance and so cheaply that American industry was never in doubt about the continued supp142 �ly. They were able to do this because they attended to the necessary planning that had to be done. Here the story of Appalachia becomes quite disturbing. It was necessary for the cartel to control a whole region. It was necessary to control the population of the whole region. Ten million people or more; Impossible! you say. Not at all. Proceeding with a clear knowledge of the law of supply and demand, the energy industry was able to manipulate the supply of labor to insure that there would always be a greater supply of labor than was actually needed. This, of course, required careful planning. It must be remembered, too, that the energy industry in 1910 was a cartel that had the power, both economic and political, to accomplish what it was about. No branch of government, no church, no labor union, no normal political group or faction, could accomplish what this cartel was able to accomplish. It is the nature of a cartel to build an organization involving a large number of people who depend upon their association with the cartel. They, too, are part of the cartel, but not as policy makers nor significant democratic voices to exercise influence in any way. The first concern was to build the organization of dependent workers. When this was accomplished, the power of the cartel was greatly enhanced. Very tight control of the coal miners in Appalachia was easily achieved.5 The company housing, the company stores, the closely supervised communities of workers was all part of the organization building of the cartel. A labor union also organizes large numbers of people and wields great power, but its objectives are entirely different, and the democratic dialogue attending labor union activity distinguishes it from the industrial cartel immediately. Such was the power and tight organization of the energy industry cartel in Appalachia as early as the eve of W.W.I. After building the cartel organization, the surrounding region had to be controlled if the cartel was to protect its existence. Careful planning prevented competing industry from luring members of the cartel organization to other jobs which would gain for the workers independence from the cartel. It is true that a worker and his family was free to return (if he could pay his bill to the company store and surely some of them could) to the hollow where he was born. But what could he do there? Perhaps he could fish or hunt squirrels. And no doubt many workers chose to return to their beloved mountains after a stint in the mining camps. Eventually, however, the mountaineer had to come back to his senses and agree to employment with the energy people, if he wished to enjoy industrial society's commodities. How could the mountaineer ever hope to buy an automobile to ride in, or a radio to tune into, that would bring him that wonderful music broadcast all the way from Wheeling, West Virginia, if he did not have a job? The radio station flooding with lovely music the moon-blanched mountains on any given night in North Carolina or Tennessee appealed powerfully to the mountaineer and worked magically calling the mountaineer back to his senses 143 �and to the mines. Clearly the cartel, even if it didn't own the station could exert its will. The power of a cartel is both economic and political. Its influence in the social sphere is, therefore, enormous. I have argued that after the turn of the century the existence of an energy cartel in this country that was bigger than government itself is something that a few reasonable men will doubt. Matthew Josephson is convincing about who owned the coal fields and how they acquired them. He writes: In the great Pennsylvania coal fields those resplendent magnates, the Vanderbilts, J. Pierpont Morgan and Cassatt of the Pennsylvania Railroad had after a process of "squeezing" smaller capitalists added most of the anthracite mines to their railroad domains.6 The real power was in the hands of a single man, J. Pierpont Morgan. "The hard-coal mines were nearly all indirectly owned by eastern railroads over whom Morgan held influence or a decisive voice ...'"' The much richer prize than Pennsylvania's coal was the Central Appalachian coalfields. When General Imboden bought so much of West Virginia for the "gentlemen of means" it was Morgan's empire again that controlled the Baltimore and Ohio roads. Similarly in the soft-coal regions, the Hocking Valley Railroad, the Baltimore and Ohio and Chesapeake and Ohio were soon swept into the unified control of the unified system which held through the "purchase or interchange of stock," at once the coal mines, the roads that carried their coal to market and the banks which financed them all.8 The best American historians will examine Appalachia carefully when the best 20th century American history is written. The story of coal, the energy cartel and American industrialization will be the dominant concerns of these scholars when they attempt to tell the story of modern America. NOTES 'Richard C. Dorf, Energy Resources and Policy, (Menlo Park, 1978) p. 90. Thomas Jefferson, Notes on the State of Virginia, Edited with an introduction by William Peden (Chapel Hill, 1955), pp. 164-5. 'Donald Whitehead reported to Congress that 600 million tons of coal are expected to be produced in Appalachia by the year 1985. Richard C. Dorf says U. S. coal production will top 1,000 million tons by 1985. See Richard C. Dorf, Energy Resources, and Policy (Menlo Park, 1978). p. 91. 144 �4 In 1932 there were 705,000 miners in Appalachia. In 1940 there were 439,000. The number has continued to decrease. See Helen Lewis "Fatalism or the Coal Industry?," in Appalachia: Social Context, p. 157. The dependency of large numbers of workers and their families upon the cartel was carefully planned and accomplished. Again the debt to Henry Prick is clear. Samuel Gompers complained the miners' children were "brought into the world by the company doctor, lived in a company house or hut, were nurtured by the company store ... laid away in a company graveyard." Matthew Josephson, The Robber Barons, (New York, 1934) p. 373. "Matthew Josephson, Robber Barons ... p. 373. 'Josephson, Robber Barons . . . p. 373. •Josephson, Robber Barons . . . p. 413. 145 �This page intentionally left blank �NORTH GEORGIA MUSIC Folk Visions and Voices Art Rosenbaum; University of Georgia North Georgia Musicians and Groups in the 1920s and 1930s Gene Wiggins; N. Georgia College; Dahlonega, GA Eller Brothers and Ross Brown: Workshop/Performance Convenor: Zell Miller; Lieutenant Governor of Georgia North Georgia Musicians and Groups in the 1920s and 1930s by Gene Wiggins COMMERCIALLY RECORDED GEORGIA FOLK MUSICIANS OF THE 1920's There is a special interest for the folklorist and social historian in the commercial recordings made by folk musicians in the 1920's. It is our first chance to either hear or see all the sorts of things rural southerners had been singing to each other. Folklorists had collected from the folk only a certain sort of thing. Toward the rest of what their informants were singing and playing, the folklorists sometimes had been hostile. Sometimes they had been just busy and forced to specialize. They did a good job. They did what most needed to be done. But now we have a broader definition of folk music, along with an interest in biography of folk musicians, in musical styles, and in total repertoire. The oldest material serving these interests was recorded in Atlanta beginning in 1923. Fiddlin' John Carson, who had put rural music on Atlanta radio in 1922, was recorded in 1923 at the suggestion of Atlanta record man Polk Brockman. Brockman had no personal liking for Carson or for his music. He wanted Carson recorded because he knew many people did like him. This 1923 recording in Atlanta was almost the first commercial recording made anywhere in the South. It was the first issued and successful recording of what came to be called country music, though we should remember that country music means one thing when we are talking historically and another thing when we are trying to distinguish types of music prevailing today. For a few years the recording of this type of music—or these types of music, for there was considerable variety—was mainly in the hands of northern, urban people who understood the music so little that they left nearly everything to the performers. For a few years there was no hard search for new performers. The companies either had the 147 �performers go to New York or recorded them in Atlanta. A large fraction of the people recorded in those early years lived in or near Atlanta, had known each other before recording, and continued to play shows together. At the first Atlanta Country Music Hall of Fame awards in 1982 Clyde Carson, Fiddlin' John's son and driver, stated, "Most of the people you have heard about tonight I have hauled in a 1914 T-Model." There was a local quality about much of the music, though people who knew each other well sometimes recorded widely different versions of the same song. There was also an amateur quality. Many performers had been professionals of a sort, but pass-the-hat standards had not been high. It was a sort of music many people could approximate. It didn't have to be rehearsed to any fine point. There exists an issued record by Fiddlin' John's band in which John's fiddle switches from "Peter Went A-Fishin' " to "Little More Sugar in the Coffee." One of the band does not notice and continues to sing "Peter Went A-Fishing." Radio and records produced a rapid change in this sort of music. It soon lost its local, spontaneous, amateur quality. It was corrupted or improved, depending on your point of view, by hardcore professionalism. The depression almost suspended the making of country records except those by such prime non-Georgia favorites as Jimmie Rodgers and the Carter family. In 1934 when things were looking a little better there were sessions by Georgia's Fiddlin' John Carson and Georgia's Skillet Lickers. The records made at these were not all flops. In fact the Skillet Licker pairing of "Down Yonder" and "Back Up and Push" was a considerable hit. Still, it was clear in 1934 that the heyday of the real old timers in the recording business was over. Let us have a little closer look at these musicians, beginning with the first recorded, John Carson. Carson is usually said to have been born in Fannin County in 1868. However, there is some reason to think he may not have been quite that old and may have been born in Cobb County. Fannin County was the famous mountain county. A fictional and journalistic notion of the old mountain fiddler had developed in the nineteenth century, and when we first see newspaper publicity about Carson in 1913, he is already pretending to be a little more of a hick than he really was— at least by pretending to be a visitor from Blue Ridge, Fannin County, when he had lived in Atlanta since 1900. Country music had its ballyhoo years before it had any recordings, and Carson was something of a professional from the time he was a boy. He played and passed the hat, and he was hired to work political campaigns. Two of his nineteenth century political patrons were Bob Taylor of Tennessee and Tom Watson of Georgia. Carson moved to Atlanta in 1900 to work in the cotton mills. Three events of 1913 turned him away from cotton-mill work and made him more of a professional musician. One was the beginning of a wellpublicized series of fiddlers contests in Atlanta. He got a lot of publicity 148 �in the reporting of these, and became better known. Second was a textile strike which caused him to quit his job in the mill. Third was the murder of Mary Phagan. Carson composed songs about Mary—apparently four of them eventually, though only three have survived—and peddled song sheets. He had become well-known in Atlanta and was doing shows in other towns when Polk Brockman, in 1923, decided to see how he would sell on records. His records sold quite well for a number of years. On the first sessions he fiddled and sang alone. Then he added a band—the Virginia Reelers—which included his daughter Rosa Lee, who was given the name Moonshine Kate. Carson recorded some 123 distinct pieces plus a good deal of redoing of things he had already done, sometimes with important changes, sometimes not. I classify 42% of his output as pretwentieth century folk material. The oldest specimen we have of several songs now well-known is on the recordings of John Carson. The first time Carson recorded with a band he employed a little banjoist named Land Norris, who went on to record on his own several songs with banjo accompaniment. Norris was born in Gilmer County in 1877 and was a fur trader. He wandered through the mountains buying furs, and he learned a lot of comic songs from the people he traded with. He was notable for changing the name of nearly everything he recorded. For instance "Cripple Creek" became "Red Creek" and "Sourwood Mountain" became "Dogwood Mountain." A notable theme in Norris' recordings is satire on the clergy. Preachers were apt to regard banjo pickers as sinful, and banjo pickers were apt to frame anti-clerical stanzas in retaliation. There were two Earl Johnsons in Fiddlin' John's early retinue— Freckled-faced Earl, a comedian and one-string fiddler, and Fiddlin' Earl, a four-string fiddler. Fiddlin' Earl, born in 1886, was a Gwinnett County piano tuner who could read music and allegedly could play citified stuff. He continued to be heard on some of Carson's sessions, but he also formed his own band, which is named on some records Earl Johnson's Entertainers and on others Earl Johnson's Clodhoppers. The later name is more typical. Most of the old Georgia bands sought ultra-bucolic names. In addition to Earl Johnson and his Clodhoppers we had Arthur Tanner and his Corn Shuckers, Gid Tanner and his Skillet Lickers, Fate Norris and his Plow Boys, Lowe Stokes and his Swamp Rooters, etc. Johnson recorded about 60 sides, singing on many and on others playing the wildest and fastest fiddle of the time. Fiddlin' John Carson was not the oldest of the rural Georgia musicians we can hear on the old records. His friend Rob Stanley, born in 1858, was at least a decade older. It was Uncle Rob Stanley who encouraged the more famous Gid Tanner to move to the Lawrenceville-Dacula area. Rob's daughter Roba was only 14 when she, her father and a Bill Patterson cut a record in 1924, Rob singing "Nellie Gray" on one side and he and Roba singing "Whoa Mule" on the other. Roba recorded other records 149 �with her father and Patterson, as well as with a Virginian named Henry Whitter, who had recorded before Fiddlin' John but did not have his records issued until after the success of John's. Roba, who is still living, was found by Charles Wolfe and me in 1977 and has received some notice under the epithet "First Sweetheart of Country Music." A couple of her songs do have the coquettish derision of males we sometimes associate with hillbilly gals, but several of her songs have a male persona. In one case he seems to be a moonshiner and in another a black chicken thief. However, in 1924 there was no competition for the title "Sweetheart of Country Music," and one didn't have to sound very seductive. A little over a year after her first recording, Roba married, moved to Florida, and gave up music. Andy Jenkins was born a little south of Atlanta in 1885. From the age of three weeks he was blind. By 1918 he was preaching in Atlanta and selling newspapers on the streets. In 1922, he and his second wife and his stepdaughters were doing programs on WSB. Later, in addition to the family recording as the Jenkins Family, Jenkins recorded solo as Blind Andy and Gooby Jenkins. As far as any modern taste for his singing is concerned, Jenkins comes in behind even Land Norris, who does have one number on reissue longplay. As far as I know, Jenkins has none; but he was a phenomenal songwriter. Some of his songs, thought to be mountain or western folksongs actually were composed on the busiest streets of Atlanta. Like Wordsworth, Andy composed aloud and he liked to be where there was a lot of street noise so people wouldn't think he was crazy. Some of his songs were great hits as recorded by other people. The best known probably are "Death of Floyd Collins," "Billy the Kid," and "God Put a Rainbow in the Cloud." The Cofer Brothers, Leon and Paul, born in 1899 and 1901, also recorded with a Ben Evans as The Georgia Crackers. They sounded more black than Appalachian. Once some old-time music buffs conjectured that they were black, but I eventually found their younger brother and sister and found that they came from a relatively cultured white family. Their father was a Methodist minister and song writer, P. A. Cofer, who published a pair of books of religious songs. All the Gofers were trained in sacred music, but Rev. Cofer also employed blacks on his farm and at his three sawmills. It was the songs and the style of their black friends that Leon and Paul drew on most when they recorded. The formative years of the Cofer brothers were spent in middle Georgia, many of Leon's early years at the Macon academy for the blind. However, they wefe born in North Georgia and had moved to Atlanta by 1923.1 think there is a discernable Appalachian element in their music. The Skillet Lickers get considerable attention in Art Rosenbaum's last book, because they were a big influence and because the book deals directly with Gordon Tanner, lead fiddler of the 1934 session and son of 150 �the most famous Skillet Licker, Gid Tanner. Gordon and his son Phil continued Skillet Licker music until Gordon's death in 1982. Phil and his son continue it yet. James Gideon Tanner, generally known as Gid, was born near Monroe in 1885. At Uncle Rob Stanley's instigation, he later moved to Dacula. He became well-known as a fiddler and comic singer at the fiddlers' conventions in Atlanta before World War I, and when the ground was too wet for farming he would go to Atlanta and play on the streets, accompanied by Gordon when Gordon was very young. When the Okeh record company scored a hit with John Carson, the Columbia record company naturally sought the services of the other of the two fiddlers best known in Atlanta. Gid agreed to go to New York and record if he could take with him a blind singer and guitarist named Riley Puckett. Puckett was a decade younger than Tanner, and the initial duo was augmented later by still younger men—Clayton McMichen, Lowe Stokes, and Bert Layne. It was given the name Skillet Lickers. There are at least six places in Georgia officially or unofficially named Lickskillet. In the old days people didn't talk about living in depressed areas or being disadvantaged. They talked about licking skillets. There had been a Lickskillet Band at the fiddlers' conventions years before. With the possible exception of the band of North Carolinian Charlie Poole, the Skillet Lickers are the 1920's band most listened to today. There is one reissue longplay of John Carson, one of Earl Johnson, one the the Georgia Yellow Hammers, but at least six of the Skillet Lickers, as well as three of Riley Puckett, who remained their star singer as well as cutting many records apart from the Skillet Lickers. With the Georgia Yellow Hammers, of Calhoun, as with the Skillet Lickers, two older men recorded first and then the band was enlarged with younger fellows. The old timers were Bud Landress and Bill Chitwood and the major additions were Phil Reeve and Ernest Moody. All the Yellow Hammers had been involved in religious singing convention music as well as instrumental music. Actually they were a good vocal quartet that could play instruments adequately, and they had two talented song writersBud Landress, who wrote "Picture on the Wall"—done in recent times by Ross Brown and the Eller Brothers—and Ernest Moody, who wrote "Kneel at the Cross"—done in recent times by Lester Maddox. Moody lived until 1977. When I interviewed him, I found him to be a well-read ex-school teacher who had what I think of as the pre-1950's-school-marm conception of folk music. According to that conception folk music is found only way back in the mountains, it has definite British elements, its pretty and sweet, and it isn't played for money. He was too nice to say so, but it was evident he thought I had goofed in regarding him as having been a purveyor of folk music. I don't know to what extent I changed his thinking as to the value of what the Yellow Hammers had done, but shortly before he died his daughter wrote me that she had caught him 151 �singing, Oh the bell cow—grab her by the tail; Oh the bell cow—milk her in the pail. Only people close to my age know how much anti-hillbillyism once existed. In the thirties and forties people almost had me thinking that the people I have been talking about were not so precious as they seemed to me. Their music is not as smooth as the music you hear in the dentist's office, but if it ever really gets in one ear it won't go out the other. If you haven't yet tried it, do so. 152 �HISTORICAL DIVERSITY IN APPALACHIAN COMMUNITIES Diversity in Ante-Bellum Mountain Life: The Towns of Western North Carolina John Inscoe; Univ. of North Carolina; Chapel Hill, NC The Vinland Settlement Roy G. Lillard; Cleveland State Community College; Cleveland, TN Demography of Western North Carolina Blacks Wilburn Hayden; Western Carolina University; Cullowhee, NC "Ripshin" Roberta Roy; East Tenn. State Univ.; Johnson City, TN Convenor: Ed Cabbel; John Henry Memorial Foundation; Princeton, WV Diversity in Antebellum Mountain Life: The Towns of Western North Carolina by John C. Inscoe* In the first issue of Mountain Life and Work in 1925, the journal's co-founder, Olive Dame Campbell, wrote, "There is no fundamental reason for separating mountain people from lowland people, nor are mountain problems so different from those of other rural areas in the United States."1 This was an extraordinary statement, particularly at a time when social consciousness of the poverty, ignorance, and isolation of the people of the Southern Appalachians was at its peak. In the midst of the stereotypes of backward mountaineers that were rapidly establishing themselves in American minds, such a perspective was refreshing, though its accuracy to mountain life in the early twentieth century is debatable. But when applied to the same area in an earlier era, the decades just before the Civil War, the statement takes on new significance and becomes a far more applicable assessment of mountain society at that time. Historians have only slowly and reluctantly come to recognize the fact that antebellum society in the Southern Appalachians had much in common with that of the rest of the South.2 By the 1840s and 1850s, as advances in trade and transportation elsewhere in the South accelerated, the topographical disadvantages of the highlands and the delays in getting railroads and other internal improvements into their region had begun to be recognized by some mountain residents as possible hindrances to their full participation in the economic development around them. At the same time, settlers were beginning to push back into the more secluded 153 �coves and hollows that would sooner or later cut off much of their contact with the outer world. But to most, these trends were seen as little more than temporary setbacks which, as in other frontier situations, would soon give way to the inevitable march of progress. They did not view themselves as part of a separate region with special problems which should set them apart from the rest of the South. Any distinctions in their geographic or demographic situation were seen as minor aberrations which would soon be overcome and allow their eventual integration into the broader economic network around them. Southern Appalachia was of course a predominantly rural area, even more so than the antebellum South as a whole. It was populated largely by small farmers and its economy was based on a system of diversified and primarily subsistence agriculture. But to leave such a description of antebellum mountain life at that, as is so often done, is to overlook what was, by the mid-nineteenth century, a far more varied, complex, and vigorous society. Nowhere was this more true than for the western counties of North Carolina, and nowhere was it reflected more than in the development of the towns and villages there. Though often overlooked by those seeking to characterize the Southern Appalachian experience, it was those communities that formed the vital centers of mountain society and, as such, they exerted an influence on the social and economic character of the region far greater than their size alone would have warranted. This paper is an attempt to demonstrate the significance of these nonrural factors on an essentially rural society by examining the origins, functions, and influence of its towns on the mountain region of North Carolina in the years before the Civil War. Whether they developed as county seats, as commercial centers, or as tourist resorts, they generated much of the area's progress, diversity, and entrepreneurial spirit. These characteristics not only gave them much in common with their counterparts throughout the South, and thus make Mrs. Campbell's observation so apt, but they also served as a link to communities elsewhere. Thus, though many remained quite small and crude, even by the standards of the rural South, these mountain towns became their region's strongest force against any tendencies toward isolation or alienation from the outside world. Very few mountaineers were so secluded that they did not have access to, or make use of, some such community. There seems to have been no pressing need for towns or the services they offered among the earliest settlers in western North Carolina. Their primary goals were simply to acquire land and make it as productive as possible. In most parts of the region, it was only the formation of new counties and the need for a seat for their newly organized local governments that led to any efforts at establishing a concentrated non-rural community. Morganton, the earliest town in the western part of the state, 154 �was established only when the legislative act creating Burke County in 1777 also stipulated that a commission fix the location for a courthouse, a prison, and stocks. Even then, it was seven years later, when the creation of the Morgan Judicial District gave some urgency for the need for a courthouse, that a site was selected and a town plan drawn up.3 Between 1835 and 1860, nine new western counties were created. Despite the fact that several had had substantial and well-established populations for several decades, they often had no community or commerical center to designate as a county seat. Thus Marion in McDowell County, Webster in Jackson County, Sparta in Allegheny, Waynesville in Haywood, and Wilkesboro in Wilkes were all established in locations chosen strictly for their accessibility and topographic suitability and their central location within the new county boundaries.4 In other instances, the presence of a store or trading post was the determining factor in the selection of a site. James Harper had operated a large store, tannery, blacksmith shop and harness shop for a full decade before the site of his enterprises was chosen for Lenoir, the county seat of newly-formed Caldwell County in 1841.6 Likewise, Jordan Councill's mercantile operation became such a focal point for trade and communication in his area that it, with the new name of Boone, was designated as Watauga County's seat in 1850.6 Cherokee County was created from Indian territory soon after the 1838 removal of the tribe, and its county seat, Huntersville (later called Murphy), was established on the site of an earlier trading post from which Colonel Archibald Hunter had maintained a brisk business with the Indians.7 Macon County too was part of former Indian territory and its county seat, Franklin, grew from the foundations of what had once been a sacred Cherokee village.8 The potential economic and political significance of these seats of local government were fully recognized by county residents, and bitter disputes sometimes broke out between communities or sections of a county as to which would reap those benefits. In several cases, the more obvious choices were passed over in favor of smaller communities or even relatively unsettled locations as the result of hard-fought contests between rival factions. Buncombe Courthouse, later called Morristown and finally Asheville, was built on a plateau where a wagon road forded "the big branch between the Indian graves." Such an obscure locale was a compromise choice between the county's most concentrated settlements at Reems Creek and Swannanoa, though even that so-called mid-point was considered a victory for the northern section of Buncombe and a loss for those to the south, whose selection committee refused to sign the final report.9 The location of Yancey County's seat was a source of rivalry between two individuals. In 1833, Thomas Ray and John Bailey, both among the area's earliest settlers and most prominent citizens, sought to establish the town near their own homes by offering the county generous allotments 155 �of their own land for that purpose. The decision seems to have been based merely on the size of the donations, as Ray's fifty-acre offer on the Cane River was passed over in favor of Bailey's hundred-acre gift on the Toe River, where the town of Burnsville soon emerged.10 With Madison County's formation in 1851, the small but lively village of Jewell Hill, the site of the area's militia muster and court sessions, was assumed to be the logical choice for county seat except by the few, but influential, citizens of Lapland, a smaller settlement farther up the French Broad River. Zebulon Vance, who had grown up there, donated fifty acres for the new town, and was so confident that his action would settle the matter that he wrote his fiancee, Harriett Espy: "You may expect to see, next time you pass this place, a flourishing and romantic little village."11 His influence, along with that of his uncle Adolphus E. Baird, who had long operated a tavern and inn there, and Samuel Chunn, whose stockstand was equally well established, finally won the day for the Lapland site in 1855, though by only a single vote of the selection committee.12 Its name was promptly changed to Marshall, but it was still another four years before the court began to meet there instead of at Jewell Hill. The most heated contest was that in Henderson County. After it was created in 1838, a three year controversy raged over the location of its county seat of Hendersonville, whose name at least had already been determined. Advocates for a site on the French Broad River were opposed by those favoring one along the Buncombe Turnpike. "River" and "Road" factions, as they came to be called, remained so adamant that it took three appeals to the state Supreme Court and a referendum election throwing the decision to the county's voters before the "road" location was finally agreed upon.13 In this, as in other disputes, commercial interests were at least as decisive as political factors in the choices made. Both the French Broad and the turnpike offered potential for substantial trade between North Carolina's mountains and South Carolina and Georgia. The final decision was based largely on the judgment of county residents that the latter held the greater promise as a trade route and was thus the one they wanted their new seat of local government most accessible to. Not all mountain towns owed their origins to demands for commercial centers or county government bases. Tourism contributed to the early growth of several communities. Natural mineral springs and their reputed healing powers began attracting visitors to western North Carolina early in the nineteenth century. These sites, along with others whose attraction lay merely in their cool climates, healthy air, and mountain scenery, often began with hotels, inns, or seasonal private residences that formed the cores of what grew into fully operational and multifunctional towns and villages. Though many of western North Carolina's most successful and well-known resorts did not emerge until late in the nineteenth century, Warm Springs in Madison County, Flat Rock in 156 �Henderson County, and White Sulphur Springs and others in Haywood County were all fully established and thriving by the 1830s and 1840s.14 Once established, all of these mountain communities attracted enterprising men of various training and background whose skills and services did much to move most parts of the region beyond the frontier stage of development and added diversification and complexity to an otherwise agricultural economy and farming populace. The governmental function of the county seats, along with the judicial function of their county and circuit courts made lawyers, judges, clerks, and other office holders prominent among their earliest residents and most frequent visitors. Merchants, artisans, tavern and inn keepers, and land speculators recognized the business opportunities offered by these newly emerging towns, and their early moves to them often enabled them to engage in several types of commercial ventures simultaneously with profitable results.15 These professional and business men were among the few mountain residents with enough capital to acquire slaves, so that the region's largest slaveholders were, more often than not, town rather than rural residents. Many put their black property to work in their stores, hotels, or "factories" so that much of the black labor force in the western part of the state was concentrated in its towns and villages rather than scattered on its farms. This, along with the influx of slaves brought along by slaveholding tourists, led a British visitor to Asheville in 1842 to express dismay at the large proportion of black residents there. Though his estimate is somewhat exaggerated, he wrote that the town had "a population of 200 persons, of whom not more than 120 are whites."16 Churches, and soon after schools, became integral parts of most mountain communities. Many of them, particularly in the smaller villages, relied on circuit ministers and teachers who provided local residents with regular and influential contacts with the outside world and served to bind them more closely to other mountain towns as well. The larger and more prosperous communities were able to support at least one, and often several, ministers and teachers. As permanent residents, they added to the diversity of the population and encouraged more widespread social contacts by drawing into town residents from surrounding areas and giving them a sense of community participation and belonging. Both schools and churches, which often shared a single building, not only provided a social center for community life but served as a focal point for local civic pride. In 1855 a woman in Macon County's Oak Hill Community described the festivities surrounding the opening of a new school there. "There seems to be quite a spirit of improvement astir among the good people in our quiet little village," she wrote. "We are making roads, building bridges, rearing dwelling houses and churches at a rate that would astonish you."17 Her enthusiasm reflected a spirit that was typical of many late antebellum mountain towns and villages, whose citizens actively promoted the develop157 �ment of their communities and were optimistic about their future progress. But despite similarities in their origins and certain integral features shared by all these communities, variables in their geographic locations, their dates of origin, their rates of development, their appeal to outsiders, and the abilities and ambitions of their citizens led to sharp contrasts in the character of western North Carolina's towns during the antebellum period. The older, more established towns, such as Asheville and Morganton, and to a lesser degree Lenoir and Wilkesboro, developed a thriving commerce, which along with their functions as county seats, gave them as diverse and as affluent a populace and economy as any small town in the antebellum South. The latter three, situated in broad fertile valleys on the east side of the Blue Ridge, served the market needs of western farmers by providing an accessible outlet to the piedmont. At the same time, they served as gateways for traffic moving up into the mountains from the rest of the state. The mere appearance of these towns reflected their relative prosperity and earlier roots. Of Morganton, "the oldest village in the mountain district," one visitor noted "its pleasing avenues and inviting residences," and concluded that "from a society point of view, the town sustains its ancient reputation for polish and cleverness."18 Asheville though had already established its preeminence as the social and commercial center for the western part of the state. In 1795, soon after the selection of Bumcombe Courthouse's site, two enterprising brothers, Bedent and Zebulon Baird, recognized its profitable real estate potential and bought all of the designated land. After donating a central lot as the site of the courthouse, they laid out streets and lots which they sold to families and businesses as they moved into the area. From this promising start, the town prospered and grew, thanks to its scenic and accessible location at the intersection of the wide valleys of the French Broad and Swannanoa rivers which made it a natural crossroads for most trade and travel west of the Blue Ridge. By the late antebellum period, its residents included many of the region's most able and ambitious citizens and it consisted of over twenty stores or businesses, a courthouse, a jail, three churches, three large hotels, several schools and a female college. In 1856, British journalist Charles Lanman described it as "a very busy and pleasant village, filled with intelligent and hospitable inhabitants, and is the center of a mountain land where Nature has been extremely liberal and tasteful in piling up her mighty bulwarks for the admiration of man."19 Due to the scenic settings and cool, pure air of Asheville and other mountain communities, summer tourism played a major role in their economic and social vitality. In 1827, Charles Baring, a prominent Charleston rice planter, sought relief from the ill effects of the swampy coastal climate on his wife's health and built a lavish estate at Flat Rock. Others from South Carolina and Georgia soon followed him and Flat Rock, 158 �Hendersonville, Asheville, Warm Springs, and other communities soon gained reputations throughout the South as "charming refuges from the hot plains of the lowlands."20 Local residents quickly sought to capitalize on the various needs of the influx of visitors from May to October every year. Among the most successful and influential citizens of Asheville were its hotel owners. James Patton's Eagle Hotel and James M. Smith's Buck Hotel were among the town's largest buildings and were so often filled to capacity that nearby homes profited by accommodating their overflow.21 Like the Walton House in Morganton, which advertised that it was "supplied regularly with Fresh Fish from Norfolk and Newburn, in fact with every delicacy usually found at First Class Hotels," these establishments prided themselves on the quality of their accommodations and service.22 Among their most basic services were the various forms of transportation they provided. The Eagle Hotel, for instance, declared that it was "in readiness at all times to convey passengers to any part of our beautiful Mountain Country." In addition to daily or every-other-daily stagecoach service to Greenville and Spartanburg, S. C., Greenville, Term, and Morganton, Salisbury, and Charlotte, N. C., its livery stable offered "superior saddle and harness horses and a lot of entirely NEW Vehicles: consisting of Hacks, Carriages, Buggies etc., which are safe and comfortable."23 In addition to the commercial boom brought about by the "summer people," as they were referred to by mountain residents, those tourists themselves did much to shape the characters of those communities to which they flocked. An Asheville native boasted that the town was "adorned with many beautiful residences, the result of cultivated taste among its inhabitants, or the summer residences of citizens of South Carolina." He went on to praise his fellow residents "who, in a spirit of improvement, a love for the beautiful, and a taste for the refined, make gardens of waste places, and turn the barren hillsides into blooming undulations."24 A young female visitor wrote of a ride she took on the outskirts of Asheville along the Swannanoa River. "It was," she exclaimed, "quite a merry drive indeed; [I] saw a great many fine farms and residences and a good many people riding out—some in buggies and some on horseback in riding costumes, looking quite like city folks and city life."26 Even more impressive to travelers were the Hendersonville and Flat Rock communities, where the affluence and taste of its transplanted South Carolinians and Georgians was apparent in the fashionable clientele of their hotels and even more so in the "baronial style" of their estates. To a New York traveler, they "rivaled in elegance and taste any villa or mansion on the Hudson," and an aristocratic British visitor said that they reminded him "more of English than anything we had seen in America."26 Just as Baring had led many of his fellow Charlestonians into the area, his plantation, with its magnificent columned home, beautifully landscaped 159 �lawns and gardens, private chapel and rectory, complex of stables and servants' quarters, and vast private park for deer hunting, served as a model that inspired others to imitate or even outdo it." The social activities in these communities were fully in keeping with the lavish settings in which they took place. As summarized by a Hendersonville woman, they included "quadrilles danced under candled chandeliers, gracious conversations over three o'clock dinners in silver laden banquet rooms, morning gatherings on latticed porches, Carriage drivers over Little River Road ... and picnics on the mountain ridges."28 The participants in this leisurely and sophisticated lifestyle were equally as impressive to another British observer. He described those at a ball he attended as being "good-looking with good figures and good dancers and manners easy and polite."29 The mineral springs resorts catered to an equally affluent clientele in much the same manner, if on a smaller scale. In addition to its healthful waters, Warm Springs, the most well-known and well-attended of these, "presented more attractions to the seeker of pleasure than probably any watering-place in the South." Elaborating on those attractions, Charles Lanman wrote that "Music, dancing, flirting, wine-drinking, riding, bathing, fishing, scenery-hunting, bowling, and reading are all practiced here to an unlimited extent."30 In sharp contrast, many of the more western county seats, most of which were formed later, remained small, crude, frontier-like communities. While most visitors describing these towns tactfully chose to extol their magnificent and "romantic" physical settings, Augustus S. Merrimon, a young Asheville attorney who practiced in various circuit courts throughout western North Carolina in the early 1850s, was more openly contemptuous of them and their residents. Of the state's western-most town, Murphy, he wrote in his diary that it "is a small place and poorly improved. There are several small stores here that seem to do a small business. All of them together would not make one good one." Waynesville, despite the presence of several fashionable resorts in the vicinity, was no more appealing to Merrimon, who found it "a dirty small village and there is no place of entertainment in it fit to stay at. One would suppose it to be a large negro quarter to see it from a distance."31 Its buildings, he wrote, were already delapidated and decayed, including their courthouse which had been built only a few years earlier.32 But it was Jewell Hill (where Madison County's court still met despite the selection of Marshall as its county seat) that Merrimon found most offensive. Its men were generally drunk, as were its women, whom he described as "dirty, filthy strumpets." He wrote with disgust: "I do not know any rival for this place in regard to drunkenness, ignorance, superstition and the most brutal debauchery."33 British geologist George Featherstonaugh echoed these sentiments in recording his impressions 160 �of Franklin. "What a dreadful state of things!" he wrote. "Here was a village most beautifully situated . . . that might become an earthly Paradise, if education, religion, and manners prevailed . . . But I could not learn that there was a man of education in the place disposed to set an example of the value of sobriety to the community." He revealed his own national bias by concluding that the town served as a "perfect specimen of that kind of equality which democratic institutions often lead to."34 Somewhat more objectively, the celebrated writer and journalist Porte Crayon described the relative lack of physical or economic development of Bakersville, then in Yancey County in 1857: Its principal streets is built up on one side with a rail-fence, and on the other with two cabins, set back from the street. The back streets and alleys, which are laid off ad libitum, contain the stables, cowshed, and hen-houses. The only public buildings worthy of note are an applejack distillery... and a springhouse, which has no commercial value. During the dark of the moon the town is lighted with pine-knots; and its police force, consisting of six big dogs, is at all times uncommonly vigilant and active.36 Swiss geologist, Arnold Guyot, made extensive tours throughout the Carolina highlands in the late 1850s and found few of the communities he visited worthy of even that much attention. Of Watauga's county seat, he wrote: "There is not so much as a village in the whole County, for Boon (sic), the county-seat. . . contains but a few dwellings clustered around the Court-house."36 But regardless of their rate of growth or the degree of sophistication of their citizens, all of these mountain towns exerted an influence far in excess of their size. The "backwardness" of these western-most communities described by contemporary observers often failed to acknowledge their commercial and social vitality. In 1860, Boone, whose very existence Guyot all but denied, actually consisted of six stores, two tanneries, two hotels and several boarding houses, at least one saloon and the blacksmith shop. The demand for lumber to keep up with the pace of construction in the community was great enough to make three sawmills among the town's most successful enterprises in the 1850s.37 Community studies have provided a number of models by which these towns may be categorized in terms of function and relationship to the dispersed populace of the region. In several such studies of twentiethcentury Appalachian communities, Art Gallaher, Jr., has distinguished five types of community in terms of their contact with and access to the "outside world." These range from the most extreme cases of social and geographic isolation through progressively more complex and 161 �sophisticated communities to the region's few urban centers. The fourth level of community development along his scale is that of county seat community, in which its political and trade-centered functions provide "systematic links to the greater society which exist in more variety and in more institutional areas" than in the three preceding levels.38 Pushing this scheme back to the antebellum period, and applying it to western North Carolina's towns and villages, most, if not all, met the criteria for Gallaher's county-seat model, whether they were indeed county seats or only tourist resorts or commercial centers. The government and judicial functions of the actual county seats entailed regular contacts by its residents with agencies and individuals outside the region and meant frequent visits from various officials and other professionals. The impact of tourists and seasonal residents on those in and around the resort communities was even greater. But to the majority of mountain residents, those farmers and their families beyond the bounds of these communities, contacts with these particular outside influences were minimal. Travelers only occasionally veered from their wellbeaten paths and their encounters with more remote local residents, when they did so, were only sporadic and superficial. Likewise the contacts between county officials and their county's more rural citizens came only when they bought or sold land or paid their taxes. It was as commercial centers that almost all of these towns, from Asheville and Morganton to Franklin and Murphy, exerted their most pervasive influence on their region, and it was through their real functional cores, the commercial establishments, that rural mountaineers maintained their most substantial and immediate link with the world beyond their own. Just as stores and trading posts were often the nuclei around which communities grew, so they remained vital to the further prosperity of both town and county residents. Many businessmen provided various services as well as merchandise, so that a "store" was often only one of several operations conducted by a single owner. Jordan Councill of Boone, William McKesson of Morganton, Jesse Siler of Franklin, and James Harper of Lenoir are only four examples of merchants who operated tanneries, blacksmith shops, and mills in addition to their mercantile businesses, and each of them was among the most prominent and influential leaders in their communities. By meeting multiple needs for their areas, they and their counterparts in other mountain towns served as the primary, and often the only, contacts many western Carolinians had with the outside world. Their dependence on these men, based on personal contact as well as economic need, made their influence considerable. A Buncombe County resident recalled that "old settlers in the country each had his merchant in Asheville, not only to supply his wants, but in whom he confided as a trusted friend."39 In addition to supplying local residents with a wide variety of 162 �manufactured goods and imported food staples, these store owners provided equally as vital a service as an outlet for those surplus goods that those same customers wished to sell. The scarcity of cash often necessitated a barter system, the flexibility and localized nature of which allowed for a readily available means by which most mountain farmers could, and often did, move beyond mere subsistence farming and enter the market economy, if only in a limited way. While farm produce and meat from slaughtered livestock were the most basic of local goods bartered, the inventory of several mountain stores indicates that a wide variety of distinctively mountain products were also common in these transactions. A British woman visiting Asheville seemed somewhat offended by the diversity of goods carried in shops there. Merely to buy "a bit of ribbon," she had to face "horrible raw hides . . . masses of mica ... and every imaginable thing for sale."40 Leander Gash owned a large store on the present site of Brevard, where he stocked "hams, venison, hides, and feathers, chestnuts, chestnut bark, apples, cabbages, wild honey and mountain herbs."41 Several merchants specialized as dealers in ginseng, the root of a small plant native to the North Carolina mountains, which was sold to China, where its medicinal qualities were in great demand. Calvin Cowles of Wilkesboro bought it, along with other roots and herbs, from mountain residents who gathered it in the forests of the state's northwest corner and brought it down to his store.42 Bacchus Smith and Nimrod Jarrett of Yancey County found the ginseng, or "sang," business so profitable in the 1830s that they ran three factories at which over 86,000 pounds of the freshly-dug green root were steamed, dried, and prepared for the Chinese market.48 These various products in turn provided merchants with the means by which they engaged in expanded versions of such transactions elsewhere. As early as 1802, Francois Andre Michaux described the trade pattern he observed in passing through Morganton: One warehouse only, supported by a commercial house at Charleston, is established in this little town, where the inhabitants, for twenty miles round, come and purchase mercery and jewellery goods from England, or give in exchange a part of their produce which consists chiefly of dried hams, butter, tallow, bear and stag skins, and ginseng, which they bring from the mountains.44 This pattern was typical and continued to be practiced in most mountain communities throughout the antebellum period. In Ashe County alone, residents were said to have sent to market goods worth "upwards of Thirty Thousand Dollars yearly."46 163 �Some merchants, particularly those in the northern section of North Carolina's mountain region, looked to the north for their primary business contacts. Calvin Cowles made annual trips to Washington, Philadelphia, New York and Boston, where he found ready markets for his ginseng and other roots and herbs. These he sold for cash which he then used to purchase the merchandise with which he would stock his Wilkesboro store for the coming year.46 James Harper of Lenoir sold deer and other animal skins and furs to markets in Baltimore and Philadelphia and obtained much of his merchandise from mercantile suppliers there.47 But these men also participated, along with the majority of western North Carolina merchants, in the far more well-established trade network to the southeast. Charleston and Columbia in South Carolina and Augusta, Athens, and Savannah in Georgia were regular trade centers for mountain businessmen, and trips to one or more of these towns at least once a year, along with regular correspondence and shipment of goods throughout the year, were routine for most of them. Joseph Cathey was the postmaster and storeowner at Forks of the Pigeon in Haywood County. He planned his trips after consultation with South Carolina and Georgia as to the prices on "the bacon, lard, and feather markets." He then headed south, usually in February, with wagon loads of smoked meat, tanned hides, feathers (in demand for beds), and apples. He was accompanied by varying sized herds of livestock, moving on foot, all of which he had bought from or traded with farmers from all over the county. In 1854 he sold "40 cattle and sheep" for $1386 in Augusta. He then used the cash to purchase saddles, bridles, and tools from a "hardware importer," and various supplies from a druggist before moving on to Charleston where he bought coffee, sugar, candy, salt, and rifle powder from a wholesale grocer, and paint, oil, and glass from a "staple and fancy dry good" establishment.48 With considerable variations in the type of goods sold and bought and in the cities visited, annual trips like Cathey's were made by at least two or three store owners in every mountain town. Through such business practices they served as middle men who enabled almost any mountain farmer to participate in the broader southern market economy. But even more important, their experiences and contacts in the deeper South combined with their pervasive influence among their fellow mountain residents to make them the region's predominant "culture carriers," providing links with the rest of the South that were not merely economic, but social and political as well. Mountain towns of course did much to facilitate and promote this lively interstate commerce. But several of them were the beneficiaries of an even more extensive trade network that ran through the Carolina highlands. This was the phenomenal movement of livestock from the upper South, particularly Kentucky and Tennessee, to the plantation markets 164 �of the southeast. Beginning as a trickle about 1800, the annual flow of hogs, cattle, sheep, horses, and even turkeys, and ducks grew steadily through the 1820s and 1830s to become a virtual flood with the opening of the Buncombe Turnpike. This major thoroughfare in the western part of the state not only increased the capacity for moving larger herds on hoof but enabled wagon traffic as well to utilize the same route. An 1849 traveler on the turnpike noted that: an immense number of cattle, horses, and hogs are annually driven over it to the seaboard markets. Over this road also quite a large amount of merchandise is constantly transported for the merchants of the interior, so that mammoth wagons with their eight and ten horses, are as plenty as blackberries and afford a romantic variety to the stranger.49 Running along the already well-travelled French Broad valley from Tennessee directly south through three mountain counties to South Carolina, the turnpike brought a commercial boom to the towns of Marshall, Warm Springs, Asheville, and Hendersonville. Local merchants, inn and tavern keepers eagerly sought to accommodate the demands of the drovers and their herds. They also benefitted greatly from the business generated by the many farmers in the vicinity attracted by the ready outlets for their own livestock and grain crops. As a major juncture with other routes, Asheville was from the beginning the center of the livestock trade and served as a point of convergence at which animals from all over North Carolina mountains joined those from other states already midway on their journey. By the late antebellum years, 140,000 to 160,000 hogs alone were estimated to have passed through the town every year, with an estimated value of between two and three million dollars.60 Some butchering was done in Asheville, with cured meat, bacon, and lard either sold locally or held for later trips south. But the vast majority of animals merely continued on hoof to their southern destinations. Thus, antebellum mountain residents by no means made up the poverty-stricken, stagnant, and backward society which came to characterize much of Southern Appalachia in later years. Far from being physically or psychologically isolated from the world around them, western North Carolinians maintained strong profitable ties with their lowland neighbors. On the eve of the Civil War, they anticipated even greater prospects for economic and social intergration as their long-awaited plans for railroads through the mountains were on the verge of becoming a reality. Among the primary causes and the primary effects of this vitality were the towns and villages of the region, and particularly their citizens. The leadership, contacts, ambitions and diversity of interests and talents of mountain town residents had much to do with making their region not merely like other rural areas, as Mrs. Campbell suggests. Because of the 165 �special elements of its tourist trade and livestock traffic, western North Carolina may well have been even more lively and diversified than most. NOTES 'Mrs. John C. Campbell, "Flame of a New Future for the Highlands," Mountain Life and Work I (April 1925), 9. "Among the most perceptive works on this theme are Gene Wilhelm, Jr., "Appalachian Isolation: Fact or Fiction?" and Wilma Dykeman, "Appalachia in Context," both in J. W. Williamson, ed., An Appalachian Symposium (Boone, N. C.: Appalachian State University Press, 1977); and Gene Wilhelm, Jr., "Folk Settlements in the Blue Ridge Mountains," Appalachian Journal 5 (Winter 1978). 'Edward W. Phifer, Jr., Burke: The History of a North Carolina County (Morganton, NC: 1977), 66-67. •Mildred B. Fossett, History of McDowell County (Marion, NC: 1976), 85, Ora Blackmun, Western North Carolina and Its People to 1880 (Boone, NC: 1977), 266; John P. Arthur, Western North Carolina: A History from 1730 to 1913 (Raleigh, 1914), 169, 174. See also David L. Corbitt, The Formation of the North Carolina Counties, 1663-1943) (Raleigh, 1950), 3-4, 117-118, 129, 142, 227-228. 'Nancy Alexander, Here Witt I Dwell: The Story ofCaldwett County (Salisbury, NC: 1956), 93-95. "Betty McFarland, Sketches of Early Watauga (Boone, 1973) 'Blackmun, Western North Carolina, 274. "Arthur, Western North Carolina, 174. 'Foster A. Sondley, Asheville and Buncombe County (Asheville, 1922), 72-73. 10 Jody Higgins, ed., Common Times: Written and Pictorial History of Yancey County (Burnsville, NC: 1981), 42. "Zebulon B. Vance to Harriett N. Espy, February 19, 1853, in Elizabeth R. Cannon, ed., My Beloved Zebulon: The Correspondence of Zebulon Baird Vance and Harriett Newell Espy (Chapel Hill, 1971), 184. See also George W. McCoy, "Madison County Marks Its Centennial," Asheville Citizen-Times, January 14, 1951; Manly Wade Wellman, The Kingdom of Madison (Chapel Hill, 1973), 66. "Wellman, Kingdom of Madison, 70. 13 James T. Fain, Jr., A Partial History of Henderson County (New York, 1980), 15-18. "Lawrence F. Brewster, Summer Migrations and Resorts of South Carolina Low-Country Planters (Durham, 1947), 64-68. "Wilhelm, "Appalachian Isolation," 78, 85. "James S. Buckingham, The Slave States of America (London, 1842), Vol. II 202. For a discussion of slaves in the mountains, see John C. Inscoe, "Mountain Masters: Slaveholding in Western North Carolina," North Carolina Historical Review LXI (April 1984), 143-173. "Mollie Carrie to Leander Gash, March 1855, Gash Family Papers, North Carolina Department of Archives and History. 166 �"W. G. Zeigler and Ben S. Grossup, In the Heart of the Alleghanies of Western North Carolina (Raleigh, 1883), 342. "Charles Lanman, Letters from the Alleghany Mountains (New York, 1849), 427. "William W. Malet, An Errand to the South in the Summer of 1862 (London, 1863), 215. See also Brewster, Summer Migrations and Resorts, and Blanche Marsh, Historic Flat Rock, (Asheville, 1961). "Sondley, Asheville and Buncombe County, 84. "Advertisement, North Carolina Standard, Raleigh, July 16, 1859. M H. E. Coulton, Guidebook to the Scenery of Western North Carolina (Asheville, 1860), 14-15. "Coulton, Guidebook, 17-18. ""Mollie Carrie to Leander Gash, August 3, 1855, Gash Family Papers, NCDAH. 2611 Picturesque America: On the French Broad River, North Carolina," Appleton's Journal, December 17, 1870; Buckingham, The Slave States of America, 197. "Malet, Errand to the South, 235-237; Marsh, Historic Flat Rock, 3. "Marsh, Historic Flat Rock, 3. M Malet, Errand to the South, 234. "Lanman, Letters from the Alleghany Mountains, 125. For brief descriptions of Warm Springs and other antebellum resorts in western North Carolina see John Disturnell, Springs, Waterfalls, Sea-bathing Resorts and Mountain Scenery of the United States and Canada (New York; J. Disturnell, 1855), 137-138. "A. R. Newsome, ed., A. S. Merrimon Journal, 1853-54," North Carolina Historical Review (July 1931), 315. M Newsome, "Merrimon Journal," 310. "George W. Featherstonhaugh, A Canoe Voyage Up the Minnay Sotor, Volume 2 (London, 1847; Reprint, St. Paul, 1970), 281. "Porte Crayon, The Old South Illustrated, 230,231. "Myron H. Avery and Kenneth S. Boardman, eds., "Arnold Guyot's Notes on the Geography of the Mountain District of Western North Carolina," N. C. Historical Review (July 1938), 27. "John P. Arthur, A History of Watauga County, North Carolina (Richmond, 1915), 147-153. 38 Art Gallaher, Jr., "The Community As a Setting for Change in Southern Appalachia," in Lloyd Davis, The Public University in its Second Century (West Virginia Center for Appalachian Studies and Development, 1967), 26. "Wilma Dykeman, The French Broad (New York, 1955), 59. "Dykeman, The French Broad, 59. "Otto H. Olsen and Ellen Z. McGrew, eds., "Prelude to Reconstruction: The Correspondence of State Senator Leander Sams Gash, 1866-67," North Carolina Historical Review LX (January 1983), 40. "See the survey for the various entries in Calvin J. Cowles Papers, Southern Historical Collection, UNC Library, Chapel Hill. ""The Late Bacchus J. Smith," Asheville Citizen, August 6, 1886. 167 �"Francois Andre Michaux, Travels to the West of the Alleghanies, reprinted in Reuben G. Thwaite, ed., Early Western Travels, 1748-1846 (Cleveland, Ohio, 1904), 290. *SA. R. Newsome, ed., "Twelve North Carolina Counties in 1810-1811," North Carolina Historical Review V (October 1928), 420. "Various entries, Calvin J. Cowles Papers, Southern Historical Collection and NCDAH. "Alexander, Here Will I Dwell, 93-95. 48 See various bills, receipts, and correspndence, 1850-1854, in Joseph Cathey Papers, NCDAH. The community of Forks of the Pigeon later changed its name to Canton. "Lanman, Letters from the Alleghany Mountains, 123. "Thomas L. Clingman to J. S. Skinner, February 3,1844 in Selections from the Speeches and Writings of Hon. Thomas L. Clingman of North Carolina (Raleigh, 1877), 116. *This paper is the winner of the Appalachian Studies Conference Student Paper competition. 168 �THE THREE R'S: RESEARCH, RESOURCES, RECORDS The Great Smokies: Diverse Perceptions of the Park as a Resource David Carpenter; Western Carolina University; Cullowhee, NC Regional Research in Federal Archives Charles Reeves; Gen. Serv. Admin., Regional Archives; Atlanta, GA Portraying Diversity: An Appalachian Atlas William Hrezo; Radford University; Radford, VA Convenor: Helen Kimsey; Mountain Regional Library; Young Harris, GA The Great Smokies: Diverse Perceptions of the Park as a Resource by David Carpenter The 50th anniversary of the Great Smoky Mountains National Park is being celebrated this year. This park, the most heavily visited national park in the country, provides many types of recreational experiences for its visitors. People visit the park for a number of different reasons, with many kinds of expectations. They see the park as a place to take the family camping, and pitch their tent or park their recreational vehicle in one of the park's campgrounds; they go to the park for a backpacking trip, to hike many miles into the wilderness-like interior of the park; people also use the park as a drive-through scenic area, often between their stops in Cherokee and Gatlinburg, and see the park through the windshield of their car or other vehicle. Some individuals think of the park as a wildlife refuge, and visit it with hopes of seeing bears or other animals. The park serves as a museum to yet other people, who take tours of the pioneer homestead at Oconaluftee, or who might visit other preserved cabins, gristmills, or other exhibits and reminders of the lifestyles of the early settlers in the region. A survey of park visitors, conducted in 1975, found that most visitors believed that the purpose of a national park was two-fold; "To preserve wildlife" and "to provide a place where people can come to enjoy nature." The survey also found that three out of four people (73%) agreed that in the park and its region that "you can find just about everything you want."1 An individual's perception and resulting attitudes toward the park, or for that matter anything else, is largely a function of the person's past history and present situation. Two people can look 169 �at, or think about the same thing and have two very different perceptions of it, or ideas as to what it represents. In its 50th year, as in the preceding 49 years, there is a wide range of opinions as to what represents the essence of the Great Smoky Mountains National Park or its greatest value. If we look back to the years just preceding the park's establishment, or even many, many years earlier, we find a wide diversity of opinions as to what kind of resource was thought to be represented by the lands of the Great Smokies. As early as 15,000 years ago, nomadic hunters called the Paleo-Indians moved eastward from the Great Plains region and probably used the park area for big-game hunting. Sometime around 7000 B.C., the descendants of these nomadic people gradually changed into a larger, more sedentary population. Gathering activities became more important, and over the following centuries, agricultural activities gained dominance over hunting and gathering activities as a way of life for the Indians. The first European contact with these resident Indians, the Cherokees, occurred around 1566 or 1567.2 Around the year 1760, white settlement in the region gained momentum. By the early 1800s, the centuries-old villages, culture, and homeland of the Cherokees had been swept over by the incoming flood of white settlers and their need for more land. By the time of the Civil War, virtually all of the land suitable for farming was occupied by white settlers.8 The region in some ways became a preserve of sorts for a traditional way of life for many years. Industrial development, modernization, and various social and cultural developments did not come as swiftly to the mountain region as to other areas. The mid-nineteenth century saw a few wealthy "flatlanders" begin coming up from Charleston, South Carolina and other lowland areas to escape the oppressive summer heat in the much cooler mountain climate. Some of these people also built summer homes. Thus was started the summer home/tourism industry which in later years was to have such a significant impact on the mountain region—its land, its people, and its culture. In the 1880s lumber companies had begun to mount large-scale commercial logging operations in the region.4 The face of the region began to change. It was in the 1880s, also, that the idea of a national park in the region was first proposed. Rev. C. D. Smith of Franklin, North Carolina may have been the first person to write a proposal for a park in the southern highlands,5 but this is not known for sure. It is recorded, however, that Dr. Henry O. Marcy of Boston, Massachusetts read a paper before the American Academy of Medicine in New York on October 29,1885 entitled: "Climatic Treatment of Diseases: Western North Carolina as a Health Resort."6 In the closing paragraph of his paper, published in The Journal of the American Medical Association, Dr. Marcy said that: "The wise legislator, seeking far-reaching results, would do well to consider the 170 �advisability of securing under state control a large reservation of the higher ranges as a park."7 Another physician, Dr. Chase P. Ambler of Ohio, received a reprint of Dr. Marcy's paper and was impressed by his idea for a park. When Dr. Ambler moved to Asheville, North Carolina in 1889, and became aware of the beauty of the area first-hand, he became a strong advocate for the establishment of a park. On a fishing trip up to the Sapphire region of western North Carolina, Dr. Ambler asked the advice of his companion Judge William R. Day, also from Ohio, as to how a park could be promoted. Judge Day, who had just returned from the Paris Peace Commission Conference, suggested the formation of an organization in Asheville to push the national park proposal.8 In November of that same year, a convention was held in Asheville and the Appalachian National Park Association was established.9 An active campaign was launched to garner support for a national park in the Southern Appalachian mountains and, in 1900, the Association presented a memorial to Congress. This document listed numerous reasons for establishing a park, and also supplied maps with proposed locations for the park.10 Soon after this, however, the Association found out that the federal government had already gone on record as opposing the purchase of lands at any future time for national park purchases. The Association then changed its name to the Appalachian National Forest Reserve Association, and changed its goal accordingly.11 In December 1905, the Association, after its years of promoting the establishment of first a national park and then later national forest reserves, asked the American Forestry Association to take over its campaign. An agreement was reached and the Appalachian National Forest Reserve Association was dissolved. Its efforts, however, had helped contribute to a compaign which was later to result in the passage of the Weeks Act in 1911. The Weeks Act authorized the establishment of national forests, and stimulated interest in the idea of national parks.12 By the early years of the nineteenth century, the lumber companies had moved their operations into the Smokies. The furious pace of largescale logging operations had far-reaching effects on the region, its economy, and its people in the early years of the century. Around 1909 the logging reached its peak in the Smokies and the region.13 Mountain sides had been stripped of large tracts of virgin timber, prized for its size and quality. Destructive timber-cutting practices sometimes described as "git, slash, & go"14 were reported to have been widespread. But the demand for lumber remained high, and the timber industry remained a very strong force in the mountain region. Another force, however, was building strength. Horace Kephart, author of Our Southern Highlanders, was only one of a number of people who were to contribute to a second, ultimately successful, national park movement. This second major movement to 171 �establish a national park in the Southern Appalachians began around 1923, and it was begun on the other side of the Smokies, in Knoxville, Tennessee. In the summer of 1923, Mr. and Mrs. W. D. Davis of Knoxville had made a western vacation trip and had visited some of the national parks. Mrs. Davis admitted that the scenery in the western parks was very pretty, but she insisted that the Great Smoky mountains contained scenery just as beautiful. "Why can't we have a national park in the Great Smokies?" she asked her husband. Mr. Davis, who was then manager of Knoxville Iron Company, liked the idea and as soon as they had returned to Knoxville began enthusiastically telling his friends about "this wonderful national park we are going to get in the Great Smokies."16 Mr. Davis submitted his idea for a Great Smokies national park to Dr. Hubert Work, Secretary of the Interior, in the Fall of 1923. Around thirty other claims for national park sites in other areas of the East had also been received by Secretary Work, though, and he decided to appoint a committee to investigate the proposed park sites.16 In December of the same year, a dinner meeting at the Cosmos Club in Washington, D.C. helped to begin an active campaign for a national park in the Appalachians. Stephen Mather, Hubert Work, and Zebulon Weaver, a Congressman from Asheville, N. C., were present at the dinner.17 The following week Congressman Weaver made a public statement in support of a park's establishment. The momentum was gaining for a new national park in the Southeast, but there was some amount of disagreement as to where it should be located. The Southern Appalachian National Park Committee, appointed by Secretary Work to study the proposed locations for a park began its study in 1924. Ironically, the committee would not schedule a visit to Knoxville to hear about the Great Smokies area, but were due to stop in Asheville to study the Grandfather Mountain/Linville Gorge area as a possible site for a park. Despite efforts by the Great Smoky Mountains Conservation Association to get the committee to visit Knoxville and study the Great Smokies park proposal, the committee refused to change their schedule. They did, however, finally and reluctantly agree to give a hearing to representatives of the Tennessee association during their stop in Asheville. A delegation from Tennessee, well-armed with enlargements of numerous pictures taken in the Great Smokies area by the association's official photographer, Jim Thompson, met with the Southern Appalachian National Park Committee in Asheville. After a three-hour meeting with this delegation, and after the pictures of the Great Smokies had captured their interest, two of the five members of the committee agreed to take a personal look at the area. They were to be greatly impressed with their tour of the Smokies and sights such as the flame azaleas in bloom on Gregory Bald. Other members of the committee later visited the area and also had high praise for the Great Smokies.18 172 �A recommendation from the committee was made in December 1924 for the establishment of both the Shenandoah and the Great Smoky Mountains National Park. In their official report the committee said: "The Great Smokies easily stand first because of the height of mountains, depth of valleys, ruggedness of the area, and the unexpected variety of trees, shrubs, and plants."19 In the following months bills were passed in the Senate and the House to approve land acquisition for the park. In April 1926 President Coolidge signed a law allowing purchase of lands for the park.20 The legal stage had been prepared for the establishment of the Great Smoky Mountains National Park. But a very large obstacle remained. The creation of the seventeen national parks prior to this time had been accomplished by the setting aside of lands already belonging to the federal government. But the minimum 300,000 contiguous acres needed for the Great Smoky Mountains National Park would have to be purchased from the private owners of some 6,600 separate tracts of land21 and then later offered by the states of North Carolina and Tennessee for acceptance by the Secretary of the Interior. The Great Smoky Mountains Conservation Association in Tennessee and its sister organization in North Carolina, called the Great Smoky Mountains, Inc., had already begun campaigns to raise money and gain public support for the purchase of the land. Over a span of years, roughly 12 million dollars was to be needed for the purchase of the park lands.22 The money came from North Carolina and Tennessee state expenditures and from private donations. Five million dollars in matching funds were donated by John D. Rockefeller, Jr. from the Laura Spellman Rockefeller Memorial Fund. And finally, federal money, allotted by President Roosevelt, completed the park land purchase fund.23 But although the money to purchase park lands was eventually found, and the long campaign to establish the park was ultimately successful—it is important to understand the reasons why people spoke out, sometimes eloquently, both in support of the park, and also in opposition to it. The local western North Carolina newspapers were some of the strongest supporters of the park movement. The timber and pulpwood companies, who owned approximately 85 percent of the land in the proposed park area, were some of the strongest foes of the park movement. TheAsheville Citizen in December of 1925 had this to say about the lumber industry: When the life of the forest is turned into death in the wake of the juggernauts of the lumber industry, there appear the naked skeletons of former sylvan monarchs, sacrificed to feed industry that eats without thought for the moment.24 Four days earlier the paper had printed a full page advertisement paid for by the Champion Fibre Company, which owned over 92,000 acres of 173 �the choicest land in the Great Smokies area.25 The Champion ad had stated, in part, that: The proposed area once established as a National Park withdraws for all time and regardless of changed economic conditions one of the very large national resources of Western North Carolina from all industrial use. The acquisition for Park purposes of the virgin timber area of the Smoky Mountains involves problems that are extremely difficult of solution because of the fact that these lands were purchased for specific industrial uses.26 The Jackson County Journal, in an article on February 9, 1927, portrayed the battle between park proponents and the lumbermen as: A fight between nearsightedness and farsightedness; a battle between those who love their state, and are anxious that she shall continue in her glory and those who believe that the natural resources of the country are the property of a few men of this generation, and that the coming generations are not to be considered.27 The conflict seemed finally to be between conservation and industrial consumption—and a decision as to whether tourism or manufacturing would be most characteristic of the region's economic future. In the mountain region in the 1920s and 1930s there was an increasing emphasis on the economic benefits of tourism, and the establishment of a national park was seen as having extremely beneficial consequences for tourism and the regional economy. An article hi the Asheville Citizen in 1931 included a quote by Ray Lyman Wilbur, at that time Secretary of the Interior, who pointed out that: "The crop of visitors is easy to harvest—recreation gives them health, happiness and satisfaction and they in turn give prosperity to park neighborhoods."28 A pamphlet published by the Great Smoky Mountains Conservation Association of Tennessee speculated that: Not only will multitudes of vacationists be attracted by the splendors of the Great Smokies; the same multitudes will at the same time be attracted by the enjoyments promised enroute. Those multitudes will spend freely, just as similar multitudes do in Montana and California. But it is not only money that will be turned loose, it is tourists—with eyes and ears open. Returning home, they will advertise both states by word of mouth. Americans of the best type will find much to tempt them to settle down and stay— 174 �among other things, the survival of old-time standards of morals and manners and the absence of aliens.29 The conservation and preservation of the proposed park's vegetation cover was also seen as providing another type of economic bonus for the region. A publication by the Wachovia Bank and Trust Co., in 1931, noted that: "The Great Smoky Mountains act as a watershed for many streams having enormous possibilities for water power development . . ."30 The Outlook weekly in 1925 had previously stated, in support of the establishment of eastern national parks, that: One reason China is a decadent, famine-stricken country is because individual interest has gradually consumed the trees and left the surface barren. One reason that India has hundreds of abandoned dams and water reservoirs is because the mud has washed down from deforested areas and filled them full of earth. The brightest prospect of modern business and social life lies in the expected development of electricity by water power. How can we keep the water clear? By keeping a plant-life cover on all unused land.31. A Tennessee pamphlet predicted that: "The Tennessee Valley is destined to become an American Ruhr, the industrial zone of America. [And that] the Tennessee [river] possesses even greater energy than the stream which turns the wheels of German manufacturing."32 A recognition grew that the new national park in the Smokies would likely greatly increase and firmly establish tourism as a dominant "industry" in the mountains, and would also serve as a huge sponge-like watershed for hydroelectric projects downstream from its headwaters. With the once-booming timber business already on a decline in the area, support for the new park increased. Condemnation privileges had been granted by the federal government and gave new leverage to landpurchasing activities. The lengthy land purchase negotiations with the timber and pulpwood companies appeared to be on their way toward resolution. The large tracts of land critical to the park's formation were at last being acquired, but there were other parcels of land which also had to be purchased. Land which meant much more than just a raw industrial resource to the people who owned it. There were around 1,000 families who lived within the boundaries of the Great Smokies before the National Park Service took over the area for park management. These residents owned about 400 log cabins, barns, and other buildings, and 700 frame structures.33 Many stereotypes existed of these people, who were often called "mountaineers," "highlanders," or "hillbillys." Some had called them "the 175 �purest Anglo-Saxon stock in America."34 This mistaken belief or "fable" about the mountain residents was only one of many persistent images of these people.36 They were sometimes described in a positive sense as hardy, self-sufficient people. Other more prevalent stereotypes pictured the mountain residents as lazy, uncivilized, poverty-stricken, criminal, ignorant, or backward. Two assistant editors of the National Geographic, in 1930, thought that the Park Service should let the inhabitants of the Smokies area stay on the land, because "the mountaineers, not the scenery were the real tourist attraction." Arno Cammerer, then Assistant Director of the National Park Service, did not agree, and called these editors "all wet." He went on to say that "the worthy mountaineers . .. would leave; the only ones anxious to stay were those anxious to make money from the tourists. And that "there is no person so canny as certain types of mountaineers and none so disreputable."36 It is interesting to note that one of the strongest motivations of many of the local businessmen and social leaders in promoting the park was also to "make money from the tourists." Some of the inhabitants of the Smokies were glad to sell their land and move away, but other residents did not want to move. They had spent their lives in the area and to them the Smokies were home. The Walker sisters of the Little Greenbriar section of the Smokies belonged to the latter group. The Walker sisters, of whom there were originally seven, were self-reliant and preferred a traditional lifestyle which was closer to that of their preceding generations than to their contemporaries. The Walker sisters loved their farm and log house. Louisa Walker summed up their feelings about their home and the coming of the Park in a poem. Dr. Hans Huth, hired by the Park Service to compile a report on the preservation of mountain culture, noted that this poem was "ironically enough a satire on the Park Service. Whether this was purely naive, or a clever little speculation on the mind of the public, is difficult to tell."37 I think that it is quite clear that Louisa Walker meant to communicate in her poem. Following are some excerpts from her poem, entitled "My Mountain Home": There is an old weather bettion house That stands near a wood With an orchard near by it For all most one hundred years it has stood. But now the park Commissioner Comes all dressed up so gay Saying this old house of yours We must now take away 176 �They coax they wheedle They fret they bark Saying we have to have this place For a National Park For us poor mountain people They don't have a care But must a home for The wolf the lion and the bear But many of us have a title That is sure and will hold To the City of peace Where the streets are pure gold And no park Commissioner Will ever dare To disturb or molest Or take our home from us there.38 The Walker sisters kept their house and farm through a concession by the federal government and the Park Service that allowed, in "meritorious cases," for individuals to be issued leases on their property. The leasees, called "stay-ons," were paid for their land, but then could live on it under certain restrictions for the rest of their lives, after which time the authority for the lease expired. Only people judged to have good character and unclouded reputations were to be granted leases. The leases were designed to lessen the resentment of the Smokies residents to the ultimate loss of their land, and allowed some of the older folks to finish out their lives in their long-time homes.39 In 1941, there were approximately 200 families living within the park on leased property.40 As the park land was being acquired, many individuals expressed fears that the cultural history of the Smokies area might be lost. The Park Service also had a growing recognition, if somewhat limited, that aspects and examples of mountain culture should be preserved. A report, prepared for the Park Service, offered suggestions as to how the Service could preserve mountain culture. This report contained a proposal for the establishment of a "mountaineer museum"41 which could show "types of mountaineers in photos."42 The report also explored a suggestion that a "buffer area" could be created in some traditional community of "mountain culture" on the border of the park. This buffer area would be preserved by "making it inaccessible and by discouraging intercourse with the outside world." In looking at a proposed buffer area, though, it was determined that most of the inhabitants were "undersirable people, many having criminal records .. ."43 The problem of finding good examples of virgin mountain 177 �culture with desirable people, was not the only objection to the plan. The Walker sisters were used as an example of what might likely happen to "protected 'old mountaineers' undergoing acculturation by unavoidable intercourse with tourists."44 In addition it was noted that "progress . . . cannot be kept out of an area indefinitely with radio propaganda pouring in daily . . ." Lastly, the question was asked: "Is it legitimate to try to retard the development of an entire section of the country, even through it might be for a worthy purpose?"46 The buffer area plan was scrapped. A second proposal entailed the relocation of carefully selected settlers to live in the park and to do farming or crafts work. These people would work under supervision which "would correspond to the procedure employed by the Bureau of Indian Affairs in dealing with the Indians. Supervision must be even closer, so that only certified work can be put on the market."46 But it was concluded that if mountain culture was dying and it could only "be found among old mountaineers whose character was shaped many years ago and who, by chance, might be available for transfer to the park, it would be very doubtful whether the undertaking of the complicated experiment would be worthwhile." However, it was decided that younger settlers could be utilized who "must be mountain people" but would not necessarily have to come from one of the border areas that were supposed to be in a "culturally primitive state." Especially since it was thought "highly doubtful" that there were any " 'naive' mountaineer who would go into the traditional way of life if he could avoid it." In order to find prospective, respectable people for "settlers," the president of Asheville College was interviewed and responded to a question that yes, "among his students there were quite a few girls who would probably be quite happy to live in the park . . ."" Some of these proposals and the early attempts of the National Park Service to develop new programs and policies aimed at meeting the Service's additional responsibilities for cultural preservation may now seem humorous to us. But, the Park Service had previously been predominantly concerned with the preservation of natural resources and the plants and animals of the parks. It took time for the Service to begin to understand and encompass the responsibilities of cultural preservation and interpretation. The Park Service increasingly recognized the value of the human/cultural history of the park, and established interpretive displays and exhibits in many locations in the Great Smokies. An archives collection was established. Efforts were made to stabilize a select few of the abandoned dwellings and other structures in the park. A former Assistant Superintendent of the park, David Condon, said in reference to the former residents of the area that: "Although their homes are now gone from within its boundaries, [they] have left behind them an aura of mystery and a lore and history of outstanding appeal."48 In the past, the Great Smokies area has been seen in many ways—as 178 �a hunting ground, as a raw industrial resource, as a proposed health resort, and as a home to many families. The Smokies came to be seen as an extremely valuable resource, worthy of protection and preservation. People's perceptions of the Great Smokies had changed over the years as their country and society had likewise changed. Representative Zebulon Weaver from Asheville, North Carolina gave a speech before the U. S. House of Representatives in 1926, and had this to say about the Smokies as a national park: We have had, it is true great stretches of wilderness in riotous abundance, but now they are disappearing. It is not only important but it is necessary to look to the future. The setting aside of this area is necessary because of the vast increase of population. People are beginning to crowd upon themselves. More and more they are turning to the outdoors for health and recreation and life itself, for nature is the mother of us all, and contact with nature and the out of doors is still the sovereign remedy for the ills of man, both physical and mental. For this purpose there is no place in eastern America that surpasses the Great Smokies.49 Today, the Great Smoky Mountains National Park has such a diverse recreational appeal that over eight million people visit it annually. It has been classified as an International Biosphere Reserve and serves as a living laboratory for scientific study. But, to a majority of its visitors, the park is an experience to eagerly look forward to on their vacations, to be savored during the visit, and to be remembered and talked about afterwards. Robert Sterling Yard, an executive secretary of the National Parks Association who had come to visit the Smokies and determine if they really were worthy of park status, was asked by Horace Kephart what his verdict was about the Smokies. He replied: "They have one quality that is unique." Kephart asked what this quality was. Yard answered: "Charm." He continued: "The Smokies are natural wonders; but they are more than that. One can see a stupendous phenomenon of nature that awes one with its majesty; but when he has seen it once—well, he has seen it. But the Smoky Mountains have enduring charm. Having seen them once, they lure you back again and again."60 179 �NOTES 'Amusement/Recreation Marketing Service, Inc., Visitor Sampling Survey, Great Smoky Mountains National Park: Final Analytic Report (n.p.: n.p., 1975), p. 40. 'U.S. Department of the Interior, National Park Service, Final Environmental Impact Statement for the General Management Plan, Great Smoky Mountains National Park, North Carolina—Tennessee (Denver, Colo.: National Park Service, Denver Service Center, 1982), pp. 57-58. "Ibid. 'U.S. Department of the Interior, National Park Service, General Management Plan, Great Smoky Mountains National Park, North Carolina—Tennessee (Denver, Colo.: National Park Service, Denver Service Center, n.d.), p. 12. "Virginia T. Lathrop, "The Great Smokies Become a Park," Greensboro News, 13 May 1934. 'Charles Webb, "History of Park Traced," Asheville Citizen, 31 August 1939, p. 4, cols. 1-2. 'George W. McCoy, "Dedication of Park Climaxes Movement Launched Years Ago," Asheville Citizen Times, 1 September 1940, sec. B, p. 3, cols. 6-7. 'Lathrop, "The Great Smokies Become a Park." '"Article in 1899 Citizen Tells Story of Origin of National Park Movement," Asheville Citizen, 17 June 1934, sec. B., p. 4, cols. 2-5. '"McCoy, "Dedication of Park Climaxes Movement Launched Years Ago." "Ibid. "Ibid. 13 Wilma Dykeman and Jim Stokely, Highland Homeland, the People of the Great Smokies (Washington, D.C.: U.S. Department of the Interior, National Park Service, 1978), p. 123. "Carlos Campbell, Birth of a National Park in the Great Smoky Mountains (Kingsport, Term.: The University of Tennessee Press and Kingsport Press, Inc., 1960), p. 94. "Campbell, p. 13. "Campbell, p. 22. "Jesse R. Lankford, "The Campaign for a National Park in Western North Carolina, 1885-1940," Master's thesis, Western Carolina University, 1973, pp. 47-48. '"Campbell, pp. 22-28. "Campbell, p. 29. 20 Campbell, p. 138. "Campbell, p. 68. 22 Campbell, p. 135. 2a McCoy, "Dedication of Park Climaxes Movement Launched Years Ago." ""Bleak Skeletons, Monuments to Lumbering," Asheville Citizen, 29 November 1925, caption to photograph, p. 2, cols. 2-4. 26 Campbell, p. 80. 26 "The Champion Fibre Company and the Proposed Smoky Mountain National Park," Asheville Citizen, 25 November 1925, full-page advertisement, p. 3, cols. 1-8. 27 "Now and Hereafter," Editorial, Jackson County Journal, 9 February 1927, p. 4. 28 "Title to Vast Tract in Park is Transferred," Asheville Citizen, 3 November 1931, p. 1, col. 7. 29 Great Smoky Mountains Conservation Association, Great Smoky Mountains (n.p.: n.p., n.d.), p. 18. """The Purpose of this Issue," The Wachovia, 24, No. 10 (1931), p. 15. "'William C. Gregg, "Two New National Parks?" The Outlook, 30 December 1925, p. 663. "Great Smoky Mountains Conservation Association, p. 23. "Hans Huth, Report on the Preservation of Mountain Culture in Great Smoky Mountains National Park (n.p.: U.S. Department of the Interior, National Park Service, 1941), p. 2. 180 �"Maude Waddell, "South Gives Nation Its Most Beautiful Playground," Charlotte Observer, 18 January 1931, sec. 3. "Charles L. Perdue, Jr. and Nancy J. Martin-Perdue, "Appalachian Fables and Facts: A Case Study of the Shenandoah National Park Removals," Appalachian Journal, 7, No. 1-2 (1980), pp. 85-86. M Ibid. "Huth, p. 12. "Robert R. Madden and T. Russell Jones, Mountain Home: The Walker Family Homestead (Washington, B.C.: U.S. Department of the Interior, National Park Service, 1977), pp. 18-19. "Leon M. Siler, "U.S. to Allow Deserving Folk to Live on Land," Asheville Citizen, 13 September 1931, p. 1, col. 1. 40 Huth, p. 2. 41 Huth, p. 4. "Huth, p. 7. "Huth, p. 11. "Huth, p. 12. "Huth, p. 13. "Huth, p. 15. 47 Huth, p. 17. "Campbell, p. 57. "Zebulon Weaver, The Great Smoky Mountains National Park, U.S. Congress, House, 14 May 1926 (Washington, D.C.: GPO, 1926), pp. 9-10. "Horace Kephart, "The Last of the Eastern Wilderness: An Article on the Proposed Great Smoky National Park," World's Work, Apr. 1926, pp. 630-632. 181 �This page intentionally left blank �TOURISM THEN AND NOW A Change in Helen Helen, Georgia Chamber of Commerce Appalachian Tourism: An Historical Overview Stuart Sprague; Morehead State University; Morehead, KY A Plunge into the Past: Henry Ford and Friends Tour the Southern Appalachians Charles Gunter; E. Tenn. State University; Johnson City, TN Convenor; Scoop Scruggs; Helen, GA A Plunge into the Past: Henry Ford and Friends Tour the Southern Appalachians by Charles Gunter In the midst of World War I, four famous Americans—Thomas Edison, Henry Ford, Harvey Firestone, and John Burroughs—gathered in Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania, in August, 1918, to commence a two-week trip which would take them through portions of Pennsylvania, West Virginia, Virginia, Tennessee, North Carolina, and Maryland (see Figure 1). This was not the first trip for a portion of the party, nor was it to be their last. The idea of their trips germinated at the time of the 1915 World's Fair in San Francisco, when Ford and Firestone journeyed there to celebrate Edison Day at the fair. With time to spare, the three of them decided to visit Luther Burbank at his home in Santa Rosa; and ran up there in their private rail cars.1 Enroute to San Diego, after visiting Burbank, Firestone suggested that the party proceed by automobile since crowds of people were threatening to make it impossible for them to keep moving. They had such a wonderful time together that Edison suggested that the three of them go camping the next year.2 The 1916 camping expedition, the first of the back-to-nature junkets, was a tour of New York and the New England states. John Burroughs, a friend of Edison, joined the group at his home in Roxbury, New York; but unfortunately, Henry Ford was unable to join the group due to business commitments. The 1916 trip set in motion the roles that the men followed for subsequent trips, including the 1918 camping trip. Firestone assumed the responsibilities of being general manager and commissary 183 �FIGURE 1 184 �officer. When Henry Ford joined the group in 1918, he contributed his expertise in keeping the mechanical equipment in working order. John Burroughs, a seventy-nine year old naturalist, would be expected only to ply his craft of observing the landscape—both physical and cultural.3 Perhaps, the best explanation of what Edison was to do was written by Firestone, when he commented: Mr. Edison was to decide where we should go. He has always chosen the route. First, he writes to us giving the route. Then he writes again, giving another route, and when we actually start he commonly selects a third route. We never know where we are going, and I suspect that he does not, either. He rides in the front seat of the front car and directs the caravan by compass. He dislikes paved roads and never does he select a main highway if he can find a byway. And never does he take us into a large town if he can find another way around. When he thinks we have gone far enough, he decides to camp, and then we camp.4 A trip planned for 1917 was cancelled due to America's entry into World War I. However, by August, 1918, conditions in Europe had improved enough; and the party decided to break away from the war effort for several weeks. "Except for Mr. Burroughs," Firestone said, "we were all head over heels in our war work, but we had decided that a couple of weeks off would freshen us all a bit and make us better able to go on with our jobs."5 One may ponder how Thomas Edison, Henry Ford, John Burroughs, and Harvey Firestone—each a national figure in his own chosen profession and used to having his own way—could come together for annual camping trips and deepen their friendship for one another.6 As Charles E. Sorensen pointed out, Ford always was grateful for Edison's enouragement when he initially was experimenting with his gasoline engine in 1895. Their friendship began at that time. However, aside from the camping trips they seldom saw one another. Although Ford and Burroughs shared a common interest in birds, the naturalist was primarily Edison's friend. Ford and Burroughs saw each other only during their camping trips. Ford's relationship with Firestone was mainly of business origin.7 One journalist has said that "if you want to probe beneath the surface and get at a man's real character, watch him when he is at play. When he plays he is like a horse out of harness."8 David Lewis in The Public Image of Henry Ford mentions that many movie theaters throughout the United States in 1918 showed Ford, Edison, and Burroughs participating in "high-kicking, stair-jumping, sprinting, tree-chopping, and tree-climbing contests."9 185 �Instead of lounging around on a verandah at a mountain lodge or journeying where roads were in excellent condition, these men—especially Edison—sought to travel to new country; the more untraveled and remote it was, the better the group liked it. They choose to sleep in tents and eat their meals in the open. When night came, they built their own camp fire and enjoyed talking, on some occasions, to almost midnight (see Figure 2).10 When the caravan started from Pittsburgh on August 18,1918, it included "three touring cars and three trucks, laden as one writer described with 'genius and generalship and cooks and culinary contraptions'."11 In addition to the famous four, there were also Harvey Firestone, Jr., two or three friends, a Japanese chef, and various assistants.12 They were ten days in making the journey from Pittsburgh to Asheville, North Carolina; and only once did some of these distinguished gentlemen sleep under a roof.13 It is only the last three days of this journey to Asheville that this study seeks to investigate. A previous study by Donald Rice has explored their travels in West Virginia;14 and the purpose of this paper is to continue the route they followed through Virginia, Tennessee, and North Carolina (to Asheville), and to identify some of the party's interesting experiences while in this region. Left to right are John Burroughs, Henry Ford, Harvey Firest, Jr., Harvey Firestone, Sr., Thomas Edison, and unidentified. Location unknown. Photo courtesy of Archives, The Firestone Tire and Rubber Company. 186 �On Sunday, August 25, the party set out from their camp on Wolf Creek, which was between Narrows, Virginia, and Princeton, West Virginia; and proceeded through Princeton and Bluefield before making camp in Tazewell County, Virginia that night.16 "Coming into the South for someone from the North," wrote John Burroughs in Under the Maples, "is a plunge into the past."16 Elaborating, he said, when you go into Virginia there is a change which is reflected in a more local or provincial attitude. One frequently encounters individuals who are unacquainted with the world beyond their door-steps. He remarked, "their unsophistication is shocking to see."17 In referring to the cultural landscape, Burroughs noted that the quality of the roads left much to be desired. Understandably, an eighty-two year old man might be concerned about the constant bouncing around of an automobile on a dirt and gravel road. He declared that occasionally one would pass from a fine stone road to a rather rough dirt road. Many times there were no bridges over small streams, but fording places were accessible. He recalled that in certain portions of Virginia, the county rather than the state constructed the roads.18 The first major stop in Southwest Virginia was Tazewell, a community of some 1,500 people in 1918, located about twenty miles from Bluefield. The party would have traveled on a rock paved road and would have had to ford streams on four occasions enroute from Bluefield. Mr. H. H. Thompson, a Tazewell native, was a young man when he saw the group on the main street of the community dressed in "duster coats" and wearing "goggles." He states: I was a young boy around nine years old when I came on four or five "T" model Fords parked on Main Street in front of L. A. Tynes' Ford Agency. Tynes, who also operated a garage, was standing on the sidewalk in front of his place shaking hands with Henry Ford. Thomas Edison was leaning against the car and, I think Firestone and Burroughs were still sitting in the back seat. It must have been around 4 p.m. as I was driving cows lower down the street to customers. In those days everybody had a cow and pastured them in rented pasture. I was very close to the company of men, but just looked them over and went on with my cows . . . Later that afternoon, the party continued along on the old Fincastle Turnpike, went into the west end of the cove, and camped on Senator (State Senator) S. J. Thompson's farm which was located approximately fifteen miles from Tazewell... S. J. Thompson talked to them for quite a while and gave them permission to camp any place they liked. The site chosen was near the top of a hill just beyond 187 �the senator's home. This camping site was in the western end of the county about five miles east of Wardell.19 The trip was nearing its conclusion almost a week later when the weekly Clinch Valleys News (of Tazewell, Virginia) reported in its August 30th edition that distinguished visitors passed through last Sunday. "These gentlemen were on vacation," the writer said, "and slipped into town from the east and out again stopping a few minutes in front of the hotel."20 A piercing remark by the writer of the newspaper article perhaps expresses the sentiment of citizens of the community. He declares: The people of Tazewell regret exceedingly that they did not have the pleasure of shaking hands with the distinguished men, but wish it distinctly known, that these famous men would have been wiser and happier perhaps by a little personal contact with Tazewell people.21 On Monday, August 26, the party left their camp early, and proceeded on what was then the best road—mostly clay and rock—which routed them through Elk Garden, the home of the former governor of Virginia (Henry Carter Stuart of Russell County). Following a visit there, they drove approximately ten miles to Lebanon, the county seat; and spent several minutes there, before pressing on to Bristol, via Hansonville and Abingdon.22 In all likelihood, the headlines of the August 27th edition of the Bristol (Tennessee) Herald Courier could have read "Thomas Edison and Henry Ford Are Visitors Here," but war news pushed this article to page three.23 When the visitors arrived in Bristol around noon on the twenty-sixth, they proceeded to the Hotel Bristol on Moore Street. Although no notice of their coming was given, scores of local citizens came to an informal reception hastily arranged after the visitors ate lunch. After the reception, members of the party separated from one another to enjoy their individual pursuits. Mr. Burroughs retired to a hotel room for a brief rest and didn't rejoin the party until they were ready to leave. Ford, Firestone, and his son, Harvey, Jr., took a brief tour of the city. They visited the local Firestone agency of Charles J. Harkrader on Cumberland Street where they posed for pictures. While Firestone talked about automobiles and tires with local dealers and manifested an interest in everything going on around him, the topic of conversation with Ford concerned the war and his own candidacy for U. S. Senate from the state of Michigan. Asked how long he thought the war would last, Ford said, "Well, of course no one knows, but I would say about another year. I think it is safe to say that the Allies have retreated for the last time. The retreating 188 �hereafter will be done by the Germans. We want peace on the right terms and we'll get it."24 Referring to his candidacy for the U. S. Senate, Ford indicated that he was not seeking office, and furthermore, that his campaign had not cost a single penny.26 Interestingly Ford was a candidate for both parties and won the Democratic nomination.26 Ford did tell local townspeople, during the visit, that "the country in this section is magnificent. I was greatly impressed with the mountain scenery through Southwest Virginia and am glad we took this route."27 Edison, in contrast to Ford and Firestone, "contented himself digesting the latest war news in the hotel lobby." Apparently unconcerned by the close scrutiny of the crowd, he intently read his newspaper and smoked his cigar.28 Leaving Bristol, the tourists traveled approximately eight miles to "Maplehurst", a 265 acre farm owned by W. H. Cox. Cox, a prominent businessman of Sullivan County, Tennessee, was a relative of John I. Cox, Governor of Tennessee in 1907, who previously resided at "Maplehurst." The visitors expressed their delight over the visit, after an inspection of the farm and a glass of cool buttermilk. Ford complimented Cox on owning one of the best tracts of land that he had observed on their trip.29 Although only seven years old at the time, Walter C. Smith vaguely remembers seeing the party. His family resided on the estate, while his father was farm manager. His only recollection of the visit pertains to a request for his older brother to run up to the house and get a glass so that the visitors could get a drink at the springhouse. Heretofore, a tincup had been used by everyone.30 Leaving "Maplehurst" early in the afternoon, the visitors traveled through Bluff City, Elizabethton, and Milligan College enroute to Johnson City, Tennessee. The presence of an old mill at Milligan College likely caught Ford's attention. One observer remarked about Ford: The old fashioned grist-mills along the road, with their huge overshot wheels, were of never-failing interest to him ... he is never tired of talking of how much power is going to waste everywhere.31 Later in the afternoon a crowd estimated from 500 to 1,000 people turned out in Johnson City to get a peep at four of America's most illustrious citizens. The Johnson City Staff newspaper office was overwhelmed by people seeking information after a brief notice appeared that the party was coming through the city.32 A chauffeur on the trip, whose account was later transcribed by Lester Hopper said: 189 �Coming into a skyscraperless village, known as Johnson City, I led our caravan right up to the main street. In a few minutes the thoroughfare was crowded; folks came running from every direction... stores were forgotten; political arguments and whittling bees were disbanded; the town closed shop to pay its respects to the great visitors.33 As the party rolled to a stop in front of the Majestic Theater on Main Street, John Burroughs, looking very much like a Rip Van Winkle with his gray whiskers, stepped from a car and started walking down the street. Ed Brading and Munsey Slack, two prominent citizens of the town, immediately recognized Burroughs and introduced him to several directors of the Chamber of Commerce.34 Edison, who was seated in a car with Ford and Firestone, was, according to a newspaper account, one of the most modest men that had ever visited this part of Tennessee. One resident of the community told Edison that he wanted to shake hands with the "greatest man in the world." Due to his hearing difficulties, Edison blushed and modestly denied the accusation.36 Abe Slack, a Staff carrier, was most fortunate in having the opportunity to sell Thomas Edison a paper. When Edison's car stopped on Roan Street the inventor waved to him. Upon receiving a paper, Edison gave the youngster a dime. As the youngster fumbled in his pocket for change Edison grabbed another paper and told him to keep the change.36 Before their departure for Jonesborough, Ford and Firestone expressed that they liked the city and this section of the country. They were favorably impressed with the paved streets and the "general air of progressiveness."" When the tourists arrived in Jonesborough, evidently the party stopped briefly along the main street before proceeding to the Will Lee farm located south of the community. Likely, the party inquired about a possible camp site and were told the the Lee farm located along the Bristol to Memphis "Highway" was considered a good location.38 Upon their arrival at the Lee farm around 4:30 p.m., a member of the party sought permission to camp, but he failed to identify who they were. With permission granted, a site was selected about a quarter mile from the road, and some six to eight tents were erected in close proximity to a spring and a wooded area. Burroughs, however, wished to be able to hear the birds when he awoke in the morning, and his tent was set up about an eighth of a mile away from the main camp. Edison even rigged electric lights for the camp, running wires to the battery of one of the automobiles (see Figure 3). While setting up the camp, several of the Lee children took up with the campers. It was during this time that one of the most publicized 190 �View of Camp Robert E. Lee near Jonesborough, Tennessee. Photo courtesy of Archives, The Firestone Tire and Rubber Company. incidents of the entire trip was recorded. Henry Ford and one of the youngsters began cutting fire wood. While using a small cross-cut saw, Ford remarked,"Young man, do you know that you are sawing wood with Henry Ford." The youngster, eight years old at the time, quickly replied, "Do you know who you're sawing wood with?" And, when Ford answered, "No," the youngster said, "You're sawing wood with Robert E. Lee." Ford and the others laughed heartily. No doubt, the play on names was what amused the group.39 Around the camp fire that night some forty to fifty local citizens joined the famous party, although they tore down a portion of the Lee's fence in achieving their objective. Several stayed until almost midnight. Apparently, the tourists enjoyed the company and were not perturbed that people came and talked with them.40 One anecdote of the visit to the Jonesborough area told of a youngster, George DeVault, who, when he saw Edison, immediately greeted him as a well known friend. He had read about Edison's experiment of trying to incubate eggs. He said: Say, Mr. Edison, I've read about you. You have, smiled Edison, and what was it you read. Why I read about you settin' on those eggs to hatch 'em. Mr. Edison joined in the shout of laughter that followed. Don't ever try it son, he advised soberly, it won't work.41 191 �When the party pulled out around 9:30 a.m. on Tuesday, August 27, they sent someone up to the door who gave the Lee family $5.00.42 On the way to Asheville, North Carolina that morning they stopped briefly in Greeneville before driving on to Newport, Tennessee, where they had lunch at the Mims Hotel. Although the hotel had no advanced notice, a "scrumptious" dinner of fried chicken, country ham, steak, and a variety of fresh vegetables all for the grand charge of 50* each awaited the party.43 Further stops were made at Mars Hill and Weaverville, North Carolina before the campers arrived at the Grove Park Inn in Asheville around 8:30 p.m. Enthusiastic students and friends at both Mars Hill College and Weaver College insisted on greeting the visitors and calling for speeches. Firestone obliged by referring to Edison as the greatest man in the scientific world in a brief but well-worded speech at Weaver College. Entering the outskirts of Asheville, the visitors were met by Secretary Buckner of the Asheville Board of Trade, who headed a welcoming delegation and was driving a Ford car. In his remarks, he graciously assured the party that "the Asheville atmosphere had been specially talcumed and perfumed for the occasion." On Wednesday, August 28, the party inspected the Grove Park Inn, which had opened five years earlier as one of the nation's finest resort hotels; visited Overlook, an English Gothic style castle being built for Fred L. Seely, who designed the Grove Park Inn; and saw Chunn's Cove, which had tentatively been selected by Seely as a possible camp site had the party wished to camp out. Later in the morning, in what appears to be a spur-of-the-moment decision, the party decided to resume their journey.44 Thus, the camping portion of Ford and his famous friends' tour through a portion of the Southern Appalachians had ended. John Burroughs left the party at Asheville and went to Washington, D.C. by train. The others forsook camping as they made their way to Hagerstown, Maryland, where the 1918 trip ended. NOTES 'H. S. Firestone (by Samuel Crowther), "My Vacations with Ford and Edison," System the Magazine of Business, vol. 49 (May, 1926), p. 644. 2 Ibid. 'Dorothy B. Huyck, "Over Hill and Dale with Henry Ford and Famous Friends," Smithsonian, vol. 9 (June, 1978), pp. 88-89. 'Firestone, loc. cit. 6 (by Samuel Crowther), "Was There Ever Another Vacation Like This?," System, the Magazine of Business, vol. 49 (June, 1926), p. 790. 192 �"Mary B. Mullett, "Four Big Men Become Boys Again," American Magazine, vol. 87 (February, 1919), p. 34. 'Charles E. Sorensen (with Samuel T. Williamson), My Forty Years with Ford. New York: W. W. Norton and Company, 1956, p. 19; Keith Sward, The Legend of Henry Ford. New York: Rinehart and Company, Inc., 1948, p. 110. 'Mullett, foe. cit. 'David L. Lewis, The Public Image of Henry Ford: An American Folk Hero and His Company. Detroit: Wayne State University Press, 1976, p. 223. '"Mullett, foe. cit. "Donald L. Rice, "Clearing Up a 'Hazy Proposition': Ford, Firestone, and Edison Explore West Virginia," Goldenseal, vol. 9 (Spring, 1983), p. 47. l2 Mullett, foe. cit "Ibid. "Rice, op. cit, pp. 46-50. "The map and itinerary of the 1918 camping trip is a part of "Our Vacation Days of 1918" written by John Burroughs (reprinted in Men and Rubber) and Under the Maples by Burroughs. Courtesy of The Edison Institute, Henry Ford Museum and Greenfield Village. 18 John Burroughs, Under the Maples. Boston and New York: Houghton Miffin Company, 1921, p. 120. "Ibid., pp. 120-121. li lbid., p. 121. "Letters from H. H. Thompson, Tazewell, Virginia, March 1 and 6, 1984. ^"Distinguished Visitors Pass Through," Clinch Valley News (Tazewell, Virginia), August 30, 1918, p. 4. "Ibid. ™Ibid.; Thompson, op. cit, letter of March 6, 1984. 23 "Thomas Edison and Henry Ford Are Visitors Here," Bristol (Tennessee) Herald Courier, August 27, 1918, p. 3. "Ibid. K Ibid 26 "Ford Is Behind in Election Returns," Bristol (Tennessee) Herald Courier, August 28, 1918, p. 2. ""Thomas Edison and Henry Ford Are Visitors Here," toe. cit. "Ibid. "Ibid.; Muriel C. Spodon, Historical Sites of Sullivan County. Kingsport (Tennessee): Kingsport Press, 1976, p. 175. ""Interview with Walter C. Smith, Bristol, Tennessee, February 13, 1984. "Firestone, "Was There Ever Another Vacation Life This?," op. cit, p. 792. 32 "Edison, Ford, Firestone and Burroughs Visit Johnson City," Johnson City (Tennessee) Staff, August 27, 1918, p. 3. S3 Lester Hopper, "Five Wizards in the Wilds," Unpublished paper, courtesy of Archives, Firestone Tire and Rubber Company. 193 �""Edison, Ford, Firestone and Burroughs Visit Johnson City," he. cit. "Ibid. K Ibid,: Interview with Mrs. Nat Copenhaver, Bristol, Tennessee, March 7, 1984. Mrs. Copenhaver, the daughter of Munsey Slack, the owner of the Johnson City Staff in 1918, has confirmed much of this account. She indicated that the dime given to her brother by Edison is still in the family's possession. "'"Edison, Ford, Firestone and Burroughs Visit Johnson City," he. cit. M "Ford and Edison Spend Night Here," Jonesborough (Tennessee) Herald and Tribune, August 29,1918, p. 1; Interview with Robert E. Lee, Johnson City, Tennessee, January 10, 1984. "'George Kelly, "Robert E. Himself Describes Big Event," Johnson City (Tennessee) Press-Chronicle, May 23,1956, p. 4; Interviews with Robert E. Lee, Johnson City, Tennessee, January 10 and February 2, 1984; "Ford Saws Wood With Robert E. Lee," Bristol (Tennessee) Herald Courier, August 30, 1918, p. 4. "Interview with Robert E. Lee, Johnson City, Tennessee, January 10, 1984. ""Mr. Edison Gives Advice to Jonesborough Boy," Johnson City (Tennessee) Staff, August 29,1918, p. 8; conversation with George deVault, Bristol, Tennessee, March 14,1984. Mr. DeVault, eight years old at the time of the visit, was brought to the Lee farm by his uncle, Sidney Murray, who was then major of Jonesborough. Although he saw the whole party, his visit was confined mostly to Thomas Edison. When brought to Edison, Edison put young George on his knee. The exchange between the two occurred but Edison's method of incubating eggs was changed from trying to hatch them using body heat to "settin' on them." "Interview with Robert E. Lee, Johnson City, Tennessee, January 10, 1984. "Letter from E. R. Walker, III, Newport, Tennessee, January 29,1984. Mr. Walker quotes Mrs. James Murray, the daughter of Mr. and Mrs. Charlie Mims, the proprietors of the hotel. ''"Thomas A. Edison, Henry Ford and Party Now Here," Asheville (North Carolina) Citizen, August 28,1918, p. 1; "Edison-Ford Party Left City Yesterday," Asheville (North Carolina) Citizen, August 29, 1918, p. 10. 194 �MOONSHINE AND BEYOND More Than Moonshine: Aspects of Mountain Cooking Sidney Fair; Berea College; Berea, KY A Touch of Mountain Dew: Art and History of Whiskey-Making in North Georgia Ray Rensi and Leo Downing; N. Georgia College; Dahlonega, GA A Touch of Mountain Dew: Art and History of Whiskey-Making in North Georgia by Ray Rensi and Leo Downing INTRODUCTION In order to understand the art of moonshining one must first examine the people involved. The two cannot be separated as the act of producing illicit whiskey is an extension of the values, beliefs and lifestyles of the moonshiner. Moonshiners are an individualistic people who believe they have the "right" to do whatever they choose with the product of their labor. Their cultural heritage is one of distrust and hatred of what they perceive as unwarranted government intrusion into their private affairs. However, in a mass society that demands conformity their days, and thus this occupation, seem to be ending. This study examines the practice of moonshining in northern Georgia and attempts to explain some of the reasons for its decline in the region. The study is presented in three sections. The first gives a brief historical review of the practice of moonshining in America. Only by examining the actions of their ancestors and what moonshining meant to them is it possible to understand the current moonshiner. The second section will detail the more common manufacturing methods used in making corn "likker." The third section offers several explanations for the most recent decline of moonshining in northern Georgia. The information and explanations put forth in the second and third sections were gathered from interviews with revenue agents, local law enforcement personnel, ex-moonshiners and some individuals still engaged in moonshining. The explanations offered by them are impossible to empirically verify, but should be viewed as the opinions and experiences of the best experts in the field. 195 �MOONSHINE AND MOONSHINERS Man's search for a good stiff drink seems to be as old as civilization itself. In fact, some historians refer to the manufacturing of alcohol as "the second oldest profession" (Carr: 1972). Until the discovery (or more probably the rediscovery) of the distillation process by mid-east alchemists professional technique was largely limited to the natural fermentation processes of various fruits and grains. Grapes and the art of winemaking were introduced to Europe by Phoenician traders through ancient Greece and Rome. A type of beer, produced from barley, was also introduced at approximately the same time. These drinks were well received by the populace and their method of manufacturing was spread throughout empires of both civilizations. While there remains considerable controversy over the exact discoverer of the distillation process, the knowledge seems to have been disseminated by mid-eastern alchemists. By the end of the eleventh century, most of Europe had some operating knowledge of the distillation process. (Kellner: 1971) The roots of north Georgia moonshining can be found in early Ireland and Scotland. Both societies made widespread use of the distillation process in the manufacture of whiskey from barley. The skills of both groups had advanced to a very high degree when, through the actions of King James I, they began to combine their skills. In 1610, in an attempt to solidify his control over Ulster (Northern Ireland) James I, through land grants, enticed thousands of Scots to emigrate and settle there. The new residents, though at political odds with the older occupants, exchanged their collective knowledge on the art of distillation. For more than thirty years, the manufacturing of whiskey was unhindered by any government intrusion. In 1642, Parliament ended this respite and imposed an excise tax on liquor. This tax evoked a considerable amount of hostility throughout Ireland and Scotland and, in order to escape the tax, led to the first illicit manufacture and distribution of whiskey. Public sentiment was so strong against the tax that government employees in charge of collecting the tax were openly subject to harrassment and even death in trying to discharge their duties. (Trevelyan: 1952) The Ulstermen (Scots-Irishmen) began to emigrate to America in large numbers beginning in 1717. This migration was largely motivated by the promises of freedom from government intrusion offered in the new land. Though there had been continuous resentment in Ulster against the government, several new restrictions on economic trade imposed on Ireland by England prompted the mass immigrations in the early eighteenth century. The migration continued until 1776 with an estimated 250,000-400,000 Ulstermen coming to America. Most settled in Pennsylvania and pushed down the Appalachian Mountain range. 196 �These new citizens brought with them both a love for whiskey and a dislike for "unnecessary" government intrusions or restrictions. They found the new land fulfilled these desires and developed a fierce loyalty toward it. When the Revoluntary War broke out, they fought bravely for the patriot cause and distinguished themselves in many battles, particularly at the Battle of Kings Mountain. After the war these patriots returned to their homes (and their stills) intending to reap the full benefits of freedom for which they had fought an oppressive English government. The rewards and benefits of the war were short lived as feelings of hostility and alienation from the new government began to emerge. The first problem involved a redrawing of the land possessions of Virginia and Pennsylvania. This shifting resulted in many backwoodsmen losing their homesteads or incumbering new heavy mortgages on their already "owned" property. The second, and the most significant development was the introduction of an excise tax on stills and distilled liquor. The tax was introduced by the Secretary of the Treasury, Alexander Hamilton, as a means of eliminating the twenty-one million dollar war debt. This was seen as a tremendous burden for the frontiersmen because they had found new uses for their whiskey that greatly increased its importance to them. The pioneering spirit of this group usually put them at the forefront of the early migratory waves in this country. As a result of this they settled in some of the more "wild" mountain areas of Tennessee, Kentucky, Virginia, Georgia, and the Carolinas. This isolation, though providing a bountiful food supply, cut them off from the trade centers of early America and created problems in transporting their crops to market for hard coin and necessities. They soon discovered that by first distilling their harvest into moonshine a pack mule (the only method of transporting goods available to them) could carry twenty-four bushels in liquid form compared to four to eight in raw form. Distilling thus became an economic necessity for many of them and the new excise tax was seen as a threat to their livelihood and survival. The tax became law on March 3, 1791 and not only required a tax to be paid on liquor, but provided for the payment of bounties to snitches who turned in an unregistered still. The reaction to the new tax was similar to the earlier excise tax imposed in Ireland. Revenue agents across the country were threatened, beaten and even "tarred and feathered." Tension built up over the new tax and finally erupted in the first case of open insurrection in this young country's history, referred to as the Whiskey Rebellion. (Hofstadter and Walace: 1970). The rebellion was instigated by the enforcement of the tax against a group of western Pennsylvanians. It was finally put down by an army of over 10,000 state militiamen from four states under the personal leadership of George Washington and Alexander Hamilton at a cost to the country of $1,500,000.00. In addition to creating a great deal of hostility, the excise tax and 197 �foreclosures in Pennsylvania resulted in a migration of the former Ulstermen and their descendants to more remote parts of the country. These pioneers pushed further south down the Appalachian Mountains and further west by way of the Cumberland Gap and Ohio River. These movements gave them some respite from government intrusion. However, it was not needed for very long as under the support of President Thomas Jefferson, Congress repealed the excise tax on June 30,1802. Other than a short three year return to the tax to pay off the debt from the War of 1812, the mountainmen were free from all government intrusion into their whiskey making until 1862. On July 1,1862, Congress passed legislation that created what would become the Internal Revenue Department and improvised taxes on a large number of various items including moonshine. A short time later, they provided for various agents to enforce the new system and prosecute violators. Due to the isolation of the moonshiners, the small number of agents and the large number of tax evaders it was difficult for agents to enforce the law. They often had to resort to snitches or entrapment techniques. Both methods of law enforcement did little to endear them to the general populace and resulted in increased isolationism and mistrust among the moonshiners. A type of respectful battle of wits continued for many years between the moonshiners and the revenuers until it finally escalated to a full blown war when National prohibition went into effect on October 28,1919. While doing little to curb the nation's thirst for alcohol, Probation was a blessing for moonshiners as the value of their wares increased by ten-fold overnight. Due to the increased demand for illicit alcohol and the riches available for those who could produce it a major change took place in moonshining. The production of moonshining went from a craft to an occupation. Unscrupulous men from various urban areas, with promises of riches, recruited moonshiners to work for them in the mass production of illicit whiskey. Emphasis was now placed on producing as much liquor as possible in the shortest period of time. These goals contradicted the laborious care taken by the old time moonshiners and so new techniques and additives were found to speed up the entire process. These changes often produced a harmful or even deadly alcoholic drink that paralyzed more than 15,000 people nationwide. (Dabney: 1974: 108). Various law enforcement agencies increased their enforcement efforts nationwide. However, because of the large amount of money at stake and the less than honorable men involved in the operation, it often resulted in a gun battle with casualties on both sides. The battle between the two forces was often glamorized in the accounts of the day with colorful stories of Al Capone and his battles with Eliot Ness. The glamorized battles were far removed from the rural moonshiners working under contracts for middlemen and go-betweens in organized crime. However, the effect on moon198 �shining art was dramatic, as the moonshiner's greed quickly stripped him and his occupation of any honor. The repeal of Prohibition in 1933 did not eliminate the market for illicit moonshine, but it did reduce its price considerably. Because of the availability of legal liquor on which excise taxes had been paid, the only way to meet the competition was to reduce the price of moonshine below legal liquor. This resulted in the end of the enormous profits and greatly reduced organized crimes' involvement in the moonshining industry. To fight this continual evasion of tax laws the Bureau of Internal Revenue created the Alcohol Tax Unit in 1934, which evolved into the Alcohol, Tobacco, and Firearms Division of the IRS (taken over in 1973 by the Treasury Department). After the prohibition era, and still today, most of the larger moonshining operations (what few are left) are designed to produce quantities of cheap "rotgut" to the urban ghetto areas of major cities. These 'shiners are in the same mold as their Prohibition predecessors with little care or attention paid toward the quality of the product. An old adage in the business is, "This whiskey is made for selling, not drinking." Smaller operators or individuals sometimes attempt to ensure drinkability (not quality), but because of time restraints, cannot produce the same liquor as their ancestors. Generally run-ins with the law for both the small and large operations were limited to the transportation aspects of the business. Delivery men, referred to as "trippers," often engaged in high-speed chases with federal, state and local authorities in making their deliveries to urban centers from the rural manufacturing sites. However improvements in communications and transportation, along with increased cooperation between law enforcement agencies, has made the life of a tripper extremely harrowing and short-lived at best. Few remain in the business for long without being caught and once caught they are watched carefully, thus ending their illegal careers. THE MANUFACTURE OF CORN "LIKKER" The procedures used to produce moonshine can vary greatly from moonshiner to moonshiner depending upon the technology in use, the amount and type of spirits desired and the speed of manufacturing needed. The discussion that follows will detail the simple methods first employed as well as some of the more common variants of the trade. The first step in the process was in choosing a proper site for the procedure. The moonshiner had two important points to consider in making his decision; secrecy and water. Secrecy was needed, not only to protect the operation from the legal authorities, but also pirating neighbors who might steal his mash or his tubing. Fresh water was needed for both the 199 �mixing and tempering of the moonshine as well as a coolant for the condensation part of the distillation procedure. Soft branch water being the most desirable, moonshiners can often judge the quality of the water by examining the flora surrounding the branch. Red horsemint or yellowroot generally indicate good whiskey water, while touch-me-nots grow around unsuitable hard water. Another testing method is to fill a jar with water and shake well, then tilt it on its side. If air bubbles rise when it is tilted, then it's good water. The second step in moonshining involves the fermentation of the grain. It is through the fermentation process that the starches in the grain are broken down through enzyme action into sugars and then alcohol. In moonshining, the fermenting mixture is referred to as "mash." Mash is generally composed of grain (usually corn}, water, sugar and malt or yeast. The moonshiner selects the corn carefully and discards any discolored or mildewed grains. He then changes the starch of the corn into sugar obtaining what is called "corn malt." This is accomplished by wetting the unground corn with warm water and keeping it warm until it sprouts in four or five days. The sprouting process can be accelerated by burying the corn (in sacks) in a manure pile. The added warmth of the oxidation generally cuts the sprouting time in half. After the corn sprouts, it is dried and ground into a course meal called "chop." The chop is then mixed in mash barrels, usually made of poplar or oak, with the other ingredients used. If it is a straight chop and water mash (usually one bushel of sprouted corn to l/i barrel of water) then it could take as long as ten to fourteen days, depending on the temperature. If sugar is added, the time is cut to as little as three to four days. The addition of sugar also greatly increased the alcohol yield of the mix but would result in a change in flavor of the resulting whiskey. During the fermentation process, the barrels would be kept warm by burying them, packing them with straw or leaves or bringing them indoors. After several days of rolling and bubbling, the moonshiner would then thin out the mash by adding warm water and rye malt or yeast. This would then turn the "sour mash" into "sweet mash" for the purpose of distillation in a few more days. After the mash is fully fermented, it is a soupy yellow mixture with approximately a 10% alcohol content and is referred to as "still beer" or just beer. The beer mixture must be distilled in a short time or it will go sour. The third step in the manufacturing of moonshine is the distillation of the mash. It is through this method that the alcohol is separated from the mash and other impurities. The distillation of mash is accomplished in three stages. First, the mash is heated, then the alcohol is vaporized, removed, and finally condensed. The distillation process can be used to separate the alcohol from the mash because the boiling point of alcohol is 176 °F, while water boils at 212 °F. Thus by heating the mash to 176°, 200 �the alcohol would be vaporized and the water and other impurities left behind. The distillation process took place in what is referred to as a still. Though there are many variations on the exact structure, all stills consist largely of a heating drum or cooking pot, a neck for carrying the vapors away from the pot and a worm (copper tubing) for the cooling of the vapors. The distillation procedure (referred to as making a run) would begin by straining the fermented mash through a cloth or bedsheet and into the cooking pot. The cooking pot was usually a copper container often shaped like a large kettle with a round lid and long spout. Heat would be applied to the container to heat the mash to 176 °F. Once the mash begins to cook the lid would be put on and sealed with a paste of flour and water. The cooking is done at a constant even heat as the mash cannot cook too fast or too slowly. When the alcohol begins to vaporize, the only place for it to go is into the long spout where it is carried into the worm. The worm is a long system of tubing (usually copper) that is either placed in a container of cold water or has cold water running over it to cool the vapors from the cooking mash. The condensation is then collected in a container for another run. The first run of the mash is called "singling" and produces a murky whiskey full of impurities and excess water. To remove these, the moonshiner would repeat the distillation process on the liquid, this run is referred to as the "doubling run". Before the doubling run could be initiated, the moonshiner would have to thoroughly clean the still and all of the connections to remove any sour odors. The doubling run was made slower than the first and at a lower temperature to insure the removal of as many impurities as possible. Many moonshiners eliminated the need for a doubling run by using what is known as a "thumper keg". This thumper keg was situated between the cooking pot and the condensing worm. The vapor from the cooking pot would be forced into the bottom of the thumper keg, which was half filled with beer. The vapor would rise through the beer and exit the keg at the top through a connecting pipe and enter the worm for cooling. This process of filtering the vapors through the beer removes almost as much of the impurities as the doubling run. The final end product of the doubling run (or thumper-keg run) ranged from as high as 190 proof (at the beginning of the run) to a low of 70 proof (toward the end of a run) and now had to be mixed with branch water for the desired consistency. Some moonshiners would also age their whiskey hi charred oak barrels (bourbon) or by adding ground charcoal or hickory chips. Unless the whiskey was for personal consumption, the aging of the brew was generally kept to a minimum. 201 �THE DECLINE As discussed earlier, the art of moonshining declined considerably during the Prohibition era. Greed and expediency replaced the pride and care that formerly was taken in manufacturing whiskey as the quantity of the liquor produced began to matter more than the quality. However, even after the decline in craftsmenship, the moonshiners in the hills of northern Georgia continued to ply their trade, producing huge quantities of illicit whiskey. As late as the mid 1960's Dawson and Lumpkin counties were considered to be the major producers of moonshine not only in the state of Georgia but nationwide. (Dabney: 1974). According to local law enforcement officials, ex-moonshiners and current moonshiners three major developments have led to the recent decline and possibly the eventual demise of moonshining in these areas. They are: (1) The drastic increase in cost of the raw materials needed to manufacture moonshine (2) the introduction of marijuana and other drugs as an alternative cash crop and (3) the encroachment of civilization on even the most remote areas of southern Appalachia. Because profit is now the primary motive in moonshining the first two factors combine to draw the greedy quick-buck moonshiner into other areas of exploitation. Over the last twenty years the cost of sugar and copper has risen so dramatically that the moonshiner must now charge a price for his product that is comparable to legal liquor. With most of the northern counties in Georgia having gone "wet" in recent years store brands are available to most of the population. Thus competition with "legal" liquor has forced the price down to such a degree that the profit is minimal. With the large federal crackdown on drugs in Florida a considerable amount of drug traffic has moved into the hills of northern Georgia. (Newsweek: 1982). Backwoodsmen who formerly used secluded areas to run moonshine are now using these areas to grow marijuana or as landing strips for drug deliveries. According to local Georgia Bureau of Investigation officers, small planes equipped with bladder bags of fuel fly in from several Central American countries loaded with drugs (usually cocaine) and unload their cargo in secluded mountain airstrips. Drug trafficking is far more profitable than moonshining as a recent load of cocaine discovered in Gilmer County was valued at $500,000,000 with a possible street value of 1.5 billion dollars after being properly (or improperly) cut. The enormous profits to be gained from drug operations has drawn many shiners away from their traditional stills despite the potentially harsher penalties. The final major development that is bringing about the end of moonshining, and probably the biggest factor, is the encroachment of civiliza202 �tion. Increased development has been spearheaded by the large population increases in many of the rural areas. Much of the increase is a result of the migration of "northerners" and Floridians into the area. These groups have not been exposed to the tradition of moonshining and so do not view it as an acceptable livelihood. They have also had the influence of relaxing many of the prohibitions regarding lawful liquor sales thus increasing competition for the moonshiners. These new residents are also less tolerant of "good-old-boy" law enforcement techniques which often allowed many of the shiners to engage in their work unhindered by the threat of arrest. The large influx of new people has resulted in the intrusion of building developments into many remote areas. These new developments have also brought about the improvement of transportation methods to gain access to these communities. All of which are limiting the amount of secluded land for moonshine operations. These aforementioned factors have contributed to a sense of hostility between many of the "locals" and the new "fornerrs". While moonshining has declined considerably in recent years, (only 2,477 gallons were confiscated by law enforcement officials in 1980) it has not disappeared totally from the scene. Many local families run a small still for their own personal consumption. Local law enforcement officials are usually aware of most of them and leave them alone as long as it doesn't develop into a "business". As one Dawson county deputy told me, "How can I arrest them folks for what I used to do when I was younger?" This attitude of tolerance and empathy is still very widespread amongst the local populace. Most feel that as long as you're not hurting anyone what you do is your business and no one else's. This individualism is a reflection of the attitudes of their pioneering ancestors that led them to settle in such remote areas to begin with. Unfortunately for them there are no new frontiers to retreat to and the onslaught of the "civilized" world is upon them. REFERENCES Carr, Jess, The Second Oldest Profession. Englewood Cliffs, New Jersey: Prentice Hall, 1972 Coulter, E. Merton, Georgia: A Short History. Chapel Hill: University of North Carolina Press, 1933 Dabney, Joseph, Mountain Spirits. Lakemont, Georgia: Copple House Books, Inc., 1974 Hofstadter, Richard and Michael Wallace, American Violence. New York: Alfred A. Knopf, Inc., 1970 Kellner, Esther, Moonshine: Its History and Folklore. New York: Weathervane Books, 1971 203 �Morgan, Edmund, The Birth of the Republic. Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1956 Newsweek, "Gun, Grass and Money: America's Billion-Dollar Marijuana Crop". October 25, 1982, pp. 36-43. Powell, Levi, Who Are These Mountain People. New York; Exposition Press, 1966 Randolph, Vance, The Ozarks. New York; The Vanguard Press, 1931 Trevelyan, G. M., History of England: The Tudors and the Stuart Era. Garden City, New York; Doubleday Anchor Books, 1952 Whitelock, Dorothy, The Beginning of English Society. Baltimore, Maryland; Penguin Books, 1966 Wildson, Charles, Backwoods America. Chapel Hill: University of North Carolina Press, 1935 Wiltse, Henry, The Moonshiners, Chattanooga, Tennessee: Times Printing Company, 1895 204 � Dublin Core The Dublin Core metadata element set is common to all Omeka records, including items, files, and collections. For more information see, http://dublincore.org/documents/dces/. Title A name given to the resource Appalachian Consortium Press Publications Description An account of the resource This collection contains digitized monographs and collections from the Appalachian Consortium Press. Creator An entity primarily responsible for making the resource Appalachian Consortium Press Publisher An entity responsible for making the resource available Appalachian Consortium Press Date Issued Date of formal issuance (e.g., publication) of the resource. June 1, 2017 Contributor An entity responsible for making contributions to the resource <a title="Digital Scholarship and Initiatives" href="http://library.appstate.edu/services/digital-scholarship-and-initiatives" target="_blank">Digital Scholarship and Initiatives</a> Publication URL https://www.uncpress.org/book/9781469636849/the-many-faces-of-appalachia/ Digital Publisher Digital Republication Appalachian State University Dublin Core The Dublin Core metadata element set is common to all Omeka records, including items, files, and collections. For more information see, http://dublincore.org/documents/dces/. Title A name given to the resource The Many Faces of Appalachia Description An account of the resource This volume of the <em>Proceedings of the 7th Annual Appalachian Studies Conference</em>, held in 1985 at Unicoi State Park in Helen, Georgia, offers a look at diversity and Appalachian identity.<br /><br /><a href="https://drive.google.com/open?id=1KjQG06V6sK7ivoDercDfeSksmOJGW_fS" target="_blank" rel="noopener">Download EPub<br /><br /></a><a title="UNC Press Link" href="https://www.uncpress.org/book/9781469636849/the-many-faces-of-appalachia/" target="_blank" rel="noopener">UNC Press Print on Demand</a> Subject The topic of the resource Appalachian Region--Congresses Cultural pluralism--Appalachian Region Alternative Title An alternative name for the resource. The distinction between titles and alternative titles is application-specific. Proceedings of the 7th Annual Appalachian Studies Conference Abstract A summary of the resource. Creator An entity primarily responsible for making the resource Gray, Sam Date A point or period of time associated with an event in the lifecycle of the resource 1985 Publisher An entity responsible for making the resource available Appalachian Consortium Press Format The file format, physical medium, or dimensions of the resource PDF Conference proceedings Language A language of the resource English Type The nature or genre of the resource Text Rights Information about rights held in and over the resource <a href="https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by/4.0/deed" target="_blank" rel="noopener">https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by/4.0/deed</a> Spatial Coverage Spatial characteristics of the resource. https://www.geonames.org/4199921/helen.html Source A related resource from which the described resource is derived <a title="UA 76 Appalachian Consortium records" href="https://appstate-speccoll.lyrasistechnology.org/repositories/2/resources/9" target="_blank" rel="noreferrer noopener"> UA 76 Appalachian Consortium records </a> Is Part Of A related resource in which the described resource is physically or logically included. <a title="Appalachian Consortium Press Publications" href="https://omeka.library.appstate.edu/collections/show/82" target="_blank"> Appalachian Consortium Press Publications</a> Coverage The spatial or temporal topic of the resource, the spatial applicability of the resource, or the jurisdiction under which the resource is relevant ||||osm Helen (Ga.) Temporal Coverage Temporal characteristics of the resource. 1980s Multidisciplinary/ Appalachian Studies https://omeka-test.library.appstate.edu/files/original/011d930e1aaa90fc550d435a33553c19.pdf aded58e7472ed181e302709aa926eba5 PDF Text Text �People, Politics and Economic Life Exploring Appalachia with Quantitative Methods Updated Second Edition Thomas Plaut With an overview of the Appalachian Region by Susan Emley Keefe KENDALL/HUNT PUBLISHING COMPANY in cooperation with APPALACHIAN CONSORTIUM PRESS Software created by MicroCase Corporation 31/2 inch IBM-compatible diskette enclosed KENDALL/HUNT PUBLISHING COMPANY 4050 W es t ma r k Drive Dubuque, Iowa 52002 �The Appalachian Consortium was a non-profit educational organization composed of institutions and agencies located in Southern Appalachia. From 1973 to 2,004.; its members published pioneering works in Appalachian studies documenting the history and cultural heritage of the region. The Appalachian Consortium Press was the first publisher devoted solely to the region and many of the works it published remain seminal in the field to this day. With funding from the Andrew W. Mellon Foundation and the National Endowment for the Humanities through the Humanities Open Book Program.; Appalachian State University has published new paperback and open access digital editions of works from the Appalachian Consortium Press. www.collections.library.appstate.edu/appconsortiumbooks This work is licensed under a Creative Commons BY-NC-ND license. To view a copy of the license^ visit http://creativecommons.org/licenses. Original copyright © 1996 by the Appalachian Consortium Press. ISBN (pbk.: alk. Paper): 978-1-4696-4134-8 ISBN (ebook): 978-1-4696-4135-5 Distributed by the University of North Carolina Press www.uncpress.org �CONTENTS I. Susan Emley Keefe: Appalachia and Its People 3 II. Exploring a Region through Quantitative Data Frequencies and Percentages 25 Cultural Diversity in Appalachia Mapping, Rank Ordering and Correlation Coefficients 34 Demographics: Urbanization and Migration in Appalachia Mapping and Regression 45 The Appalachian Economy I: Comparing Subregions Analysis of Variance (ANOVA) in Group Scores 57 The Economy II: Industry and Opportunity Correlations and Regressions 75 Voting Patterns and Economic Conditions Tables, % , and Nonparametric Measures of Association 85 III. IV. V. VI. VII. VIII. Race and Region: Minorities in Appalachia Multiple Regression 101 IX. A Region with Many Definitions 114 X. The Internet: Finding New Data in The Information Age 125 Glossary 133 Codebook for the APCOUNTY File Variables 139 Suggested Readings and Media Resources by Chapter 145 ill �Preface to the Second Edition This edition updates the data set and responds to the insights of users over the past three years. Students, both undergraduate and graduate, report finding the book to be a good means of learning or relearning and reviewing statistical methods and consequently I've attempted to refine the commentary on data analysis. Faculty report that students can work through the material with minimal guidance and thus are prepared to talk about results—and the questions raised by the results— in class. New exercises have been added for summarizing research results, which make use of software not available at the time of the first printing (such as Microsoft's PowerPoint or Corel's Presentations). There is a new chapter on the Appalachia as a region, which serves to balance and explicate the quantitative material and exercises. The chapter was written by Susan Emley Keefe, chair of the Department of Anthropology at Appalachian State University, who has numerous publications on the region to her credit, including Appalachian Mental Health (University Press of Kentucky, 1988). Definitions of Appalachia have been continually changing over the past century. In his chapter on "Concept and Method" in Glen E. Lich's Regional Studies: The Interplay of Land and People (College Station, Texas, Texas A&M University Press, 1992), Terry G. Jordan describes three concepts of region: 1) the formal, having a homogeneity of traits; 2) the vernacular, which has a "broadly perceived regional self-consciousness," and 3) thefunctional. The functional region "is an area that has been organized to function politically, socially or economically" (page 20). Sue Keefe's chapter provides the evidence for Appalachia as a formal region, which some might also argue contains evidence for a vernacular one. Appalachia, as defined by the Appalachian Regional Commission, is best described as a functional region. There is a new chapter on the Internet to walk students through obtaining information at the national, regional and county levels. The Internet chapter provides links to public and private agencies, educational institutions and citizens' groups involved in the Appalachian region. A data file adapted from this chapter is included on the disk accompanying the book. Users can sign onto the Internet, then pull up either the WordPerfect or Microsoft Word "Internet launcher" file and click on the blue hyperlinks to access web sites described in the text. The rapid changes of the Information Age created some challenges for this edition. There was new data to be incorporated since the first publication three years ago. Six new variables on population, income and poverty have been added to the data set. The mapping software could not be changed and consequently seven counties added by Appalachian Regional Commission to its definition of the region in 1998 are missing: Macon and Hale counties in Alabama; Elbert, Hart and Yalobusha in Georgia, and Montgomery and Rockbridge in Virginia. The chapter on the Internet was designed in part to overcome this problem; users can access the Commission's web site for data on these and other counties. IV �A note on software: Since this student version of the MicroCase software is DOS based, Windows users can move out of the program into other applications by holding down the Alt key and pressing the Tab key. The program can be entered again with a mouse click on the bar at the bottom of the monitor screen. The APCOUNTY data file can be accessed by the complete MicroCase Analysis System statistical package available in many colleges and universities. This package provides a full range of statistical procedures and the ability to convert the file for use by other statistical programs such as SPSS. October 2001 Preface Appalachia often has been portrayed as a distant mountain region inhabited by less-than-reputable holdovers from the American frontier who somehow escaped the blessings of modernization. This stereotype sadly misses the mark. Extending from New York to Mississippi, Appalachia is as varied as any region in the United States, containing great differences in geography, climate and culture. Like many places in America, it includes areas facing economic hardship as well as areas enjoying growth in industry, population and per capita income. It has both wealth and poverty, isolated rural hamlets and metropolitan areas. Each year, thousands of people hike its mountain trails, raft its Whitewater streams and pack into its music and storytelling festivals. As a region of contrasts, Appalachia can be viewed as a "slice of the American pie." Yet its geography and resources have also made it unique. The coal industry has dominated the central part of the region with widespread impacts. A long tradition of mountain family farming, especially in Southern Appalachia, has emphasized the importance of self sufficiency, social equality and the bonds of kinship and community. The region has been the target of a number of experiments in social change and engineering, from turn-of-the-century missionaries to the poverty warriors, dollars and politics turned loose in the Appalachian Regional Development Act of 1960s. Size is significant: Appalachia includes 399 counties (12.7 percent of all U.S. counties) in 13 states (26 percent of all the states). It is big enough to reflect the complexities of late 20th century America and yet small enough to retain its own history and cultural identity. It provides a wealth of data for people interested in regional history, economics, modernization and social change. This workbook is designed to provide the means for exploring issues facing any American region, as well as Appalachia. It can be used as a supporting text in courses on regional studies, geography, history and the social sciences, or simply as a source for people thinking about their own communities. Readers will work with data from the U.S. Bureau of the Census, Bureau of Economic Analysis, Appalachian Regional Commission and other agencies. A computer disk containing the necessary software is included so that, as the book raises questions, the reader can find answers on any IBM-compatible computer with 640K of memory (RAM) and a VGA graphics card. The disk contains a data file with 96 variables for the 399 Appalachian counties, along with a trimmed-down version of the MicroCase statistics package. May 1996 �Acknowledgments A number of people have assisted in the development of this volume. Ron Eller and Gordon McKinney, who direct Appalachian Centers at the University of Kentucky and Berea College, respectively, reviewed the text from the perspective of their years of research and work in the mountains. Marian Plaut brought her talents as an editor, therapist and spouse to the manuscript, as did June Trevor, a colleague at Western North Carolina Community Health Research Services at the Mountain Area Health Education Center in Asheville. Mars Hill College President Fred Bentley offered funding for research and publication of the workbook. John Payne, the college's Dean for Learning Resources, funded the development of the book's computer map and the research that linked the county-by-county data to it. The students who beta-tested the exercises were Jamie Willis, Robert Gouge, Joy Greene, Josh Sparks, Sherry Wagner, Condalisa Hankton, Marne Crisp, Hope Lloyd, Alicia Payne and Kara Hensley. Phil Obermiller, Dick Couto, Ray Rapp, Walter Stroud and Ken Sanchagrin provided counsel and support at various stages in the development of this project. Judy Slater, Laurie Pederson and George Peery reviewed the manuscript for the second edition. William Fox reviewed the manuscript with humor and a sharp eye for statistics. His text, Social Statistics using MicroCase, was a primary tool in my developing the manuscript; its glossary served as a template for my own. The Appalachian Regional Commission's Salim Kablawi, Judith Maher and Ann Anderson were helpful in accessing the latest available data for Appalachia's 399 counties. MicroCase Corporation's David Smetters arranged for the production of the computerized map which is so central to the book and patiently gave advice and counsel in the use of his company's statistical analysis package. The Author Thomas Plaut is a Professor of Sociology and Director of the Center for Assessment and Research Alliances (CARA) at Mars Hill College, a small liberal arts college founded by farmers for their children in the mountains of Western North Carolina near Asheville in the mid nineteenth century. He is a consultant and trainer for hospitals, hospices and health systems and has authored articles on research methods, regional issues and cultural differences between service providers and rural clients and staff. He received his A.B. degree from Harvard, M.A. from American University and Ph.D. from the Union Graduate School. VI �This page intentionally left blank �For Marian �Appalachia as defined by the Appalachian Regional Commission in 1996: 399 counties in 13 states �This page intentionally left blank �I. Appalachia and Its People Susan Emley Keefe Appalachian State University Defining the Region The name "Appalachia" originates in the geography of the region. The most distinctive regional feature is the Appalachian Mountain chain, which was named by early Spanish explorers who borrowed the term from an Indian tribe, the Appalachee, in northern Florida (Raitz and Ulack 1991), Appalachia consists of four physiographic regions: the eastern piedmont, the Blue Ridge Mountains, the Greater Appalachian Valley, and the Allegheny-Cumberland Plateau. The Blue Ridge range was created almost 500 million years ago when land masses from east and west moved together and the stress caused the earth to buckle into parallel ridges. The Alleghenies are newer. There was a shallow sea where the Greater Appalachian Valley is now. The sea receded and the earth beneath buckled, creating the upland plateau area. The north-south Appalachian mountain chain, stretching from Alabama to New York, makes east-west travel difficult, heightening the importance of the Greater Appalachian Valley as a transportation route through the region. As a geographic and cultural area within a nation, there are no fixed boundaries defining Appalachia. Geographers tend to be inclusive, extending the regional boundaries to the edges of the piedmont and plateau provinces. They often vary, nevertheless, in marking the exact regional boundaries, taking into consideration differences in elevation, climate, soil type, and cultural environment (Raitz and Ulack 1991). On the other hand, sociocultural studies tend to put greater emphasis on cultural features, emphasizing a core area in the southern highlands. In his classic This chapter has been adapted from "Appalachian Americans: The Formation of Reluctant Ethnics" in Gregory R. Campbell, ed., Many Americas; Critical Perspectives on Race. Racism and Ethnicity. Dubuque, 10: Kendall/Hunt 1998. study, The Southern Highlander and His Homeland (1921), John C. Campbell included West Virginia and portions of 8 other states; Alabama, Georgia, South Carolina, North Carolina, Tennessee, Kentucky, Virginia, and Maryland. He called the region bounded by natural topography "a land of mountains, valleys, and plateaus." He also noted its physical isolation, culturally homogeneous heritage, and stable population. In a notable economic-based survey of the region in 1962, The Southern Appalachian Region: A Survey, Thomas Ford reduced Campbell's region to the heartland, including West Virginia and portions of 6 other states: Alabama, Georgia, North Carolina, Tennessee, Kentucky, and Virginia. While Campbell emphasized culture and geography in defining the region, Ford focused on the lack of economic development as a defining characteristic. In 1965, the federal government established the Appalachian Regional Commission (ARC) and defined the Appalachian region by the criterion of economic need. West Virginia and portions of 12 other states (Mississippi, Alabama, Georgia, South Carolina, North Carolina, Tennessee, Kentucky, Virginia, Maryland, Ohio, Pennsylvania, and New York) are eligible for monies from the multi-billion dollar economic development program established by the Appalachian Regional Development Act. Political maneuvering by governors hoping to include underdeveloped portions of their states added areas never before considered part of the Appalachian region. The primary considerations for inclusion were, finally, geographic contiguity and economic underdevelopment marked by lack of jobs and forced migration, overspecialization of the economy, a high rate of poverty, low rates of education, and poor health facilities. The purpose of the ARC is to rectify these conditions with highway construction, health services, educational and sanitation facilities, and small business expansion. As defined by the ARC, Appalachia has 26.5 million people, which is 11.7% of the US population (US Bureau of the Census 1980). �Recognizing the diversity encompassed within the borders of its definition of Appalachia, the ARC identifies three subregions: Northern, Central, and Southern Appalachia (ARC 1965). Northern Appalachia, the largest of the three, includes designated counties in New York, Pennsylvania, Ohio, Maryland, and northern West Virginia. It is also the most populous and the most urban, taking in seven US Census-designated Standard Metropolitan Statistical Areas (SMSAs) including Erie, PA, and Binghamton, NY. Northern Appalachia is an old industrialized area based on nineteenth century coal, steel, and railroad development which declined in prominence following the Depression and the growth of highway transportation in other parts of the country. The older factories became obsolete, cities began to deteriorate physically, and many people migrated out. Central Appalachia is composed of counties in eastern Kentucky, northwestern Tennessee, southern West Virginia, and southwestern Virginia. This subregion encompasses the smallest area and has the smallest population. It is also the most rural subregion, and includes no US Census SMSAs. It has the poorest population because it is dominated by a single-resource economy: coal. There are rich deposits of bituminous coal, and Central Appalachia holds the main US deposit of anthracite coal. The region's economy fluctuates with the coal economy resulting in boomand-bust cycles which, along with increasing mechanization in the mines, have created huge waves of out-migration, especially in the mid-twentieth century. Southern Appalachia takes in counties in eastern Tennessee, southwestern Virginia, North Carolina, South Carolina, Georgia, Alabama and Mississippi. It is the most rapidly growing subregion due to an expanding economy based on industry, recreation, and tourism. Historically an agricultural and timber region, industrialization came relatively late to Southern Appalachia in the last half of the twentieth century. Growing urbanization and its associated social problems have affected the subregion, which contains six US Census SMSAs, including Knoxville, TN, and Asheville, NC. Some of the nation" s most visited parks and forest areas are located in Southern Appalachia, including the Blue Ridge Parkway and the Great Smokey Mountain National Park. While Appalachian scholars recognize the shared economic conditions in these three regions and similarities in way of life stemming from a lack of resources, most general studies about Appalachian people and culture focus on the more homogeneous population residing below the Mason-Dixon line, that is, what ARC designates as Central and Southern Appalachia. It is this area that is emphasized in the following. Racial and Cultural Diversity The Appalachian region was originally populated, of course, by indigenous Native Americans. By the time of European contact, tribal groups in the southeastern United States were extensive in number and had achieved a high level of social organization. It is estimated that as many as 60,000 Indians lived in the Appalachian mountains at the time of contact. As in other areas of the New World, these native populations were decimated soon after discovery due to warfare, forced labor, and disease. The discriminatory policies of the US government in the 18th and 19th centuries, and the forced removal of many groups, such as the Cherokee on the Trail of Tears to Oklahoma, resulted in further population declines. Today, relatively few Native Americans live in Appalachia. The Qualla Boundary in North Carolina, principal reservation of the Eastern Band of Cherokee Indians, has the largest concentration with a contemporary population of 11,500. In some areas, pockets of mixed-blood peoples of Indian-African-European heritage remain, such as the Melungeons in eastern Tennessee. Their origin and racial classification continue to be problematic (Beaver and Wilson 1997). African Americans have been present in the mountains since the 1500s, brought first as slaves of Spanish and French explorers (Cabbell 1985). The mountains of Appalachia offered refuge for small numbers of freedmen and escaped slaves before the Civil War, and it was through mountain routes that the Underground Railroad transported thousands of runaway slaves to northern ports and Canada during the mid-1800s. Slavery, of course, was present in the mountains, but there is evidence that its character was unique (Inscoe 1989). Due to the absence of a plantation system of agriculture in the mountains, slaves were less numerous than in other parts of the south. Appalachian homesteads were relatively small, subsistence-based family farms with little need for a large labor force, and, in fact, only about 10% of the households in Appalachia held slaves. Where slaves were owned, they were often used in non-agricultural labor, as hotel servants or blacksmiths, and they were given somewhat more freedom in their movements than slaves in the plantation South. They were often �household slaves, sharing living accomodations with the master's family. There is some evidence, perhaps due to these unique conditions of slavery, that white attitudes towards blacks were less prejudiced during this period in Appalachia than elsewhere in the Deep South (Cabbell 1985). Following Emancipation, the demand for coal miners far exceeded the supply in Kentucky, Tennessee, Virginia, and West Virginia, and consequently there was a major migration of blacks from Alabama and, to a lesser extent, Mississippi. In 1860, only about 15,000 blacks lived in Central Appalachia. But by 1920 almost 90,000 blacks worked in the coal fields, and 69% of them resided in West Virginia where the full range of Jim Crow laws had never been enacted, in contrast to neighboring Appalachian states (Lewis 1987). Blacks chose to work in the Appalachian coal mines for sound economic reasons. As Ronald Lewis states, "Blacks not only were welcomed in the mountain coalfields, they were given equal wages for equal work and as good an opportunity in the occupational hierarchy as they were likely to find anywhere in industrial America" (1987:143). Certainly the life of a miner was difficult, but it was equally difficult for blacks and whites. Socially, however, blacks remained segregated in almost all coal company towns, where they had their own neighborhoods, recreational facilities, companysponsored baseball teams, and schools. The mines also attracted eastern and southern European immigrants, particularly from Italy, Hungary, Poland, Russia, and Czechoslovakia, as well as northern European immigrants from England, Germany, and Scotland. Lewis (1987) finds that coal mine operators pursued a policy of "judicious mixture" to ensure that their labor force was composed of a combination of African-Americans, native whites, and foreign workers. Reducing the social force of any one ethnic group was meant to "divide and conquer" in order to achieve maximum control over labor and to minimize the costs of production. In an arena in which power was so thoroughly dominated by the coal interests, however, workers instead forged a class movement characterized by ethnic and racial cooperation. The United Mine Workers of America (UMWA), established in 1890, offered union membership to all workers and a democratic alternative to the organization of their work. Black miners were equally active in the UMWA, which included participation in the bloody strikes of the 1920's and 30's. With the mechanization of coal production from the 1930fs to the 1950fs, however, hundred's of thousands of miners lost their livelihoods. Black miners were most affected by the changes and, by 1970, fewer than 4,000 remained in the industry (Lewis 1987). Today, black Appalachians constitute approximately 8% of the region's population, and they have been more affected by the processes of out-migration and urbanization than white Appalachians. Blacks in the region suffer from severe socioeconomic deprivation, with the result that poverty is higher here than that for blacks nationally. William Turner summarizes their condition by saying, "The only group of persons worse off economically than black Appalachians are rural blacks in the United States. Rural Appalachian blacks are likely among America's poorest people" (1985b:257). Although little social research exists on black communities in the region, there is evidence that black Appalachians share a distinctive identity as "black" and "Appalachian," and that this sets them apart from other African-Americans in the US. Turner states that as such, black Appalachians are "a racial minority within a cultural minority" (1985a:xix). The Europeans who came to mine coal from the 1890's to the 1920's also contributed to the religious diversity in the region. Most eastern and southern Europeans were Catholics, and priests followed them into the mountains to establish parishes. Many of the immigrants later migrated to northern cities with the increasing elimination of mining jobs in the 1930's, so the Catholic Church moved to establish missions in mountain county seats and to conduct "radio preaching" in order to stem the decline of Catholicism (Wolfe 1980). Other Europeans moved into the mountains in the 20th century to find permanent homes for themselves and their families. Many of these immigrants were peddlers, merchants, restauranteurs and other small business operators, and skilled craftsmen such as shoemakers and tailors. Small Jewish communities grew up in larger towns and cities in Appalachia, and occasional synagogues were founded. Ethnic diversification continues to affect the Appalachian region. With the end of the Viet Nam War, a number of Hmong communities were established in rural areas through the missionary efforts of local churches. Changing agricultural labor demands have introduced new ethnic groups. With the growth of the Christmas tree industry in western North Carolina, for example, Hispanic farm workers (particularly Mexicans and Central Americans) have come to reside in the region. �Despite this ethnic diversity, the vast majority of Appalachian people (more than 80%) are descendents of northern European settlers who arrived in the region in the 18th and early 19th centuries. Immigrants to the ports of Pennsylvania during this period in American history were largely Scottish, English, Irish, and German, with small numbers of Welsh Baptists, Swiss Protestants, and French Huguenots (Fischer 1989). Facing conflict with the Quakers already settled in the vicinity of Philadelphia and Newcastle, these immigrants soon were pushed southward along the Atlantic coast into the Carolina piedmont and to the southwest into the Valley of Virginia along the Shenandoah River. They were encouraged by officials to move into the "back parts" of the colonies where they would form a buffer between the seaboard settlements and the Indians. The German immigrants tended to concentrate in the northern end of the Valley of Virginia and in Pennsylvania, becoming known as "Pennsylvania Dutch" (a derivative of Deutsch). From the Greater Appalachian Valley, the remaining immigrants migrated to the headwaters of smaller rivers in the Blue Ridge Mountains, and finally spilled across the Appalachian divide into the Allegheny Mountains of Kentucky and Tennessee. The region was largely settled by 1850, and later American immigrants began to by-pass the mountains, moving through the Ohio River Valley into the newly acquired western territories. No more large-scale migrations into the Southern Highlands occurred after the midnineteeth century, until the recent influx of newcomers connected with the tourist and recreation economy of the late twentieth century. The vast majority (perhaps four-fifths) of the early European immigrants to Appalachia were Scotch-Irish (Campbell 1921), over 250,000 of them having arrived before the American Revolution. The Scotch-Irish were something of a hybrid group bound together mainly by religion and political economy (Fischer 1989). They were Calvanists, originally from the Scottish lowlands and the north of England, who were forced to emigrate to northern Ireland after it was claimed by England in the early 17th century. In Ulster, they continued to be exploited by high rents, low wages, and heavy taxes imposed by an Anglican elite and a Catholic majority. Joined by Irish Protestants who were also seeking religious and political freedom, many moved on to America. Free land in the western territory after the American Revolution attracted the settlers to the Appalachian mountains, but they were also impressed with the beauty of the land, the rich forests, the plentiful rivers and springs, and moderate temperatures. Scotch-Irish immigration peaked in the late 18th century and faded by the mid-nineteenth century. By this time, nonetheless, the Scotch-Irish had imposed their own distinctive cultural imprint. In Albion's Seed (1989), historian David Hackett Fischer argues that the ethnic heritage of these settlers in the Appalachian region was sufficiently distinctive to create a different American regional culture he calls "Borderlands/Backcountry." Citing differences in 26 folkways, including speech, family, gender, death rituals, magic and religion, and conceptions of order, power, and freedom, Fischer contrasts the Borderlands/Backcountry subgroup with three others of British origin: the Puritans of New England, the southern English who settled in Virginia, and the North Midland English and Welsh of the Delaware Valley. Fischer points out that many of the Scotch-Irish continued to migrate within the United States, moving into Arkansas (the Ozarks) and Texas in the nineteenth century and to Arizona and southern California in the twentieth century. Despite this historical pattern of migration and concentration in the Appalachian region, the ScotchIrish as such have not maintained much of an ethnic identity in the US. As a result, there is little consensus on the contemporary nature of the Scotch-Irish as an ethnic group, nor do scholars regard this group as being relatively significant among Euro-American ethnic groups. For example, few references are ever made to the Scotch-Irish as a contemporary American ethnic group in the scholarly literature. On one hand, this is an extension of the tendency (until recently) not to recognize Euro-American ethnic groups as such in ethnicity texts. On the other hand, even among EuroAmerican groups, the Scotch-Irish are relatively obscure in the literature. In a recent study, I reviewed 20 general ethnicity texts that discussed European American ethnic groups, and found that the most commonly cited groups included Jewish, Irish, Italian, German, English, and Polish Americans (Keefe 1992). Each of these groups were cited in 12 or more of the books and were cited on at least 3% or more of the total pages in these books. The Scotch-Irish, on the other hand, were cited in only 8 of the books and on less than 1% of the total pages. Difficulty in establishing the character of the contemporary Scotch-Irish is increased by the fact that the US Bureau of the Census and most large-scale surveys treat the Scotch-Irish not as a single ethnic group but as an ethnic mixture of Scottish and Irish peoples (Alba 1990:342). �As a people, the Scotch-Irish have a weak identification with their European heritage. Despite being predominantly Scotch-Irish, for example, Appalachians rarely acknowledge their national origins (Beaver 1986), identifying more often simply as "Americans" or as "mountain" or "country" people. In many instances, they identify most with a state, county, or community locale. Mary Waters (1990) notes that the tendency to abstain from identifying with a EuroAmerican ancestry in the US is found most often among rural Southern whites with comparatively little education, those who might be expected, in fact, to have Scotch-Irish background. According to the 1990 census, only 2.3% of the US population (5,617,713 people) claim Scotch-Irish ancestry, compared to 13.1% claiming English, 15.6% Irish, and 23.3% German ancestry (US Bureau of the Census 1992). Another 5% of the US population identify their ethnicity as "American,11 while 10.5% do not report ancestry. There are almost as many people who claim Scotch-Irish ancestry in California and Texas (1,042,382) as in the Appalachian states of West Virginia, Virginia, Kentucky, Tennessee, North Carolina, and Georgia (1,173,584). At the same time, almost three times as many people in these Appalachian states as compared to California and Texas claim "American" ancestry (3,606,051 vs. 1,539,560), and an even larger number does not report ancestry at all (4,985,223 vs. 4,251,509): that is, 29% of the population in these Appalachian states claim "American" identity or eschew ethnic ancestry altogether. The above suggests a loss of a sense of Scotch-Irish identity, especially in the mountainous parts of these states. The reasons have to do, first, with the greater political utility of class and regional consciousness as opposed to Scotch-Irish ancestry among mountaineers as a means of organizing for resources. Royce (1982), Peterson (1980), and others have discussed the fact that ethnicity is a strategy for which individuals and groups may opt when it is advantageous in politically competitive situations. The relative isolation and homogeneity of the Appalachian population in the early 19th century would have reduced the need to enunciate a distinct heritage in competition for the plentiful resources in the region at the time. During die Civil War, mountain residents, who typically were not slaveowners, frequently sympathized with the Union's efforts and suffered political retaliation by southern state governments during and following Reconstruction. The late nineteenth century was also a period when wealthy northeastern capitalists began taking economic control of the land, mineral rights, timber reserves, and labor in the region. In other words, Appalachians were affected more by competition with other white residents in their states (many of whom were also Scotch-Irish) and with elite Euro-American Protestants who for the most part were absentee landlords. Regional and class identity were more reliable bases of organization for competition given these circumstances. A second major reason for the loss of Scotch-Irish ethnicity involves the transformation of the Appalachian people as a result of their religious, political, and economic experience in America. The residents of the region were changed substantially by these processes, becoming a new people: they were no longer Presbyterians, nor simply subsistence farmers, nor even citizens in control of their own resources or destiny. These historical processes will be discussed in the next section. A final aspect of diversity deserving mention is the increasing in-migration of non-Appalachians to the southern subregion. Appalachia in the twentieth century has been most characterized by out-migration due to economic deprivation, especially in the coal regions. With the rise of the tourism and recreation industry in southern Appalachia in the 1970's, many areas began to grow in population, because of the growing number of jobs. Some counties in western North Carolina, for example, such as Henderson and Watauga Counties, have increased in population by 2040% since 1970. In-migrants have often been Appalachian outmigrants returning home to begin again. More often, however, the in-migrants are newcomers attracted by the region's beautiful landscapes, rural lifestyle, and relative absence of urban problems such as crime, pollution, drugs, and traffic jams. Non-Appalachian newcomers hail from all parts of the country, but most often they come from nearby states or adjacent regions. In western North Carolina, for example, they are most frequently either from the Carolina piedmont or Florida. Some of the new arrivals, the "back to the landers," are urban ex-patriots seeking a simpler, less materialistic life (Beaver 1986). Others are wealthy second-home buyers, some of whom eventually become permanent mountain residents. Given that they are generally white southerners in origin, newcomers often share a similar northern European heritage with mountaineers. Socially and culturally, however, they tend to be distinctive, as they �neighbors within a common geographic location (along a hollow or a creek) and joined together by a shared history and moral code (Beaver 1986; Pearsall 1966). Schools, country stores, post offices, and churches, the typical anchors of rural community life, were uncommon until after 1890. Mountain communities were egalitarian and unstratified for the most part, each adult male being essentially a subsistence farmer. As in any rural agrarian society, economic exchange was based on reciprocity, or the exchange of goods and services between equals. Reciprocal exchange was epitomized by such traditional communal farming activities as barn-raisings, com shuckings, and quilting parties. are usually well-educated middle or upper middle class whites with urban backgrounds and more mainstream American lifestyles (Keefe, Reck, & Reck 1989). More and more frequently, they have come into conflict as a group with native Appalachians, particularly over land-use issues, such as zoning, and the legislation of moral codes, such as the sale of alcohol (Keefe 1994). As their numbers and political power grow, non-Appalachian residents will increasingly become a force to be reckoned with in certain parts of the Appalachian region. And as a consequence of their presence, native Appalachian residents can be expected increasingly to identify as an "ethnic group" in the region in order to try to secure their status in the new social order. The fundamental basis for membership in mountain society was kinship. This provided an idiom for conceiving social relationships, the concept of "equality" ultimately being based on the recognition of common blood heritage. As a real social system, kinship was the basis for most interaction as mountaineers lived and worked primarily within the extended family. In the absence of local churches and ministers, even religion tended to be family-based, fed by brief contact with circuit-riding preachers. An Appalachian Ethnic Group? While the region of Central and Southern Appalachia is racially and culturally diverse, it is nonetheless possible to speak of Appalachians as an ethnic group, or perhaps more accurately an "emerging ethnic entity" (Peterson 1980). The historical roots of this sense of identity are complex, yet the tendency to identify as "Appalachian" is manifested in groups as diverse as the Cherokee in western North Carolina, blacks in the West Virginia coal fields, and white mountaineers in rural eastern Tennessee. Because whites predominate in the region, the following narrative focuses on them. A series of religious revival movements, known as the Great Awakening, swept through the American colonies in the eighteenth century, and the Appalachian mountains and the rest of the South felt the impact of the second of these movements from about 1790 to 1810. The movement emphasized revivalism which involved frontier camp meetings, outdoor religious services, and emotional forms of preaching. The structure of the worship service permitted greater participation by the congregation than was usual in the established religions, and revivalism emphasized the individual religious experience rather than the religious doctrines of a particular church. The effect of the revival movement was to convert large numbers of people away from the orthodox religions. Prior to 1880, Appalachia consisted of small family farms that were largely self-sustaining, producing their own handicrafts and relying on only a handful of market goods (i.e. coffee, sugar, salt) that they could not produce themselves. The Scotch-Irish came to America with a rural culture based on a non-intensive form of farming called "forest farming." This is practiced in marginal areas with poor soils where it is necessary to rotate cultivated plots frequently with forested areas (Blethen 1994). Livestock (hogs, cattle, and sheep) were also raised and allowed to graze freely on the acorn and chestnut mast on the forest floor. Hunting, fishing, and foraging wild plant foods (herbs, berries, nuts, and greens) were important economic pursuits. Original land grants in the mountains were relatively small, a few hundred acres at most, certainly a great deal smaller than those granted in the plantation region of the Deep South, and inheritance practices subdivided these family plots with each generation. The movement appealed to the Scotch-Irish and others who had been at odds with both the Church of England and political authoritarianism. It formed the basis of later evangelical Protestantism and the belief that individuals might be "born again" and, through faith, find everlasting salvation. At the heart of the religious movement was the personal conversion experience, the idea that every individual could personally find God and be saved. This was an optimistic frontier religion in contrast to traditional Calvinist beliefs in "divine election" and predestination. The new religious movement focused attention on the Nineteenth-century mountain communities were not the town-square New England variety, but rather formed "open-country neighborhoods" made up of intricate dispersed networks of family, friends, and 8 �individual, the adherence to a personal code of moral ethics (including prohibitions against smoking, drinking, swearing, and gambling), and the expectation that people will respond vocally and emotionally when Jesus enters their hearts. Services became characterized by emotional expressiveness, as male and female participants responded to sermons with singing, shouting, and testifying and ended services with warm and friendly hugs, handshakes, and kisses (Dorgan 1987). The emphasis on a "literal" interpretation of the Bible meant that formal theological training (as demanded by the Presbyterian order, for example) was perceived as less important than receiving a "spiritual calling" to the word of God. So mountaineers welcomed the less educated farmer-preacher and emphasized religious "ordinances" following Christ's teachings and practices (such as creek baptisms and footwashing, an extension of the Lord's Supper) as opposed to religious "sacraments" emerging from formal church traditions (such as holy orders and church-sanctioned marriage). A result of the Great Awakening was an increased religiosity among mountain people combined with a decline in affiliation with national church hierarchies. Today, the United Presbyterian Church as well as other mainline churches have little strength in rural parts of the region, which are dominated by small, family-based churches, usually Baptist, Methodist, or HolinessPentecostal. Church members' sentiments were not universally favorable to revivalism or related practices, such as Sunday school classes, causing many divided congregations and denominations. "Old Regular" Baptists, a highly traditional subdenomination largely located in Central Appalachia, for example, grew out of the contingent of Baptists rejecting revivalism (Dorgan 1989). In Appalachia, these divisions resulted in the emergence of numerous sectarian and independent churches, unaffiliated with national or "mainline" churches such as the Southern Baptist Convention or the United Methodist Church (although Appalachian churches were sometimes drawn together into loose "associations"). Humphrey (1984), for example, counts 47 varieties of Baptists in the mountains, 33 varieties of Methodists, and 18 varieties of Presbyterians. Mountain counties today are characterized by large numbers of simple, unassuming churches, typically having less than one-hundred members, scattered throughout the countryside. In a study of one rural county with a population of less than 35,000 in western North Carolina, for instance, 125 active churches were identified (Keefe et al. 1985). The Great Awakening, then, served to loosen white southern highlanders* religious ties to their European homeland. Black Appalachians, like other black southerners, were also transformed by this spiritual movement and their religious practices and organization also reflect a preference for emotional rituals, revivalism, and sectarianism (Williams 1982). Fifty years later the Civil War served to magnify the differences between the yeoman mountain farmers and the plantation aristocracy of the lowland South, furthering regionalism in Appalachia. As previously mentioned, slavery was less important in the mountains where the vast majority of whites were small landholders without the need or wherewithal to buy slaves. Throughout the nineteenth century, the mountainous parts of the southern states were often at odds with flatland rivals in statewide political battles in which the politically-dominant plantation owners generally were victorious. Economic ties of the mountain mercantile class (those most likely to be slaveowners) generally were with the South once the War Between the States broke out (Inscoe 1989), but sentiments varied among other mountaineers, many of whom joined the Union at the same time that others joined the Confederate forces. In addition, there were the "Tories," those with split loyalties who avoided enlisting in either army and who fled to the hills as "outliers" when they were in danger of being conscripted (Blackmun 1977). In certain mountain counties, the majority of sentiment was Unionist, and following the war these counties became Republican partisan strongholds, further distancing themselves from the Democratic majority in postbellum southern states (McKinney 1986). These divided loyalties during the Civil War politically severed mountaineers from their southern compatriots. Hill people became stereotyped in state legislatures as backwards and undeserving of citizenship and equal rights, thus justifying the states' neglect of mountain roads and schools. Severe socioeconomic deterioration in the mountains was the result in the late nineteenth century. The industrial development of Appalachia beginning around 1880 produced further radical transformations. Railroads began to be constructed with federal government subsidies, and by 1930 they criss-crossed the entire region leaving only a few counties without access (Eller 1982). The railroads were vital to the extraction of Appalachia's natural resources, especially timber and minerals, such as mica, iron ore, and coal, which had to be hauled to cities and markets where secondary industries converted them into goods and �where consumers were available to buy them. Mining and timber companies began purchasing land and mineral rights, so that by 1900 many mountain counties had seen outside capitalists buy up a majority of these natural resources. Speculators often used unethical practices to buy and sell land. They also used such mechanisms as the "broad form" deed which made it possible, later, for the owners of mineral rights to engage in strip mining and, to destroy land that was owned by local mountaineers. The inevitable rising taxes that accompanied industrialization and the need for money in an increasingly market-driven rather than subsistence-based economy forced farmers to sell out or at least to take on wage labor to supplement their household incomes. The federal government also began to condemn and buy land as the National Park system (the backbone of modern tourism in Appalachia) took shape in the early twentieth century. By 1920, two brief generations following the penetration of capitalism, only 20% of the labor force in Appalachia was practicing fulltime farming. modernization and industrialization in Appalachia did not result in a rising standard of living but instead produced one of the highest rates of poverty in the country. Many of the problems that Appalachia experiences in catching up economically with the rest of the nation today are rooted in this early industrial period when the ownership of basic resources passed from local to absentee ownership and the region became an "internal colony" controlled and exploited by outside interests (Lewis etal. 1978). The Appalachian Land Ownership Task Force (1983) found that in 1980 three-quarters of the surface land rights and four-fifths of the mineral rights in Appalachia are in the hands of absentee owners, mostly large, private (and multinational) corporations as well as federal government agencies (such as the Park Service and Forest Service). Local governments have inadequate monies for local development because federal lands are tax-exempt while private corporations benefit from lucrative tax breaks. Moreover, the extractive industries of the region do not promote the development of an economic infrastructure of roads, health clinics, good schools, and public services that would make the region attractive to a more diverse industrial base. Appalachia is often portrayed as a premodern, nonindustrial region, but in fact the area has long been industrialized, and indeed it provided much of the raw materials fueling American economic development during the twentieth century. What does set Appalachia apart from the rest of the country, on the other hand, is the character of its economic development as a peripheral region providing labor and natural resources to the core of the country, which skims off the profits by marketing those resources (Walls 1978). Appalachia lacked an intermediate stage of commercial transformation in the nineteenth century (Pudup 1990). This was due to a number of reasons, including a relatively homogeneous subsistence economy based on small, self-sufficient household farms with few transportation or production ties to external markets. When outside markets began to demand the timber and coal that the region contained, the capital required to exploit those resources had to come from outside investors also. And so, unlike the northeast where a slow evolution of capitalism and indigenous commercialization promoted the emergence of a substantial middle class and a local base of capital, Appalachia was "invaded by mature capitalist institutions11 which converted the local population rather suddenly and almost wholly into working class laborers (Billings, Blee, & Swanson 1986). Moreover, the nature of the industries that took root in the region did not require a sophisticated labor force, and management actually benefitted from the perpetuation of a monoeconomy which forced workers to accept undesirable jobs for low pay. As a consequence, The historical experience of Appalachians has served to make a heterogeneous racial and cultural aggregate of people into a regional group with a shared identity. Caught up in the Great Awakening, Appalachians, like many other Americans, transformed their orientation from the Old World to the New World. Presbyterianism and Scotch Irish ethnicity lost strength as southern highlanders adapted to new cultural and environmental situations, in which regional residence and social class membership became important determinants of status in society. Links of political and economic geography to the rest of the South were fractured by the Civil War, so that Appalachian areas became, and remain, the "untended backyards" of southern states. Perhaps most importantly, Appalachia was transformed in a few brief decades around the turn of the century from a Jeffersonian frontier society to a highly stratified one in which the vast majority of native mountain residents became exploited laborers in a peripheralized region. These processes set the stage for an emerging consciousness among Appalachians as a people with a single historical experience, a shared relationship to the outside world, and a common destiny. Appalachian ethnic awareness was promoted by the images developed as others came to confront mountaineers at home and outside the hills. 10 �The Construction of Cultural "Otherness" In another post-Civil War development, Protestant missionaries sent by northern churches entered the mountains as part of an aggressive evangelization and Americanization of the South. As Shapiro points out, "The local-color writers saw Appalachia as an 'unknown1 land because they had never been there. In the same way, the home missionaries of the northern Protestant churches saw Appalachia as an 'unchurched1 land because their denominations were not represented there" (1978:32). By the mid-1880's, all northern Protestant churches (including Presbyterian, Episcopalian, Methodist, Congregational, and Quaker) had missionaries working among southern whites. In addition to ministerial practice, benevolent work in the southern mountains primarily consisted of establishing schools and churches. These were the institutions perceived both as absent and as critical in addressing the social as well as geographic "isolation" of mountain people caught in "Rip Van Winkle sleep". Mary Noailles Murfree's In the Tennessee Mountains was used as a text to inform new missionaries about the region. Going beyond the local-color definition of mountain life as distinctive and degenerate, however, denominational workers found in Appalachia a social problem and the need for uplifting a people not so much degraded as "not yet graded up." The establishment of mission churches, mission schools, and colleges institutionalized the acceptance of Appalachian otherness. It is perhaps no coincidence that at the same time industrialization and peripheralization of the Appalachian region was taking place in the late nineteenth century, an image of Appalachia as a "strange land and peculiar people" began to emerge in the American consciousness. Henry Shapiro (1978:x) argues that "the idea that the mountainous portions of eight or nine southern states form a coherent region inhabited by an homogeneous population possessing a uniform culture" was an invention of those from outside the region who came to perceive Appalachians as deviant from the American norm. The peculiarities identified as "Appalachian" contributed to their further estrangement from other white Protestants, other southerners, and other agrarian peoples in the nation. The growing perception of Appalachian cultural deviance served in many ways to justify the process of dispossession of their land and resources during the new era of capitalism. Moreover, the perception of an Appalachian "problem" fueled literary, missionary, and scholarly work, the popular media, and governmental policy for the next century. Appalachia was "discovered" by the nation in the late nineteenth century on the pages of American magazines and books of fiction. A literary period now known as the "local-color movement" flourished following the divisive Civil War. Describing littleknown places and people in picturesque styles, often as travel sketches and short stories laced with dialect, local color writers provided middle-class readers of Scribner's, The Atlantic Monthly, and Harper's Magazine with a vision of national unity through symbolic contrast with the "other." Appalachia and other remote areas of the country were exploited for their geographic wonders, biological curiosities, and cultural peculiarities thought to be of interest to readers in eastern cities. Fiction writers, such as Mary Noailles Murfree (In the Tennessee Mountains 1884) and John Fox, Jr. fThe Little Shepherd of Kingdom Come 1903; The Trail of the Lonesome Pine 1908), dealt with dramatic "confrontations between characters emblematic of the two cultures—feudists and lawmen, moonshiners and revenue officers, dirt-farmers and mining engineers, plain folks and politicians, mountain girls and city boys" (Shapiro 1978:20). The earlier, romantic notion of Daniel Boone-style pioneers of mountain stock was replaced by unappealing images of Appalachians as anarchists, criminals, rubes, degenerates, and victims. These stereotypic images were to be reinvigorated by the popular media of the twentieth century. Berea College in Berea, Kentucky, was founded in 1855 as part of the missionary movement in the mountains. One of the most influential presidents of Berea College, William Goodell Frost, was the first to name the region, known in the nineteenth century only as "the central South." In an essay written for Atlantic Monthly in 1899 entitled "Our Contemporary Ancestors in the Southern Mountains," Frost revealed the architecture of his vision of the region he called "Appalachian America," a region of mountainous terrain in the heart of the most civilized area of the nation, a region in which a hardy race of pioneers continued to live in traditional ways. By naming it, Frost gave Appalachia a sense of coherence and homogeneity not otherwise apparent (Shapiro 1978). By referring to mountaineers as the nation's "ancestors," Frost conceded Appalachians backwardness while at the same time urging national concern about the people who were, he argued, close kin of mainstream whites. Benevolent workers were attracted to the southern mountains in the hopes of providing both their version of the gospel and a sense of community which was 11 �mountaineers through the "perpetuation" of local traditions. They, too, however, more often resulted in cultural invention and manipulation. The most wellknown folk school, the still extant John C. Campbell Folk School in Brasstown, North Carolina, for example, was founded on the Danish School model and even incorporated Danish folksongs and dances into the curriculum. David Whisnant (1983) points out that these intentional and systematic cultural interventions were part of a "politics of culture" in which nonAppalachians sought to shape the thoughts and values of mountaineers, with profound consequences for their identity and sense of cultural differentness. thought to be necessary for social progress. The perceived "absence of community" in the mountains was believed to be a consequence of isolation. The outbreak of feuds around the turn of the century, especially in Kentucky, West Virginia, and Tennessee, confirmed emerging notions that Appalachians were stubbornly independent, anti-social, and lawless. Journalists' descriptions of family feuds and related murder trials were eagerly consumed by readers of eastern newspapers. Some social historians assert that feuding was customary among mountaineers, who brought a tradition of autonomous family retribution for wrongdoing from northern Britain (Fischer 1989). In a careful investigation of the famous Hatfield and McCoy feud, however, Altina Waller (1988) finds a better explanation in the invasion of the mountains by industrial capitalism and the development of economic inequality in what had been a kin-based, egalitarian culture. "Devil Anse" Hatfield was, in fact, an ambitious local entrepreneur who in 1877 started a timber company employing 30 men, including many family members; while "ol1 Ranel" McCoy and his sons, who were landless, had a more marginal standing. The twelve year feud beginning in 1878 engaged old family animosities in a changing economic climate where competitors were not only outside vested interests but indigenous market capitalists. Coincident with the founding of folk schools in the mountains was the labeling of Appalachians as "folk," or a separate people with a "folk culture." In one sense, this was meant to justify the establishment of folk schools which assumed the pre-existance of a crafts tradition which might be preserved through the school curriculum. It also lent a sense of the "primitive" to the products produced and marketed by mountain men and women, such as quilts, knotted bed canopy fringes, coverlets, rag carpets, oak-splint baskets, brooms, splitbottomed chairs, wooden toys, and handmade dulcimers and banjos. The handicraft movement in Britain and America at the turn of the century brought recognition to the aesthetic merit of "naif1 work and helped to foster an economic market for handmade crafts. Folk school directors were quick to exploit the commercial advantages for mountain people who were promoted as "the conservators of our common AngloSaxon heritage, preservers of the folk culture of Merrie Olde England and the individualism of the days of the pioneers" (Shapiro 1978:218). The settlement movement came to Appalachia at the turn of the century to bring social and cultural development to a people perceived as lacking both. Part of the larger settlement house movement (whose best known example is Jane Addams1 Hull House in Chicago), various rural settlements were established in the southern mountains by young women, graduates of northern colleges such as Smith and Bryn Mawr, who were called to the Victorian ideal of "social guardianship" (Whisnant 1983). Settlement schools were meant to "revive" local culture, especially handicraft traditions, among the adult population, but the crafts also reflected outside influences brought in by the outsiders themselves, including new weaving patterns and woodworking styles (Whisnant 1983). Settlement school directors also imported and taught their own version of proper cooking, housekeeping, and even silverware table settings, as well as new ways of celebrating holidays such as Christmas, and new forms of socializing on Saturday nights (foregoing moonshine drinking and raucous dancing for more genteel rituals). Efforts to preserve traditional folksongs and folkdances followed in the footsteps of the crafts "revival" movement. Olive Dame Campbell, the wife of John C. Campbell, was one of the early folk ballad collectors in the mountains. At her urging, Cecil J. Sharp, a well-known British collector of folksongs, arrived in 1916 and worked with singers in North Carolina and Tennessee. Sharp was impressed with the quality of his informants whom he characterized as "just English peasant folk [who] do not seem to me to have taken on any distinctive American traits. They talk English, sing English, behave English!" (quoted in Whisnant 1983:116). The collaborative efforts of Campbell and Sharp produced a joint publication, English Folk Songs of the Southern Appalachians (1917). Like other Appalachian collections published in the period, special emphasis was put on folksong "survivals," including ballads such as "Barbara Allen," Folk schools, introduced at the same time as rural settlement schools, were more specifically intended to provide self-sustaining economic alternatives for 12 �and often negative connotations of the hayseed trappings used to characterize mountain culture. "Pretty Polly," "Young Edward," and "Lord Daniel's Wife." This enchantment with the persistence of English folk culture was echoed in the delight of settlement school directors who discovered "Elizabethan" speech patterns in the mountains. At Hindman Settlement School in eastern Kentucky, for example, children were even taught Shakespearean plays in order to employ their supposedly natural "Elizabethan" dialect, with less than satisfactory results (Whisnant 1983). The "hillbilly" stereotype emerging in the music industry has been echoed in other commercial media throughout the twentieth century. Cartoonists, such as Paul Webb drawing for Esquire (1935-1948), Al Capp who created "Lil Abner" in 1934, and Fred Lasswell who draws "Snuffy Smith," have used mountain images to communicate themes of ignorance, poverty, sloth, filth, immorality, and regressive attitudes and behaviors. Jerry Williamson (1995) demonstrates the significance of Appalachian themes in Hollywood productions beginning with early silent films to the Ma and Pa Kettle films of the 1940's and the popular "Beverly Hillbillies" television show of the 1960's, all of which projected familiar stereotypes both to the nation and to foreign audiences. Commoditization of these Appalachian images continues in the expanding tourism industry in the region, where "hillbilly" trading posts and "country" emporiums sell "outhouse" and moonshine-still replicas, 'coon dog portraits, and "chewing tobacco" chewing gum. Where English survivals were absent, settlement schools sometimes introduced them. One of the most arresting examples of this involves morris dancing, believed to be a form of "ancient pan-European seasonal pagan observances associated in some way with fertility" (Whisnant 1983). Disturbed by his failure to find morris or related sword-dance ceremonies in the southern mountains, Cecil Sharp began to teach them to mountain people at Hindman and Pine Mountain Settlement Schools in Kentucky immediately following his arrival. When mountain folk festivals celebrating traditional music became popular in the 1930's, such as White Top Folk Festival in Virginia, they served as venues for the further preservation of these "reintroduced" dance forms. Since the late nineteen-hundreds, Appalachia has attracted considerable national attention. Images of Appalachian people and culture have been created and manipulated by those from outside the region to serve as examples of "otherness," from visions of hardy selfsufficient pioneers to isolated and lawless anarchists to romantic reminders of America's ethnic folk heritage to laughable rubes hopelessly out of place in modern America to a national social problem that must be solved. This "invention" of Appalachia, as Allen Batteau (1990) points out, is perhaps best understood as a consequence of various national concerns, including unification, modernization, and social progress. The images have had an impact on Appalachian peoples1 identity, forcing them to deal with the pervasive negative stereotypes. But the images have little to offer in providing an accurate understanding of Appalachian culture and values. For this, we must turn to the ethnographic evidence and to community studies carried out in the region, Mountain music was reshaped even more dramatically for a mainstream American market with the influence of the commercial music industry. As early as 1923, mountain musicians were producing phonograph recordings with impressive commercial success, and the record industry adopted the name of an early group from Galax, Virginia, the "Hill Billies," to refer to the entire musical genre (Tribe 1990). The most significant musical group to emerge from the southern mountains during this early period, the Carter Family, included in their repertoire all of the diverse traditions in Appalachian songmaking: British and traditional American ballads, nineteenth century popular and Victorian songs, sacred lyrics and gospel music, and African American and minstrel show songs. Later artists from the mountains were encouraged to stray from these traditions and to write their own songs to appeal to a wider commercial market, and new musical styles were created, such as Bluegrass music in the 1940's which modernized "old-time" string band music. Radio shows, such as the Grand Olf Opry, popularized music that became known as "country and western," in which the country or mountain music oftentimes had to adopt a semi-comic, dialect-peppered style in order to gain acceptance. Television versions of these shows, such as "Hee Haw" (which enjoys great popularity in the rural south), perpetuate the humorous Appalachian Culture and Values Ethnographers documenting Appalachian culture agree on a number of core values and cultural features. While most ethnographic studies of Appalachian communities concentrate on rural areas and very small towns, similar cultural traits are found in studies of Appalachian migrants to cities outside the region. It must be assumed that these traits are also characteristic 13 �Beaver 1986; Halperin 1990). Economic strategies in mountain communities are anchored on the family household and the value of adequacy (Halperin 1990). The goal is to make ends meet and provide for family needs, not to make profits. Halperin (1990) describes the "multiple livelihood strategies" used by rural families to adapt to the local mix of capitalist and precapitalist economies where reliance on a single livelihood would be risky. By using their land to plant subsistence gardens, working in factories as temporary wage labor, doing their own household repairs, bartering with neighbors and friends, patronizing flea markets where cheaper factory seconds and used goods are sold, and relying on kin networks to pool resources, mountain people resist dependency on capitalism and are able to maintain a traditional rural lifestyle. This lifestyle also reinforces homogeneity in the social community where no one is a specialist and everyone is relatively autonomous. And as Halperin (1990) points out, while this livelihood may result in low income, people do not think of their family as "poor." Instead, their ability to "make do" is held in high esteem within the local community (Stephenson 1968). of Appalachian residents in larger towns and cities within the region, although this awaits confirmation by future urban ethnographies. Appalachian culture is not wholly unique, for it shares much with rural Southern culture and rural agrarian lifestyle in general, but as a pattern of ideas and expectations for behavior Appalachian culture is coherent and distinctive. The following attributes are essential to Appalachian culture: egalitarianism, independence and individualism, personalism, an avoidance of conflict, familism, a religious world view, and a sense of place. Egalitarianism Egalitarianism, of course, is an American cultural value. As Beaver (1986) explains, however, in Appalachia it has more significant "mythical" qualities as a guide for people's actions. Certainly mountain communities are stratified (although given the rural economy, status differences may not be as great nor as pervasive as in urban areas). But great effort is taken to ignore these differences in social relations. Common in mountain communities is the country store or small cafe where all members of the community, rich and poor, meet and greet one another by first names and sit down together at the same table or counter. Everyone expects to be treated with identical courtesy and to ask about each other's families. There is little pretense or status differentiation by dress in mountain communities, where everyone dresses informally and women wear little or no make-up (Hicks 1976). Conspicuous consumption is avoided. People in general are self-deprecating, often by joking about themselves (Miles 1975). Loyal Jones (1994) refers to this as the value of humility. Those who set themselves above others are referred to pejoratively as "getting above their raisin'," "uppity," or "big shots." Even community leaders seek to be self-effacing in the public eye. Mountaineers identify with "Jack" of the Jack-in-the-Beanstalk folk tales, where Jack through courage and intellect is able to outwit the giant and the fancy folk. Also like Jack, mountaineers may engage in petty theft or vandalism as sanctions against those in the community with condescending attitudes or pretensions of higher class (Beaver 1986). As the preferred form of economic exchange, reciprocity with family, friends, and neighbors also reinforces egalitarianism. Miles (1975) was struck by the extensive hospitality mountain people bestowed on visitors when she lived in eastern Tennessee during the late nineteenth century. Neighborliness is still highly valued and people are expected to repay "kindliness for kindliness" (Miles 1975). Mountain people like to come visiting with gifts of food or produce from their garden. The most common form of gathering is the "covered dish" dinner where all participants come together to share homemade foods. The food is plentiful but simple fare found on common tables and rooted in the people's subsistence heritage: plates of fried chicken, country ham biscuits, and country style steak; pots of chicken and dumplings and trays of deviled eggs; vegetable dishes such as green beans, pinto beans, corn on the cob, cole slaw, green salads, sliced cucumbers, and vine-ripened tomatoes; fresh fruit and fruit cobblers; cornbreads and other homemade varieties of bread; pies, cakes, and banana puddings; together with jugs of sweetened iced tea and Kool-Aid as well as pots of hot coffee. Music (also homemade) is often provided at these events and reinvokes the themes of simplicity and family, as individuals are taught to sing and play traditional pieces by close relatives and family members often come together to form musical groups (a pattern also found in professional Country music groups such as the Carter Family and the Statler Brothers). One idiom for expressing this assumption of sameness is kinship. As Bryant (1981) points out, the commonly heard "We're all kin here" indicates that people in the mountains perceive themselves to be like one another, of the same flesh and blood. And non-kin are often incorporated into kinship networks as equals through the extension of kinship terms and obligations 14 �1976). This expectation of "unbounded personal freedom" echoes an ancestral dislike of authoritarianism and a tendency to "take care of our own" (Fischer 1989). It is sometimes expressed in a preference for solitude, as in the common pastimes of fishing and deer-stand hunting. Individualism and Independence Like egalitarianism, individualism and independence are core American values that have special significance and distinctive manifestations for Appalachians. Whereas mainstream Americans interpret individualism as the right to non-conformity and equal opportunity to compete for the American Dream, Appalachians emphasize the aspects of sovereignty and self-reliance. This is captured in a story related by Loyal Jones: Sovereignty is sought in social as well as personal life. Mountaineers have a tradition of resisting governmental authority, as illustrated in the region's moonshining heritage. Using techniques brought from the British Isles, mountaineer entrepreneurs capitalized on Prohibition, turning low-profit corn into higherprofit corn liquor and running it to major cities outside the region, for the most part avoiding federal law until its production became less profitable in the 1950's. Halperin (1990) also finds widespread evidence of resistance in traits such as keeping the homeplace debtfree (and therefore beyond outside control) and omission of cash odd-jobs from income taxes. Beaver sees this mountain value of autonomy more generally: Several years ago there came a great snowfall in western North Carolina. The Red Cross came to help people who might be stranded without food or fuel. Two workers heard of an old lady way back in the mountains living alone, and they went to see about her, in a four-wheel drive vehicle. After an arduous trip they finally skidded down into her cove, got out and knocked on the door. When she appeared, one of the men said, "Howdy, ma'am, we're from the Red Cross," but before he could say anything else, the old lady replied, "Well, I don't believe I'm agoin to be able to help you any this year. It's been a right hard winter." (Jones 1994:51) Independence, then, means "minding one's own business" or not meddling in other people's business and, at the same time, expecting to be left alone in managing one's own affairs. This concept is expressed most frequently in the simple phrase "Ain't nobody gonna tell me what to do." (Beaver 1986:153) Appalachian individualism may be described as "cooperative independence" whereby people cooperate in order to preserve their autonomy and not as a form of anarchism which threatens social harmony (Stephenson and Greer 1983). The self-sufficient aspect of individualism is that which is admired in the pioneer past and glorified in Foxfire's Aunt Arie (Wigginton and Benett 1984). Social workers find that mountain people resist charity and social welfare programs despite possible need. Beaver (1986) finds the qualities of common sense, dependability, cooperation and, especially, hard work are the basis for an individual's sense of "worth" and respect in the community. Not working or living on public assistance or transgressing moral codes may result in being considered "worthless" and exclusion from the social community. Personalism Like Southerners in general, Appalachians appreciate and encourage personal face-to-face relations. Mountain people interact with others based on a recognition of their individuality. This is reflected in a story told by Helen Lewis in which she asks a young boy named Johnny what he will be when he grows up, and he says "I'll be Johnny" (Lewis et. al 1978). Hicks (1976) remarks that personal status, based on family background, reputation, leisure pursuits, indebtedness, and personality, is something everyone has, like class status, although personal status may be more important! In many mountain counties, this personal status is reflected in the tendency to name roads after individuals. In Watauga County, NC, for example, 33% of the rural roads incorporate personal names, Children as young as five years old in rural Appalachia learn to take on tasks in the household and contribute to the family's livelihood (Beaver 1986). They are given increasing responsibility with age, particularly in farming families. Young boys are encouraged to use guns and begin to hunt by the time they are ten or twelve years old. Children, particularly boys, are allowed to be venturesome and are expected to take care of themselves with little supervision (Hicks 15 �Avoidance of Conflict Like Southerners in general, Appalachians tend to promote peaceful cooperation and avoid conflict in personal relations. To keep the peace, they do not make public pronouncements about someone or something they dislike. These opinions may be expressed privately, however, or as part of gossip controls. In fact, the common way an individual learns she or he has done something unacceptable is "through the grapevine" and not in a face-to-face encounter. This avoidance of hostile expression is learned at an early age. Preschoolers are encouraged to share and play in harmony rather than speak in anger (Kovarski and Braswell 1994). Aggressive, even authoritative, behavior is considered rude outside the family, and leadership roles are often rejected due to a concern that they might involve uncomfortable confrontations (Hicks 1976; Stephenson 1968). Successful leaders are able to avoid arguments and bring about consensus without offending others. such as "Preacher Billings Road," "Moretz Family Farm Road," and "Julia Pearson Lane." Mountain people are well-known for their friendliness and hospitality toward others. Weller (1965), for example, recounts a story about Peace Corps trainees from the University of Kentucky who were sent without money to hollers in eastern Kentucky and, by relying on the neighborliness of mountain people, were able to find food and shelter for a week without any trouble. Mountaineers make eye contact with people when interacting, transforming even mundane economic transactions into personal ones. A local student of mine working at a supermarket in Boone, NC, remarked that she refused to begin ringing up each customer's purchases until the customer looked at her when she said "Hello." Social contact is also evident on the roadways, as drivers frequently honk, wave, or raise their hand or index finger in recognition of other drivers or pedestrians. Socializing in general is extremely important and marks all activities taking place in the community. Sherrod (1991) finds "fellowship" even more significant than ministerial activities among congregations in mountain churches. Churches typically have Wednesday night fellowship suppers, Homecoming Day honoring those who have moved away, and "dinners on the ground" in the summertime. Funeral services include a "visitation" the day before when family and friends come together, often in the home of the surviving relatives, to share personal support and intimate time together. Social mechanisms to avoid conflict include the use of formal etiquette, giving indirect advice, couching reprimands with humor and jokes, and exhibiting a taciturn demeanor. There is a high regard for manners and etiquette as a means of avoiding personal offense. Mountaineers address others as "Sir" or "Mfam" not to indicate high status but as a form of respect. Mountain people avoid giving advice directly to non-kin, preferring to introduce the topic indirectly by saying something like: "Now, if it were me,...." After a year of rancor and dissention in the high school in my county, a well-respected member of the community who had recently been stricken by cancer wrote a letter to the editor lamenting that he had not done more to prevent the school's problems, by implication asking what excuse others had for not taking action. George Hicks gives a good example of the way in which selfdeprecating humor is often used to defuse situations and reinforce an "ethic of neutrality:" Honest and fair dealings make for strong personal ties among mountaineers, who are loyal to those they trust (Jones 1994). Verbal agreements are binding and do not require paper authorization. While mountaineers count on each other to keep their word, there is a general mistrust of government, institutions, and the rich (Stephenson 1968; Weller 1965). People work hard to be likable and accepted, and there are strong sanctions in the community if they stray. As Beaver notes, "gossip is in perpetual movement along complex and overlapping networks.... [It] provides the medium for expressing personal and collective evaluations of behavior and allows one to avoid faceto-face encounters" (Beaver 1986:162). For these reasons, privacy is keenly sought and protected. Families guard secrets in order to stay out of the gossip chains, often making it difficult for social workers, counselors, and other professionals to work openly with clients (Fiene 1994). In a long discussion of county politics one afternoon,... Carmon Mitchell attempted to make a joke at his friend's expense by saying, "Ollis, why don't you run for jackass of Kent County?" Ollis puffed his pipe silently while the other men roared. Sensing that he had gone too far, Carmon added, "111 just step down and let you take the office." (Hicks 1976:90) 16 �than the mainstream American family: (1) the Appalachian family includes not just the nuclear family but an extended "family group" consisting of parents, their grown children, and their families, (2) individuals tend not to act alone but always to orient their behavior with reference to the family group, and (3) blood kinship is the strongest basis for social ties, superseding ties with friends, in-laws, or often, even spouses (Keefe 1988). As I have noted, Hicks (1976) also finds some truth to the widely noted "taciturnity" of mountain people, who perhaps wisely develop nonverbal and nonemotional responses to situations where others might be sensitive to insult, and Appalachians may suffer discrimination by cultivating these traits. For example, as a group they tend to score higher in pathology on the MMPI, a common psychological assessment tool, on the "social introversion" scale that tests for "increasing levels of social shyness, preference for solitary pursuits, and lack of social assertiveness" (Keefe, Hastrup, & Thomas 1993:5). Sometimes this results in interesting visiting patterns within the nuclear family. One woman I interviewed, for example, married into her husband's community. One of his brothers lives nearby and the brothers visit daily, often at her house. However, she says, she doesn't talk to her brother-in-law. Her concern is directed more toward her own "family," particularly her parents with whom she visits every Sunday. (Keefe 1988:26) Cultural mechanisms for conflict resolution are available in mountain churches where footwashing and flower ceremonies are practiced. Footwashing commemorates the practice ordered by Christ when He washed His disciples' feet prior to the Last Supper, and involves all members of the congregation who move forward one by one to wash another" s feet using a basin of water and a towel. Howard Dorgan describes the emotionally cathartic nature of this ceremony: ...one person finally decides to approach, basin in hand, the one church member for whom he or she holds the most antipathy, or that estranged family member toward whom profound bitterness has in the past been directed. These are the encounters that typically produce the highest drama and from which the most needed therapeutics may be derived. (Dorgan 1989:111) Socializing is done mostly (sometimes exclusively) with relatives. Holidays are always family-oriented, and additional rituals such as family reunions and Memorial Day gatherings in family cemeteries are commonplace in Appalachia. Rural mountaineers may be unfamiliar or ill-at-ease with forms of social organization requiring interaction with strangers and non-kin, such as the pervasive voluntary organizations of mainstream America (Hicks 1976; Stephenson 1968). Elsewhere, Dorgan (1987) describes a "Flower Service" in which church members bring home-grown bouquets and are urged to "Get right with thy neighbor" by exchanging flowers symbolic of forgiveness of old grudges and misunderstandings. He suggests that lasting anger is difficult to maintain with this kind of pressure for reconciliation. Yet, conflict is less easily resolved beyond the boundaries of a particular church or with newcomers unversed in mountain ways. Moreover, there are few cultural mechanisms for dealing with more overt hostility, and it can easily escalate beyond the point that it can be handled by normal mechanisms of social control. Community in Appalachia is anchored on kinship which provides the real social networks and the cultural values that bind people into community (Beaver 1986). And indeed households in the rural community are connected by blood or marriage. Siblings continue to maintain close ties into adulthood, and first cousins also tend to be especially close. Matthews (1965), for example, finds the naming of children follows collateral ties to cousins and siblings rather than lineal ties to parents or grandparents. Individuals may marry cousins, including first cousins, which strengthens the ties between collateral kin. Appalachian communities often have sets of "double cousins," or children of siblings who married siblings and, therefore, are related to each other by double bonds of kinship (Matthews 1965). Familism The family is the fundamental social institution in Appalachia, and familism is the basis for the construction of social relations in general. The Appalachian family is structured somewhat differently Economy in Appalachia is a family economy which is based on a relationship among kin who are 17 �associated with a specific plot of land (Beaver 1986; Halperin 1990). Land is passed down through the family, and it is land ownership that ultimately connects family members (Bryant 1981). Family often live on the same plot of land in Appalachia, and one common manifestation of this is the clustering of small homes and trailers housing family groups along country roads. Family members rely on one another for their well-being, exchanging goods and services and cooperating in organized activities such as gardening, farming, and house-building. The interdependence of kin networks and kin obligations is manifest in the political sphere as well, where family members' loyalty is expected in voting for agreed-upon candidates, and where a candidate, if elected, is expected to appoint kin to political offices (Hicks 1976). throughout the Southern Appalachian ranges (Dorgan 1987). Churches often have "singings" during the week when the congregation gathers for an hour or more in the evening to sing hymns and play religious tunes. During the summertime, singings may be held outside and provide a social as well as sacred occasion. A "Singing on the Mountain" is held each summer on Grandfather Mountain, NC, attracting 10,000 or more participants from near and far. A Trail of Tears Singing is held in Cherokee, NC, each June incorporating members of both Eastern and Western Cherokee who, through Christian music, remember the four thousand who died during the forced removal to Oklahoma in 1838-39 (Neely 1991). Mountain religion expresses the cultural themes important to Appalachian people. Egalitarianism is manifested in the simple church buildings housing small, homogeneous congregations, led often by preachers with only high school degrees who are addressed not as "Pastor" but simply as "Brother soand-so." Rituals such as creek baptism and footwashing teach humility and simplicity. Concern for individualism and personalism is found in the emphasis by the mountain church on personal salvation rather than on social works (Ford 1962). These values are reinforced during church services at times when the preacher singles out the personal sins of members to illustrate the need to follow Biblical commandments, or when the congregation joins in "oral prayer," each individual saying their personal prayer aloud at the same time as everyone else. Appalachians continue to honor family members after their death. This tradition contributes to an attitude of greater acceptance of death in Appalachia than in mainstream America, in which the denial of death is more pronounced (Sherrod 1990). Attendence at both the visitation preceding the funeral and the memorial service is expected of family and friends (Crissman 1994). Funeral processions cause other drivers to pull over spontaneously to the side of the road and stop while they pass, a pattern that is followed only sporadically for ambulances in my town! Deceased relatives are frequently memorialized through the newspaper publication of their pictures and special poems written by living relatives (often years or decades following the death), through Decoration (Memorial) Day cleaning of cemetary graves and placing of fresh flowers, and, as Dorgan notes, through reverential readings of deceased members names during church services. The church is typically conceptualized as a "family of Christ" (Bryant 1981). Fellow church members are all "Brothers and Sisters" who worship the Father. Cemeteries are maintained by those related to the dead, as Appalachian poet Robert Morgan reminds us in "Cleaning Off the Cemetery:" Religious World View Religion is pervasive in mountain life. Most mountain people identify as Christians and practice personal moral codes which are based on conservative interpretations of the Bible, and which disavow alcohol, gambling, and profanity. Even if they don't go to church, mountaineers enjoy reading and arguing about the Bible any day of the week (Humphrey 1984; Miles 1975). Prayer is also a part of daily life. Until recent Supreme Court rulings, prayers typically began civic meetings and important rites of passage, such as graduation. There is reliance on prayer for healing sickness (Keefe & Parsons 1996). Rural Appalachians favor country and gospel music, both of which incorporate religious themes and references. Weekly gospel programs are produced by small radio stations Not the church-devout but those reverent to family memory show for these workings held every three to five springs, some driving a ways, complaining, but always here on the chosen day with tools and kids and dinner. (Morgan 1987:52) Familism is also evident in the congregations, which are typically made up of members bound by ties of social kinship, and in annual church "homecomings" which celebrate the reunion of actual kin groups as well as church members. 18 �James Still in the poem "Heritage" in which he declares that "Being of these hills I cannot pass beyond" (Still 1968:82). Writers from the coalfields, including Still (1940), Norman (1972), and Giardina (1987), typically incorporate in their novels a sense of longing for the land that has been stolen by the mining companies. The landscape is also evoked spiritually as when poet Robert Morgan states: Sense of Place Appalachian people have a strong sense that the mountains are home. While outsiders appreciate the southern highlands for aesthetic and economic reasons, mountain people have sacred attachments to the land that symbolizes family, livelihood, and ancestral roots. A man in southwest Virginia captures this sentiment: Land in this area doesn't change hands much. The place we live on has been in the family for seven generations. This is not real estate, this is home and will be handed down, I hope, for seven more generations. (Morefield 1990:63) Mountains speak in tongues. Take the wide thought of estuaries. The absent god leaves the forest and the tundra soaked in divinity. (Morgan 1978:42) In mountain communities, this melding of the land, the Lord, and the people is accomplished each year when religious services are taken outdoors for baptisms, Decoration Day, and tent revivals. Mountaineers come to know their land not as a generic but as a specific piece of earth with landmarks and bits of local history that give it meaning (Hicks 1976). While newcomers feel compelled to leave the mountains occasionally in order to cope with the perceived isolation, mountain people love their land, enjoy showing it off and being on it. When asked where they would like go on a vacation, Wagner's (1995) informants in southwest Virginia frequently replied that they would like to take their vacation at home! Mountaineers feel the responsibility of stewardship toward the land and the need to make it productive while protecting and preserving it (Eller 1982). They hope to inherit land from their parents, to work it, and to pass it on to their children. Land becomes associated with families, and the "homeplace" where ancestors settled is kept in the family and is often the location of the family reunions. The homeplace includes not only the house but also the grounds and even the farmland of past generations. Land is essential to the maintenance of the "multiple livelihoods" of mountain families, and people struggle to keep their land, often commuting 50-100 miles a day to find wage labor (Halperin 1990). In this way, Appalachians are able to maintain the rural lifestyle they prefer while taking advantage of urban resources that are necessary. Those who migrate out of the mountains commonly complain of being homesick for the place as well as the people, and there are high rates of return migration as a result. A middle-aged woman from Mount Rogers, VA, reminisces: I moved away from here one time, up north to Baltimore. Now I know this is going to sound silly but — when I would say my prayers at night it was like "God" wasn't there. I know that's crazy but that's the way it felt to me. It was because I wasn't in the mountains where I was supposed to be — where I needed to be. (Morefield 1990:23) Mountaineers identify with their community which is the integration of people and place. Typically, these are small locales where residents know one another and feel comfortable and secure. Mountain communities are unlikely to be listed on any maps of the area, which generally include only incorporated towns and county seats. In one study, 72 communities were identified in a single rural Appalachian county in North Carolina (Plaut, Landis & Trevor 1993). These included rural roads and hollars, family compounds, crossroads hamlets, river and valley bottoms, and mountainside clusters of homes. Residents have deep loyalty to their place and a suspicion of other places. There is also a general disdain for urban and industrial ways of life (Halperin 1990). Richard Humphrey finds this sense of the mountains as a sacred place particularly strong in deep rural areas where people are likely to practice what he calls the "religion of Zion," Zion being the mountainous place in the Old Testament referred to in Psalms 121:1-2: "I will lift up mine eyes unto the hills from whence cometh my help." Appalachian writers and poets often refer to this kinship with the land felt by mountain people, and perhaps none has captured it as well as 19 �Contemporary Ethnic Identity "mountain people," "country people," or "mountaineer." Regardless of the lack of agreement on an ethnic name, Appalachian natives can usually identify members of their group through the recognition of an individual's dialect and his or her claims to a homeplace and relatives in the mountains. Appalachians are certainly able to tell you what group they do not belong to, as illustrated in the variety of pejorative names applied to non-Appalachians: Yankee, outsider, "touron" (tourist/moron), "Floron" (Florida resident/moron), and "Floridiot" (Florida resident/idiot). The last three labels derive from gawking and insensitive tourists and seasonal residents who flood the southern mountains for relief from the heat in the summertime. Through careful employment of this oppositional identity, mountaineers tend to continually negotiate their ethnicity, moving in and out of an ethnic group status as they vie for resources and autonomy. Foster (1988) demonstrates this process of shifting ethnicity as native residents of Ashe County, NC, vocally assume a distinctive identity as people with an endangered "mountain culture" in order to stop federal authorities from damming the New River and destroying farmlands. At the same time, residents are not completely comfortable with this identity because of the inferior status conferred on ethnic minority groups in America. Conclusion While Appalachian people are culturally similar to many others in rural America, especially the rural South, they retain a special identity connected to the mountains. This identity comes in part from an awareness of the differences between "us and them," an awareness gained most quickly by Appalachians who migrate out of the region and are forced to contend with prejudice and discrimination in cities (Appalshop Films 1983). But these differences are also becoming apparent to Appalachian natives who stay in the mountains, as more and more tourists and newcomers arrive who feel little in common with mountaineers. I moved to western North Carolina almost two decades ago, and my uncle from Idaho came to visit after my daughter was born. I felt sure he would feel comfortable in the mountains since I noticed life was so similar to the rural area in which I was born and raised in the Northwest. But, instead, he was struck by how different the people were in Appalachia, particularly the way they talked, and he couldn't wait to get back home. The Appalachian dialect is one of the five or six distinctive regional dialects recognized by linguists in the United States (Wolfram and Fasold 1974). In one of the few comprehensive studies of "Appalachian English," Wolfram and Christian (1976) find distinctive phonological and grammatical features, including retaining the initial H in auxiliaries and pronouns ("hit" for "it"), the use of double modal verbs ("I might could do that"), and the use of variant pronouns ("hisself' for "himself1 and "you'uns" for "all of you"). Social linguists observe that dialect is a primary means by which boundaries of social groups are marked, especially among people otherwise culturally similar. As one of my informants said, "People know who I am the minute I open my mouth." The stigma against "country English" in cities and mainstream America is something that every Appalachian person must contend with in the process of forming a personal identity. By adopting a conscious pride in their cultural heritage, Appalachians are better able to withstand negative images held by others. Some are able actually to exploit the differences, such as best-selling author, Lee Smith, who declares: "The mountains which used to imprison me have become my chosen stalking ground" (Smith 1994). Appalachian ethnicity has emerged out of more than a century of "cultural reflexivity" during which the people have been forced by colonizers and political foes to question their cultural identity and their right to preserve their cultural heritage (Roosens 1989). Their ethnicity has gained strength in an era in which class struggle has become increasingly less successful in organizing in relation to multi-national industries and federal agencies. As ethnics, Appalachians can take advantage of legal precedents and global movements claiming equality and equal treatment for ethnic groups perceived to have the right to retain their culture and define what it consists of (Roosens 1989). As "reluctant ethnics," Appalachians will continue to negotiate the tensions produced by the inherent contradictions of the core American values of equality (or sameness) and individualism (or differentness) (Hicks & Handler 1988). This tension creates a powerful force in American society especially when these values are consistently at odds with the social reality of ethnic inequality and the power of group labelling. Given their fundamental similarities in race, language, and national origin to white mainstream Americans, mountain people have the option of For Appalachians, there is little consistency in ethnic label identification. The term "Appalachian" is one used by scholars but only rarely assumed by members of the group. More common are identities as 20 �Edward J. Cabbell. 1985. "Black Invisibility and Racism in Appalachia: An Informal Survey," in Blacks in Appalachia, eds. William H. Turner and Edward J. Cabbell. Lexington: University Press of Kentucky. John C. Campbell. 1921. The Southern Highlander & His Homeland. New York: Russell Sage Foundation, p. 12. adopting or resisting ethnic status as it suits their need. As ethnics, they are able to organize, to manipulate symbols of their common heritage, and often to be successful in influencing political policy and the distribution of economic goods. As non-ethnics, they may distance themselves from ascribed ethnic traits, "pass" into the mainstream of American society, and achieve the American Dream in the "melting pot." This strategy of reluctant ethnicity can best be understood as a reasonable Appalachian response to the American context in which individual and group differences are at once denied and celebrated. James K. Crissman. 1994. Death and Dying in Central Appalachia: Changing Attitudes and Practices. Urbana, IL: University of Illinois Press. Howard Dorgan. 1987. Giving Glory to God in Appalachia. Knoxville, TN: University of Tennessee Press. Howard Dorgan. 1989. The Old Regular Baptists of Central Appalachia: Brothers and Sisters in Hope,, Knoxville, TN: University of Tennessee Press. References Ronald D. Eller. 1982. Miners, Millhands, and Mountaineers: Industrialization of the Appalachian South, J880-1930. Knoxville, TN: University of Tennessee Press. Richard D. Alba. 1990. Ethnic Identity: The Transformation of White America. New Haven: Yale University Press, p. 342. The Appalachian Regional Commission. 1965. Appalachia^ Washington, DC: U.S. Government Printing Office. Judith Ivy Fiene. 1993. "The Appalachian Social Context and the Battering of Women," Practicing Anthropology, 15(3) summer, 20-24. The Appalachian Land Ownership Task Force. 1983. Who Owns Appalachia? Landownership and Its Impact, Lexington, KY: University Press of Kentucky. David Hackett Fischer. 1989. Albion's Seed: Four British Folkways in America. New York: Oxford University Press. Allen Batteau. 1990. The Invention of Appalachia. Tucson, AZ: University of Arizona Press. Thomas R. Ford, ed. 1962. The Southern Appalachian Region: A Survey. Lexington, KY: University of Kentucky Press. Patricia D. Beaver. 1986. [reissued 1992]. Rural Community in the Appalachian South. Prospect Heights, IL: Waveland Press. Thomas R. Ford. 1962. "The Passing of Provincialism," in The Southern Appalachian Region: A Survey, ed. Thomas R. Ford Lexington, KY: University of Kentucky Press. Patricia D. Beaver and Darlene Wilson. March, 1997. "To Embrace the Male Offshore Other: The Ubiquitous Native Grandmother in America's Cultural History," presented at the annual meeting of the Appalachian Studies Association, Fort Mitchell, KY. Stephen William Foster. 1988. The Past is Another Country: Representation, Historical Consciousness, and Resistance in the Blue Ridge. Berkeley, CA: University of California Press. Dwight Billings, Kathleen Blee, and Louis Swanson. winter 1986. "Culture, Family, and Community in Preindustrial Apppalaehia," Appalachian Journal, 13, 154-170. Denise Giardina. 1987. Storming Heaven: A NoveL New York: Norton Rhoda H. Halperin. 1990. The Livelihood of Kin: Making Ends Meet "The Kentucky Way." Austin, TX: University of Texas Press. Ora Blackmun. 1977. Western North Carolina: Its Mountains and Its People to 1880. Boone, NC: Appalachian Consortium Press. George L. Hicks. 1976 [reissued 1992]. Appalachian Valley. Prospect Heights, IL: Waveland Press, H. Tyler Blethen. 1994. "The Transmission of Scottish Culture to the Southern Back Country," in Appalachian Adaptations to a Changing World, Journal of the Appalachian Studies Association, ed. Norma Myers, 6, 5972. George L. Hicks and Mark J. Handler. 1987. "Ethnicity, Public Policy, and Anthropologists," in Applied Anthropology in America* second edition, eds. Elizabeth M. Eddy and William L. Partridge New York: Columbia University Press. F. Carlene Bryant. 1981. We're All Kin. Knoxville, TN: University of Tennessee Press. 21 �Dana Kovarsky, Toby Stephan, and Maria Braswell. 1994. "Conflict Talk in an Appalachian Day Care Center," in School Discourse Problems, second edition, eds. Danielle Newberry Ripich and Nancy A. Creaghead San Diego: Singular Publishing. Helen Matthews Lewis, Linda Johnson, and Donald Askins. 1978. Colonialism in Modern America: The Appalachian Case. Boone, NC: Appalachian Consortium Press. Charles M. Hudson, ed. 1985. Ethnology of the Southeastern Indians: A Sourcebook. New York: Garland Pub. Richard Humphrey. 1984. presentation at Appalachian State University, Boone, NC. Richard Humphrey. 1984. "Religion and Place in Southern Appalaehia," in Cultural Adaptations to Mountain Environments, Southern Anthropological Society Proceedings, No. 17, eds. Patricia D. Beaver and Burton L. Purrington Athens, GA: University of Georgia Press. Ronald L. Lewis. 1987. Black Coal Miners in America: Race, Class, and Community Conflict, 1780-1980. Lexington, KY: University Press of Kentucky. John C. Inscoe. 1989. Mountain Masters: Slavery and the Sectional Crisis in Western North Carolina. Knoxville, TN: University of Tennessee Press. ElmoraMesser Matthews. 1965. Neighbor and Kin: Life in a Tennessee Ridge Community., Nashville, TN: Vanderbilt University Press. Loyal Jones. 1994. Appalachian Values. Ashland, KY: The Jesse Stuart Foundation. Gordon B. McKinney. 1978. Southern Mountain Republicans, 1865-1900; Politics and the Appalachian Community. Chapel Hill, NC: University of North Carolina Press. Susan E. Keefe. 1985. unpublished field notes. 1994. "Urbanism Reconsidered: A Southern Appalachian Perspective," City and Society, Annual Review, 1, 20-34. Emma Bell Miles. 1975. The Spirit of the Mountains. New York: J. Pott, 1905; reprinted Knoxville, TN: University of Tennessee Press. 1992. "Reluctant Ethnics: The Interplay of Equality and Individualism in Southern Appalachia," paper presented at the annual meeting of the American Anthropological Association, San Francisco. Teena Morefield. 1990. "The Appalachian Culture: Implications for Counselors," unpublished paper, p. 63. Robert Morgan. 1987. "Cleaning Off the Cemetary," in At The Edge of the Orchard Country. Middletown, CT: Wesleyan University Press, p. 52. 1988. "Appalachian Family Ties," in Appalachian Mental Health, ed. Susan Emley Keefe Lexington, KY: University Press of Kentucky. Robert Morgan. 1978. "Mockingbird," in Trunk and Thicket. Fort Collins, CO: L'Epervier Press, p. 42. Susan E. Keefe and Paul Parsons. March 30, 1996. "A Survey of Appalachian and Non-Appalachian Health and Lifestyles Indicators in Watauga County, NC," presented at the annual meeting of the Appalachian Studies Association, Unicoi, GA. Sharlotte Neely. 1991. Snowbird Cherokees: People of Persistence. Athens, GA: University of Georgia Press. Gurney Norman. 1972. Divine Right's Trip, New York: Dial Press Susan E. Keefe, Mark D. Vickery, and Karen Dunlap. 1984. "Watauga County Churches," unpublished ms. Marion Pearsall. 1966. "Communicating with the Educationally Deprived," Mountain Life cfe Work, 42(1), 811. Susan E. Keefe, Janice L. Hastrup, and Sherry F. Thomas. November 21, 1993. "Psychological Testing in Rural Appalachia," presented at the annual meeting of the American Anthropological Association, Washington, DC. William Petersen. 1980. "Concepts of Ethnicity," in Harvard Encyclopedia of American Ethnic Groups. Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press. Susan E. Keefe, Gregory G. Reck, and Una Mae Lange Reck. 1989. "Measuring Ethnicity and Its Political Consequences in a Southern Appalachian High School," in Negotiating Ethnicity: The Impact of Anthropological Theory and Practice, ed. Susan Emley Keefe. Washington, DC: American Anthropological Association, National Association for the Practice of Anthropology, Bulletin No. 8. Thomas Plaut, Suzanne Landis, and June Trevor. 1993. "Focus Groups and Community Mobilization," in Successful Focus Groups: Advancing the State of the Art, ed. David L. Morgan Newbury Park, CA: Sage Press. Mary Beth Pudup. winter 1990. "The Limits of Subsistence: Agriculture and Industry in Central Appalachia," Agricultural History. 64. 61-89. Susan E. Keefe, Una Mae Lange Reck, and Gregory G. Reck. 1983. "Ethnicity and Education in Southern Appalachia: A Review," Ethnic Groups, 5, 199-226. 22 �US Bureau of the Census. 1990 Census of Population, Supplementary Reports, Detailed Ancestry Groups for States. Karl B. Raitz and Richard Ulack. 1991. "Regional Definitions," in Apyalachia: Social Context Past and Present, Third edition, eds. Bruce Ergood and Bruce E. Kuhre. Dubuque, IO: Kendall/Hunt. Melinda Bollar Wagner, Shannon T. Scott, Megan Scanlon, Stacy L. Viers, and Jean A. Kappes. 1995. "It May Not Be Heaven, But It's Close:" Land and People in Craig County, Virginia," Radford, VA: Radford University Appalachian Regional Study Center. Eugeen E. Roosens. 1989. Creating Ethnicity: The Process ofEthnogenesis. Newbury Park, CA: Sage, Anya Peterson Royce. 1982. Ethnic Identity: Strategies of Diversity. Bloomington, IN: Indiana University Press. Altina L. Waller. 1988. Feud: Hatfields, McCoys, and Social Change in Appalachia, 1860-1900. Chapel Hill, NC: University of North Carolina Press. Henry D. Shapiro. 1978. Appalachia on Our Mind: The Southern Mountains and Mountaineers in the American Consciousness, 1870-1920. Chapel Hill, NC: University of North Carolina Press, p. x. Mark Sherrod. 1990. "Asleep in Jesus: Death Rituals in Southern Appalachia," unpublished M.A. thesis, Appalachian State University. David Walls. 1978. "Internal Colony or Internal Periphery? A Critique of Current Models and an Alternative Formulation," in Colonialism in Modern America: The Appalachian Case, eds. Helen Matthews Lewis, Linda Johnson, and Donald Askins Boone, NC: Appalachian Consortium Press. Herb E. Smith. 1983 Strangers & Kin. Whitesburg, KY: Appalshop Films. Mary Waters. 1990. Ethnic Options. Berkeley: University of California Press. Lee Smith. September 8,1994. "The Terrain of the Heart," convocation address at Appalachian State University, Boone, NC, p. 12. Jack E. Weller. 1965. Yesterday's People: Contemporary Appalachia. Lexington, KY: University of Kentucky Press. JohnB. Stephenson. 1968. Shiloh: A Mountain Community. Lexington, KY: University of Kentucky Press. David E. Whisnant. 1983. All That is Native & Fine. Chapel Hill, NC: University of North Carolina Press. John B. Stephenson and L. Sue Greer. 1983. "Ethnographers in Their Own Cultures: Two Appalachian Cases," Human Organization, 40, 123-130. Eliot Wigginton and Margie Bennett, eds. 1984. Foxfire 8. New York: 1st Anchor Books. Life in Charles Williams. 1982. "The Conversion Ritual in a Rural Black Baptist Church," in Holding on to the Land and the Lord: Kinship, Ritual, Land Tenure, and Social Policy in the Rural South, Southern Anthropological Society Proceedings, No. 15, eds. Robert L. Hall and Carol B. Stack Athens, GA: University of Georgia Press. James Still. 1986. "Heritage," in The Wolfpen Poems. Frankfort, KY: Berea College Press, distributed by Gnomon Distribution, p. 82. 1940 River of Earth. New York: The Viking Press. J.W.Williamson. 1995. Hillbillyland: What the Movies Did to the Mountains and What the Mountains Did to the Movies. Chapel Hill, NC: University of North Carolina Press. Ivan Tribe. 1991. "Traditional Appalachian Music/Early Commercial Country Music: Continuity and Transition," in Appalachia: Social Context Past and Present, Third edition, eds. Bruce Ergood and Bruce E. Kuhre. Dubuque, IO: Kendall/Hunt. Margaret R. Wolfe. 1980-81. "The Appalachian Reality: Ethnic and Class Diversity," East Tennessee Historical Society's Publications, 52, 40-60. William H. Turner. 1985. "The Demography of Black Appalachia: Past and Present," in Blacks in Appalachia, eds. William H. Turner and Edward J. Cabbell, Lexington, KY: University Press of Kentucky, p. 257. Walt Wolfram and Donna Christian. 1976. Appalachian Speech, Arlington, VA: Center for Applied Linguistics. William H. Turner. 1985. "Introduction," in Blacks in Appalachia, eds. William H. Turner and Edward J. Cabbell, Lexington, KY: University Press of Kentucky, p. xix. US Bureau of the Census. 1992. 1990 Census of Population, Supplementary Reports, Detailed Ancestry Groups for States, Washington, DC: US Government Printing Office. 23 �Appalachia as defined by the Appalachian Regional Commission in 1996: 399 counties in 13 states �II. Exploring a Region through Quantitative Data Frequencies and Percentages Welcome to Appalachia and the world of social research. You have new technology at your fingertips to explore the region's geography, settlement patterns, successes and problems. You will be using a "student version" of the MicroCase statistics package with real data gathered from a variety of government and private agency sources. The MicroCase software enables you to conduct professional analyses and yet it is easy to use— you'll master its basic commands in a few minutes. By the end of this workbook, you should have a good understanding of the Appalachian Region, be able to conduct your own research, have a solid introduction to the uses of quantitative statistics and be comfortable using computers for research and data analysis. GETTING STARTED The MicroCase statistics software requires an IBM-PC or fully compatible computer with 640K of memory (RAM) and a VGA graphics card. To use the MicroCase program the first time, it's helpful to pair up with a friend or fellow student. One of you can operate the computer while the other reads the instructions. After the first few minutes, you'll be comfortable enough with the program to work individually. To begin, place the disk in the 3.5 inch floppy drive—the A or B drive. Your computer monitor should be displaying the "C prompt," which looks like "C:>". Type A: (or B: if the disk is in the B drive) and press <ENTER>. The computer will change the prompt from the C drive to the A or B drive. When you see A: (or B:) type MC and press <ENTER>. (If you run the program from a Windows environment, you may need to type MCIII and press <ENTER>.) Once you have typed MC and pressed <ENTER>, it will take about 30 seconds for the program to load. The first time you start Student MicroCase, you will be asked to enter your name. It is important to type your name correctly, since it will appear on all printed output. Type in your name and press <ENTER>. If it is correct, simply press <ENTER> in response to the next prompt. (If you need to make a correction, type Y at the prompt and press <ENTER>. The copyright screen will appear. Press <ENTER> to continue to the first of two primary menus. Its border will be blue and labeled DATA AND FILE MANAGEMENT. The menu shows all the choices available with the complete MicroCase statistics package (A through P). The choices you are allowed to make with this abbreviated "student version" of the MicroCase Analysis System are in a darker print and starred, for example *L Open, Look, Erase or Copy File. This is the place to start and you will see that it is automatically marked with a box. (You can move the box with the arrow keys.) 25 �The menu looks like this: DATA AND FILE MANAGEMENT *S. Switch to STATISTICAL ANALYSIS MENU DATA MANAGEMENT A. Define Variables/Recedes B. Collapse/Strip Categories C. Enter Data from Keyboard D. List or Print Variable Values *E. Codebook F. Edit Variable Information G. Grading Recode H. Setup Data Entry FILE MANAGEMENT *!. Open, Look, Erase or Copy File J. Create New Data File K. Create Subset File L. Import/Export Data M. Move Data between Files N. Merge Files O. Create Aggregation File P. Create Statistical Summary *X. EXIT from MicroCase OPEN FILE:C:\APCOUNTY Note that I. Open, Look, Erase or Copy File is highlighted by a box around it. Press <ENTER> and you will see a single file: APCOUNTY. Press <ENTER> again and you will see a new screen with "File Name:C:\APCOUNTY" at the top. Below is a description of the file: "Data on the 399 Federally-designated Appalachian Counties" and a list including the Current Number of Cases: 399. Each of the federally designated Appalachian Region's 399 counties is a case. (The county is the unit of analysis in this data base; other studies might use census tracts, states or nations as the unit of analysis. Surveys use individuals as the unit of analysis.) Next you will see the number of variables: 90. You will be able to compare each of the 399 counties across these 90 variables. For example, you can compare counties in terms of how much money people make (per capita income), average levels of education, percentage of the labor force engaged in mining, percentage of voters who favored Clinton in 1990, etc. Press <ENTER> to continue. Note that the functions that can be used with this trimmed-down version of the software are starred (*), You need the full MicroCase Analysis System to access all the functions. Press the S. Switch to STATISTICAL ANALYSIS menu function (which should have the highlighting box around it) to obtain a listing of statistical procedures. The STATISTICAL ANALYSIS menu has a red border to clearly differentiate it from the blue-bordered DATA FILE AND MANAGEMENT menu. You move between the two menus by pressing S. The STATISTICAL ANALYSIS menu looks like this: 26 �STATISTICAL ANALYSIS *S. Switch to DATA AND FILE MANAGEMENT MENU DATA MANAGEMENT *A. Univariate Statistics *B. Tabular Statistics *C. Analysis of Variance D. Covariance Analysis *E. Mapping Variables *F. Scatterplot *G. Correlation H. Partial Correlation *l. Regression ADVANCED STATISTICAL ANALYSIS J. Regession Models K. Curve Fitting L. Factor Analysis M. Logistic Regression N. Time Series Q. Interactive Batch *X. EXIT from MicroCase OPEN FILE:C:\APCOUNTY OK. You're ready to start exploring Appalachia. Press E. Mapping Variables. At the prompt "Enter name or number of variable to be mapped:" type 2 and press <ENTER>. A map of the Appalachian region will unfold across the screen, state by state. Colors will be added and you will be able to see Appalachia's 399 counties spread across portions of 12 states and all of West Virginia. The Federal Government has determined that Appalachia consists of 399 counties in 13 states. Press D (for distribution) and you will see a list of the counties and states. (Don't worry about the numbers to the right of the county names-I used them here only to color code the states so they would stand out from each other on the map.) Press the Page Down key to scroll down the 399 counties and make a list of Appalachia's thirteen states; 1 8 _ 2 9 _ 3. 10. 4, 11 5_ 12. 6 13 27 �Press <ENTER> to return to the map and press <ENTER> again to get the variable prompt. Type 3 and press <ENTER>, You will see Appalachia divided into three regions: Northern, Central and Southern. In 1974, Appalachian Regional Commission (ARC) planners decided these regions have different strengths and needs that required different strategies for development: The Northern region (coded yellow) includes portions of New York, Pennsylvania, Ohio, Maryland and all but the nine most southeastern counties of West Virginia. Seen as an area having an old or outmoded manufacturing economic base, the 1990 per capita income was $17,265 or 83.6% of the U.S. average, $20,652. The Central Appalachian region (orange) contains the bituminous coal fields and timber. The ARC said that the region had been "plagued for decades" with socioeconomic deficiencies. 1990 per capita income was only $13,073 (76% of the Northern Appalachian subregion and 63.3 % of the U.S. average). Why should an area so rich in resources be so poor? The commission cited the rough mountain terrain and an economy focused on the coal industry (Appalachia magazine, Vol. 8, No. 1, August-September 1974, pp. 10-27). Some critics, such as Jack Weller in his book Yesterday rs People, saw problems in the values and world views of mountain people, while others, such as Helen Lewis (see "Fatalism or the Coal Industry" in Ergood and Kuhre's Appalachia; Social context, Past, Present and Future) traced the problem to damage done by extractive (coal and timber) industries and corporations and government policy. Were the region's problems caused by the values of its residents, or by historical events, such as industrialization? The data you will explore in the coming chapters should help you formulate your own opinion. The Southern region (red), running from the Blue Ridge of Virginia to Mississippi, was described by ARC planners as an area "moving from an agrarian-based economy to a new, modern industrial economy with rapid population growth being the outstanding characteristic of the region." The ARC called for balanced growth between urban and rural areas, diversification of employment opportunities, and a new leadership for economic development. Its 1990 per capita income was $ 16,893 or 81.8% of the U.S. average. Let's see how many counties are in each of the three regions. Press <ENTER> until you return to the STATISTICAL ANALYSIS menu. Select A. Univariate Statistics. At the "Enter the name or number of the variable" prompt, type 3 and press <ENTER>. Bypass the next request for a subset variable by pressing <ENTER> and you will see a "pie chart" containing three slices, each representing one of the three regions. Press the up or down arrow key and you will see a slice "exploded" away from the rest of the pie and identified as "North 144 36.1%," "Central 84 21.1%" or "Southern 171 42.9%." Translated, this means the Northern subregion as having 144 counties, or 36.1 percent of the total of Appalachia's 399 counties. The Central subregion has 84 counties or 21 percent and the Southern has 171 counties or 42.9 percent. Press T and you will see a table. Fill in the blanks (ignoring the columns listing cumulative percent (Cum.%) and Z-Score): 28 �Table 1: Number of Counties in the Appalachian Sub-Regions % Frequency North Central Southern Tables such as this one usually add another row for totals and look like this: Table la; Number of Counties in the Appalachian Sub-Regions Frequency % North Central Southern Total 399 100 Press <ENTER> twice to return to the STATISTICAL ANALYSIS menu and select E. Mapping Variables. Press the F3 function key at the top of your keyboard. A list of all 90 variables in the APCOUNTY data file will appear. You can use the arrow keys to scroll down the list, the page down/up keys to jump down a full screen of 17 variables and the home and end keys to move to the beginning and the end of the list. You can either enter a variable's number at the prompt (as you have already done in previous exercises), or you can use the left arrow key to mark a variable. Practice this by pressing F3 to obtain the list of 90 variables. Arrow down to 5) Highlands on the F3 variable list and press the left arrow to mark it. Press <ENTER> to see a map of those counties designated as "highlands" by ARC planners, who defined them as areas over 1,000 feet above sea level, which consequently have good potential for recreational development. Press F3 again to see that you can obtain the variables list as an overlay on the map. Okay, let's see if you can repeat the process you did for the three Appalachian subregions and create a table showing highland and non-highland counties. Press <ENTER> three times to return to the STATISTICAL ANALYSIS menu. Press A. Univariate Statistics. At the variable prompt, press F3, arrow down to 5)Highlands, press the left arrow to mark it and press <ENTER> twice to bypass the request for a subset. (Don't worry about subsets now; they will be explained in chapter 5.) The pie chart should look like an environmentally (politically?) correct scene, portraying a blue sky above a slightly tilted green mountain. Matching the color code legend in the upper left of the monitor screen with the pie chart, you can see that a majority of Appalachian counties are not highland counties. Press T (for Table) and fill in the following blanks: 29 �Table 2. Highland and Non-Highland Appalachian Counties Frequency % Not High Highlands Total Well done! In these first few pages you have learned how to define Appalachia and its three subregions. You've learned how to access the MicroCase software package, open a data file, make maps and simple tables to describe univariate (one variable) data. In future chapters, you will learn how to compare two variables (bivariate data) or several variables (multivariate data). Simple practice will enable you to move about the MicroCase software comfortably. Practice—playing with data-is central to learning the basic elements of data analysis and how to use the software. The more you play, the more you 77 know. It's similar to learning how to ride a bike or drive a car. At this point I need to explain that statistical maps are not usually used to block out subregions of an area. It's been a good way to introduce you to the software and to Appalachia, but the mapping function is really used to portray the distribution of variables: For example, where is unemployment the highest (and the lowest)? Press <ENTER> twice to return to the STATISTICAL ANALYSIS menu and select E. Mapping Variables. Press F3 and type S. At the Phrase prompt, type "unemployment" and press <ENTER>. A second box appears, listing two variables related to unemployment: 37)UNEMP91 and 38)UNEMP80. Use the left arrow to mark 37)UNEMP91 and press <ENTER> twice to obtain a map of 1991 CIVILIAN LABOR FORCE UNEMPLOYMENT. Take a tour of the black prompts bar at the bottom of the screen. Dist. stands for distribution of cases, from the highest rate or percentage to the lowest. (You used this function previously to discover the states with counties in Appalachia, but, technically, it was not a correct use of the function because there was no rank ordering of states from high to low—it was just a simple list.) If you press D, you will find that Graham County, North Carolina has the highest unemployment rate (25.7%), followed by Elliott County, Kentucky (22.6%). The screen displays the highest 50 cases. Since there are 399 cases over all, you would have to press the Page Down function key seven times to find the county with the lowest unemployment rate, which is Tompkins County, NY (3.4 percent). Press A (for area) to return to the map andpress L for the map's legend, showing the color-coded breakdown of the distribution into five clusters, ranked from lowest to highest scores. Press <ENTER> to return to the map andpress S for spot, which recreates the map with spots and colors depicting unemployment rates. Messy, isn't it? With so many cases (399), spot maps aren't very helpful. Comp allows the comparison of maps for two variables; we will do this in the next chapter. Name points to the county with the highest rate; you can move down the list by using the down arrow key. "Print" enables the printing of maps. 30 �For practice, use the F3 key and the mapping and distribution functions to discover which of the three regions is the most rural of the three regions has the most mining county has the highest mean per capita income county has the highest level of education county has most doctors per person Which Appalachian county is the most interesting to you? Why? Welcome to Appalachia, and a computerized statistical package that enables exploration of a region similar in many ways to the nation that surrounds it, while also maintaining its own unique characteristics. Throughout this book, you will be asked to translate data into your own words. Describing data is a skill that requires practice to learn. Begin this learning process now by writing summary statements about Appalachia and its constituent states and number of counties Appalachia's three regions and their differences 31 �The computer maps and what they can demonstrate. What frequencies can tell you. Why percentages are more helpful in explaining data than frequencies. Some students enjoy summarizing data with computer slide presentation software, such as Microsoft's PowerPoint or Corel's Presentations. You may want to experiment with one of these programs as a means of presenting and explaining data. 32 �Appalachian Settlement Patterns: Discovering a Multi-Cultural Region 1990 Census: Percent claiming Scotch-Irish Ancestry �III. Cultural Diversity in Appalachia Mapping, Rank Ordering and Correlation Coefficients Appalachia enjoys a rich multi-cultural diversity. There are Native Americans and African Americans, Scotch-Irish, German and Italians. Ever heard of the Pennsylvania Dutch? They're not Dutch. They're Deutsche—German. Let's see where the Germans settled in Appalachia. Open the APCOUNTY file, switch to the red STATISTICAL ANALYSIS MENU. Place the highlight on E. Mapping Variables and press <Enter>. Now the screen asks you for the variable you want to map. Type 13 or %German90. What you are mapping is the percent of people in a county who reported any German ancestry in the 1990 census. Type N (for Name) to see which county has the highest percentage of people claiming German ancestry. Snyder, Pa. has the highest percentage: 66.07%. Press the down arrow to find the county with the next highest rate. It is Holmes, Ohio, with a rate of 64.86%. Press <ENTER> to return to the map mdpress D (for distribution). You will see a list of all 399 counties, listed from the county with the highest percent to the lowest. Snyder, Pa. should be at the top. List the top five counties: 1. Snvder.Pa. 2. 3. 4. 5. Press the DOWN ARROW repeatedly (seven times) to scroll down to the bottom of the list of 399 counties. You will find that Benton County, Mississippi has the fewest people claiming German ancestry. List the percentage of people claiming German ancestry in Benton County: . Notice that there is a color coding of the county names. The entire list is broken into fifths, each with its own color. Press <ENTER> to return to the map and type L (for Legend). The legend indicates the ranges used for clustering the counties into five groups (quintiles) of 80 counties each (except for the lowest group which has 79—with 399 counties, one of the clusters had to get short changed.) The highest quintile has counties with percentages of persons claiming German ancestry ranging from 32.90 to 66.87 percent. The lowest quintile has percentages of persons claiming German ancestry ranging from 3.36 to 10.28 percent. Press <ENTER> and look at the map again. Notice how the color coding provides you a quick, graphic view of where Germans settled in Appalachia. The Scotch-Irish also settled in Appalachia. Return to the red STATISTICAL ANALYSIS MENU. Place the highlight on E. Mapping Variables and press <Enter>. Type 15 or %SCT.IRH90. Do you see any clusters of Scotch-Irish? Press D (for distribution) and list the ten counties where the highest percentage of people claim Scotch-Irish ancestry: 34 �L 2, 1 4. 5, 6, 1 JL 10, _ In which state did the most people claim Scotch-Irish heritage? Who are the Scotch-Irish? What can you learn about their origins and the routes they traveled into the mountains? One good source is John C. Campbell's chapter on "Pioneer Routes of Travel and Early Settlements" in his classic The Southern Highlander and His Homeland. (His chapter is reprinted in the Ergood and Kurhre reader cited in the Resources listing on page 113). 35 �What does Susan Emley Keefe say in Chapter 1 about the ethnic identity of the Scotch-Irish, and why might there may be a significant undercount in the numbers of Scotch-Irish claiming their heritage in the 1990 census? The first inhabitants of Appalachia were Native Americans. They arrived in Appalachia long before the Germans, Scotch-Irish and other Europeans and they still thrive in the mountains today. Can you find the counties and states where descendants of Native Americans are clustered? Return to the STATISTICAL ANALYSIS menu. Place the highlight on E. Mapping Variables and press <Enter>. Type 11 or %AMER.IN90. Do you see any clusters of Native Americans? Press D (for distribution) and list the five counties where the highest percentage of people claim such ancestry: 1. 2. 3. 4. 5. What state is most represented? Does this state rank high in terms of people claiming German ancestry? Yes No Does this state rank high in terms of people claiming Scotch-Irish ancestry? Yes No 36 �Do you know what tribe is represented in the high ranked counties? It's the Cherokee. Any web browser such as http://www.google.com/ will take you to web sites containing information on Cherokee history and culture. Record below what you can find out about famous Cherokee leaders and important dates in the history of the Cherokee people. One good web site is http://www.tolatsga.org/Cherokeel.html and http://www.tolatsga.org/Cherokee2.html (This site also has a Cherokee2.html.) Ever hear of the Trail of Tears? Read an eyewitness account by a soldier on the march at http://www.powersource.com/cherokee/burnett.html. What did you learn from John G. Burnett's account of the removal of the Cherokees from Western North Carolina? 37 �Few people realize that African Americans have a proud history in Appalachia. They built the railroads and many worked in the coal mines. Return to the STATISTICAL ANALYSIS menu. Place the highlight on E. Mapping Variables and press <Enter>. Type 18 or %BLACK90. Where is the black population? D (for distribution) and list the five counties where the highest percentage of people claim African American ancestry: 1. 2. 3. 4. 5. What state is most represented? Are Blacks and Germans clustered in the same parts of Appalachia? Yes No Clearly the states having the highest African-American population are in the Deep South, where the plantation economy was driven by the engine of slave and tenant farmer labor. But Blacks also joined the migration north to the coal fields. Type N (for Name) and use the down arrow to find the counties in West Virginia, Pennsylvania and Ohio ranked with the highest percentage of Black population. List them: L _ 2, _ 4. 5, 6, 38 �Did people of different nationalities cluster together in Appalachia? Return to the STATISTICAL ANALYSIS menu. Place the highlight on E. Mapping Variables and press <Enter>. Now press F3 and you will see a list of all the variables in the APCOUNTY data file. Note that variables 11-18 all deal with the percentage of people claiming different ethnic or national ancestry. Type 12 or %ENGLISH90 and press <ENTER> to find what portion of Appalachia has the most people claiming English ancestry. Look at the map carefully and note where the English settled. Press C (for comparison) and, when you are asked for the Name or number of variable for comparison, type 16 or %SCOTTSH90. Do the two maps look the same? Yes No Does it appear that the English and the Scottish settled in the same area? Yes No In the top right-hand corner of the screen is the equation r = "rff . (Enter the number.) for the It is a and as and the or the to in the the association: a and 0.70 in the 0.20-0.50 are are Put 1 (+1 the to a and no way, r is a r: for and are and 1 to Of (for 1 If r is of the 39 1. is a are is no �Press <ENTER> to clear the lower map and, at the prompt for a new comparison variable, type 15 or %SCT.IRH90. Do the two maps look the same? Yes No Does it appear that the English and the Scotch-Irish settled in the same area? Yes No r= Press <ENTER> to clear the lower map and, at the prompt for a new comparison variable, type 11 or %AMERJND90. Do the two maps look the same? Yes No Does it appear that the English and Native Americans settled in the same area? Yes No r= Use ff F3 ff function key to find the variables needed to determine the correlations between people claiming English and Scottish ancestry 0.63 English and Scotch-Irish ancestry English and Native American ancestry German and Italian ancestry German and Black ancestry German and Native American ancestry Would you say that... English and Scottish people seem to have settled in the same areas? Yes Not really Clearly not (circle one) There is a strong moderate - weak - nonexistent (circle one) correlation between these two variables. 40 �English and Scotch-Irish people seem to have settled in the same areas? Yes Not really Clearly not There is a strong moderate - weak - nonexistent (circle one) correlation between these two variables. English and Native American people seem to have settled in the same areas? Yes Not really Clearly not There is a strong moderate - weak - nonexistent (circle one) correlation between these two variables German and Italian people seem to have settled in the same areas? Yes Not really Clearly not (circle one) There is a strong moderate - weak - nonexistent (circle one) correlation between these two variables. German and Black Americans seem to have settled in the same areas? Yes Not really Clearly not There is a strong moderate - weak - nonexistent (circle one) correlation between these two variables. German and Native American people seem to have settled in the same areas? Yes Not really Clearly not There is a strong moderate - weak - nonexistent (circle one) correlation between these two variables. 41 �Now use the codebook function to determine the mean (average) percentage of people in various states claiming different kinds of ethnic heritage. Press <ENTER> until you return to the STATISTICAL ANALYSIS menu. Press S to switch to the blue DATA AND FILE MANAGEMENT menu. Select E. Codebook and follow these instructions carefully: When asked to "Select output device," type 1 and press <ENTER> (to send the data to the screen). Type Y, when asked if you want to stratify (which in this case means break the data down by the thirteen states having counties in Appalachia). Enter 89JSTATESCODE as the stratifying variable. Press <ENTER> to accept 89)STATESCODE as the independent variable. Press <ENTER> again to bypass the request for a subset. When asked for a "list of variables to be included," type 12,13,15,18 and press <ENTER>. You should see the first of four tables, which list "N" counties by each of the 13 states, together with their mean (average) percentage of people claiming English ancestry. The state claiming the highest English ancestry is . Take a moment to list the number of Appalachian counties in each state: New York Pennsylvania Maryland Ohio West Virginia Virginia Kentucky Tennessee North Carolina South Carolina Georgia Alabama Mississippi Total Appalachian Counties Press <ENTER> to find the two states with the highest mean claims to German ancestry. Those states are and Press <ENTER> to find the two states with the highest average citations of Scotch-Irish ancestry. They are and . Press <ENTER> to find the single state where people claim the highest AfricanAmerican ancestry, which is . 42 �To summarize this chapter, you have learned that Appalachia is not a homogeneous stronghold of Anglo-Saxon stock, but rather a heterogeneous, multi-cultural region. that different groups settled in different parts of the region: Germans in Pennsylvania and Maryland, the Scotch-Irish in the Carolinas, etc. that some ethnic groups tended to settle near each other. how to make and read MicroCase maps and how to compare maps. how to find distributions of cases. how to interpret the correlation coefficient "r" as a measure of both the strength and direction of an association between two variables. how to use the codebook function to review data and break data down by units such as states (or regions, etc.). Make a presentation describing settlement patterns and ethnic diversity in the Appalachian region. If available, use computer software such as Microsoft's PowerPoint or Corel's Presentations. If such programs are not available, you can use newsprint and markers. As previously noted, John C. Campbell's chapter on "Pioneer Routes of Travel and Early Settlements" in The Southern Highlander and His Homeland is an excellent resource, as is Susan Emley Keefe's introduction to the region in Chapter 1. 43 �This page intentionally left blank �IV. Demographics: Urbanization and Migration in Appalachia Mapping and Regression Demographics is the study of population and population movements. It looks for characteristics of size, density and migrations of human populations. Now that you know something of the ethnic diversity of the region, look for the concentrations of populations. Open the APCOUNTY file and select A. Univariate statistics. At the prompt, type 6 and press <ENTER> twice, bypassing the request for a subset. You will see a "pie chart" indicating the ratio of metro to nonmetro counties. About a quarter of the pie is metro—25 percent. Press the down arrow key to "explode" the pie, emphasizing the metro piece. This is a simple way of making a chart a little more dramatic for presentation. Press Fto obtain a table which indicates that 75.4 percent of the 399 Appalachian counties (N=301) are nonmetro. Some 24.6 counties (N=98) are metro. as are ), or are 10 (1,2,3,4,5....100) and can in a pie you a pie or bar for but not for or use will and as To get this 1; 21-39=2, the 7 7 up 85 2is into five . Mapping Variables. At the prompt, type 6 mdpress <ENTER>. You will see a two color map indicating counties in (or not in) metropolitan areas variously called "MS As" for Metropolitan Statistical Areas or variations on the same name, such as CMSA=Consolidated Metropolitan Statistical Area. Definitions vary from census to census, but, in general terms, a metropolitan area consists of a central city area of at least 50,000 people, together with any surrounding counties tied to the city by economic and commuting patterns for work and services. If you compare the map you see on your monitor to an atlas, you will find the clusters of counties that make up the metropolitan areas around Birmingham, Ala; Atlanta, Ga; Greenville, SC; Roanoke, VA.; the Knoxville-Bristol corridor in Tennessee; Charleston, W.Va., and Pittsburgh (and much of industrial Pennsylvania). Metropolitan areas appear throughout the mountain region. Press Comp. The screen will divide in two and take about 20 seconds to make a smaller map of the Appalachian region. You will be asked for the "Name or number of variable for comparison:" Enter 7. Another map will appear showing the counties by percentage of population living in urban areas (places of 2,500 people or more). The counties with the highest urban population should be among the counties listed as "MSA, etc." counties in the top map. Let's see if this works; Press <ENTER> three times to return to the variable prompt and type 7. After the map appears press D and write down the 10 counties with the highest percentage of population living in urban areas: 45 �Allegheny. PA. 95.9% Press <ENTER> three times to return to the variable prompt and type 6 to recover the Metro map and type D (for distribution). You'll see 50 counties listed, all coded as M 1, M meaning they are "metro" counties. Press the down arrow to go to the second screen. You'll see another 48 counties listed as metro and the last two as non-metro (coded as "0"). (If you continued to down arrow through the rest of the counties, you would find them all coded as non metro.) Press the home key to return to the top of the distribution list. You should find all of the counties listed above in the metro counties. Another way to look at population is in terms of density, measured as the number of people per square mile. It stands to reason that the highest population density should be in urban areas. Compare variable 7 (1990: PERCENT URBAN) to variable 84 (1990: PERCENT PER SQUARE MILE). Do the maps look the same? yes no, not really Look at the correlation coefficient r in the upper right hand corner of the screen. (To review what "r" is and how it works refer back to page 16 in Chapter 2.) The correlation r is . It is weak moderate strong (circle one). Look at the maps closely and describe the areas where population density is the highest. 46 �Migration patterns can tell a lot about an area. People like to move and stay in places where there are good jobs, schools and services-in sum, where there is a good quality of life. When an economy weakens and jobs disappear, people move elsewhere in search of a better life. In the 1940s and 50s, more than three million people left Appalachia for work in northern and Midwestern cities. In the 1980s, some parts of the Appalachian region lost population while other parts gained it. The MicroCase mapping function shows what areas of the region lost and gained populations. The scatterplot function provides data on associations between migration and levels of income, poverty, etc. Select E. Mapping Variables. At the prompt, type 22 and press <ENTER>. As the map unfolds you'll notice counties color coded according to percentage of increasing or decreasing population between 1980 and 1990. The lightest (yellow) clusters indicate areas where population is decreasing. The darker clusters denote the heaviest population increases. Refer back to the early map of Appalachia's three regions, either by looking in this manual or using the "Comp" (for comparison) function and entering 3. The maps indicate that people are leaving the (Northern/Central/Southern) Appalachian region. people are moving into the (Northern/Central/Southern) region. Press <ENTER> twice to return to the Percent Net Migration map and Press L (for legend). The legend shows two extremes in migration. The table should contain the following information -44.2 <=Val<= -8.9 (79) -8.8 <=Val<= -5.2 (76) -5.1 <=Val<= -1.1 (84) -1.0 <=Val<= 4.2 (78) 4.3 <=Val<= 90.3 (82) The numbers in parentheses ( ) on the right reflect the numbers of counties in each category. Note that in the first category there are 79 counties in which somewhere between 44.2 and 8.9 percent of the people moved out of their county between 1980 and 1990. At the other extreme, there are 82 counties in which somewhere between 4.3 and 90.3 percent of the population moved in. Press <ENTER> to clear the legend from your screen and press Name and you'll see that Gwinnett County, GA led the region in migration with a percent of 90.3-it almost doubled its population! Press the down arrow and you'll see that Dawson, Ga. followed closely with a 85.3% increase. Press the down arrow again and you'll find another Georgia county—Georgia must be on a lot of people's minds! To obtain a full list of migration in and out of all 399 Appalachian counties, press D (for distribution). You will find Georgia's Gwinnett County followed by: 47 �1) Gwinnett 6) 2) 7). 3) 8). 4) 9). 5) 10). Why might people moving to this part of Appalachia. Use the web to find out what makes northern Gwinnet, Dawson, Cherokee and Pike counties in Georgia so attractive. Summarize your findings here: Contrast this list with the counties that lost the most population. Arrow down to the bottom of the list where Jackson, Alabama sits with a loss of 44.2 percent of its population. Look above Jackson and note the trend: which three states' Appalachian counties lost the most population? 1) 2) 3) Why would Georgia gain population while these areas loose it? To answer such questions, researchers look for relationships (also called associations or correlations) between migration and other variables. Since common sense suggests that people follow employment opportunity, let's make a "scatterplot" of the relationship between migration and unemployment. Select F. Scatterplot from the STATISTICAL ANALYSIS menu. At the prompt for the dependent variable type 22 and press <ENTER>. At the prompt for the independent variable, type 37 and press <ENTER> twice. You'll get a graph that should look like this: 48 �Figure 3.1 90.3 Y axis = %MIGRATION M I G R A T O N -44.2 UNEMP 91 3.4 From 3.4% X axis = UNEMP 91 25.7 To 25.7% r = -0.422 This seatterplot should look much better on your computer. To interpret the plot, you need to know the following terms and concepts: 1) Cases: Each dot represents a case. A case in this data is a county, therefore, there are 399 cases. Note the dots on the top, left hand side of the graph, indicating high in migration rates and low unemployment. They must be Gwinnett and Dawson counties in Georgia. Type S (for show case) and then enter "Gwin." The computer types the rest of the name and flashes its location on the graph. Press <ENTER> and type Dawson. It should be flashing right up there next to Gwinnett. What counties have high unemployment? Where would they be located on the graph? They would be found out along the X axis, on the right hand side of the plot. Notice that the dots on the right side are also relatively low on the vertical Y axis, suggesting that unemployment is associated with out migration (the percentage of people leaving a county between 1980 and 1990). 2) Variables: A variable is a characteristic that can change or vary from case to case. The variable which occurs first, or is suspected to cause change in the second variable is called the independent variable; the second or impacted variable is the dependent variable. In this example, the unemployment rate for 1991 (UNEMP 91) would be considered the independent variable and (%MIGRATION) the dependent variable. 3) The Xaxis. Scatterplots show the relationship of two variables to each other along two axes. The X axis is the horizontal measure for the first or "independent" variable. In the example in Figure 3.1, each case's score on the variable UNEMP 91 is located along the X axis, from 3.4 percent to 25.7 percent. 49 �4) The Y axis is a vertical measure the second or "dependent" variable. In Figure 3.1, the dependent variable (%MIGRATION) is charted vertically from -44.2 to +90.3. Each county is plotted on the graph according to its scores on the independent and dependent variables. 5)Association and correlation: Look for the pattern of dots on the graph. The dots seem to descend from the left to the right. You can check this by letting the computer draw a straight line closest to all the dots. Press <ENTER> to leave the "show case" function and return to the scatterplot. Press L (for line) to draw the "regression line." It slopes down from left to right, indicating a "negative association between the two variables." When a line slopes down like this from left to right, it suggests that the higher the score on the independent variable(UNEMP91), the lower the score on the dependent variable (%MIGRATION). In this case, the dependent variable (%MIGRATION) ranges from -44.2% to 4-90.3, so the interpretation would be that higher unemployment is associated with out migration and lower unemployment (or higher employment and job opportunities) correlates with higher migration into a county. The line or "slope" suggesting a negative association looks like this: Figure 3.2 90,3 G R A T I O N -44.2 3.4 UNEMP 91 25.7 6) Outliers: Note that some dots (cases) stand out away from the cluster of dots in the left of the scatterplot. Cases that score farthest away from the average are called "outliers." The outliers in this example will tend to be at the top left and the bottom right of the graph. Press O (for Outlier) and you will see "Outlier: Dawson, GA" appear under the graph and the dot representing Dawson flash in red on the screen. As you would expect, it is in the upper left of the graph—higher in migration is associated with lower unemployment. Now the computer asks if you want to delete this outlier and tells you that if you do, the correlation "r" will change from -0.422 to -0.440 (meaning that eliminating this outlier for the data set makes the association between variables even stronger). Press Y (for Yes!) The computer should tell you that the next outlier is McDowell County, West Virginia. Notice its location on the lower right hand side of the graph—out migration is associated with high unemployment. Press Y again and you'll see the county with the highest unemployment, which is (county, state). If you eliminate this county, the new r = . Continue to Press Y and you see a pattern suggesting in migration to Appalachian Georgia and parts of Pennsylvania and out migration from West Virginia. 50 �7) Slopes: The data suggest that unemployment affects migration. We can hypothesize that unemployment may also have an association with poverty. Press <ENTER> twice to return to the SCATTERPLOT menu and type 39 for the dependent variable and 37 for the independent variable. When the graph appears you'll see that the axis X=UNEMP 91 and Y=%POOR89. Press L (for Line) and you'll see ^positive slope indicating a positive relation between the two variables: Higher rates of unemployment are associated with higher rates of poverty; Pearson's r = 0.543. The scatterplot should look like this: Figure 3.3 52.13 P O O R 3.98 UNEMP 91 25.7 Figure 3.3 is an example of a positive slope, association and correlation. Figure 3.2 is an example of a negative slope, association and correlation. Once more, recreate the original unemployment/migration graph by typing 22 for the dependent variable and 37 for the independent variable. When the graph appears, press L (for Line) and again you will see an example of a negative slope. Incidentally, if the regression line doesn't go up or down, but stays horizontal and parallel to the x axis, it means there is no association between the two variables. In other words, as the scores on the independent variable increase, scores on the dependent variable stay the same; Pearson's r = 0. Updating migration data: Government agencies such as the Census Bureau and the Appalachian Regional Commission are continually updating their data files. Shortly before this reprinting, the ARC published migration data for the 1990-1997 period. Did the trends of the 1980s continue in the 1990s? Select E. Mapping Variables. At the prompt, type 94 and press <ENTER>. You will see a map indicating migration patterns for the 1990-1997 period. Press Comp. The screen will divide in two and take about 20 seconds to make a smaller map of the Appalachian region. You will be asked for the "Name or number of variable for comparison." Enter 22. Another map will appear showing the migration patterns between 1980 and 1990. Do the maps look similar? Yes No What is the correlation coefficient r = 51 Not Sure �Press <ENTER> three times to return to the variable prompt and type 94. After the map appears, press D and write down the ten counties with the highest in-migration in the 1990-1997 period. Compare your results by looking back a page 24 and seeing if these counties also ranked high on the 1980-1990 list. 1990- 1997 Rank Position in 1980-90 Migration 1) 2) 3) 4) 5) 6) 7) 8) 9) 10). Go to the bottom of the migration distribution list and record (from the bottom up) the counties losing the most population. 399) 398) 397) 396) 395) 394) 393) 392) 391) 390) 52 �What might these counties might have in common the could spur out-migration? Create a new scatterplot, using the new data for migration and unemployment rate for 1996. Select F. Scatterplot from the STATISTICAL ANALYSIS menu. At the prompt for the dependent variable type 94 and press <ENTER>. At the prompt for the independent variable, type 96 and press <ENTER> twice to bypass the subset request. When the scatterplot appears,press Line and write in the labels for the X AXIS and the Y AXIS and draw in the regression line: YAXIS XAXIS r= N: Prob: Describe the strength (the correlation coefficient "r") and direction (positive or negative) of the relationship between unemployment and migration in the 1990-1997 period. Is this correlation stronger or weaker than the correlation for 1980-1990 (see Figure 3.1 on page 27)? 53 �Review. This chapter introduces a number of new terms. Write out definitions for the following list in your own words. The glossary at the end of the book can help you, but writing descriptions out will help you make them part of your own working knowledge. Case Unit of analysis Demographics Population density Metropolitan Statistical Area (MSA, CMSA, PMSA) Migration Correlation coefficient "r" Levels (scales) of measurement: Variable Independent variable Dependent variable Categorical variables: Continuous variable Xaxis Y axis Strength of association between variables Positive association between variables Negative association between variables 54 �You need to review these terms until you can explain them to yourself comfortably—until they become part of your working vocabulary. They will improve your ability to see relationships between variables and make choices. For example, if you didn't have strong ties to a particular place but wanted a good job, where would you go? Georgia Eastern Kentucky West Virginia (check one) Use the scatterplot function to discover other variables your findings here, using at least six of the terms listed above to explain your findings. For example, you could report on the relationship between migration and the percentage of the labor force involved in manufacturing — or mining. Now that you see how data can help us understand the relationships between variables such as unemployment, poverty and migration, you're ready to begin an analysis of Appalachia' s economy. 55 �Northern, Central and Southern Appalachian Regions 56 �V. The Appalachian Economy I: Comparing Subregions Analysis of Variance (ANOVA) in Group Scores In the last chapter we explored the association of migration in and out of Appalachian counties with economic factors such as unemployment. Maps and scatterplots were the statistical tools employed in the exploration process. We can use another tool called analysis of variance, to compare migration by the three Appalachian subregions—the North, Central and Southern. From the STATISTICAL ANALYSIS MENU select C. Analysis of Variance. At the dependent variable prompt, type 22 (or %migration) and press <ENTER>. At the independent variable prompt, enter 3 (or "Three Regn," an abbreviation for Three Regions,) andpress <ENTER> twice (bypassing the request for a subset variable). You will see the following graph: Figure 4.1 90.3 Y% M I G R -44.2 VALUEOF 1 THREE REGN What you see on the computer monitor should be superior to Figure 4.1. Press X for the x axis variable label. It tells you that the horizontal axis "Three Regn" (three regions) is broken into three groups: 1) North, 2) Central and 3) Southern Appalachian subregions. Each dot represents a single county. The counties are clustered vertically in three columns by subregion and run up or down the plot according to their in or out migration percentage. The rectangular boxes are indicators of the spread of variance in individual county scores from their group (region's) average or mean score, which is marked by the horizontal line in the middle of the box. A taller box means that a group's scores are more widely spread. The boxes mark the spread of scores one standard deviation above and below the mean score, which includes approximately the 68 percent of that group's cases closest to the average score. The dots at the extreme top and bottom of the columns represent outliers. The line running horizontally across the chart connects the means for each group. Notice how the line slopes down between Groups 1 and 2 and slopes up between Groups 2 and 3. Since Group 2 is Central Appalachia, this region must have the lowest mean score. Southern Appalachia has the highest. Press <ENTER> to continue. 57 �Press M (for means) and you'll find the average migration score for each region in the following table: Table 4.1 N: 399 (counties/cases) Region Missing (counties/cases): N (number of counties) Mean (Average % migration) North 144 -4.344 Central 84 -7.005 Southern 171 0 4.046 Central Appalachia had the most out migration (-7.005). The Northern region also lost population, while the Southern gained it. Why would people want to leave Central Appalachia? Might it be a lack of jobs? Press <ENTER> and, at the dependent variable prompt, type 37)UNEMP 91. Enter 3)Three Regn for the independent variable. Note the line connecting the mean scores for each group; it seems like an inversion of the previous plot: Central Appalachia has the highest mean score for unemployment and the Southern region had the lowest. Press M (for Mean) and record the scores below: Table 4.2 N: 399 (counties/cases) Region Missing (counties/cases): N (number of counties) North 84 Southern Mean (Average % unemployment) 144 Central 171 Describe your results: Which region has the highest unemployment? The lowest? 58 0 �Compare Appalachia's three regions according to the following dependent variables: 1. 32) PERCAP 92 by 3) Three Regions When the table appears, type Y and "write in the long label for PERCAP 92 here; Press M (for Mean) and record the scores below: Region Mean (PERCAP 92) North Central Southern Convert the numbers under "Mean (PERCAP92)" into dollars and round off to the nearest dollar ($15,249). Describe your findings, region by region. (This may seem a little tedious, but this is part of data analysis). Do one more procedure before leaving this table: press A for ANO VA (analysis of variance). Write in the numbers for the p = 22 _ p (probability) = These figures will explained in more detail at the end of the chapter (page 71). Basically, the F ratio is a measure of how much of the variation in scores occurs within each region as compared to between the three regions. The higher the F ratio, the bigger the differences between regions. The "p value" or probability is an indication of our chances of being wrong in claiming the difference in scores between the regions is "statistically significant." To be significant, the probability of being wrong must be less than 1 chance in 20 or .05. The Eta square ("E2") indicates how much of the variance in the dependent variable (PERCAP 92) is explained by the independent variable "Three Region." 59 �Go back in time to 1981 and record per capita income in 1981: Enter variable 88) PERCAP 81 by variable 3) THREE REGN When the table appears, type Y and write in the long label for PERCAP 81: Press M (for Mean) and record the scores below: Region Mean (PERCAP 81) North Central Southern Remember to round off and convert to dollars. Now update your findings to 1995. Try variable 92) PERCAP 95 by 3) Three Regions: When the table appears, type Y and write in the long label for PERCAP 95: Press M (for Mean) and record the scores below: Region Mean (PERCAP 95) North Central Southern Describe your results. Can you find any trends from 1981 to 1992 to 1995? 60 �2. 27) H.S.GRAD90 by 3) THREE REGN When the table appears, type Y and write in the long label here: Press M (for Mean) and record the scores below: Region Mean (H.S. Grad90) North Central Southern Sometimes decision makers want to know how much more one percentage or rate is over another. They compute this by subtracting one rate from the other, dividing by whichever is the "base rate" being used for comparison and then multiplying by 100 to convert the ratio into a percentage. In this case, if we want to know how much the North's mean education rate is higher than the Central Region rate, we would compute; North - Central Central 41.595-30.039 30.079 11.516 30.079 =0.3828x100 = 38.29% The North's mean percentage of those 25 and over who have a high school degree is 38.29 percent higher than of the Central subregion. This method of portraying differences between rates is commonly used by public health officials. Practice this technique in each of the exercises in the rest of the chapter. Write in the numbers for the F = E2 = p (probability) = 61 �3. 41)POORFAM89by3)THREEREGN When the table appears, type Y and write in the long label here: Press M (for Mean) and record the scores below: Region Mean (POOR FAM89) North Central Southern Anything interesting? The Central subregion's mean score is subregion. Describe your results: percent above that of the North Write in the numbers for the F = E2 = p (probability) = 62 �4: 53) MANUF.S90 by 3) THREE REGN When the table appears, type Y and write in the long label; Press M and record the scores below: Region Mean (MANUF.S90) North Central Southern The North subregion's mean salary in manufacturing is subregion. Describe your results: percent above that of the Central Write in the numbers for the F = E2 = p (probability) = 63 �5: 56) RETAIL $90 by 3) THREE REGN When the table appears, type Y and "write in the long label: Enter the mean scores: Region Mean (RETAIL $90) North Central Southern The North subregion's mean salary in retail sales is only subregion. Describe your results: . percent above that of the Central Write in the numbers for the F = E2 = p (probability) = 64 �6: 59) SERVICES$90 by 3) THREE REGN When the table appears, type Y and "write in the long label: Enter the mean scores: Region Mean (SERVICES$90) North Central Southern The North subregion's mean salary in services is only subregion. Describe your results: percent above that of the Southern Write in the numbers for the F = E2 = p (probability) = 65 �7: 51) % MINE EM90 by 3) THREE REGN When the table appears, type Y and "write in the long label: Enter the mean scores: Region Mean (%MINE EM90) North Central Southern Describe these very interesting results, using percentage differences comparisons between the Northern and Central regions and the Central and Southern regions. Write in the numbers for the F = E2 = p (probability) = 66 �8: 54) %MANUF.E90 by 3) THREE REGN When the table appears, type Y and write in the long label: Enter the mean scores; Region Mean (%MANUF.E90) North Central Southern The Northern subregion's mean percentage of people employed in manufacturing is above that of the Central subregion. Describe your results: Write in the numbers for the F = E2 = p (probability) = 67 percent �9: 66) FARM VAL87 by 3) THREE REGN When the table appears, type Y and write in the long label: Enter the mean scores: Region Mean (FARM VAL87) North Central Southern The Northern subregion's mean farm value is Describe your results: percent above that of the Central subregion. Write in the numbers for the F = E2 = p (probability) = 68 �9: 45) DR.RATE90 by 3) THREE REGN When the table appears, type Y and write in the long label; Enter the mean scores: Region Mean (DR.RATE90) North Central Southern The Northern subregion's mean value for active nonfederal physicians per 100,000 is percent above that of the Central subregion. Describe your results: Are there some outliers in the Northern region that might exaggerate their rate? Write in the numbers for the F = E2 = p (probability) = 69 �10: 44) INFANT90-2 by 3) THREE REGN When the table appears, type Y and write in the long label: Enter the mean scores: Region Mean (INFANT90-2) North Central Southern How do these results differ from previous findings? What other factors (variables) might explain this difference? Write in the numbers for the F = E2 = p (probability) = 70 �In the past ten exercises, we have focused on comparing the mean scores of the three subregions (categories of the independent variable) for a number of dependent variables (infant mortality rates, families in poverty in 1989, etc.). Analysis of Variance (ANOVA) provides additional statistical tools to assess the impact of the categories of the independent variable on the scores of the dependent variable. If you are using this text in a statistics course, your instructor will explain ANOVA in detail. Briefly, the analysis of variance procedure indicates how much of the variance between all the scores (399 scores/counties in our data set) is explained by an independent variable. For example, how much of the poverty in an Appalachian county can be explained by the fact that it is located in the Central Appalachian subregion? ANOVA computations lead to an "F ratio," in which the numerator is a measure of the differences between group (Appalachian subregion) average (mean) scores and the denominator is a measure of the differences in the case/county scores within each group. In the form of an equation differences between group means _ differences between scores within groups If the independent variable accounts for or explains much of the variance in scores, the F will be large: 50/2=25. If the groups means are pretty close to each other and most of the variance is within the groups, the F will be small: 2/50= 04. Return to variable 41)POOR FAM 89, as an example, for the dependent variable and 3)Three Region as the independent variable. When you get the bar and whisker plot, press A (for ANOVA). You will find the F ratio=l 18.152. That's a high score, which suggests that much of the variance in scores is a result of the location of a county in a particular subregion. The Eta square ( "E2") indicates that 0,374 (37.4 percent) of the variance is explained by the independent variable "Three Region." E2 = Repeat the procedure for 53)MANUF.$90. F = What percentage of the variance in manufacturing salaries is explained by a county's location in a particular region? The answer is E2 multiplied by 100: Find the F ratio for variable 27)H.S.GRAD90 F= _ E2 = How much of the variance in the percentage of people over 25 with a high school diploma is explained by a county's location in a particular region Find the F ratio for variable 44)INFANT 90-92 F = E2 = How much of the variance in the three year infant mortality rate is explained by a county's location in a particular region? In summary, you can see that a county's location in one of Appalachia's subregions makes a difference in manufacturing salaries, poverty and educational opportunity, but not in infant mortality rates. 71 �You can continue your comparison of Appalachia's three subregions with tables, which explore relationships between two categorical variables: Press <ENTER> until you return to the STATISTICAL ANALYSIS menu and select B. Tabular Statistics. At the prompt for the row variable type 87)DISTRSDCOLL, which is a measurement of the overall economic condition of counties as assessed by the Appalachian Regional Commission in 1988. The counties are ranked from "severely distressed" at the low end to "strong/very strong." For the column variable, enter 3)THREE REGN to break the county economic rankings down by the North, Central and Southern subregions. Press <ENTER> twice to bypass requests for control variables and subsets. When the table appears, look carefully at the number of severely distressed counties in the three subregions. Of the 144 counties in the North region, 13 are severely distressed, as are 26 of 171 Southern counties. But the Central Appalachia has 50 severely distressed counties out of its total of 84. It's easier to compare these numbers if you convert them to percentages. Press C (for column percentages) and enter the results below: North 9.0% Central Southern Central Appalachia's economic difficulty is obvious. Try one more table. Press <ENTER> to return to a new request for a row prompt and enter 86)PC%US92col. This is a comparison of each county's average income with the national average. If a county per capita income scored as 100% of the U.S. average, it would be the same as the U.S. average. If it scored 125%, it would be 25% higher than the national average. If it scored 50%, its average (mean) income would be half of the U.S. average. To find out how Central Appalachia compares to the other two subregions, enter 3)THREE REGN again as the column variable. Press <ENTER> twice and, when the table appears, type C to obtain the column percentages (which appear in blue). Write in the percentage of counties in each region with incomes of only 45-60% of the national average. North Central Southern Describe your results: 72 �In this chapter, you have learned about some differences between the three Appalachian subregions and about two statistical tools helpful in analyzing those differences: Analysis of Variance (ANOVA) and tabular statistics. Future chapters will provide more information about these statistical tools and when to use them. For the moment, concentrate on what you have discovered about Appalachia by writing a comparative summary of the economic status of its three subregions. Cite the data you have generated on the previous pages! Compare dependent variables such as per capita income and mean (average) pay in manufacturing as they differ across the three subregions. Use the new tools at your disposal: percentages more or less; F ratios, probability scores for statistical significance and Eta square (E 2 ). 73 �This page intentionally left blank �VI. The Economy II: Industry and Opportunity Correlations and Regressions the two in oo are the are or is 22 for as 2) and 3) are 6)CITY, We by are by can be a and the has The is or 1) the on 3) are in the as We and as in for are that on the "C" is for the the or "P1 and (VII). and "I" are in a "B" is for and Comparative data explored in the previous chapter found real differences in income, education and services between the three Appalachian subregions. Continuous variables such as per capita income and percentage of people over 25 who have completed high school were compared across three categories: Northern, Central and Southern Appalachian regions. But there also appeared to be relationships between the continuous variables: For example, Central Appalachia had the highest unemployment rates and the lowest high school graduation rates. Might these two continuous variables be associated with each other? From the STATISTICAL ANALYSIS menu, select F. Scatterplot Type 37 (UNEMP 91) for the dependent variable and 27 (H.S.GRAD90) for the independent variable mdpress <ENTER> twice. After the scatterplot appears,press L to obtain the regression line. Notice that the line is almost flat, indicating no significant relationship between unemployment and percentage of people completing high school. Regression lines enable you to quickly assess the strength and direction of an 75 �association between two variables by the steepness of its slope: a horizontal line indicates that as the independent variable increases nothing happens to the dependent variable—it stays the same. So the steeper the slope, the stronger the relationship. If the slope goes from the lower left of the plot to the upper right, it is called a "major diagonal" and the relationship is positive: the higher the high school graduation rate, the higher the unemployment rate. If the regression line moves down from the upper left towards the lower right, it is a "minor diagonal" and the association is negative: the higher the high school graduation rate, the lower the unemployment rate. Continuing our analysis of the Appalachian economy, we might hypothesize a relationship between mean county education level and unemployment rates: the higher percentage of people with a high school diploma, the lower the unemployment rate. Let's see: Figure 5.1. 1991 County Unemployment Rates by percentage of people over 25 with High School Degrees. u N E M P 9 1 3.4 18.86 r = 0.080 H.S.GRAD90 52.56 Prob. = 0.055 Note the flat regression line-almost horizontal-and that the correlation coefficient V1 is only 0.080. It should be at least 0.10 to suggest even a weak relationship. You may recall from Chapter II (page 16) statistician William Fox's rough measures for strength of association between variables. r > .70 .50 < r < .70 Very strong relationship Strong relationship .20 < r < .50 Moderate relationship . 10 < r < .20 Weak relationship r <. 10 Negligible relationship 76 �By the is that = 5.1? "Prob." for the has a a to in the can be to the 399 set was a the in the we use the to two in the is for us to that it in is or are to say that the in the is and will be in the in and is no are out of or one in 20, It's or and the the two is no or "p the we say p < the the will say that that the for an (or to by as we the to the = is less one in a all of a for a Create your own scatterplot, this time looking at unemployment in 1980 (38: UNEMP 80) as the dependent variable and median school years education completed by people in Appalachian counties over 25 years of age (29: MED.EDUC80) as the independent variable. (The median education variable was not available for 1990, so I had to move back to the previous census.) 1) Describe the slope and direction of the regression line (positive or negative; steep or gradual): 2) The Pearson Product-Moment Correlation r = 3) This tells us that the higher the level of education, the higher/lower (circle one) the unemployment rate. 4) Therefore, the relationship between the two variables is strong/moderate/weak (circle one), positive/negative (circle one). 5) The probability ("prob.") of error in saying we have a relationship between educational level and unemployment is . You now have the data you need to report your findings. For example, in this case you would report "there was a moderate, negative correlation between mean county educational level and unemployment in 1980, r = -.27, p>.001. The higher the educational level, the lower the unemployment rate." The "p value" or probability indicates that virtually no chance (stated as less than one chance in a thousand) that our correlation is due to random causes. 77 �Researchers are often asked to suggest relationships between variables before the research is conducted. A statement about a possible relationship between variables is called a hypothesis (literally "little thesis"). Thus we can initially hypothesize that "There is a strong, positive association between per capita income and level of educational attainment in Appalachian counties." Usually, hypotheses are flipped around to suggest that there is no association between variables. These are called null hypotheses, positing "null" or no relationship between variables. In this example we would say, "There is no relationship between per capita income and level of educational attainment in Appalachian counties." Let's see if we can reject our null hypothesis. Enter 32)PERCAP 92 as the dependent variable and 29)MED.EDUC80 as the independent variable. We find that there is/is not (choose one) a , relationship between per capita income and median education (r = p>0.001). , We-reject--fail to reject-(choose one) the null hypothesis! Note that, although the data tells us that p = 0.000, it's better to say there's always a chance of the correlation coefficient being the result of random factors, even if it's only one in a thousand1/1000-0.001! In the last chapter, you found that the economic indicator rates for Central Appalachia varied considerably from the other two subregions. Its economy was marked by more mining and less manufacturing, lower levels of education and services and higher levels of poverty and unemployment. With correlation analysis, we can further explore the association between these two continuous variables. On the SCATTERPLOT menu, type in 37)UNEMP91 for the dependent variable and 51)%MINE EM90 as the independent variable. I'll duplicate the graph here: Figure 5.2. 1991 Unemployment Rate and Percentage of Labor Force in Mining. %MINE EM90 r=0.415 Prob. =0.000 78 N:399 �Notice how most of the cases cluster on the lower left; there is little or no mining in most of Appalachia's counties. Also note the positive slope and that r = 0.415. We can reject the null hypothesis of no relationship between mining and unemployment; there is a solid, moderate, positive association between the two variables. WAIT JUST A MINUTE! MIGHT ALL THOSE NON-MINING COUNTIES, STACKED UP LIKE A BAD CASE OF ACNE IN THE LOWER LEFT HAND CORNER OF THE PLOT, EXAGGERATE THE RELATIONSHIP BETWEEN UNEMPLOYMENT AND THE PERCENTAGE OF THE WORK FORCE EMPLOYED IN MINING? Well...hmm. Since we know that most of the mining occurs in Central Appalachia (see page 42), we can use the subset function to narrow our focus to its 84 counties. Again, on the SCATTERPLOT menu, type in 37)UNEMP 91 for the dependent variable and 51)%MINE EM90 as the independent variable. When asked for the "name or number of variable 1 for defining subset," enter 3. The computer says we have chosen "3) Three Regn," and that its low value is 1 and its high value is 3. It then asks for the lower limit. Type in 2. The computer says that 2 stands for the Central region and asks for the upper limit. Type in 2 again and press <ENTER> twice to bypass the second request for a subset. With the regression line added, your graph should look like this: Figure 5.3. 1991 Central Appalachian counties' unemployment by percentage of labor force employed in the mines. 25.7 U N E M P 9 1 3.4 %MINE EM90 r = 0.401 Prob. = 0.000 79 36.63 n: 84 �What does it show? The Central Appalachian subset of 84 counties has a correlation coefficient r = 0.401. There still is a moderate, positive relationship saying that higher percentages of workers engaged in mining is associated with higher levels of unemployment. (And a subset is a group or groups selected out from a variable containing a larger number of groups.) Let's continue our analysis by exploring the relationship between mining and poverty. Press <ENTER> until you return to the STATISTICAL ANALYSIS menu. Select G. Correlation. This selection gives you the Pearson Product-Moment Correlation r for as many variables as you'd like to explore at one time. The easiest way to select your variables is to use the F3 key. Press F3 and use the down arrow to move down the list of variables. Select 51) %MINE EM91 with the left arrow key, then use the up arrow and left arrow again to select 39)%POOR 89; 41) POOR FAM89 and 43)CHLD POOR89. (The right arrow key provides the long label for each variable.) Press <ENTER> twice to bypass another the prompt for a fifth variable and the subset request. You will see a correlation matrix in which each variable is correlated with every other variable. 51)%MINEEM9 39)%POOR89 41)POORFAM89 51)%MINEEM90 1.000 0.478** 0.513** (399) (399) (399) 39)%POOR89 0.478** 1.000 0.986** (399) (399) (399) 41)POORFAM89 0.513** 0.986** 1.000 (399) (399) (399) 43)CHLDPOR89 0.473** 0.971** 0.970** (399) (399) (399) 43)CHLDPOR89 0.473** (399) 0.971** (399) 0.970** (399) 1.000 (399) The first column (columns run up and down; rows left to right) provides the correlations (r) we're after. Note that r =1.000 in the first cell; that's because %MINE EM90 correlates perfectly with itself. (A line of 1.000 scores goes diagonally down the matrix, as variables are correlated with themselves. This is computer junk! Ignore it. Just use the correlations listed below the 1.000 line.) Note also that the (399) entries are a reflection of the number of cases (399 Appalachian counties). Now that you see how a matrix works, look at how the percentage of the workforce involved in mining correlates with the percentage of poor people in a county: r = 0.478. The correlation is 0.513 with poor families and 0.473 with poor children. We can conclude that all of these measures of poverty have a consistent, strong, positive association with mining in Appalachia.(Remember that "positive" does not mean "good," but rather tells of the direction of the relationship between the two variables: as one goes up, so does the other. In a negative relationship, as one variable goes up, the other goes down. Think of the slope of a regression line in a scatterplot.) Why should a vigorous, productive activity like mining be associated with unemployment and poverty? Your instructor can refer you to a number of sources about the history of mining and corporate activity in the Central Appalachian coal fields. Some authors to explore in an initial search in your school library or on the Internet are Ronald D Eller, Helen Lewis, John Gaventa and Steve Fisher. If you live in a coal mining area, you might talk with some miners and coal mine owners. 80 �Is the relationship of mining to factors such as poverty and unemployment unique? What about other areas of the economy: manufacturing, retail and services? Construct a correlation matrix for 54)%MANUF.E90,37) UNEM 91,39) POOR 89; 41) POOR FAM and 43) POOR CHILD. List the correlations below: 54)%MANUF.E90 37) UNEMP 91 r= 39) POOR 89 r= 41)POORFAM89 r= 43) CHLD POOR89 r Explain these results, remembering that a minus sign (-) indicates a negative (or inverse) relationship between variables. (An inverse relationship is one where the score on the dependent variable decreases as the independent variable increases.) 81 �Construct the same matrix again, only this time select Central Appalachia as a subset. At the "enter a list of variables" prompt, type in 54)%MANUF.E90, 37)UNEM 91, 39)POOR 89, 41)POOR FAM and 43) POOR CHILD. Press <ENTER> and, at the subset prompt, type 3 and then 2 for both low and high values. List the correlations below 54)%MANUF.E90 37)UNEMP91 r= 39) POOR 89 r= 41)POORFAM89 r= 43) CHLD POOR89 f* ZSZ Surprise! I bet you didn't expect this. Compare these results to the previous table: 82 �Construct the same matrix for the North subregion. At the subset prompt, type 3 and then 1 for both low and high values. List the correlations below: 54)%MANUF.E90 37) UNEMP 91 r= 39) POOR 89 r= 41)POORFAM89 r= 43) CHLD POOR89 r= Remember the federal government's description of the North subregion as having an old and outmoded manufacturing base? Manufacturing here is not having the same positive impact it appears to be having in Central Appalachian counties. Let's see how poverty associates with different kinds of economies. Variables 50) MINING %90; 52)MANUFCT%90; 55) RETAIL%90 AND 58) SERVICES%90 report the earnings from mining, manufacturing, retail and services as a percentage of a county's overall income. Some counties will have much more manufacturing, for example. Does more of one kind of economy associate with less poverty—do different economic bases carry different economic life chances? At the CORRELATION menu prompts for variables, type 39, 50, 52, 55, 58. Enter the results in the following table: 39) %POOR 50) MINING %90 r= 52) MANUFCT%90 r= 55) RETAIL%90 r= 58) SERVICES%90 r= Mining is positively/negatively (choose one) associated with poverty and the relationship is weak/moderate/strong (choose one). With r = 0.032, retailing has no association with poverty. Manufacturing has a strong/moderate/weak (choose one), positive/negative (choose one) association with poverty, while services have a (Fill in the blank) relationship. In summary, it appears that the two economic areas with the strongest correlation with poverty are and 83 �In this chapter, you have used scatterplots, regression lines and correlations to explore the relationships between education, types of economies, unemployment and poverty. You have learned how to use hypotheses and a correlation matrix. If you were a county commissioner or planner, what kind of economic base would you want for your constituents? If the software is available, put together a Microsoft PowerPoint or Corel Presentations slide show, showing the advantages and disadvantages of different economic development plans. (My students enjoy presenting their plans to each other and other faculty.) 84 �VII: Voting Patterns and Economic Conditions Tables, x2> and Nonparametric Measures of Association In previous chapters, we have analyzed relationships between continuous, numerical variables (frequencies, rates and percentages) and between continuous and categorical variables, such as 3)THREE REGN and 6)CITY. We sought to discover associations among continuous variables with scatterplots, correlations and regressions. We broke down continuous variables by the values of a categorical variable, with analysis of variance (ANOVA). Now we will use tabular analysis to explore relationships between two categorical variables. Let's begin by constructing some tables showing voting by Appalachian subregion. From the red STATISTICAL ANALYSIS menu, select B. Tabular Statistics. At the "Enter the name or number of the row variable" prompt, type 83)PRES.VT92. Press <ENTER>. At the column variable prompt, enter 3)THREE REGN. Press <ENTER> three times to bypass the request for a control variable and a subset variable. You will see a table with the following information: Table 7.1. Counties voting Republican or Democratic in the 1992 presidential election broken down by the three Appalachian subregions. Central North DEMOCRATIC 66 REPUBLICAN TOTAL Southern 53 66 185 76 30 103 209 Missing 2 1 2 5 TOTAL 142 83 169 394 . The table tells us that of the 142 counties reporting in the North subregion, 66 went Democratic and 76 Republican. There is no data on two counties. For the Central region, 53 went Democratic and 30 Republican and in the Southern region it was 66 and 103. In the TOTAL column on the right, we see that the Democrats took 185 counties in Appalachia as a whole and the Republicans beat them with 209. It appears that the Republicans did better in the North and Southern subregions while the Democrats carried the Central subregion. But this is a table of raw numbers or what researchers call "frequencies." The problem with frequencies is that it's hard to make comparisons between the different regions. What does "66" mean when compared to "53?" If frequencies are converted to percentage ratios, where each column totals 100 (instead of 142-83-169), making comparisons is easy. Press Col.% (column percentages). Below the frequencies you'll see the percentages appear, color coded in blue. 85 �Table 7.2: Frequencies and percentages of counties voting Republican or Democratic in the 1992 presidential election, broken down by the three Appalachian subregions. North Central Southern TOTAL DEMOCRATIC 66 53 66 185 % Democratic 46.5 63.9 39.1 47.0 REPUBLICAN 76 30 103 209 % Republican 53.5 36.1 60.9 53.0 Missing 2 1 2 5 TOTAL (frequencies) 142 83 169 394 100.0 100.0 100.0 100.0 TOTAL (Percent) The percentages immediately enable us to make comparisons. In 1992, the Democrats carried 46.5% of the North counties, 63.9% of the Central and 39.1 % of the Southern. They're stronger in Central Appalachia, but the Republicans carried 53 percent of the region as a whole. Have these percentages changed over time? Remember Ronald Reagan? He was elected president in 1980. How did the Republicans do when he led their party? Select B. Tabular Statistics. At the "Enter the name or number of the row variable" prompt, type 80)PRES.VT80. Press <ENTER>. At the column variable prompt, type 3)THREE REGN. Press <ENTER> three times to bypass the request for a control variable and a subset variable. Enter only the percentages (listed in yellow) below: Table 7.3: Percentages of counties voting Republican or Democratic in the 1980 presidential election, broken down by the three Appalachian subregions. Percentage of counties voting: North DEMOCRATIC Central Southern 26.1 100.0 100.0 REPUBLICAN TOTAL 100.0 Comparing the percentages found in Table 7.2 to those in Table 7.3, we find that the subregion that had the highest percentage change between 1980 and 1992 was the Northern Central — Southern (circle one), with a difference of _ 86 _percent. �Why might voters in this region have changed party allegiance between 1980 and 1992? Did anything happen to the economy or political life of the nation to prompt this switch? If so, why might the chosen party policies be preferable, given the change in economic fortunes? Let's look at the Republicans. Did the voters like Ronald Reagan in 1984, after his first four years in office? Enter 81 as the row variable and 3 as the column variable and/ill in the cells in Table 7.4. Table 7.4: Percentages of counties voting Republican or Democratic in the 1984 presidential election, broken down by the three Appalachian subregions. Percentage of counties voting: North Central Southern 100 100 100 DEMOCRATIC REPUBLICAN TOTAL Hmm. If I were the president, with these results, I'd be pretty 87 �Are there differences in voting patterns between the three subregions? Remember Central Appalachia has been dominated by a single industry—the coal industry, with a long history of conflict between working people and large corporations that control land, resources and often local government, including law enforcement. It is not surprising that residents would support a political party with a more activist view of the federal government working to protect the environment and the rights and well being of blue collar workers. You have also seen in chapters 1 and 4 that Central Appalachia is, economically, the worst off of the three regions. Do counties in increasingly difficult economic straits favor the Democrats? Let's hypothesize (make an educated guess of) a positive correlation between increasing economic distress and support for the Democrats—that higher percentages of distressed counties will vote Democratic. The Appalachian Regional Commission's Distressed Counties Program began in 1983 to provide special funding for the region's poorest counties. To qualify for Distressed County status, a county must have an unemployment rate at least 150% of the U.S. rate of 5.7 (8.6% or higher), 150% of the U.S. poverty rate of 13.1% (19.7% or higher) and less than 67% of the U.S. Per Capita Market Income of $19,305 ($12,934 or lower) or 200% of poverty and one other indicator. (Per capita market income is per capita income less transfer payments.) At the row variable prompt, type 83)PRES.VT92 and, at the column variable prompt, enter 87)DISTRSDCOL. This last variable ranks counties from severely distressed to economically strong. Write in the percentage of counties supporting the Democrats in each of the four categories of the independent variable DISTRSDCOL: Table 7.5 Counties going Democratic or Republican in the 1992 presidential election by economic status of county. Severely Distressed Distressed Middle Strong Very Strong Democratic Republican Do you see any trend here? Look across the rows. The more distressed the counties, the more they tend to favor the Democrats: 65 percent of the severely distressed counties support them, while 70 percent of the counties in strong (good economic) condition voted Republican. �Notice that the cell differences are mostly greater than 10 percent across the table. Researchers assume that differences greater than 10 percent are "significant." They also have a more precise way of testing for significance, called a "chi-square." Press Stat (for statistics) and you'll see that Chi-square: 15.608 (Prob. = 0.000) To repeat what has been discussed earlier (see the box on page 29), "Prob." stands for the probability of error in positing an association between two variables in a population. Probability is used to determine the chances of being wrong in claiming that a relationship found between variables in a sample will also be found in the population from with the sample was drawn. If we were working with a sample taken from all the counties in the United States, our chances of being wrong in asserting there is a relationship between party choice in the 1992 election and county economic status throughout the country is less than one in a thousand (p < .001). Those are good odds at any race track. But here we are not dealing with a sample, but the entire population of Appalachian counties, and therefore the "p value " indicates the chances that our chi-quare ( x2) was a product of random factors, rather than being an indication of association between variables. Still, the odds are a thousand to one supporting our assertion of a relationship between variables. The probability score must be less than 0.05 (less than one chance in twenty) to indicate "significant" association between variables. The probability or "p value" is the first thing to look for to see if a statistical measure (such as x2) is significant. If p <.055 you have significance; if p > .05 the results are not significant (written as "n.s."). On the statistics screen below the chi-square and probability measures, you will see V:0.199 C:0.195 and Lambda (DV=83):0.146. These "chi-square based measures of association" are indicators of the strength of the relationship between the two variables. "C" stands for Pearson's coefficient of contingency and "V" for Cramer's V. "Lambda" is Guttman's coefficient of predictability. You can learn more about these measures and how to compute them in a statistics course, but here you just need to know how to read them. (You don't have to be a mechanic to drive a car. You can use these indicators just the way you use your car without having to build your own engine first.) How do you interpret these numbers? Roughly, a score under 0.10 suggests a weak relationship, scores between 0.10 and 0.30 are moderate and those higher than 0.30 are strong. All three measures (C, V and Lambda) here suggest a moderate relationship between the counties' economic condition and party choice. You have found two independent variables (subregion and county economic status) that affect voting patterns. Let's look for others. Does location of residence affect voting patterns? Enter 83 as the dependent, row variable and 6)CITY as the independent variable. Press <ENTER> until the table appears and then press C to obtain column percentages: What percentage of the nonmetropolitan counties supported the Democrats? What percentage of the nonmetropolitan counties supported the Republicans? 89 �What percentage of the metropolitan counties supported the Democrats? What percentage of the metropolitan counties supported the Republicans? Press R for row percentages. What percentage of the Democratic supporters were nonmetropolitan? What percentage of the Democratic supporters were metropolitan? What percentage of the Republican supporters were nonmetropolitan? What percentage of the Republican supporters were metropolitan? Press S for statistics, x2 (chi square) = C=O V=O (prob. = 0. ) Lambda (DV83)= O Was there a significant difference between urban and rural voters in the 1992 presidential election? Yes No Check one and use your data to explain your choice below: What about differences between counties in highland areas (over 1000 feet in altitude) and the rest of the region? Enter 83 as the row variable and 5 (Highlands) as the column variable. Press <ENTER> until the table appears and then press "C" to obtain column percentages. After comparing percentages, press "S" for statistics. x2= C=O . Prob.= V=O Lambda (DV83)=CL Was there a significant difference between highland and non-highland voters in the 1992 presidential election? Use your data to explain your choice: 90 �Did people in counties with higher mean per capita income vote Republican in 1992? Variable 86)PC%US92COL is the continuous variable 32)PCAP%US broken down into four categories: 1) 45-60% of the average U.S. per capita income in 1992; 2) 61-75%, 3)76-90% and 4)91-125%. Let's hypothesize that increasing per capita income means increasing percentage of counties favoring the Republican ticket. Enter 83)PRES. VT92 as the row variable land 86)PC%US92 as the column variable. When the table appears, press C for column percentages and record the results below: Table 7.6 Counties going Republican or Democratic in the 1992 presidential election by percentage of average U.S. per capita income. 45-60% Democratic 61-75% 76-90% 91-125% 65.5 Republican Do the percentages suggest a trend here? Describe it: Even though we're dealing with population data and not a sample of a population, let's see if chisquare and chi-square based measures of association support our hypothesis: Chi-square (x2) = C=O (Prob = 0.006) V=0. Lambda (DV83)=(L Can we accept or reject our hypothesis about a relationship between increasing affluence and voting Republican? 91 �GOOD! You can now make and read tables and interpret measures of association. Remember what was said at the start of the chapter about using tables for categorical variables and scatterplots and correlations for numerical ("interval/ratio") variables. What kind of variable is 83)PRES.VT92? Press F3, arrow down to 83 and press the right arrow to see its three values: 1) DEMOCRATIC 2) REPUBLICAN 3) PEROT. These values represent three categories of this categorical variable. Now use the up arrow to 77) DEM.VOTE92, press the right arrow and write its long label here: 1992: Notice that, instead of three categories, we have percentages: a range of thousands of possible scores ranging between 0 and 100 (0.01...26.58...65.21..etc). The data is continuous, not categorical Each county potentially has a different score from every other county and thus, in a table, each county would demand a separate row. The table would have too many rows to be of any use. So, instead of the tables that work so well for categorical data, scatterplots, regressions and correlations are employed in the analysis of relationships between continuous variables. You have already seen this in Chapter V. Let's track some voting data using continuous variables. From the STATISTICAL ANALYSIS menu, select F. Scatterplot Let's see if the Democrats did better in areas where there was greater poverty: Enter 77)DEM. VOTE92 as the dependent variable and 39)%POOR 89 as the independent variable. Press <ENTER> twice to bypass the subset request. When the scatterplot appears, press Line, write in the labels for the X AXIS and the Y AXIS and draw in the regression line: YAXIS 77)DEM.VOTE92 XAXIS 39)% POOR 89 r= N: Prob: 92 �To review methods for interpreting these results, refer back to the opening of Chapter V (pp53-54). Describe the strength and direction (positive or negative) of the relationship between percentage of poverty in a county and the percentage of votes for the Democrats: Did the Democrats do better in counties having higher unemployment. Enter 77)DEM. VOTE92 as the dependent variable and 37)UNEMP 91 as the independent variable. Press <ENTER> twice to bypass the subset request. When the scatterplot appears, press Line and write in the labels for the X AXIS and the Y AXIS and draw in the regression line: YAXIS 77)DEM.VOTE92 37)UNEMP91 r= Prob: XAXIS N: Describe the strength and direction (positive or negative) of the relationship between unemployment and the percentage of votes in a county for the Democrats: 93 �Hmm. I wonder if these results suggest that the higher a county's average per capita income, the higher the Republican vote. Enter 78)REP. VOTE92 as the dependent variable and 32)PERCAP 92 as the independent variable. Press <ENTER> twice to bypass the subset request. When the scatterplot appears, press Line, write in the labels and draw in the regression line: 78)REP.VOTE92 X 32)PERCAP 92 r= N: Prob: Describe the strength and direction of the relationship between the counties' average 1992 per capita incomes and percentages of votes for the Republicans. 94 �It looks like support for the Republicans was fairly steady across income levels. Might that have changed from the 1980 election? Enter 70)REP.VOTE80 as the dependent variable and 88)PERCAP$81 as the independent variable. Press <ENTER> twice to bypass the subset request. When the scatterplot appears, press Line and draw in the regression line: 70)REP.VOTE80 X 88)PERCAP$81 r= N: Prob: Describe the strength and direction of the relationship between the counties' average 1981 per capita incomes and percentages of votes for the Republicans. Do you see any differences between the 1992 and the 1980 results? 95 �HEY! WHAT ABOUT ROSS PEROT-THE INDEPENDENT PARTY CANDIDATE! WHAT CORRELATIONS CAN WE FIND WITH HIS CANDIDACY? DID THE POOR CITIZENS, DEPRIVED OF EDUCATIONAL AND ECONOMIC OPPORTUNITY AND THUS FED UP WITH "THE SYSTEM" OF THE TRADITIONAL PARTIES, THROW THEIR SUPPORT TO HIM? WAS IT A MATTER OF "RADICALS FOR ROSS?" Enter 79)PER.VOTE92 as the dependent variable and 32)PERCAP 92 as the independent variable. Press <ENTER> twice to bypass the subset request. When the scatterplot appears,press Line and draw in the regression line: 79)PER.VOTE92 X 32)PERCAP 92 r= N: Prob: Describe the strength and direction of the relationship between the counties' average 1992 per capita incomes and percentages of votes for Ross Perot: 96 �What about support for Perot and levels of educational attainment? Enter 79)PER.VOTE92 as the dependent variable and 27)H.S.GRAD90 as the independent variable. Press <ENTER> twice to bypass the subset request. When the scatterplot appears, press Line and draw in the regression line: Press Xand enter the long label for 27)H.S.GRAD90: 79)PER.VOTE92 X 27) H.S.GRAD90 r= N: Prob: Describe the strength and direction of the relationship between the counties's average 1990 percent of people 25 and over who have a high school degree and the percentages of their votes cast for Ross Perot: Summarize the results of the last two plots. Who voted for Perot, the Independent candidate? 97 �Ross, that's pretty impressive. But with all those better off and better educated people supporting you, how come you didn't win? Well, Tom, it doesn't take a rocket scientist to look at the percentages: Return to the DATA AND FILE MANAGEMENT menu and select E. Codebook. Type 1 and press <ENTER> to send the data to your monitor screen. You will be asked if you wish to stratify, which means break down one variable by another as you would in a table. The default setting is N, meaning no. Press <ENTER> to accept the default setting and again a second time to bypass the request for a subset. Type 79)PER.VOTE92 as the only variable to be listed. You'll see that the mean (average) percentage of votes for Perot in all the Appalachian counties was only 15 percent. Not a majority-not this time! Try stratifying this variable by 3)THREE REGN to see if voters in one of the three subregions might have been more favorable to Perot: Press <ENTER> to begin the codebook process again. Type 1 and press <ENTER> to send the data to your monitor screen. Type Y at the "Do you wish to stratify?" prompt. Type 3 as the stratifying variable. Press <ENTER> to bypass the request for a subset and enter 79 as the only variable to be listed. List the results below: REGION N Mean North Central Southern Well, how about that for a candidate from Texas! He got about double the percentage of votes in the subregion of Appalachia. In this chapter, you have learned about: how to use quantitative methods in the analysis of voting behavior differences in voting behavior in different Appalachian subregions employing tables in data analysis the idea of probability chi-square (x2) as a measure of the ability of a sample's findings to be generalized to a population differences between categorical and continuous variables labels for X and Y axes regression lines in scatterplots 98 �Review your data and, as you have done previously, write a summary of your findings in this chapter. If you like, you can gather additional data by looking voting patterns by ethnic group, location, education and income level. Enjoy! Another assignment possibility; Write a strategy for a presidential candidate touring the Appalachian region. What topics should she or he emphasize in different parts of the region? 99 �This page intentionally left blank �VIII. Race and Region: Minorities in Appalachia Multiple Regression In Chapter III you saw that, contrary to the stereotype of an all-Anglo-Saxon Appalachia, the region is ethnically and culturally diverse, representing many nations and parts of the world. The question raised in this chapter is whether two of its ethnic groups, Native American and African American, enjoy the same opportunities and quality of life as other residents. From the STATISTICAL ANALYSIS menu. Select G. Correlation. Press F3 and use the down arrow to move down the list of variables and the left arrow to select those listed below. You want to see how the percentages of Native and African Americans (11:%AMER.IN90) and (18; %BLACK90) correlate with per capita income (32:PERCAP92), unemployment (37:UNEMP91), poverty (39:%POOR89); children in poverty (43:CHILD POR89); infant mortality (44: INFANT90-2); the number of physicians per 100,000 people (45: DR.RATE 90); the percentage of people over 25 with a high school degree (27; H.S. GRAD90), and the percentage of people with an Associate Degree or some college (30; COLLEGE90). Write the results below: Table 6.1 Socio-Economic Indicators by Ethnic Group 11)%AMER.IN90 18)%BLACK90 32) PERCAP 92 37)UNEMP91 39) %POOR 89 43) CHLD POR89 44) INFANT 90-2 45) DR.RATE90 27) H.S. GRAD90 30) COLLEGE 90 List the labels of any correlation r that is greater than plus or minus 0.2: 101 �Compare these results to the guide for explaining strength of association on page 46. Are there strong associations between ethnic group and opportunity? Describe what you see: On the whole, discrimination IS/IS NOT (choose one) evident from these data. BUT, WAIT A MINUTE! Maybe discrimination differs in different parts of Appalachia. We know from chapter II (page 15) that counties in the Southern subregion tend to have higher percentages of African Americans than the North or Central subregions. We see just how much more by using the ANOVA function. From the STATISTICAL ANALYSIS menu select C. Analysis of Variance. At the dependent variable prompt, type 18j%BLACK90 mdpress <ENTER>. At the independent variable prompt, type SJThree Regn and press <ENTER> twice to bypass the request for a subset variable. Notice the steep slope of the mean line on the plot. Type M (for mean) and enter the mean African American population for each of the three subregions. Repeat the same steps, but this time replace variable 18)%BLACK with 11)%AMER.IN90. Table 6.2 Ethnic Group by Subregion Region N (number of counties) North 84 Southern Mean (%AMER.IND) 144 Central Mean (% BLACK90) 171 Wow, that's quite a difference! On average, there are more than 61A times as many African Americans and three times as many Native Americans in the Southern subregion's counties than there are in the North and Central areas. The Southern region historically has been the one associated with discrimination against non whites-but it's also more than 30 years after the Equal Opportunity and Voting Rights Acts and other legislation aimed at promoting equality. Maybe discrimination and economic inequality have been eliminated. Let's recreate the correlation matrix, but this time eliminate the 228 northern and central counties which may be concealing some important relationships and use the Southern subregion's 171 counties as a data subset. 102 �From the STATISTICAL ANALYSIS menu, select G. Correlation. Press F3 and use the left arrow to select the following variables: 11) %AMER.IN90, 18) %BLACK90); 32) PERCAP92; 37) UNEMP91; 39) %POOR 89, 43) CHILD POR89; 44) INFANT90-2; 45) DR.RATE90; 27) H.S. GRAD90) and 30) COLLEGE90. At the prompt for a subset type 3. Enter 3 for the "lower limit" and 3 again for the upper limit. Press <ENTER> twice to bypass a second subset request and wait for the matrix to appear. Write in the results: Table 6.3 Subset: Southern Appalachian Subregion 11)%AMER.IN90 18)%BLACK90 32) PERCAP 92 37) UNEMP 91 39) %POOR 89 43) CHLD POR89 44) INFANT 90-2 45) DR.RATE90 27) H.S. GRAD90 30) COLLEGE 90 List the labels any correlation r that is greater than plus or minus 0.2 (which therefore has at least a moderate strength of association) and, in a simple sentence, explain the association between the two variables: 103 �Since the percentages of Blacks in southern Appalachian counties are so much higher than those of Native Americans, let's focus our analysis on African Americans. Begin by comparing correlations found in all of Appalachia with those of the Southern subregion. Fill in the second column with data from Table 6.1 and the third column with the correlations found in Table 6.3 Table 6.4 Blacks in Appalachia and the Southern Subregion BLACKS IN ALL OF APPALACHIA BLACKS IN SOUTHERN SUBREGION 32) PERCAP 92 37)UNEMP91 39) %POOR 89 43) CHLD POR89 44) INFANT 90-2 45) DR.RATE90 27) H.S. GRAD90 30) COLLEGE 90 Describe the results of this table, row by row, taking special note of any large differences. Then summarize your findings. 104 �Might these results be affected by location? Does living in Southern Appalachian metropolitan counties including or adjoining cities improve economic opportunities for African Americans? From the red STATISTICAL ANALYSIS menu. Select G. Correlation. Press F3 and use the left arrow to select the following variables: 18) %BLACK90; 32) PERCAP 92; 37) UNEMP91; 39) %POOR89, 43) CHILD POR89; 44) INFANT90-2; 45) DR.RATE90; 27) H.S. GRAD90 and 3Q)COLLEGE90. At the prompt for a subset, type 3. Enter 3 for the "lower limit" and 3 again for the upper limit. At the prompt for a second subset type 6. Enter 1 for the "lower limit" and 1 again for the "upper limit." Press <ENTER> twice to bypass a third subset request and wait for the matrix to appear. Record the results in the second column of Table 6.5. Enter data from the previous table's (Table 6.4) third column in the third column here: Table 6.5 Blacks in the Southern Subregion & Southern Metro Areas BLACKS IN SOUTHERN SUBREGION METRO AREAS BLACKS IN SOUTHERN SUBREGION (from Table 6.4) 32) PERCAP 92 37) UNEMP 91 39) %POOR 89 43) CHLD POR89 44) INFANT 90-2 45) DR.RATE90 27) H.S. GRAD90 30) COLLEGE 90 Compare the results across the rows (for example the difference in the correlations for per capita income in 1) metro areas as against 2) the entire Southern subregion. 105 �A statistical method called multiple regression provides another way to explore the impacts of discrimination. Multiple regression allows the researcher to explore the combined effects of two or more independent variables on a dependent variable, for example the impacts of being rural and being Black on being poor. Let's see how several variables related to poverty correlate. From the STATISTICAL ANALYSIS menu, select G. Correlation and enter the following variables: 8)%RURAL90, 18)%BLACK90, 37)UNEMP91, 39)%POOR 89, and 47)F HEAD/C90 (1990: percent of households that are female headed with own children with no spouse present). When asked for a subset enter 3 as the variable and 3 again forboth the lower and upper limits. You should get a correlation matrix for the 171 counties found in the southern region. Enter the results from the column headed by 39)% Poor 89: Table 6.6 39) %POOR 89 8)%RURAL90 18)%BLACK90 37)UNEMP 91 47)F HEAD/C90 There are some very strong correlations here (so strong we run the risk of a statistical problem called "multicollinarity" where the independent variables correlate too highly). We need to eliminate the overlap between independent variables (a lot of Blacks live in rural areas and are unemployed) as they affect the dependent variable 39)%POOR 89 to find out which of the independent variables have the most impact on poverty. From the STATISTICAL ANALYSIS menu, select I. Regression and enter 39)%POOR 89 as the dependent variable. For the independent variables, type 8) %RURAL90518) %BLACK90, and 37)UNEMP 91. Focus on the Southern subregion by entering 3 at the request for a subset and typing 3 for both the low and high values. You should see: R-SQ=0.486 Figure 6.1 8)%RURALO) 18)%BIAGK90 37)UNEMP91 BETA -0.244 (r-O.229) BETA -0.480 (rH5.483) BETA-0.386 (r =0.539) 106 39)%POORB9 �Notice the R-SQ (R2) in the upper right hand corner. It is a measure of the combined effects of the three independent variables on the dependent variable %POOR. Put another way, 48.6% of the variance or difference in poverty rates among the 171 southern counties is explained by these three variables. The correlation coefficients V, that you wrote into the table on the previous page are listed below the line linking each independent variable to the dependent variable %POOR. Above the same line is a new measure called a BETA. This is a standardized beta, indicating how much the dependent variable would change with a change of one standard deviation in the independent variable, if the effects of the other independent variables were removed. For example, with the effects of %RURAL and UNEMPLOYMENT removed, we would predict that an increase of one standard deviation of %BLACK would result in .460 increase in poverty. Since this is the highest beta in the graph, it would appear that discrimination against Blacks in these Southern counties is a primary cause of their impoverishment. WAIT A MINUTE! MAYBE RACE ISN'T THE ISSUE. WHAT ABOUT THE STATE OF THE FAMILY AND POVERTY? IN TABLE 6.6, THE CORRELATION BETWEEN % FEMALE HEADS OF HOUSEHOLDS WITH CHILDREN AND % BLACK WAS VERY STRONG (.844) AS IT WAS WITH POVERTY (.505). MAYBE THE HIGH BETA SCORE FOR %BLACK IS SPUMOUS (NOT REAL), MASKING A GENUINE CAUSAL RELATIONSHIP BETWEEN FAMILY STRUCTURE AND POVERTY. Put another way, the correlation between %Black and poverty suggests the following causal relationship: 11)%BLACK90 >39)%POOR89 But maybe the situation is: 11)%BLACK > 47)F HEAD/C90 >39)%POOR Is 47)F HE AD/C90 an intervening variable and a genuine cause of poverty? Let's see: Select I. Regression and enter 39) %POOR as the dependent variable. For the independent variables, type 8) %RURAL 90,18) %BLACK90,37) UNEMP 91 and this time add 41)? HEAD/C90. Focus on the Southern subregion by entering 3 at the request for a subset and typing 3 for both the low and high values. 107 �Figure 6.2 R-SO0.544 8)%RURAL90 18)%BUkCK90 BETA =0.345 (r-0.229) BETA =0.089 (r =0.483) 39)%POORB9 37)UNEMP91 47)F HEAD/C90 BETA -0.331 (r=0.53i) BETA -0.482 (r =0.505) The R-SQ has been bumped up from 0.486 to 0.544: our ability to explain changes in the poverty rate has increased. Furthermore, the relationship between percentage of black people in a county and poverty now appears to be spurious, the beta having dropped from 0.460 to 0.089. The percentage of female heads of households with children and no husband present appears to be the most powerful independent variable affecting poverty. To repeat the language used here: the correlation between %Black and %Poor appears to be spurious; the correlation between female heads of households with children and poverty seems genuine. This is a very controversial finding. How do you explain it? Is single parenting a matter of choice, culture or a product of historical and social conditions? Most single parents are women. Is this an indication of discrimination against women in wage and salary structures? Is this an indication of less buying power for wage earners in general-do more households need the buying power of two wage earners than was the case ten, twenty or thirty years ago? Maybe the relationship is something like 11)%BLACK ~>47)F HEAD/C90 —>WOMENS' JOBS/WAGE LEVELS—>39)%POOR Quantitative analysis often raises more questions than it answers, sending us on a search for more data. Let's continue our inquiry with the data we have at hand by conducting a multiple regression for the entire Appalachian region: Select I. Regression and enter 39) %POOR as the dependent variable. For the independent variables, type 8)%RURAL 90,18) %BLACK90,37)UNEMP91 and 47)F HEAD/C90. DON'T select a subset this time to obtain results for all 399 Appalachian counties. How much of the variance in the dependent variable can be explained by the independent variables? In other words, R2 = . 108 �Write the BETAs into the following graph Figure 6.3 R-SQ= 8)%RURAL90 18)%BLACK90 BETA =0.382 BETA" 39)%POOR 89 37)UNEMP 91 47)F HEAD/090 BETA = BETA- Describe your results, taking special note of the change in 18)%BLACK90 caused by the addition of 48)%F HEAD/C90 as an additional independent variable. Compare the results for the entire Appalachian region to those for the Southern subregion. Is there a difference or are they pretty much the same? 109 �Let's see if there is a similar pattern for Native Americans living in the Southern subregion: Select I. Regression and enter 39) %POOR as the dependent variable. For the independent variables, type 8)%RURAL 90, 11)%AMER.IN90, 37)UNEMP91 and this time add 47)F HEAD/C90. Again, choose the Southern subset (3/3/3). You should get the following results: Figure 6.4 R-SQ=0.542 8)%RURAL90 11)%AMER.IN90 BETA » 0.352 (r =0.229) BETA = 0.010 (r =0.184) 39)%POOR 89 37)UNEMP 91 47)F HEAD/CiO BETA = 0.328 (r =0.539) BETA = 0.559 (r =0.505) Which independent variable has the strongest association with poverty? Which independent variable has the weakest association with poverty? Reviewing the data, do you think race is the most salient cause, or might it be location (urban or rural) and/or the kind of household structure? 110 �What about other ethnic groups? Does the nature of the household and location maintain their strong betas when dealing with "non-minority" Caucasian groups such as those claiming English and German ancestry? Look at the following graph carefully: Figure 6.5 R-SCH).540 BETA = -0.002 18)%BLACK90 15)%SCT.IRH90 13)%GERMAN90 12)%ENGLISH90 11)%AMER.IN90 8)%RURAL90 (r =0.483) BETA = 0.119 (r =-0.270) BETA = -0.206 (r =-0.492) BETA = -0.303 (r =-0.554) 39)%POOR89 BETA = 0.072 (r =0.184) BETA = 0.360 (r =0.229) BETA = 0.412 47)F HEAD/C90 (r =0.505) Remember that the independent variables' betas are above the lines. Note that the correlations for Native and African Americans are reduced to insignificance by the multiple regression procedure. People claiming Scotch-Irish descent have a weak, positive beta, while those claiming German and English descent have weak-to-moderate negative betas. Location and household type still have the highest beta scores. What about educational opportunity and location? At the dependent variable prompt, enter 30)COLLEGE 90. For independent variables, enter 8)%RURAL and 18)%BLACK. Describe your results: Is location or race the more serious barrier to attending college? 111 �In this chapter, you have examined some of the circumstances affecting the life chances of Native Americans and especially African Americans living in Appalachia. You have employed correlation coefficients and multiple regression techniques in your data analysis. You should know the meaning of r, beta and R2. Using the F3 function key, you can explore correlations and multiple regressions between other variables. Relate your findings to Susan Emley Keefe and William Turner's discussions of African Americans as "a racial minority within a cultural minority," who suffer greater deprivation than Blacks elsewhere in the United States (Keefe, 1998,150; Turner and Cabbell, 1985, xix). Review the data and summarize your findings. What have you learned about the impact of discrimination, location, and wage structures on life chances? What questions have the data not answered and what new questions have been raised? Conclude your report with suggestions for future research. 112 �Defining Appalachia The darker portion of the map marks 179 counties in seven states that both the 1962 Ford study and the U.S. Congress included in their definitions of the Appalachian region. The lighter portion indicates the counties added in the legislative process surrounding the passage of the Appalachian Redevelopment Act of 1965 (which excluded 10 of Ford's counties in the Virginian Blue Ridge). Ford's definition followed a description of "state economic areas," developed in 1950 by the Bureau of the Census and the U.S. Department of Agriculture, in which counties having a similar economic base where grouped together. In the following analysis, the darker area is defined as the "core counties" of the Appalachian region. The surrounding 220 counties, labeled "added counties," combine with the core to make the larger region of 399 counties in 13 states. �IX. A Region with Many Definitions Appalachia has been defined in terms of student perceptions, historical and geological characteristics, unique cultural folkways, economy and problems. One observer recently noted that the boundaries have been drawn so many times that there can be no "correct" definition of the region. In 1921, sociologist John C. Campbell described Appalachia as a unique cultural area in the United States including 256 counties in nine states: Maryland, Virginia, West Virginia, Kentucky, Tennessee, North and South Carolina, Georgia and Alabama. In 1962, a study of the region's social-economic needs directed by Thomas R. Ford at the University of Kentucky, used a 1950s U.S. Department of Commerce designation of 189 counties in seven states (Maryland and South Carolina were excluded). The Appalachian Redevelopment Act of 1965 created a federallydesignated region based on a definition by state governors and representatives in Congress. This new region was to include 397 (now 406) counties in 13 states. When the database for this book was created in 1996, the region was defined as having 399 counties. The four new states added by the Congress to the Ford and Campbell lists were New York, Pennsylvania, Ohio and Mississippi. (For an Internet map showing different definitions of the region go to http://www.unc.edu/-whisnant/appal/maps/Appreg.gif.) Weak economies were cited as the primary reason for including new counties (nearly doubling the number of counties) in this new region, which would receive millions of dollars in federal aid. Did politics explode the size of the region? The more states included, the more votes and chances of passage of an Appalachian development program in Congress. But, if Congress was concerned about alleviating poverty and economic distress, should it have targeted its funds on the smaller area previously cited earlier by regional experts, or did it do the right thing by virtually doubling the size of Appalachia from 179 counties in nine states to 399 counties in 13 states? With almost 40 years of hindsight, we can reflect upon the wisdom of the 1965 legislative process. To begin our analysis, let's get a bird's eye view of the core region and the added counties. Select I. Open, Look, Erase or Copy File from the DATA AND FILE MANAGEMENT menu. Highlight the APCOUNTY file and press <ENTER>. Switch to the STATISTICAL ANALYSIS menu and select E. Mapping Variables. At the "variable to be mapped" prompt, type 4. When the map appears, you'll see that all of New York, Pennsylvania, Ohio and Mississippi are excluded from the core area as well as most of Alabama and portions of Georgia, South Carolina and North Carolina. Now look at the overall region in terms of economic strength. The comparative economic positions of Appalachian counties can be found in two variables: The first is 36) DISTRESSED, where counties were ranked in 1988 on a five-point scale from "severely distressed" to "very strong" economies. I collapsed the two highest values "strong" and "very strong" together in variable 87) DISTRSDCOL, because there were only four "very strong" counties in the region (about 1 %). Make a map of 87)DISTRSDCOL. Press Legend for clarification of the color coding. 114 �Where do the counties in economic difficulty seem to be clustered? Where are the relatively few (21) economically strong/very strong counties? For comparative rankings of the counties, select A. Univariate Statistics. At the prompt for the variable, enter &7,press <ENTER> twice to bypass the subset and you will see a pie chart showing the percentages of counties falling into one of the four categories. Press B (for Bar chart). You will see a large green arrow under the first bar, which is identified in the lower left section of the screen as "1) Severely Dis(tressed)," with a frequency of 89 counties, which make up 22.3% of the regions' 399 counties. Use the right arrow key to move to the second category, "Distressed," which has 50 counties or 12.5 percent. Press Table) and you'll see that the cumulative percentage for severely distressed and distressed counties is 34.8 percent. Press <ENTER> to return to the variable prompt and again, type 87. At the subset prompt, enter 4)Appal Core and select 2 (Core County) as both the lower and upper limit. Press <ENTER> to bypass the second subset request. After the pie chart appears, press B for the bar chart. Notice the difference? What is the percentage of 1) severely distressed counties now? What is the percentage of 2) distressed counties ? We have eliminated the "added counties," tacked onto Appalachia by the Congressional legislative process in 1964-65. Press Table and record the cumulative percentage for severely distressed and distressed counties: . Hmm. It seems that about a third of the larger, 399-county Appalachia has economically distressed counties—but nearly one half of the 179 counties in the smaller, core region are in trouble. Let's make some bivariate tables to compare these 179 counties to the other 220 counties tacked on in the 1965 legislative process. From the STATISTICAL ANALYSIS menu, select B. Tabular Statistics. For the row (or dependent) variable, enter 87)DISTRSDCOL. For the column (or independent) variable, enter 4)APAL CORE. Press <ENTER> three times to obtain a table of the counties ranked by economic strength, but broken down into the two "core" and "added" regions. Press C for column percentages. The results should match table 8.1 115 �Table 8.1. Percentage Appalachian Counties by Economic Status and Subregion Added Counties Core Counties TOTAL SEVERELY DISTRESSED 15.9% 30.2% 22.3% DISTRESSED 9.5% 16.2% 12.5% MIDDLE 67.7% 50.3% 59.9% STRONG/VERY STRONG 6.8% 3.4% 4.3% 100.0% 100.0% 100.0% Economic Status List the percentage of severely distressed counties in the two categories: Core counties Added counties List the cumulative percentage of severely distressed and distressed counties in the two categories: Core counties Added counties Are the two regions in similar economic condition? If not, how are they different? Incidentally, the core region has counties, while the added region has 116 counties. �In 1995, the Appalachian Regional Commission again divided the regions counties into two categories: distressed and not distressed. (See the box on page 78 for definitions of "distressed"). Return to the STATISTICAL ANALYSIS menu and select B. Tabular Statistics. Enter 90 as the row variable and 4 as the column variable. Label the table and write in the percentages: Table 8.2. Economic Condition Added Counties Core Counties Distressed Not distressed Total The data for 1999 Distressed Counties are found in variable 91. Enter 91 as the row variable and, again, 4 as the column variable and record the percentages: Table 8.3. Economic Condition Added Counties Core Counties Distressed Not distressed Total Review the data from Tables 8.1, 8.2 and 8.3. Did the economic situation in the core counties improve between 1988 and 1999? 117 �Do people in the two regions make the same amount of money? Table 2 breaks mean (average) incomes down by core and added counties. Use the codebook function to make some comparisons: From the DATA FILE AND MANAGEMENT menu select E. Codebook. Select 1 to send your results to the monitor screen. Enter Y (for yes) at the "Do you wish to stratify?" query. Enter 4)APPAL CORE as the stratifying variable andpress <ENTER> to bypass the subset request. Type 32,33,35 as the "list of variables to be included" andpress <ENTER> to obtain the first of three tables: (Convert the numbers in the table to rounded-off dollars-for example, $15,109.) Table 8.4:1992 Counties' mean per capita income by Core and Added Counties N MeanS Added Counties 220 15,109 Core Counties 179 13,899 Subtract the core region's mean income from the "added county" category. The average income in the core region in 1992 was $ less than the average income of the counties added to the core by Congress in 1965. Press <ENTER> to obtain the second table of incomes, calculated as a percent of the U.S. average. Fill in the cells for 1992 below. Press <ENTER> again to obtain the third table and fill in the cells for 1970. Table 8.5. Incomes as a percentage of the U.S. national average for 1970 and 1992. 1970 Mean % 1992 Mean % Added Counties Core Counties There seems to be a difference between the two categories of counties. In 1992, people in the Appalachian "core" counties made percent of the national average per capita income, percent less than people in the counties added to the region by the Congress in 1965 (whose average was percent). Was there a similar gap 30 years ago when the ARC was founded? What does the table tell you? 118 �Let's examine the differences between the two (core, added) subregions, using B. Tabular Statistics in the STATISTICAL ANALYSIS menu. The continuous variable 33)PCAP%US92 is a comparison of each county's average income with the national average. If a county per capita income scored 100% of the U.S. average, it would be the same as the U.S. average. If it scored 125%, it would be 25% higher than the national average. If it scored 50%, its average (mean) income would be half of the U.S. average. Here, 33)PCAP%US92 has been collapsed into a categorical variable: 86) PC%US92COL. Press F3, press the "End" function key to get to the bottom of the variable list, arrow up to highlight 86 and press the right arrow key to see the category labels. The poorest counties, where per capita incomes range from 45 to 60 percent of the U.S. national average, are coded as 1, Per capita incomes between 61-75 percent of the national average are coded as 2; 76-90%=3 and 96-125%= 4. At the prompt for a row variable, enter 86. Type 4 for the column variable and press <ENTER> twice. Press "C" for column percentages and enter them here; Table 8.6. Percentage of US mean per capita income of Appalachian counties by percentage core and added subregions. Percentage of US Mean 1 Added Counties (percent) Core Counties (percent) 100 100 45-60% 2 61-75% 3 76-90% 4 91-125% Total % It appears that the "core" subregion's percentage of counties in the poorest (45-60%) category is percent higher than the added counties! As you did in chapter 4 (see page 35), compute this by using the formula below and multiplying the resulting ratio by 100 to convert it into a percentage. Core County - Added County Added County 119 �Now it's your turn to see if there are other characteristics that distinguish these two Appalachian subregions from each other: Does the core region have a higher dropout rate than the 220 other counties? Choose C. Analysis of Variance to compare mean (average) dropout rates. Press F3 to get a list of the 90 variables in this data file. Press S for search, and type in HS and you'll find that NOT N HS90 is variable 26. Press the right arrow and you will see the variable described. Write down that description here: Press <ENTER> to make the variable label disappear from the screen. You then can mark 26 with the left arrow and press <ENTER> twice so that "26 " appears as the response to the request for a dependent variable. Type 4)APPAL CORE as the independent variable,press <ENTER> twice to bypass the subset request and obtain your graph. Press M to obtain the means and write in a title for the table together with the results: Table 8.7 Mean %Not in High School Subregion Added Counties Core Counties Using the formula on the previous page, it appears that the "core" subregion's mean percentage of people not in high school is percent higher than the added counties. Is there a difference in the two regions' unemployment rates? Type 31 (the 1991 county unemployment rates) as the dependent variable and, again, enter 4 as the independent variable. Press <ENTER> twice to bypass the subset request, review the graph,press M to obtain the means and write in the title and column labels along with the results: Table 8.8 Added Counties Core Counties It appears that the "core" counties' unemployment rate is the added counties. 120 % higher than �Compare the poverty rates in the two regions. Enter 39 as the dependent variable and 4 as the independent variable. When you see the graph, press Y and write down the "long label" of the dependent variable here: Press M to obtain the means and write in the results: Table 8.9. Mean poverty rates in core and added counties Subregion Poverty Rate Added Counties Core Counties It appears that the core counties' poverty rate is percent higher than the added counties. What about the percentage of elderly people over 65 living in poverty? Enter 40 as the dependent variable and 4 as the independent variable. List the "long label" for the dependent variable: Enter the results below: Table 8.10. Mean percentage of people over 65 below poverty level Subregion Poverty Rate >65 Added Counties Core Counties It appears that the core counties' poverty rate for people over 65 is added counties. 121 percent higher than the �What about children? Enter 43 as the dependent variable and 4 for the independent variable. Which region has the greater percentage of kids living below the poverty line? Enter the results below: Table 8.11. Mean percentage of children below poverty Subregion Children in Poverty Added Counties Core Counties It appears that the core counties' poverty rate for children under 18 is the added counties. % higher than What about medical services? Which region has the most doctors? Enter 45 as the dependent variable and 4 as the independent variable. Write out the "long label" for 45 (press Y on the graph): Enter the results below: Table 8.12. Nonfederal physicians per 100,000 Physician rate Subregion Added Counties Core Counties It appears that the core counties' number of physicians per 100,000 people is lower than physician rate found in the added counties. 122 �Which region received more federal assistance in 1990? Enter 68)FED$/CAP90 as the dependent variable and 4 for the independent variable. Enter the results below: Table 8.13. Direct Federal Expenditures and Grants Per Capita Subregion Expenditures & Grants (Rounded off in dollars) Added Counties Core Counties Surprised? The core counties received more federal assistance on a per capita basis than did the added counties. Might this be related to the Appalachian Regional Commission's Distressed Counties Program? Hmm. You're going to have to compare the means of Expenditures and Grants by Distressed Counties. Enter 68)FED$/CAP90 as the dependent variable and 91 for the independent variable. Enter the results below: Table 8.14. Direct Federal Expenditures and Grants Per Capita by Economic Status Economic Status Expenditures & Grants (Rounded off in dollars) Distressed Not Distressed On average, the Distressed Counties received $_ more than the other counties. Stated another way, the Distressed Counties received than the other counties. 123 percent more in Federal funds �Students interested in public policy formation may want to research the legislative process involved in the passage of the Appalachian Redevelopment Act of 1965. Was there a connection between the number of votes needed in the House and Senate to get the bill through Congress and the mandated definition of the region? Consider the following data from the Congressional Quarterly summary of the 1965 first session of the 89th Congress (Volume XXI, pages 34-37): Table 8.15. Numbers of Representatives from Appalachian States - 89th Congress (1965) Core States Alabama Georgia Kentucky Maryland North Carolina South Carolina Tennessee Virginia West Virginia Added ARC States Mississippi New York Ohio Pennsylvania TOTAL 8 10 7 8 11 6 9 5 41 24 27 97 10 5 TOTAL 74 Total from Appalachian Redevelopment Act States Total in House of Representatives during 89th Congress 171 435 You can read about the legislative process surrounding the creation of the Appalachian Regional Commission and its region in the same CQ volume, pages 788-797. Now consider the question asked at the outset of this chapter: Did the Congress act appropriately in defining the region as 399 counties in 13 states, or should it have focused on the smaller, "core" counties that both the United States Congress and the Ford study both considered part of the Appalachian region? As you have done at the conclusion of previous chapters, use the data you have generated in this one to develop and explain your argument. Be comparative. Be specific. 124 �X. The Internet: Finding New Data in The Information Age The data in the preceding chapters is already outdated! Computers have tremendously increased the capacity for data gathering and analysis, making new and revised information available on a continuous basis. How can you stay current? One source is the Internet, where you can find data at national, regional, state and county levels. You can access a website directly, if you know the URL (Universal Resource Locator). For example, the Appalachian Regional Commission's URL is http://www.arc.gov. You can access sites indirectly through "search engines" such as Yahoo or Google. Try the direct approach first: see if you can find the latest Appalachian Regional Commission data on Distressed Counties. You'll need a browser, such Netscape or Explorer. In the "location" (URL) window at the top of your browser screen, enter "arc.gov." Welcome to the Commission's home page. You will see half a dozen icons: About ARC: News, Events and Publications, etc. Each icon links to other pages. Use your mouse to click on Regional Research and Reports. Click again on Income Rates in Appalachia, (most recent year recorded). Toward the bottom of the page you will see a list of states in the Appalachian region. Click on any state for the latest county-by-county data in that state. This is the URL I used to update the data file for this edition of the book. What is the latest per capita income for the state of Alabama? What year is this data for? What is the latest per capita income for Bibb County, Alabama? Click on the "back" button on your browser to return to the Regional Research page and select "Population Change in Appalachia, 1990-1999," (or whatever the most recent year given). Which state gained the most population between 1990 and 199(9)? Which state lost population in the same period? . Hmm. You surprised me! Write in the data for the following counties: Population 1999 Gwinnett, Georgia Broome, New York Henderson, North Carolina Harlan, Kentucky 125 Percent gain/loss 1990-1999 �Return to the ARC home page and click on the "Site Index" at the bottom of the page. You can see from the list of topics that you have plenty of information to write a history of the organization. Of course, this history would be from the agency's perspective, so you would need to balance your research with other points of view. You'll need other URLs-those of colleges and universities, think tanks and advocacy groups. This is where the indirect method of Internet access is helpful. In your browser's "location" (URL) window at the top of your screen enter "Google.com." Just enter a topic-any topic-and you will be given a number of sites related to your key word. For your research here, enter "Appalachia" as the subject. How many URLs did you find? . Find any college or university sites? Yes No (circle one) If yes, what is their connection to Appalachia? Find any advocacy groups? Yes No (circle one) If yes, what were their concerns about Appalachia? _ Find anything about Appalachian music? Yes No How about Appalachian geology? Yes No Type "Yahoo" in the location window at the top of your screen. When the Yahoo search engine appears on your screen, enter "Appalachia" in the search window. Some of the sites here will be those found in your Google search, but you will also find some new ones. How many categories and how many sites did Yahoo find for Appalachia? Type "Alta Vista" in the location window at the top of your screen and you'll be taken to yet another search engine. Again, enter "Appalachia" in the search window. How many web pages did Alta Vista find for you? When you use search engines, you are likely to find new sites for whatever you are researching. As you found with Alta Vista, the amount of the information sometimes can be overwhelming. You can get lost in it. The direct access method (knowing the URL you need and accessing it) saves time. 126 �Use the direct method to access another government agency, the Census Bureau. In the location window, enter *1ittp://www.census.gov." What is today's estimated population for the United States? What is today's estimated population for the world? Under the "PEOPLE" category you will find information on the following subjects Census 2000 • Estimates • Projections * Housing • Income * International • Poverty • Genealogy There are also categories for BUSINESS and GEOGRAPHY, where you can access maps. This is great place to go exploring. Some Census data is not based on the decennial population count, but on samples. Estimates based on samples require some "wiggle room," called confidence intervals. on by are is a is on of, not a the full the for the or out the in for of 41.9 a the to 5 17 in of 72.6 30 a of the (29,916) Try a in fall the In the a as a is 1, as as 90 for 17 in 5 a 17.0 127 10 �Check out McDowell County, in the coal fields of West Virginia. Click on Select a State on the right-hand side of your screen. Choose West Virginia from the list. Click on Get State Profile. Select "McDowell" from the list of counties. McDowell W.Va. What was McDowell's population for the 2000 Census? What was the median household income (199(7) estimate)? What was the percentage of people in poverty? What percentage of children were in poverty? Let's leave the coalfields and check out Madison County, a rural county outside Asheville in North Carolina. Madison N.C. What was Madison's population for the 2000 Census? What was the median household income (199(7) estimate)? What was the percentage of people in poverty? What percentage of children were in poverty? Look at an urbanizing Appalachian County outside of Atlanta: Gwinnett, Georgia. Gwiimeft Georgia What was McDowell's population for the 2000 Census? What was the median household income (199(7) estimate)? What was the percentage of people in poverty? What percentage of children were in poverty? The Census Bureau URL is only the tip of the iceberg for Federal agency data. Try www.fedstats.gov. More than 70 Federal agencies produce statistics. The Federal Interagency Council on Statistical Policy maintains this site to provide access to statistics and information produced by these agencies for public use. Click on "Agencies Listed Alphabetically." Under "E," select the Environmental Protection Agency. Click on air pollution. Choose the "maps" option and then click again on "Non-Attainment areas" and on "ozone" to see a U.S. map of areas having unacceptable levels of ozone. List the Appalachian states having unacceptable levels: 128 �1) 4). 2) 5). 3) Go back to the Fedstats Statistical Agencies page and select the Mine Safety and Health Administration. Use the agency's search window (in the upper left hand corner at this writing) and type in "20th Century." Select the hompage for "A Pictorial Walk Through the 20th Century." It begins with a Glossary of Terms, describing a colliery headframe. tipple trip Good terms to know! Describe the Picture No. 9 on the walk: Use the button at the bottom of the page to return to the MSHA homepage. Click on the "Fatality Information" button on the left side of the page. Count the "Fatalgrams" reporting deaths for the current year. Calculate the percentage of deaths that occurred in Appalachian mines. Number of fatal accidents . Percent Appalachian . Percent Appalachian . Percent Appalachian What about 1998? Number of fatal accidents What about 1997 Number of fatal accidents 129 �What have you learned about mine safety in American and Appalachia? I work with a number of health-related agencies and community organizations. They often need county-level data for planning and grant writing. As is the case with most states, North Carolina has a State Center for Health Statistics. The center's URL is http://www.schs.state.nc.us/SCHS/. Go there and select Health Statistics. Select North Carolina Pocket Guide. Select the North Carolina Health Atlas and click on the link to the County Data Book. Choose "Mortality." You should be provided with a spreadsheet of county-level data. See if you can find the death rate from heart disease for Buncombe County. Is the county rate higher or lower than the state rate? By what percentage is it higher or lower? (See Chapter V. as to remember how to compute the percentage difference.) Buncombe County North Carolina rate The Buncombe County rate is % above/below the state rate> You now see that data gathering is also done at the state level. The U.S. Census Bureau provides a link to state data centers at http://www.census.gov/ftp/pub/sdc/www/ List the data sources in the state that interests you the most, together with their URLs: As you have seen with your search engines, there are a number of sites dealing with Appalachian culture, history and resources. Here are some URLs to give you a start in Appalachia: The Center for Appalachian Studies at Appalachian State University has a good site for links to other regional resources: http://wwwl.appstate.edu/dept/appstudies/ The Appalachian Studies Association, formed in 1977, is a nonprofit, multidisciplinary organization for scholars, teachers, regional activists and others whose work centers on the Appalachian region. The Appalachian Studies Association's mission is to encourage study, advance scholarship, disseminate information, and enhance communication between Appalachian peoples, their communities, governmental organizations, and educational institutions. Check it out at http://www.appalachianstudies.org/ The Appalachian College Association (ACA) represents 33 member institutions in the states of Kentucky, North Carolina, Tennessee, Virginia and West Virginia. Its URL is http://www.acaweb.org/ 130 �The Appalachian Center at the University of Kentucky, Lexington is a multi-disciplinary institute created in 1977 to link University of Kentucky resources with Appalachian communities in programs of Research, Instruction, and Service. This center's URL is http://www.ukv.edu/RGS/AppalCenter/ Lees McRae College provides resources at http://www.lmc.edu/appstudies/links.htm Appalshop is a media arts and cultural center located in Whitesburg, Kentucky, in the heart of the Central Appalachian Coalfields. Appalshop produces and presents work that celebrates the culture and voices the concerns of people living in the Appalachian Mountains. Appalshop began in 1969 as a War on Poverty program to train mountain young people in media production skills. Rather than leave the region to find work in the nation's urban centers, the young people created their own nonprofit media company and began making films about the culture and social issues of Appalachia. While devoted to a particular place, Appalshop's work addresses universal concerns. See http://ns.appalshop.org/ The Highlander Center in New Market, TN has been training grassroots leaders for nearly 70 years. Its URL is http://www.hrec.org. The Highlander library catalog is online. To get to it, go to the Highlander Home Page, and choose <HIGHLANDER>. This will allow access to the entire library catalog, including books, audio/visual materials and archives. The Highlander web page has links to other Internet sites of interest to community activists and researchers. Among them will be links to the catalogs at Wisconsin State Historical Archives and Tennessee State Library and Archives, both of which house Highlander archives, information on researching corporations, federal government information, environmental, labor and human rights activism, and African American issues. The Mountain Association for Community Economic Development, located in Berea, Kentucky, has provided technical assistance to grassroots organizations in Kentucky and Central Appalachia since 1976. It has a business development program for projects with the potential of providing jobs to low income people, a Democracy Resource Center and an Entrepreneurship Initiative. Since 1994, MACED has sharpened its focus on sustainable development through the Sustainable Communities Initiative and the Central Appalachian Sustainable Forestry Program. MACED's URL is http://www.maced.orjg/ Women's Initiative Networking Groups (WINGS) is also located in Berea and is associated with MACED. It is a nonprofit organization that provides entrepreneurial training, marketing consultation and networking opportunities to low-and moderate-women interested in starting their own business. http://www.wingsnet.org/ The Brushy Fork Institute at Berea provides training and support services to mountain communities. The institute's URL is http://www.berea.edu/BrushvFork/default.HTML Alan J. Banks, a sociologist at East Kentucky University, has constructed an excellent web page, with links to a variety of data sources, from local, state and federal agencies to think tanks and advocacy groups. His URL is http://www.socialscience.eku.edu/Ant/BANKS/classpage.htm Before he retired from the University of North Carolina at Chapel Hill, David E. Whisnant developed a web page for his course "Hillbilly Highways: Appalachia and America." The web page includes examples of student projects (becoming experts on a mountain county through web page construction), historical maps and links to related topics. The URL is http://www.unc.edu/-whisnant/appal/Svlfal97.htm 131 �Scott M. Pearson at Mars Hill College provides examples of biological research in Appalachian habitats and the use of GIS mapping in research at http://www.mhc.edu/users/spearson/home.htm. Mars Hill's Center for Assessment and Research Alliances (CARA) with community groups and agencies can be found at http://www.mhc.edu/cara/. Within the mountains are regional web sites, such as the Mountain Area Information Center (MAIN) in Western North Carolina. Through its URL, http ://www.main.nc .us, MAIN provides information on and links to resources throughout its service area. Beyond the region, the "American Studies Web" at Georgetown University provides links on a wide range of subjects. The URL is http://www.georgetown.edu/crossroads/asw/. What you have learned about quantitative methods and regional studies in this book should enable you to make good use of the data and other information available on the Internet. As the URLs above suggest, the Internet also enables you to network with groups and individuals sharing your interests and concerns. For those interested in Regional Studies, an Internet search can take you to programs across the United States and the world. Good hunting, good luck and, most of all, enjoy your new skills and ability to discover! 132 �Glossary Appalachia A mountain region in the Eastern United States, with widely varying definitions. Appalachian Redevelopment Act of 1965 A law passed by the U. S. Congress, defining the Appalachian region as an area in need of development and which created the Appalachian Regional Commission (ARC) to plan and administer federal funds for regional development, Analysis of Variance (ANOVA). Bivariate technique for analyzing differences among group means. The independent variable must be categorical and the dependent variable interval/ratio. Association Relationship between two variables. Bivariate Analysis Analysis of the relationship between two variables. Categorical Variable A variable whose values cluster responses into a group or category, such as gender (male or female) or shoe size (10, WA, 11, IP/a). Case A unit of analysis for a study (in this manual, each county is a case). Cell Frequency Number in a table indicating count of scores with a given value or joint values. Chi Square (x2) Statistic that compares the actual frequencies in a bivariate table with the frequencies expected if there is no relationship between the variables. Used for tests of statistical significance and for some measures of association in tabular analysis. Codebook Listing of information about variables in a data set. Continuous Variable A variable whose values can fall anywhere within a range, such as a percentage (0-100) or the length of your right foot 133 �Correlation Coefficient (r) Measure of association between two interval/ratio variables indicating the strength and direction of their relationship; summary measure of the extent to which cases are clustered about the regression line. Correlation Matrix An array of correlation coefficients. Cumulative Percentage Percentage of scores that have a given value or less. Data Records of observations on case variables. Data File Data set stored in a form that can be used by a computer. Demographics The study of human populations Density population per square mile Dependent Variable A characteristic of a unit of study that is affected by the categories or characteristics of another (independent) variable. Ecological Data or Variables Aggregate data or variables based on spatial or geographic units such as city districts, states, or countries. Genuine Relationship A causal association that does not appear to be explained by an antecedent variable. Independent Variable A variable presumed to have an impact on a dependent variable. Years of education (as an independent variable) may be associated with income level (the dependent variable). Level of Significance Probability that a relationship found in sample data occurs by chance if there is no relationship in the population. Mean Arithmetical average of all scores; the sum of cases divided by the number of cases. 134 �Measure of Association Statistic summarizing the strength (and sometimes the direction) of a relationship. Metropolitan Statistical Area Although the definitions and acronyms have changed from census to census, it is a city of at least 50,000 people and the surrounding counties with significant economic and commuting links to it. Migration People moving in or out of a area, usually measured in terms often year intervals. Multivariate Analysis Simultaneous analysis of data for three or more variables. Negative Association Relationship in which higher scores on one variable are associated with lower scores on the other variable. Nominal Variable Variable with values that are unordered categories. Null Hypothesis Assumption of no relationship in the population. Ordinal Variable Variable with values that can be rank-ordered but that are not measured with a fixed unit of measurement. Outlier Score on interval/ratio variable that is unusually low or high. Parameter Characteristic of a population. (See Statistic.) Percentage Standardized frequency assuming a total of 100 cases. Population Set of cases from which a sample is drawn and to which a researcher wants to generalize. (See Sample.) Positive Association Relationship in which higher scores on one variable are associated with higher scores on the other variable. 135 �r (Pearson Product-Moment Correlation Coefficient) Measure of association for the relationship between two interval/ratio variables. r2 (Coefficient of Determination) The proportion of variation in a dependent variable explained by an independent variable. R2 (Coefficient of Multiple Determination) The proportion of variation in a dependent variable explained by two or more independent variables. Regression Line (Least-Squares Line) Summary line on a scatterplot that minimizes the sum of squares of residuals. Research Hypothesis A statement of an expectation about the relationship between variables. Sample Set of cases taken from a larger population of cases. (See population.) Scatterplot Graphic representation of relationships between interval/ratio variables. Score Casefs value on a variable. Spurious Relationship A statistical association between variables that is not genuine but instead is due to other antecedent or intervening variables. Standard Deviation Measure of variation in scores; square root of the variance. (See Variance.) Standardized Variable Variable whose scores have all been converted to Z-scores. Statistic Characteristic of a sample. (See Parameter.) Statistics 1. Numbers that summarize information. 2. Methods for quantitatively summarizing and generalizing information. 3. Characteristics of a sample. 136 �Subset Cases selected for an analysis on the basis of their scores on one or more specified variables. Tabular Analysis Analysis of the associations among variables by comparing percentage distributions. Type I Error Rejection of a null hypothesis that is true. Type II Error Failure to reject a null hypothesis that is false. URL Universal Resource Locator: the "address5 of a web site Univariate Analysis Analysis of data concerning only one variable. V (Cramer's V) Chi square-based, symmetric measure of association for nominal variables. Variable Characteristic or property that differs in value from case to case. X-Axis Horizontal axis in a scatterplot, usually used for an independent variable. Y-Axis Vertical axis in a scatterplot, usually used for a dependent variable. 137 �This page intentionally left blank �Codebook for the APCOUNTY File Variables SHORT LABEL LONG LABEL 1)NAME NAME OF COUNTY 2) STATES MAP MAP CODED TO DIFFERENTIATE STATES 3) THREE REGN APPALACHIA BY NORTH, CENTRAL AND SOUTHERN REGIONS 4) APPAL CORE 179 COUNTIES CONSIDERED APPALACHIAN BY FORD (1962) AND THE FEDERAL GOVERNMENT. 5) HIGHLANDS FEDERALLY DESIGNATED HIGHLAND COUNTIES 6) CITY IN MSA, CMSA, PMSA, OR NECMA (1) OTHERWISE (0) 7) %URBAN90 1990: PERCENT URBAN This variable is used by the following variable: 85) %URb90coll 8) %RURAL90 1990: PERCENT RURAL 9) %URBAN80 PERCENT OF POPULATION WHO ARE URBAN 1980 (CENSUS) 10)%RURAL80 PERCENT OF POPULATION WHO ARE RURAL 1980 (CENSUS) 11)%AMER.IN90 1990: PERCENT AMERICAN INDIAN, ESKIMO, OR ALEUT 12)%ENGLISH90 1990: PERCENT REPORTING ANY ENGLISH ANCESTRY 13)%GERMAN90 1990: PERCENT REPORTING ANY GERMAN ANCESTRY 14) %ITALIAN90 1990: PERCENT REPORTING ANY ITALIAN ANCESTRY 15)%SCT.IRH90 1990: PERCENT REPORTING ANY SCOTCH-IRISH ANCESTRY 16)%SCOTTSH90 1990: PERCENT REPORTING ANY SCOTTISH ANCESTRY 17)%IRISH90 1990: PERCENT REPORTING ANY IRISH ANCESTRY 18)%BLACK90 1990: PERCENT BLACK 139 �19)%>6490 1990: PERCENT OF POPULATION 65 YEARS OR OLDER 20)%<1890 1990: PERCENT OF POPULATION 17 YEARS OR YOUNGER 21)POPULAT90 1990: RESIDENT POPULATION 22) %MIGR80-89 PERCENT NET MIGRATION (CENSUS BUREAU: INCLUDES CALCULATIONS FOR UNDERCOUNTS) 23) SEX RAT.90 1990: NUMBER OF MALES PER 100 FEMALES 24) %WIDOWR90 1990: PERCENT OF MALES OVER 15 WHO ARE WIDOWED 25) SME COUN90 1990: PERCENT OF THOSE OVER 5 WHO LIVED IN DIFFERENT HOUSE IN SAME COUNTY IN 1985 26) NOT N HS90 1990: PERCENT OF THOSE 16 TO 19 WHO ARE NOT IN HIGH SCHOOL AND HAVE NOT GRADUATED 27) H.S.GRAD90 1990: PERCENT OF THOSE 25 AND OVER WHO HAVE A HIGH SCHOOL DEGREE (ONLY) 28) H.S.GRAD80 PERCENT OF PERSONS 25 YEARS OLD AND OVER COMPLETING HIGH SCHOOL ONLY 1980 (CENSUS) 29) MED.EDUC80 YEARS OF SCHOOL COMPLETED: MEDIAN SCHOOL YEARS COMPLETED BY PERSONS 25 YEARS OLD AND OVER 1980 (CENSUS) 30) COLLEGE 90 1990: PERCENT OF THOSE 25 OR OVER WHO HAVE COMPLETED SOME COLLEGE OR ASSOCIATE DEGREE 31)COLLEGE80 PERCENT OF PERSONS 25 YEARS OLD AND OVER COMPLETING 1-3 YEARS OF COLLEGE 1980 (CENSUS) 32) PERCAP 92 PER CAPITA MONEY INCOME IN 1992 33) PCAP%US92 COUNTRY PER CAPITA IN AS PERCENT OF US PER CAPITA This variable is used by the following variable: 86)PC%US92COL 34) PERCAP 70 1970 PERCAPITA INCOME 35) PCAP%US70 1970 PER CAPITA INCOME AS PERCENT OF NATIONAL AVERAGE 140 �36) DISTRESSED APPALACHIAN REGIONAL COMMISSION 1988 DESIGNATION OF COUNTY ECONOMY. 1 SEVERELY DISTRESSED, 2 DISTRESSED, 3 MIDDLE, 4 STRONG, 5 VERY STRONG. This variable is used by the following variable: 87) DISTRSDCOL 37) UNEMP 91 1991: CIVILIAN LABOR FORCE UNEMPLOYMENT RATE 38) UNEMP 80 CIVILIAN LABOR FORCE UNEMPLOYMENT RATE (BLS) 1980 (BLS) 39) %POOR 89 1989: PERCENT BELOW POVERTY LEVEL 40) POOR>65 89 1989: PERCENT OF THOSE OVER 65 WHO ARE BELOW POVERTY LEVEL 41)POORFAM89 1989: PERCENT OF FAMILIES BELOW POVERTY LEVEL 42) POOR FAM80 PERCENT OF FAMILIES IN POVERTY 1980 (CENSUS) 43) CHLD POR89 1989: PERCENT OF CHILDREN UNDER 18 BELOW POVERTY LEVEL 44) INFANT90-2 INFANT MORTALITY: 3-YEAR RATE -1990-92 (ARC) 45) DR.RATE90 1990: ACTIVE NONFEDERAL PHYSICIANS PER 100,000 POPULATION (AMA *SUBJECT TO COPYRIGHT*) 46) %MALE/CH90 1990: PERCENT OF HOUSEHOLDS THAT ARE MALE HEADED WITH OWN CHILDREN, NO SPOUSE PRESENT 47) F HEAD/C90 1990: PERCENT OF HOUSEHOLDS THAT ARE FEMALE HEADED WITH OWN CHILDREN, NO SPOUSE PRESENT 48) AGRICUL%90 1990: PERCENT OF EARNINGS FROM AGRICULTURAL SERVICES, FORESTRY, FISHERIES AND OTHER (BEA) 49)%AGRI.EM90 1990: PERCENT EMPLOYED IN AGRICULTURE, FORESTRY, AND FISHERIES 50) MINING %90 1990: PERCENT OF EARNINGS FROM MINING (BEA) 51)%MINEEM90 1990: PERCENT EMPLOYED IN MINING 52) MANUFCT%90 1990: PERCENT OF EARNINGS FROM MANUFACTURING (BEA) 141 �53)MANUF.$90 1990: AVERAGE PAY IN MANUFACTURING 54) %MANUF.E90 1990: PERCENT EMPLOYED IN MANUFACTURING 55) RETAIL%90 1990: PERCENT OF EARNINGS IN RETAIL TRADE (BEA) 56) RETAIL $90 1990: AVERAGE PAY IN RETAIL TRADE 57) %TRADE E90 1990: PERCENT EMPLOYED IN WHOLESALE AND RETAIL TRADE 58) SERVCES%90 1990: PERCENT OF EARNINGS FROM SERVICES (BEA) 59) SERVCES$90 1990: AVERAGE PAY IN SERVICES 60) GOVERN.%90 1990: PERCENT OF EARNINGS FROM GOVERNMENT (BEA) 61)%HLTHEM90 1990: PERCENT EMPLOYED IN PROFESSIONAL AND RELATED SERVICES IN HEALTH 62) %FARMS 87 1987: FARMLAND AS PERCENT OF TOTAL LAND 63) %FARMS '82 FARMLAND AS A PERCENT OF TOTAL LAND 1982 (CENSUS) 64) FARM SZE87 1987: AVERAGE FARM SIZE 65) FARM SZE82 AVERAGE SIZE OF FARM 1982 (ACRES) (CENSUS) 66) FARM VAL87 1987: AVERAGE VALUE OF FARM LAND AND BUILDINGS PER FARM 67) FARM VAL82 AVERAGE VALUE OF FARM LAND AND BUILDINGS PER FARM 1982 (CENSUS) 68) FED$/CAP90 1990: DIRECT FEDERAL EXPENDITURES AND GRANTS PER CAPITA 69) DEM.VOTE80 1980: PERCENT VOTING DEMOCRATIC (CARTER) FOR PRESIDENT (ERG 'SUBJECT TO COPYRIGHT*) 70) REP.VOTE80 1980: PERCENT VOTING REPUBLICAN (REAGAN) FOR PRESIDENT (ERG 'SUBJECT TO COPYRIGHT*) 71)DEM.VOTE84 1984: PERCENT VOTING DEMOCRATIC (MONDALE) FOR PRESIDENT (ERG *SUBJECTTO COPYRIGHT*) 142 �72) REP.VOTE84 1984: PERCENT VOTING REPUBLICAN (REAGAN) FOR PRESIDENT (ERG *SUBJECTTO COPYRIGHT*) 73) OTH.VOTE84 1984: PERCENT VOTING FOR A THIRD PARTY CANDIDATE FOR PRESIDENT (ERC *SUBJECT TO COPYRIGHT*) 74)DEM.VOTE88 1988: PERCENT VOTING DEMOCRATIC (DUKAKIS) FOR PRESIDENT (ERC *SUBJECT TO COPYRIGHT*) 75) REP.VOTE88 1988: PERCENT VOTING REPUBLICAN (BUSH) FOR PRESIDENT (ERC *SUBJECT TO COPYRIGHT*) 76) OTH.VOTE88 1988: PERCENT VOTING FOR THIRD PARTY CANDIDATE FOR PRESIDENT (ERC *SUBJECT TO COPYRIGHT*) 77) DEM.VOTE92 1992: PERCENT VOTING DEMOCRATIC (CLINTON) FOR PRESIDENT (ERC *SUBJECTTO COPYRIGHT*) 78) REP.VOTE92 1992: PERCENT VOTING REPUBLICAN (BUSH) FOR PRESIDENT (ERC *SUBJECT TO COPYRIGHT*) 79) PER.VOTE92 1992: PERCENT VOTING FOR PEROT FOR PRESIDENT (ERC *SUBJECT TO COPYRIGHT*) 80) PRES.VT80 1980: VOTE CAST FOR LEADING PARTY (1=DEMOCRATIC 2=REPUBLICAN) (ERC *SUBJECT TO COPYRIGHT*) 81)PRES.VT84 1984: VOTE CAST FOR LEADING PARTY (1=DEMOCRATIC 2=REPUBLICAN) (ERC *SUBJECT TO COPYRIGHT*) 82) PRES.VT88 1988: VOTE CAST FOR LEADING PARTY (1=DEMOCRATIC 2=REPUBLICAN) (ERC *SUBJECT TO COPYRIGHT*) 83) PRES.VT92 1992: VOTE CAST FOR LEADING PARTY (1=DEMOCRATIC 2=REPUBLICAN 3=PEROT) (ERC *SUBJECT TO COPYRIGHT*) 84) DENSITY 90 1990: POPULATION PER SQUARE MILE 85) %URB90COLL PERCENT URBAN COLLAPSED INTO PERCENTAGE QUINTILES. 86) PC%US92COL COUNTRY PER CAPITA IN AS PERCENT OF US PERCAPITA COLLAPSED INTO 4 GROUPS 143 �87) DISTRSDCOL APPALACHIAN REGIONAL COMMISSION 1988 DESIGNATION OF COUNTY ECONOMY. 1 SEVERELY DISTRESSED, 2 DISTRESSED, 3 MIDDLE WITH 4 STRONG AND 5 VERY STRONG COLLAPSED. 88) PER CAP$81 PER CAPITA MONEY INCOME IN 1981 (CENSUS) 89) STATESCODE REGION'S 13 STATES CODED 90) DISTRESS95 APPALACHIAN REGIONAL COMMISSION-DESIGNATED ECONOMICALLY DISTRESSED COUNTIES IN 1995. 91)DISTRESS99 ARC-DESIGNATED DISTRESSED COUNTIES 1999 92) PERCAP 95 PER CAPITA INCOME 1995 (CENSUS) 93) PERCAP%US 95 PER CAPITA INCOME AS A PERCENT OF THE U. S. PER CAPITA INCOME, 1995 (ARC) 94) MIGR90-97 PERCENT NET MIGRATION 95) POP97 POPULATION 1997 (ARC) 96) UNEMP 96 PERCENT UNEMPLOYED, 1996 144 �Readings and Media Resources A selected bibliography of recently published books on Appalachia: Couto, Richard A. 1994 An American Challenge: A Report on the Economic Trends and Social Issues in Appalachia. Dubuque: Kendall/Hunt. Eller, Ronald D 1982 Miners, Millhands and Mountaineers: the Modernization of the Appalachian South 1880-1930. Knoxville: University Press of Tennessee. Ergood, Bruce and Bruce E. Kuhre, editors 1991 Appalachia: Social Context, Past Present and Future. Third Edition. Dubuque: Kendall/Hunt. Fisher, Stephen L. 1993 Fighting Back in Appalachia: Traditions of Resistance and Change. Philadelphia: Temple University Press. Gaventa, John 1980 Power and Powerlessness: Quiescence and Rebellion in an Appalachian Valley. Urbana: University of Illinois Press. Higgs, Robert J. and Ambrose N. Manning 1996 Voices from the Hills: Selected Readings of Southern Appalachia. Dubuque: Kendall/Hunt. Higgs, Robert J., Ambrose N. Manning and Jim Wayne Miller 1995 Appalachia Inside Out. Knoxville: University of Tennessee Press. Hinsdale, Mary Ann, Helen M. Lewis and S. Maxine Waller 1995 It Comes from the People: Community Development and Local Theology. Philadelphia: Temple University Press. Philliber, William W. And Clyde B. McCoy, Editors 1981 The Invisible Minority: Urban Appalachians. Lexington: The University Press of Kentucky. Crandall A. Shifflett 1991 Coal Towns: Life Work and Culture in Company Towns of Southern Appalachia, 1880-1960. Knoxville: University Press of Tennessee. Turner, William H. And Edward J. Cabbell, editors 1985 Blacks in Appalachia. Lexington: University Press of Kentucky. 145 �Suggested Readings and Media Resources by Chapter Chapter II: Exploring a Region through Quantitative Data Ergood and Kuhre, Section I. What is Appalachia? Especially 1. the Appalachian Research Collective's "Why Study Appalachia?," 3. Raitz and Ulack's "Regional Definitions" and 5. John Campbell's "The Southern Highlands and the Southern Highlander Defined." APPALSHOP film: Appalachian Genesis Chapter III: Cultural Diversity in Appalachia Ergood and Kuhre: II. Historical Background: 9. John Campbell: "Pioneer Routes of Travel and Early Settlements." Turner and Cabbell, chapters 6, 10,11 and 16 Higgs and Manning, pp. 27-76: "The First Inhabitants," and "The Mythical Heritage." APPALSHOP film: Ourselves and That Promise Chapter IV: Demographics: Urbanization and Migration Couto, An American Challenge: Chapters 5 and 7: Population, Work Force and Social Capital. Ergood and Kuhre, III. Demographic Characteristics. Note especially Stephen E. White, "America's Soweto: Population Redistribution in Appalachian Kentucky, 1940-1986." APPALSHOP film: The Long Journey Home. Additional film about Appalachian migrants to Cincinnati: The Newcomers Chapter V: The Appalachian Economy I Couto, An American Challenge: Chapter 3: Appalachia in a National and International Economy Ergood & Kuhre: Section V. The Economy: Especially note 26. Salim Kublawi, "The Economy of Appalachia in the National Context" and 27: Helen Lewis Fatalism or the Coal Industry. Eller, Miners, Millhands and Mountaineers, Chapters 2-4 Gaventa, Chapters 2 and 3 APPALSHOP film strip: Clincho: Story of a Mining Town. APPALSHOP films: 1) Coalmining Women. 2) Frank Jackson, Coal Miner Chapter VI: The Appalachian Economy II Couto, Chapters 4-6: Work and Income Eller, Miners, Millhands and Mountaineers, Chapters 6,7 Gaventa, chapters 4 and 5 APPALSHOP films: 1) Fast Food Women 2)The Buffalo Creek Flood: An act of Man 3) Mine War on Blackberry Creek 146 �Chapter VII: Voting Patterns and Economic Conditions Gaventa, chapters 6, 8-10 Ergood & Kuhre, Section VI. Polity, especially Branscome's "What the New Frontier and Great Society Brought." APPALSHOP film: The Big Lever: Party Politics in Leslie County, Kentucky. Chapter VIII: Race and Region: Minorities in Appalachia Turner and Cabbell provide a rich selection of readings from nearly 20 authors APPALSHOP film: Mabel Parker Hardison Smith Chapter IX.: Appalachia: A Land of Many Definiitons Ergood and Kuhre, I What is Appalachia: 3. Raitz and Ulack, "Regional Definitions." T.Bruce Ergood, "Toward a definition of Appalachia" APPALSHOP film: Hard Times in the Country: The Schools 147 �ABOUT PLAUT is a faculty of Mars Hill University for the Applicant ACA Asheville^ North Carolina. on the 1977 until 2005. He is a He a as a at Pisgah Services in �This page intentionally left blank �LICENSE AGREEMENT READ THIS LICENSE AGREEMENT CAREFULLY BEFORE OPENING THE DISKETTE PACKAGE, BY OPENING THIS PACKAGE YOU ACCEPT THE TERMS OF THIS AGREEMENT. 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For more information see, http://dublincore.org/documents/dces/. Title A name given to the resource People, Politics and Economic Life: Exploring Appalachia with Quantitative Methods Description An account of the resource This is the second edition, published in 1996, of a workbook designed as a supplementary text for courses on regional studies, geography, history, and social sciences. The text teaches students how to explore issues people face in Appalachia. Data from the U.S. Bureau of the Census, Bureau of Economic Analysis, Appalachian Regional Commission, and other agencies that were originally collected for the first edition, were updated. A section was added on how to use the internet to research and obtain information from the national, regional, and county levels. Dr. Susan E. Keefe contributed an overview of the Appalachian region as the first chapter, titled: "Appalachia and Its People".<br /><br /><a href="https://drive.google.com/open?id=13iMlkkg6kKDrUo9o0LcdxioDAtIQheSz" target="_blank" rel="noopener">Download EPub<br /><br /></a><a title="UNC Press Link" href="https://www.uncpress.org/book/9781469641348/people-politics-and-economic-life" target="_blank" rel="noopener">UNC Press Print on Demand</a> Subject The topic of the resource Appalachian Region--Economic conditions Appalachian Region--Social conditions Appalachian Region--Population Creator An entity primarily responsible for making the resource Plaut, Thomas Date A point or period of time associated with an event in the lifecycle of the resource 1996 Publisher An entity responsible for making the resource available Kendall/Hunt Publishing Company Appalachian Consortium Press Alternative Title An alternative name for the resource. The distinction between titles and alternative titles is application-specific. People, Politics and Economic Life: Exploring Appalachia with Qualitative Methods Language A language of the resource English Format The file format, physical medium, or dimensions of the resource PDF Textbooks E-books Type The nature or genre of the resource Text Rights Information about rights held in and over the resource <a href="https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by/4.0/deed" target="_blank" rel="noopener">https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by/4.0/deed</a> Spatial Coverage Spatial characteristics of the resource. https://www.geonames.org/12212302/appalachia.html Source A related resource from which the described resource is derived <a title="UA 76 Appalachian Consortium records" href="https://appstate-speccoll.lyrasistechnology.org/repositories/2/resources/9" target="_blank" rel="noreferrer noopener"> UA 76 Appalachian Consortium records </a> Is Part Of A related resource in which the described resource is physically or logically included. <a title="Appalachian Consortium Press Publications" href="https://omeka.library.appstate.edu/collections/show/82" target="_blank"> Appalachian Consortium Press Publications</a> Temporal Coverage Temporal characteristics of the resource. 1990s Appalachia demographic socio-economic state data https://omeka-test.library.appstate.edu/files/original/beafb32509e8b140c2efb2de8953c3ab.pdf 089eb0bccb65d660784e854a83cf70d9 PDF Text Text �CONTEMPORARY APPALACHIA: IN SEARCH OF A USABLE PAST Proceedings of the Ninth Annual Appalachian Studies Conference Edited by: CARL ROSS Managing Editor: JANE SHOOK �The Appalachian Consortium was a non-profit educational organization composed of institutions and agencies located in Southern Appalachia. From 1973 to 2004, its members published pioneering works in Appalachian studies documenting the history and cultural heritage of the region. The Appalachian Consortium Press was the first publisher devoted solely to the region and many of the works it published remain seminal in the field to this day. With funding from the Andrew W. Mellon Foundation and the National Endowment for the Humanities through the Humanities Open Book Program, Appalachian State University has published new paperback and open access digital editions of works from the Appalachian Consortium Press. www.collections.library.appstate.edu/appconsortiumbooks This work is licensed under a Creative Commons BY-NC-ND license. To view a copy of the license, visit http://creativecommons.org/licenses. Original copyright © 1987 by the Appalachian Consortium Press. ISBN (pbk.: alk. Paper): 978-1-4696-3678-8 ISBN (ebook): 978-1-4696-3680-1 Distributed by the University of North Carolina Press www.uncpress.org �Table of Contents INTRODUCTION, Carl Ross 1 KEYNOTE SPEAKER, Ron Ella 3 I. GENDER ROLES IN APPALACHIA Comfort in Confinement: Gender Roles in the Old Regular Baptist Church, Howard Dorgan 11 II. APPALACHIAN STUDIES STUDENTS Appalachian Studies And The Native Student: Resource Or Refuge?, Ricky Cox 21 Dialect Effects In Appalachian Students' Written Composition, 27 Becky Eller Old Catawbans and "Mountain Grill": The Appalachian in Thomas Wolfe's Short Stories, Sally Bruce 37 III. CREATIVE READINGS The Loom House, "The Apprentice," "A Spinner in Her Hundredth Year," Bennie Sinclair 49 IV. FEDERAL IMPACT Appalachia's Path To Welfare Dependency, Paul Salstrom 56 V. ENVIRONMENT Past Commitments, Current Problems, And Future Choices: Water Use In Appalachia, Dennis Soden 65 VI. OLD FURNITURE—NEW ROOMS: THE POETICS OF SPACE IN APPALACHIAN LITERATURE Divine Right And The Red Tent, Parks Lanier 83 FOLK MUSIC: SURVIVAL AND REVIVAL Fiddling in the Poconos: Survival or Revival?, John McLaughlin 90 VII. �VIII. SOUTHERN APPALACHIAN FOLK ARTISTS The Frank Proffitt Family—Watauga Folk Artists "Gone Across The Mountains, O Fare You Well," Betsy Covington99 IX. COLLECTIONS AND EXHIBITING Somewhere Over Beech Mountain: Contemporary Appalachian Artifacts And The Land Of Oz, Charles Watkins 106 �1986 PROGRAM COMMITTEE Carl Ross, Chair Patricia Beaver Laura Binder Richard Blaustein Barry Buxton Clay Estepp Mike Kline Parks Lanier Ruby Lanier Gordon McKinney Mike Mullins Karl Raitz Helen Roseberry James Sessions Jim Stone �This page intentionally left blank �Introduction The Appalachian Studies Association was formed in 1977 by scholars, teachers and regional activists who believed that a shared community of ideas and interests had been and would continue to be important for those writing, researching and teaching about things Appalachian. The first Appalachian Studies Conference was held at Berea, Kentucky in March of 1978. We have learned much since that first conference. We now more fully realize how dynamic Appalachian society has always been. Today, we can see that there has long been a reciprocal interaction between the Appalachian region and the larger American society. All of us make judgements and decisions based on what has gone before. The better our understanding of these past events, the more we are able to act with intelligence and sensitivity in the present. No one can understand his society without a comprehension of its evolution. Understanding our past will not always explain everything we want to know about our current state of affairs, but it can help us to make sense out of many matters which are otherwise bewildering and remind us that although we live in a complex era, previous generations have confronted equal complexities. Knowledge of the past can be a source of consolation in a bewildering world. We must be careful not to accept present institutions and policies as the best and wisest, but neither should we reject them out of hand. By drawing upon the perspectives of the past, we can approach the present with greater sensitivity. Conversely, we will never understand our present or be able to deal with the future unless we can in some way make sense of our past, learn its lessons, and use that knowledge to shape our future. The 1986 Program Committee chose to direct its attention to contemporary Appalachia and to focus on our search for a usable past. In doing so, we affirmed our belief that a better understanding of our past will enhance our sense of identity, show that we are products of our own culture, enable us to learn from our past, understand our present, and shape our future. The papers included in this publication are a representative sampling of those presented at the conference. Budgetary and editorial considerations precluded the inclusion of many other papers. It is our hope that this volume will contribute to a wider understanding of our region. Carl A. Ross, Chair 1986 Program Committee 1 �This page intentionally left blank �The Search For Community In Appalachia by Ron D. Eller University of Kentucky The mountains have much to share with the rest of the country. The story of the mountains is the story of the nation writ small. It is the story of man's relationship to the land, of man's relationship to man—exploitation, racism, sexism, conflict, despair, pride, and triumph. It is the story of democratic people struggling with mass culture, mass thinking, capitalism, and individualism. In recent years we Americans generally have expressed growing concern about the decline of "community" in our land. Such diverse writers as Simone Weil, Christopher Lasch, Peter Berger, Wendell Barry, and a host of others have lamented the individualizing tendencies of modern culture and have called for a revival of community structures that once provided the safety net for most Americans.1 The "Roots" phenomenon of the 1970s reflected as much a desire for conectedness in our present lives as it did a desire to rediscover our ancestors. Recently, Robert Bellah and his associates have renewed the debate over our national character with their best seller, Habits of the Heart.2 We in Appalachian studies should be doubly interested in this debate since the search for community has been central to our work in the region for many years. No theme has been stronger in our literature than the effort to understand the Appalachian character and to explain the nature of the mountain community. If we agree with John Stephenson that Appalachian studies is as much a social movement as an academic enterprise, then that movement itself emerged out of our collective concern for the survival of the mountain community.3 From another perspective, it is our common search for roots and for meaningful relationships in a rootless society that brings us all together as the Appalachian studies community. Certainly, no aspect of mountain life has been so frequently studied and yet so misunderstood and maligned as "community." In fact, for over a hundred years observers of mountain life have denied the existence of "community" altogether in our region. Emma Bell Miles, who was otherwise a perspective observer, wrote in 1905 that "there is no such thing as a community of mountaineers. They are knit together, man to man, as friends, but not as a body of men "4 Writers from that time to the present—including Horace Kephart, Samuel Tyndale Wilson, 3 �James Watt Raine, Jack Weller, Rupert Vance, Thomas R. Ford, and many others—have continued that traditionals view. Jack Weller summarized their attitudes: he wrote in 1965 that the mountaineers "have no community life as such or life outside their very limited family group They are virtually impossible to organize into groups and are traditionalistic in the extreme."5 Given this perceived absence of community, John C. Campbell concluded that the dominant trait of the mountaineer was independence, "independence raised to the fourth power Heredity and environment," he wrote, "have conspired to make (the mountaineer) an extreme individualist."6 Campbell devoted an entire chapter in his classic book to the individualism of the Southern highlanders, and almost every writer since has found individualism to be one of the most powerful, definable traits of "mountain character." According to this received vision, the mountaineer is the extreme individualist who cares nothing for cooperation and has no commitment to community beyond what he can get out of it for himself. This notion of mountain individualism has provided grist for the theoretical mill of those who would see the region as uncivilized, backward, barbaric or degenerate. It has become the popular symbol of the mountaineer in cartoons and the media and has been used to explain everything from labor violence to poor health. In fact, the origins of this individualistic image are deeply rooted in the "idea of Appalachia" itself and lie entwined in the work of turn of the century writers who associated individualism with the passing frontier and community with the progressive and civilizing forces of modern, urban life. Campbell, for example, drew his accounts of the early history of Appalachia from the work of Theodore Roosevelt and Frederick Jackson Turner, men who believed that the frontier had been an individualizing experience, one which had given rise to the great independent spirit of American democracy.7 More recent historians, however, have all but turned the "Frontier Thesis" on its head and have pointed to the persistence of community in the westward movement rather than to settlement by independent pioneers. Far from being extreme individualists forced to adapt to a harsh environment, the early frontiersmen were more likely to be part of an extended community of interdependent families, and by practicing communal and cooperative efforts they were able not only to survive but to flourish. Contemporary scholars associate the rise of individualism with the growth of capitalism and modernization, not with the persistence of the frontier.8 Unfortunately this scholarship has had little effect upon Appalachian studies, and the communal heritage in the mountain character has been all but lost to our collective memory. Research into the nature of the mountain community, therefore, would undoubtedly reveal a split tradition. In Appalachia, like the rest of 4 �the country, individualism and commitment have both been part of our common heritage. As Robert Bellah and others have argued, Americans have always spoken a dual language—one rooted in images of radical individualism, private achievement, personal consumption, and individual success; the other in images of civic responsibility, social equality, public virtue, and commitment. This second, public language was central to the republican tradition that dominated the early years of our history, while the voice of individualism emerged to dominate the cultural revolution that accompanied the rise of modern capitalism.9 Many contemporary observers of American society believe that this first language of individualism has so displaced our second language of civic virtue that it is undermining our capacity for commitment to one another and threatens the very fiber of our democratic life. "Almost all Americans in the 1980s," writes Harry Boyte, "have experienced some form of wrenching detachment from the communal settings that might nourish a deep and continuous sense of what it means to be an American."10 Expressive individualism, these critics believe, not only saps us of the connectedness necessary for personal identity, but it weakens the social values of cooperation and responsibility necessary for a democratic society. Individualism separates us from the society around us and causes us to forget our ancestors, to forget our traditions, and to imagine that our whole destiny is in our own hands. We live for the present, lack concern for the well-being of others, and base our actions upon how we feel at the moment because we have little understanding of how others before us have acted. Like Jim Wayne Miller's Brier, "we don't know any more about our history than a dog knows his daddy We try to live in somebody else's house (We're) educated, don't believe in nothing."11 But we in Appalachia do profess to believe in something—in our land, in our families, in our traditions, in our God, and in our sense of social justice. Perhaps that is why Appalachian studies has been throughout its history a challenge to the cultural hegemony of modern American life. It allows us to believe that we are doing more with our lives than just serving ourselves. Some of us have focused our challenge to modernism on political and economic relationships that have left our region exploited and impoverished. Others have focused criticism on the loss of certain moral values or on the modern restraints to self-expression and identity. As a result of these diverse responses to modernism, we in Appalachian studies used to divide ourselves into the "action folk" (politically oriented people) and the "creative folk" (literary and artistic people), as if knowledge, creativity, and politics were somehow separable.12 But politics and culture are part of the same whole, and any effort to change economic conditions must be considered within a cultural context. We are all engaged in the search for purpose in our lives, in the search for rootedness that gives meaning to our work. 5 �Roots, however, don't exist in a singular vacuum; they require commitment to others—an interconnectedness that gives life to the whole. Thus, the challenge is not simply to abandon our first language in favor of the second, our private world in favor of the public sphere, but to reorient our individual lives for the benefit of the community as a whole. Our pioneer ancestors placed a high value on self-reliance, but that selfreliance had a clearly collective context. It was as a people that they acted independently and a self-reliantly. With the rise of modernism the collective note was muted and our primary obligation has come to be to ourselves. The differences which divide us in Appalachian studies today, therefore, may have less to do with action-seeking vs. creativity than with the reasons for our involvement with this work itself and the level of our commitment to personal and collective goals. But how do we nourish the collective spirit? For us in the mountains to renew our communities and build a more just and equitable future for our children will require a new commitment and a fundamental realignment of our values. As we have learned in recent years, Appalachia will not be rescued from the outside, whether by the federal government or the private sector. Renewal must begin from within, with the revitalization of communities and of the spirit of self-help and civic virtue. The recovery of community will require that we move beyond a defensive reaction against the things which threaten us and assume a positive initiative to create a new cultural context for democratic change. Such an initiative requires that we relearn old skills and acquire new perspectives: how to talk to each other, how to share with each other, how to recover collective memories, how to discern common values out of diverse traditions, and how to connect personal troubles with social issues.13 Central to this process is the restoration of our collective memory. As is true with most social movements, the first step to collective consciousness is the recovery of those common experiences and customs which grant dignity to the individual and an alternative view of the prevailing culture. Martin Luther King recognized the importance of historical memory to the civil rights movement and encouraged his followers not only to recover the lost history of blacks in America, but also to recover the lost meaning of democracy as well. For King the civil rights movement was "not only directed at the transformation of unjust structures; it was also a school for citizenship through which ordinary men and women would acquire "a new sense of somebodyness."14 Having an understanding of how others before us have acted gives us the confidence to make decisions in the present, to create out of traditions for the past new visions for the future. Robert Bellah consideres historical memory to be essential to community: 6 �Communities... have a history—in an important sense they are constituted by their past—and for this reason we can speak of a real community as a "community of memory," one that does not forget its past. In order not to forget that past, a community is involved in retelling its story, its constitutive narrative, and in so doing, it offers examples of the men and women who have embodied and exemplified the meaning of the community.15 We in Appalachian studies have made great strides in the recovery of our collective memory, but we have far to go in beginning to share that memory with ordinary men and women in the region. Modern culture, with its emphasis on change, has a way of robbing us of historical memory. Appalachians have been especially victimized by that tendency, and until we do a better job recovering and retelling our history, we will be unable to recognize and evaluate the alternative social visions that have existed within our past. Only then can we hope to develop an Appalachian conception of the meaning of a good life and thus an alternative vision for the future. Recovering our collective memory will also help us to learn once again to talk to each other, to share with each other, and to discern our common values. As the oral history students of the 1970's learned, recording the oral traditions of their neighbors required more than mechanical skills. It taught them how to communicate and how to listen, how to think across time, and how to relate the lives of individuals to the larger social order. Above all it gave them insight into the lives of the men and women who sustained them. In the process, they became tied to that community of memory themselves. Renewing our individual ties to our communities of memory is a further step toward building active, democratic citizenship. Classical republicanism evoked an image of the active citizen contributing to the public good, and this, notes Bellah, requires us to see the individual within the context of the larger community rather than seeing the "self" as "the only or main form of reality."16 Remembering our heritage involves accepting our origins—including the painful memories of prejudice, poverty, and exploitation that the pressures to modernize have attempted to deny. Accepting these painful memories is often the wellspring for social consciousness. Thus leaving behind one kind of individualism, Bellah suggests, will help us acquire a new civic individualism, that entails care for the affairs of the community and a new definition of the relationship of individuals to society. Let us take, for example, the meaning of work in our modern world. How does the way that we define work affect our relationship to community? How does the way in which we in Appalachian studies define our 7 �roles as scholars, teachers, and activists affect our ability to relate to mountain communities and mountain people? When I was growing up, I was encouraged to "make something of myself" by moving beyond my raising, beyond my family and the cultural community of which I was a part. Success was defined by my teachers as moving up the economic and social ladder, escaping the hillbilly world of "yesterday's people." Education became the utilitarian route to getting a job, and work became simply a way of making money and achieving personal success. Gone from this modern, individualistic notion of work is the older sense of work as a "calling," wherein one's work was morally inseparable from the needs of the community. In pre-industrial mountain communities, work was a moral relationship between people not just a source of material or personal reward. The work of each person contributed to the good of the whole, and the success of that work was judged by its contribution to the success of the community rather than what the individual could get out of it. I wonder to what extent those of us in Appalachian studies today feel this sense of our work as commitment to that larger community which we profess to study or to what extent we simply use that community to further our own careers and institutional goals or to test our most recent intellectual theory. Is our work in Appalachian studies defined in terms of self-fulfillment or in terms of its contribution to the common good? If we are to be about the business of nourishing community in our society, we must be more than just a gathering of like-minded individuals whose union depends entirely on spontaneous interest. We must carry a shared sense of civic virtue and committed citizenry into our classrooms and into the communities in which we live and work. We must recognize the many forms of community that still survive in the mountains and support their efforts to bring dignity and meaning to the lives of mountain people: volunteer fire departments, religious organizations, self-help societies, neighborhood associations, reform groups and other associations up and down the ridge which sustain public vitality and the egalitarian spirit. Such associations challenge people to think of themselves as a community—giving, sharing, cooperating,—and they provide living demonstrations of democracy at work.17 As for ourselves, we must live out our own understanding of community and bring knowledge and action together in the fulfillment of our professed beliefs. If Appalachian studies is to continue to fulfill its origins as a social movement, it must sustain the power to galvanize widespread political action for reforms of the structures that threaten mountain communities. This means the revival in our own minds of the old Jeffersonian, republican notion of democratic citizenship which requires the active participation of the individual in the political life of the whole. Commitment to community requires both servanthood and servant lead- 8 �ership, and public virtue necessitates politcal action to right the wrongs created by the excessive exercise of private power. We who profess to believe in Appalachia must work beside our brothers and sisters in the base communities of the region to support their struggles for democracy, jobs, and a better quality of life. We serve only ourselves if we study mountain culture, write mountain history, evaluate mountain conditions without applying that knowledge to the living community and using it to shape an alternative future. Rebuilding the community will, finally, require more from us in the future than we have provided in the past. It will mean above all that we take seriously the challenge to provide a vision of what things might become in the mountains and in the larger society. It has often been said that we in Appalachian studies have a better idea of what we are against than of what we are for. We have been quick to react to specific threats and issues, but we have been slower to build a collective vision of what life in Appalachia might become. Martin Luther King recognized the importance of vision and dreams to his people, and he constantly reminded them of that dream. King knew the meaning of that verse in Proverbs: "Where there is no vision, the people perish."18 We might add that where there are no visionaries, the dreams perish as well. Building a vision of an alternative future based on strong community ties will require a new kind of thinking, a new kind of mind for Americans whose culture has been so strongly shaped by modern individualism. Yet we may have within our own mountain traditions the roots from which new spiritual values may arise: ethics of respect, hard work, family, self-reliance, personal dignity, tolerance, fairness, cooperation, and democracy. Our task is to fashion these strands of individualism and community into a practical ideology that is appropriate for a new era. Eudora Welty once observed, "One place comprehended can make us understand other places better. Sense of place gives equilibrium; extended, it is sense of direction."19 Pehaps the search for community in Appalachia may provide a sense of direction for the rebuilding of community in America. ENDNOTES 1. Simone Weil, The Need For Roots, trans. Arthur Wills (New York: Putnam, 1952); Christopher Lasch, "Mass Culture Reconsidered," in Democracy (October 1981); Peter Berger, Facing Up To Modernity: Excursions Into Society, Politics and Religion (New York: Basic, 1977); Wendell Berry, The Unsettling of America: Culture and Agriculture (New York: Avon Books, 1978). See also Kirkpatrick Sale, Human Scale (New York: Putnam, 1980). 9 �2. Robert N. Bellah, et. al., Habits of the Heart: Individualism and Commitment in American Life (Berkeley: University of California Press, 1985). 3. See John Stephenson, "Politics and Scholarship: Appalachian Studies Enter the 1980's," Appalachian Journal, Vol. 9, Nos. 2 &. 3 (Winter-Spring 1982), pp. 97-104. 4. Emma Bell Miles, The Spirit of the Mountains (Knoxville: The University of Tennessee Press, 1975), p.71. 5. Jack Weller, Yesterday's People: Life in Contemporary Appalachia (Lexington: University of Kentucky Press, 1965), p. 88. 6. John C. Campbell, The Southern Highlander and His Homeland (Lexington: The University of Kentucky Press, 1969), p. 91. 7. See for example, Campbell, The Southern Highlander, pp. 93-94. 8. See for example, Berger, Facing Up To Modernity; Rowland Berthoff, "Peasants and Artisans, Purtians and Republicans," journal of American History, 69 (Winter, 1982); Craig Calhoun, "The Radicalism of Tradition: Community Strength or Venerable Disguise and Borrowed Language," The American Journal of Sociology, 88 (March 1983); and John Kasson, Civilizing the Machine: Technology and Republican Values in America (New York: Penguin, 1977). 9. Bellah et. al., Habits of the Heart, pp. 27-35 &. 142-144. 10. Harry C. Boyte, Community is Possible: Repairing America's Roots (New York: Harper and Row, 1984) p. 31. 11. Jim Wayne Miller, "Brier Sermon: You Must Be Born Again" in The Mountains Have Come Closer (Boone, N.C.: Appalachian Consortium Press, 1980). 12. See discussions of this "division" in essays included in "Assessing Appalachian Studies," Appalachian Journal, Vol. 9, Nos. 2 &. 3 (Winter-Spring 1982). 13. Boyte, Community Is Possible, p. 11. 14. Boyte, Community Is Possible, p. 217. 15. Bellah et. al., Habits of the Heart, p. 153. 16. Bellah et. al., Habits of the Heart, p. 143. 17. See on this subject the work of Harry Boyte and Sara Evans, Free Spaces: The Sources of Democratic Change in America (New York: Harper and Row, 1986) and Gar Alperovttz andjeff Faux, Rebuilding America (New York: Pantheon, 1984). 18. Proverbs 29:18. 19. Quoted in C. Vann Woodward, "District of Devils," The New York Review (October 10, 1985), p. 30. 10 �GENDER ROLES IN APPALACHIA Convenor: Alice Matthews, Western Carolina University Comfort in Confinement: Gender Roles In The Old Regular Baptist Church Howard Dorgan, Appalachian State University The Status Of The Study Of Appalachian Women Kim Duckett, Appalachian State University The Gender Specific Class Consciousness of Appalachian Coalminers: An Initial Exploration Mike Yarrow, Ithaca College Comfort In Confinement: Gender Roles In The Old Regular Baptist Church by Howard Dorgan Outside of Amish and Mennonite communities, it will be difficult to find American social orders in which gender roles are more absolute than they sometimes are in Old Regular Baptist congregations. In many of these fellowships, highly traditional models for male/female behavior, forged for the most part from Pauline biblical mandates, stand as the socially accepted paradigms for conduct in dress, speech, involvement in church governance, physical appearances, and family relationships. The result is a set of gender codes that are exceptionally confining, but which provide a few comforts in that confinement. This paper first examines some gender-role-related actions taken in recent annual meetings of the Sardis Association of Old Regular Baptist, the Church of Jesus Christ, and the Union Association of Old Regular Baptists of Jesus Christ, actions relative to dress and hair styles permissible for women of this Baptist sect. Then examination is made of certain biblical passages employed by Old Regulars as justification for their gender codes. Next, the theme "Comfort in Confinement" is briefly explored, followed by a discussion of "cracks in the tablets," preliminary indications that even in these highly traditional fellowships some women are beginning to demand at least a small degree of liberation. 11 �Sardis and Union Association Actions, 1975, 1979, 1982, and 1983 The Sardis and Union Associations, two of six such confederations of Old Regular fellowships operating in the Appalachian region1, are composed of twenty-nine and sixty-seven churches respectively, scattered all the way from Michigan to Florida, but located primarily in western Virginia and eastern Kentucky. These fellowships exist as some of the most "old time way" religious communities in the Southern Appalachian region, preserving customs that mirror values and beliefs of the midnineteenth century. Old Regular association meetings are held each year and are governed by a moderator and assistant moderator, a clerk and assistant clerk, and three delegates for each member fellowship. The role of these annual sessions is to deliberate all matters of association governance, including such behavioral codes as might be applicable to members of the affiliated fellowships. In 1975, 1979, 1982, and 1983 the Sardis and Union Associations debated two topics relevant to the issue of gender roles in these traditional Southern Appalachian religious communities: (1) the manner of dress acceptable for women members of these fellowships, and (2) permissible hair lengths for both male and female members. The first of these issues, the proper dress for women, has been a thorny question for years in both the Sardis and Union associations, with some member churches holding to more traditional practices than those followed by other congregations. Within the Sardis group of churches, the dispute reached a peak in 1975 when one of the more conservative fellowships, Dix Fork Church of Sidney, Kentucky, introduced the following query during that year's session: "Does the Sardis Association believe in Sisters wearing pants, slacks, or shorts?"2 As is usually the case in such circumstances, the Dix Fork query was first referred to a special committee, with instruction that these individuals advise the rest of the delegates as to what action should be taken. The committee in question, however, refused to recommend an absolute position, and instead threw the matter back in the hands of the individual churches: 12 �Dingess, W.Va. September 13, 1975 Sardis Association of Old Regular Baptists Brethren: In answer to the Query from the Dix Fork Church asking "Does the Sardis Association believe in Sisters wearing pants, slacks or shorts?" We as an Advisory Council and not as a law making body say: To answer this Query in the affirmative would be interpreted by some Brethren too liberally and they would say we have laid down the gate and opened the doors to anything and everything. To answer this Query in the negative would be interpreted by some Brethren too strictly and they would say we have shut the door on everything and Committees would flow from Church to Church like water. We believe the Sardis Association should advise the Churches to advise their members—both Brethren and Sisters—to dress soberly and modestly and to conduct themselves in a manner that becometh a Child of God. We believe that each Child of God will adorn themselves in such a manner that they can easily be identified from the World. We feel the Bible, the infallible Word of God, sets forth and the Spirit will teach us how we should dress and conduct ourselves. We believe, and the Association has so stated in the past, that each Church in the Sardis Association holds the key to its own door and is the sole judge of the conduct of its members as long as they follow the orthodox principles of religion and keep up a Godly discipline according to the rules of the Gospel as laid down in the Scriptures. In fact, Article 3 of our 13 �Constitution guarantees that the Association shall not infringe on any internal right to the Churches. Elder Wayne Herald Brother Ralph W. E. Varney, Jr. Brother James M. Ray3 Thus, this committee advised the association not to take any action on this question but instead to allow individual churches to institute their own dress codes for female members. The "holds the key to its own door" language is very traditional in Old Regular rhetoric and always means that the individual fellowship retains the right to decide whom to include in their membership and whom to exclude. Obviously in this instance, the standard for inclusion is proper dress, and the local church is given the right to set and enforce that standard. In the 1975 debate, the Sardis Association simply accepted the special committee's report and took no further action, thus leaving the matter in the hands of local congregations. This 1975 action, however, did not settle the issue, and the more conservative churches in the association have continued to push for an absolute code for the entire Sardis body. The result has been that twice in recent years (1982 and 1983) the session delegates have voted to republish the special committee's response to the Dix Fork query.4 Essentially the same dispute has erupted in the Union Association of Old Regulars. In 1979 the Little Martha congregation of Leemaster, Virginia, requested that their fellow Union Old Regular churches join them in the adoption of a rigid code for both dress and hair lengths. The Little Martha group made their request by placing the following proposal before the Union delegates: We the Little Martha Church of Old Regular Baptist of Jesus Christ... send a request to the Union Association not to allow Sisters to wear pants or pantsuits. We ask them to be as our Sisters of Old, only to be worn as for safety, or if they are working on a job that require them to be worn. Even at this they should be worn loose not in a way to show their bodies in an ungodly manner. We also ask that Brothers and Sisters not to wear Bathing suits or shorts for any reason, also ask the Brothers not to wear their hair long enough that it might be an offense to another Brother or Sister. We are asking that all Moderators advise their Churches that if any Brother or Sister is guilty of the above that they be advised to stop such practice and if they refuse to do so that they be excluded, until such time that they have stopped such 14 �practice, then the Church from which they were excluded may restore them to full fellowship. We the Little Martha Church is sending this request not to tear the Churches apart, but to try to unite them into full fellowship with each other to be united as one. Signed by Order of the Church Elder John C. Layne, Moderator Elder Russell Hicks, Assistant Moderator Brother Hufford Coleman, Clerk5 By a vote of one hundred and thirty-one to fifty-three the Little Martha request was denied, but the fifty-three votes in support of the motion indicate that approximately twenty-nine percent of the delegates favored very rigid dress and hair style code for Old Regular women. However, had the vote been exclusively on length of hair the support would have been much greater: In both the Sardis and the Union Associations there is broad agreement that women should not cut their hair and that men should do just the opposite. For example, the Sardis Association reaffirmed its position on hair lengths for women in 1982 and again in 1983, passing a resolution that is not open to a wide range of interpretations: "The Association, by regular move and second, said that if a Sister cut her hair, she should be asked to let it grow out; if she fails to do so and cuts her hair again, she will be excluded."6 To be "excluded" means to be removed from membership in the congregation. The judgement carries with it factors of social ostracism that may become quite severe, depending upon the community involved. Nevertheless, the punishment is usually not as harsh as apparently "shunning" is within Amish communities, and does not include, for example, the mandate that the excluded individual never be addressed by any conforming and legitimate member of the fellowship.7 A major problem, however, relative to enforcement of the no-cutting mandate is that the rule must be interpreted. Is it permissible, for example, simply to trim one's hair—to keep the ends even and neat? Is shoulderlength hair acceptable, or must a woman allow her hair to grow as long as it will naturally grow? A conversation with Mrs. Edwin May, wife of the moderatior of the Sardis Association, has suggested that there usually is some discretion allowed in these matters, and that most fellowships do not stand eager to reprimand and exclude at the slightest hint of scissors having touched hair.8 Still it has been my observation that the vast majority of middle-aged and older Old Regular women allow their hair to grow long enough that it must me worn in a topknot or braided bun, and that unloosed this hair would fall to the middle of the back or lower. 15 �Old Regular men, on the other hand, must keep their hair reasonably short, never allowing it to extend down around the lower neck or to flow over the ears in any feminine fashion. To illustrate this requirement I will tell a story about one of my favorite Old Regular elders, Bill Campbell of the Bull Creek fellowship in Maxie, Virginia. Campbell is a relatively young elder, only in his mid-thirties. He joined the Old Regular faith at the age of twenty-nine, after several years of a life style which he now describes as having been quite depraved. In fact, when he approached an elder of the Bull Creek Church with his interest in being baptized he looked—by his own description—"a mess," possessing a full beard and a head of hair in the style of the "flower childrend" of the late '60s and early '70s. The result was that the elder refused to baptize Campbell until he had made himself more presentable to the fellowship. This did not mean that he had to shave his beard, but it did mean that his long hair had to go.9 Biblical Mandates for these and Other Gender Codes Old regulars can point to a biblical passage as justification for their stances concerning the length of hair. The passage in question is 1st Corinthians 11:14-15: Doth not even nature itself teach you, that, if a man have long hair, it is a shame unto him? But if a woman have long hair, it is a glory to her; for her hair is given her for a covering. [King James Version] This, of course, comes from the writings of Paul, the New Testament voice upon which Old Regulars most depend for guidance in gender role proprietyPaul is also the authority upon whom these congregations rely when they hold tenaciously to a church policy that is exclusively male controlled. In 1st Corinthians 14:34-35 Paul had this to say: Let your women keep silence in the churches; for it is not permitted unto them to speak; but they are commanded to be under obedience, as also saith the law. And if they will learn anything, let them ask their husbands at home; for it is a shame for women to speak in the church. As a result of this particular biblical passage, Old Regulars maintain church governance systems devoid of any formal female participation. This 16 �does not mean, however, that women maintain total silence in Old Regular churches. They sing, shout, pray, and praise; but they play no official roles in worship procedures or in business deliberations. During formal business sessions, they have no voice or vote, and they assume no duties that place them before congregations in positions of leadership. Indeed, about the only way in which they affect church policy is through the informal influence they might bring to bear upon husbands or other male members of the fam- ily. Even this latter option, however, is severely restricted in the more rigidly traditional Old Regular household. Here, again, the advice of Paul is followed: Wives, submit yourselves unto your own husbands, as unto the lord. For the husband is the head of the wife, even as Christ is the head of the church; and he is the savior of the body. Therefore, as the church is subject unto Christ, so let the wives be to their own husbands in every thing. Ephesians 5:22-24 Of course Paul added, "Husbands love your wives, even as Christ also loved the church..."; but he did not say, as Old Regular males observe, "Husbands, submit yourselves unto your wives." Therefore, in these very traditional Old Regular homes, the women have little more to say than they have in church, at least relative to religious doctrines or church social policies. Old Regular fellowships do not believe in Sunday schools (or Sabbath schools as they call them), and part of the reason for this position touches on the proper role of women in church. These Old Regulars note that in other Baptist subdenominations in which Sunday schools have been instituted, it has been the women who do most of the teaching. This, of course, violates the Pauline mandate that "women should keep silence in the churches." Children, they argue, should be raised "in the nurture and admonition of the Lord [Ephesians 6:4]," but this raising should be accomplished in the home. Furthermore, Old Regular elders are quick to point to the fact that Paul said, "ye fathers... bring them up in the nurture and admonition of the Lord."10 This places the primary responsibility for the spiritual upbringing of a child on the shoulders of Father, a situation quite opposite from comparable circumstances in most Protestant American homes. 17 �Comfort in Confinement My general impression of Old Regular women is that the majority of them are not particularly disturbed by the restrictions I have been discussing, that they have become more comfortable with these confinements and desire no other life style. One thing to note here is that Old Regular members tend to be quite old on the average, with the result that both males and females have settled into relatively unchanging life patterns. As significant factors in these life patterns, fixed gender models provide a form of security, firmly guiding individuals through the otherwise confused maze of life's choices. One elderly member of the Bethany Old Regular fellowship of Kingsport, Tennessee, told me that she had absolutely no desire to complicate her life by taking on all those issues she felt belonged to men of her church: "I've got enough things to do, thank you. There are squabbles that go on in the church that I'd just as soon let the men handle. That leaves me free just to enjoy the singing and preaching."11 In this woman's eyes, the franchise in church governance would simply be another burden to bare. Cracks in the Tablets Is everybody happy, however, with the rigid rules of the past? Is there no dissatisfaction among Old Regulars with the gender roles that were prescribed by Paul? The mere fact that the positions reported earlier as taken by the Dix Fork Church in the Sardis Association and the Little Martha Church in the Union Association have become minority positions would seem to suggest there has been some movement among Old Regulars towards modernism of gender roles, at least relative to clothing. That movement, however, has been slow. What could add some speed, nevertheless, would be (1) an increasing concern among Old Regular women over their gender's lack of rights, and (2) a growing awareness of was to translate this concern into protest. I have no documentation to support a charge of some great ground swell of indignation occurring within Old Regular feminine ranks. Instead, all I have is a small amount of anecdotal evidence which may suggest the beginnings of dissatisfaction. This first story was related to me by Darvin Marshall of St. Paul, Virginia, who became my first contact with the Sandy Ridge Old Regular Church of that vicinity. According to Marshall, during the 1979 Union Association debate over the Little Martha Church's request, a few women did not respond to the issue with total passivism. Indeed, one Sandy Ridge female, Marshall recalls, showed a strong repugnance for the reasoning of an elder who directed a scathing attack against certain items of contemporary 18 �women's dress, including panty hose. This woman's response, says Marshall, was to steal into the parking area during the session, locate the respective elder's automobile, and stretch a pair of panty hose across the front windshield wipers of the vehicle, much to the later embarrassment of this conservative gentleman.12 My next story relates to a lengthy discussion I had, February 15, 1985, with Elder and Mrs. Edwin May. As previously noted, Elder May is Moderator of the Sardis Association. He invited me to his home in Abingdon, Virginia, for a daylong interview concerning Old Regular doctrines and various customs of the Sardis Association. Early in our dialogue I asked about the role of women in the church and received much of the information I related above. At one point, however, I turned to Mrs. May, who sat quietly by during the entire interview, and asked her if she had any objections concerning the lack of female involvement in church business. Her response was very much in line with the one I have already related, the comments made by the Bethany Old Regular matron. Mrs. May said she had no real desire to take on all those problems. Later, I moved in my queries to an issue which appears to have been particularly complicated for Old Regular fellowships, the question of how to handle divorced members. The precise topic being discussed was Old Regular policy governing the acceptability of divorce and remarriage, and conditions under which a divorced and remarried individual could remain in the church. As I interviewed Elder May on these questions Mrs. May appeared to be very interested. In fact, at one point she even asked for clarification of a doctrine, suggesting by her question that she had never heard of this issue discussed before in detail. May was explaining that fellowships of the Sardis Association would not retain in membership individuals, male or female, who had "put away their companions" for any reason other than the charge of fornication. He further noted that if fornication became an issue in any particular deliberation, the charge would have to be heard in a regular business meeting of the fellowship. It was at this point that Mrs. May seemed to have some trouble accepting the association's policy. In fact, for a moment she seemed to forget her "position," making a statement that appeared to question the propriety of such a charge being heard in an open meeting. Nevertheless, she did not push the issue. I, on the other hand, said something that may have overstepped the decorum of the moment: I asked her if she would like to vote on this policy. For a moment she made no response, and then simply smiled, recognizing at that instance—I felt—the contradiction lying between her interest in this issue and the earlier passive position she had taken.13 I quickly moved away from the question, fearing that I might offend Elder May, but I had a strong feeling that I had witnessed another slight "crack in the tablet." 19 �I do not want to suggest, however, by these two stories that radical changes are imminent, that any week, or month, or year Old Regular women will rise to the cause of women's rights. I simply do not see that happening. Traditional gender codes are just too firmly set in these fellowships. But if the Old Regular subdenomination is still around in, let's say, 2025— and I suspect it will be—some wearing away of this rock-ribbed traditionalism will probably have taken place. So as the winter freezes come and go, a few cracks will keep occurring. ENDNOTES 1. Other Old Regular Associations with churches in the region are the Indian Bottom Association, the Old Friendship Association, the Philadelphia Association, and the New Salem Association. The Northern New Salem Association is composed of fellowships located primarily in Ohio. 2. As reprinted in Minutes of the Sardis Association of Old Regular Baptists (Published by the Association, 1983), 8-9. 3. As reprinted in Minutes of the Sardis Association of Old Regular Baptists (Published by the Association, 1983), 8. 4. Minutes of the Sardis Association of Old Regular Baptists (Published by the Association, 1982), 8; and (1983), 8-9. 5. Minutes of the Union Association of Old Regular Baptists (Johnson City, Tenn.: Interstate Graphics, 1979), 6. 6. Minutes of the Sardis Association of Old Regular Baptists (Published by the Association, 1983), 9. 7. Interview with Darvin Marshall, member of the Sandy Ridge Old Regular Church, St. Paul, Virginia, December 16, 1984. 8. Interview with Mrs. Edwin May, February 15, 1985. 9. Interview with Elder Bill Campbell after service at the Bull Creek Old Regular Church, June 10, 1984. 10. Interview with one of the elders of the Bull Creek Old Regular Church, June 10, 1984. 11. Interview conducted at Bethany Old Regular Church, July 10, 1983. 12. Interview conducted in Marshall's home, July 28, 1985. 13. Interview conducted on February 15, 1985. 20 �APPALACHIAN STUDIES STUDENTS Convenor: Barry M. Buxton, Appalachian Consortium Appalachian Studies And The Native Student: Resource or Refuge? Ricky Cox, Radford University Dialect Effects In Appalachian Students' Written Composition Becky Eller, University of Kentucky Old Catawabans and "Mountain Grill": The Appalachian in Thomas Wolfe's Short Stories Sally Bruce, Western Carolina University Appalachian Studies and the Native Student: Resource or Refuge? by Ricky Cox When time came last October to submit proposals to the Appalachian Studies Conference Program Committee, I had a rough idea of what I wanted to say, but no paper, certainly no title. The one you saw printed on your progam came up at the last minute, as did the proposal itself. It serves pretty well what I want to say, but I feel I owe you all some explanation. Originally, I had intended this to be an overview, almost a survey of native Appalachian students' reactions to, and attitudes about Appalachian Studies courses. I wrestled with this for a couple of months and found myself always faced with what I think most perceive as a problem in Appalachian studies or any study involving people. I found myself trying to classify, to group, to stereotype Appalachian students. It is difficult, and I think, unwise to attempt to identify the typical Appalachian student, just as it is hard to find that average American family with 1.8 children. What I've finally arrived at is more of a personal view of Appalachian Studies. While I believe that some of the ideas and feelings expressed here will have meaning for some of you, I do not claim that they apply to all native students or to any except myself. With this in mind you might wish to amend the title to read: "Appalachian Studies and a Native Student: Resource or Refugee?" I guess I should present my credentials as a native Appalachian student. I grew up in Floyd County, Virginia, about sixty miles west of Roanoke, on the eastern edge of official Appalachia, and I go to school. In my half-hearted search for the typical native student I decided that I am most definitely not this elusive person. I was twenty-six when I began attending Radford University full-time as a History major, so am subject to 21 �the condition quoted by Gratis Williams in describing Appalachian people. "... when one chances to leave for the outside world before his personality has become set in the mold of his culture he is likely to climb far" (Williams 498). I'm afraid I've waited too long. Maybe I am set in my ways and perhaps my perceptions and expectations of Appalachian Studies have been colored by the ambivalence demonstrated by my late arrival. I came back to school because I felt 1 had missed something, and that failing to return while I was able, I would one day regret it. Still, it was a struggle, giving up my job and trying to explain to my family and friends what I was doing. I suppose they thought it was a mid-life crisis twenty years early. I did finally make the commitment but not without self-doubt. Consequently, I think my involvement with Appalachian Studies has been, in part, an attempt to reconcile the two very different environments of school and work. Now, let me tell you a little about Appalachian Studies and a native student. You may notice a few we's and our's thrown in for variety, but I have no real right to use them. 1 hope, though, that some of you can accept them and maybe feel a part of the I's and me's that appear far too often. I suppose the proper way to go about answering the question posed in the title of this paper is to examine each alternative closely, weigh its relative merits, pull everything together, and then tell you in the last paragraph that I still don't have an answer. I can, however, see far enough ahead to say now that there is an answer. Appalachian Studies is both a resource and a refuge for the native student. It is a means for the native student to get around the old "apples and oranges" problem. It offers a way to compare lifestyles that revolve around two different concepts of success. I will attempt no definition of this difference, but I will offer as an example what I consider to be the most visible and painful conflict experienced by those of us who are at least exploring the possibility of seeking our fortunes in the wide world: To go or to stay? It seems sort of senseless to spend time and money preparing yourself for a career that will never be pursued if doing so means moving beyond easy driving distance of home. I like to think that education is valuable and desirable for its own sake, but the fact remains that people expect us to "do something with" and education and that we expect the same of ourselves. We feel pressured by the mainstream notion that we must reach our fullest potential and realize our dreams if it takes marching all over Hell and half of Georgia to do it. I listen to people at home talk and I've decided that Appalachians, at least the ones I know, don't have dreams, as such. We have "idees" or things we'd like to do if the world stands, if we live. Maybe it's setting yourself up for disappointment to say you have a dream or maybe it sounds too pretentious to say it out loud. I used to think that we come to school seeking dreams for ourselves, but perhaps we are only trying to unearth the ones we bring with us. 22 �Jesse Stuart talks about drinking lonesome water and how it bind the mountaineer to return home (Stuart 179). It works both ways, it seems. We set out intending only to sample history, literature, philosophy and other such learned things. The tastes are strange sometimes, even bitter, but once familiar, are not easily forgotten. You would think that even the best spring water would seem pretty plain compared to heady wines. It's hard to judge. There is a choice to be made then, and choice implies difference. I can speak with certainty only of the difference I feel each time I go home. I can't see it, so I have no color slides to show you, but I feel it and so may many of you when you read Jim Wayne Miller's "Brier Sermon" (Miller 41) or hear James Still's Lark say, "I ought ne'er thought to be a scholar" (Still 47.) With only the words of others to offer as proof, I maintain that there is a difference. To deny it is to concede that the Appalachia of the heart is a creation of the mind, a sentimental pilgrimage to places that never existed. Appalachian Studies cannot erase the differences; it may even highlight them. It cannot make choices for young people, but hopefully it can offer a forum for more informed decision-making. Although I've completed only two Appalachian Studies courses, I can see that there are no cut and dry approaches to the what and why of Appalachian Studies. Already, I've heard many voices saying many things about Appalachia. The first voice I heard was Loyal Jones, telling me about Appalachian values (Jones 507). It was quite a revelation to learn that my personal quirks are shared by twenty million people. I found this piece comforting the first time I read it, and still do, but there is a burden there, waiting to fall on our shoulders. Appalachians have their own ideas about groups. We are wary of them for belonging entails responsibility for the other members. It is not required that we love or even like them, but we must look our for them, for they are ours. This newfound identity then, is not so wonderful as it first seems for those who associate membership with responsibility. Are we bound to this group as we are a family, in which ties begin at birth and last as long as hand-me-down memories hold the threads that link names on headstones with the ones on our mailboxes? No, but there is something here that does not set well with me. Once, I was concerned with a network of shared genes, memories, and values that haven't spread much beyond two or three counties in nearly two hundred years. Suddenly there are 397 counties and twenty million people and I just don't know if I can look after that many. When I saw "Harlan County, U.S.A." I wanted to jump up and say, "This has nothing to do with me. These people have no connection to me. I'm not responsible for them, and I won't be made to feel guilty about de23 �nying them. There are no coal mines where I come from, and I have no ties with them." But I do. Last fall I had a chance to learn a little about coal mines on an Appalachian Studies field trip to the exhibition mine in Beckley, West Virginia. I was impressed, but felt no kinship with that way of life or the people who live it until I started talking to the old man who guided the tour. In following the ritual of establishing who each of us was, in terms of our respective places, I discovered that this man's father-in-law had come to West Virginia from Willis, Virginia, all of ten miles from my own home. He had been there once himself for a funeral, years ago. One of his wife's cousins had bought my Grandfather's house in Floyd. I had mistaken this man for a stranger and we were practically neighbors. Connections exist, then, even outside the coincidental mutual acquaintance with people or places. Even if we share nothing in the way of memory or experience there is a kinship in the way we relate to new people, in the way we deal with familiar ones, and in our approach to life in general. So we've come full circle back to Loyal Jones' list of values. To my mind his words are valid and true, as much as anything can be about such a diverse region as Appalachia. But this very fact illuminates the paradox that has evidently frustrated just about every would-be saviour of the southern mountaineer. Their validity in giving us identity as a group renders us politically ineffectual as a group, for one of our characteristics, as a group, is that we do not like groups. Others have heard this same voice but have drawn a different meaning from the words. They, in turn, begin to speak and say, "Use these shared traits and attitudes as both foundation and mortar in building political coalitions. Band together and demand what is rightfully yours. Wake up and smell the coffee. Save Appalachia!" Appalachia cannot be saved, at least not the one quality which makes possible all the other characteristics we point to as Appalachian. This quality is independence for ourselves and acceptance of it in others. We say that we expect others to look out for themselves and their own; it might better serve to say that we allow others to be responsible for themselves. From this precept come some of the best qualitites of Appalachian people: pride, self-sufficiency, love of place, and strong sense of family. And from the same spring head flow the worst things about Appalachia: ignorance, prejudice, poverty, and exploitation of resources, both natural and human. The voices say we can change all of this and that is absolutely true. We can change all of this, not part of it. We can't sort through and pick out the pretty pieces for a quilt and make the rest into a rag rug. Save Appalachia. Appalachia cannot be saved. We can create a new one yes, and that may be a good idea, I don't know. But the old one is dying this morning and a new one is evolving to take its place. It will live or die on 24 �its own. It will slip quietly away when it goes and no one will know until forty years later. We can all pack up and go to Washington and get things done, but we may not recognize home when we get back for it will have changed, just as we will have changed, in learning to rely on a group rather than on ourselves. Once we have acquired this civilized trait, we will be ready to live in the modern world, ready to dictate to others what is best for them, whether they know it or not. As soon as we realize our strength as a group, we can do all the things groups like to do. We can shop around for another group to feel superior to, or maybe find some people in need of cultural salvation. If asked, I would reply to those voices, "Do as you please. Your intentions are the best, your theories are sound, and your arguments are true, but they are not of the Appalachia that I know." We talk so much about intervention and how unsympathetic it is to individual rights and concerns. When we have organized ourselves enough to eject or manipulate interventionist institutions, be they cultural, industrial, or governmental, we will ourselves have become the interventionists, and I'd rather curse someone I've never seen than the man I see in the mirror every morning. I'm half ashamed to tell you these things. My words seem hard and callous. The humanities tell me to be a citizen of the world, to accept responsibility for my fellow man, and I find it increasingly difficult to check my attitudes at the classroom door and pick them up on the way home. They begin to seem ugly and outdated, but I am not yet ready to leave them behind. But what of Appalachian Studies? What are the voices saying? Must the native student reject individualism and fatalism to make constructive use of the insights Appalachian Studies may provide into ourselves and into our culture? I should know better than to ask, for concepts of the purpose of Appalachian Studies are as numerous as the voices that speak, the hands that write, and the minds that ponder about Appalachia. I will not ask for an answer. Instead, I will repeat the answer to my own much neglected original question. Appalachian Studies is a resource for the native student who would not carelessly trade the time-worn values of home for the shinier ideals of the larger world. It is a refuge also, for every story, every song, every triumph and every failure has some ring of the familiar, even for those like me who know nothing of coal mines or cotton mills. I have used the idea of voices in this paper, and while it seems a bit superficial, as do all such devices, I do not think it inappropriate as ours is an oral tradition. Voices mean much to us in conversation and song. I have told you of the voices from within Appalachian Studies. I will leave you with a voice that I have yet to hear, a voice that I have wanted to hear and have listened for so intently, a voice to say, "Go home. Why worry with studying Appalachia when you can live it?" I've waited to hear that voice and sometimes I half imagine that I do. 25 �When things aren't going well I want to go home and be that fellow from Indian Valley what picks a guitar and won't drive nothing but a Ford, Carl Cox's third boy, one of Taswell Hollands worth's grandchildren. But I know that I never will hear that voice, and if I do I'll call the speaker a liar. I can go home, yes, and be happy there even, but I cannot go back. My people await my return and though I may see them with an altered perception, they have not changed. The road to home is still there; broken a little more by four winters, worn a little more by the wheels that roll out and back in each day, but still the same road. It is the curious traveler who has changed. WORKS CITED Jones, Loyal. "Appalachian Values." Voices From the Hills. Eds. Robert J. Higgs and Ambrose N. Manning. New York: Frederick Ungar, 1975. Still, James. "Journey to the Forks." The Run for the Elbertas. Lexington: University of Kentucky Press, 1980. Stuart, Jesse. Beyond Dark Hills. New York: McGraw-Hill, 1972. Williams, Gratis. "Who Are the Southern Mountaineers?" Voices From the Hil!s.-Eds. Robert J. Higgs and Ambrose N. Manning. New York: Frederick Ungar, 1975. 26 �Dialect Effects in Appalachian Students* Written Compositions by Rebecca Gaeth Eller Declining test scores over the past decade have produced a public outcry for educational reform. "Getting back to the basics" has become an oft-repeated motto, although no one has ever bothered to clearly define what is meant by "the basics." Illiteracy has been at the forefront of the controversy, and the accountability movement has generated renewed interest in grammar and phonics instruction coupled with rigorous competency testing programs. One factor which has consistently correlated with low academic achievement has been socioeconomic status. A number of reasons for this phenomenon have been postulated, ranging from difference/deficit models to teacher and administrative bias. It has also been suggested that lower scores in language usage may be the result of "dialect interference;" i.e. because students from lower socioeconomic classes also frequently speak a non-standard dialect, their oral language may actually "interfere" with communication through formal standard English. The extent to which certain dialects "interfere" with reading and writing standard English has been the subject of much research in recent years and has generated a great deal of controversy. Studies of language differences in reading, however, have generally failed to substantiate any dialect effects (Goodman and Buck, 1973). Research studies examining dialect influences in writing have had mixed results (Schwartz, 1982). Some researchers have found dialect-related errors in the writing of Black sixth grade youngsters to be as high as 36%, and those of Hispanic third graders to be as high as 39% (Cronnell, 1984, 1985). Other studies report some dialect influence, but have found that they have a limited effect on writing (Whiteman, 1981). Researchers who have examined the compositions of college students have found either inconsistent and weak evidence of dialect influence (Wolfram and Whiteman, 1971; Sternglass, 1974), or no significant differences between the nonstandard English usage of black and Hispanic students and their white counterparts (Kirschner and Poteet, 1973; Farr and Janda, 1985). While there have been a number of studies which have examined dialect effects in the writing of Black and Hispanic students, few studies have been conducted which have explored dialect influences of Mountain Speech, despite the fact that Appalachian students consistently score lower on standardized tests in the area of language ability (DeYoung, 27 �Vaught, and Porter, 1981). The Appalachian region has a rich oral tradition and has developed a distinct linguistic system which contains unique grammatical and phonological features (Wolfram and Christian, 1976; Wolfram, 1984). Since significant dialect effects have been found in the written compositions of elementary students from other non-mainstream populations, I was curious to see if such effects might at least partially explain the low test scores of Appalachian students. I therefore decided to explore the extent to which the features of Mountain Speech would be revealed in the compositions of youngsters from the region. I also chose to compare their writing samples to those of younsters from outside the region to determine if the two sets of compositions could be differentiated. With the assistance of two colleagues, I obtained writing samples from two groups of sixth grade students. One group of students attends a school located in a rural mountainous county in western North Carolina, and the second attends a suburban school located near a moderately large city in central Kentucky. The youngsters were instructed to write essays on the topic of "Working Women." In order to determine which dialect features the students regularly use in their oral language, the teachers were asked to complete a lengthy dialect feature list. The written compositions were then examined for dialect influence revealed in grammatical patterns, spelling, and word choice. The findings of the study were quite revealing. First, a mere 14% of the total surface errors of the Appalachian samples could be attributed to dialect influence. This figure is a conservative one, and in fact may overestimatedialect-related errors. When there was a lack of subject-verb agreement, for example, this error was generally designated as being dialect-related, although admittedly this is a frequent error of all youngsters who are learning to write. Second, spelling errors accounted for 38% of the total errors in the Appalachian samples, and 30% of the errors in the non-Appalachian samples. Very few of these errors were dialect-influenced; rather, most reflected standard pronunciations which were simply misspelled. This finding supports previous research which shows that phonological differences rarely occur in writing (Whiteman, 1981). Finally, there was a lack of consistency in both the number and type of dialect-related errors. Some students had no dialect-related errors in their compositions, while others had a number of such errors. To illustrate the variation in errors, only one youngster used indirect questions (i.e. "So you say who would take over the house."), and only one student used the characteristic to + verb form ("Some people think women ought not to work."). In contrast, a number of students used "set" for "sit." In comparing the compositions from the Appalachian and non-Appalachian students, there were obvious differences between the two groups. On the surface, the non-Appalachian samples were longer, neat- 28 �er, and contained fewer errors. The non-Appalachian students averaged 6.6 errors per sample or .27 errors per line; the Appalachian students averaged 23.6 errors per sample or 1.3 errors per line. There were also differences in style. The non-Appalachian compositions were quite formal, whereas the Appalachian compositions resembled personal narratives. If the analysis stopped here, we might conclude that the non-Appalachian students, or at least this particular population of students, are considerably more adept at writing than the Appalachian students. Writing, however, is a form of communication. It is more than using words appropriately and placing them on the page in the proper order. Writing is a means by which we explore and transmit ideas. To focus on surface features at the expense of the ideas being conveyed neglects the true nature of written communication. An examination of the ideas expressed in the compositions of these sixth grade youngsters again reveals substantial differences. The non-Appalachian students organized their ideas in clear paragraphs in response to specific "prompt" questions which they were asked to consider in completing the assignment. For example, in response to the question "Would it make a difference if the woman has children?," several students began the second paragraph with statements such as "If a woman has a child, it should matter." While the ideas in their compositions were certainly interesting, informative, and well-organized, there were relatively few variations in their statements. In contrast, the compositions of the Appalachian students were more personal and individual. They were replete with vivid imagery and colorful expressions. For example, one student expressed his feelings on the subject of working women by stating that "[w]omen are not dogs or slaves for men." Another said that if women didn't work, "[t]hey would eat out of trash cans and wear rags." A male student said, "I bet women work harder than men. When women work, they work." Finally, one student expressed the real reason why women should work: "Women have to work. If they don't women will get bored and start smoking and drink coffee so bad that they will get hooked on cigarettes." In short, these compositions reflect a school environment which has capitalized on their rich oral tradition and unique culture by allowing students to express themselves freely in their own dialect. What can we learn from the results of this research? I believe there are a number of important implications for both teachers and educational policy-makers. Before we discuss these implications, however, it is important to point out that we all speak a non-standard dialect. Every native language speaker deviates from the norms of standard English. Written language is not a direct representation of spoken language; i.e. it is not "speech written down." Speech is transient and occurs within a specific situational context. Written discourse, on the other hand, remains 29 �relatively stationary over time and functions as a standard system of communication despite variations in speech patterns. Furthermore, writing has its own special conventions. It is generally more formal than speech; it contains punctuation markers which designate particular intonation patterns; it is more highly structured and organized. Thus, while one youngster might enter school speaking a dialect which more closely resembles the written standard form than another youngster, the task for each is still the same. Both children must familiarize themselves with a more structured "literate" style, and both children must master the unique conventions of written discourse. The findings of this study suggest that oral language variations do influence the writing of Appalachian students to a limited degree. However, dialect effects account for a relatively small number of errors. It can also be legitimately argued that the non-standard spoken dialect of all youngsters "interferes" with the writing task. Yet the Appalachian students appear to generate a proportionately greater number of surface errors in their writing than the non-Appalachian students. How can we account for these results? I believe we must first examine how language is acquired. We do not learn language strictly by imitation, nor do we learn it by memorizing a series of rules. Rather, we learn language by using it in meaningful contexts. Written discourse is a separate "language" with its own standardized forms and conventions. The only way our students can learn the registers of written language is through exposure. We must provide ample and varied experiences with writing. We must read to them regularly at all grade levels. In short, we must immerse them in print. Appalachian students come to school with different experiences and aspirations than those of their middle-class counterparts. Because of their working-class environment, they have had fewer experiences with written language. In many homes, books are considered a luxury, and consequently young children are not exposed to the standard English form in the critical years when their language is rapidly developing. Unless the schools provide a multitude of meaningful reading and writing experiences, these youngsters may never "catch up." This lack of exposure to written language is reflected in the high percentage of spelling errors of both groups of students. The spelling error rate was particularly high in the compositions of the Appalachian students. Most persons erroneously assume that English is a phonetic language. Rather, it is an alphabetic language, and our spelling system is generally morphemic rather than phonetic; i.e. it tends to maintain the meaningful relationships between words at the expense of maintaining strict letter-sound relationships. (Consider, for example, sign and signal, or medicine and medical.) This system is largely learned through exposure and usage, not through memorizing a series of letter-sound correspon- 30 �dences, and one could rationally argue that a high number of spelling errors reflects a lack of experience with the formal printed code. The socioeconomic conditions in the mountains may have other, less obvious effects. Since the low-skilled jobs of their parents do not require much reading and writing, many Appalachian youngsters do not see their parents modelling literacy. The economic reality of the region dictates that they, too, will probably be limited in the types of jobs they will be able to obtain. Furthermore, the values which the school is trying to impart are sometimes in direct contradicition to those of the home. It is certainly not a coincidence that the female students in the non-Appalachian region state in their compositions that they intend to become veterinarians, nurses, and office managers, whereas the female students from Appalachia believe that they will work in the local factories or become waitresses or hairdressers. Developing facility in writing cannot be very high on your list of priorities when career opportunities are simply unavailable. Other barriers to the attainment of literacy have also been associated with low socioeconomic conditions. It has been suggested by a number of researchers that teachers are unconsciously biased against students who speak variant dialects, largely because such dialects reflect a lower-class status. In fact, although we may not wish to acknowledge that such prejudice exists, this argument has been substantiated by a considerable amount of research (Piche, Rubin, Turner, and Michlin, 1978; Rosen, 1979; Leibowicz, 1984; Ford, 1984). Joseph Leibowicz argues that "[i]f literacy is defined in such a way that students' identities and cultural norms are threatened by that definition, they will not succeed" (Leibowicz, 1984). A youngster's language is integrally related to his self-concept, and to deny his language is to deny his culture and his sense of self. When we continually imply that a child's language is "wrong," we are telling him that the language of his kinfolk and the culture which it represents are inferior. In his article entitled "The Status and Politics of Writing Instruction," Richard Hendrix states that: [u]ntil we can be sure that teachers have real insight into language, and into the emotional difficulty of cultural assimilation, it is hard to avoid the conclusion that minority and working class students have to go the extra mile in mastering writing... The extra effort may be justifiable in practical and social terms (many black parents now insist on it), but writing teachers at least need to acknowledge this situation, and rethink the relative weight given to different aspects of writing for the developing writer. Writing is hard enough in its own right, without becoming the arena for unacknowledged social differences (Hendrix, 1981). 31 �Language is the essence of self-expression, and Appalachian students need to be able to express themselves freely, without fear of incrimination. Unfortunately, present instructional practices may hinder, rather than promote, the attainment of literacy in Appalachia. In an overzealous attempt to raise test scores, there has been a resurgence of interest in grammar instruction. In addition, the rules of grammar are often being taught in isolation from actual writing. Not only has instruction in grammar been shown through research to be largely ineffective, but it also takes precious time away from meaningful writing experiences which provide practice in the application of standard English usage (Elley, 1976; Hillocks, 1984). As school systems become more familiar with the skills being measured on the adopted standardized tests, scores may improve for a time, but I believe that they will eventually level off and may even begin to decline if rules continue to be stressed at the expense of writing. Language simply cannot be learned outside the context of meaningful communication. We have reached the point in educational decision-making where we are allowing the tests to dictate our curriculum, rather than the needs of our students. An overemphasis on proper grammar usage and form might also reinforce the notion of students that they "just can't write." A returned composition which has been peppered with teacher corrections can discourage even the most motivated writer. Consider the following statement of a college student from California: The papers you write in class—their whole attitude toward them is bad. They say the structure is not too good and the style is bad, when you are writing from your heart... it's like they are rejecting your whole culture (Hoover and Politzer, 1981). When teachers focus only on surface errors and fail to acknowledge the validity of the ideas being expressed, they unconsciously communicate to students that their ideas are not important. Consequently, students "stop taking chances" and aim for proper form at the expense of generating new ideas. If we regard writing as a way of creating and organizing concepts, which I believe it is, an overemphasis on surface errors may actually stifle thinking. I am not suggesting that we ignore the writing errors of our students; I am merely suggesting that we keep them in proper perspective. In conclusion, I would like to make several recommendations for those who are responsible for improving the writing ability of Appalachian youngsters. First, I believe it is vitally important that we build on students' strengths rather than emphasize their weaknesses. All youngsters enter school with a complex, highly developed language system. Appalachian students also have the benefit of a rich oral tradition and a distinctive 32 �heritage. Their oral language is highly expressive and colorful, and we must allow this language to shine through in their writing (Elbow, 1985). We must motivate them to write by having them communicate about things that are meaningful to them. Writing is a form of expression, and it cannot be separated from the culture which it reflects. Schools need to build upon this culture rather than reject it. Second, it should be recognized that learning requires error. The errors in the writing of our students demonstrate transition as they struggle to master the printed code. An overemphasis on surface structure can have the detrimental effect of stifling creativity and the expression of ideas. It is important to recognize that a person can write a series of grammatical sentences, and yet have nothing to say. Third, I believe structural elements should be taught within the context of actual writing, the conventions of written discourse can only be learned by writing, not by memorizing a grammar book. Students learn these conventions as they require them. Similarly, habitual errors can best be corrected within the context of writing by instructing students to focus on these features as they write. Finally, I must again emphasize that it is critical that youngsters be immersed in print. Reading and writing are mutually reinforcing; both provide exposure to the formal standard code (Applebee, 1977; Kennedy, 1980; Eckhoff, 1983; Stotsky, 1983). Because of their distinct linguistic system, Appalachian students may actually require more experiences with formal written language than students from other cultures. The Appalachian dialect is not inferior to the standard English dialect, it is simply different. In our attempt to acculturate those who remain outside the mainstream, we may be eliminating many colorful and highly expressive features of Mountain Speech. More importantly, we may be causing youngsters to reject their language and the culture associated with it. Maintaining pride in their language while developing standard written form creates a challenge for the best of teachers, but it is not an impossible task. REFERENCES Applebee, Arthur N. "ERIC/RCS: Writing and Reading." Journal of Reading, 20 (March, 1977), 534-37. Baghban, Marcia. "The Application of Culturally Relevant Factors to Literacy Programs in Appalachia." Reading Horizons, 24 (Winter, 1984), 75-82. 33 �Birnbaum, June Cannell. "Why Should I Write? Environmental Influences on Children's Views of Writing." Theory Into Practice, 19 (Summer, 1980), 202-210. Cronnell, Bruce, ed. The Writing Needs of Linguistically Different Students. Los Alamitos, Ca.: SWRL Education Research and Development, 1981. Cronnell, Bruce. "Dialect and Writing: A Review." Journal of Research and Development in Education, 17 (1983), 58-64. Cronnell, Bruce. "Black-English Influences in the Writing of Third- and Sixth- Grade Black Students." Journal of Educational Research, 77 (March/April, 1984), 233-236. Cronnell, Bruce. "Language Influences in the Writing of Third- and Sixth- Grade MexicanAmerican Students." Journal of Educational Research, 78 (Jan./Feb., 1985), 168-173. DeYoung, Alan J.; Vaught, Charles; &. Porter, Julia D. "Evaluating Educational Performance In Appalachian Kentucky." Appalachian Journai, 9, (Fall, 1981), 50-58. Eckhoff, Barbara. "How Reading Affects Children's Writing." Language Arts, 60 (May, 1983), 607-616. Elbow, Peter. "The Shifting Relationship Between Speech and Writing." College Composition and Communication, 36 (Oct., 1985), 283-303. Elley, W.B. "The Role of Grammar in the Secondary School English Curriculum." Research in the Teaching of English, 10 (1976), 5-21. Farr, Marcia and Janda, Mary Ann. "Basic Writing Students: Investigating Oral and Written Language." Research in the Teaching of English, 19 (February, 1985), 62-83. Fink, Paul. Bits of Mountain Speech. Boone, N.C.: Appalachian Consortium Press, 1974. Ford, Cecilia E. "The Influence of Speech Variety on Teachers' Evaluation of Students with Comparable Academic Ability." TESOL Quarterly, 18, (March, 1985), 25-40. Gonzalez, Roseann Duenas. "Teaching Mexican American Students to Write: Capitalizing on the Culture." English Journal, 71 (November, 1982), 20-24. Goodman, Kenneth S. & Buck, Catherine. "Dialect Barriers to Reading Comprehension Revisited." The Reading Teacher, 27 (October, 1973), 6-12. Halpern, Jeanne W. "Differences Between Speaking and Writing and Their Implications for Teaching." College Composition and Communication, 35 (October, 1984), 345-357. Hartwell, Patrick. "Dialect Interference in Writing: A Critical View." Research in the Teaching of English, 14 (May, 1980), 101-118. Hendrix, Richard. "The Status and Politics of Writing Instruction." Writing: The Nature, Development, and Teaching of Written Communication. Edited by Marcia Farr Whiteman. Hillsdale, N.J.: Lawerence Erlbaum Associates, Pub., 1981. Hillocks, George, Jr. "What Works in Teaching Composition: A Meta-analysis of Experimental Treatment Studies." American Journal of Education, 93 (November, 1984), 133-170. 34 �Hoover, Mary Rhodes &. Politzer, Robert L. "Bias in Composition Tests with Suggestions for a Culturally Appropriate Assessment Technique." Writing: The Nature, Development, and Teaching of Written Communication. Edited by Marcia Farr Whiteman. Hillsdale, N.J.: Lawrence Erlbaum Associates, Pub., 1981. Kennedy, Mary Lynch. "Reading and Writing: Interrelated Skills of Literacy on the College Level." Reading World, 20 (December, 1980), 131-141. Kirschner, S.A., &. Poteet, G.H. "Non-Standard English Usage in the Writing of Black, White, and Hispanic Remedial English Students in An Urban Community College." Research in the Teaching of English, 1 (Winter 1973), 351-355. Leibowicz, Joseph. "ERIC/RCS Report: Classrooms, Teachers, and Nonstandard Speakers." Language Arts, 61 (January, 1984), 188-191. Lipscomb, Delores H. "Perspectives on Dialects in Black Students' Writing." Curriculum Review, 17 (August, 1978), 167-169. Meier, Terry Ryan, & Cazden, Courtney B. "Research Update: A Focus on Oral Language and Writing from a Multicultural Perspective." Language Arts, 59 (May, 1982), 504-512. Piche, Gene L.; Rubin, Donald L.; Turner, Lona J.; & Michlin, Michael L. "Teachers' Subjective Evaluations of Standard and Black Nonstandard English Compositions: A Study of Written Language and Attitudes." Research in the Teaching of English, 12 (May, 1978), 107-118. Porter, Julia Damron. "Appalachia: Adrift in the Mainstream." Theory Into Practice, 20 (Winter, 1981), 13-19. Rosen, Lois. "An Interview with William Labov." English Journal, 68 (March, 1979), 16-19. Schwartz, Judith 1. "Dialect Interference in the Attainment of Literacy." Journal of Reading, (February, 1982), 440-446. Sternglass, M.A. "Close Similarities in Dialect Features of Black and White College Students in Remedial Composition Classes." TESOL Quarterly, 8, (September, 1974), 271-283. Stotsky, Sandra. "Research on Reading/Writing Relationships: A Synthesis and Suggested Directions." Language Arts, 60 (May, 1983), 627-642. Stubbs, Michael. Language and Literacy: The Sociolinguistics of Reading and Writing. Boston: Routledge &. Kegan Paul Ltd., 1980. Whiteman, Marcia Farr. "Dialect Influence in Writing." Writing: The Nature, Development, and Teaching of Written Communication. Edited by Marcia Farr Whiteman. Hillsdale, N.J.: Lawerence Erlbaum Associates, Pub., 1981. Wolfram, Walt, & Whiteman, Marcia. "The Role of Dialect Interference in Composition." The Florida FL Reporter, 9 (Spring/Fall, 1971), 34-38, 59. Wolfram, Walt, &. Christian, Donna. Appalachian Speech. Arlington, Va.: Center for Applied Linguistics, 1976. 35 �Wolfram, Walt. "Language Assessment in Appalachia: A Sociolinguistic Perspective." Appalachian Journal, 4, (Spring/Summer, 1977), 224-234. Wolfram, Walt. "Is There an 'Appalachian English'?" Appalachian Journal, 11 (Spring, 1984), 215-224. 36 �Old Catawbans and "Mountain Grill": The Appalachian in Thomas Wolfe's Short Stories by Sally Bruce They have been described as hillbillies, hicks and backwoods clodhoppers. Even before the turn of the century, the people of the southern Appalachians were singled out as "different." Different in their speech, in their way of living, in their outlook and in their customs. Those that visited the region capitalized on this difference. Writers such as Mary Murfree and John Fox, Jr. described the quaint way of speaking and curiously rural way of life to the rest of the country. By the early 1920's, even those from the area saw the backwoods mountain people as different, different even from their neighbors in the cities. One of these people was Thomas Wolfe. Beginning with folk plays during his years at Chapel Hill and Harvard and continuing through his final project, "The Hills Beyond," Wolfe describes in eloquent and poetic language the people from his native mountains. Drawing on folklore and regional history told to him by his mother and her people in the Swannanoa Valley, Wolfe paints the picture of another kind of Old Catawban. Although not above relating the tall tales and worst side or "mountain grill" of the Appalachians, Wolfe does not single out the mountaineer for particular scorn. Indeed, his portraits of Boston and New York are just as scathing. Influenced by the stories and writers of the period, his own relatives and related from a viewpoint which was half northern, Wolfe's Appalachian is an intelligent, resourceful, industrious, backwoodsman who represented not only his own mountains, but indeed the entire fabric of America. Although Wolfe was born in a town of fifteen thousand, many considered his own "larger than life" character to be typically mountaineer. In 1937, he wrote F. Scott Fitzgerald: "The Little fellows who don't know may picture a man as a great exuberant six foot six clodhopper straight out of nature who bites off half a plug of apple tobacco, tilts the liquor jug and lets half of it gurgle down his throat, wipes off his mouth with the back of one hairy paw, jumps three feet in the air and clacks his heels together four times before he hits the floor again and yells "Whoopee boys, I'm a roarin', tootin', shootin', son of a gun from Buncombe County - out of my way now, here I come!."..1 37 �In fact, Wolfe's own background was far from the backwoods. The Asheville Wolfe was born in what was already a cosmopolitan town undergoing a real estate boom which drew people from all across the country. He spent half his life in Boston and New York City and, as he wrote his mother in 1923; "I have stepped on toes right and left -1 spared Boston with its nigger sentimentalists no more than the South which I love but which I am nevertheless pounding."2 Indeed, Wolfe's heritage was only half southern, as his father was from York Springs, Pennsylvania. In 1933, Wolfe wrote a boyhood friend: ... I have had that feeling of familiarity and home only in two places. One is the country where I was born, western North Carolina, and the other is my father's country, among the farms and orchards of the Pennsylvania Dutch in southern Pennsylvania.3 Wolfe's objective point of view toward mountaineer culture came in part from his father's side of the family. That was not to say that W.O. Wolfe was an objective observer of mountain people. It was W.O., after all, who originated the term "mountain grill" as a derogatory stereotype of his own creation. In later years, when Mrs. Wolfe was asked where her husband had obtained the phrase, she replied; "I guess he made it up. A mountain grill must be somebody that is ignorant; not much above an animal. East Tennessee mountain grill if he wanted to make anybody mad he would say, 'Nothing but a mountain grill.' "4 Nevertheless, that northern outlook from his father and from his years at Harvard and New York provided Wolfe with an identity separate from the mountains which allowed him to step back and see the area more objectively than would otherwise have been possible. Wolfe was also influenced to some extent by local color writers of the era. His first encounters with literature came from his father's library, now part of the Thomas Wolfe Memorial, Wolfe's boyhood home in Asheville. W.O. Wolfe's books range from Balzac to Stevenson and include many of the early local color writers such as Washington Irving and Brett Hart, which reflect Wolfe's own descriptions. One of these became an example for Wolfe of what he did not want his own work to become. In 1923, he wrote his mother from Harvard about a play he was working on: The point to this play, mama, grows out of my indignation at the idea most people have of mountain life, growing out of the romantic stories of mountain life by such writers as John Fox, Jr. and others. You and I know this is not the truth.5 38 �Despite these protests, however, Wolfe's early work incorporated many of the same stereotypical elements he disdained. He adopted a different kind of stereotype from James Boyd, author of Drums and Marching On. According to Wolfe's friend, Jonathon Daniels, Wolfe was tremendously impressed by Boyd; particularly in his sentiments toward the piedmont, that "flat lands make a flat and colorless people."6 It was this belief that led Wolfe time and time again back to his own roots in the southern Appalachians. Though influenced by other writers, Wolfe's prose was uniquely his own. It was the influence of his mother's people from the Swannanoa Valley just east of Asheville that Wolfe gained the inspiration for his short stories on the area. Julia Westall was born a year before the Civil War to a family of eleven children. Her father, Thomas Casey Westall, was a farmer, surveyor, teacher, carpenter and major in the North Carolina militia. He married his first cousin, Martha Penland, who was a great-granddaughter of Robert Patton, one of the first settlers in the area. It was through the Patton connection, too, that Wolfe was related to Davey Crockett, who married a Patton girl.7 After the Civil War, the family moved farther up the Swannanoa Valley to a hundred acre farm and it was the stories from this mountainous tract that Mrs. Wolfe passed on to her youngest son. Wolfe inherited not only his storytelling ability but also his remarkable memory from his mother and grandfather. As Mrs. Wolfe recalled; "Father was a very fine man. None of his children took after him. Tom was the only one that took after him in writing. Tom was named after him. None of his children measured up to him."8 Although some of the Westalls moved to Asheville, many continued to live in the hills, giving Wolfe an excellent first person account of some of the rich background and heritage of his ancestors. Wolfe's original plan for the material dealing with his Appalachian forebears was to create a novel, orginally entitled The Hills Beyond Pentland. This book would trace the history of Eugene Gant, the hero in Wolfe's first two novels, Look Homeward, Angel and Of Time and the River, back to the 1830's and his grandfather's day. Wolfe also had plans for three more novels which would further chronicle the Gant and Pentland families and ultimately depict American life from colonial days, with the arrival of the first Pentland to America, to the Depression of the 1930's and Wolfe's own career as a novelist.9 Although he ended up abandoning his plans for the three intervening novels, The Hills Beyond was still at the back of his mind even as he worked on his manuscript for The Web and the Rock. When finally published after Wolfe's death in 1938, the book contained many portions of the Pentland family saga in its first half. As early as 1934, Wolfe added in a postscript to his mother a request for information on the older branches of her family to provide a background for his project. 39 �... if I tell how one family like your own, for instance, going back a hundred and fifty years or more to pioneer and Colonial days and with all their settling in various places, pushing Westward marrying into other families everywhere, etc., finally weaving a kind of web, it would have the whole history of the country in it.10 When he began working on the project in earnest, however, he found that much of the material had already been published in the form of short stories and other novels and he was forced to begin once more from scratch. He changed the name from Pentland to Joyner and the fragment, called "The Hills Beyond," was eventlually included in a book of short stories by that name after his death. Several other short stories in this collection contain portrayals of mountain life as described by Wolfe, including "Chickamauga" and "The Return of the Prodigal." Two other short stories based on Appalachian life appear in his first collection of short stories, From Death to Morning; "The Web of Earth" and "The Men of Old Catawba." In each, Wolfe puts his own observations of the mountain people which still provide valuable insights into Appalachian culture. The first of Wolfe's short stories to deal with his mother and her family was entitled "The Web of Earth," published in the spring of 1932. It originated from a conservation he had with his mother in January of that year when she visited him in New York. Mrs. Wolfe's long, rambling narrative is an excellent example of Wolfe's mastery of dialect, for the entire ninety page story consists of the rememberances of Eliza Gant from her childhood during the Civil War to her husband's previous marriages and the birth of her children: I reckon that they tried to put it down in books, all of the wars and battles. Child, I guess they got that part of it all right, but Lord! - how could these fellows know the way it was when they weren't born, when they weren't there to see it; they made it seem so long ago and like it happened in some strange land - what could they know, child, of the way it was.... n "The Web of Earth" portrays Eliza Gant as a type of "earth mother" and her husband as the "far wanderer."12 Through Wolfe's skillful weaving of many different story lines, she evolves from a rather confused, misplaced mountaineer to a woman in full possession of her faculties, anxious to impart to her son some of the vivid memories and stories in their family history. And in fact, nearly all aspects of that family history are touched upon in the narrative. Wolfe wrote his mother in May of 1932: 40 �The story is about everything that goes to make up life—the happiness, the sorrow, the joy, the pain, the triumph, and the suffering.... As for the person who tells the story, everything that is written is written as an honorable tribute to her courage, strength, and character.13 Many critics, including Wolfe's editor Maxwell Perkins and literary agent Elizabeth Nowell, consider "The Web of Earth" to be one of Wolfe's best works.H His style of writing is particularly suited to this "stream of consciousness" prose; the piece was one of the few which Perkins returned to Wolfe with the comment, "Not one word of this should be changed."15 "The Men of Old Catawba" did not receive the same critical acclaim as "The Web of Earth." Indeed, it appears to be very much a forgotten story, included in the same short story collection as "The Web of Earth" and essentially ignored thereafter. Wolfe did not forget the story, however. Although orginally written in 1935, Wolfe drew on the same descriptions for the opening of "The Hills Beyond" as he did for "The Men of Old Catawba": "On the middle-Atlantic seaboard of the North American continent and about a day's journey from New York, is situated the American State of Old Catawba."16 In "The Hills Beyond," this became: "About midway along the Atlantic Seaboard of the North American continent lies a strip of land which is known today as the state of Old Catawba."17 Where "The Hills Beyond" goes into the story of the Lost Colony, however, "The Men of Old Catawba" relates the story of the discovery of Old Catawba through a one-eyed Spaniard and his quest for gold. The story was originally written as two separate tales, one called "Polyphemus" and the other "Old Catawba." It was incorporated into one when included in From Death to Morning. Wolfe is attempting to set the stage for his Appalachian characters in these stories and they prove the admiration Wolfe held for the people of his native state: Their character has strong Scotch markings: they are cautious and deliberate, slow to make a radical decision. They are great talkers, and believe in prayer and argument. They are perhaps the most immensely conservative people on earth, they reverence authority, tradition, and leadership, but when committed to any decision, they stick to it implacably. 18 At least one of the stories in this essay came from a professor at Chapel Hill. When Wolfe himself was teaching at Washington Square College in New York University, he had his students read books, like Glenway Westcott's The Grandmothers, which dealt with the same material 41 �Wolfe had always planned to work on in his own novels.19 The character analysis was Wolfe's own, however, and his insightful descriptions into the mountaineer psyche are in many ways applicable even today. "The Return of the Prodigal" was a deviation from Wolfe's Hills Beyond Pentland, but it nevertheless presents some interesting insights into Wolfe's view of Appalachian culture. The first part of the story, "The Thing Imagined" was written in 1934 when Asheville's reception of Look Homeward, Angel was still fresh in Wolfe's mind. It relates an imaginary trip back to his hometown in which even his own mother does not recognize him but receives him as just another roomer in her boardinghouse. The second half, written after Wolfe's actual visit home in 1937, proves that the people of Asheville had actually forgiven him, though it took nearly seven years for them to arrive at that point. Wolfe came home by way of Burnsville, just north of Asheville, where he met many of his mother's relatives still living in the area: Yore grandpaw, son, was my own brother. He was born, like all of us, on the South Toe in Zebulon. He married yore grandmaw thar and settled down and raised a family. His paw before him - my paw, too - he come in thar long years before. I've heerd him tell it was wild country then. Thar was Cherokees when yore great-grandpaw first come in thar. Yes, sir.20 Wolfe's account of this stopover in Burnsville is full of warmth and humor, quite a different attitude from the bitter one which raised the wrath of his hometown in his first novel. Even an account of a brutal shooting in the streets of downtown Burnsville is interpersed with humor as the murderer turns to "Eugene" and says: "Who's this?" "Must be a cousin of yours, Ted. Leastways, he's a cousin of mine. You know - the feller who wrote that book." With a slow and sullen grin Ted shifts the gun and offers his hand. "Why, sure, I know about you. I know your folks. But, by God, you'd better never put this in a book! Because if you do - " with a shake of the head and a throaty laugh - "you and me's goin' to get together!"21 In real life, Wolfe actually was a witness to an encounter between the two men he wrote about, if not the actual murder, and was called back from New York to give testimony at their trial.22 The whole affair had a deep effect on Wolfe, who felt the murder had taken place in part because of 42 �the men's wish to become part of one of Wolfe's novels. They did. Wolfe wrote about the encounter not only in "The Return of the Prodigal," it was also incorporated into his last novel, You Can't Go Home Again. The trip home in 1937 also provide Wolfe with the source for another story, "Chickamauga." While in Burnsville, he spoke in length with his ninety-five year old great-uncle John Westall, who remembered the Civil War battle in great detail. Wolfe later spoke quite warmly of Uncle John to his editor, Edward Aswell, and said that "the old man told his story in almost exactly the words in which it appears "23 We never knowed how hit would be there in the cedar thickets beside Chickamauga Creek. And if we had aknowed, if someone ha a-told us, why I reckon that none of us would a-cared. And as fer knowin' - law! The only trouble about knowin' is that you've got to know what knowin's like before you know what knowin' is. Thar's no one can tell you.24 Through his use of folk speech to tell the story of the battle, Wolfe's "Chickamauga" has veen called "one of the most effective representations of mountaineer speech in American literature."25 The story is effective more for this reason that because it gives an accurate account of the battle. By telling it from the perspective of Uncle John, Wolfe did not need to be concerned with historical accuracy, for the story does have many discrepancies when compared to the actual battle. Wolfe drew on his own imagination as well as the recollections of his great-uncle and his own reading of history; whether or not there was actually cedar thicket at the Battle of Chickamauga becomes immaterial, the fact that Uncle John remembers it is not. Critics of the time were not enamored of Wolfe's story. Though he sent it to a dozen different magazines, trying to earn some pocket money between novels, each rejected it in turn until in desperation he finally sent it to the Yale Review. The Review paid him just enough to buy a good overcoat, which was badly needed.26 Other pieces did better in magazines and, in all, Wolfe published nearly sixty pieces of fiction in various magazines, from Redbook to The New Republic, emphasizing his wide appeal to the reading public. Perhaps the most important of Wolfe's accounts of mountain life come in the form of a fragment from the piece he was working on right before his death in 1938. Dropping the name Pentland to separate the work from his previous novels, Wolfe called it "The Hills Beyond." It traces the Joyner family back to the 1970's with their first settling in Zebulon County, North Carolina. This has been called Wolfe's most objective work; the characters, with one or two exceptions, are fictional. He 43 �had moved away from the romanticism that marked his early efforts to a realistic account of frontier life. He recounts not only the story of the Joyner family, but also many legends and tall tales that marked frontier life, making his work valuable as folklore as well as regional history. The story begins with William "Bear" Joyner and his family; seven children by the first marriage, sixteen by the second; a character based on Wolfe's own great-grandfather. Bear is also a likenss to a man found in another family tree; that of Zebulon Vance, North Caroina's Civil War govenor. In fact, many similarities can be drawn between the two families, a fact which was not lost on Wolfe. Zachariah Joyner, one of Bear's sons, is based on Vance. In fact, Wolfe claims to have collected "more than eight hundred stories, anecdotes, and jokes that are told of him, and of this number at least six hundred have the unmistakable ring—or smack—of truth. If they did not happen—they should have!"27 He goes on to relate many of these tales; Vance's backwoods humor was legendary even among the people of his homeland, such as the tale in which he assures the U.S. Senate that he "could—halfway across the stream" and the Vice President declares him out of order. "Mr. President, sir, you are right," declares the Senator; "If I was in order, sir, I could—the whole way across it!"28 Legendary feats are also the basis of Wolfe's description of Bear Joyner, a fact which Wolfe puts into perspective from the first: Bear Joyner, like his famous son, was increate with myth, because the very nature of the man persuaded it The Myth is founded on extorted fact: wrenched from the context of ten thousand days, and rutted roads, the desolations of lost voices long ago It is important then to know that William Joyner "chewed the b'ar." But it is even more important to know that William Joyner was a man who learned to read a book.29 Wolfe's mountaineer in "The Hills Beyond" is not a slow, ignorant farmer as some had portrayed him. He was instead a strong, industrious, intelligent man who incorporated many of the traits of Americans as a whole. Indeed, several of the sons of Bear leave the rural mountain life for professions in the city, including Lafayette, the grandfather of George Webber, Wolfe's hero in The Web and the Rock and You Can't Go Home Again. Had he been able to finish the novel, the storyline would have taken the family to the opening of The Web and The Rock. As it is, it brings the story through the generations of the Joyner family up to 1880, or twenty years before George's birth. Thus it is only a fragment of the intended novel, but it is an important one to his development as a writer and his perception of the mountaineer stereotype. Thomas Wolfe's short stories depict a mountain people as diverse as 44 �the country they settled in. From the rambling reminscences of Eliza Gant and Uncle John Pentland, to the violence and threats of a local murderer, the political oratory of Zachariah Joyner, and the legends and tall tales of the men of Old Catawba and Bear Joyner, Wolfe's stories cannot be said to fit any one stereotype. His characters are neither all "good Old Catawbans" nor all "mountain grill." They would instead settle in all parts of the country, founding families in Boston, Massachusetts and Seattle, Washington as well as Asheville, North Carolina. Wolfe's northern heritage, his wide readings of other authors, and his extensive travels abroad gave his mountaineer a universal appeal which made him just as popular in Germany as in the United States. His plan was to tell the story of the whole country through her people; a massive job which Wolfe's short twelve year career as a novelist did not allow him to complete. That which was completed provided an overwhelming body of work with all of the sights and sounds which Wolfe absorbed over the years. His powers of observation were so renowned that the science fiction writer Ray Bradbury based his short story "Forever and the Earth" on him. The story brings Wolfe back to life in the year 2257 to describe an interplanetary journey to which only Wolfe could do justice. His descriptions of space, as his descriptions of Appalachia, are based on a viewpoint which is at once objective yet filled with warmth and insight that marked so much of his later works. Wolfe's descriptions are timeless and his writing, whether on his home mountains or on outer space, are universal. ENDNOTES 1. Elizabeth Nowell, editor, The Letters of Thomas Wolfe (New York: Charles Scribner's Sons, 1956), p. 644. 2. C. Hugh Holman and Sue Fields Ross, editors, The Letters of Thomas Wolfe to his Mother (Chapel Hill: The University of North Carolina Press, 1968), p. 42. 3. Nowell, p. 376. 4. Hayden Norwood, The Marble Man's Wife (New York: Charles Scribner's Sons, 1947), p. 76. 5. Holman and Fields, p. 17. 6. Jonathon Daniels, "Poet of the Bloom," Tar Heels (Dodd Mead &. Co, 1941). 7. James Meehan, "Thomas Wolfe as Regional Historian," The Thomas Wolfe Review, Volume 1, Number 1, Spring 1977, p. 9. 45 �8. Norwood, p. 46. 9. Richard S. Kennedy, The Window of Memory (Chapel Hill: The University of North Carolina Press, 1962), p. 199-200. 10. Holman and Fields, p. 234. 11. Thomas Wolfe, "The Web of Earth," From Death to Morning (New York: Charles Scribner's Sons, 1970), p. 214-215. 12. Kennedy, p. 242. 13. Holman and Fields, p. 220-221. 14. Bruce R. McElderry, Jr., Thomas Wolfe (New York: Twayne Publishers, Inc., 1964), p. 111. 15. Kennedy, p. 243. 16. Thomas Wolfe, "The Men of Old Catawba, From Death to Morning (New York: Charles Scribner's Sons, 1970), p. 185. 17. Thomas Wolfe, "The Hills Beyond," The Hills Beyond (New York: The New American Library, 1982), p. 157. 18. Thomas Wolfe, "The Men of Old Catawba, From Death to Morning (New York: Charles Scribner's Sons, 1970), p. 201. 19. Kennedy, p. 241. 20. Thomas Wolfe, The Return of the Prodigal," The Hills Beyond (New York: The New American Library, 1982), p. 49. 21. Ibid., p. 103. 22. Floyd C. Watkins, Thomas Wolfe's Characters (Norman: The University of Oklahoma Press, 1957), p. 134-135. 23. Edward C. Aswell, "A Note on Thomas Wolfe," The Hills Beyond (New York: The New American Library, 1982), p. 297. 24. Thomas Wolfe, "Chickamauga," The Hilis Beyond (New York: The New American Library, 1982), p. 78. 25. Floyd C. Watkins, "Rhetoric in Southern Writing," Georgia Quarterly, XIII, Spring 1958. 26. Aswell, p. 298. 27. Thomas Wolfe, "The Hills Beyond," The Hilb Beyond (New York: The New American Library, 1982), p. 174. 28. Ibid., p. 174. 29. Ibid., p. 169-170. 46 �BIBLIOGRAPHY Primary Sources Holman, Hugh C. and Ross, Sue Fields, ed. The Letters of Thomas Wolfe to his Mother. Chapel Hill, The University of North Carolina Press, 1968. Nowell, Elizabeth, ed. The Letters of Thomas Wolfe. New York, Charles Scribner's Sons, 1956. Wolfe, Thomas. From Death to Morning. New York, Charles Scribner's Sons, 1970. Wolfe, Thomas. The Hills Beyond. New York, New American Library, 1982. Secondary Sources Aswell, Edward C. "A Note on Thomas Wolfe," The Hills Beyond. New York, New American Library, 1982. Daniels, Jonathon. "Poet of the Bloom," Tar Heels. Dodd, Mead and Company, 1941. Field, Leslie A. "The Hills Beyond: A Folk Novel of America," Three Decades of Criticism. New York, New York Univeristy Press, 1968 Geismar, Maxwell. "Thomas Wolfe: The Hillman and the Furies," Yale Review, 1946. Higgs, Robert J. and Manning, Ambrose N., ed. Voices from the Hills. New York, Frederick Ungar Publishing, 1975. Holman, Hugh C. The Loneliness at the Core. Baton Rouge, Louisiana State University Press, 1975. Kennedy, Richard S. "Thomas Wolfe and the American Experience," Modem Fiction Studies. Purdue University, Volume XI, Number 3. Kennedy, Richard S. The Window of Memory. Chapel Hill, The University of North Carolina Press, 1962. McElderry, Bruce R. Thomas Wolfe. New York, Twayne Publishers, 1964. Meehan, James. "Thomas Wolfe as Regional Historian," The Thomas Wolfe Newsletter. Volume 1, Number 1, Spring 1977. Muller, Herbert J. Thomas Wolfe. New York, Vail-Ballow Press, 1947. Norwood, Hayden. The Marble Man's Wife. New York, Charles Scribner's Sons, 1947. Perkins, Maxwell. "Thomas Wolfe," Harvard Library Bulletin. Autumn, 1947. Walser, Richard. "Major Thomas Casey Westhall," The Thomas Wolfe Review. Volume 8, Number 2* Fall 1984. Walser, Richard. Thomas Wolfe: An Introduction and Interpretation. New York, Barnes and Noble, Inc., 1961. 47 �Watkins, Floyd C. "Rhetoric in Southern Writing," Georgia Review. Volume XII, Spring 1958. Watkins, Floyd C. Thomas Wolfe's Characters. Norman, University of Oklahoma Press, 1957. 48 �CREATIVE READINGS Convenor: Sharon McCrumb, Virginia Polytechnical Institute Appalachian Voices: In Search of a Usable Past Anne Shelby, Appalachian Center University of Kentucky The Loom House, "The Apprentice," A Spinner In Her Hundredth Year" Bennie Sinclair, Cleveland, South Carolina Old Sunrise Hill c 1985 Charles Tunstall, Tusculum College Appalachian Crafts As Literary Subject by Bennie Sinclair As a contemporary writer I have found our Appalachian handcrafts to be a challenging subject for poetry and fiction. The language and work ethic of crafts, as well as the craftspeople and their produce, offer stimulating ground for the creative writer. The crafts of pottery, spinning, and weaving are represented here in poems and novella excerpts. Nowhere in the New World has the pervasion of handcrafts been greater than in the Southern Appalachians. Forests yielded logs for carving and lumber for furniture as well as bark, berries, and plants for dyeing and "woods pretties," baskets and brooms. The earth gave clay and gemstones. Hillside pastures nourished sheep whose coats were a harvest, and fields grew cotton that likewise could be transformed into the miracle of fiber. Isolation made it easy for highlanders to be self-sufficient. Idle hands were a sin, busy hands were a virtue. "Use it up wear it out; make it do or do without" led to thrifty and clever use of usable objects designed to be attractive and inexpensive. With all or many stages of the production done by hand, the work ethic became as important as the work itself. As a child I was surrounded by crafts still in use in our home, from dough bowl to quilts, and, though stilled, my great-grandmother's spinning wheel was a reminder of how the woven coverlets in our linen closet had begun as thread. All of my adult life I've been closely involved with the crafts field through my husband, Don Lewis, and his work as a potter and member of the Southern Highland Handicraft Guild. An awareness of how the past continues into the present in the area of crafts, and a con- 49 �stant re-evaluation of that relationship by the craftsperson comparing old ways and new, old values and new, is to me symbolic of the writer's dilemma as well. The Apprentice I live in the potter's house, a house transformed of clay; of tools, dust, machinery; mounds that wait in vinegary stillness, for their metamorphic day. Of the potter's hand I take myself transformed into each shaping hour, an humbled, hopeful witness to the miracle of clay made whole by that most destructive of elements, fire; or coming ever back into itself wet down, dried out, wet down again; pounded, thrown on the potter's wheel into shapes both basic and fine, coming of purpose at last from the potter's magnificent hand while I, the novitiate, cannot come so close of the clay can only pretend to sense its lifelike resiliency as I carry unpromising mounds from the bins to his wheel. On glazing day I stand in the muck of chemicals and watch the potter select for each a piece of skin: considering, for a cup, how its rim will feel upon lips or, if a bowl, how its texture might seem to a woman's sensitive hands. Each form that the potter makes 50 �becomes, as himself, an image reflected. Through his miscalculations I learn that this work leaves nothing to chance; the smallest detail of design has bearing over the whole— the pitcher not fully thought out will never pour cleanly; the lid less carefully turned will ruin the effect of a jar. From the moment his process begins through the final stages of the kiln the potter gives life, or destroys, of his worth. Myself, I have yet to be judged. Seven years in the potter's house shall teach me technical skill: but whatever I make of my clay will depend; will depend. I was deeply moved when I first saw Doris Ulmann's photograph, "A Spinner In Her Hundredth Year." In it, it seemed that continuity existed not so much in the craft of spinning and weaving as in this particular craftswoman's longevity, which transcended generations. When I began research I was struck by the poetic possiblities of the language related to these skills especially pattern names. "A Spinner In Her Hundredth Year" from the photograph by Doris Ulmann Once, she herded colors like sheep from off the hillsides, perfecting the dyeing science that all hues of light and shadow might hold fast— a greater span she learned to reason in. In spring, she envisioned the little lambs grown coats like Joseph's— matched eyes the deepness of sky to indigo; their blood to madder. 51 �In and out of our time her low or high wheels flew, their miles concentric. Whenever the spindle was stilled threads and yarn she had drawn carried her through the night like a wind-blown spider— adrift in years, as seasons, each coming round again. Children, grandchildren, great great grandchildren... so many times she witnessed color and cloth of her hand in and out of the church; the tomb or the marriage bed; she came to remember only the names of the thread, or their design. Mornings, she ran the sheep from their stalls into the high pasture: evenings, she gathered them in, calling them by their names; watching the spread of her patterns fashion itself to their skins: Rose in the Garden Rose in the Blossom Rose in the Wilderness: and each spring, a dozen new lambs; skeins running now on the mountain. My novella The Loom House follows a young weaver's career through the crafts revival of the 1960's through the 1970's. During this period Trudy sees crafts re-identified as "art," and the integral dictum "produce or perish" altered by creation of the National Endowment for the Arts and accompanying states arts agencies which award grants money to those educated and industrious in seeking it. She sees, in her own field, the painstaking learning of a skill confused with instant interpretation of 52 �the medium. She finds a moral dilemma in being a modern craftsperson. Should she spend time refining her art and seeking out markets... or in filling out grant applications and cultivating contacts? Is it demeaning to pay to submit her work to exhibits? In seeking answers she becomes a scholar of the past as well as the present world of weaving. Following are three excerpts. Three excerpts from The Loom House: ... And, as if to prove it, she stood up, stretched, and went into her studio. But the sudden colors of her yarns, pinned close to the rafters on closeline, touched her with the same effect, of memories. "Well, then, I guess I'd better get going," Ola said, from the doorway. "It's a long way back to civilization. I'd feel so much better if you had a phone..." Trudy waved goodbye. She listened to the Mercury slough its way through the mud to the paved road and then, sighing, reached up and plucked a skein of gray wool from the line, holding it to her face like a flower. In the dyepot it had stunk of sumac and the copperas she used as a mordant, but now it was cleaned and fresh, waiting for the loom. Before this depressing period of lethargy had set in, in which she could get nothing done, she had spent weeks at dyeing, working toward certain hues that haunted her, though she had no idea how she would use them. On clear days she had foraged her woods and fields for dyestuffs. Her basketfuls of weeds and flowers and leaves, roots and lichens and barks filled the cabin's old rooms with fresh pungency. And slowly out of the dyepot strange and true colors had begun to bloom: sombre and rich reds of sassafras and dogwood root; a vibrant, painfully youthful green of oak leaves crushed and pounded, the color held fast by salting; mournful purples and blues from a half-dozen or more different berry plants; and one special shade that almost eluded her, a glowing and elegant brown that she thought must be the same richness of her late mother's hair. That brown had come, finally, of walnut gathered after frost, a mixture of hulls, roots and bark, tended and stirred to an exact moment. It had seemed particulary fitting that this shade needed no mordant to "sadden" it or make it hold true, as it did in Trudy's mind. "Mother's Hair," "Finch's Wing"—it was her habit to give names to her colors, once she had achieved them. The un-named gray in her hand was as soft and indistinct as fog, or the mists that rolled from the hills each morning. It was so subtle it would be difficult to work with, she knew. And, against her will, she saw the gray as something else..." Childhood?" That hazy period of first becoming aware of that tragedy being played out around her? 53 �During her first years, the war years, it had seemed so strange, as if there was a cadence in the air that everyone seemed to hear—a roll of drums and a sound of taps, the rumble of convoys passing in the night. It seemed a different world then, something to do with camaraderie; unspoken feelings somehow shared. Often she had stood on the sidewalk to wave at the military traffic moving to and from the air base just outside of town. In a newsreel, when she saw a thin, tow-haired little girl waving at truckloads of soldiers, she cried out loud, in amazement, "That's me!" "No, dear, that's a little girl in England," her mother whispered, and around them, in the darkened theatre, everyone laughed good-naturedly. ... Her father, Hamp, felt sorry for himself. In the throes of self-pity drank and stayed home from work. Growing suddenly sentimental, he decided to take Trudy on a pilgrimage to her mother's homeplace, where the child's great-grandmother, whom he always referred to as "the crone," still lived. It was the first time since leaving the hospital that Trudy had felt truly awake. They rode for hours in the afternoon, stopping in some small foothills town for supper. As it began to turn dark the road became narrow; mountainous; frightening. Trudy lay under a blanket in the back seat and closed her eyes, terrified—but when she woke she was in a bed, and the sky was lightening. Her gnarled and tiny great-grandmother bent over her like some creature remembered from a dream, shushing her to be quiet, pointing warningly across the room where Hamp lay snoring. Conspiratorially the old woman led her into the warm kitchen, helped her dress, and fed her a steaming breakfast. Then, her watery eyes eager as the child's she took Trudy on a tour of the homeplace that, amid morning mist and bird music, again seemed familiar, like a dream. Perhaps her mother had described it to her, or there had been pictures. There was the cluster of old log buildings, the waking cackle of hens, the cow. Tools lay in the high grass, abandoned and rusting; the barn and smokehouse were rotting from leaky roofs. Clutching her heavy skirt up about her knobby knees, the old woman led the way slowly through the morning damp while Trudy limped as slowly behind, falling instantly in love with each and everything she saw. They visited the hens and cow, the deserted buildings where kittens spilled from the rafters like mice. Then her great-grandmother unlocked the door to the loom house and led Trudy in. Two great looms stood idle, one strung and abandoned in the middle stages of a coverlet now ghostly gray with dust. Yet, despite the disarray, the sight of those threads in their paradigm captured Trudy's imagination. As instinctively as a young spider coming into her own first web, Trudy responded to the compelling pull of thread and loom. 54 �... Now, standing alone and somewhat afraid in her studio twenty years later, Trudy recognized the colors around her, that she had been creating. In a moment of unexpected understanding, Ola had once sent her a clipping, a quotation from Joyce Carol Oates; "One always thinks of a few people, day after day; there's no escape. A father, a mother, a few beloved people—that is the extent of the universe, emotionally. And if something has gone wrong inside this small universe, then nothing can ever be made right." Long ago, Trudy had given up wanting to be a writer because she could not bear the pressure of words: their intensity. Weaving had seemed like the perfect substitute—a craft, not an art, she could practice and enjoy. But the forces that drive and compose had played their trick on her. From a hundred different skeins ghosts and memories glowed or were subdued in their own mutability. Even the damselfly of that fateful day was there in a range of purples and greens, robbed of its irridescence, but not its richness, by the years between. For three years she had worked at a job she hated in order to clear her great-grandmother's estate of back taxes and legal fees. But now that the farm was finally her home, she found that the determination which had sustained her through so much had disappeared as quickly as mist from the hillside. "Am I one of those for whom nothing can ever be made right?" she asked aloud, softly. There was no one to answer. Around her the fabulous colors of her own making glowed, challenging her like the unknown force in a dream. ABOUT THE AUTHOR Bennie Lee Sinclair has received a Stephen Vincent Benet and the Winthrop Award for poetry, and a BEST AMERICAN SHORT STORY citation for fiction. She is an advisory editor of Appalachian Heritage magazine. 55 �FEDERAL IMPACT Convenor: Harley Jolley, Mars Hill College The Blue Ridge Parkway And Its Effects On Local People Kimberly Burnette, Radfbrd University Mud Creek Clinic: A Model of Grassroots Health Care Eula Hall, Mud Creek Health Clinic Appalachia's Path To Welfare Dependency Paul Salstrom, Brandeis University "The modern world, by multiplying necessities, multiplies the needy, and makes the peaceable practicing of Poverty more and more difficult. ... Whether we wipe out the superfluous poor by cannon-balls, or destroy entire harvests of wheat by fire, or throw tons of mild into the river, they are all identical ways of meeting the situation." —George Bernanos, A Diary of My Time (New York, 1938), p. 159. "There is a modern technique of granting assistance to the weak, to the disinherited, to the wretched of all kinds. But from the standpoint of techniques in general, the pure and simple suppression of such people would cost less. Therefore, technology will sooner or later suppress them." —George Bernanos, The Last Essays of George Bernanos (Chicago, 1955), p. 8. Appalachians Path to Welfare Dependency by Paul Salstrom As of 1840 Southern Appalachia figured as one of the most self-sufficient regions of the United States. By 1940 it had become one of the country's least self-sufficient regions. Between 1880 and 1930 the southern mountains experienced a rapid transition toward industrialization. During that half century, the region's self-sufficiency in food production waned. Late, when industry faltered in the 1930's, the federal govenment provided relief on a massive scale. Relief became so extensive that it 56 �brought many mountaineers a degree of economic and social stability that their families had not known for generations—since industrialization began or before—but in the process it also made many mountain farmers more dependent on regular cash income than they had ever previously been. In this paper I will talk only about economic dependency, not about psychological dependency. Claude Dillion, who was born in 1918 in the Marrowbone Creek neighborhood of Mingo County, West Virginia, and who lived through the Depression there, formed the opinion that "the public works programs that were prescribed to put people to work, simply took them away from farm life, took them away from self-sufficient way to do things."1 And a storekeeper in the Upper Mud River section of Lincoln County, West Virginia shared that view, saying, "It was the WPA that started farming on its downhill path all around here. The WPA paid farmers to work on roads, and work on this and that, till they started counting on that money and neglecting their land."2 New Deal policymakers evidently felt no misgivings about the usefulness of pumping cash into "backward" areas like Appalachia. Harry Hopkins and his colleagues often bucked local political opposition in Appalachia to attain their relief quotas. (The phenomenon of this political opposition in Appalachia cannot be equated with the opposition manifested by the Deep South's oligarchy. Tenancy, share-cropping, and farm wage labor were all pervasive in the Deep South, but were exceptions to the rule in Appalachia. In the Deep South, federal relief became a de facto alternative to low-paid farm labor, but in Appalachia it displaced mainly the traditional localized economic system that I call the "subsistence-barter-and-borrow system." Below, I will go into detail about that system. I believe that it constitutes a crucial part of our "usuable past," and I want to share with you news about rural pockets in which that traditional economic system is being revived, using a model devised two and a half years ago in British Columbia and called the LETS system—the Local Exchange Trading System. I do not claim that the New Deal singlehandedly created Appalachia's dependence on federal transfer payments. That would be an over-simplification. The region's dependency grew gradually, becoming toe/are dependency only in its last stage.3 From the beginning, Appalachia's trade with the outside world (consisting of agricultural exports and merchandise imports) depended upon outside capital, and later, industrialization during the 1880-1930 period also depended upon outside investment. In both cases, the main source of investment capital was the Northern United States.4 You can say whatever you want about that investment capital. My purpose here is not to moralize but to analyze, and in the late 1920's, when demand for coal quit growing, the coal industry became more com- 57 �petitive, Appalachia was able to successfully compete, and its coal capital was not withdrawn. The reason Appalachia could successfully compete, however, was because its miners did not need as much wage (that is, cash) income as their Northern counterparts. The Appalachian miner's lifestyle was more rural than was the Northern miner's. The average Appalachian miner and his family subsisted in part off the land, raising a large garden and keeping some livestock.5 And because wages could be scaled lower in Appalachia, coal mining here was conducted by more labor-intensive methods. In 1933, with the New Deal and in particular the National Recovery Administration, wage and price supports were imposed on the country. This penalized labor-intensive operations in favor of those more capital intensive, delivering a blow to not only Appalachian mining but also Piedmont textile manufacturing, and this came at the very time when the Depression had curtailed opportunities to move out of the South. The great growth of those Southern industries, remember, had only been possible because they could compete in their respective markets—which they could do only because they did not pay their workers a fully familysupporting wage. Subsistence agriculture (which incidentally is also labor-intensive, since by definition it pays no cash return on cash investment, and thus attracts no capital)—subsistence agriculture had provided the necessary supplement to the low wages and, in Marxist terms, completed the cycle of "reproduction" by reproducing the labor force in the subsistence mode (the household mode of production). Labor reproduced itself prolifically under these circumstances but soil fertility did not. From the beginning, Scotch-Irish farming customs were not well suited to so hilly a topography. The land's diminishing strength yielded diminishing returns, but most mountaineers resisted migration. They stayed put eventually enduring impoverishment and injuring the land.6 They stayed put, primarily, because they ranked proximity to their parents and siblings higher than individual economic enrichment. This family-orientation, mind you, was not comparable to a communitarian lifestyle such as exemplified by the Russian mir (village commune). Rural Appalachia's basic socioeconomic group was smaller, composed (as one eastern Kentucky case study found) "of two, three, or more family-households that were particularly solitary and bonded together by strong ties of mutual friendship, and frequent visiting exchanges, as well as by ties of kinship. These were primarily groups of siblings' families or of siblings and their parental families." Beyond these family groups (the same study found) there was "little cooperation in common tasks for the good of the whole neighborhood. Few interfamily economic relationships, such as borrowing farm implements or exchanging labor, existed."7 A similarly pronounced "familism," accompanied 58 �by a comparable lack of community cooperation, was discovered by a West Virginia case study.8 A decline of community solidarity began quite early, according to the Depression-era union organizer Jim Garland (whose family went back many generations in southeastern Kentucky). Garland writes that "when there remained no more unclaimed farmland to take up,... two classes of people emerged Thus, even before the coal operators came into the region, mountain society had begun to disintegrate."9 As their living standard fell in the mountain fastness, many Appalachian farmers gladly went to work for wages that were lower than those paid for the performance of comparable jobs elsewhere in the United States. In the competitive coal industry of the 1920's this proved to be an advantage and Appalachian coal was consistently able to undersell Northern coal until 1933, when the National Recovery Administration's price and wage supports threatened this situation.10 Appalachia's coal areas then began to grow dependent on federal welfare payments. Capital did not so much take flight from the mountains as it took flight from wages—from labor. It went into making Appalachian mines as capital intensive as Northern mines. Since the coal areas had already become largely cash-dependent before the Depression began, I would have agreed that welfare provision was the best policy for the New Deal to adopt in these coal areas. By contrast, I believe that in areas where subsistence agriculture was still predominantly practiced full time, federal relief (including work relief under the WPA) produced a great increase in dependency. Through cash injections, such areas were weaned from conditions of relative local autonomy —from local subsistence undergirded by intense family-group networks of borrowing and barter—to a situation in which cash became a pre-condition for a far larger proportion of economic transactions. In terms of avoiding dependency, what is important about the subsistence-barter-and-borrow system is that (1) it needed to produce no profit on investments which originated outside the region, and (2) it produced its own consumption items and thus (despite a scarcity of cash) wealth was not drained out of the region through heavy purchases. The system's small cash requirement was not onerous. [See Figure.] The system required an initial investment (which was unnecessary for some heirs) to purchase agricultural capital goods—tools, for instance, and also animals and animal-drawn farm implements. After that, the system required just a few dollars annually for tool replacement and a few more for consumption items which were not native to Appalachia. [See Figure.] The only serious obstacle was that the subsistence-borrow-barter system required use of an agriculturally viable piece of land. This could be a daunting obstacle for young people coming up into adulthood but, given adequate land, Appalachian family groups which engaged full time 59 �in subsistence farming were virtually autonomous vis—vis economic forces beyond their neighborhoods. Let me emphasize that Appalachia's full-time subsistence farmers were not thus self-sufficient as separate individuals or even as separate conjugal families. Each conjugal family did not live by using only the tools or equipment that it personally owned, or by subsisting entirely off the animals and produce that it personally raised. It lived by combining a degree of such self-sufficiency with a prodigious amount of barter and borrowing of both objects and labor. This borrow-and barter activity was continuous (except for occasional feuds) but it did not exist with equal intensity between all residents of a neighborhood. It flourished primarily within family groups as defined above: "two, three, or more family-households" which were generally "groups of siblings' families or of siblings and their parental families." Such family groups drew on resources beyond their own numbers, however, since some of their members were simultaneously members of other family groups (holding multiple membership), and also since some borrowing and barter bore no reference to family groups. Folklore reveals much about this aspect of rural Appalachian life. Gossip networks are a by-word and there exists an unspoken expectation that everyone will give some account of his goings-on. No one is willingly allowed to shut himself off and to refuse to render a running account of his material life. An economic function lurks barely below the surface of this rural snoopiness, and manifests in the proposals which frequently follow on the heels of prying questions. Having asked "What are you working on these days?" your neighbor may next say, "So in that case you're not using your ladder"—or your winch or your railroad jack. "Reckon then you're not using your railroad jack. Though I might change my sill log." And rather than hire the two or three helpers required to change his sill log, he would expect free help, it being understood that he would return equal labor on request, or repay in goods at a mutually convenient time. A relatively poor farmer might contribute mostly labor within this system, whereas a relatively prosperous farmer might more readily lend equipment. During the Depression, in the least developed neighborhood of Pendleton County, West Virginia, "it was customary for several of the more well-to-do farmers to buy a piece of machinery in common which all their neighbors would use until it wore out, at which time the same persons would purchase another."11 Probably such equipment lending was balanced to everyone's satisfaction by labor contributions from the poorer families of the neighborhood. All three of Pendleton County's banks had failed in 1931 and the web of barter transactions grew very complex there. Most of the country's merchants and professionals then still raised livestock on the side and were thus able, with little inconvenience, to accept payment in animals and grain.12 60 �Urbanites have difficulty weighing the contribution made by borrowing and barter to rural life. (And for all their "research," most scholars are urbanites.) Cash is admittedly the most transportable and universal form of asset, but these attributes often hold limited appeal for people who intend to stay where they are, and who share with their fellow locals a very specific environment worked with specific implements. Generalizations about poverty which are based on annual per capita income (even if income "in kind" is included, and home production) reflect urban assumptions about what comprises a standard of living. In the daily affairs of cash-poor farmers, a cash-price citation for something obtainable through barter bears no practical relation to the cash figures on the price tags of items obtainable only through a cash payment.B Thus, the workings of a subsistence-barter-and-borrow system cannot be understood through a sequence of equivalents in a different economic system, a system in which cash does often change hands. If we look beyond farm products (that is, beyond consumption items) and examine the position of productive durables within the two contrasting economic systems, we find the maximum amount of divergence between market-value and use-value. Within a subsistence-barterand-borrow system, numerous people have access to a tool or implement when they need it, and yet need to possess no equity in the item. Productive durables such as tools and farm implements were borrowed and reborrowed, traded and re-traded, in Appalachia. Cash too circulates at a certain rate, of course, but cash is of no direct use to a person while he holds it. In rural Appalachia, a tool or a plow has exchange value, like cash, but in addition it has direct productive value. Subsistence production, borrowing, and barter (including labor barter) operated in Appalachia as a unified system. No one of these activities would have been of so much benefit without the other two.14 What significance does all this have? Is it purely academic? How we measure things influences how we value them. It is impossible, even today, to measure the real income of the Appalachian region or of any part of it, for we have no quantifying yardstick to render a subsistence-barter-borrow system even roughly comparable to the cash system. Without a quantified comparison, urbanites (including most scholars) will continue to puzzle over the supposedly "self-limiting" (or, to their partisans, "selfless") features of Appalachian thought and behavior. We will continue to confuse ways of life with standards of living, as does no less a thinker than Rupert Vance in his introduction to The Southern Appalachian Region: A Survey. Vance says that the New Deal's "standards made at least half the population in certain Appalachian areas eligible for relief" which in turn "introduced the people to the money economy and increased their wants. The depression, then, actually served to raise standards for many families in the region who had lacked contact with the 61 �American standard of living." Vance does hasten to add that the Depression "left the region with a high rate of relief and a low basis for economic security," but he lets stand his implicit equation of "the American standard of living" with a raised standard and not merely with "the money system."15 You can go further left in the political spectrum and still find such clichs where there should be analysis. The clich "self-sufficing farm" is no more examined among the romantic left which lauds the image (Scott and Helen Nearing, et al.) than among the revolutionary left which disparages it. But unitl the left begins to economically disassociate itself from the American economic behemoth, its protest against that behemoth will remain largely symbolic. True, we cannot be self-sufficing as single individuals or as separate conjugal families. At the other extreme, however, if we organize economically on too grand a scale we will inevitably be co-opted. Michael Linton, the British Columbian who organized the first LETS barter system, suggests that fifty to two hundred people is the ideal size for a non-cash system of economic exchange. LETS stands for "Local Exchange Trading System" and the system functions as a combination information network and cashless bank. Each member of a LETS system has an account and receives monthly statements of what their "balance" is—that is, whether their account is in debit or credit, and how much. In the system as a whole, debits must equal credits, since every exchange (whether of labor or of goods) is debited to the receiving person and credited to the providing person. The value of each exchange is determined by mutual agreement between its receiver and its provider. The first LETS system employs a computer to facilitate bookkeeping. A telephone answering machine is used to record the members' transactions, and once a day the transactions are entered into the computer. As for the "information network" aspect of the system, this consists of a monthly sheet which reports the goods and services currently offered by each member, with prices cited in dollars. This sheet is mailed out each month to each member along with his "statement." (Like a bank statement, the LETS statement is a computer print-out which reports all the transactions of the past month, and the balance of the account. ) A supplemental information sheet can be issued to tell members of each other's needs, like a want-ad sheet.16 The applicability of this updated version of old-fashioned barter is obvious in the cash-poor sections of Appalachia. How often the lack of money prevents a rational and humane distribution of goods and services! What LETS does is to extend the traditional circle of barter, so that people can exchange goods and services indirect^. You may not directly need what someone else has to barter. Through a LETS system, you can barter with them indirectly, using the entire system's membership as intermediaries. In my own country, I know, this will prove a great boon, expecially to the new homesteaders how have settled there. 62 �ENDNOTES 1. Quoted in Michael T. Tierney, "Bread on the Water: Education in an Isolated Mountain Community," Human Services in the Rural Environment 8, no. 3 (Winter 1983):7. 2. June 1983 interview by the writer with Ray Gene Black, manager of Black Brothers General Merchandise at Myra, West Virginia. 3. For a concise summation of dependency theory, see Richard White, The Roots of Dependency: Subsistence, Environment, and Social Change Among the Choctaws, Pawnees, and Navajos (Lincoln: University of Nebraska Press, 1983), pp. xv-xix. As a definition, White quotes Theotonio Dos Santos: By dependency we mean a situation in which the economy of certain countries is conditioned by the development and expansion of another economy to which the former is subjected. The relation of interdependence between two or more economies, and between these and world trade, assumes the form of dependence when some countries (the dominant ones) can expand and be self-sustaining, while other countries (the dependent ones) can do this only as a reflection of that expansion, which can have either a positive or negative effect on their immediate development. (Quoted in Richard White, p. xvii.) 4. As regards the dependence of Appalachia's early commerce on Northern capital, see Lewis E. Atherton, The Southern Country Store, 1800-1860 (Baton Rouge: Louisiana State University Press, 1949) pp. 129-34. On Northern capital sources for Appalachia's industrialization, see Ronald D. Eller, Miners, Millhands, and Mountaineers: Industrialization of the Appalachian South, 1880-1930 (Knoxville: University of Tennessee Press, 1982), pp. 134-53. 5. David Akn Corbin, Life, Work, and Rebellion in the Coal Fields: The Southern West Virginia Miners, 1880-1922 (Urbana: University of Illinois Press, 1981), pp. 33-35. 6. With more rational farming methods, Appalachia's fertility need not have been squandered. A 1916 article, "Farming Appalachia" by J. Russell Smith, challenged America's vast agricultural research establishment of that day to "develop and teach a mountain agriculture that will make the mountaineer prosperous and leave him his mountain." After a world tour to study hill-farming methods, Smith recommended "good little permanent terraced fields" such as he had found in Corsica. He also encouraged tree planting to provide fruits, nuts, and seeds, putting emphasis on "the mulberry, the persimmon, the honey locust, the acorn, and the chestnut, [which] are primarily forage crops, chiefly pig feed, but also good for poultry, sheep, goats, and cows." As forest-grown human foods, Smith recommended walnuts and pecans. Smith emphasized that hog-forage crops should received priority in Appalachia, since Appalachia's people were used to eating pork, and any surplus of hogs could be marketed. See J. Russell Smith, "Farming Appalachia," American Review of Reviews 53, no. 3 (March 1916):329-36. Smith's suggestions (which also included pawpaw trees) remain excellently suited to Appalachia. For general ideas on sustainable agriculture for hill regions, see J.R. Smith, Tree Crops (Old Greenwich, Conn.: Devin-Adair, 1950); and J. Sholto Douglas and Robert A. de J. Hart, Forest Farming (London: Watkins, 1976). 7. Harry K. Schwarzweller, James S. Brown, and J.J. Mangalam, Mountain Families in Transition: A Case Study of Appalachian Migration (University Park: Pennsylvania State University Press, 1971), p. 40. 63 �8. John Craft Taylor, "Depression and the New Deal in Pendleton: A History of a West Virginia County from the Great Crash to Pearl Harbor, 1929-1941," Ph.D. dissertation, Pennsylvania State University, 1980, pp. 124-27, 133. 9. Welcome the Traveler Home: Jim Garland's Story of the Kentucky Mountains, ed. Julia S. Audrey (Lexington: University Press of Kentucky, 1983), pp. 18-19. 10. It might be some consolation if one could think that, while marginalizing Appalachia's coal, the National Recovery Administration anyway did help the United States ecomony as a whole. But it has now been shown that the price supports written into the NRA's codes completely negated an 8 percent annual GNP growth which otherwise would have flowed from the 14 percent monetary expansion created by Roosevelt's gold policy. See Michael Weinstein, Recovery and Redistribution under the NIRA (Amsterdam: North-Holland, 1980), pp. 273-79. 11. Information from 1973 interviews used in John Craft Taylor, "Depression and New Deal in Pendleton," p. 130. 12. Taylor, "Depression and the New Deal in Pendleton," p. 819. 13. In a classic article, Michael Merrill made this point by saying that money-of-account does not function the same as money. See Michael Merrill, "Cash Is Good To Eat: Self-Sufficiency and Exchange in the Rural Economy of the United States," Radical History Review 5(Winter 1977):56. But it is important not to forget that there are points of reference between the cash system and the subsistence-borrow-barter system. As Karl Polanyi reminds us, "unless [a market] pattern is present, at least in patches, the propensity to barter will find insufficient scope: it cannot produce prices The principle of barter depends for its effectiveness on the market pattern." Karl Polany, The Great Transformation (Boston: Beacon Press, 1957), p. 56. 14. Among the urban poor, barter and borrowing has also routinely occurred—in their case without subsistence production. An exemplary analysis is Ellen Ross, "Survival Networks: Women's Neighborhood Sharing in London Before World War One," History Workshop 15(1983):4-27. 15. Rupert B. Vance, "The Region: A New Survey," in The Southern Appalachian Region: A Survey, ed. Thomas R. Ford (Lexington: University of Kentucky Press, 1962), p.5. 16. Susan Meeker-Lowry, "The Local Exchange Trading Systems," Green Revolution 42, no. 3 (Fall 1985):l-2. 64 �ENVIRONMENT Convenor: Karl Raitz, University of Kentucky Down To Earth: The Appalachian Family Farm Maxine Kenny, Clinch River Educational Center A Bioregional Perspective On Appropriating The Appalachian Past Linn Mackey, Appalachian State University Past Commitments, Current Problems, And Future Choices: Water Use In Appalachia Dennis Soden, Appalachian State University Past Commitments, Current Problems, and Future Choices: Water Resources in Appalachia by Dennis L. Soden Preface This paper is the first step in studying water-related issues in the Appalachian region. As a transplanted westerner who has focused almost entirely on water policy issues in the western states, the author attempts in this paper to summarize initial reaction to the state of water resource issues and management mechanisms in Appalachia. Further, a glimpse at what may lay in waiting for the Appalachian region if water resource use and development are not placed high on the political agenda is developed. As a goal, a better feel for potential conflict which may come to the fore and a choice of options which may be available to natural resource administrators and civic leaders is sought. Introduction A struggle is developing in the Appalachian Region about how to best manage the region's vital water resources. At the core of this developing struggle are increased water use patterns incompatible with past and existing standards. Southern mountain people have a reputation for their jealous efforts to preserve their environment's quality and natural resources (Schoenbaum, 1979). As population increases, new demands are placed on water 65 �resources. Without too much speculation, we can safely say that these emerging demands will create widespread water supply problems in the eastern United States.' As this problem develops, public attention will increasingly focus upon water use and water development policies. Thus, it is both appropriate and timely to make an assessment of water policy practices and opportunities as a first step in searching for a future which nurtures development while maintaining the region's resources. This paper will attempt to put the present period—a period of "transition"—into perspective. This transition in water policy and management has been characterized as a period in which an "appropriate balance between water quantity and quality aspects" has not been achieved (Hufschmidt, 1979:1). This paper does not attempt to be definitive. The field of water policy is complex, interdisciplinary and dominated by technical, scientific and legal considerations. A grasp of the system can, however, be obtained. The basic policy issues are not any more difficult to analyze than those of pollution control, toxic and nuclear waste disposal or land-use policy, all topics of current concern in the region. Four areas of water policy important to the discussion of Appalachia are considered in this paper. First, existing water law which serves as the major management mechanism is reviewed. Second, the potential for conflict which exists as part of water use and development will be addressed, particularly the instream verses consumptive nature of water usage. Third, a consideration of major management concepts which exist in the current natural resource and environmental policy literature will be undertaken. These natural resource management concepts will be evaluated for their practicality in a riparian doctrine situation like that existing in the Southern Appalachians. Fourth, a management concept for "safe development" of the region's natural resources—a community-based model, based on the work of leading water policy scholars Stephen B. Mumme and Helen Ingram will be forwarded. Fifth and last, implications for future research into this salient issue will be forwarded. Water Law: The Stage for Water Resources Use and Development The states of the Southern Appalachians embrace a mixture of water rights systems. In nearly every state, the common law water rights of the past have proved inadequate in water scarce environments (Ausness, 1983:547). Consequently, the common law rules relied upon in the past have "typically" been either supplemented or replaced by some form of statutory water allocation system. The success or failure of the present system has been discussed elsewhere (Ausness, 1983) and this paper does not attend to a full description of water law practices (see instead; Trelease, 1979; Cox, 1982). As an aid in understanding the issue, however, a brief review of water law is given here. 66 �Historically, in the area of surface water which this paper focuses upon in general, the riparian system of water law has prevailed in the eastern United States. In contrast, the western states have adopted the prior appropriation system in its different forms.2 The riparian system of water law was developed from English common law and subsequently reflects the cummulative decisions of the courts of that heritage. Simply, under a riparian system, rights to use of water are obtained from ownership of land bordering natural water courses. The use of riparian water is restricted to the land bordering the water course—the riparian land. Two concepts direct the riparian water order. First, riparian landowners are entitled, via the "natural flow doctrine," to have water flow through their land in its natural condition—not restricted or polluted except from normal domestic uses or upstream riparians. Non-domestic use is permitted, only if a perceivable dimunition in natural flow is absent (Cox, 1982:110-111). The second concept is the "reasonable use rule." The rule allows each riparian to make any use of the water provided that his use is reasonable relative to the needs of other riparians. Reasonableness is a gray area of the law and provides a context for both conflict and conflict resolution whenever one riparian user feels injured by another. Until the accelerated population growth and economic development of the last four decades, which has been even more pronounced in the last decade in the Appalachians, riparian doctrine sufficed since there was a plentiful natural supply of both surface and groundwater (Howells and Grigg, 1978:2). Dissatisfaction with the common law and riparian system has led a number of Appalachian states to consider adoption of statutory system of water rights. The states of North Carolina, South Carolina, Georgia, and West Virginia have given serious consideration to abandoning the riparian system in favor of appropriation standards used in the western United States. While only Mississippi among eastern states has actually adopted the appropriation doctrine, virtually all eastern states, including those of the Appalachian region have incorporated a portion of the prior appropriation system into their new permit systems (Ausness, 1983: 554). In basic terms, a fundamental shift has been made which enables non-riparian landowners, previously unable to hold water rights, to perfect a water right by obtaining a water use permit. In the Appalachians, this is the case in Virginia and is considered to be implied in Kentucky (Ausness, 1983:554). The permit system which emerged in the 1970s and which continues to develop in various forms in the states of Georgia, Kentucky, North Carolina, South Carolina, and Virginia, provides for a state agency to administer water rights programs. Perfecting a water right requires successfully obtaining a permit from the state. The permit may 67 �be denied if other water users are adversely affected or if the "public interest" is threatened. A permit system is the first step in the adoption of the prior appropriation system, but unlike the west, in the east water rights are not held in perpetuity. In addition, water rights are not transferable to other landowners in the eastern modification. Instead they are appurtenants to the land (Ausness, 1983:553) which are attached to the property declared in the permit. Political Conflicts Among Water Users In the brief discussion of water law and changes which may impact the Appalachian region, the uses of water have not been considered. What characterizes an allocation system like that used in western states is the development of statutory priority to water use as a means of resolving conflict. In the east this event has yet to occur, largely due to legislative refusals to explicitly address the difficult and complex issues inherent when states allocate resources. For regional observers of the Appalachians, this means that regionally held water may in the future be declared surplus—water not being put to its most beneficial use. Consequently, the large quantity of Appalachian water which we can safely say most presently is taken for granted, may become the object of downstream interests, short in both quality and quantity of water. Despite the evolution which is occurring in eastern water law, designed to deal with emerging problems occassioned by water development, there exists considerable potential for conflict among competing water users. Figure 1 displays some water resource uses which have been recognized as "beneficial uses." Figure 1 over simplifies, but demonstrates potential conflict which residents and natural resource managers in the region must be aware of. The cells in Figure 1 indicate the impact of a particular use upon other uses. It is important to note those uses which are incompatible with each other; these are the areas where the greatest conflict may be expected to emerge. This is a subjective chart, and the reader may disagree with some cells or envision impacts which are not noted. The intent is not to imply that proper management cannot accomodate multiple uses, but to underscore likely conflicts. Beneficial uses have been grouped into consumptive and non-consumptive categories. Consumptive water uses are those which take water from a waterway and do not directly return it (municipal, industrial and irrigation uses for example). Return flows may seep into groundwater, into different stream, or return to the same stream in reduced quality and very often in reduced quantity. In contrast, non-consumptive uses in68 �elude those which divert water from a stream and immediately return it (fish hatcheries, hydroelectric power and those uses in the stream such as instream recreation). Consumptive uses tend to conflict with one another and with nonconsumptive uses. The severity of this impact depends primarily on the volume of water withdrawn. If non-consumptive uses were maximized, they would obviously be in conflict with consumptive ones. Further, many non-consumptive uses may be incompatible with each other (industry/wastewater with preservation/recreation). The perspective given in Figure 1 can be viewed in light of the discussion of water law. The development of a permit system may establish priorities based on date, not type of use. The permit system as "textbook" designed is neutral among water uses except in times of scarcity. Consequently, a neutral system may hold considerable potential for harm to certain uses by other, unknowingly and indirectly, as well as directly. Figure 1. Potential Conflicts Among Water Users Agriculture (irrigation) Energy - - Transportanon Recreation Preservation (Esthetics) - - - - - - + - - Transportation - + Industrial - + - - Domestic Domestic Agriculture (irrigation) - Energy - - - Industrial + Recreation - - - - Preservation (Esthetics) - - - - + + + = Compatible or Beneficial - = Incompatible or Harmful Contemporary Appalachia is experiencing a transition in population and demography, in addition ot changes in the use of natural resources like water. Simultaneously, parallel changes are occurring in our institutional mechanisms for managing resources. For the Appalachians, the critical question must be asked, can changes in water law be perfected in 69 �time to service and resolve conflict likely to arise among new and competing users in a transition era? The answer to this question is not easily attained. A system of management for the region's water resources requires a coordinating, comprehensive, planning policy process as the most efficient means of implementing decisions regarding both development and preservation of resources. The move toward permit systems has been heralded as a significant and important first step (Ausness, 1983:589). Nevertheless, many deficiencies exist. A water use and development scheme requires a "gameplan," "framework" or, in the jargon of the academic, a "theoretical thrust" to direct policymaking.l The next section will discuss the most dominiant conceptual frameworks which are used in natural resource policy today. By looking at these frameworks a sense of alternative water resource use and development futures is obtained. Without consideration of these policymaking and planning alternatives, a "primitive and incomplete" view of the issue is obtained and conflict is more probable. Approaches to Water Resource Management: Contending Views A central issue concerning water use and development in the Appalachian region, as in any other, is the need to develop consistent analytical devices. Put another way, it is paramount that a "gameplan" be formulated for water resources use and developmen. In this section two of the more commonly used resource management frameworks are reviewed. Following this, a third framework is put forward in light of the unique social, economic and political characteristics which the Appalachian region holds. This exercise may seem frivolous or trivial to many, however, only by beginning to promote discussion of what could become one of the most serious problems we face regionally and nationally in the next decade—water resources management—steps in the right direction may be taken (Congressional Quarterly, 1981). The two models reviewed include: first, the model of the "Commons," and second, the private ownership approach labeled "new resource economics" by scholars in the field. In response to these a derivative of the public choice approach called community-based management will be proposed as an alternative for water resource management for Appalachia's future. THE COMMONS MODEL. One consideration of water development and protection brings to light the classic questions of equitable choice—namely who plays and who doesn't pay for development or protection, pollution and degradation versus preservation and aesthetics. In the case discussed here, the "common property resource" belonging to the Appalachian community is the set of water resources, whose devel- 70 �opment or protection can politically benefit or cost all or none in one way or another. The attainment of community-wide benefits requires that disproportionate costs be borne by some citizens, while at the same time greater benefits accrue to some than to others. The decision to undertake management of water resources is based on a belief in the common property aspects—that each citizen has a right to access of some portion of a potentially diminishing resource. The decision to avoid what we have come to know, in natural resource and other policy fields, as a "Tragedy of Commons" (Hardin, 1968) is a situation where "the remorseless working of things leads individuals, acting in their own best interest, to produce joint consequences not in their long-term interest (Hardin, 1968)3. Appalachian water resources are an excellent example of a commons, in as much as: (1) ownership of the resource is subject to many common ownership characteristics (i.e., the flow of streams past numerous riparian land holders, or the sharing of groundwater pools); (2) a large number of users are exercising independent rights to the resource (i.e., through riparian rights or permit systems); (3) no other user is able to effectively control the activites of others without utilization of specified instructional mechanisms (i.e., the court system), and; (4) in the long-term, total demand upon the resource will exceed the capacity of the common resourceto provide benefits (Hardin, 1968). In a commons dilemma, recognition of a pending crisis within the area eventually triggers community decsions to formulate plans and to initiate development of commons management institutions as a way of responsibly managing the available resources for the "benefit of the community." Presently, the characteristic "commons" nature of Appalachian water resources has been only partially recognized. Few efforts to achieve collective action among regional neighbors to avert Hardin's predicted "tragedy" exist, but as they say there is no better time than the present to begin.4 If institutional measures designed to protect the region's water resources from overuse are not implemented, the commons will be exhausted and each individual will lose the economic or intangible values associated with use of the resource (Ciriacy-Wantrup, 1975). In the case of Appalachian water resources, government intervention at the state, interstate-regional, as well as local levels is required to prevent overuse and excess degradation of the resource. The Commons Model is popular and intuitively makes sense. It has a long and rich history among natural resource managers and scholars. Recently, however, it has been challenged by a new wave of literature which also focuses upon institutional needs required for the management of scarce national resources. 71 �NEW RESOURCE ECONOMICS. The New Resource Economics school of thought has been characterized by one commentator as "an almost libertarian outpouring of market-oriented recommendations for allocating water" (Griffin, 1984). From the New Resource Economics perspective water shortage comes about because of the lack of a balance between supply and demand, not a shortage of total available water. Water is treated as any other ecomonic commodity and proponents of the school propose that water shortages, in either quality or quantity, can be solved by transferring the commondity from lower to higher valued uses (Andersen, 1983; Mumme and Ingram, 1984). Proponents of this view suggest that the existing institutions (i.e., government management, especially at the state level) act as an impediment to "accurate translation of society's real preference for water use" (Mumme and Ingram, 1984:1). A recent and influential book by Terry L. Anderson exemplifies this perspective: Water prices have been kept below market clearing levels, and the inevitable shortages have followed. The government has responded by attempting to constrain demand, ration water, and increase the available supply. Except in isolated cases where shortages have been caused by drought and where a cooperative community spirit has developed, efforts to ration water have not been successful. Increased water supplies have only been possible though the construction of massive water projects, which have dammed many of our free-flowing rivers and built thousands of miles of aqueducts. These projects have been extremely costly, and it is questionable whether funds for them will continue to be available. Without a price mechanism operating on water supply and demand, crisis situations will continue to arise (Andersen, 1983:5). Andersen, one of the "gurus" of this movement, prescribes developing a free market for water, whereby individual property rights over water would supersede state or other government's control. The "crisis" of water shortage could be dealt with by prices sufficiently attractive to bid water away from owners whose uses are of low value. This literature adopts very strong value positions at odds with traditional thinking about water. Obviously, considering water as a commodity which can be privately traded is in sharp contrast to the long-standing notions that water is a commons good or public good, with special characteristics meeting needs which are not "practically" dealt with in market transactions (Soden, 1986). Further, the New Resource Economics recommendation seriously threatens the interest of some poor, rural groups 72 �who view the control over water as essential to community security, selfdetermination, and culture and lifestyle. Much of the Appalachian region, it can be contended, is represented by communities with these attributes. This study critically examines the basic assumptions of New Resource Economics with respect to Appalachian water resources and suggests that the commons model has greater validity. The commons model in conjuction with an alternative framework—community-based management—may provide a means more amendable to the communities of the Appalachian region. It is also useful to note that New Resource Economics has gained political appeal at the same time as the beneficiaries of federal intervention (money supply to large scale water development projects) have shifted. As Stephen Mumme and Helen Ingram suggest: It is widely conceded that the era of water development has given way to one of water management where available water is reallocated among users rather than new supplies being developed. Few new projects are being authorized which serve the interest of developmental constituencies (Mumme and Ingram, 1984:4, emphasis added). We are entering a period where other interests who have not previously shared in the benefits of federal water projects are beginning to assert themselves. More specifically, as water demands have pressed close upon available supplies, Appalachia may hold the water necessary to alleviate crisis elsewhere. Interbasin transfers of water are now practical and have reached the South, as evidenced by the effort of the Virginia Beach/Newport News and other Virginia areas to obtain needed water supplies from Lake Gaston on the Virginia-North Carolina border (Cox and Shubman 1985; Walker and Bridgeman, 1985). Is Appalachian water next? New Resource Economics proposes that we transfer institutional control to individuals and "radically decentralize water policymaking" a move which could have dramatic and perhaps damaging implications for the Appalachian region.5 The present, which many suggest is a time of transition in the Appalachians, may provide a useful case for evaluating New Resource Economics and to suggest an alternative management framework for development and use of the region's water resources. 73 �Searching for Alternatives: Community-Based Management The incompatablity between the New Resource Economics approach and water resource allocation problems in the Appalachian region can be demonstrated. The political plight of the many low-income rural communities of the Appalachians, and the importance of control over water resources, can be illustrated by drawing parallels from John Gaventa's work, Pouter and The Powerless-ness (1980). Gaventa discusses the lack of political power among the historically less-advantaged communities, and the continued economic poverty which prevails in much of the region. Gaventa sees three aspects of political power in the Appalachians: (1) their participation in politics is ineffective for reasons relating to a lack of economic resources, lack of political skills, poor political strategy and failure to build support; (2) they are excluded from channels of participation by existing biases in the political system, values of elite decision-makers or procedural biases within the political system; and, (3) they are exluded because these communities themselves accept the policy norms of the prevailing system as their own, contrary to their material and cultural interest, and thus acquiesce in their exclusion from the political and policy process systems. Gaventa's explanations have been used to study the politics of water use in the western United States, particualrly the water crisis which has come to the fore on the numerous Indian reservations in the Southwest (Ingram and Mumme, 1984, 1985). It is appropriate that it come home to roost, so to speak, and be a source for discussion of water politics attendant to the Appalachians. Gaventa's first explanation emphasizes the importance of economic and political resources as a base of political power and influence. Water has long standing political and economic value, especially when conditions of prior appropriation and permits exist. Further, water is closely linked to political cohesion (Soden, 1985a; Mumme and Ingram, 1984, 1985; Pierce and Lovrich, 1980). Water is not a commodity which is absent of special meaning for a community, but is indeed a "different kind of resource with effects and significance beyond its material value. Water has been described as a "fundamental social resource" (Mumme and Ingram, 1984:26). Its social characteristic links it inextricably to economic and political power, social welfare and equity, community security, cultural cohesion, and the nature of economic and social change wihtin a community (Mumme and Ingram, 1984:26). Along this line of reasoning, Robert and Eva Hunt conclude that "... there is a strong case to be made for a linkage between control over water resources and control over other decisions in the local unit (Hunt and Hunt, 1976). Other findings by researchers in the water politics field point to the connection between control over water resources and levels of public 74 �participation (Maas and Andersen; Ingram, et. al., 1980; Pierce and Doerkson, 1976). Rural communities's control over water use and development has been recognized as a strong incentive which obtains political cohesion. The most powerful conclusion which has emerged from a number of case studies of rural water issues is the extent to which water users in these communities seek control over their destinies and the use of their resources (Mumme and Ingram, 1984:27; Soden, 1985a). Control over water resources is a primary source of political power, organization and political participation for low income rural communities. Maintaining and reinforcing this control is likely to be crucial for the survival, or development of some communities and is an important base upon which communities can build political influence and pursue economic development vital to their community's interest whether those interests be monetary or non-monetary in value (Soden, 1986). Gaventa's second explanation for the lack of politcal power of poor rural communities relates to the bias of political institutions particularly as it affects what issues are placed upon the political agenda for solution. The literature on water law and perfection of water rights illustrates a dynamic process; a process which will greatly affect the Appalachian region. There does not exist, nor is there a major effort to impose a single regulatory system over the nation's or the region's water resources, although efforts to move in this direction exist. The federal rule in the area of water policy has been historically limited to ensuring water rights exist to support federal water projects. However, a growth in the interest in and number of interstate compacts and the federal government's role in negotiation of water disputes, looms on the future. Further, as eastern states turn more and more towards a permit system with similarities to the western states appropriation doctrine, federal claims under the Winter's Doctrine (which allows for federal rights over water resources), may be part of the long term public agenda. States' institutions, laws and regulations predominate, but their focus, more often that not, is on ways to enhance the large population centers "down-the-mountain." As in other parts of the nation, state boundaries and institutions do not serve the broader needs of the region. The area which includes northern Idaho's panhandle, western Montana and eastern Washington is an example of a region (known as the Inland Empire in the Northwest) which maintains unique regional concerns unattended to by political instiutions of both the state and federal governments designed to service the area. Further, it might safely be suggested that an Appalachian regionalism exists and, that as a region, the Appalachians are often overlooked or not recognized by the political instiutions which govern them. As a result, water policy and planning at both the state and federal levels may involve decisions which may adversely affect the region. As demands are pressing closer to supplies, uncertainty threatens to deprive regional control over water resource. 75 �This issue is far from the top of the political agenda. Given the nature of the multiple agenda which exists in environmental politics about water usage (Soden, 1985b) the result may be that when the issues of water use and development do rise to the top of the agenda they will not be framed in a way which proves beneficial to the region. This appropriately introduces Gaventa's third face of power. Gaventa explains that powerless people tend to be highly dependent and susceptible to the "internalization of values of the dominant." Put another way, they accept the definitions of political reality as offered by the dominant classes or governmental institutions (Gaventa, 1980:17). Until recently, the issue of water in the Appalachians has been framed in terms of water quality or "pork barrel," whereby federal government monies were made available to localities which had political support and a worthy project. In general, water quality was a non-issue, mainly on the grounds that the time was not ripe for politicalization of water. Currently, the political reality is changing. Water transfers are suggested as replacements for federal development projects, as sources of water to alleviate problems in water shy or poor water quality stricken areas. With this in mind, New Resource Economics would suggest use of an economic efficiency criterion as the governing process. Viewed from Gaventa's perspective, a set of normative tenets, such as those of New Resource Economics, to the extent to which they prevail or act as guideposts in the larger political system, may "well underwrite the exclusion of low income rural communities from participation in the policy process," perpetuating political and economic relations among a core (urbanmetropolitan) and its periphery (rural poor). Since Graham Allison's (1971) seminal study of the Cuban Missile Crisis, political scientists have recognized that the choice of framework for evaluation of political alternatives is far from benign. Instead, the choice of analytic framework influences the interests that are considered legitimate, the information that is relevant, and the values and conclusions drawn. The application of New Resource Economics, based on notions of economic man to water resources, biases the definition of public interest in water rights and disregards the non-mobilized rural poor. Ingram and Mumme have proposed in their studies of Indian communities in the southwestern United States, that a different, more community-oriented mode of analysis would be more appropriate. Table I illustrates the characteristics of the community-oriented mode as compared with the "pop" New Resource Economics. Community-oriented analysis relies heavily upon political and bureaucratic approaches to policymaking. While rational action based models have proved useful, as Allison notes (1971:5), "there is powerful evidence that it must be supplemented, if not supplanted, by frames of reference that focus on the governmental machine—the organization and political actors involved in the policy process." 76 �TABLE 1. Alternative Frameworks for Analyzing Water Policies and Institutions New Resource Economics Community-Oriented Analysis Basis of the Interest Individual Group or Collective Nature of the Interest Material and Quantifiable Affective and Symbolic Basis of Decision Making Instrumental to Maximizing Individual Benefit Support and Maintenance of Institutions; Conformity to Norms and Practices Mode of Interaction Strategic Action to Maximize Private Interest Reciprocity, Sharing and Cooperation Participation A Cost Incurred In Obtaining Relevant Information To Make Individual Exchanges An Intrinsic Good That Increases Sense of Belonging; Community Self-Determination Arenas for Action Markets and Individualized Exchanges Politics and Administrative Processes Source: Mumme and Ingram, 1984 Ingram and Mumme's community-based approach recognizes the group, rather than the individual as the basic unit of interest (Mumme and Ingram, 1984:29). This fits the issue of water resource management which historically, even in the most riparian situations, has been regarded as a community or "common" resource. Within rural communities, Maas and Andersen observe that there have evolved strong traditions of community control over water resources stemming from the desire to maintain the integrity of the social and economic community. In these communities protection from injury results when the actions of individuals promote values which pertain specifically to their communities. The result is the loss of valuable water resources from the community as a whole. This point has clearly emerged at some points in time having been expressed cyclically in Appalachian natural resource politics, including water (Soden with Wilson, 1986). Consequently, it can be expected to return as the "stakes" become higher. The collective mode of analysis is far more emotional and symbolic rather than purely objective and material. In this regard, water is valued 77 �by communities not primarily for the economic return, but for what it means for security and community self-determination. The community-oriented perspective on water management relies on the notion that rationality is a social and political process of collective evolution, consent, and action. From one community to another this process may vary considerably, ranging from "informal councils to the establishment of tasks force and water districts" (Mumme and Ingram, 1984:30). Whatever the form, this collective action essentially serves, to varying degrees, the individual interests of the members of the community. Community values are reinforced in teh process, galvanizing the citizenry as well as providing the potential for innovation and adaptation by the community body. The basis for decision-making in the community-oriented analysis model emphasizes reciprocity, sharing, and cooperation in contrast to market procedures, which reward egoistic pursuit of one's own interests. In the community-oriented model altruistic values tend to provide the glue for community bonds. Systems of mutual cooperation "encourage individual participation and responsibility, mutual trust, and nurture a sense of security and equity with the community" (Ingram and Mumme, 1984:31). The result is diminished conflict and increased social cohesion within the community itself. Participation is not seen simply as a cost to the individual, but as an opportunity for individual development and strengthing of community bonds. "Empowerment" is the term Gaventa proposes for the solidarity fostered by reciprocal, cooperative relations. As a collective body, communities have the strength to hang onto their water resources and to distribute them in ways more serving their social, as well as, economic goals (Maas and Andersen, 1978:368). Repeatedly, studies have shown that rural communities, when they perceive threats to their water resources by actions of outside actors behave in this way (Soden, 1985a; Maas and Andersen, 1978; Mumme and Ingram, 1984, 1985). Contrary to New Resource Economics, distrust of government, and politics in water management, a community-based approach views politics and administrative processes as essential. As Ingram and Mumme note, low income rural communities outside the political mainstream face political and economic challenge by those seeking to secure abstract entitlements to their resources or otherwise enlarge their resource base. These communities, by definition lack the economic clout to obtain equal treatment through the marketplace (Mumme and Ingram, 1984: 32). The communities of "Appalachia" are often removed from mainstream politics and are economically non-competitive. Subsequently, they must learn to use their community solidarity as a resource to participate in the political and administrative system, to lobby, and to negotiate and influence political activism and collective action is no panacea, in78 �deed it entails risk, but it does afford the possibility of building on the basic political resources of hertofore non-mobilized rural communities to achieve greater equity. Conclusions In reviewing the conflict among water resource use and development which may arise in the Southern Appalachians and the changes in eastern water law, it is apparent that water issues could become politically salient. Obviously, lawmakers and policymakers view water issues as part of the political agenda in the South as the permit system continues to develop. Historically, water resources have been viewed as a commons in many areas, but more recently have been challenged by free market economists through the literature of New Resource Economics. The New Resource Economics movement proposes to alleviate water problems by radically decentralizing control over water resource decision-making and by employing market mechanisms. If these proposals gain wide support, the interests of rural communities—politically and economically poor— could be adversely affected. This paper has examined the policy model of the commons and proposes that a community-oriented process under assumptions of collective action will best serve the long term interests of Appalachians better than will New Resource Economics. Water is a "fundamental social resource." Globally, social values such as security, equity, and community self-determination have been more important than economic efficiency, particularly in the management of water. Successfully laying claim to and managing water is a challenge and an opportunity for the Appalachians, especially as the current legal system attendant to water rights undergoes fundamental change. For the people of the Appalachians, participation in the legal and political process necessary to secure water resources can be a process of empowerment in the present political environment, empowerment unattainable under the scheme of New Resource Economics. The proposal or prescription of a community-oriented framework, by which collective action to protect the region's resources emerges, can be a first step in the process of securing a viable future for the region, as it relates to water resources. The community-based proposal draws on the insights of experienced Appalachian scholars like John Gaventa to better understand the political, administrative and economic processes which may parallel experiences in the water resource issues area when the regional residents are short on political and economic clout, and hopefully lay a framework for establishment of policy direction at the subnational level as we search for a future in the Appalachians. 79 �ENDNOTES 1. As Richard Ausness (1983) points out, according to estimates, by the end of this century, only three of the 18 federally designated water regions in the continental United States will be able to live comfortably with their water supplies. See also, "Is U.S. Running Out Of Water?," U.S. News and World Report, July 18, 1977:33. 2. The two basic forms of appropriation doctrine include: the "Colorado Doctrine" under which riparian rights are not recognized in the western states of Alaska, Arizona, Colorado, Idaho, Montana, Nevada, New Mexico, Utah, and Wyoming. Under the "California Doctrine," riparian rights may co-exist with appropriative water rights. State following this doctrine include California, Kansas, Nebraska, North Dakota, Oklahoma, Oregan, South Dakota, Texas and Washington (See Ausness, 1983:548). Because riparian and appropriative systems are not particularly compatible, most "California Doctrine" states place limitations on the exercise of riparian rights (Trelease, 1954). 3. The Garret Hardin example (1968) is best known of the conventional views on thinking about common property. Hardin tells a parable about a pasture that is open for use by all with no restrictions. Each person grazing livestock on the pasture looks only at the private benefits and costs of grazing. All the additional benefits of adding an addititional animal to the pasture are captured by the owner of the animal, while the costs of reduced forage are spread to all users. The results are overgrazing and the depletion of the commons. The original development of the economics of free and open access is Gordon's (1954) discussion of fisheries as common property resources. 4. The most visible exception to regional action is the forces which collectively acted to halt hydroelectric development on the New River in the Early 1970s. 5. The New Resource Economics: The Revelance of Its Core Concepts Fundamental to the New Resource Economics critique of contemporary U.S. water policy is a set of assumptions derived from utilitarian social thought. These notions are currently expressed as basic principles of public choice micro- economic theory. They include: (1) reducing collective decisions to individual choice; (2) a utilitarian concept of rationality involving the ranking of value preferences and consistency of choices to maximize values; (3) exchange agreements among individuals (contracts and markets) to adjust individual interests and equitably and efficiently satisfy social welfare requirements; and (4) a highly limited role for government regulation of market processes, functionally restricted to enforcing the legitimacy of contracts legally made through officially sanctioned procedures. These precepts are interactive and mutually reinforcing. We intend to examine each of these precepts in turn, paying particular attention to their limitations as applied to the reform of contemporary water institutions (from: Mumme and Ingram, 1984:6). REFERENCES Allison, Graham (1971) Essence of Decision: Explaining the Cuban Missile Crisis, Boston: Little Brown and Co., Inc. Anderson, Terry L. (1983) Water Crisis: Endign the Policy Drought, Baltimore: Johns Hopkins University Press. 80 �Ausness, Richard (1983) "Water Rights Legislation in the East: A Program for Reform," William and Mary Law Review, 24:546-590. Congressional Quarterly, Inc. (1981) Environment and Health, Washington, D.C.: Congressional Quarterly, Inc. Ciriacy-Wantrup, S.V. (1975) "'Common Property' as a Concept in Natural Resource Policy" Natural Resources Journal, 15:713-27. Cox, William E. (1982) "Water Law Primer," Proceedings, American Society of Civil Engineers, Vol. 108. New York: ASCE. Cox, William E. and Shabman, Leonard A. (1985) "A Proposal for Improved Management of Interjurisdiction Water Transfer: Special Report No. 19. Blacksburg, Virginia: Virginia Water Resources Research Center. Gaventa, John (1980) Potfer and the Pouerlessness: Quiescence and Rebellion in an Appalachian Valley. Urbana, IL: University of Illinois Press. Gordon, H. Scott (1954) "Economic Theory of a Common Property Resource: The Fisheries," in Journal of Political Economy, 62:124-142. Griffin, Ronald C. (1984) "Institutionalized Economic Efficiency in Water Allocation." Paper presented at the 20th Annual Meeting of the American Water Resources Association Conference, Washington, D.C., August. Hardin, Garret (1968) "The Tragedy of the Commons," Science 162, 3059 (December 13): 1243-1248. Howells, David H. and Grigg, Neil S. (1978) Legal and Administrative Aspects of Water Allocation and Management in North Carolina, Report No. 133, Raleigh, N.C.: Water Resources Institute of the University of North Carolina. Hunt, Robert C. and Hunt, Eva (1976) "Canal Irrigation and Local Social Organization," Current Anthropology, 17, 3:394-397. Ingram, Helen M., Laney, Nancy K. and McCain, John R. (1980) A Policy Approach to Political Representation: Lessons from the Four Corner States, Baltimore: Johns Hopkins University Press. Maas, Arthur and Andersen, Raymond (1978) ... and the Desert Shall Rejoice: Conflict, Grouth and Justice in Arid Environments, Cambridge, Mass: MIT Press. Mumme, Stephen P. and Ingram, Helen M. (1984) "Empowerment and the Papago Tribe: Water Politics in Southern Arizona." Paper presented at the Annual Meeting of the American Political Science Association, Washington, D.C., September. Mumme, Stephen P. and Ingram, Helen M. (1985) "A Comparative Analysis of Three Southwestern Indian Communitites' Participation in Water Resources Decision-Making." Paper presented at the Annual Meeting of the American Political Science Association, New Orleans, LA, September. Pierce, John C. and Doerksen, Harvey R. (1976) Water Politics and Public Involvement, Ann Arbor, MI: Ann Arbor Science Publishers, Inc. 81 �Pierce, John C. and Lovrich, Nicholas P. (1980) "Belief Systems Concerning the Environment: The General Public, Attentive Public and State Legislation," Political Behavior, 2, 3. Schoenbaum, Thomas J. (1979) The New River Controversy Winston-Salem, N.C.: John F. Blair, Publishers. Soden, Dennis L. (1985a) "Small-Hydro Development and Public Decision-making" in Waterpower/'Ss. New York, American Society of Civil Engineers. Soden, Dennis L. (1985b) "Assessing Public Opinion in Subnational Environmental Politics: The Low-Head Hydroelectric Controversy in the Pacific Northwest." Paper presented at the Annual Meeting of the Western Political Science Association, Las Vegas, NV, March. Soden, Dennis L. (1986) "Public and Collective Goods: A Primer." Mimeo. Soden, Dennis L. and Wilson, Zaphon R. (1986) "Public Choice in Land and Water Use and Development in Appalachia: A Summary of Research Findings." Paper presented at the 1986 Citadel Symposium on Southern Politics, Charleston, S.C., March. Trelease, Frank (1954) "Coordination of Riparian and Appropriative Rights to the Use of Water," Texas Law Review, 24:24-25. Trelease, Frank J. (1979) Cases and Materials on Water Law. St. Paul, Minn.: West Publishing Co. U.S. News and World Report (1977) "Is the U.S. Running Out Of Water?," U.S. News and World Report, July 18:33. Walker, William R. and Bridgeman, Phyllis (1985) "Anatomy of a Water Problem: Virginia Beach's Experience." Sf>ecial Report No. 18, Blacksburg, VA: 82 �OLD FURNITURE-NEW ROOMS: THE POETICS OF SPACE IN APPALACHIAN LITERATURE Convenor: Parks Lanier, Radford University Panelists: Bill Best, Berea College Grace Edwards, Radford University Nancy Joyner, Western Carolina University Parks Lanier, Radford University Keith O'dell, Radford Univeristy Charlotte Ross, East Tennessee State University Melinda Wagner, Radford University Divine Right And The Red Tent by Parks Lanier Introduction In a session called "Old Furniture—New Rooms: The Poetics of Space in Appalachian Literature," Bill Best, Grace Edwards, Nancy Joyner, Parks Lanier, Keith O'dell, Charlotte Ross, and Melinda Wagner discussed the significance of land, houses, even particular rooms, in fiction by modern and contemporary Appalachian writers "in search of a usuable past." Typical of the discussion is the essay presented here on Gurney Norman's novel Divine Right's Trip (1971), a story which tells how a child of counter-culture comes home to embrace more traditional values in his own unique way. In the new rooms of his heart and mind, Divine Right finds a place for the old furniture—an entire way of life— left him by his Uncle Emmet. How this experience becomes possible is the subject of the study which follows. In 1966 Edward T. Hall published The Hidden Dimension, a book concerned with proxemics, "a term [he] used for the interrelated observations and theories of man's use of space as a specialized elaboration of culture"( 1). This important work on how people react and relate to their environment was reviewed in The Last Whole Earth Catalog in which Gurney Norman's novel Divine Right's Trip first appeared, a novel in which proxemic figures as an important cultural indicator. The Cataiog review begins with a quotation from Buckminister Fuller, who said, "Don't try to reform man, reform the environment" (182). By the end of Norman's novel, Divine Right is dedicated to environmental reform as 83 �president of Magic Rabbit Incorporated, "a scheme to reclaim the soil of the homeplace that had been killed by the strip mining on the slopes above the farm" (Norman 421). He will use rabbit manure and redworms for "soil redemption. Salvation! Healing by miracles, signs and wonders" (Norman 431). Divine Right's birth as a reformer, reclaimer of the environment, comes in a red tent through an encounter with crosscultural proxemics. "The Red Tent" is the eighth section of the first part of Divine Right's Trip. D.R. and Estelle have just gotten their trip eastward underway. When they stopped at Eagle Rock State Park, The campground was incredibly crowded, but at last [Estelle] found an empty space... a narrow slot between a CMC pickup... and a green Porsche parked in front of a red pup tent. (Norman 19) The pickup with the impressive camper on it belongs to William F. Dixon, a.k.a. The Lone Outdoorsman. The more modest red tent nearby belongs to two European women, one of whom comes to borrow sugar from Estelle: D.R. asked the woman where she got her red tent. "You like it?" "I've never seen a tent like that before." "Would you like to see inside? It is very lovely." (Norman 27) Divine Right accepts and goes inside. According to what Edward T. Hall has to say about how protective Europeans, especially Germans, are about their private space (135), it seems remarkable that the women would welcome Divine Right into their tent. But camping out has a way of eliminating such barriers; perhaps that explains their hospitable nature. Divine Right's curiosity is also a flattering compliment to two such adventurous and independent women so far from home. The interior of the red tent is impressive: D.R.'s first hit was off the the fantastic quality of the light inside. It was mid-morning by now. The sun was above the tree-line, shining directly into all the little clearings on the western side of the campground. It filled the red tent with the most completely restful light he'd ever seen before. A whole tension that had screwed his face all morning went away as his eyes gulped the quiet rose of the tent's interior. (Norman 27) 84 �In their study Body, Memory and Architecture, Bloomer and Moore observe, "The face is truly a facade which acts as an important sign and message system for the body. Facial expressions and activities are metaphors of experiences that can be, or have been, consummated by the body" (43). D.R.'s relaxed face indicates that the red tent has had an immediate salutary effect on his whole body, even though he is in rather cramped quarters: It wasn't large at all. There was only one place a person oculd half stand up, and two sleeping bags side by side would cover most of the floor. Yet somehow it struck D.R. as the most spacious, elegant room he'd ever been in. (Norman 27) On this phenomenon of actual space and perceived space, Bloomer and Moore quote from Geoffrey Scott's Architecture of Humanism (1914) concerning the "mechanical, visual, and bodily measures" of a structure: In any building three things may be distinguished: the bigness which it actually has [mechanical measurement], the bigness which it appears to have [visual measurement], and the feeling of bigness which it gives [bodily measurement] ... it is the feeling of bigness which alone has aesthetic value. (28) It is precisely this "feeling of bigness" which Divine Right experiences. From outside, the red tent looks small, dwarfed by The Lone Outdoorsman's gigantic GMC camper. From inside, it has a psychic spaciousness which mirrors D.R.'s own expanding consciousness. D.R. next turns his attention to the tent's interior details: It was immaculate. In the corners of the tent near the entrance were two rolled sleeping bags. On top of each bag were small blue and white flight bags, both neatly zippered, the carrying straps arranged just so. Except for a strip of grass down the middle, the ground was covered by two straw mats. On each mat was a rubber air mattress, deflated and folded into a perfect square and stashed in the far corner of the tent. In the middle of the far end stood a short, three-legged table with a candle on it, and a single wildflower of some kind, in a glass of water. (Norman 27) Here in elegant simplicity are displayed the "microcosms of earth, air, fire, and water which renew our recollections of a world inhabited over 85 �time, of primal beginnings not yet altogether forgotten" (Bloomer &. Moore, 51). Divine Right responds powerfully to the poetics of the space around him: D.R. was amazed. He hadn't smoked any dope in over twelve hours now, and yet he felt completely stoned on the perfect arrangement of the small red world around him... he stretched himself out on one of the mats and stared up at the slanting red roof above him. (Norman 27) D.R. lies down in order to daydream. "If I were asked to name the chief benefit of the house," says French phenomenologist Gaston Bachelard, "I should say: It allows D.R. to dream in peace, which means that he comes most vitally awake to its potentialities. Divine Right's experience is not unlike the epiphany of Diogenes Teufelsdrckh in Thomas Carlyle's Sartor Resartus: The Everlasting Yea. Diogenes, whose name "born of God" is akin to "Divine Right," awakens from the Center of Indifference to "a new Heaven and a new Earth": Beautiful it was to sit there, as in my skyey Tent, musing and meditating; on the high table-land, in front of the Mountains; over me, as roof, the azure Dome, and around me, for fawll, four azure-flowing curtains,—namely, of the Four azure winds, on whose bottom-fringes also I have seen gilding. (Carlyle 129) For Diogenes, the universe is one great "skyey Tent." D.R. had seen his "spirit-name form" in the clouds above the meadow where he was lying in the grass looking up and breathing deeply in awe of how really simple everything is when you come right down to it" (Norman 11). Now, in the red tent, he rediscovers not only "how really simple everything is," but how everything is "connected." Thomas Carlyle's Diogenes speaks of "organic filaments," exclaiming, "Wondrous truly are the bonds that unite us one and all 1 say, there is not a red Indian, hunting by Lake Winnipic, can quarrel with his squaw, but the world must smart for it It is a mathematical fact that the casting of this pebble from my hand alters the centre of gravity of the Universe" (Carlyle 139). In the red tent, Divine Right the balance freak contemplates such "filaments," intersections to which the whole universe vibrates: A tent, he thought. A room of space... marked off and set aside by these walls of red canvas that weren't here yesterday probably and probably won't be here tomorrow, but 86 �they are here today and I am here too inside the particular space they enclose. This space has always been here. But it has not always been a room, at least not this room, becaus it has never been enclosed by this particular tent before. The space is here. The time is now. And they are intesecting in a way that no other tent has ever caused before. (Norman 29) In imaginative reverie, Divine Right lies there in the red tent as at the center of a cosmic mandala connected to all things, and connected to himself as the space he occupies connects with the time which is "now." Into the pool of his imagining Divine Right tosses another pebble: This very space where I am lying has been tented over before, closed up in other canvas rooms. And so the question seems to be: would another tent around this same space recreate this room, or does this room disappear forever once this red tent has been removed and taken somewhere else? (Norman 29) Had Gaston Bachelard, in his chapter on shells in The Poetics of Space, pursued his musing on the hermit crab "that goes to live in abonadoned shells" (126), he might have answered Divine Right's question. The red tent is not like the nests, drawers, chests, or wardrobes which fascinate Bachelard. It is more like a shell, which may be a moveable house, or a house into which one moves like the hermit crab. But the tent has other attributes, quite unlike the shell: And what about when this tent is pitched in another place? If you pitch it in the Blue Ridge Mountains, take it down and put it up in the Rockies, has the same room been in both places? Or is it another brand new room every time you pitch the tent again? (Norman 29) With such ephemeral houses Bachelard has nothing to do, nor does Edward Hall concern himself with the proxemics of tents as cultural phenomenon. Bloomer and Moore comment only in passing on the tent's association with "the power of nomadic conquerors" (83). Gurney Norman, however, readily perceives the proxemic values of the red tent, and their cross-cultural significance. It is important, first of all, that the red tent belongs to Europeans, not Americans. Edward Hall notes that "according to European standards, Americans use space in a wasteful way" (132). In the red tent, however, there is no space wasted. Each occupant has her own space, carefully delineated by the strip of grass between the straw mats. The 87 �amenities of life are shared on the little table in the middle. For all its nomadic associations, the tent is civilized by the little flower in a glass of water. Edward Hall says that Americans in Europe are likely to be uncomfortable with unfamiliar proxemic patterns. The effect of this different pattern on Divine Right, however, is electrifying. In the section following, called "A Place for Everything and Everything in its Place," D.R. is discovered madly cleaning up his space, his "tent," the VW microbus, Urge, who is himself European. Urge had been made in Germany and bought in Germany by an American serviceman. Now fellow Europeans and their immaculately organized red tent are responsible for the first good cleaning Urge has had in ages. In the midst of his work, D.R. exclaims to Estelle, This is here and we are now and the intersection of time and space is just special as hell, and I'm going to find out some things we need to know. I believe there's going to be better relations between east and west. (Norman 31) If Diogenes is right about organic filaments binding the whole world together, then Divine Right's getting "ten cardboard boxes of identical size and [labeling] them with what they're supposed to hold" (Norman 31) will have profound repercussions for world order. As Estelle pitches in to help with the cleaning, D.R. stops her. "Don't throw that glass away," he says. "Here. I'll wash it out after while, I want to put a wildflower in it" (Norman 31). In reading this, one cannot help but think of that famous newsphoto of peace demonstrators putting flowers in soldiers' rifles. Filled with optimism, D.R. says, "I think love and gentleness and neighborliness and human harmony are going to prevail. I think the stars are moving into very particular cosmic arrangements. And we've all got to do our parts. I believe it all depends on everybody doing his part" (Norman 31). What is this but an echo of Carlyle's Diogenes who cried, "Up! up! Whatsoever thy hand findeth to do, do it with thy whole might" (Carlyle 134) and who looked into his own heart for the Promised Land and declared "Americca is here or nowhere" (Carlyle 133). The experience of the red tent stays with Divine Right all the way to Kentucky where he buries his Uncle Emmet and inherits the rabbit farm. Because the farm hous is threatened by overburden from the stripmine, "a wall of dried mud and shale and blasted rock high as the roof in some places" (Norman 421) which inches forward inexorable as a glacier, D.R. abandons it for the barn, where he plans to "remodel two of the stalls into a weather-tight room, and live in it that winter If Estelle would come, they would convert the whole end of the barn into a house, and live there together by the rabbits and the worms near the garden" (Norman 425). 88 �The novel ends with Divine Right planning his barn-house, his rabbit farm with thousands and thousands of hutches, and his land reclamation project with rabbit manure. It will come to pass if Estelle comes back to him, and she does. They are married. Perhaps they will live in the barn, or in the VW microbus. Gaston Bachelard says, "Maybe it is a good thing for us to keep a few dreams of a house that we shall live in later, always later, so much later, in fact, that we shall not have time to achieve it.... It is better to live in a state of impermanence than in one of finality" (61). Swami High-Time from Santa Cruz who officiates at the wedding, refers to his Book of Tao, would have no trouble understanding the French phenomenologist's love of houses still unbuilt. For it all, there is the red tent to thank. WORKS CITED Bachelard, Gaston. The Poetics of Space. Trans. Maria Jolas. Boston: Beacon Press, 1969. Bloomer, Kent C. and Charles W. Moore. Body, Memory, and Architecture. New Haven: Yale UP, 1977. Carlyle, Thomas. Sartor Resartus. In English Prose of the Victorian Era. Ed. C.F. Harrold and W.D. Templeman. New York: Oxford UP, 1938. Hall, Edward T. The Hidden Dimension. Garden City, N.Y.: Anchor Doubleday, 1969. Heidegger, Martin. Being and Time. Trans. John Macquarrie and Edward Robinson. New York: Harper and Row, 1962. Merleau-Ponty, M. Phenomenology of Perception. Trans. Colin Smith. New York: Routledge and Kegan, 1962. Norman, Gurney. Divine Right's Trip. In The Last Whok Earth Catalog. Menlo Park, California: Portola Institute, 1971. 89 �FOLK MUSIC: SURVIVAL AND REVIVAL Convenor: Bill Lightfoot, Appalachian State University Ola Campbell Reed: Views On Music And Appalachia, Past and Present Paula Anderson-Green, Dekalb Community College Pocono Mountain Fiddling: A Videotape Presentation John McLaughlin, East Stroudsburg University Huntington's Search For A Usable Past: Festival, Rite, Drama, Or Spectacle? Karen Simpins, Marshall University Fiddling in the Poconos: Survival or Revival?1 2 by John McLaughlin Scots-Irish settlement of the Appalachian Chain was not confined to its Southern links, but extended from Maryland through Pennsylvania to New York, and from Massachusetts up through Maine. This being the case, one might expect that the distinctive cultural heritage of the ScotsIrish might not be confined to the Southern Mountains, but might also be found in the Northern Appalachians. But Jan Brunvald's standard introduction to folklore, [ The Study of] American Folklore (Norton, 1968) identifies seven clear and distinct folklore areas of the United States, among which is Southern Appalachia, with an East-West axis dividing the North across New England (p. 23), and this neatly-drawn map has been picked up by researchers in other fields; for example, Getis, Getis and Fellman's Human Geography: Culture and Environment cites "folk cultural maps" from the early works of Glassie, Lomac and Carney (pp. 182-85) which purport to break off the "Southern Backwoods" or "Appalachian Song Family" at the MarylandPennsylvania border, with a consequent disjunct Northern and Southern folk heritage. However, when one finds himself collecting fiddle tunes like "Arkansas Traveler" and "Black Mountain Rag," "Mississippi Waltz" and "Turkey in the Straw" from elderly square dance fiddlers in Northeastern Pennsylvania, he must at least begin to suspect that these early folk cultural maps are in need of some redrawing, along a North-South rather than an East-West axis, perhaps. Maybe there is more to Pennsylvania than the notorious Dutchies, after all.3 We begin, then, with the question of whether or not the Scots-Irish 90 �fiddle traditions fo the Pocono Mountains of Northeast Pennsylvania— attested to by 93-year-old Papa Jake Miller and 77-year-old Julian Teeple (Interviews, 2/22/86)—has in fact survived two World Wars, the coming of the interstate roads and satellite TV. Or has it merely been given some kind of artificial respiration by outsiders fascinated by the quaint backwoodsmen (analogous to what Burt Feintuch found in Northumbrian small-pipes revivals—AFS paper, Oct. 1985), or by nostalgia buffs seeking to save the children from rock-and-roll (Dick Blaustein, discussion of Missouri Old-Time Fiddlers Associations, AFS paper, Oct. 1985). If the latter, have some of the well-meaning efforts to restore the fiddler to a place of honor led to unforeseen, even ironic displacements in social function for the fiddling itself, as contests have replaced squaredances as performance venues? When "hot" fiddling wins the prizes, what happens to the fiddler who has spent his performing life providing back-up to a caller? (Interview with Ray Cortwright, 70 year old fiddler for Doc Runsey's Mountain Dewers, with his distaste for "that bluegrass stuff—they play too darn fast!" - 2/20/86). In fact, Ray Cortwright has never won a fiddle contest in the last twenty years—they go back no further than that in this area of Pennsylvania—and he knows no other old-time square dance fiddler who has won such a contest. I asked him if it were possible that some fiddlers might become discouraged and hang up the fiddle after enough times of that happening, and he answered, "Oh yeah—if I hadn't had the band to play in, I might have done the same thing myself! I mean, I know I'm an alright fiddler—no star or anything like that, y'know—but I know I can fiddle, and I've been playing nigh on forty years like that. So it's not that I can't play. But the judges, y'know, they're influenced by the crowds, the applause, so they don't pay attention to whether the tune's played in the right time or nothing like that. But there's fellas I know who have just give it all up in disgust—'Hell, I guess I ain't no good after all, bud!'" (Interview, 2/20/86). Asked what the judges should be looking for, Ray answers, "Well, first of all they don't want none of that bluegrass music. I mean, I like it alright myself, like to listen to it and all, but it doesn't—shouldn't—have any place in an old-time fiddle contest. They should be looking for the old tunes, for a start—none of that 'Orange Blossom Special.' They should be looking to make sure they can play a waltz, not just a fast breakdown. And this music is dancing music, like I say—they have got to play it in time, or it's not being done right. At least, as far as I'm concerned." (Interview, 2/2/86). Papa Jake Miller, who lives in a 12' by 12' foot shack with an outhouse in back, about fifty feet from the edge of a spreading development outside Portland Village, concurs with his younger colleague. "Now, I re91 �call back when there was dancing six nights a week all around here—a body couldn't get to all the dances there was around here! And some of them contests like you have now—some kid who's learnt maybe six tunes in his life gets up there and them judges, some of them don't know their ass from a hole in the ground when it comes to old-time fiddling!" He is quick to assert that he personally has done all right in his day— "But you can see some of these kids got prizes in the contests, and be damned if they could fiddle all night long for a square dance like I done all my young years." (Interview, 2/22/86). Papa Jake at one time played six nights a week for dancing, 8 pm to 2 am, at the Eagle Valley Corners Inn, near East Stroudsburg, with sets in three different rooms and people waiting to take the dancers places immediately there was a pause between tunes, just him and a caller, all night long, for ten dollars a night, seventeen years in a row, "And I'd get up in the morning and go to work in the quarry as a blacksmith, and all them farmers had to get home and milk their cows." (Interview, 2/22/86). While those glory days may be gone now, he still plays host to young fiddlers who come around to learn tunes and swap stories with him in his shack, which he shares with two lapdogs and his trophies from fiddle contests. On the day of our interview, he had to set straight a visitor who called one of his tunes "The Oil City Quickstep." "Naw it ain't no 'Oil City Quickstep,'" he said. "That there tune was learned by my daddy off this nigger who come up from the South. Didn't have no place to stay, and he was just passing through. So he played us this tune, and my daddy played it after him. And his name was Jimmy the Nigger, so we called that tune its name, and it's Jimmy the Nigger's Tune,' Yes it is. Come from North Carolina, he did. Jimmy the Nigger." (Interview 2/20/86). The question of origin of repertoire is an interesting if vexed issue, as the preceding anecdote attests. In fact, the tunes played by Papa Jake and Ray Cortwright and Julian Teeple—of whom more later—are standard tunes, to be found in almost any collection of fiddle music, although they may well have been learnt, as Papa Jake's Daddy learnt them, by ear rather than from the printed page, since none of the fiddlers mentioned so far can read a note of music—"Nary a one," says Papa Jake cheerfully. Julian Teeple, for example, presents an interesting case. A lifelong bachelor, this old man lives alone in a small house a little off a main highway some thirty miles north of Stroudsburg. He has never played for square dancing, although he has fiddled all his life. Too shy to play "out in company," as he puts it, he's a classic example of the "parlor fiddler," who plays for family, friends and fellow-fiddlers, but very rarely in public. "Oh, I might go to the occasional dance, just to hear the fiddler, dont' you know, but then if he wanted to take a break and maybe dance, I'd sit in for a tune or two. But I've never played for a whole dance. It's just not my nature." (Interview, 2/22/86). 92 �However, he has been a keen radio listener all his life—at least, as far back as there was radio—and he was out of these mountains during World War Two, when he was called "Pop" by his outfit, with whom he shared a prisoner-of-war experience he can still remember vividly; along the way, he has befriended a couple of well-intentioned fiddle enthusiasts, who have kept him supplied with records and, now, cassette tapes of fiddle music. As a result, Julian can play you Graham Townsend and Eugene O'Donnell tunes, along with some of the half-remembered English tunes his grandfather brought over from the North of England over a hundred years ago. "Well, you see, whenever I'd get with a fiddler, I'd pick up on his tunes, then the next guy I'd pick up his, and so on and so on. So that means I remember the last ones better than the earlier ones, like you do, so I sometimes can't remember some of the great old tunes. More's the pity." (Interview, 2/22/86). Among the up-and-coming young fiddlers Julian is in touch with, there is a 29 year old dairy farmer by the name of Steve Jacoby, who is perhaps somewhat more representative—talent aside—of the mainstream fiddling than "Uncle Julian." Steve is a member of the revivalist organization referred to earlier, the Fred Williams Friends of Old Time Music, which was founded about ten years ago to "preserve and perpetuate" old-time fiddling and Appalachian music. Never mind that the members wear cowboy hats and boots to play, or that the small band within the group—Country Cooking—has a singer whose repertoire is drawn straight from the country-and-western charts. In the words of Andy Cavage, one of the founders, "Fred saw that the old music was dying out—maybe because of rock-and-roll, I don't know—and he determined to keep it alive, to keep it going, and so that's how we got set up in the first place. To have the old music, and to see if maybe we could get the young folks interested in it—something for them to do with their time" (Interview, 1/28/86). Among the things that they've done with their time is bring Graham Townsend—one of Steve Jacoby's idols—down to the Poconos for concerts at a local high school. I was asked by Steve if I would like to videotape the concert, and, although it was at the time a bit off my taste, I agreed, hoping that serendipity would strike as it so often does when you give it half a chance. The concert was a success, Graham Townsend had no objection to the taping—"for educational purposes"—although he was quick to make it clear to the audience that he had records and cassettes out in the hall to be autographed at intermission, etc. I made the promised copy for the Friends (9/7/85), and thought no more of it until this past April, when I asked if I could travel to a grange social, where the Friends would be playing. In the middle of the concert, Steve stepped up to the microphone, and announced he was going to do "The Mockingbird." It is the tune, of 93 �course, with which Graham Townsend won the World Championships at Sherbourne, in 1962, and with which he had brought his Honesdale audience to their feet the preceding September. With my video camera rolling, Steve then proceeded to produce a near note-perfect copy of Townsend's performance, right down to "patter" and fiddle-taps ("That's a woodpecker!"). As far as I know, Steve Jacoby had never seen Graham Townsend in performance before that September show. On the other hand, he had had the videotape available for study during the following winter months If I am correct, then, we have a demonstration of how videotaping can enter into the oral processes of tradition, no different in kind than phonograph records or audio-cassettes, but with the added dimension of the visual image for the apprentice fiddler to learn the master's bowing and fingering—and tapping. In this case, then, it could be argued that I am in no different case than the enthusiasts referred to earlier, who had loaned Julian Teeple cassettes of Irish music and thereby interfered with his memory of English tunes. I stand guilty as charged, I supposed; both cases, in fact, might stand a bit closer scrutiny, since it seems to me that they are perfectly natural processes, no more to be rolled back than the waves for Canute. Indeed, the only caution I would make in situations like this is for the collector to be aware of these and other "interferences" from "outside the tradition." Otherwise, he might collect an item from a fiddler and misidentify its sources, through ignorance of these intervening possibilities. A case in point might be a tune with a French-Canadian-sounding name, "The Joys of Quebec," which I collected in a session of the Fred Williams Friends of Old Time Music, in their weekly practices. Especially since Andy Cavage had cited French-Canadian as one of the three major ethnic influences in Pocono Mountain fiddling (the others being Scots-Irish and German), I might have been tempted to look further North—let us say to Graham Townsend?—for the source for this tune. But it so happens that it has also been recorded on the June Appal label (out of Kentucky) by the Dutch Cove String Band, among others; could it not also belong among the tunes passed along to Papa Jake by Jimmy the Nigger... ? The point is, of course, that both are clear "possibilities," neither is the exclusive "correct answer," and the collector who insists upon tracking down the sources will have a long and dusty road to travel to get there. Another caution might also be in order, for the unwary collector in Pennsylvania. There are a number of fiddle contests in this area each year, run as part of local fairs and, more recently, by resort hotels as part of their tourist attractions. At one such—this one run as part of the Greene-Dreher-Sterling fair in Newfoundland last August—I videotaped 94 �a dazzling, intricate display of Irish fiddling, by a young man with forearms like hams and thick, short fingers, a swarthy chap wearing a cowboy shirt and the inevitable boots. In fact, he won the contest, with a combination of "Tennessee Waltz," "The Irish Washerwoman," and "Katy Hill." To the neophyte collector—and we have been forewarned that the Governor's Heritage Commission is soon going to be hiring a fresh young Ph.D. to come up into the Northeast and begin fieldworking his way around the mountains—this might have been caputred as a prime example of the revival of fiddling in the Poconos and all that. As it happens, I know this chap from elsewhere. He is Tony De Marco, who was once the fiddler in "Flying Cloud," the house band at the Eagle Tavern in New York City, and a veteran fiddler with two albums of fiddle music—one a twin-fiddling album with Brian Milner—on the market. Tony owns a house in the vicinity, and is a friend of Steve Jacoby, through whom he heard about this new contest, with its prize money waiting for the best in show—which he clearly deserved (Contest videotaped, 8/28/85). Now, this is not to say that Tony or anyone else should have been "flagged off the track"—although I did hear some mumbling from other young fiddlers about "damned ringers"—it is just to caution the unwary to watch where they are putting their feet before they make too-quick pronouncements concerning the state of the art in fiddling among the Pocono Mountains. It is with these contests that I would like to close this quick survey of what I have found to be the case so far in my research. Their motives are obviously mixed—to preserve the old-time fiddling, to entertain the tourists until casino gambling is legalized, to enrich the local fair programs —but it is clear that they have taken over from the square dances as public venues for fiddle music in this area. Doc Rumsey's Mountain Dewers may play the local YMCA, and Fred Williams Friends of Old Time Music may play the grange or the local high school; but the prize money, the crowds, in short, "the action," is at the fiddle contests. In theory they are judged by old-timers who know the music; but in fact, as Ray Cortwright somewhat bitterly attests, they are also crowd-pleasers, and the young fiddler who steps right up to the mike and fires off some trick-and-fancy fiddling stands to gain not only an ovation but also the prize money. As noted earlier, this may be having the ironic and unintended effect of discouraging the very fiddlers whom they were set up to honor and preserve in the first place; for the ego-strokes that we all need, performers especially perhaps, the old-timers have to turn to young enthusiasts, not necessarily well-informed about their music, unless they are fortunate enough to have a Steve Jacoby, who respects their music and will sit in with them at home and play the old tunes with them (Unfortunately bad videotape, with less than minimal lighting, at Julian Teeple's cabin, 11/26/85). 95 �Ignorant crowds are no way to treat old-time square dance music; but if we are not to retreat into the dusty museums, we have to recognize that it is among those ignorant, beer-swilling crowds that we will find our young fiddlers these days. Some, like the aptly-named Johnny Ace, can win in the more traditional settings such as the old-established West End Fair contest (now in its 15th year), with such tunes as "Old Joe Clark" or "Mississippi Waltz," then turn around and walk away with prizes by playing Bill Monroe's "Jerusalem Ridge," at a newer contest the following night (Videotapes, West End Fair, 8/28/85, and Greene-DreherSterling Fair, 8/28/85); Johnny also plays in a hot country band, "Penn Station," which plays at the local resort hotels. Some, like Steve Jacoby, a member of 4-H and devoted to the farm he lives on, are as at home playing for the grange halls (4/22/86 videotape) as they are running off with the Trick-and-Fancy Division at the West End (8/27/85) or sitting in with their friends in a farmhouse basement for a weekly practice session, where the tunes go around the room and nobody insists on being the star (Videotape at John Wargo's house, Honesdale, PA, 1/28/86). But that Pocono Mountain fiddling is alive and well is beyond question. That it shares repertoire as well as heritage with the fiddle music of the Southern Appalachians also seems beyond question, although of course the effect of syndicated programs such as "Hee Haw" (referred to admiringly by a number of these fiddlers in passing) cannot be ruled out here, either.3 That it will continue to evolve, under pressures to please the crowds and to satifsy the fiddlers' own love of novelty and variety, there can be little doubt, either. The field has not yet been studied in anything approaching the depth with which, for example, the Southern Appalachians, or even the Central and Southern Pennsylvania traditions have been studied (See the work of Matthew Guntharp and Bob Doyle, Learning the Fiddler's Ways, and Samuel P. Bayard's Hill Country Tunes). The enticing title of George Korson's early collection of coal-miners' songs, Coal Dust on the Fiddle, threatens to distract us westward to the Scranton coal region before we have fairly begun to evaluate our findings here! That there is more work ahead, then, goes without saying. That there is room for more workers should be equally obvious (side-comments about newly-hatched Ph.D.s to the side). That the chosen recording medium, 1/2 inch VHS, would eventually lend itself to further circulation, possibly through historical societies' interests in preserving the record of the old-timers, is a suggestion which the current author intends to explore in the near future. Let me say only in closing that I am now in process of exploring the possibility of a folklife conference at my home institution next year (tenative title: "Pocono Foxfire: The Folklife of the Northern Appalachians.") You are invited.4 96 �ENDNOTES 1. The videotapes listed in the "Works Cited" were all obtained through the kind permission of the fiddlers and contest organizers involved, specifically for educational purposes, and with my offer of a souvenir copy gladly accepted, for the recipients' own agendas; one told me quite serenely, in front of her husband, that this would be a good way to remember Pa, especially for the grandchildren, "after he's passed on." Steve Jacoby's use of the Graham Townsend tape is described more fully in the text of this paper. I have oral permission to share these tapes with other investigators, if they would be of any educational value. With that restriction, that they not be re-used other than for research and educational purposes, I will be only too happy to send copies of any of the videotapes listed within the text and cited at the end of the paper, to anyone who will send me a blank 1/2 inch T-120 VHS videotape; it may take some weeks to get your copy back, since it must be copied in "real time" on facilities used for other purposes. 2. I am indebted to Bill Lightfoot of Appalachian State University for the predicate of this title, the emblem of the folk music session within which the videotapes underlying this paper were originally presented at the Ninth Annual Appalachian Studies Conference, Boone, NC, March 22, 1986. 3. I am indebted to Dick Blaustein for a number of things, not least a lively discussion of the North-South re-orientation of Appalachian folklore studies which this paper supports. 4. Recognizing that the name "Foxfire" is of good lineage and is probably copyrighted, I have applied to the Foxfire Fund for their permission to incorporate it into the proposed title of this hoped-for conference. A good title is worth a lot. WORKS CITED Bayard, Samuel P. Hil! Country Tunes. AGS Memoirs, 1944. Blaustein, Richard. "Missouri Old Time Fiddlers' Associations." Paper presented at American Folklore Society Convention, Cincinatti, Ohio, October 1985. Brunvald, Jan H. The Study of American Folklore: An Introduction. Norton, 1968. Feintuch, Burt. "Revivals of Northumbrian Small-Pipes." Paper presented at AFS Convention, Cincinatti, 1985. Getis, Arthur, Judith Getis and Jerome Fellmann. Human Geography: Culture and Environment. MacMillian, 1985. Guntharp, Matthew [and Bob Doyle]. Learning the Fiddler's Ways. Pennsylvania State University Press, 1980. Korson, George. Coal Dust on the Fiddle. Folklore Association, 1965. 97 �VIDEOTAPES COLLECTED Fred Williams Friends of Old Time Music, at Dreher Grange Hall, So. Sterling, PA, 4/22/86. Fred Williams Friends of Old Time Music, Practice Session at John Wargo's Farmhouse, Honesdale, PA, 1/28/86. Graham Townsend at Honesdale High School, Honesdale, PA, 9/7/85. Greene-Dreher-Sterling Fair Fiddle Contest, Newfoundland, PA, 8/28/85. Julian Temple, Lord's Valley, PA, 2/22/86. Papa Jake Miller, Portland, PA, 2/22/86. Ray Cortwright, Marshalls Creek, PA, 2/20/86. West End Fair Fiddle Contest, Gilbert, PA, 8/27/85. 98 �SOUTHERN APPALACHIAN FOLK ARTISTS Convenor: Eric Olson, Appalachian State University The Frank Proffitt Family—Watauga Folk Artists "Going Across The Mountains, O Fare You Well" Betsy Covington, Appalachian State University Willard Watson's Instructional Narratives: Growth And Maturations David Huntley, University of North Carolina Vintage Fiddling In Eastern Kentucky Marynell Young, Morehead State University The Frank Proffitts, Watauga Folk Artists "Going Across the Moutains, O Fare You Well" by Betsy Covington Some of America's finest traditional mountain music has been performed by the Proffitts, Frank Sr. and Frank Jr., of Watauga County. More than one hundred twenty folk songs were passed down through the oral tradition in their family and shared with the world through their performance. Frank Proffitt, Sr. was born on June 1, 1913, in Laurel Bloomery, Tennessee. He was the son of Wiley and Rebecca Creed Proffitt, who moved from Wilkes County, North Carolina to the Cracker Neck section of the eastern Tennessee mountains shortly after the Civil War. When Frank was a young boy the family moved back to North Carolina to the Beaver Dam Section of Watauga County, just a few miles below the Tennessee border. Frank Proffitt grew up with a deep fascination for the songs sung for generations by his family. The first folklorist to visit and publish songs sung by Frank Proffitt was Frank C. Brown in 1937. Although discovered by Frank Brown, it was the sustained interest in the Proffitts by Frank Warner which gave both Frank Proffitt, Sr. and Frank Jr. the opportunity to perform outside their native mountain area.1 In the Autumn 1973 Edition of the Appalachian Journal Frank 99 �Warner describes his first visit to Beech Mountain, when he went to get a dulcimer from Nathan Hicks: It was June 5, 1938, when we first reached the house on Beech Mountain. A crowd of some twenty-five kinfolk and neighbors were waiting for us—with guitars, homemade banjos, dulcimers, fiddles, and French harps. The best singer and guitar player among them turned out to be Nathan's son-in-law, Frank Proffitt, who had walked ten miles across the mountains from his home in Pick Britches Valley to sing with us.2 Before long everybody was making music. The sound and the people, that afternoon gave us a feeling we have never lost. It was the beginning of our life-long interest in traditional music and the people who remember it. We had not come with the idea of collecting songs, but Anne couldn't help taking down in shorthand the words of three songs Frank Proffitt sang: "Dan Doo," a version of the Child ballad, "The Wife Wrapt in Wetherskin;" "Moonshine," a story about the effect of homemade liquor; and "Hang Down Your Head, Tom Dooley." .. .3 "Tom Dooley" became part of Frank Warner's repertoire; and when he sang it, he told the story of collecting it from Frank Proffitt. Frank had learned it from his father, who had learned it from his mother, Adeline Perdue, who had been aquainted with Tom Dula when she lived in Wilkes County. In 1868 she had journeyed with her brother to Statesville to see Tom and to go to his hanging. She said she heard him singing the song about himself while sitting in his jail cell. She learned it and sang it throughout her life.4 "Tom Dooley" Hang your head, Tom Dooley. Oh, hang your head and cry. Killed little Laurie Foster. Poor boy, you're bound to die. CHORUS: Hang your head, Tom Dooley, Hang your head and cry, Hang your head, Tom Dooley, Poor boy, you're bound to die. I met her on the mountain, And there I took her life. I met her on the mountain, And stobbed he with my knife. CHORUS 100 �Hand me down my banjo, I'll pick it on my knee. This time tomorrow, It'll be no use to me. CHORUS This time tomorrow, Reckon where I'll be. Down in some lonesome valley, Hanging on a white oak tree. CHORUS5 Frank Warner taught "Tom Dooley" to Alan Lomax, who published it in Folk Song U.S.A. in 1947. It was the Folk Song U.S.A. copyrighted version which was recorded on Capitol Records by the Kingston Trio in 1958. The song rose to the top of the charts and sold over three million copies. It was during their beginning popularity that the Proffitts witnessed the Kingston Trio in concert on television. When Frank Proffitt, Sr. heard them singing "Tom Dooley" and saw them swinging their hips and cutting up, he felt sick at heart. Tears came into his eyes, and he went outside to think it over. It just did not seem respectful to the memory of Laurie to sing their story in such a flippant manner.6 Believing that they, too, should share in the royalties, Frank Warner, Alan Lomax and Frank Proffitt sued Capitol Records. This was the first case of rights being claimed to a copyrighted folk song, so there was no clear-cut precedent to follow. After many months of negotiating, an out-of-court settlement gave Warner, Lomax and Proffitt the rights to the song from 1962 on.7 Speaking of that time in their lives Frank Proffitt, Jr. says, "My father was satisfied for the way the settlement came out. He thought it was selfish to wish for more than he needed to make it. He was a humble man."8 Though the royalties did not approach the earnings during the time of its greatest popularity, they made a significant improvement in the lifestyle of the Proffitts. The first check which came was for $700.00, and bought food and new shoes for the family. The most money which came in yearly was four to five thousand dollars, but seldom was it that much. Along with the money came recognition and interest from the public. Newspapers and magazines came to interview, and others came to visit. Orders for homemade fretless banjos and dulcimers Frank had learned to make from his father increased. He was surprised and pleased that people from all over appreciated the traditional music he knew so intimately. It was through the friendship of Frank Warner that Frank Proffitt received his first invitation to perform outside the North Carolina moun101 �tains in 1961. The University of Chicago was holding its first Folk Festival. Frank Proffitt referred to himself as a "shy mountain man;" it took a lot of encouragement and soul-searching for him to be willing to go. He felt he was coming apart at the seams, yet he was proud that others appreciated "the simple things" and respected the mountain culture. He felt he should do anything he could to preserve the music of his people. This was a top priority with him, and it was what enabled him to overcome his timidity. He journeyed across the mountains to Chicago to the Folk Festival. While waiting to go on stage, he observed the performance of some "blue-grass boys" in cowboy hats and wondered about his plain clothes. He questioned if needed a white sparkling tuxedo or something to "give it an extra lick." He decided what he had to offer was himself and his traditions, so he would go out and do it the old way. Frank sang, and the audience was charmed. They gave him a standing ovation. There was much joking as to whether Frank saw the audience standing, being the spotlights had been turned up and the audience lights lowered to help him overcome his stagefright.9 Even when he received great acclaim he did not "let it go to his head." He remained the same "shy mountain man." When he was asked once why he did not change, he replied, "I wouldn't know what to change to."10 He wanted to be a representative of his kind of people, never to exalt himself.11 Sandy Paton was so impressed by the talent and authenticity of Frank Proffitt that he wanted to record him for Folkways Records. He took recording equipment from New England to Watauga County and recorded him at home. The resulting album was Frank Proffitt Sings Folk Songs (1962 copyright). Recording Frank at home in 1961 was the inspiration from which came the founding of Folk-Legacy Records. Folk-Legacy's first album was by Frank Proffitt. Frank Proffitt, Reese, North Carolina (1962 copyright). It was made from tapes recorded in that winter of 1961. A later Memorial Album (1968 copyright) formed a total of three sound recordings of Frank Proffitt.12 From 1961 to 1965 was a period of significant activity in Frank Proffitt's musical career. He was invited to a number of colleges, universities, and festivals. Some of the places he performed were the Pinewoods Music Camp, Berea College, the Newport Folk Festival and the 1964 World's Fair. He received the Burl Ives Award in 1963 for his two-finger method of banjo picking.13 Frank Proffitt died suddenly in his sleep, November 22, 1965 at age fifty-two. He had been to Charlotte to take his wife, Bessie, for an operation. After he drove back home, he went to bed and did not awaken. He was buried in the Milsap cemetery at Bethel, not far from his home, after the memorial service at Bethel Baptist Church.H 102 �To raise money for a tombstone, Frank Warner organized a concert at Hunter College in New York City in 1966. Among those singing were Doc Watson, Jean Ritchie and Pete Seeger. A granite marker was erected in 1967.15 The family suggested the words of one of Frank's songs to be engraved into the headstone, "Going Across the Mountain, O Fare You Well." The song "Going Across the Mountain" is a Civil War song which came to Frank Proffitt through his father, Wiley Proffitt. Wiley's father, John Proffitt, had been one of those to go join the Union Army in Tennessee. 16 "Going Across the Mountain" Going across the mountain, Oh, fare you well; Going across the mountain, You can hear my banjo tell. Got my rations on my back. My powder it is dry; I'm a-going across the mountain. Chrissy, don't you cry. Going across the mountain To join the boys in blue; When this war is over, I'll come back to you. Going across the mountain, If I have to crawl. To give old Jeffs men A little taste of my rifle ball. Way before it's good daylight, If nothing happens to me, I'll be way down yander In old Tennessee. I expect you'll miss me when I'm gone, But I'm going through; When this war is over, I'll come back to you. Going across the mountain, Oh, fare you well; Going across the mountain, You can hear my banjo tell.17 Frank and Bessie Hicks Proffitt had six children, and one of them, Frank, Jr., is a folk musician in the same tradition of his father. Born Franklin Benjamin Proffitt on September 8, 1946, Frank learned to play when he was ten years old. He worked on it secretly to pass the time, listening to his father's records and imitating him. When his father caught him practicing, he was surprised and pleased that he played so well.18 His first trip to play in concert with his father was to Berea College in 1965. Since then, he has performed at the 1969 Newport Folk Festival, the 1982 World's Fair, the summer festivals at the Smithsonian Institute and many other gatherings. He has been making a living with his 103 �music since 1978. He became an "artist in the schools" through the North Carolina Arts Council at that time.19 For this year 1985-86 he is the artist-in-residence at Western Piedmont Community College in Morganton. Frank Proffitt, Jr. is a delightful storyteller, as well as musician. He says his storytelling comes from the Hicks side of the family. His mother's cousins, Stanley and Rey Hicks, renowned storytellers, told him many tales as he was growing up. These tales about Jack and his adventures are retold humorously and artfully to Frank's audiences.20 Considering his talents a gift from God, Frank is appreciative for his heritage. In speaking of his father he says, "I was proud of him and wanted to be a part of it—the magic and wonderment of it all. I still feel that way."21 ENDNOTES 1. Personal interview with Frank Proffitt, Jr., 12 April 1983. 2. Anne and Frank Warner. "Frank Noah Proffitt: Good Times and Hard Times on the Beaver Dam Road." Appalachian Journal. Autumn 1973, pp. 164-165. 3. Ibid. 4. Personal interview with Frank Proffitt, Jr., 24 August 1985. 5. Ibid. 6. Frank Proffitt, Jr., "Mountain Music Concert." McAllister School Auditorium, Concord, North Carolina, 14 February 1983. 7. Proffitt, personal interview, 25 August 1985, Ibid. 8. Ibid. 9. Ibid. 10. Ibid. 11. Warner, Ibid., p. 175. 12. Sandy Paton, Jacket Notes, Frank Proffitt Memorial Album, Folk-Legacy Records, 1968. 13. Personal interview with Frank Proffitt, Jr., 2 May 1983. 14. Ibid. 104 �15. Warner, Ibid., p. 191. 16. Proffitt, personal interview, 2 May 1983, Ibid. 17. Frank Proffitt, "Going Across the Mountain," Frank Proffitt, Folkways Records, 1962. 18. Telephone interview with Frank Proffitt, Jr., 15 February 1986. 19. Proffitt, personal interview 25 August 1985, Ibid. 20. Proffitt, personal interview 2 May 1983, Ibid. 21. Proffitt, telephone interview, 15 February 1986, Ibid. REFERENCES Paton, Sandy. Jacket Notes, Frank Proffitt Memorial Album. Folk-Legacy Records, 1968. Proffitt, Frank, Jr. "Mountain Music Concert." McAllister School Auditorium, Concord, North Carolina. 14 February 1983. Proffitt, Frank, Jr. Personal interview. 12 April 1983. Proffitt, Frank, Jr. Personal interview. 2 May 1983. Proffitt, Frank, Jr. Personal interview. 25 August 1985. Proffitt, Frank, Jr. Telephone interview. 15 February 1986. Warner, Anne and Frank. "Frank Noah Proffitt: Good Times and Hard Times on the Beaver Dam Road." Appalachian Journal (Autumn 1973):162-193. 105 �COLLECTIONS AND EXHIBITING Convenor: Tyler Blethen, Western Carolina University Presenting Cooperative Exhibits: The Appalachian Consortium Museum Cooperative Helen Roseberry, East Tennessee State University Sam Gray, Marion, North Carolina Somewhere Over Beech Mountain: Contemporary Appalachian Artifacts And The Land Of Oz Charles Watkins, Appalachian State University Historical Photographs Of Southern Appalachia: Documenting Activites Of The Settlement Schools Gerald Roberts, Berea College Panelists: Shannon Wilson, Berea College Patricia Ayers, Berea College William Richardson, Berea College Somewhere Over Beech Mountain: Contemporary Appalachian Artifacts and The Land Of Oz by Charles Alan Watkins The Land of Oz was a theme park based on the L. Frank Baum Oz characters atop Beech Mountain in Avery County, Western North Carolina. Its birth in 1970 was intertwined with the land rush and concomitant ski boom that occurred in the mountains during the decade of the 1960's, and its demise in 1980 reflected the fallout from financial woes that the ski and second home industries suffered in the early 1970's. In the summer of 1985 and throughout 1986 Appalachian State University's new museum facility, the Appalachian Cultural Center, acquired a large number of significant artifacts from The Land Of Oz to serve as a centerpiece for its planned exhibition on the history of tourism in the mountains. The acquisition and announced plans to exhibit the Oz material has brought into focus a number of questions that museums of Appalachia will increasingly have to deal with, and Oz makes an interesting case study by which to examine these questions. To understand the Land of Oz, one must first consider its parent company, the Carolina Carribbean Corporation (CCC). The genesis of CCC occurred in 1964 when Grover and Harry Robbins, two Watauga 106 �county natives, purchased a large tract of land atop Beech Mountain from Dr. Thomas H. Brigham, a Birmingham, Alabama dentist who had been influential in developing skiing as a sport in Western North Carolina. The Robbins Brothers had gotten their start in the sawmill and lumber business but increasingly their interests turned to tourism and resort development. Their father Grover Robbins, Sr., had owned and operated the original Blowing Rock tourist attraction in Blowing Rock, and Harry Robbins recalled that his first job had been to put Blowing Rock bumper stickers on visitors' cars. In 1956 they began to develop Tweetsie Railroad as a theme park and this was followed in 1964 by construction of Hound Ears, a second home and golf resort between Boone and Linville, North Carolina. What Grover and Harry Robbins envisioned atop Beech Mountain made their other enterprises pale by comparison, however. In 1964 they formed the Carolina Carribbean Corporation, so named because their North Carolina resort was to be linked with a condominium development, The Reef, in St. Croix, the Virgin Islands. Property owners on Beech would have membership in the Carolina Carribbean Club and would have priveleges at the St. Croix development. An airline was envisioned that would shuttle people back and forth between Beech Mountain and the Carribbean, as well as pick up skiers from various locations in the Southern United States. At heart, CCC's business on Beech Mountain was to sell resort and second homesites. Grover Robbins had unlimited faith in the area, stating that, "For years to come, the best things will be happening in Western North Carolina's mountains.... It is inevitable... for this is the best place of all." The Robbins' believed that vacation homes were within the reach of many Americans, and the CCC desigend a model "cottage" that could be built for $13,500-$ 14,500. Presumably this cottage would appeal to the same sort of people who drove Volkswagens and was therefore, dubbed Volkshause. All of the amenities at Beech were simply inducements to purchase one of the 4,000 planned homesites, and there were amenities to spare. CCC planned to offer two 18 hole golf courses, one 9 hole course, horsetrails, streams and man made lakes for trout fishing and an area for bird hunting. CCC even hired famed coach Paul Dietzel to develop a family fitness program for Beech residents. The major attraction, however, was a series of ski slopes at the top of the mountain. As land scales were at the true center of CCC, skiing was at the company's promotional center—it was the flagship activity of the resort and the one that made land purchase attractive. Because skiing was a promotional activity at Beech rather than part of the business, it was never really expected to make a profit and apparently it never did under CCC management. 107 �Nevertheless, the plant investment in skiing was enormous, and the corporation wished to be able to use the chair lift and gondola systems in the summer also. For that reason, CCC planned for a small theme park at the very top, the Pinnacles. To that end, a young Charlotte designer, Jack Pentes was brought to the mountain. Pentes had done other work for the Robbins brothers. In addition to redesigning the Blowing Rock, Pentes' firm had also done much of the design work at Tweetsie and a small history gallery of the Green Park Inn, at that time a Robbins property. Pentes remembers that the idea of recreating Oz came to him as soon as he reached the top of Beech, "Those beautiful trees all seemed to have faces,... and their limbs seemed to be reaching out for me. Then I saw a cave and realized it was the Cowardly Lion's cave—just where it should be. It was over the rainbow—part of another world." By February 1967, plans were sufficiently underway for CCC to announce that a tourist attraction called the Land of Oz would be included in the development. Oz opened officially on June 15, 1970 and was fully operational on July 3. As planned by Pentes, the park was truly a vest-pocket park, comprising only about sixteen acres, of which seven were left undeveloped. Visitors to the park had the option of riding one of the ski lift systems to the top of the mountain where the park was located or riding a specially painted bus to the top. Once there visitors first toured the L. Frank Baum Museum which exhibited a number of costumes, props and articles of furniture from the MGM auction that was held on May 17, 1970 to raise funds to build the MGM Grand Hotel in Las Vegas. From the museum, visitors were taken to the Judy Garland memorial overlook which offered a dramatic view of the Elk Valley far below. Then came Uncle Henry and Auntie Em's farm that included a Gothic style farmhouse, barn and some outbuildings. Crops were actually cultivated at the farm and there was a petting zoo of farm animals, sponsored by Purina, in the barn area. Visitors were then taken in groups for a tour of the farmhouse. While inside, the people were suddenly informed that a cyclone was on the way and that they should all go to the cellar. In the cellar, they were treated to a rear screen projection of a cyclone, actually made of a film of water being stirred in a bucket with superimposed effects, and appropriate sound effects. When the all-clear was given, the visitors were told that they were being taken back into the house, but instead they were led into a duplicate house built onto the back of the original and one story lower. This house was an exact duplicate of the other one including the furniture, but here things were in disarray—chairs thrown about, tables turned over, pictures askew. To give the effect that the house was no longer on flat land, Pentes designed the floors to be built at a slope, an effect that made visitors stagger drunkedly out the door toward Oz. Outside, the legs of the wicked witch could be seen sticking out from the house where it had 108 �supposedly landed on her. Visitors then preceded down the yellow brick road, constructed of specially made bricks with a yellow glaze on the upper surface. They went through Munchkin Land featuring small Munchkin houses and some 500 Mushrooms, all made of sprayed foam. Along the way, the visitors met the other Oz characters—the Scarecrow had his own little house from which he emerged to lip-sync his greeting to the visitors, then do a song and dance routine. Similarly, the tin man performed in front of another house while the visitors watched from an overlook gazebo, and the lion appeared from his den to perform his own special routine. The Wicked Witch was next and her song, also lipsynced, made it clear that she was a harmless bumbler who could not get the recipes right for her magic potions. At the end of the road came Emerald City, consisting of a group of buildings that served as a theater, shop and office area. Here, miniskirted Munchkin girls distributed Greenie Glasses, made of cardboard and colored plastic, to the tourists so that they could view Oz in the proper hue. At set intervals, a stage show, the "Magic Moment," took place. In this, the tour's grand finale, the various Oz characters met the Wizard, actually a rear screen projection of opera star John Richards McCrae, received their hearts' desire and watched Dorothy disappear in one of the balloons that comprised an aerial ride around the park, each balloon suspended from a converted chair lift system. The shops sold items such as Oz Cream, a specially designed ice cream that had green chunks of candy in it. Pentes was determined that his park would be an original and he refused to copy from the film, "The Wizard of Oz." He brought together a remarkable team that relied heavily on home grown talent. Music for the park was written by Charlotte composer Loonis McGlohon and Alec Wilder whose songs had been recorded by the likes of Frank Sinatra and Tony Bennett. The only song that remained from the film was "Over the Rainbow." One of the vocalists, Lorri Ham, later recorded "I'd Like To Teach The World To Sing." Charlotte sculptor Austin Fox created the costume designs for the Oz characters and the sculpture of Dorothy and Toto that was used in the Judy Garland memorial overlook. Fox had earlier gained success as the sculptor of the Femlin characters for Playboy. Costumes were made by Brooks Van Home, the New York theatrical costumer. Hollywood choreographer Alice Leggett laMar created special dances for each character and choreographed the "Magic Moment" stage show. Pentes even specially designed the souvenirs that were to be sold in the shops in Emerald City. The hard work paid off. The Land of Oz won the annual Washington, D.C. Daily New Award for the year's outstanding tourist attraction. According to Myron Glaser, manager of Resort and Travel News for the Scripps-Howard newspaper, the Land of Oz was "the hands down winner." Glaser described the park as "exquisite" and said "We've never 109 �seen a more beautiful natural setting nor a finer marriage of a place and an idea. It is truly an adventure, imaginative and unspoiled." The award was decided upon even before the balloon ride was completed—that ride opened on July 3. The park attracted over 400,000 people that first year and it became the state's leading tourist attraction almost overnight. Just as fast, though, the fortunes of the park began to decline. According to Tom Seig who served as a publicist for Oz, "Commercialization by Carolina Caribbean Corp., the original owner, had begun the second year, when people's shoes began to stick on ice-cream wrappers and cotton-candy cones on the Yellow Brick Road. The hawkers had come to Oz, and so had Japan and Taiwan, souvenirs would no longer be tailored to the story and park, and the emeraldstudded Oz cream would become plain ice cream. Everything would be cheapened by the price of admission." At heart, Carolina Carribbean was in trouble. Beginning in 1971, the tightening economy began to work against the Company. Inflation pushed interest rates high and damaged second home sales. The gas crunch of 1974 exacerbated conditions, and heavily crippled tourism. Further, a series of mild winters from 1971 through 1973 severely damaged the ski business. This overall downturn pushed all the Western North Carolina land sale/ski developments to the wall, but CCC was especially vulnerable. Grover Robbins had died in 1970 but the projects he had spun off, including the Dominican Corporation, a resort city on the coast of the Dominican Republic, a camper park enterprise called Land Harbors and Walden, a planned community near Charlotte, were all subject to the same forces affecting CCC, thereby increasing the pressure on the Beech development. Then in September, 1972 machine gun-weilding terrorists killed four people on the Fountain Valley Golf Course in St. Croix. That effectively ended any profitablity that the Reef might have had. the company reported that it lost over $6 million in the first nine months of FY 1973 and $9 million in FY 1974. The company sought cutbacks and by August 1974 was listing the Land of Oz as one property being considered for sale. But it was too late. On November 25, 1974 the U.S. Securities and Exchange Commission ordered trading suspended in CCC stock. In February 1975 CCC reorganized in an effort to stave off bankruptcy but it closed down operations in September 1975. On October 31, 1975 a judge ordered planned liquidation of the assets of CCC but the Beech Mountain Property Owners Association leased the village and restaurant and the skiing facilities for the winter of 1975-76. The title to The Land Of Oz passed to the mortgage holder, Tri South of Atlanta, Georgia. 110 �The trouble for Oz had just begun, however. On December 28, 1975 a fire at Oz destroyed the theatre, along with all the costumes and audio visual material. The museum was vandalized and a number of artifacts including the dress Judy Garland wore during the filming of the Wizard of Oz were stolen. Tri South vowed to reopen Oz and it did so with a number of changes. These changes, perhaps based upon sound managerial practice, tore at the heart of Jack Pentes' concept. No longer would there be an elaborate stage show with rear screen projection. Now there would be a live Wizard and a puppet show. Replacement costumes were ordered not from Brooks van Home but from a Charlotte costumer who closely followed the styles of the film. Oz continued operation until 1980 when Jack Pentes was called to assess what it would take to do Oz really well again. Pentes reported that $165,000 would have to be spent immediately and $1,000,00 soon thereafter to update Oz. In Pentes' mind, the alternative to spending the money was to close the park altogether. Beech Mountain officials chose the latter course and the 1980 season was the last for Oz. Beech Mountain officials found it difficult to stop vandalism of the park that began soon after Oz was shut down. People threw bricks throughthe styrofoam faces on the trees and denuded the witch's castle of it crennelation. Antiques from Dorothy's house disappeared along with most of the 500 mushrooms. By 1985 the park was in ruin. Yet amid that ruin had been a dream. "It was supposed to be magic," said Jack Pentes, "and it was magic, I think, the first year." But it was a magic that could have happened in the mountains, and in virtually every respect, Oz was a mountain project—built by mountain people for owners who were themselves mountain people. The park's design was in part dictated by the availability of local skills such as stonemasonry, and eve the Birdhouse Tree was constructed by the famed blacksmith, Daniel Boone V. The employees were kids from the surrounding area, and the existence of the park itself symbolized the change in the regional economy from farming to tourism. Nothing could better illustrate this change than a comparison between the CCC side of the mountain and Beech Mountain's other side, the eastern slope in Watauga County, which had been virtually inaccessible until quite recently. Folk scholars and musicologists had long recognized this area as one in which certain family such as the Hicks' and the Presnell's, had held onto older traditions. It was, therefore, highly symbolic of modern Appalachian change that both Munchkins and pre-industrial mountaineers simultaneously inhabited the same mountain. Yet when the Appalachian Cultural Center began to acquire objects from the park, a number of people reacted unfavorably to Oz, questioning what relevance a theme park had to Appalachia. This should not have 111 �been surprising since even our national museum is occasionally faced with similar criticism. When for example, the Smithsonian's National Museum of American History received the Archie Bunker chair and the Fonz's leather jacket, the museum became involved in a "storm of controversy" because "virtually no one outside the collecting division [of the Museum] perceived any cultural relevance whatsoever in preserving these items." It was clear that the Appalachian Cultural Center was in somewhat a similar bind. In rethinking the appropriateness of acquiring Oz, the Center developed some cautionary guidelines that served, not only to place Oz into perspective, but also a good deal of contemporary Appalachian material culture as well. These include: 1. Don't let the collection run the museum. Museum collections are obviously based on objects that have survived to the present day and yet within that pool of surviving artifacts some are considered better than others. As one museum authority notes, certain objects tend to be " 'preselected' by time and consensus." In the instance of Appalachian artifacts, time has been a significant factor since the hardiest objects—those made of metal, for example—tend to last, while paper items usually disappear quickly. This means that what survives from a culture may not be the most representative or descriptive of objects, such as early kitchen implements and farm tools, were ubiquitous in rural America and are not specifically Appalachian at all. When such artifacts are exhibited in a context that refers to them as uniquely Appalachian—either overtly or implied—the our understanding of the nature of the region is severely skewed. Magnifying this problem is the inability of the region's museums to move beyond the paradigm of Appalachia that was estabhlished by cultural entrepreneurs of all sorts over the past century. The tenents of this belief system are well-known and include such concepts as "pioneers in an industrial age," "the romance of log cabin living," "craft work for spiritual uplift," "carefree muscians," and "the land that time forgot." this is a paradigm that is repellent but attractive too because the ejects that fit the scheme—dulcimers, period log cabin interiors, crafts of all sorts—are themselves compelling and lend themselves to the story so well. But now it is time that the region's museums either use the old objects to tell a new story or find altogether a new set of objects. Mountain culture is simply too rich and varied to allow material survivals or the canonization of certain objects to dictate how the story of the region will be told. 112 �2. Many objects have multiple meanings. A single object can be significant in a variety of contexts, each one emphasizing a different aspect of the object's meaning. Increasingly, museums in Appalachia must reach beyond the standard interpretation of their collections if they are to make a contribution to the understanding of their region. For example, the hand tool in a museum's collection may have been purchased from a general store, an idea that brings into focus many questions about the meaning of the store itself and the concept of puchasing in the mountains. How did the original owner acquire the object—with money or by barter? Who owned the store and what was its influence on the community. Do records from the store make a comment on the idea of isolation in the region? When thoughts such as these are considered, perhaps where the tool came from is more important than the tool itself. In the case of Oz, the Center acquired Uncle Henry's large farm tools—the hay rake and seeder that stood in front of the barn. On one level these were used as props for an amusement park but they were also purchased by the park's designer from farmers sho had used them on Beech Mountain. Again, these objects have meanings within meanings. In this vein it is useful to remember the baseball player Ritchie Ashburn who was once in a hitting slump and decided that, metaphysically, something was wrong. Ashburn began to take his bat to bed with him and when asked why, he replied that he wanted to get to know his bat better. I suggest that, like Ritchie Ashburn, museums need to get to know their objects better. 3. Don't get hung up on the past when interpreting the past. In the search for the old and the rare objects of a perceived Appalachian heritage, museums stand in danger of losing the objects of today which may even be more useful in broadly interpreting the culture of this region. While we do surveys of log buildings, we pay little attention to the significance of kit rnach houses that everywhere surround us. In the same vein, we celebrate the early craft of heritage of the region but overlook the folk iconography of many roadsigns for Baptist churches, which are frequently in the shape of churches. Recently the Center acquired a large sign that had been used by a wholesale nursery and greenery dealer. On it was a painting of a primeval mountain forest that is certainly the rival of anything done by artists such as Eliot Dangerfield or William Frerichs in portraying the majestic scenery of the region. It is however only some 20 years old and barely escaped the owner's chainsaw. Dangerfield landscapes are expensive and rare but contemporary depictions of the forest are neither, and museums may find that to get at the past, contemporary objects may serve well. 113 �4. Establish a purchase fund. Even contemporary objects cost money and museums without funds to acquire objects are at a serious disavdantage if they are seriously attempting to develop a collection designed to tell a specific story or to follow an interpretational concept. As Edith Mayo, Associate curator in the Smithsonian's dividison of Political History puts it, "collecting wihtout funding doubles the problems of acquisition. It usually takes great persuasion to convince individuals or groups to part with objects for which they feel personal attachment, or items that embody a commitment central to their lives. It is even more difficult to acquire those objects without offering compensation." This is not to say that our regional museums will not continue to receive valuable and useful gifts. It must be recognized, though, that rising prices for antiques and collectables put great pressure upon people of middling financial circumstances to sell pieces rather than to give them away. A tax deduction is not much inducement to people who are working to make ends meet. Thus the museum must compete in the marketplace with dealers and private collectors for the best pieces. The advantage is that as museums redefine what Appalachian artifacts are, they will automatically have first crack at the best examples since it will be the museums themselves that will first call attention to some of these objects as valuable and collectible objects. Many of these objects should and will be contemporary. For example, many of the Oz souvenirs that can still be found in flea markets in the Boone area are expected to rise in value when the Oz exhibition opens. 5. Let us not abdicate our professional responsibilities. The field of material culture was developed in museums and it is in museums that the field is practiced best. Today, only television rivals the museum as an interpreter of history for the public and museums are doing a far better job of it than the mighty cathode. This means that museums, and especially Appalachian museums, should never act like ships adrift, sailing at the whim of pervailing wind, waiting for published scholarship to point the way. They should be an active force in the reconstruction and the reorganizing of the past. Most importantly, museums of Appalachia must stop following the paradigm of the region imposed by an outside culture. It is this paradigm that leads museums to laud Doris Ulmann photographs when Appala114 �chia's real story is in the family albums of the people who lived here. It leads to a romantic appreciation of split rail fences while John Ward of Watauga Falls, North Carolina—a man who held international patents for a portable fence he invented—is forgotten. And it leads to a belief that The Land Of Oz, though built and staffed by mountain people and located on one of the highest mountains in Western North Carolina, somehow is not Appalachian. But Oz existed and still does—in a museum and in memory—and as S. Dillon Ripley, former Secretary of the Smithsonian Institution said, "In this brave new world of ours, perhaps only objects which inherently possess truth can teach truth." ENDNOTES 1. My discussion of Carolina Carribbean Corporatoin is based on material contained in the clipping files of the Appalachian Collection, Appalachian State University. The appropriate files are entitled "Skis and Skiing," "Land of Oz," "Robbins, Harry and Grover," and "Beech Mountain, N.C." For two good summary articles about CCC see "Robbins' Brothers Start $8 Million Recreation Project," Watauga Democrat, February 2, 1967, "Robbins, Harry and Grover" file and "New Ski Resort Opens This Week," Winston-Salem Journal, December 22, 1967, "Skis and Skiing" file. 2. The basis of the material on Jack Pentes comes from a number of interviews with Jack Pentes, Ruth Pentes and Tom Seig. A good overview of Jack Pentes' role can be found in Tom Seig, "Land of Oz Crumbles," Winston- Salem Journal, May 19, 1985, pp. Cl and C6. Another interesting view of Pentes and The Land Of Oz can be found in Aljean Haremetz, The Making of the Wizard of Oz, New York: Limelight Editions, 1984, pp. 297-8. 3. "Follow the Yellow Brick Road," n.p., n.d., "Land of Oz" file, Appalachian Cultural Center, ASU. 4. "Oz Gets National Award," n.p., n.d., Clipping in "Land of Oz" file, Appalachian Cultural Center, ASU. 5. Seig, "Land Of Oz Crumbles." 6. Ibid. 7. Edith P. Mayo, "Contemporary Collecting," History Netus, October 1982, p. 10. 8. Mayo, "Contemporary Collecting," p. 9. 9. Ibid., p. 11. 10. Ibid., p. 9. 115 � Dublin Core The Dublin Core metadata element set is common to all Omeka records, including items, files, and collections. For more information see, http://dublincore.org/documents/dces/. 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Title A name given to the resource Contemporary Appalachia: In Search of a Usable Past Description An account of the resource The <em>Proceedings of the 9th Annual Appalachian Studies Conference</em>, held in 1986 at Appalachian State University in Boone, North Carolina, offers a look at contemporary Appalachia and topics such as gender roles; native Appalachians; welfare dependency; the environment; and culture.<br /><br /><a href="https://drive.google.com/open?id=195p45c3vjQIfWtDYY6Ay2Z17iJNtrAwk" target="_blank" rel="noopener">Download EPub<br /><br /></a><a title="UNC Press Link" href="https://www.uncpress.org/book/9781469636788/contemporary-appalachia/" target="_blank" rel="noopener">UNC Press Print on Demand</a> Subject The topic of the resource Appalachian Region--Congresses Appalachian Region--Civilization Alternative Title An alternative name for the resource. The distinction between titles and alternative titles is application-specific. Proceedings of the 9th Annual Appalachian Studies Conference Creator An entity primarily responsible for making the resource Ross, Carl Date A point or period of time associated with an event in the lifecycle of the resource 1987 Publisher An entity responsible for making the resource available Appalachian Consortium Press Language A language of the resource English Format The file format, physical medium, or dimensions of the resource PDF Conference proceedings Type The nature or genre of the resource Text Rights Information about rights held in and over the resource <a href="https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by/4.0/deed" target="_blank" rel="noopener">https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by/4.0/deed</a> Spatial Coverage Spatial characteristics of the resource. https://www.geonames.org/4456703/boone.html https://www.geonames.org/12212302/appalachia.html Source A related resource from which the described resource is derived <a title="UA 76 Appalachian Consortium records" href="https://appstate-speccoll.lyrasistechnology.org/repositories/2/resources/9" target="_blank" rel="noreferrer noopener"> UA 76 Appalachian Consortium records </a> Is Part Of A related resource in which the described resource is physically or logically included. <a title="Appalachian Consortium Press Publications" href="https://omeka.library.appstate.edu/collections/show/82" target="_blank"> Appalachian Consortium Press Publications</a> Temporal Coverage Temporal characteristics of the resource. 1980s Multidisciplinary/ Appalachian Studies https://omeka-test.library.appstate.edu/files/original/a09b87fcb823eda5bd81812a42ebad38.pdf d49c4ebd18a02030dbbc9c6970101b6e PDF Text Text �SYMPOSIUM ON TROUT HABITAT RESEARCH and MANAGEMENT Proceedings SEPTEMBER 5-6. 1974 WESTERN CAROLINA UNIVERSITY CULLOWHEE. NORTH CAROLINA Sponsored by Southeastern Forest Experiment Station, USDA Forest Service Western Carolina University The Appalachian Consortium Tennessee Valley Authority APPALACHIAN CONSORTIUM PRESS BOONE, NORTH CAROLINA 28607 �The Appalachian Consortium was a non-profit educational organization composed of institutions and agencies located in Southern Appalachia. From 1973 to 2004, its members published pioneering works in Appalachian studies documenting the history and cultural heritage of the region. The Appalachian Consortium Press was the first publisher devoted solely to the region and many of the works it published remain seminal in the field to this day. With funding from the Andrew W. Mellon Foundation and the National Endowment for the Humanities through the Humanities Open Book Program, Appalachian State University has published new paperback and open access digital editions of works from the Appalachian Consortium Press. www.collections.library.appstate.edu/appconsortiumbooks This work is licensed under a Creative Commons BY-NC-ND license. To view a copy of the license, visit http://creativecommons.org/licenses. Original copyright © 1975 by the Appalachian Consortium Press. ISBN (pbk.: alk. Paper): 978-1-4696-3649-8 ISBN (ebook): 978-1-4696-3651-1 Distributed by the University of North Carolina Press www.uncpress.org �Citation: USDA Forest Service 1975. Symposium on trout habitat research and management proceedings. 110 p. Southeast. For. Exp. Stn., Asheville, N.C. �CONTENTS FOREWORD . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 5 David F. Olson, Jr. KEYNOTE ADDRESS .. Frank R. Richardson SESSION I. 7 PUBLIC VIEWS OF THE TROUT STREAM RESOURCE VIEWS AND SUGGESTIONS OF N.C. TROUT UNLIMITED ON TROUT HABITAT Marvin R. Hawes 12 OUR VANISHING TROUT STREAMS - A SOUTHERN APPALACHIAN DILEMMA . . . . . 14 Gerald D. Schuder, Sr. TROUT, ITS HABITAT, AND THE FISHERMAN Fred R. Dorsey SESSION II. 18 LAND MANAGEMENT IMPACTS ON TROUT HABITAT REVIEW OF SELECTED PARAMETERS OF TROUT STREAM QUALITY L. B. Tebo, Jr. FOREST MANAGEMENT IMPACTS ON COLD WATER FISHERIES James E. Douglass and Monte E. Seehorn MINING IMPACTS ON TROUT HABITAT Rona 1d D. Hi 11 20 . . . . . . . . . . 33 . . . . . . . . . . . • . . 47 STREAM CHANNELIZATION; AN ENGINEERING AND BIOLOGICAL REVIEW Raymond V. Corning SESSION III. . . . . 58 TROUT HABITAT RESEARCH AND MANAGEMENT PRODUCTIVITY OF SOUTHEASTERN STREAM ECOSYSTEMS Jackson R. Webster and J. Bruce Wallace . . . . 64 STREAM CLASSIFICATION SYSTEM FOR WEST VIRGINIA . . . . . . . . . . . . 78 Randy E. Bailey, 0. Eugene Maughan, and Roy A. Whaley STABILIZATION OF EROSION ON A MOUNTAINOUS ROAD CONSTRUCTION PROJECT . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 87 Robert James Brown and Joseph Mickey, Jr. �LIMITING FACTORS ENCOUNTERED IN THE MANAGEMENT OF TROUT IN TAILWATERS . . . . . . . James R. Axon RECLAMATION OF DM1AGED STREAMS AS A TOOL IN RESOURCE MANAGEMENT. Don 1ey M. Hi 11 93 96 RESEARCH IN AQUATIC HABITATS AT THE SOUTHEASTERN STATION Thomas J. Harshbarger 102 THE PLANNING APPROACH TO TROUT MANAGEMENT Joseph R. Fatora 107 �FOREWORD Trout habitat has been degraded in the Southern Appalachians by deforestation, fire,overgrazing, dams, mining, urban and industrial waste, road construction, and poor agricultural practices. The result has been a progressive reduction in the productivity of the cold water resource and the elimination of many miles of otherwise productive trout streams from the resource base. Wild trout and their forested stream environment are highly valued by the public. Mountain streams are receiving increasing fishing pressure; recreational use of cold water streams ranks high among the various stream values; and revenues derived from these uses are vital to the economy of this area. Demands for other forest resources are creating conflicts and competition among user groups, resulting in difficulties in resource allocation and management. These problems will become more acute as populations expand and competition for land use intensifies. The symposium was organized to establish a dialog between conservation groups and managing agencies, to consolidate known information, and to offer a means of expressing new ideas and philosophy pertinent to management of the trout resource in the Southern Appalachians. During this 2-day symposium, papers were presented expressing views, opinions, ideas, and facts concerning the management of trout habitat in mountain streams. Conservation organizations, researchers, and managers discussed trout habitat management programs and policies, defined major management problems, and identified present and future research needs. It was pointed out repeatedly that the aquatic habitat of trout is a fragile environment, easily disrupted or even destroyed by man's activities on the land. However, the means of ameliorating the adverse impacts of land use on trout habitat are known to some extent, and new research offers promise of greatly expanding available knowledge in the next decade. A number of people contributed to this symposium in addition to the qualified and enthusiastic experts on the program. Members of the Planning Committee who worked to make this symposium a success deserve recognition: W. Donald Baker, Chief Division of Inland Fisheries North Carolina Wildlife Resources Commission Raleigh, North Carolina Marvin R. Hawes, Member North Carolina Council of Trout Unlimited Western Piedmont Community College Morganton, North Carolina Donley M. Hill, Limnologist Division of Forestry, Fisheries and Wildlife Development Tennessee Valley Authority Norris, Tennessee 5 �Robert F. Raleigh, Unit Leader Virginia Cooperative Fishery Research Unit Virginia Polytechnic Institute and State University Blacksburg, Virginia Jerry West, Local Arrangements Chairman Department of Biology Western Carolina University Cullowhee, North Carolina In addition to these willing workers, special recognition is due to two of my colleagues at the Southeastern Forest Experiment Station for their outstanding contributions to the planning of the symposium: Michael R. Lennartz, Staff Assistant Research Planning and Application Thomas J. Harshbarger, Aquatic Ecologist Bent Creek Experimental Forest David F. Olson, Jr., Chairman of Planning Committee Southeastern Forest Experiment Station, USDA Forest Service 6 �KEYNarE ADDRESS FRANK R. RICHARDSON ASSOCIATE RIDIONAL DIRECTOR U. S. FISH AND WILDLIFE SERVICE DENVER, COLORADO When I was first approached by one of the Symposium organizers to take on this assignment as your keynote speaker, the particular individual was well aware that I was an easy mark. Talking trout and gettiug a chance to visit North Carolina come high on my priority list. After congratulating myself on getting this fine opportunity, I found to my delight, that keynote speakers are at liberty to set their own rules. So I emphasize that the following remarks represent my own personal views. They neither represent the policy of my employer or those of conservation organizations to which I belong. They represent my philosophy and my beliefs of trout and trout fishing. I am delighted to see that the first sesssion of this Symposium is devoted to Public Views of the Trout Stream Resource. I have long known some of the members of this panel and one has been a close personal friend for may years. I would like to share a true story with you that involves him. I use this story to illustrate the point that public views and public participation in making management decisions on trout resources are not only good politics but better decisions are made when the public participates. I have seen too many incidents where public resource managers made these decisions behind closed doors. Now let me tell you this story. About 15 years ago I opened the trout season here in North Carolina with several friends on a favorite North Carolina stream. We were billeted in an ancient log cabin that let in most of the night air. Like so many opening days, the thermometer was below the freezing mark. That night, when readying ourselves for bed, the conversation turned to how we were going to keep warm. One of my angling friends was quite wordy in selling the merits of new electric blankets which had been installed for each bed. Another participant of this opening day was just as enamored with his new thermal pajamas which were designed for subfreezing weather. These two were sharing a room where the twin beds had each been fitted with the new electric blanket. As they adjourned to their bedroom, you could still hear their discussion of the merits of blankets versus pajamas. Unbeknown to them, someone had switched the blanket controls so that, in fact, they were regulating each others heat control. The next morning at breakfast the former blanket-lover went into great detail about the need for everyone to get these new pajamas-he had shivered through the whole night with his blanket turned all the way up, never realizing that his roommate with the thermal pajamas had turned his own controls off because he was benefiting from his partner's heat. The point of this story is that, we as Resource Managers need to know what our conservation constituent not only thinks and is doing but he must be allowed to share in the responsibility of decisionmaking. During the past six weeks, I have taken part in two meetings--the annual meeting of Trout Unlimited in Seattle, and the Annual Conclave of the Federation of Fly Fishermen in West Yellowstone. These meetings were attended by the activist angler, the individual who wants to personally involve themselves in what happens to the resource that provides their recreation. The people who attended included truck drivers, lawyers, salesmen, doctors, resource managers, fishery biologists, and State Fish and Wildlife Commissioners and all with that common interest to do a better job of looking after the 7 �fishery resources of the United States. Similar meetings that I attended a decade ago more often pitted the resource user (the angler) against the fishery biologist and the resource manager. rhose of us who are resource managers no longer can afford the luxury of going it alone, and I use the term "luxury" loosely when it might be more proper to say stupidity. Those of us who call ourselves conservationists have always been true believers. We often have that gut feeling that our cause is righteous, especially when what we want is for someone else. I suppose there is a certain dignity in this attitude, although I suspect that in the minds of some, our motives are suspect. I would recommend that whenever we can identify such a condition, we take a few days off and go fishing. All of which to say is that what seems both rational and moral, may not necessarily be what society wants or requires. I have long thought that trout populations are an excellent index in measuring the health of the human environment. In fact, I believe that in the evolutionary future of this planet earth when the last trout expires, man as a species will have proceeded him. Session II of this Symposium zeros in on habitat alterations. I look forward with great interest to the comments of this panel. Having seen trout streams destroyed by industrial and municipal polluters, poor logging practices, strip mining, channelization, road builders, and damming, I tend to get irrational when trying to explain these things, though continued destruction of trout habitat in the Southeast is not the big issue, as it is in the Rocky Mountain West where I live, it still is one of the hottest issues going. The demand to produce energy from coal and oil shale in the West and the need for water for energy development and the associated growth that goes with this, will in the next several years put more pressure on blue ribbon trout streams of the West than all the atrocities heaped on them from mining and damming of the past. Whole rivers may be dewatered and the Yellowstone River in Wyoming and Montana, which is the longest undammed trout stream in our country, could be lost. To put this in a better perspective, the Yellowstone trout ecosystem is larger than all of the Southern Appalachian trout ecosystem. Obviously, we are going to develop our energy resour~es, but when someone says its either coal or trout, I'm really turned off. One of the legislative milestones in the conservation history of our country is the Fish and Wildlife Coordination Act. It was first signed into law in 1934 by President Roosevelt. It was subsequently amended in 1958--16 years ago. Presently efforts are being made in the Congress to strengthen this Act. The Act, in theory, puts fish and wildlife on equal standing with other natural resources--both in planning and in constructing Federal projects. Presently, the U. S. Fish and Wildlife Service and State Fish and Wildlife Agencies are brought into planning only as consultants. Other loopholes in the present Act have allowed certain projects of such agencies as TVA, the AEC, and the SCS to be only partially covered or exempt. If the Act is strengthened as proposed by some members of the subcommittee on Fish and Wildlife Conservation and the Environment, I suspect that the channelization of trout streams and other issues, such as, the Tellico--Little Tennessee River would never have occurred. For these reasons, I can think of no single legislation that will affect total trout habitat more than the Fish anCfWildlife Coordination Act, and we as individuals who are concerned with this resource should support these efforts to strengthen this Act. Each May, for the past 15 years, North Carolina and specifically Fontana Village has been hosting the Fontana Conservation Roundup. I'm sure all of ·you here are 8 �familiar with this event and most of you have attended one of the roundups. When I was living in North Carolina and Tennessee, I was fortunate enough to make several of these meetings. Last year the theme of the roundup was Environmental Trade-Offs. When I hear those words Environmental Trade-Offs, my antennas really extend. I can visualize trading all the water in the Colorado River to develop oil shale, I can visualize the loss of western prairies in the United States and Canada where most of our ducks are raised to produce wheat to feed starving people in India and Africa. Maybe these trade-offs will be made, but there will be some trade-offs proposed where we must "stand in the schoolhouse door" where the environmental value cannot be abused, where our answer must be just plain "no." Many of you are familiar with the works of Barry Commoner--I would remind you to remind yourselves once in awhile with three of his gems that he refers to as the laws of ecology--"there's no such thing as a free lunch," and "everything is connected to something else," and "everything goes somewhere." Tomorrow morning our Symposium will address Trout Habitat Research and Management. Until a few years ago, my working day, and I should add other parts of day, revolved around Trout Management and Research. I was lucky enough to live in and work in areas--(I use the term "work" in its loosest definition)--and associate with people that daily dealt with the trout resource. Now every once in awhile I wonder where I went wrong when now my day is filled with budget reviews, personnel ceilings, coyotes and sheep, listening to the pros and cons of steel shot, and other Fish and Wildlife Service issues. Even though I am not as deeply involved with Trout Management and Research as in the past, my interest and devotion to these subjects has never wavered, I like to think that some of the things I was involved in in the past were right. However, I must confess, I have memories of some of my actions that today I find completely alien to present-day consensus of good trout management. Most biologists I know have a stubborn streak when it comes to change and accepting new ideas. It seems all of us have to try out our own ideas, even though the idea has a history of failure wherever it has been tried. (I guess I should exclude all of you gathered here today.) However, I'm sure that each biologist here in this room can identify some action in his past that he would rather forget. The "Pisgah System of Trout Management" was developed here in North Carolina, and when this System came on the scene a few decades ago, many biologists across the country claimed it as the savior to trout fishing and it was copied in many parts of the country. Today the "Pisgah System" is essentially something to read about but seldom seen used. Today we are more "sophisticated," a term I use loosely. Yet in ten years what some call good trout management today will go the way of the "Pisgah System." Recently, a study conducted by a Montana biologist on the Madison River, at the insistence of trout anglers of that State, showed that stocking of catchables into an existing wild population of trout actually depressed both populations. Now, after years of planting catchables in this fine trout river, the procedure has been eliminated. I'm not aware of how many fish were being released each year, but I do know that significant savings in cost of Federal hatcheries were realized when the Fish and Wildlife Service stopped planting adults in the Madison River involved in this study. Now, if this could happen in Montana, it could happen here in the Southern Appalachians. With costs of producing hatchery trout having gone up sharply in the last few years, it behooves us to examine all facets of our stocking programs. Somewhere in the past, I heard a fishery biologist say--maybe I said it--but regardless who said it, the following statement is valid--"There are many ways to manage a trout stream, but when hatchery catchables are released, you are not 9 �managing the stream--you are managing the angler." About a decade ago knowledgeable trout anglers began to question the way we manage our trout resources. They began to organize into action groups. "Trout Unlimited" and "The Federation of Fly Fishermen" emerged about that time and recently "The American League of Anglers" was formed. These organizations have had a significant affect on how we manage trout waters. Prior to this time, "Quality Regulations," "Fish for Fun," "Catch and Release," or whatever name you want to apply, just did not exist in public waters. In fact, as far as I can determine, the Great Smoky Mountain National Park was the first public area to implement regulations that, in theory, said that a trout fishing experience is more important than catchinr- trout. Still in some trout fishing programs, it seems that if you don't kill your limit your fishing trip has been a failure. It seems that many managers base the success of the trout fishing program on the creel success. I'm sure that most of you here know of Hazel Creek in the Smokies. During a period from 1963 to 1969, I directed a fishing success census on thw stream. aazel Creek feeds into Fontana Reservoir and access is either by boat or dropping off the Appalachian Trail. If I remember correctly, during that 6-year period, fishing pressure ranged from 3,000 to 5,000 angling trips a year; catch rate was 15 to 19 per day, and the creel stayed at 2 per day. These data suggest that nearly 100,000 fish were caught one of those years. As I recall, there are about 70 miles of fishable water in Hazel Creek watershed, which means that about 15,000 trout were caught per mile. Another figure I seem to recall, was that a permanent sampling station which we looked at each year, indicated that Hazel Creek supported about 2,000 legal trout per mile of stream--that is, 2,000 trout were 7" or larger. Of course, there are many trout under 7" and they make up a significant part of the catch. However, I think you can safely say that Hazel Creek is a stream where trout obviously may be caught and released several times. The points I'm trying to make are that, (l) today a trout is more valuable in a stream than it is in a wicker basket and, (2) that you can have a good trout fishing where heavy pressure exists without stocking. Now before I get carried away and suggest that we close up all of our hatcheries, let me make it clear that I take no such position. We have many needs for hatchery produced trout. Presently, the U. S. Fish and Wildlife Service is conducting a Blue Ribbon study of national hatchery needs. The study group is headed by Dr. Alex Calhoun, recently retired Chief of Fisheries of the State of California. He is beiug assisted in this study by both Federal and State biologists. I would expect that this report will set the trend in what we do in hatchery production during the next decade. It seems to me that our trout research efforts have always taken a back seat to what we call management. If you looked at the total dollars spent on research as opposed to that spent on management and I would have to include hatchery production in the management category, you find that a very high proportion of the dollar is spent on management. In general, most trout States have weak research programs in regard to trout. Even the U. S. Fish and Wildlife Service, who have historically done much of the research in the fish and wildlife field, spends only a small percentage of its fishery resource budget in trout research. In fact, in the one issue that is questioned most by trout fishermen we have no formal research program, and that is--What affect and success does stocking have on trout fishing? Yet we are beginning to make inroads into the unknown. The Montana Madison River is one example. The U. S. Fish and Wildlife Service's Beulah, Wyoming Research Center is another. At Beulah, we recently initiated a comprehensive research program on the genetic problems associated with stocking fish. In the past we have selected fish in our hatchery program that do well in hatcheries with little or no concern of how well they do in the wild. Instead we should have been doing the exact opposite. 10 �In closing, I want to emphasize the following points: 1. We have much to do if we are to have trout fishing in our future. The public will have to maintain its vigilance so that we are assured that sound trout programs are supported at a level needed to maintain fishery habitat--which means cold, clear water. Management and research must be realistically supported by tax dollars if we are to do justice to the trout resource. 2. The trout resource must be recognized as a national resource. We have a history of seeing their value being ignored when in competition for water use. The trout resource must get a "better shake" in regard to water development projects. 3. Fishery management must be based on sound information produced by research efforts, not ill-founded opinion. 4. We must strive for quality in our programs. 5. Finally and most important, protection of the trout environment is absolutely essential. This environment has to be maintained, not only for trout but for our own existence. 11 �VIEWS AND SUGGESTIONS OF N.C. TROUT UNLIMITED ON TROUT HABITAT Abstract.--North Carolina trout streams are continually being flooded and silted as a result of land development, logging, mining and road construction, North Carolina Trout Unlimited welcomes research into anything that affects trout streams, urges better cooperation between agencies, and supports programs to restore trout streams to their natural condition. Trout Unlimited's North American Policy for Salmonid Use and Hanagement states the belief, "that the overall quality of trout and salmon fishing has deteriorated in many areas and that drastic and immediate action is required to restore it (Trout Unlimited 1964)." This is certainly the view of Trout Unlimited in North Carolina. Dean (1974) points out that, "the Cane River, Thompson River, Jacob's Fork, Linville River, South Toe River, Upper Creek Steels Creek, Caney Fork, Nantahala River, South ~fills River, and Green River are either already or may soon be in trouble," !'lean goes on to say that these are not the only and it would be virtually impossible to name all the streams that are threatened with deterioration or destruction. The primary cause of the degradation of these trout waters has been continual siltation from the exploitation of the Southern Appalachian l!ountains by land developers, loggers, mininP, and road construction. North Carolina Trout Gnlimited realizes that other sources of pollution have hurt some of our streams. But, the continual flooding and siltation of our streams has resulted in thick build ups of silt in the bottoms of our streams. Needham as far back as 1938 pointed out the potential harm to trout habitat by sedimentation. Later work has shown that fine materials in or on redds cuts down on the amount of oxygen laden water that can flow past the eggs as well as preventing easy egress from the nest by young (Needham 1938), Trout fishermen in North Carolina have continually had to fight against the siltation of our streams. One source of siltation is stopped just to find another. Steels Creek and Upper Creek in Burke County have been seriously damaged by the construction of the unneeded Highway 181. Thanks to the cooperation of the U.S. Forest Service, the North Carolina Fish and Game Commission and the North Carolina Highway nepartment, hopefully the damage to these two native streams has been held to a minimum and that the damage is reversable, l-Ie are now faced ~Jith the additional siltation of these two streams by logging operations. The most recent was started last month (August 1974) on u.s. Forest Service land. A steep road was cut to ;teels Creek, a bridge built across the creek, and the road continued up the other side. No representative from the U.S. Forest Service was present to supervise this, or it might have been prevented, Another incident was the development of several hundred acres in the South Hountains of Burke County along Jacobs Fork. Land was cleared, numerous roads bulldozed up the sides of mountains, and several hundred yards of stream bed and surrounding banks were completely altered by a gravel mining operation. The development of the Linville-Grandfather Mountain area has seriously damaged the Linville River. Areas along Upper Creek, and Lost Cove Creek are what one might call boulder fields. These are areas that continual flooding has destroyed the vegetation along the stream. This has resulted in the stream becoming ~dde, shallow and the bottom covered with silt. 1/ Instructor of Biology Western Piedmont Community College and representative for North Carolina Trout Unlimited, 12 �Our streams in the southeast are unique. Generally, they are small, fast flo~rin!1: streams and with one exception they are not limestone streams. This decreases their productivity and probably makes them extremely fragile ecosystems. We of North Carolina Trout TTnlimited woulcl like to see research i.nto anything that effects our streams, We need research in the following areas: 1. Productivity of our streams, including taxonomic and population studies of the organisms present. 2. Methods of increasing the productivity of our streams. 3. New methods of logging and road construction, that will effectively decrease flooding and siltation. 4. Stocked vs. unstocked. 5. Stream development and improvement. He need better communication and cooperation between federal, state, and local governments and conservation organizations. There is a definite need for a Hountain Land Hanagement Act and county by county land use ordinances that will have enough teeth to stop the deterioration of our streams. Finally, we need programs that will restore our cold water habitats to a condition in which 1~e can realize their full potential as trout streams, BIBLIOGRAPHY Dean, J., 1974 "Are We Losing Our Trout Streams," Wildlife in North Carolina Vol. XXXVIII No. 8, pp 4- 7 • Needham, P. R., 1938, Trout Streams 31 p. 2nd ed. rev. by Bond 1969, Holden-Day, San Francisco Trout Unlimited, 1972, "North American Policy for Salmonid Use and Management." Denver Company 13 �OUR VANISHING TROUT STREAMS - A SOUTHERN APPALACHIAN DILEMMA Gerald D. Schuder, Sr. 1/ Abstract.--Man, and his manipulation of the environment, continues to diminish the available trout habitat in the Southern Appalachian region. The primary factors demeaning the cold water streams are: Channelization, improper timber harvesting, degrading agricultural practices, dams, increased development of watersheds, and mining. The Virginia Council of Trout Unlimited is vitally concerned with the accelerated decrease in cold water habitat in the Southern Appalachian States. This loss of habitat is dramatically illustrated by the shrinking of the area classified as cold water watersheds in Virginia. In colonial times, trout habitat boundaries included the entire region west of the Coastal Plain. Many productive trout streams were found in the Piedmont Plateau and westward. The first great impact on the cold water fishery came with the westward movement of settlers, with the subsequent clearing of lands along water courses. The removal of shade trees along streams, and the deforestation of the watersheds for agriculture, abruptly changed the essential character of the streams from cold water to warm water habitat. Today, after 367 years of continuous development since the original colonization, the sole remaining sanctuaries for the Salmonids in Virginia are in the Blue Ridge Highlands and the Appalachian Plateau. It is with this historical background that Trout Unlimited in Virginia faces the task of protection, enhancement and restoration of the cold water fishery. DEFINITION OF THE RESOURCE Before any area wide cold water management programs are undertaken , the quantity and quality of a region's streams must be defined. After a proposal made by Trout Unlimited, the Virginia Commission of Game and Inland Fisheries is beginning a three-year study to classify the trout streams in the Commonwealth. When completed, this program will have cataloged all of Virginia's trout streams according to productivity, resident fish species, and aesthetics. AN OVERVIEW OF THE PROBLEMS In Virginia, the major threat to the cold water resource is improper land use planning and management. I will identify the primary degrading factors. Channelization Channelization has a long history in Virginia, being practiced since colonial times on a small scale. It was only after the flooding caused by Hurricane Camille in 1969 and Hurricane Agnes in 1972, that channelization reached massive proportions in Virginia. In the aftermath of these fioods, the Soil Cons-ervation !} President, Virginia Council, Trout Unlimited, 324 Link Road, Waynesboro, Va. 22980 14 �Service, the Agricultural Stabilization Conservation Service, and others, indiscriminately channelized over 500 miles of 80 different streams. The impact of this work was largely felt on the cold water streams of Western Virginia, where 90% of the projects were done. The primary degradation to the fishery has been the loss of habitat and siltation. Timber Harvesting The nationwide shortage of wood products has extracted a heavy toll on Virginia's trout streams. The practice of clearcutting, in particular, has caused the loss of many fine brook trout streams due to siltation and increased water temperature. Very little attention has been given to providing proper buffer strips along streams, or to stabilization of cut over areas and access roads. The problem is caused by lack of supervision of contractors on Forest Service lands, and by ths total lack of control of Silviculture on private lands. Agriculture In an attempt to gain maximum production from agricultural lands, producers in Virginia have caused many acute problems for the streams of the western portion of the state. Foremost among these are excessive use of fertilizer and elimination of streamside cover due to livestock grazing and clearing for crops. Erosion problems are common due to the lack of contour farming and the elimination of buffer strips. Feedlots located directly on stream banks are a common source of pollutants in valley areas. Dams If all the dams planned by the Corps of Engineers, power companies and the S.C.S. were completed in Virginia, not a single major watershed in the mountains of Virginia would be spared. The Corps of Engineers alone has 25 major impoundments in the planning stages in Virginia. The impact of these projects, if carried through, would change the character of the surface water resources in Western Virginia from riverine to still water impoundment ecosystems. The only remaining trout habitat would be in the small headw~ter streams. Recreational Development A recent threat to the watersheds of the Blue Ridge and Allegheny Mountains of Virginia is the increased recreational use of the area. The mountains represent an attractive playground for the nearby urban masses from major cities like Washington, D.C., Baltimore, and Richmond. The recreational utilization takes the form of campgrounds, individual camps, and large planned recreational developments such as Massanutten and Wintergreen. The inevitable result is enrichment, siltation, and warming of headwater streams. Mining Acid mine drainage is not a major threat to the cold water streams in Virginia at this time. However, in our sister state of West Virginia, it is a problem of significant proportions. The new emphasis on increased coal production as an answer to the "energy crisis" could cause a dramatic increase in the problems associated with mine drainage, particularly with strip mining techniques. This is a situation that will require careful scrutiny by wildlife professionals and conservationists alike. 15 �DEVELOPING SOLUTIONS Education Trout Unlimited sees the lack of understanding of the interrelationships in a watershed as the most important factor to be considered in ~Y plan to conserve the cold water fishery. This lack of understanding permeates all levels of those associated with watersheds, from the resource manager down to the individual citizen. The logical first step in solving this communication problem is a program that encourages an exchange of ideas and a discussion of problems between the different disciplines at our colleges and universities that offer natural resource training. The agronomist should understand the effect of agriculture on the aquatic ecosystems. The fisheries biologist should have a knowledge of the problems of the agricultural producers. All of the natural resource endeavors should be included in the exchange of ideas, including forestry, wildlife biology, mining, engineering, agronomy, and others. The educational process that began with the exchange of information between disciplines in the academic centers must then be expanded to include supervisory personnel, field personnel, producers, and citizens groups. This can be accomplished by arranging regional seminars, where land use planning can be discussed in a public forum. An effort should be made to include representatives of local, state, and federal governments in these discussions. Members of federal and state natural resource agencies should also be involved. Understanding of interrelationships will lead to cooperative solutions to watershed problems. Alternatives Any conservation effort that plans to "lock up" the nation's resources is doomed to failure. A successful approach to solving environmental problems is to encourage practices that utilize natural resources in a way that minimizes environmental damage. An exception to this philosophy would be required in the case of some fragile native trout streams and unique quality waters, where total preservation of the watershed is required. To oppose a practice without suggesting an alternative is a completely negative way to approach any natural resource problem. In the case of every practice that degrades trout habitat, an alternative is available. Channelization is a good example of the possibilities of this kind of approach. The conservationist ~be concerned with the problems of flooding and erosion. However, he can offer the alternatives of reforestation of the watershed and flood plain zoning as the answer to flooding problems, and riprapping and planting of streamside vegetation as the cure for erosion. Thereby, the problems are addressed, and damage to aquatic habitat is minimized. MANAGEMENT OF TROUT STREAMS After the problems of habitat degradation have been dealt with, we must face the question of how our trout streams should be managed, in order to optimize the resource. The Trout Unlimited North American Policy for Salmonid Use and Management contains a sound plan. This policy addresses all parameters of trout stream management, including administration, habitat maintenance and improvement, protection of rare species, protection of unique waters and selection of management species. It is the position of Trout Unlimited that waters that have the potential for reproduction of trout be managed as wild trout habitat. and that "put and 16 �take" stocking of trout be limited to marginal waters. The emphasis should be placed on establishing biologically sound quality fisheries, rather than the poor substitute that "put and take" fisheries management provides. Regulations should be established for each type of stream to optimize the population of trout. An ideal formula for the administration of a region's cold water fishery is to classify", protect, manage, and restore. THE FUTURE I would like to suggest that a yearly trout forum be established in the Southeast. It is not enough to merely identify the problems associated with trout habitat and management. A continuing program to develop and implement solutions must be established. We, the wildlife professionals and conservationists who have a direct interest in trout habitat, are the best hope that the wild trout will not be added to the endangered species list in the Southern Appalachians. LITERATURE CITED Trout Unlimited 1964. North American Policy for Salmonid Use and Management. Trout Unlimited, 4260 East Evans Avenue, Denver, Colorado 80222. 17 �TROUT, ITS HABITAT, AND THE FISHERMAN Fred R. Dorseyli Regulations should be geared to the trout and its habitat to produce a quality fishery. The fisherman has little or no effect on a trout's habitat. The only way to destroy a trout fishery is to destroy its habitat. Quoting from Dr. Frederic F. Fish, former assistant chief, Division of Inland Fisheries, N. C. Wildlife Resources Commission writing in Wildlife in North Carolina, August 1969. "The estimated contribution to the total trout harvest made by hatcherypropagated yearling trout simply will not support a contention that hatchery fish of this size constitute essential protection against extermination of the wild trout. Wild trout are exterminated by destruction of their habitat and, while fishing success may be greatly reduced through intensive hook-and-line fishing, the fish themselves will not be exterminated. Hatchery-propagated yearling trout are just too expensive a commodity to be employed merely as insurance for wild trout which are perfectly capable of fending for themselves." One of the best illustrations of trout fending for themselves is found in the Rocky Broad River. This is a stream which runs alongside a main highway and is fished heavily all season (any lure). In spite of this pressure this stream continues to yield native fish in numbers comparable to the socalled native streams where bait is prohibited. I can cite many more examples, such as Green River, North, East and West Forks of the French Broad. (North Fork is now classified as native). Many others continue to produce trophy size trout in spite of heavy fishing pressure, all types of bait. Please note, no attempt is made to modify the trout's habitat. The reason I mention this at this point is the fact that some attempts have been made on private streams in Western North Carolina to alter the trout's habitat. The feeding of trout has been undertaken with a great deal of success, but I am certain that this is very expensive. These streams are not open to the public, but to only a selected few of the owners' friends. Flies and/or artificial lures only are permitted. The great success is enjoyed only by a few. These same individuals bemoan the fact that many of our streams are still open to the bait fisherman. They tend to forget that only 13% of the trout fishermen use only artificial lures. They also do not mention the prohibitive cost involved in feeding approximately 2000 miles of trout streams. I shall never forget the trip I made to one of these private streams, Neither can I forget the other thousands of trout fishermen who are unable to enjoy these paradises. Please allow me to recount another trip to a "virgin" trout stream which I made a few years ago. Needless to say, I had visions of huge rainbow trout or monster brown which would break my 4-lb. leader without any effort. It didn't take many casts to realize that the ideal trout stream is not one where the taking of trout is prohibited. 1/North Carolina Wildlife Federation, East Flat Rock, N.C. 18 �I caught many beautifully colored rainbow trout, some of their bodies were practically all red. They had huge heads with very small bodies, most averaging about 6-8 inches. I vowed never to forget this important lesson. The trout is a renewable resource; unless there is a reasonable harvest, the available food is quickly consumed, resulting in a stream full of runts. Our wildlife biologists are certainly aware of this situation and yet, more streams are being added to the native or trophy concept. Let•s have a look at what happens when a stream is placed under native or trophy regulations. On Lost Cove Creek when the stream was closed to bait fishing, the fishermen stayed away, fisherman trips dropped from a high of 612 to 175. The same thing happened to South Mills River, and the North Fork. Rather than expend 95% of our efforts in trying to manage the fishermen, isn•t it time to start managing the trout and its habitat. Isn•t it time to start doing something about the uncontrolled development that is destroying more habitat and fisheries in one year than millions of trout fishermen could ever destroy. Think of this, when our mountain lands are listed on the tax books at the same value as business property, I think we will continue to lose more than just trout. I think it worth repeating, the sure way to exterminate a trout fishery is to destroy its habitat. LITERATURE CITED Fish, Dr. Frederic F., April 1968, Trout at the Crossroads, WILDLIFE IN NORTH CAROLINA Fish, Dr. Frederic F., June 1969, Study VI. Trout Fishery Surveillance, Statewide Fisheries Research, Federal Aid in Fish Restoration Project F-19 Fish, Dr. Frederic F.i August 1969, Trout: Which Fork at the Crossroads?, WILDLIFE IN NORTH CAROLINA 19 �REVIEW OF SELECTED PARAMETERS OF TROUT STREAM QUALITY 1/ L. B. Tebo, Jr.- Abstract.--Physical and chemical parameters important to the productivity of trout streams include temperature, dissolved oxygen, water clarity, and substrate characteristics. Temperature is the critical parameter; and maximum weekly average during the summer should not exceed 66°F, with short-term maximums for survival of 73° to 75°F for brook and rainbow trout respectively. For optimum production, oxygen should be maintained at natural levels. Potentially severe effects of turbidity and siltation require that every effort be made to keep mineral solids from reaching a watercourse. High-quality, natural trout streams are characterized by low water temperature, high water transparency, high dissolved oxygen concentrations, and by sufficient accessible areas of clean, unsilted substrate to allow reproduction of native and/or introduced salmonid species. Each of the above parameters may be readily altered by perturbations resulting from man's activities; and consequently, trout streams are among the most sensitive ecosystems with which resource managers and regulatorx agencies must cope. Among the activities which may seriously disrupt trout streams may be included: Mining. Road Building. Deforestation. Channelization. Darn construction. Oxygen-demanding industrial and domestic wastes. Heated wastes from industry. Turbid wastes from industry. Dredging. Irrigation. ll Chief, Ecology Branch, Surveillance and Analysis Division, Region IV, Environmental Protection Agency, Athens, Georgia. 20 �In addition to their sensitivity, trout streams are relatively low in productivity (Needham 1939) and are limited in geographic location and total acreage. These factors combined with the high value of trout streams for esthetic, recreational, and economic reasons have resulted in special attention from state and federal agencies charged with the responsibility of managing natural resources and from regulatory agencies engaged in the control of water pollution. Recent national water pollution control legislation of importance for the maintenance and restoration of trout-stream quality include the Water Quality Act of 1965 (Public Law 89-234) and the Federal Water Pollution Control Act Amendments of 1972 (Public Law 92-500). Public Law 89-234 provided for the classification of interstate waters for various uses, including propagation of fish and wildlife and for the establishment of standards of water quality for each use. In implementation of this act trout waters were singled out for particular attention in terms of dissolved oxygen and temperature. Unfortunately, many excellent trout streams are not interstate in extent and thus do not come under the terms of Public Law 89-234. Public Law 92-500 marshalled in a new era of water pollution control with stated national goals, including that: The discharge of pollutants into navigable waters be eliminated by 1985. Wherever attainable, an interim goal of water quality which provides for the protection and propagation of fish, shellfish, and wildlife and provides for recreation in and on the water be achieved by July 1, 1983. Navigable waters were broadly defined as "waters of the United States, including territorial seas;" and thus, essentially all inland streams were brought under the umbrella of this act. The scope of this paper is limited to a discussion of the significance, for streams only, of natural levels, degradation and regulatory standards pertaining to selected parameters of importance in determining the quality and productivity of trout streams. TEMPERATURE Water temperature is the single most important environmental parameter determining the suitability of a stream for the propagation and maintenance of trout. Temperature limits the geographic distribution of streams suitable for trout to areas of the U. S. where cool summertime air temperatures, dense shade, snow melt, and input of cold subterranean waters from springs and underground rivers act singly or in combination to maintain suitable stream temperatures. 21 �Needham (1969) reported the limiting high temperatures for brook, brown, and rainbow trout to be 75°F, 81°F, and 83°F respectively. These temperatures are near lethal levels, and streams having temperatures this high would be unlikely to support a self-sustaining trout population. As stated by Brett (1960), "a major requirement for a physical environmental factor like temperature is that it should provide for a level of activity commensurate with maintaining the species at a population level which is more than just a token sample." Temperature affects all metabolic and reproductive activities of fish including such critical functions as growth, swimming, and the ability to capture and assimilate food. Accordingly, optimum temperature requirements may vary, depending on season and life stage. Based on an evaluation of available research USEPA (1973) provides recommendations as to maximum temperature for critical functions of rainbow trout and brook trout (Table 2). For long-term exposure (growth column) a temperature that is one-third of the range between the optimum growth temperature and the ultimate incipient lethal temperature was selected. Maxima for adult survival listed in Table 2 are based on the 24-hour median tolerance limit minus a 2°C (3.6°F) safety factor to assure no mortality. The maximum weekly average temperature should preferably be based on hourly readings from a constant recording device (168 data points per week). Table 1.--Maximum weekly average temperature for growth and spawning and shortterm maxima for survival of juveniles, adults, and embryos (centigrade and fahrenheit).§!./ Rainbow Trout Juvenile and adult growth during summer Short-term maxima for survival of juveniles and adults Spawning Short-term maxima for embryo survival ~I Brook Trout 19 (66) 19 (66) 24 (75) 9 (48) 13 (55) 23 (73) 9 (48) 13 (55) From USEPA (1973). Numerous activities may influence stream temperatures including deforestation from logging, fires, and agricultural practices; irrigation; groundwater overdraft; impoundment; and heated discharges from industry. The effects of various types and levels of deforestation (strip cutting, patch cutting, complete clearcutting, understory removal, etc.) on stream temperature have received wide attention, and studies in general have shown that extensive removal of riparian cover can seriously alter water temperature. Burns (1972) found that a 140-percent increase in radiation from road construction beside a small California stream increased water temperatures by as much as 11.1°C. Greene (1950) reported that a stream draining a deforested basin 22 �in western North Carolina had maximum temperatures 9 to 23°F higher than an adJacent forested stream. The average increase of the maximum was approximately 12 F. Greene further reported that the farm stream temperature decreased from 80° to 68°F (12°F) after meandering through approximately 400 feet of cover. Eschner and Larmoyeux (1963) reported an 8°F increase in temperature resulting from clearcut logging of a West Virginia watershed. These authors were of the opinion that the increases in stream temperature were the result of heating the entire watershed rather than the effect of direct insolation on the exposed water surface. The most severe increases in temperature were reported by Brown and Krygier (1970) and USEPA (1971) for a stream draining a clearcut watershed of a small Oregon stream where increases in maximum temperature of 28°F were recorded. Higher temperatures persisted for 4 years, although regrowth resulted in a general decrease toward pre-logging levels in the latter years of study. The authors predicted that summer maxima would approach pre-logging levels after 6 years. These authors determined that the principal cause of high water temperature following logging is exposure of the stream to direct insolation, not increased soil temperature of the drainage basin as suggested by Eschner and Larmoyeaux. Brown (1969) showed that net thermal radiation is the predominant source of energy for the stream, while evaporation and convection seem to play a minor role. Brown further found that substrate plays an important role in temperature relations of streams with solid rock serving as a significant energy sink and source (depending on time of day) while gravel bottoms seemed to be insignificant energy sinks. Studies of heat loss from a thermally loaded stream showed that even in the shade, relatively small amounts of heat are added to the stream throughout the day; thus, it would be anticipated that the stream will not cool as it flows through a shaded reach but will continue to increase in temperature at a very slow rate (USEPA 1971). My studies of stream temperatures at Coweeta Experimental Forest during 1953 and 1954 showed that there was a continuous and gradual downstream increase in temperature in a 650-meter section of Shope Creek as it flowed through alternately cleared and forested areas and thus, confirms the conclusion of the USEPA report. These findings are in conflict with the data of Greene (1950) mentioned previously and those of Burns (1972), who found that downstream from a cut area on a California trout stream there was a one-half degree centigrade decrease in stream temperature for each 100 meters of uncut area. It appears quite likely that cooling by intermittent strips of stream cover is highly site-specific and dependent upon such factors as intensity of shade, air temperature in cleared versus shaded areas, substrate characteristics, and level of evaporative cooling as influenced by variable stream turbulence. OXYGEN Adequate dissolved oxygen is a necessity for the propagation and survival of trout and the instream organisms upon which they depend for food. Concentra- 23 �tions of dissolved oxygen in water are dependent upon temperature, pressure, physical aeration, and the balance of photosynthetic and respiratory activities of resident plants and animals. Because of cool water temperatures and high rates of aeration, most unpolluted trout streams maintain relatively high concentrations of dissolved oxygen. It has generally been shown that for optimum conduct of metabolic and reproductive activities, trout require high levels of dissolved oxygen; and for maximum protection designed to fully insure unimpaired productivity, Doudoroff and Shumway (1970), in a comprehensive summary of oxygen requirements of fishes, indicate that oxygen concentrations should not be reduced below levels naturally occurring during different periods of the year. Deleterious alterations of dissolved oxygen in trout streams may result from impoundment, from inputs of decomposable organics, and from excess growths of aquatic plants. Reductions in dissolved oxygen below impoundments are wellknown and result from withdrawals of water from deep deoxygenated layers of the impoundment during summer stratification or from interflows of deoxygenated water at depths coinciding with depths of the penstocks. Excess growths of aquatic plants may cause severe diel fluctuations in dissolved oxygen with daytime supersaturation and anoxic conditions during the night. Although severe effects of aquatic plant growths are certainly a potential problem, I am not aware of any trout stream studies where this phenomenon has been documented. The most common cause of oxygen depletion results from the discharge of oxygen-demanding organic wastes from agricultural, munieipal, and industrial sources and such occurrences are well-documented in the literature. Logging slash has been reported by Burns (1972) to have reduced dissolved oxygen in a trout stream to 5 ppm, while undisturbed sections of the same stream had 10 ppm of dissolved oxygen. Hansmann and Phinney (1973) reported that logging slash in Oregon streams reduced oxygen concentrations from natural levels of 10 to 12 ppm to as low as 0.6 ppm. TURBIDITY Mineral solids may affect the quality and productivity of a trout stream by creating unsightly and damaging turbidity while in suspension and by the deposition of silt on the stream bottom. Excellent reviews of this general subject have been presented by Cordone and Kelley (1961) and by Gammon (1970). The amount of sediment that can be transported in suspension by a stream is directly related to stream velocity and inversely related to the particle size of available sediments. Thus, unless influenced by continuous point discharges of sediments or by suspensoids of colloidal dimensions, most trout streams are quite clear during periods of low or normal streamflow. Measured turbidities of streams draining undisturbed forest lands have been reported to normally be less than 10 ppm (FWPCA 1970, Bartsch 1960, EPA 1971). In 1953 and 1954, I measured the turbidity of Ball and Shope Creeks on Coweeta Experimental Forest in North Carolina during six separate storm periods (Table 1). Turbidity of Ball Creek, 24 �which drained a relatively undisturbed watershed, ranged from approximately 3 ppm to 43 ppm. In Shope Creek, whose drainage system included small watersheds that had been subjected to logging and farming operations in earlier years, the turbidity during storm periods ranged from approximately 31 ppm to 808 ppm. During periods of normal to low streamflow during 1953 and 1954, the turbidity of both Ball and Shope Creeks was generally less than 5 ppm. Table data during storm 2eriods for Sho2e Creek and Ball Creek 1 Coweeta Ex2erimental Forest 2.--Turbidit~ Date 1953 Time Shope Creek Turbidity (J2J2m) Ball Creek Turbidity <rEm) Date 1954 Time Shope Creek Turbidity <rEm) Ball Creek Turbidity (J2J2m) 9-25 ll-22 12-9 1000 1345 lll5 46.2* ll2. 3 35.4 9.0* 36.1 16.7 2-20 2-20 2-20 1000 lll5 1500 63.6 31.0 808.2 4.7 3.2 43.0 *Represents the mean of three readings. The effects of poorly planned land use practices on stream turbidities are often quite dramatic, particularly during storm periods in areas of steep terrain. Turbidities reported during storm periods in streams draining improperly logged watersheds have ranged from 3,500 to 70,000 ppm (FWPCA 1970, Liebermann and Hoover 1948). Continuous high levels of turbidity from point sources such as sand- and gravel-washing facilities and mining operations are considerably more detrimental to stream fauna (Gammon 1970) than are the effects of intermittent turbidity from erosion products during storm runoff. Studies by Wallen (1951) showed that there were no directly observable effects of turbidity on fish until concentrations greater than 20,000 ppm were reached, and most individuals of all species studied endured exposures of 100,000 ppm for a week or longer. Since the above concentrations are greater than would be expected to occur in nature, it has generally been felt that the direct effects of turbidity on fish are negligible. Subsequent long-term studies by Herbert, et al. (196la and 196lb) indicate that direct effects on trout may occur at much lower concentrations than reported by Wallen. In the studies reported by Herbert, et al. (196la), fish were exposed to test concentrations of mineral suspended solids for periods of approximately 6 months. Survival was adversely affected by concentrations of 810 and 270 ppm, while 90 ppm appeared to have some adverse effects. Herbert, et al. (196lb) found 1,000 ppm of suspended solids from china clay workings markedly reduced the abundance of brown trout. Indirect effects of turbidity are undoubtedly of more significance to stream quality and productivity than is the direct mortality of trout. Trout are sight feeders, and reductions in visibility from turbidity reduce the ability 25 �of trout to locate food. Bachman (1958) found that cutthroat trout exposed to only 35 ppm of silt turbidity ceased to feed, while control fish fed actively throughout the study period. Numerous authors have noted that silt-induced turbidity reduced light penetration, with a concomitant reduction in primary production by instream plants (Ellis 1936, Chapman 1962, Bartsch 1960, Tarzwell 1957, Cordone and Kelley 1961). Corfitzen (1939) attributed lack of light penetration to the absence of algae in silt-laden canals. Cordone and Pennoyer (1960) found that an abundant population of algal pads of the genus Nostoc was virtually destroyed by sediment discharged into the Truckee River, California. Most studies of rnacroinvertebrates have been directed toward the effects of siltation, and few workers have attempted to differentiate the effects due to turbidity from suspended particles. In a very interesting study of an Indiana stream, Gammon (1970) found that when more than 80 mg/1 above background levels of inert solids were added to the stream, the population density of macroinvertebrates decreased to about 40 percent of normal. When 20 to 40 mg/1 were present for a part of each day, the depression in population density was about 75 percent of normal. These studies further revealed an increase in drift rate of macroinvertebrates from riffles in direct proportion to the increase in suspended solids concentration up to about 160 mg/1. Turbid streams have reduced esthetic appeal and, as indicated by creel census data from a highly turbid logged stream in western North Carolina, they support little fishermen use (Tebo 1956). SILTATION Characteristics of the substrate is of critical importance to the productivity of trout streams. The stream bottom is utilized for incubation and hatching of trout eggs, for development of trout fry, and is the residence of aquatic macroinvertebrates which serve as an important food source for trout and for other secondary and tertiary consumer species. Numerous studies of the effects of silt on trout reproduction have been conducted (Peters 1965, Shumway 1960, Hobbs 1937, Shapovalov and Taft 1954, Wickett 1954, Cooper 1956, and others). The findings of these studies overwhelmingly indicate that sedimentation in gravel riffles seriously reduces the survival of trout embryos and fry. Peters (1965) stated: "Continuous large sediment concentrations in a stream during the trout incubation period can determine the recruitment of young-of-the-year trout to the population. Without high yearly recruitment, the trout population can be replaced by a species whose needs are better supplied by the environment." Most workers have judged that both water velocity and dissolved oxygen concentrations determine adequacy of the gravel environment for hatching and survival of salmonid embryos and fry. Increases in sedimentation sufficient to alter 26 �gravel permeability reduces velocities and decreases intergravel dissolved oxygen. As pointed out by Doudoroff and Shumway (1970), it is impossible to separate the effects of lowered oxygen and reduced intergravel velocity in field experiments; and indeed, the smothering effect of silt deposited directly on developing eggs also confounds such experiments. Burns (1970) reviewed the subject of sediment particle size on survival and states that "survival is lower as the volume of materials less than 25 mm diameter increases." In studies on Deer Creek in Oregon, it was found that an increase of only 5 percent in material smaller than 0.8 mm caused a 19-percent decrease in emergence of silver salmon fry (Hall and Lantz 1969). Although allochthonous inputs may provide as high as two-thirds of the primary energy source (organic matter) for streams (Chapman and Demory 1963, Nelson and Scott 1962), it has also been conclusively demonstrated that benthic macroinvertebrates are of critical importance in the diet of trout (Leonard 1948, Henry 1949, Allen 1951, Tarzwell 1938, Tebo and Hassler 1963), and a serious reduction in this component of the trout food supply would be detrimental. Substrate characteristics of streams is one of the most important variables determining the composition and productivity of benthic macroinvertebrates (Smith and Moyle 1944, Weber 1973). Of the mineral substrates, rubble is reportedly most productive, with decreases in productivity as particle size decreases to the fineness of sand and silt (Sprules 1947, Smith and Moyle 1944, Tarzwell 1937). Organic sediments in pools are also high in productivity (Sprules 1947, Tarzwell 1938). An extensive review of literature by Cordone and Kelley (1961) led to the conclusion that the deposition of silt can and often has destroyed insect and mussel populations. Studies by Tebo (1955 and 1957) in North Carolina streams showed that during periods of silt accumulation below a logged watershed, there were significant reductions in standing crops of bottom organisms and further that organisms inhabiting the unstable substrate in the silted area were subject to severe decimation by floodwaters. Bartsch (1960) reported that turbid waters from gold-dredging operations in Oregon streams decreased the density of fish food organisms to almost zero. DISCUSSION Trout streams are exceptionally sensitive aquatic systems requiring the maintenance of high standards of water purity. Parameters of critical importance in determining the productivity of trout streams and reviewed in this paper, include temperature, dissolved oxygen, water transparency, and physical nature of the substrate. Water temperature is the key parameter and final determinant of whether a stream can or cannot support salmonids. Thus, if a stream is to be maintained for trout, there can be no compromise regarding activities which will increase temperatures above those necessary for maintenance and propagation of trout. Currently available evidence indicates that maximum average summertime tempera- 27 �tures for trout-producing waters should be near 66°F, with maximum upper shortterm limits below 73° to 75°F. Dissolved oxygen is of critical importance for trout-producing waters through its influence on physiological and reproductive activities of trout. Minimum levels of dissolved oxygen for survival of adult and fingerling salmonids is apparently near 2.0 ppm; however, much higher levels must be available to support a viable trout fishery and for optimum production, dissolved oxygen should be maintained at natural levels. Water clarity and substrate are influenced by turbidity and associated siltation from mineral solids. Accordingly, both clarity and substrate are highly sensitive to alterations in the mantle of protective vegetation which maintains soil stability and integrity. Turbidity sufficient to appreciably reduce water clarity impairs the esthetic and recreational value of trout streams; may cause trout mortality from gill clogging and abrasive effects; reduces instream production by plants; and may directly reduce the production of invertebrates which serve as an important food source for trout. Silt settling on a stream bed fills the productive interstices in gravel and rubble riffles, making them unsuitable for fish spawning and for production of food organisms; it blankets productive deposits of organic matter in pools, and deep pools which provide cover and living space for trout may be completely obliterated. Because of their recognized value, trout streams have received special consideration from regulatory agencies involved in the control of water pollution. A check of the water quality standards of three southeastern states and three western states reveals that stringent standards have been promulgated for dissolved oxygen, temperature, and turbidity in trout waters (Table 3). Table 3.--Water quality standards for trout waters in three southeastern states and three western states State NC GA TN co MT WY 1/ I_! Turbidity Temperature 6 .ol-1 68°F~1 maximum- No increase No limit specified over ambient permitted No limit specified No change permitted None harmful to fish life 68°F maximum - 5.4°F over ambient 6.0 68°F maximum - 2°F over 10 Jackson units over background background 68°F maximum - 2°F over 5 Jackson units over background 7.0 background 68°F maximum - 2°F over 10 Jackson units over background 6.0 background; no increase over spawning beds 5.0 mg/1 for put-and-take trout waters. 70°F maximum with 3°F increase for put-and-take waters. 5.0 6.0 28 �REFERENCES Allen, K. R. 1951. The Horokiwi stream: A study of a trout population. New Zealand Mar. Dept., Fish. Bull. No. 10, 231 p. Bachman, Roger Werner. 1958. The ecology of four north Idaho trout streams with reference to the influence of forest road construction. Master's Thesis, Univ. Idaho. 97 pp. Bartsch, Alfred F. 1960. Settable solids, turbidity, and light penetration as factors affecting water quality. Biological Problems in Water Pollution, Trans. 1959 Seminar, USDHEW, Cincinnati, Ohio. Tech. Rep. W60-3, R. A. Taft Sanitary Engineering Center, Cincinnati, Ohio. Brett, J. R. 1960. Thermal requirements of fish- Three decades of study, 1940-1970. Biological Problems in Water Pollution, Trans. 1959 Seminar, USDHEW, Cincinnati, Ohio. Tech. Rep. W60-3, R. A. Taft Sanitary Engineering Center, Cincinnati, Ohio. Brown, George W. 1969. Predicting temperatures of small streams. Resources Res., 5(1): 68-75. Water Brown, George W. and James T. Krygier. 1970. Effects of clear-cutting on stream temperature. Water Resources Res. 6: 1133-1139. Burns, James W. 1970. Spawning bed sedimentation studies in northern California streams. Calif. Fish & Game, 56(4): 253-270. Burns, James W. 1972. Some effects of logging and associated road construction on northern California streams. Trans. Amer. Fish. Soc., 101(1): 1-17. Chapman, D. W. 1962. Effects of logging upon fish resources of the west coast. Jour. Forestry, 60(8): 533-537. Chapman, Donald W. and Robert L. Demory. 1963. Seasonal changes in the food ingested by aquatic insect larvae and nymphs in two Oregon streams. Ecol. 44: 140-146. Cooper, A. C. 1956. A study of the Horsefly River and the effect of Placer mining operations on sockeye spawning grounds. Inter. Pacific Salmon Fish. Comm. Publ. 3: 1-58. Cordone, Almo J. and Don W. Kelley. 1961. The influences of inorganic sediment on the aquatic life of streams. Calif. Fish & Game, 47(2): 189-228. Cordone, Almo J. and Steve Pennoyer. 1960. Notes on silt pollution in the Truckee River drainage. Calif. Dept. Fish & Game, Inland Fish. Adm. Rept. No. 60-14. 25 pp. (mimeo). 29 �Corfitzen, W. E. 1939. A study of the effect of silt on absorbing light which promotes the growth of algae and moss in canals. USDI, Bur. Reclamation, 14 pp. (mimeo). Doudoroff, P. 1957. Water quality requirements of fishes and affects of toxic substances. In Margaret E. Brown (ed.), The Physiology of fishes, pp. 403-430-.- Academic Press, New York, NY Doudoroff, Peter and Dean L. Shumway. 1970. Dissolved oxygen requirements of freshwater fishes. FAO Fisheries Tech. Paper No. 86, 290 p. Ellis M. M. 29-42. 1936. Erosion silt as a factor in aquatic environments. Ecol. 17: Eschner, Arthur R. and Jack Larmoyeux. 1963. Logging and trout: Four experimental forest practices and their effect on water quality. Prog. FishCult., April 1963. FWPCA. 1970. Industrial waste guide on logging practices. Office, FWPCA, U. S. Department of the Interior. Greene, Geoffrey E. 1950. Cons. 5(3): 125-126. Land use and trout streams. N. W. Regional Jour. Soil & Water Gammon, James R. 1970. The effect of inorganic sediment on stream biota. EPA, Water Quality Office, Water Poll. Control Research Series No. 18050DWC12/70. Leonard, J. W. 1948. Importance of fish food insects in trout management. Mich. Cons. 17(1): 8-9. Lieberman, J. A. and M. D. Hoover, 1948. Protecting quality of stream flow by better logging. So. Lumberman, Dec. 15, 1948. Hall, J. D. and R. L. Lantz. 1969. Effects of logging on the habitat of Coho salmon and cutthroat trout in coastal streams, page 355-375. In T. G. Northcote (Ed.), Symposium on Salmon and Trout in Streams, Uni~ Brit. Columbia. Hansmann, Eugene W. and Harry K. Phinney. 1973. Effects of logging on periphyton in coastal streams of Oregon. Ecol. 54(1): 194-199. Henry. K. W. 1949. Michigan trout waters. Mich. Forester 30: 13-15, 41. Herbert, D.W.M., J. S. Alabaster, M. C. Dart, and R. Lloyd. 196lb. The effect of China-clay wastes on trout streams. Int. J. Air & Water Poll., 5(1): 56-74. Herbert, D. W. M. and J. C. Merkens. 196la. The effect of suspended mineral solids on the survival of trout. Int. J. Air & Water Poll., 5: 46-55. 30 �Hobbs, Derisley F. 1937. Natural reproduction of Quinnat salmon, brown and rainbow trout in certain New Zealand waters. N.Z. Mar. Dept. Fish Bull. No. 6, 104 pp. Hynes, H. B. N. Liverpool. 1960. The biology of polluted waters. Needham, P. R. 1939. Production in inland waters. Conf., 3: 353-358. The University Press, Proc. 6th Pacific Sci. Needham, Paul R. (Revised by Carl F. Bond). 1969. Trout Streams- Conditions that determine their productivity and suggestions for stream and lake management. Holden-Day, San Francisco, Calif. Nelson, D. J. and D. C. Scott. 1962. Role of detritus in the productivity of a rock-outcrop community in a Piedmont stream. Limnol. & Oceanogr. 7: 396-413. Peters, John C. 1965. The effects of stream sedimentation on trout embryo survival. Seminar on Biol. Problems in Water Pollution, US DREW, PHS, Cincinnati, Ohio, 1962. Shapovalov, Leo and Allan C. Taft. 1954. The life histories of the steelhead rainbow trout (Salmo gairdnerii gairdnerii) and silver salmon (Oncorhynchus kisutch). Calif. Dept. Fish & Game Fish Bull. 98, 375 pp. Shumway, Dean Lee. 1960. The influence of water velocity in the development of salmonid embryos at low oxygen levels. Master's Thesis, Ore. St. Univ., 49 pp. Smith, Lloyd L., Jr. and John B. Moyle. 1944. A biological survey and fishery management plan for the streams of the Lake Superior north shore watershed. Minn. Dept. of Conservation, Div. Game & Fish, Tech. Bull. No. 1, 228 p. Sprules, William N. 1947. An ecological investigation of stream insects in Algonquin Park, Ontario. Univ. Toronto Studies, Biol. Ser. No. 56, Publ. Ont. Fish. Res. Lab. No. 69, 81 pp. Tarzwell, C. M. 1937. Experimental evidence as to the value of trout stream improvement in Michigan. Trans. Am. Fish Soc. 66: 177-187. Tarzwell, C. M. 1938. An evaluation of the methods and results of stream improvement in the Southwest. Trans. N. Am. Wildl. Conf. 3: 339-364. Tarzwell, Clarence M. 1957. Water quality criteria for aquatic life. In Biological problems in water pollution, USDHEW, Robert A. Taft Sanitary Engr. Ctr., pp. 246-272. 31 �Tebo, L. B., Jr. 1955. Effects of siltation resulting from improper logging on the bottom fauna of a small trout stream in the southern Appalachians. Prog. Fish-Cult. 17(2): 64-70. Tebo, L. B., Jr. 1956. Effects of siltation on trout streams. Proc. 1956 Meeting, p. 198-202. Soc. Am. For. Tebo, L. B., Jr. and W. W. Hassler. 1963. Food of brook, brown, and rainbow trout in streams in western North Carolina. Jour. Elisha Mitchell Sci. Soc. 79(1); 44-53. USEPA. 1971. Studies on effects of watershed practices on streams. Agcy., Water Pollution Control Res. Ser. 13010EGA 02/71. Env. Prot. USEPA. 1973. Proposed criteria for water quality -Volume I. U. S. Environmental Protection Agency, Washington, DC Oct. 1973, 425 pages. Wallen, I. Eugene. 1951. The direct effect of turbidity on fishes. Okla. A&M, Biol. Ser. No. 2, 48(2);1-27. Bull. Weber, Cornelius I. (ed.). 1973. Biological field and laboratory methods for measuring the quality of surface waters and effluents. U. S. Env. Protection Agcy., Env. Monitoring Ser. 670/4-73-001. Wickett, W. Percy. 1954. The oxygen supply to salmon eggs in spawning beds. J. Fish. Res. Bd. Can., 11(6): 933-953. 32 �FOREST MANAGEMENT IMPACTS ON COLD WATER FISHERIES James E. Douglass and Monte E. Seehorn Southeastern Forest Experiment Station and Southern Region, USDA Forest Service Abstract.--Erosion is the mechanism likely to damage the aquatic resource when a forest is managed. Roads, logging, site preparation, and fire all increase erosion and stream siltation. Cutting forests increases streamflow when it is needed most, but conversion from hardwood to pine significantly reduces streamflow and, therefore, the size of the aquatic habitat. Herbicides and pesticides are constant threats, but pollution from these sources can usually be prevented. More research is needed to fully assess the effects on the aquatic community of logging debris in streams, channel clearing, increasing stream temperature from logging along the stream, and changing the nutrient budget of streams by fertilization or silvicultural practices. Additional keywords: Forest management, aquatic environment, trout, soil erosion, erosion control, sediment control, hydrologic properties, forest burning, forest soils, water yield, fertilization. An undisturbed forest produces water of relatively high quality. Any disturbance to the forest through use or management affects the system, and water is one of the first characteristics to be affected. Alteration of cover density or type changes the volume, timing, and quality of flow, and one of the greatest changes is to the quality of water. Turbidity is the most obviously affected. Turbidity, for example, has been shown to increase by 4,000 to 5,000 fold following logging where roads were "logger's choice" compared with an undisturbed forest (Reinhart, et al., 1963). Dr. Tebo (this symposium) has already presented information on the biological consequences of sediment and some other pollutants on the aquatic environment. We shall deal specifically with the importance of forestry operations on streams and how careful planning and execution can minimize the potentially harmful effects of management. EROSION AND ITS CAUSE Erosion takes place when energy available for detachment and transportation of soil exceeds the energy which binds soil particles in place. In the East, the major source of erosive energy is rainfall. Transportation of dislodged soil particles is also primarily by either falling rain or water flowing over the surface of the soil. Raindrops reach a maximum diameter of only about 5 mm, but they strike exposed soil like tiny bombs; they "explode," digging craters and blasting soil into surrounding areas. An inch of moderately intense rainfall delivers over 1,000 times more potential energy for erosion than an equivalent volume of water flowing uniformly over the soil surface. Overland flow is both an eroding force and a transporting medium for dislodged soil particles. As velocity of flow increases, energy available for erosion increases exponentially. The weight of soil which can be carried and the size of the particle which can be moved are increased by the 5th and 6th power of velocity. 33 �Erosion is proportional to both length and steepness of slope. Little or nothing can be done about these factors on forest land, and silvicultural practices may have to be modified on steep, long slopes. On man-made structures such as roads, length and steepness of slope can be controlled. Physical properties of soils determine their erodibility and influence stream turbidity (Middleton, 1930; Anderson, 1954). Indices of erosion hazard have been developed by the Soil Conservation Service for all southern soils. Cover conditions and conservation practices exert the greatest influence on erosion. Wischmeier and Smith (1965), who prepared a universal equation for estimating soil loss from agricultural lands, demonstrated that man•s management and conservation practices are more important in determining soil loss than all other factors combined. In the forest, the litter layer is the most important mechanism for soil conservation. A 2-inch depth of litter (about 2 tons per acre) is sufficient to minimize erosion on forest lands (Wischmeier, in press; Rowe, 1955). Litter serves two very important functions. First, it absorbs the erosion energy of raindrops. Secondly, as litter decomposes and is incorporated into mineral soil, soil density is reduced, porosity is increased, and infiltration rates of about 20 to over 100 inches per hour are common. Since rain nearly always falls at rates of less than 8 inches per hour, virtually all rainfall infiltrates into forest soils, and surface runoff from upland forest soils is rare. Consequently, annual soil losses are small, normally less than 150 pounds per acre from undisturbed forests and not much greater from depleted hardwoods or pine plantations growing on eroded soil (Ursie, 1963; Ursie and Duffy, 1972; Rogerson, 1971). In the Blue Ridge Mountains, losses are normally less than 100 pounds per acre (Douglass and Swank, 1974) and less than 250 pounds from a clearcut watershed and a grass-to-forest successional forest (Johnson and Swank, 1973). Although expressed on a per-acre basis, much of the soil loss from undisturbed forests is normal geologic erosion from the micro- and macrodrainage network rather than accelerated erosion. FORESTRY OPERATIONS WHICH INCREASE SILTING OF STREAMS From this discussion of erosion, it becomes clear that any activity which reduces energy absorption by the litter and allows raindrops to strike mineral soil will increase erosion and stream siltation. Similarly, any activity which compacts soil or reduces porosity will lower the infiltration rate. If infiltration is reduced and surface runoff occurs, increased erosion is a virtual certainty. Roads One of the most damaging aspects of forest management is erosion from roads. Megahan (1972) found that soil loss from roads was 220 times greater than from undisturbed forests. Turbidities as high as 56,000 ppm have been reported for 11 logger's choice 11 roads in West Virginia (Reinhart et al., 1963), and Packer (1967) reported that roads are the major source of increased turbidities during forest operations. Figure 1 shows the annual cycle of stream turbidities at Coweeta for an undisturbed and a logged watershed where roads were logger•s choice. Although the values shown are instantaneous and depend partly on whether samples were 34 �taken during storm or nonstorm periods, the general trend is unmistakable. Turbidity from the logged watershed is consistently higher in both storm and nonstorm periods. 10,000~ Exploltive Logging 1000 100 e ci. D. . >- "U ~ I Undisturbed ~ 10 May June July Aug Sept Oct Nov Dec Jan Feb Mar Apr Figure 1.--Comparison of stream turbidity on an undisturbed watershed and an exploitively logged watershed. Douglass and Swank (1974), Lieberman and Hoover (1948), Hoover (1945), and Reinhart et al. (1963) all reported that poorly constructed logging roads are a major cause of high soil losses and stream siltation. However, erosion and stream siltation can be held within reasonable bounds if roads are properly located, properly maintained, and properly stabilized. Since the road surface and unstabilized cuts and fills receive the energy of falling raindrops and running water, careful attention should be given to grades, length of slope, and drainage of accumulations of water. While all soil loss from roads cannot be eliminated, we have road construction and maintenance criteria which will maintain a healthy aquatic community (Hewlett and Douglass, 1958; Kochenderfer, 1970). Logging Improper logging can be a major source of erosion. Although erosion data associated with logging in the East are not available, evidence indicates that erosion loss is proportional to the area disturbed by exposure of mineral soil or compaction. The area disturbed varies with sale layout and design, supervision provided during the sale, and the logging equipment used to harvest the timber. Timber sale design and layout can greatly m1n1m1ze erosion by minimizing road, skid trail, and logging deck disturbance. Careful layout of logging roads well away from streams, requiring no blading off of mineral soil on skid 35 �trails, no crossing of streams except on roads, and setting gradient limits for off-road use of wheeled and track vehicles are other measures which reduce disturbance. The best sale design and layout, however, are of little value if supervision is inadequate and provisions of the contract are not enforced. Hatchell et al. (1970) showed that the area disturbed ranged from 3.2 to 22.8 percent for primary skid trails, 8.8 to 42 percent for secondary skid trails, and 0.3 to 4.6 percent for log decks in the Coastal Plains. Obviously, sale layout, supervision, or both were responsible for the 5- to 10-fold difference in disturbance during logging. The logging equipment used determines to some extent the degree of disturbance during logging. Dickerson (1968) found that clearcutting sawtimber in the Coastal Plains disturbed 50 percent more soil and clearcutting pulpwood disturbed 50 percent less soil than selection cutting. He found no appreciable difference in total area disturbed by log-length skidding by mule, A-frame, or crawler tractor but skidding with rubber-tired tractor disturbed the most (17%) area. In the West, Dyrness {1972) found that soil compaction varied: Tractor> high lead>skyline>balloon. He also found that tractor logging disturbed more area than high-lead logging (1965). Klock (1973) found cable skidding>tractor> skidding on bare soil>tractor skidding on snoW>helicopter logging. Meyer et al. (1966) found that articulated rubber-tired skidders caused greater damage than crawler tractors, particularly when skidding tree-length logs. Fredriksen (1970) found sediment losses of 0.15 tons per acre from undisturbed forests compared to 0.48 tons per acre after skyline logging with no roads. About 4 tons per acre were lost from high-lead logging by clearcutting where 25 percent of the area was cut in patches and 1.65 miles of road were used. Although not collected on southern Appalachian soils, these data probably illustrate range of disturbance by different logging equipment and operators in any area. Erosion loss attributable to felling and skidding per se is slight. Dissmeyer (1973) estimates that logging produced only 0.6 percent of the forestry related sediment production in the Santee River Basin. The remainder came from fire, skid trails, spur roads, landings, and mechanical site preparation. This small percentage can probably be reduced further by careful planning, supervision, and use of proper equipment and methods. Site Preparation Forecasts indicate that 30 million southern acres require planting or conversion from low-grade hardwoods to pine if our future timber needs are to be met. Heavy equipment (and perhaps fire) will be used extensively to prepare many sites for planting. This preparation bares mineral soil to the erosive force of falling rain and flowing water. Preparation with heavy equipment closely approximates agricultural practices and has the greatest potential for increasing erosion and stream siltation of any forestry practice. Dissmeyer (1973) estimates that 81 percent of the forestry-related erosion in the Santee River Basin is caused by site-preparation work. There are no quantitative data on soil losses associated with alternative site-preparation methods which might achieve the desired conditions while causing less erosion. Additional research on this subject is badly needed because of the potential damage to the soil, water, and aquatic resource. 36 �Fire The results from prescribed burning studies are variable. Some indicate that erosion is not increased and physical properties which affect infiltration are not adversely affected. However, fire bares soil to raindrop and crown drop. Copley et al. (1946) found that annual burning of second-growth hardwoods for 7 years caused erosion to increase from about 200 pounds per acre to 28.7 tons per acre per year. Prescribed burning and deadening hardwoods increased erosion in Mississippi (Ursie, 1970). Soil loss increased by 48 to 119 percent, but the maximum increase was less than 500 pounds per acre. Thus, it appears that prescribed burning may increase soil losses, but periodic prescribed burning of woodlands does not appear to be a threat to aquatic life in the mountains. Annual burning, however, can result in excessive erosion, stream siltation, and damage to trout. FOREST MANAGEMENT CHANGES STREAMFLOW A wealth of information is available to show that changes in forest cover conditions affect both the timing of flow and total annual flow. Douglass and Swank (1972; 1974) presented models for estimating the magnitude and duration of yield increases when hardwood forests are cut. On an annual basis, complete clearcutting of Appalachian hardwood forests will increase streamflow by from 8 to 18 area inches the first year after cutting; when hardwood forests are cut on a sustained-yield basis, annual flow will be about 0.5 to 2.5 inches greater than from an unmanaged or wilderness forest. Changes in flow distribution are more important to the aquatic community than total flow. Figure 2 shows the average change in monthly flow for 7 years when a hardwood-covered watershed was clearcut annually. Flow was approximately doubled during late summer, fall, and early winter, when it is normally low. Low flows can cause stress for trout, and increases in minimum flows may be of great value. Figure 3 compares the average monthly flow for a hardwood forest and the flow which occurred 16 years after this watershed was converted to a white pine plantation. The reduction in flow was attributed to greater interception and transpiration by the pine. Streamflow was reduced by over 8 inches annually. The greatest reduction in flow came during December through May, but reductions occurred in all months. Although small, the reductions during July through November are important because they occur when the trout population may be under stress. From these and numerous other watershed studies, it is clear that manipulating forest cover in the Applachians strongly influence streamflow and, therefore, the aquatic community. Hardwood management can increase the amount of water in streams thus enlarging the aquatic habitat. The largest increase comes the year after cutting, and increases diminish with time. Small increases in flow will occur on larger streams where sustained-yield management is practiced, and this additional water comes mostly during the period when the physical habitat is minimal. On the other hand, conversion of hardwood to pine will reduce flow after the pine has reached about 10 years of age. Thereafter, flow will probably remain significantly lower in all months until the pine forest is regenerated. This reduction will almost certainly have a negative effect on the aquatic resource, particularly if substantial portions of the watershed area are converted. 37 �COWEETA MAY-APRIL 6 5 EJIITI CJ MEAN 17 WATERYEAR 35 FLOW INCREASE :I: u z 4 ~ 0 ... " c( w 3 "' .... "' > c( MAY JUN JULYAUGSEPTOCT NOV DEC JAN FEB MAR APRIL Figure 2.--Comparison of the mean monthly flow from a hardwood-covered watershed with the average increase in streamflow during a ?-year period when that watershed was clearcut annually. OTHER MANAGEMENT EFFECTS Streamside Cuttings Water temperature is a limiting factor in both the geographical distribution and local occurrence of trout. If temperatures are not within the optimum range and trout cannot move to a more favorable habitat, the population is stressed. Certain forest management practices can increase water temperature in streams. Swift and Messer (1971) compared water temperature in streams draining undisturbed watersheds with those subjected to treatments which ranged from mountain farming to understory cuts. Opening streams to direct sunlight raised both winter and summer weekly maximum temperatures. Summer maximums were increased up to 12° F by clearing the forest and farming the land. The maximum weekly temperature increased 5 to 6 degrees after a complete clearcut. Summer weekly maximums declined somewhat as a coppice forest regrew. Hassler and Tebo (1958) found little change in temperature from clearcutting streamside vegetation along a third-order stream at Coweeta. Swift and Baker (1973) studied temperature changes inside clearcut and streamside shade 38 �strips on a commercially logged area near Asheville, N. C. Temperatures increased from 52° to 66° F in the clearcut. As the water flowed through an 800foot thinned buffer strip, a 200-foot clearcut, and another 900-foot buffer strip, temperature declined to 57° F. After flowing through 700 feet of uncut forest, the temperature dropped to 55° F. The study confirmed that a narrow buffer strip of uncut trees or shrubs along streams does moderate those increases in water temperature which might otherwise be caused by a forest cutting. Coweeta Watershed May. April 7 6 CJ Predicted Q Actual 1 1972- 73 StreamflowiHardwoodsl StreamflowiPinel 5 ... E Figure 3.--Comparison of predicted streamflow by months for a hardwood watershed with actual streamflow when that watershed supported a 16-year-old white pine plantation. While potentially harmful temperatures can result from removal of streamside vegetation, such occurrences should be rare. On Forest Service lands, clearcutting are normally smaller than 50 acres and frequently along streams too small to support trout. Even though stream temperature may increase within the cut area, when this water mixes with cooler water from uncut areas or with inflow along the stream below the cutting, the increase is very quickly dissipated by dilution. In the water-influence zone of larger streams, cutting practices are modified to provide shade. Even on private land where cutting size is not rigorously controlled, the very small proportion of the total forest area which is likely to be clearcut at one time tends to prevent acute thermal pollution problems. 39 �There are exceptions. We do not, for example, have data on what length of stream has to be cut before heating of water becomes a serious problen1. A 390- to 750-foot clearing does not appear to create excessive temperatures, but cutting l ,000 or more feet along streams might cause excessive temperature increases. Cutting extensive areas of swamps where large volun1es of water are in storage could also raise stream temperature dangerously. Water temperature naturally increases as elevation decreases. While some increases in temperature can be tolerated at higher elevations, at lower elevations where summer maximun1s are already at critical levels, no temperature increase can be tolerated. Not all effects of opening up the channel are adverse. Some increase in temperature may be beneficial. The increase in temperature and greater lighting of unshaded streams may stimulate photosynthetic activity. Hassler and Tebo (1958) found that a 390-foot cleared stretch of stream at Coweeta generally contained a greater volume of invertebrates per sample than a wooded stretch of the stream. Although untested, limited clearing along streams offers potential as a management tool for increasing trout food production. Wallace et al. (1970) found that stonefly nymphs (Peltoperla maria) showed definite feeding preferences for elm, alder, sourwood, and dogwood over rhododendron, white pine, white oak, and chestnut oak leaves. Since leaf material is one of the most important food sources for invertebrates (r·1inshall, 1967), manipulation of terrestrial plant cover adjacent to streams by complete or selective cutting may provide opportunities for improving the quality of food available to the aquatic community. Effects of Cutti~ on Nutrient Bud~ Since the initial reporting of high nutrient losses from a clearcutting followed by 3 successive years of herbicide treatment in New Hampshire (Likens et al ., 1970), fear has been expressed that clearcutting reduces site productivity. Also, the higher-than-normal nutrient concentrations are pollution by some definitions, and the nitrate concentrations at times exceeded drinking water standards. At Coweeta, detailed nutrient balance studies on four watersheds (undisturbed forest, grass-to-hardwood successional forest, young white pine plantation, and a regrowing coppice forest; Johnson and Swank, 1973) and on other watersheds subjected to a variety of forest-cutting practices have not shown appreciable changes in the ion budget, excert for nitrates (Douglass and Swank, 1974). Annual concentrations of N0 3 - N were increased by factors of four to 150, the highest concentration being 1.23 ppm for the grass-to-forest successional forest. This forest watershed has been limed, fertilized twice, and the grass was killed for 2 successive year~ with herbicides prior to the grass-to-hardwood succession study. Studies at the Bent Creek Experimental Forest confirm the findings at Coweeta that, except for nitrates, forest cuttings have little effect on stream nutrient concentrations. Streams in undisturbed forests in the Blue Ridge Mountains are normally low in nutrients. Nitrate concentrations at Cov1eeta, for exan1ple, normally range from .002 to .013 ppm. Because of the low fertility of streams, increases in calcium, phosphate, nitrates, and potassium might improve the productivity of aquatic habitat. Only nitrates seem to be increased by forest cuttings, and these small increases in nitrates may not be sufficient to produce a favorable response in the aquatic community. 40 �Fertilization Fertilizer is being used increasingly in forestry to improve the growth of trees. Hilmon and Douglass (1968) and Hornbeck and Pierce (1973) concluded that fertilization may stimulate water use by forest vegetation. Hornbeck and Pierce point out that direct application of fertilizer to the stream channel and an increase in nutrients contributed to the stream by subsurface flow might affect water quality. This, in turn, could produce changes in aquatic life. Aubertin et al. (1973) measured nutrients in streamflow from a West Virginia watershed before and after application of 500 pounds per acre of urea, about 11 pounds of which fell directly into the stream. Nitrate-N and ammonium-N concentrations increased immediately after application of the urea. Compared to the year before fertilization, there was a 10-fold increase in N03 - N vs. approximately a 50-percent reduction in ammonium in streamflow during the year after fertilization. If one considered the increased loss of N as coming entirely from the urea fertilization, then 17.8 percent of the applied N was discharged during the first year after treatment. Although not wholly attributable to the urea fertilization, increases in concentration of Ca, Mg, K, Cu, Zn, and decreases in Fe, total phosphate, and Mn were noted. The N03 - N concentration at times exceeded Public Health drinking water standards. Since N0 3 - N readily leaches from soils, nitrate and urea are the fertilizers most likely to affect water quality. Nand Pare of particular concern to limnologists. Werner (1973) points out that minerals are cycled through plant tissue and introduced to the stream as leaf detritus or from leaching through soil. His main conern was eutrophication, as commonly happens following agricultural applications of fertilizer. While eutrophication is a potential problem, a large percentage of the applied fertilizer is retained in the upper few inches of soil. For example, Sapper and Sagmuller (1966) found that 2 inches per week of sewage effluent applied at the equivalent of 2,500 pounds per acre of 10-10-10 fertilizer was largely retained in the surface foot of soil. Later applications of 4 inches per week showed that greatest changes in concentration of P and K percolate occurred in the surface foot, and N0 3 - N, Ca, Mg, and chloride concentrations equilibrated at 48 inches (Pennypacker et al., 1967). Because of this filtering action, only a small percentage of the applied fertilizer should reach streams from leaching. If enrichment is not excessive, some enrichment may stimulate primary productivity in our low fertility streams. Also, fertilizer-enriched leaf detritus might increase invertibrate populations. Additional study of the effects of forest fertilization on the aquatic community is planned. Pollution from Herbicides and Pesticides Herbicides are sometimes used to control vegetation on road, powerline and other right-of-ways, and in site preparation and timber stand improvement activities. They are also used to increase productivity in the aquatic food chain, but if present in sufficient concentrations, they are toxic to fish. The toxicity of different herbicides is variable; death occurring within 48 hours from concentrations ranging from 0.13 to 4,800 ppm depending on the formulation (Alabaster, 1969). Because herbicides operate on both the food chain and the fish themselves (Walker, 1971; 1972), efforts should be made to use the least toxic chemicals to nontarget organisms in forestry operations. Norris (1971) concludes that commonly used brush control chemicals can be used with minimum hazard to the environment. 41 �Pesticides are designed to kill, and numerous examples of fish kills and other aquatic problems are attributable to pesticides. However, the bulk of evidence indicates that herbicide and pesticide pollution can be reduced or eliminated by careful woods operations. At CovJeeta, for example, maintaining an unsprayed 10-foot buffer strip along the stream was sufficient to prevent atrazine and 2,4,5-T from reaching streams; Grzenda et al. (1964) found that DDT residues appeared in streams at Coweeta after spraying the entire basin for elm spanworm by fixed-wing aircraft. The following year, DDT 1·1as carefully applied by helicopter to upper slopes, and ridges and residues were not found in stream or sediment samples. Since most pesticides reach streams either attached to soil particles, from spray deposited in streams, or from drip from exposed plant material, a cardinal rule is to avoid spraying streamside areas. Because a wide variety of chemical compounds exist, use of rapidly degradable rather than persistent pesticides and herbicides can reduce both the initial hazard and the duration of hazard. ~ng Debris and Channel Clean~ Logging debris that falls into streams can create barriers to fish movement, cause unproductive sediment bars, and accelerated channel and bank cutting. It is virtually impossible to prevent some debris from entering stream channels during logging. When the quantity or size of detritus becomes excessive or when flow during storms is sufficient to cause debris jams or excessive bank cutting, debris should be removed. This is a judgmental decision, but generally, flow volume in the southern Appalachians is not sufficient to move logs in streams draining 50- to 100-acre watersheds. If debris is left in streams, it becomes an important and long-lasting food source for invertebrates. Additional study is needed to evaluate the overall effects of leaving detritus in small feeder streams. On National Forests, channels are cleared of old logging slash, blowdowns, old logs, and other debris. The practice can increase trout populations in certain situations but, like any management practice, it may be beneficial or detrimental. Productivity of the aquatic system can be improved by selectively removing barriers to fish movement and sediment bars while retaining debris which provides necessary cover. Carried to extremes, the practice can destroy productive gravel beds and eliminate fish cover. Guidelines have been developed for National Forest channel-cleaning work, but the effects of clearing debris on the aquatic community is another practice which has not been evaluated quantitatively. CONCLUSION Hydrology research in the Appalachians has defined many of the impacts of forest management practices on the water resource. For the most part, the information needed to protect the trout resource is available. However, the aquatic community is highly complex, and we do not know how some practices affect the food chain and ultimately the productivity of the trout resource. The ultimate objective of the research program in cold water fisheries is to develop the ability to predict how man's use of the forest will influence the trout resource and how the productivity of trout can be protected and enhanced. 42 �LITERATURE CITED Alabaster, J. S. 1969. Survival of fish in 164 herbicides, insecticides, fungicides, wilting agents and miscellaneous substances. Int. Pest Control 11 (2): 29-35. Anderson, H. W. 1954. Suspended sediment discharge as related to streamflow, topography, soil, and land use. Amer. Geophys. Union Trans. 35: 268-281. Aubertin, G. M., Smith, D. W., and Patrie, J. H. 1973. Quantity and quality of streamflow after urea fertilization on a forested watershed: first year results. In Forest Fertilization Symposium Proceedings. USDA For. Serv. Gen. Tech.lRep. NE-3, p. 88-100. Northeast. For. Exp. Stn., Upper Darby, Pa. Copley, T. L., Forrest, L.A., Augustine, M. T., and Lutz, J. F. 1946. Effects of land use and season on runoff and soil loss. N.C. Agric. Stn. Bull. 347, 27 p. Dickerson, B. P. 1968. Logging disturbance on erosive sites in North Mississippi. USDA For. Serv. Res. Pap. S0-72, 4 p. South. For. Exp. Stn., New Orleans, La. Dissmeyer, G. E. 1973. Evaluating the impact of individual forest management practices on suspended sediment. Paper presented at Natl. Meet. Soil Conserv. Soc. Amer., Hot Springs, Ark. Douglass, J. E., and Swank, W. T. 1972. Streamflow modification through management of eastern forests. USDA For. Serv. Res. Pap. SE-94, 15 p. Southeast. For. Exp. Stn., Asheville, N.C. Douglass, J. E., and Swank, W. T. 1974. Effects of management practices on water quality and quantity--Coweeta Hydrologic Laboratory. In Symposium on management of municipal watersheds. Northeast. For. Exp. St~, Upper Darby, Pa. (In Press). Dyrness, C. T. 1965. Soil surface condition following tractor and high-lead logging in the Oregon Cascades. J. For. 63: 272-275. Dyrness, C. T. 1972. Soil surface conditions following balloon logging. USDA For. Serv. Res. Note PNW-182, 7 p. Pac. Northwest For. Exp. Stn., Portland, Oreg. Fredrikson, R. L. 1970. Erosion and sedimentation following road construction and timber harvest on unstable soil in three small western Oregon watersheds. USDA For. Serv. Res. Pap. PNW-104, 15 p. Pac. Northwest For. Exp. Stn., Portland, Oreg. Grzenda, A. R., Nicholson, H. P., Teasley, J. L., and Patrie, J. H. 1964. residues in mountain stream water as influenced by treatment practices. Econ. Entomol. 57: 615-618. Hatchell, C. E., Ralston, C. W., and Foil, R. R. logging. J. For. 68: 772-775. 43 1970. DDT J. Soil disturbances in �Hassler, W. W., and Tebo, L. B., Jr. 1958. Fish management investigations on trout streams. N.C. Wildl. Resour., Fish Div., Proj. Completion Rep., Proj. F-4-R, 118 p. Hewlett, J. D., and Douglass, J. E. 1958. Blending forest uses. USDA For. Serv. Res. Pap. SE-37, 15 p. Southeast. For. Exp. Stn., Asheville, N.C. Hilmon, J. B., and Douglass, J. E. 1968. Potential impact of forest fertilization on range, wildlife and watershed management. In Symposium on Forest Fertilization, Theory and Practice. Tenn. Val. Auth.--197-202. Hoover, M. D. 1945. Careless skidding reduces benefits of forest cover for watershed protection. J. For. 43: 765-766. Hornbeck, J. W., and Pierce, R. S. 1973. Potential impact of forest fertilization on streamflow. In Forest Fertilization Symposium Proceedings. USDA For. Serv. Gen. Tech. Rep. NE-3, p. 79-87. Northeast. For. Exp. Stn., Upper Darby, Pa. Johnson, P. L., and Swank, W. T. 1973. Studies of cation budgets in the southern Appalachians on four experimental watersheds with contrasting vegetation. Ecology 54: 70-80. Klock, G. 0. 1973. Helicopter logging reduces soil surface disturbance, p. 20. In Proc. 46th Annu. Meet. Northwest. Sci. Assoc., Whitman Coll ., Walla Walla, Wash. Kochenderfer, J. N. 1970. Erosion control on logging roads in the Appalachians. USDA For. Serv. Res. Pap. NE-158, 28 p. Northeast. For. Exp. Stn., Upper Darby, Pa. Lieberman, J. A., and Hoover, M. D. 1948. The effect of uncontrolled logging on stream turbidity. Water and Sewage Works 95: 255-258. Likens, G. E., Bormann, F. H.,Johnson, N. M., Fisher, D. W., and Pierce, R. S. 1970. Effects of forest cutting and herbicide treatment on nutrient budgets in the Hubbard Brook Watershed Ecosystem. Ecol. Monogr. 40: 23-47. Megahan, W. F. 1972. Logging, erosion, sedimentation--are they dirty words? J. For. 70: 403-407. Meyer, G., Ohman, J. H., and Oettel, R. 1966. Skidding hardwoods--articulated rubber-tired skidders versus crawler tractors. J. For. 64: 191-196. Middleton, H. E. 1930. Properties of soils which influence erosion. Dep. Agric. Tech. Bull. 178, 16 p. U. S. Minshall, G. W. 1967. Role of allochthonous detritus in the trophic structure of a woodland springbrook community. Ecology 48: 139-149. Norris, L.A. 1971. 69: 715-720. Chemical brush control: assessing the hazard. J. For. Packer, P. E. 1967. Forest treatment effects on water quality. Natl. Sci. Found. Adv. Sci. Semin., Int. Symp. Forest Hydrol. Proc. 1965: 687-699. 44 �Pennypacker, S. P., Sapper, W. E., and Kardos, L. T. wastewater effluent by irrigation of forest land. Fed. 39(2): 285-296. 1967. Renovation of J. Water Pollut. Control Reinhart, K. G., Eschner, A. R., and Trimble, G. R., Jr. 1963. Effects on streamflow of four forest practices in the mountains of West Virginia. USDA For. Serv. Res. Pap. NE-1, 76 p. Northeast. For. Exp. Stn., Upper Darby, Pa. Rogerson, T. L. 1971. Hydrologic characteristics of small headwater catchments in the Quachita Mountains. USDA For. Serv. Res. Note S0-117, 5 p. South. For. Exp. Stn., New Orleans, La. Rowe, P. B. 1955. Effects of forest floor on dispostion of rainfall in pine stands. J. For. 53: 342-348. Sopper, W. E., and Sagmuller, C. J. 1966. Forest vegetation growth responses to irrigation with municipal sewage effluent. Paper presented at First Pan Amer. Soil Conserv. Cong., San Paulo, Brazil. Swift, L. W., Jr., and Baker, S. E. 1973. Lower water temperatures within a streamside buffer strip. USDA For. Serv. Res. Note SE-191, 7 p. Southeast. For. Exp. Stn., Asheville, N.C. Swift, L. W., Jr., and Messer, J. B. 1971. Forest cuttings raise temperatures of small streams in the southern Appalachians. J. Soil & Water Conserv. 26: 111-116. Tebo, L. B. 1974. Impacts of sediments and other impurities. In Symposium on Trout Habitat Research and Management in the Southern Appalachians. (In Press). Ursie, S. J. 1963. Sediment yields from small watersheds under various land uses and forest covers. In Proceedings of the Federal Inter-Agency Sedimentation Conference. ARs-Misc. Publ. No. 970, p. 47-52. Ursie, S. J. 1970. Hydrologic effects of prescribed burning and deadening upland hardwoods in northern Mississippi. USDA For. Serv. Res. Pap. S0-54, 16 p. South. For. Exp. Stn., New Orleans, La. Ursie, S. J., and Duffy, P. D. 1972. Hydrologic performance of eroded lands stabilized with pine, p. 203-216. In Proc. Miss. Water Resour. Conf., Water Resour. Res. Inst., Miss. State Uni~, State College, Miss. Walker, C. R. 1971. The toricological effects of herbicides and weed control of fish and other organisms in the aquatic ecosystem, p. 119-127. In Proc. Eur. Weed Res. Counc. 3rd Int. Symp. Aquat. Weeds. Walker, C. R. 1972. Ecological implications of pesticides used in or near aquatic environments, p. 235-250. In Proc. Tech. Sess. 18th Annu. Meet. Inst. Environ. Sci., New York, N.Y. Wallace, J. B., Woodall, W. R., and Sherberger, F. F. 1970. Breakdown of leaves by feeding of Peltoperla maria nymphs (Peltoperlidae). Annals Entomol. Soc. Amer. 63: 562-567. 45 �Werner, R. G. 1973. Water-quality-limnological concerns about forest fertilization. In Forest Fertilization Symposium Proceedings. USDA For. Serv. Gen. Tech--.Rep. NE-3, p. 72-78. Northeast. For. Exp. Stn., Upper Darby, Pa. Wischmeier, W. H. 1974. Estimating the cover and management factor for undisturbed areas. In Proc. 1972 Sediment Predict. Workshop, Oxford, Miss. {In Press). Wischmeier, W. H., and Smith, D. D. 1965. Rainfall-erosion losses from cropland east of the Rocky Mountains. USDA-ARS Agric. Handb. 282, 47 p. 46 �MINING IMPACTS ON TROUT HABITAT Ronald D. Hil111 Abstract.--Mining by its very nature is a destructive process. Environmental damages from mining such as sediment, acid mine drainage, and heavy metals are discussed in terms of their effect on trout habitat and their control. Pollution control must be considered during all phases of mining, i.e., pre-mining planning, active mining, closure, and abandonment. Additional keywords: Acid mine drainage, heavy metals, sediment, surface mines, underground mines. INTRODUCTION Mining is an extraction process. The disruption of the earth's surface and subsurface to remove the mineral wealth entombed therein, dictates that changes and possible damages will result to the environment. A certain price in environmental damage usually must be paid to obtain the minerals and energy required for our standard of living. The basic questions facing us are: (1) What is the price we must pay? (2) Can this price be reduced or eliminated? and (3) In what form do we desire to pay this price, i.e., loss of land values, recreational opportunities and fish, or higher prices for our commodities and energy? None of these questions are easy and the answers will vary from situation to situation. The only rational answer is to optimize both short-term and long-term costs and benefits to society. He must have mining if we are to survive, but this does not mean we must sacrifice the environment. Mining must be conducted in such a manner that environmental damages are held to a minimum. The U. S. Bureau of !,~ines reported (Paone 1974) that the land utilized by the mining industry from 1930 through 1971 amounted to 3.65 million acres or 0.16 percent of the land mass of the United States. Land was utilized for surface mining, wastes from underground and surface mining, and wastes from mill operations. Some land was also lost to subsidence. The following figures were presented for land utilization by commodity over the 1930-71 period and 1971 alone. These figures show that 58 percent of the land utilized is by the coal and sand-gravel industries. The following discussion on the impact of mining on trout habitat will cover the major sources of pollution from mining, and will emphasize the coal and sand-gravel industries. ~/Chief, Mining Pollution Control Branch, Industrial Waste Treatment Research Laboratory, National Environmental Hesearch Center, U. 8. Environmental Protection Agency, Cincinnati, Ohio 45268. 47 �1930-71 Acres Bituminous Coal Sand and Gravel Stone Clay Copper Iron Ore Phosphate Rock All Other Minerals 1,470,000 660,000 516,000 167,000 166,000 108,000 77,300 493,000 1971 Acres 73,200 46,400 25,000 7,460 19,100 8,620 10,200 16,400 WATER PROBLEMS ASSOCIATED WITH MINING Acid Mine Drainage One of the most troublesome mine drainage problems is caused by acidity. Although the exact mechanism of acid mine drainage formation is not fully understood, it is generally believed that pyrite (Fes 2 ), which is usually associated with coal and heavy metal m2n1ng, is oxidized by oxygen (equation 1) or ferric iron (equation 2) to produce ferrous sulfate and sulfuric acid. (1) (Pyrite) ---~Jo (Ferrous Iron) + (Sulfuric Acid) FeS + 14Fe 3 + 8H2 0 ---;,.~ (Pyrite) + (Ferric Iron) 15Fe 2+ 2- + 2S0 4 + 16H+ (Ferrous Iron) (2) + (Sulfate) (Acid) The reactions may proceed to form ferric hydroxide and more acid: 4FeS04 + 20 2 + 2H2 so 4 ~ Fe2 (S04) 3 + 6H2 0 p 2F~ (S04) 3 + 2H2 0 2Fe(OH)3 + 3H2 S04 (3) ( 4) A low pH water is produced (pH 2-4.5). At these pH levels, the heavy metals such as iron, calcium, magnesium, manganese, copper, and zinc are more soluble and enter into the solution to further pollute the water. A list of common pollutants found in acid mine drainage follows: Pollutant Range of Concentration pH Acidity Sulfate 1.5 - 6.5 50 - 50,000 mg/1 50 - 50,000 mg/1 48 �Iron Al 10 0 0 0 0 50 10 0 0 0 Mri Cu Zn Ca Mg Cd Na Ti - 5,000 200 100 500 400 3000 1000 10 5000 100 mg/1 mg/1 mg/1 mg/1 mg/1 mg/1 mg/1 mg/1 mg/1 mg/1 Other heavy metals are occasionally found in acid mine drainage. The above pollutants can harmtrout habitat by several means including immediate or long-term toxicity to f~sn, inhibition of !"~sn reproduction, (notably spawning and fish egg and larvae survival), and reduce or destroy the availability of fish food fauna. It is beyond the scope of this paper to discuss each of the pollutants and its toxicity limits, conditions, etc. The reader is referred to a U. S. Environmental Protection Agency publication by Kemp (1973). An estimated 10,000 miles of streams have been degraded by acid mine discharges in Appalachia (Applachian Regional Commission, 1969). Additional acid problems have been documented in all of the coal and mineral producing states. Alkaline Mine Drainage Alkaline mine drainage may result where no acid-producing material is associated with the mineral seam or where in situ neutralization of that -- ---acid which is produced has taken place. Alkaline mine drainage may be, but is not usually, as bad as acid mine drainage. Drainage from freshly exposed strata usually has a higher mineral content than that from undisturbed land because the strata has high levels of readily leachable materials. Curtis (1972) reported that he found the concentration of Ca, Mg, Al, S04, Fe, Mn, and Zn increased in three eastern Kentucky watersheds when surface mining occurred. The water had an alkaline pH. Some alkaline waters have high concentrations of ferrous iron and, upon oxidation and hydrolysis, form acid which lowers the pH and changes the drainage to the acid type. These types of discharges are more common to underground mines than surface mines. 49 �The western coal mines present new problems. In many areas the overburden material is highly alkaline and sometimes saline (Hodder 1973). Documentation of the alkaline and saline problem is almost non-existent. Sedimentation and Erosion The removal of the vegetation and the loosening and breaking up of the overburden by blasting, shovels, draglines, and dozers creates materials and conditions conducive to erosion. Curtis (1969) and Collier (1966) have documented the increased sediment and suspended solid from surface mine areas. Mine waste piles, haulroads, tailings ponds, coal and ore stockpiles, and benefication plants are all sources of sediment. Collier (1966) showed that a partially stripped watershed (6.4 percent of area) had an erosion rate of 5.9 tons per acre per year as compared to 0.7 tons per acre for an unmined area. While conducting a study on the environmental effects of the sand and gravel industry, Newport (1974) made a review of the effects of sediment on benthic communities, planktonic communities, fish population, fish reproduction, and fish species composition. He concluded that sediment had a major impact on fish. Although he concluded that a precise minimum concentration of inorganic solids for good fisheries had not been unequivocally established, the following were meaningful approximations: 0 25 100 4oo - 25 100 400 above No harmful effects of fisheries Good to moderate fisheries Unlikely to support good fisheries Poor fisheries Several states will not allow the suspended solids to increase more than 10 mg/1 in streams classified for trout. Erosion if influenced by the soil type (sand, cl~, salt. infiltration rate, and percolation rate); the climate (temperature and amount and type of rainfall); the topography (steepness, length of slope, land configuration and exposure); and the vegetation cover. Each of these factors should considered in the planning, development, and reclamation of a surface mine to prevent erosion. SOURCES OF MINE DRAINAGE Surface Mines Surface mines fall into two broad types: area and contour. Area surface mining is practiced on relatively flat terrain and usually encompasses a large tract of land, up to several hundred or more acres. Area surface mining can be found mainly in Ohio, Western Kentucky, Illinois, Indiana, and west of the Mississippi River. Contour mining is practiced on rolling to very steep terrain. Usually only a few cuts are made into the hillside and the coal seam is followed along the edge of the hill or mountain, leaving a trace which appears as a "contour line." 50 �In general, the pollution from area mines is not as severe as that from contour mines. During area mining, overburden can be more easily segregated and the acid producing or saline material more easily buried. Silt from erosion can often be confined to the mining area. The overburden can be graded to a slope that is less erosive. Final cuts can be filled with water to prevent oxidation of the pyrite material. Areas that have been area shown have been shown to have lower peak flows and increased base flows. (Grubb 1972) (Corbett 1965). The common practice in the past was the placement of the overburden from a contour mine onto the downslope of the adjacent area. This material was subject to severe erosion and landslides. Plass (1967) made a survey of eastern Kentucky and found that 12 percent of the outslope area had failed (landslides). Because of the landslide problem, West Virginia has limited the bench width on steep slopes greater than 65 percent. Even with these precautions, landslides still occur. Many water problems arise from contour mining. Because of their long, bare, steep uninterrupted slopes, the highwalls and spoil piles are subject to severe erosion. Sediment coming off these slopes has been known to clog stream channels; cover highweys; settle on cultivated land and kill crops; cover fish spawning beds; fill water courses and thereby subject adjacent land to flooding. Even when spoil piles are graded, problems occur. If the grading is toward the highwall, the water mey accumulate in an area of poor quality spoil (i.e., a spoil high in pyritic material) and mey, therefore, be degraded in quality. Where underground mines are located behind the highwalls, grading toward it often causes water to flow into the underground mine. This flow often flushes toxic material from the mine. When spoil piles are graded away from the highwall, erosion may be as bad or worse as when graded toward it unless good ~ater management practices are followed such as diversion ditches across the top of the highwall, ditches or terraces across the slope to break the slope length, and control structures to remove the water from the mining area. Underground Mines During the period when an underground mine is active, water must be removed either by gravity or by pumpage. The characteristics of this water will vary from seam to seam and even within the same mine. Following active mining, mines below drainage usually fill with water and are often no longer a source of pollution. However, those above drainage continue to discharge polluted water for decades. The Appalachian Study (1969) reported that active underground mines produced 18.8 percent of the acid mine drainage and inactive underground mines 52.5 percent. An additional 9.2 percent came from a combination surface-underground mm.ng. Thus , underground mines were involved with 80.5 percent of the acid mine drainage. 51 �Siltation is not usually associated with underground mines; however, the waste "gob" removed and piled outside the mine is a major source of silt, acid mine drainage, and often air pollution. Whereas control technology for surface mines is highly developed, the technology for underground mines is severely limited. Refuse Piles and Slurry Ponds Associated with many coal mines is a cleaning or processing plant where the coal is processed to remove dirt and impurities present in the coal. Two types of wastes - refuse and slurry - are discharged from a cleaning plant. The refuse is the coarse portion of the waste consisting largely of coal intermixed with pyrites, sandstones, clays, and shale. Historically, refuse has been piled adjacent to the cleaning plant and has created major silt and acid water pollution and air pollution. Slurry is the fine reject material which contains mostly coal, shale, and clay. The slurry is usually placed in lagoons adjacent to the plant. Slurry can create major sediment problems in streams when it is discharged directly to the stream or escapes from lagoons because of poor design, construction, or maintenance. Upon abandonment, slurry lagoons continue to be a menace unless they are stabilized. Often slurry ponds are not acidic. CONTROL OF MINE DRAINAGE Acid Problems The ultimate solution to the acid mine drainage problem is preventing its formation. As noted in equations 1 through 4, the reaction is dependent on air (oxygen) and water coming in contact with the sulfides. In addition to water being a reactant, it serves as the transport media for removing the pollutants, All prevention techniques are based on excluding water and/or air from the mining environment. Air: Air is necessary during the active operation of an underground mine. After the minerals have been extracted, excluding air should be an integral part of the mining plan. As areas are worked out, blockages should be made to prevent air from entering that section of the mine. Mines should be developed downdip so that they flood when abandoned. In this manner, water serves as an oxygen barrier. Injecting solid material into the mine, such as stope filling, should be encouraged and expanded. Not only can the mine drainage problem be decreased by blocking the flow of air, but a solid waste disposal problem can be resolved simultaneously. 52 �Sealing adits to prevent air from entering an underground mine has been in practice in the coal fields since the 1920's. This procedure at its best has only been marginally effective. Seals can be built to prevent air from entering the adit, but air reaches the mine readily through the fractured outcropping and overburden. With each change in barometric pressure, air is pumped in and out of the mine. Air sealing should not be considered as an acceptable method. Bulkhead or hydraulic mine seals have been shown to be successful (Foreman 1972). For this method, a seal is built in the adit and the outcrop is grouted to prevent water from leaving the mine. In time, the mine workings are flooded and oxygen is excluded from the sulfides. Excluding oxygen from the active surface mine is not feasible. Usually there is a delay between the time the sulfides are exposed to air and acid mine drainage is formed. High sulfide bearing material should be exposed for the shortest time possible. As part of the mining operation, this material should be covered with material containing little or on sulfides. The saving and replacement of top soil should be practiced. The cover material acts as an oxygen barrier. Wind and diffusion are the only driving torces for moving air through the cover material to the sulfides. The cover material should be vegetated with grasses, legumes, shrubs, forbs, etc. Not only does the vegetation serve to stabilize the cover material and prevent it from eroding, but upon dying, the vegetation decays and acts as an oxygen absorber. Refuse dumps at mines are major sources of mine drainage and should be constructed to prevent air movement into them. Sound techniques are compacting waste material as it is deposited at the dump and sandwiching layers of compacted clay between layers of waste. The slopes of the dumps should be kept to 33 percent or less to prevent wind from driving air into the pile. Upon abandonment, the surface of the pile should be sealed with an air barrier. Although many different materials have been evaluated, soil still remains the best. As in the case of surface mines, the surface should be vegetated. Water: Enough water is usually available in the moist air within an underground mine or within the material itself in a surface mine or waste dump to meet the requirement for the formation of mine drainage. The other function of water is as a transport media. It flushes the oxidation products from the sulfide and carries them into the environment. By controlling the water, these products can be contained. 53 �Provisions should be made to prevent water from entering the IDlnlng environment, except where it is to be used for flooding and as an oxygen barrier. Diversion ditches, dewatering of the mine, and sealing of fractures are just a few of the methods available. Water that does enter the mine should be removed as rapidly as possible. Silt Problems The control of silt from surface mines starts in the mine planning stage and follows through mining and final reclamation. During the planning stage, water handling throughout the operation should be carefully planned. This stage includes the location of diversion ditches to keep water out of the mine working, protection of natural drainageways, location of silt traps and basins, and the selection of a mining method to minimize erosion and landslides. The states of Kentucky (1973) and West Virginia (1972) have developed drainage handbooks as guidelines. In recent years several new mining methods such as slope reduction, box cut, and block cut have been developed to reduce silt and slides (Grim 1972). The removal, storage, and replacement of topsoil are other valuable tools in erosion control. Backfilling and planting should follow mining closely to minimize the period that bare material is exposed. Grading should be planned to keep slope length and steepness to a minimum. Terraces and benches should be included to reduce runoff rate. Final grading should be across the slope. Grasses should be planted on all areas for rapid erosion control, and trees may then be planted if needed or desired. Before planting, soil analysis should be made and the proper fertilizer and lime added. On steeper slopes, mulches may be needed. In some cases the silt basins may not be capable of reducing the sediment load to an acceptable level because of the colloidal nature of the material. The addition of lime, alum, and other flocculating chemicals might be reQuired in conjunction with the silt basin. Treatment Treatment has three places in the acid mine drainage scheme: (1) during active operations to produce a water acceptable for discharge to a stream, (2) in those situations where the production of acid mine drainage cannot be prevented, and (3) in those cases where water is needed for industrial or domestic use. Neutralization: The most commonly used method for treating acid mine drainage and removing heavy metals is neutralization. A typical system would include adding an alkaline reagent and mixing, aerating, and removing the precipitate. Alkaline reagents that may be used are ammonia, sodium carbonate, sodium hydroxide, limestone, and lime. In most cases, lime is used because of its lower cost and higher reactivity. 54 �Most heavy metals tend to precipitate as the pH is raised. Metals such as copper, zinc, iron, aluminum, manganese, nickel, and cobalt can be reduced to low levels (less than one-half mg metal/1) with pH adjustment, precipitation, and solids separation. In removing iron, aeration is used to convert the ferrous form to the ferric form to take advantage of the precipitation of ferric iron at a lower pH. In most cases, lime is used for neutralizing. Except for limestone, lime is the cheapest reagent and reacts rapidly. Lime and limestone unfortunately result in a voluminous sludge. Although limestone is cheaper and produces a denser sludge,it is not effective above a pH of 6.5 because of the slow attack of limestone by acidity at higher pH's. Two-stage treatment with limestone followed by lime appears to offer the advantages of both reagents. Although neutralization can be used to remove heavy metals and a portion of the sulfate, the resulting water is high in dissolved solids and sulfate. The disposal of the sludge is also a problem. Ion Exchange: Various ion exchange schemes had been applied to the treatment of coal acid mine drainage (Holmes 1972). These schemes can upgrade the water quality to potable use. Modification can be incorporated to recover heavy metals. Ion exchange has not received wide acceptance because of difficulties encountered with resin fouling, interfering ions, limited loading capacity, cost of operating and disposal of regenerating solutions. Further development is needed. Reverse Osmosis: Reverse osmosis (R.O.) has effectively removed multivalent ions from mine drainage, producing a near potable water. All heavy metals should be removed at about this same level (99 percent or better). Reverse osmosis is a concentrating process in which the pollutants are contained on one side of a membrane while the water passes through. Water recoveries (percent of water fed to unit that is available as treated water) have been as high as 90 percent. Water recovery is limited by the precipitation of material on the membrane when they have been concentrated beyond the materials saturation point. Calcium sulfate is usually the first material to be precipitated in mine drainage. Equations have been developed to predict the highest water recovery allowable under any influent condition (Wilmoth 1972). Summary Disturbing the earth to remove any material, whether by surface or undergroundmethods, will change the environment. Trout habitat will suffer if measures are not taken to control the pollutional aspects of mine drainage. We must strive to develop methods of controlling these discharges, enact strong mining laws, and pursue strong enforcement of the laws. 55 �With our present technology, most acid mine drainage problems can be controlled during active mining and upon abandonment of surface mines and refuse piles. This statement cannot be made of underground mines. In the majority of cases, acid mine drainage cannot be controlled from abandoned or orphaned underground mines. We have limited technology for controlling silt and landslides from surface mines. Great strides are being made in these areas, and we can be optimistic. REFERENCES Appalachian Regional Commission 1969. Acid Mine Drainage in Appalachia. 125 pp. Appalachian Regional Commission, Washington, D. C. Collier, C. R. et al 1966. Influence of Strip Mining on the Hydrological Environment of Beaver Creek Basin, U. S. Geological Survey, Prof. Paper 427-B and 427-C, Washington, D. C. Corbett, D. M. 1965. Water Supplied by Coal Surface Mines, Pike County, Indiana. Water Research Center Report of Investigation No. 1, Indiana University, Bloomington, Indiana. Curtis, Willie R. 1969. 'I'he Effects of Strip Mining on the Hydrology of a Small Mountain Watershed in Appalachia, U. S. Forest Service Paper, Berea, Kentucky. Curtis, Willie R. 1972. Chemical Changes in Streamflow Following Surface Mining in Eastern Kentucky. In Proceedings Fourth Symposium on Coal Mine Drainage Research, pp. 19-31, Bituminous Coal Research, Inc., Monroeville, Pennsylvania. Foreman, John W. 1972. Evaluation of Mine Sealing in Butler County, Pennsylvania. In Proceedings Fourth Symposium on Coal Mine Drainage Research, pp. 83-95, Bituminous Coal Research, Inc., Monroeville, Pennsylvania. Grim, E. C. and Hill, R. D. 1972. Surface Mining Method and Techniques. National Environmental Research Center Paper, U. S. Environmental Protection Agency, Cincinnati, Ohio. Grubb, H. F. and Ryder, P. D. 1972. Effects of Coal Mining on the Water Resources of the Tradewater River Basin, Kentucky. U. S. Geological Survey, Geological Survey Water Supply Paper 1940, Washington, D. C. Hodder, Richard L. 1973. Surface Mined Land Reclamation Research in Eastern Montana. In Proceedings Research and Applied Technology Symposium on Mined~and Reclamation, pp. 82-91, Bituminous Coal Research, Inc., Monroeville, Pennsylvania. 56 �Holmes, J. and Schmidt, K. 1972. Ion Exchange Treatment of Acid Mine Drainage. In Proceedings Fourth Symposium on Coal Mine Drainage Research, pp. 179-200, Bituminous Coal Research, Inc., Monroeville, Pennsylvania. Kemp, Homer T., Little, R. L., Holeman, V. L., and Darby, R. L. 1973. Water Quality Criterin Data Book -Vol. 5, Effects of Chemicals on Aquatic Life. 515 pp. U. S. Environmental Protection Agency, Water Pollution Control Research Series No. 18050HLA09/73, Washington, D. C. Kentucky 1973. A Manual of Kentucky Reclamation. Kentucky Department of Natural Resources and Environmental Protection, Frankfort, Kentucky. Newport, Bobby D. and Moyer, J. E. 1974. State-of-the-Art: Sand and Gravel Industry. 40 pp. U. S. Environmental Protection Agency, Environmental Protection Technology Series Report EPA-660/2-74-066, Corvallis, Oregon. Paone, James, Morning, JohnL., and Giorgetti, Leo 1974. Land Utilization and Reclamation in the Mining Industry, 1930-71. 61 pp. U. S. Bureau of Mines Information Circular IC8642, Washington, D. C. Plass, William T. 1967. Land Disturbances from Strip Mining in Eastern Kentucky. U. S. Forest Service Research Notes, Berea, Kentucky. West Virginia 1972. Drainage Handbook for Surface Mines. West Virginia Department of Natural Resources, Division of Reclamation, Charleston, W. Va. Wilmoth, R. C., Mason, D. G., and Gupton, M. 1972. In Proceedings Fourth Symposium on Coal Mine Drainage Research, pp. 115-15~ Bituminous Coal Research, Inc., Monroeville, Pennsylvania. 57 �STREAM CHANNELIZATION; AN ENGINEERING AND BIOLOGICAL REVIEW Raymond V. Corning.!( ABSTRACT - Peak rate of runoff estimates, estimated by different personnel and formulas, but for the same channels, disclosed variations exceeding 100%. Error or willful bias in the Manning equation for water discharge apparently shifts results logarithmically as the value of n (a judgmental value) increases or decreases. Most for channelization computations can vary widely depending on competency and bias of estimators, data collected or available, choice of formulas, and inherent error. Objectives of channelization were shown to be to modify the right hand side of the equation Q = L·W·D·a/T, in order to influence Q, or stream discharge. Since current velocities, cover, surface area, volumes and depths of streams are vital in determining variation in numbers of trout present in streams (all parameters influenced by the Q = L.W·D·a/T relationship), channelization markedly reduces trout populations. Channel straightening also reduces sport fishing 30 to 300% per mile of stream straightened. Means for reducing channelization problems include development of a watchdog attitude; impartial reviews of all computations; requiring benefit-cost ratios other than 1+: 1; hiring of appraisers to obtain benefit-cost information; developing State agency overseers, and research into which physical parameters affecting stream discharge can be modified with the least effect on stream environment. ADDITIONAL KEYWORDS: Variability in estimating channel needs. Physical factors of channelization. Relation of physical to biological factors. Possible solutions to problems. Turmoil in environmental areas is now common because of the shifting in fundamental ways of life and thought. Stream channelization practices are no exception. Historically, our past has been tied to exploitation of natural resources as a necessary and accepted practice. Because the reserves of most natural commodities and resources like unchannelized rivers and streams have declined drastically, rapidly increasing numbers of people recognize that the price tags of exploitation are too high to sanction further resource losses without a careful analysis of other alternatives. Hopefully, all parties will soon recognize that it is not in the National interest to return to old ways, and that the era of true conservation of natural resources has arrived to stay. This paper, while not an exhaustive treatise on stream channelization, is an attempt to clarify some basic stream channelization procedures and problems, to describe major changes in physical, chemical and biological parameters resulting from channelization and, to suggest ways for conserving, rather than exploiting, our rivers and streams. Perhaps what little clarification of stream channelization issues this paper might provide will in some small way help to reduce the pains of transition. REASONS FOR EMPLOYING CHANNELIZATION Stream channelization, sometimes called stream improvement, stream stabilization, or streambank shaping and grading, is carried out by a number of agencies, groups and individuals of varied responsibilities. In all cases channelization has two basic functions; 1) Channel enlargement increases cross sectional area of a channel, thereby increasing the capacity of the channel to convey water, and 2) Channel straightening increases stream gradient while decreasing stream length, allowing water to pass downstream more rapidly. Reasons given by the Federal Soil Conservation Service for stream channelization include the following; 1) drainage channels to remove surplus water from fields, towns and residential areas, 2) floodwater channels to carry floodwater in quantities sufficient for preventing or reducing the duration of flooding, and 3) diversion channels to intercept runoff, thereby protecting lower lying areas. Stream channelization is also used by this agency for reducing stream sediment transport rates and for reducing groundwater tables. Jj Fish Management Coordinator, Virginia Commission of Game and Inland Fisheries, Richmond, Virginia. 58 �The Corps of Army Engineers, Agricultural Stabilization and Conservation Service, Farmers Home Administration, Office of Emergency Preparedness (recently replaced by a new agency), and municipalities, employ channelization for much the same reasons as the Soil Conservation Service. In addition, the U.S. Corps of Army Engineers employs channelization for improving navigation (by eliminating oxbows and deepening and/or widening channels). State Highway Departments employ channelization to; 1) reduce the size of bridges at stream crossings, 2) reduce the number of bridges needed at stream crossings, 3) increase stream discharge rates, thereby reducing the probability of roadway flooding, 4) lower and/or maintain minimal water table levels near road beds, and 5) relocate stream channels when existing stream sections are wanted for road construction purposes. From an engineering or hydraulics viewpoint, the objective of stream channelization is to increase the rate of downstream discharge. 0, or the rate of stream discharge in feet per second is often defined as follows: L ·W · D ·a 0=---- length of stream used to determine rate of stream flow for timeT. stream width D= average stream depth at W. a = resistance of streambed and other obstructions to stream flow (usually a constant) T= O=h·W·D·a L= W= T time it takes water particles in cross section W · D to traverse length L. T Obviously, if 0 increases as a result of channelization and if the last stated formula defines 0, then one or more variables on the other side of the equation 0 = V·W·D·a must also have been affected by stream channelization. Channel enlargement, (the most common form of stream channelization) increases cross sectional area of a channel, or both W and D and has some effect on a. Channel straightening (another common channelization practice) increases stream gradient by decreasing stream length, thereby increasing the speed at which water passes downstream, or V. Again, a is affected to some extent. The variable a, in addition to being affected as above, can be modified further by removing stream blockages such as downed trees and debris accumulations. Lining the channel with other materials, such as cement can also change a. PROBLEMS IN DETERMINING NEED FOR CHANNELIZATION The source of funds for stream channelization activities is an important element when it comes to deciding what techniques will be used to determine whether stream channelization is or is not needed. Most Federal and State funded projects utilize standardized criteria for determining need, except when an emergency is deemed to exist. Standardized criteria are seldom employed when funds are provided by private sources or when Federal or State agencies feel an emergency exists. Municipalities may or may not employ criteria. PROBLEMS IN COLLECTING AND ANALYZING DATA A number of computational methods are used for determining anticipated storm runoffs, maximal flood stages, and water discharge capacities of natural and planned stream channels. The methods employed are somewhat dependent on amounts of information on hand or to be collected; for instance whether stream gaging records and rainfall information are available. Generally, this means the less hydrologic information available or collected, the greater the error involved in runoff and flood stage estimates. Certain types of information, no matter how carefully collected or analyzed, are subject to experimental error. This error can be substantial, even if large quantities of information are available. Competency of the individuals selecting and employing storm runoff, peak flood flow and channel capacity formulas, are of paramount importance. It is up to the individuals in charge to see that available information is used to the fullest, in the most appropriate formulas and to determine what additional information is needed. Should any major factors be overlooked or incorrectly interpreted, additional errors are introduced into final estimates. As aresult of the above, channels may be recommended when they are not needed and not recommended when construction would be appropriate. 59 �For further amplification of the above, estimated peak rates of runoff for the same stream sections are provided in Table 1. Rates determined by the rational and U.S.G.S. Dan Anderson methods compare favorably for the information provided. However, both methods are very similar in estimating techniques and the estimates were made by the same personnel. Estimates derived using S.C.S. procedures and other personnel vary widely from the others. Part of the difference is thought to be due to some judgmental error involving the first two estimating methods. Nevertheless, the Table illustrates how markedly flood peak estimates for identical waters can vary when carried out by separate personnel and by separate methods. Obviously, such profound differences could affect decision making and the results of benefit-cost analyses. Table 1.- Point ESTIMATED PEAK RATES OF RUNOFF USING THREE SEPARATE ESTIMATING PROCEDURES (Adapted from An non., 1972, Environmental Evaluation, Pohick Creek Watershed Project, Fairfax, Co. Virginia). S.C.S. Method Ultimate Flow Dam3 A B c D 46 453 582 608 887 Rational Method Ultimate Flow U.S.G.S. Method Ultimate Flow 46 672 1'149 1,065 1,567 Rational %Difference From S.C.S. Estimate U.S.G.S. %Difference From S.C.S. Estimate Rational % Difference From U.S.G.S. Estimate 0 +48.3 +97.4 +75.2 +76.6 0 + 69.5 +1 07.6 + 79.8 + 76.4 0 -12.5 4.9 2.6 + .1 46 768 1,208 1,093 1,565 Water discharge capacities of natural and planned stream channels are often estimated with the aid of an open-channel, slope-area formula. The Manning equation is the most used slope-area formula (Chow, 1964). One constant and four unknowns are incorporated into the formula; Q = 1.49/n A R2/3 S1/2. Three of the unknowns can be measured precisely in the field. The fourth, n or coefficient of roughness, involves a judgmental decision regarding the degree of retardation of flow as a result of roughness of the sides and bottom of the channel, variation in shape and size of cross sections, types and sizes of obstructions present, amounts and types of vegetation in the channel and channel meandering. Partiality on the part of the estimator, incompetency, inexperience, or lack of sufficient field review data can have a marked effect on final computations (See Table 2). Error tends to vary logarithmically as the value of n increases or decreases. Table 2.- SOLUTIONS OF THE MANNING EQUATION FOR A TRAPAZOIDAL CHANNEL HAVING ALL FACTORS CONSTANT EXCEPT MANNING'S n (22' bottom width, 1%:1 sideslope, 5.8' design depth, 0.00391 ft/ft hydraulic gradient). n Value Channel Capacity in Cubic Feet/Second 0.01 0.02 0.03 0.04 0.05 4,073 2,037 1,358 1,018 815 Water Velocity of Channel in Feet/Second 24.0 12.0 8.0 6.0 4.8 PROBLEMS IN BENEFIT-COST ANALYSIS Benefit-cost analyses are used to evaluate benefits of a project against costs, with a 1+ to 1 ratio acceptable by Federal Agencies. Normally, costs and benefits are determined in dollar values. Because many intangibles are associated with stream oriented environnnental values (such as educational, photographic, etc.), environmental damages have often been neglected. As a result, some costs have been vastly underestimated, while the practice has encouraged a lack of consideration for environmental values and needs. 60 �Land values, flood losses, and flood control gains estimated for use in benefit-cost analyses have been considered restricted information by some agencies and thereby made unavailable to the public or to critical interests. The major reason given has been that land values, etc. were solicited from land owners with the understanding information would not be divulged to others. Obviously, reviews by other agencies or persons wishing to verify the accuracy of projected benefits are blocked by the practice, and the question of proper or improper ratios cannot be decided. Successful isolation of benefit-cost data from outside critiques obviously encourages partiality to creep into projections. It also heightens suspicions of non-privileged groups, even if unfounded. CHANGES IN PHYSICAL, CHEMICAL AND BIOLOGICAL PARAMETERS Stream channelization destroys stream habitat for most fish and other stream inhabitants as well as for some wildlife by modifying the existing physical, chemical and biological conditions. CHANGING OF STREAM WIDTH, DEPTH AND VELOCITY RELATIONSHIPS Stream channelization profoundly affects stream width, depth and velocity relationships as evidenced previously when the formula 0 = V · W · D · a was discussed. Post-channelization stream velocities generally increase during high flows and decrease during low flows when compared to pre-channelization conditions. Average and maximum stream depths follow the same general pattern. Stream width (wetted surface width) after channelization tends to be slightly greater during low flows. Cover along streams is also eliminated during channelization activities as a by-product of width and velocity changes. Seventy to seventy-seven percent of the variation in numbers of trout (6.9 inches or over) inhabiting a Montana trout stream was attributed to differences in current velocities, stream cover, surface area, stream volumes and stream depths (Lewis, 1969). Current velocity and cover were found to be the two most important factors. Together, the two factors accounted for 66, 66 and 59 percent of the variation in numbers of total trout, brown trout and rainbow trout utilizing the stream. Any changes of stream velocity and cover as a result of channelization, therefore, could be expected to modify the numbers of larger trout maintained by the stream. This relationship must also hold for warmwater fishes, since studies by Tarplee, Louder and Weber ( 1971) indicated harvestable fish (6 inches or greater) were 75 percent less plentiful in channelized streams of North Carolina. Maximum estimated stream velocities for artificial channels constructed in Virginia by the S.C.S. have commonly varied from 4 to 7 feet per second. These velocities are in excess of the rates of speed many fishes can attain and are well in excess of those tolerated for sustained periods of time. According to studies carried out by Brett ( 1965) small sockeye salmon (one of the speediest of river fish) are only capable of maintaining maximum sustained swimming rates of 2.7 feet per second, with adults able to maintain maximum sustained rates of 5 feet per second. From the foregoing, it is obvious fishes can only maintain a continued presence in channels with fast moving water if down logs, rough streambeds and other obstructions adversely affecting the parameter 'n' of the Manning formula are present. Findings of Baldes and Vincent (1969) verify this assumption. They found that as stream velocities increased trout (like other fishes) depended more and more heavily on channel irregularities as resting areas. Hartman ( 1963) also found that as rates of flow increased brown trout became more dependent on the microhabitats provided by physical obstructions. CHANGES IN STREAM SINUOSITY Stream sinuosity (defined as the ratio of the length of the channel in a given curve to the wavelength of the curve) ranged between 1.3: 1 to 4:1 for 50 typical meanders selected from different streams in the U.S. (Leopold & Langbein, 1966). Based on these findings, a mile of channelized stream forming a straight line would reduce natural stream length by 0.3 to 3 miles. Percentage wise. sport fishing opportunities (or standing crops of organisms) would be reduced 30 to 300 percent for each mile channelized. OTHER CHANGES Maximum, minimum and overall ranges of stream temperatures, pool riffle ratios; dry season and wet season flows, streambed substrate compositions, allochonthous energy cycles; turbidity levels; pH; nitrate and phosphorus levels; food chain relationships and reproductive cycles are other parameters adversely affected by stream channelization. Is it any wonder that a study carried out by Elser ( 1968) confirmed that standing crops of trout were greatly reduced in channelized stream sectors? Trout were 78 percent more abundant in the unaltered mountain sections than in channelized sectors of the mountain stream. 61 �MEANS FOR REDUCING CHANNELIZATION IMPACTS A principal overseeing agency in each state, as an arm of State Government, would provide the best assurance that stream channelization activities were reviewed impartially for error and channelization needs. It would also allow proper regulation of activities. The appointed agency should not have parallel responsibilities for furthering or for carrying out stream channelization (no vested interests). Only a State agency would be in a position to properly police Federal, State and private stream channelization activities. Appeal procedures should be developed by this agency along with criteria which would apply to any proposed stream channelization. Authorities for seeing that designated criteria were followed should be granted to the selected agency. While many States already have adequate regulatory statutes for bringina about necessary compliance, for the most part these authorities are scattered among agencies. Necessary authorities should be consolidated and transferred collectively, or if no authorities exist, statutes should be drafted. In either event, legislative action would probably be required. An additional advantage of single agency control would be that the accumulation of channelization projects over time and on a watershed basis, could be monitored and evaluated as to possible increases in flood hazard. RESEARCH NEEDS Not all elements on the right hand side of the equation 0 = L·W·D·a/T, or 0 = V·WD·a must be modified in order to accomplish the aim of stream channelization, that is an increased rate of flow for channelized sectors. Properly designed studies are now needed to test the impact that individual elements have on stream biota. The element or elements most adversely affecting stream environments can thus be detected. Also, the elements exhibiting minimal impacts can be studied to determine the latitudes within which they can be modified without undue consequences. Hopefully, results from such studies can be used to develop new stream channelization criteria. These criteria could be used to determine the desirability of channelization and would minimize environmental damages when channelization was deemed essential. CONCLUSIONS AND RECOMMENDATIONS A basic review of engineering practices used in determining need for channelization leads one to conclude no estimates are absolute, with marked variations in results and conclusions possible. Due to the chance for errors, a 1+: 1 ratio of benefits to costs appears highly inappropriate for justifying stream channelization. A minimal ratio of 2: 1 (benefits: costs) appears more acceptable. The need for complete computational reviews by sources other than vested interests on whether sufficient hydrologic data was available or collected, is also obvious. Competency of personnel, bias of estimators, available information, choice of formulas and inherent error of formulas bear heavily on final calculations. Benefit-cost procedures need to be modified in a way which takes into account intangibles. Also, to avoid any problems involving restricted information in benefit-cost analyses, independent land appraisers (rather than landowners) should be hired to provide data. Additionally, a principal overseeing agency in each State should be selected and authorized to develop emergency and non-emergency channelization criteria, to carry out reviews and to enforce adopted regulations. The need for computational reviews, as well as checks on whether sufficient hydraulic data was available or collected by sources other than vested interests, is also obvious. LITERATURE CITED Anonymous. 1972. Environmental evaluation, Pohick Creek Watershed project, Fairfax County, Virginia. N. Va. Soil and Water Conservation Distr. Publ. Baldes, R. & R. Vincent. 1969. Physical parameters of micro-habitats occupied by brown trout in an experimental flume. Trans. Amer. Fish. Soc. 98(2):230-238. Brett, J. 1965. The swimming energetics of salmon. Sci. Amer. 213(2):80-85. Chow, V. 1964. Handbook of Applied Hydrology. McGraw-Hill Book Co. :29 Chpt. Elser, A. 1968. Fish populations of a trout stream in relation to major habitat zones and channel alterations. Trans. Amer. Fish Soc. 97(4):389-397. Hartman, G. 1963. Observations on the behavior of juvenile brown trout in a stream aquarium during winter and spring. J. Fish Res. Bd. Can 20:769-787. 62 �Leopold, L. & W.l..._~ngbein. 1966. River meanders. Sci. Amer. 213(6):60-69. Lewis, S. 1969. Phystcal factors influencing fish populations in pools of a trout stream. Trans. Amer. Fish Soc. 98(1):14-19. Tarplee, W. Jr., D. Louder and A. Weber. 1971. Evaluation of the effects of channelization on fish_ populations in North Carolina's coastal plain streams. N. C. Wildlife Res. Comm. Raleigh, N.C ji3 �PRODUCTIVITY OF SOUTHEASTERN STREAM ECOSYSTEMS Jackson R. Webster and J. Bruce Wallace ll Abstract.--Streams differ from terrestrial ecosystems in a number of characteristics. Most studies indicate the main source of energy to streams is in allochthonous inputs. A generalized Southeastern United States trout stream model is proposed and examples of organisms performing various functions are described. Additional keywords: Model Ecologists have used the words "productivity .. and "production" in a variety of ways. In his classic paper on trophic dynamics, Lindeman (1942) used productivity as the rate of contribution of energy from one trophic level to the next. Ivlev (1945) made a clear distinction between production and productivity. He used production as the formation of new biomass by a group of organisms in a given time and productivity as the capacity of a body of water to produce a specified "product of interest 11 • This distinction has been preserved by most aquatic biologists (Warren 1971); however the terms are used interchangeably by ecologists (Odum 1971, p. 43; Phillipson 1966, p. 6; Collier et ~· 1973, p. 375). Production may be defined at several levels of biological organization. At the individual level, production is essentially the growth rate of the organism. Material that is ingested (I) can be partitioned into egestion (E) and assimilation. Assimilation can be further partitioned into respiration (R) and production (P}, so the P = I-E-R. Production at the population level is usually estimated from growth rates, using the formula P = GB, where P is production, G is growth rate and B is biomass. The problem is complicated because different age classes have different growth rates. Methods of performing these calculations have been developed by a number of authors, e.g. Ricker (1946} and Allen (1951). The various methods have been applied to a population of mayflies by Waters and Crawford (1973). Two points should be brought out. First, production in this sense is Lindeman 1 s productivity minus respiration. Second, as used by biologists working at this level of organization, production is total tissue elaboration by the population whether or not it survives to the end of the period. A similar concept of production can be extended to trophic levels. Production by plant trophic levels is termed primary production. Total fixed 11 Institute of Ecology, University of Georgia, Athens, Georgia 30602. Research was supported in part by the Coweeta site of the Eastern Deciduous Forest Biome, US-IBP, funded by the National Science Foundation under interagency Agreement AG-199, 40-193-69 with the Atomic Energy Commission-Oak Ridge National Laboratory, and NSF Grant GB-41938. 64 �carbon is gross primary production and net primary production is gross primary production minus plant respiration. Methods of measuring production at higher levels are not well defined, primarily because of lack of a good definition of trophic level. A method developed by Hynes and Coleman (1968) has some usefulness, but is clearly an approximate method. Production at a community or ecosystem level usually refers to net production. Net community production is the rate of storage of organic matter not used by consumers. Clearly an ecosystem which is at a steady state has zero net production. In the time and space allotted to us it would be impossible to consider all factors affecting stream productivity (or production). A number of factors are important in controlling benthic invertebrate populations. Some of these are: current speed, temperature, substratum, oxygen, water acidity, alkalinity, shade, and floods. Hynes (1970) gives an excellent review of existing literature on these topics, their interrelations and effects on stream bottom fauna. This manuscript has been oriented toward trophic aspects of stream productivity, and problems of a theoretical approach to stream ecology. THE ECOSYSTEM APPROACH TO STREAM ECOLOGY In the past several decades there has been a shift by many ecologists from an individual and population oriented approach to a community and ecosystem oriented approach. This trend has only recently become apparent in stream ecology. Shelford and Eddy (1929) noted that plant ecologists usually assumed that there were no permanent fresh water communities. Armitage (1958) found that species occurred along a continuously fluctuating environment and that discreet communities could not be described. Shelford and Eddy 1 s hypothesis that permanent stream communities do exist has been upheld by a number of other studies (Sedell 1972). The study by Gersbacher (1937) Suggested the existence of but a single major community and its developmental stages 11 in the Sangamon River. Many previous and subsequent studies (reviewed by Hynes 1970) have shown distinct faunal zonations in streams associated with physical changes of the stream environment. Precise definitions of stream zones are probably not possible (Hynes 1970), but the notion of stream communities and stream ecosystems should be as useful and stimulating to stream ecology as it has been in other areas of ecology. With few exceptions, stream ecology has been dominated by zoologists (Cummins 1972) and only recently have any stream studies considered streams as interacting wholes (e.g. Sedell 1972; Boling, Peterson and Cummins 1974; Krumholz and Neff 1970). 11 Stream ecosystems are different from other ecosystems in several ways. Odum (1971) lists six ecosystem characteristics: 1. energy circuits, 2. nutrient cycling, 3. foodchains, 4. diversity, 5. development and evolution and 6. control. In the first three of these characteristics stream ecosystems have distinct differences from the commonly held view of ecosystems. The energy circuits of stream ecosystems are often not dependent on photosynthetic fixation 65 �of energy but instead are supported by allochthonous energy inputs. Nutrient cycles are essentially non-existent in streams. Instead there is a direct flowthrough of materials. The food chain concept of Latka (1925) and Lindeman (1942) has not been very useful in theoretical approaches to stream ecology. Instead a conceptual framework specifically related to the stream biota has proven more useful. THE ENERGY CIRCUIT OF STREAM ECOSYSTEMS Primary production may be very important in lotic ecosystems. In Table we have accumulated a number of estimates of primary production in flowing waters. These values may be compared with estimates of gross primary production in terrestrial and marine ecosystems. The minimum gross primary production Odum (1971) lists is 40 gjmZ/yr. (5000 cal. = 1 g) for deserts and tundras. The maximum is 4000 gjm2jyr. for estuaries, reefs and wet tropical and sub-tropical forests. In small headwater streams such as Bear Brook and Walker Branch primary production is extremely small. In larger streams however the estimates of production are in the range of the highest that have been examined. In Table 2 we have compared estimates of gross primary production with allochthonous leaf fall inputs. In most cases allochthonous inputs exceed autochthonous fixation. It should be pointed out that in this table we have considered only leaf fall. In large streams particulate detritus and dissolved organic matter carried by the stream water may be significant energy inputs. In the Thames River, for example, community respiration in places exceeded primary production (Mann et al. 1972). This is a common occurrence in polluted streams. Even in headwater streams the dissolved organic matter input from ground water may be significant. At Bear Brook, Fisher and Likens (1973) measured this source of energy as 300 g/m2/yr. Considering all allochthonous inputs, leaf fall, sub-surface flow and stream flow, the ratio of allochthonous to autochthonous inputs at Bear Brook was 628. The importance of detritus to marine organisms has been studied for a number of years (Darnell 1967), however, the importance of allochthonous detritus to stream ecology has only recently been recognized. Egglishaw (1964) noted that in Macan's reviews of stream ecology (Macan 1961, 1962) there was no mention of any statistics which considered plant detritus as an ecological factor. Scott (1958) considered the importance of dead leaves from the adjacent land to the biological balance of streams. Nelson and Scott (1962) first quantified the role of allochthonous detritus in streams. The importance of imported organic matter was emphasized by Hynes (1963). Ross (1963) found that the distribution of Trichoptera species in small streams was significantly influenced by the surrounding vegetation. In Doe Run, Minckley (1963) found a major dependence of primary consumers on detrital material. Darnell (1964) reported that the overwhelming mass of plant detritus consumed by benthic organisms in a Mexican stream was of terrestrial origin. The paper by Egglishaw (1964) in which he showed a significant correlation between the bottom fauna and plant detritus was probably most influential in reorienting stream ecology. Since that time considerable stream research has concerned detrital energy sources (Table 2). 66 �Table 1 .--Gross Primary Production Estimates in Flowing Waters Stream Truckee River, Nevada Root Spring, Massachusetts Bear Brook, New Hampshire Madison River, Wyoming White River, Indiana Florida springs Itchen River, England Lark River, England Thames River, England Oconee River, Georgia Red Cedar River, Michigan Hope Creek, North Carolina Drift Creek, Oregon Cone Spring, Iowa Artificial stream Artificial stream Ohanapecosh Hot Springs, Washington Drakesbad Hot Springs, California Silver Springs, Florida Streams, North Carolina Ivel River, England Walker Branch, Tennessee Columbia River, Washington Reference GPP {g/m2/.z::r} Thomas and O'Connell 1966 Teal 1957 Fisher and Likens 1972, 1973 Wright and Mills 1967 Denham 1938i/ Odum 1956 Butcher/ Pentelow and Woodley, 1930.!. Butcher/ Pentelow and Woodley, 1930.!. Mann et al. 1972 Nelson and Scott 1962 Ball, Kervern and Linton 1969, Grzenda, Ball and Kervern 1968~ Hall 1972 Lane and Hall 1971 Tilly 1968 Kervern and Ball 1965 Mcintire et al. 1964 Stockner 1968 807 1562 4-831 a/ a,c/ 155 97-486 384 487 465-914 612 b,e/ D,Cf,e/ a,c/ a,d/ b,d,e/ Lenn 1966.b! 5110-8759 d ,e/ Odum 1957 Hoskin 1959i! Edwards and Owens 1962 Elwood and Nelson 1972 Cus hi ng 196 7 4102 3577 1862 10-16 33-460 ~ 5000 cal.= 1 g. 1715-6022 142 2 1314 88-20805 219-21535 146-5110 67 a/ a,e/ d/ w rjj 193-14235 rjj 1 go 2;m2/yr. = 3.76 gC;m2/yr. (Stockner 1968). Y Gross production= 1.8 net production. rJ! 1 g/m 2/yr. = 365 gjm21Yr., probably results in an overestimate since most measurements are made during the summer. !Y gC/m2fyr. = 2 g biomassjm2/yr. (Odum 1971). il From Odum (1956). ~ Data from Grzenda (1960) and King (1964). hi Reported by Stockner (1968). i/ - Reported by Thomas and O'Connell (1966). Q! rjj y gr !Y a/ d/ b,e/ c,~/ 0 �Table 2.--Comparison of Gross Primary Productivity with Allochthonous Leaf Fall Inputs Stream Thames River, England Stream, Pennsylvania Shallow, fast-flowing streams Streams, Oregon Root Spring, Massachusetts Morgan S Creek, Kentucky Bear Brook, New Hampshire 1 Oconee River, Georgia Hope Creek, North Carolina Bere Stream, England Cone Spring, Iowa General stream model Coweeta, WS 6, old field Coweeta, WS 17, white pine plantation Coweeta, WS 18, hardwood forest Leaf Reference Mathews and Kowalczewski 1969; Mann et al. 1972 Vannote 1969 Egglishaw 1968 Chapman 1966; Chapman and Demory 1963 Teal 1957 Minshall 1967 Fisher and Likens 1972, 1973 Nelson and Scott 1962 Ha 11 1972 fa~l input g/m /yr Leaf fall input/ Gross primary productivity 23.2 200-800 coho salmon production 47Q'Q/ input to Gammarus minus 528b,d/ input to consumers 476 Westlake et al. 1972 Tilly 1968 Cummins 1971 Webster, unpublished Webster, unpublished 800 Webster, unpublished .03 2 4 9.7 3.3 9 a/ ~ a/ ~ 264 2 1 o. 6 1-2 7.3 352 125!?1 267 2 .3 289 ~ A qualitative estimate. Q/ 5000 cal.= 1 g. £I For Hope Creek, the first figure was obtained from Hall Hall 1 S estimate for utilized energy. Q! Includes litter blow-in. 1 S I f. stream input data, the second figure is �NUTRIENT CYCLING IN STREAM ECOSYSTEMS Terrestrial and lake ecosystems are characterized by nutrient cycles. Regeneration of nutrients by decomposition is essential for energy flow in these ecosystems. Because of the dominance of allochthonous inputs, streams are not dependent on nutrient regeneration. Also the flow of water essentially pre· vents any nutrient cycling (Scott 1958). The physical effects of the unidirectional flow of water were discussed by Krumholtz and Neff (1970) who emphasized that this flow is the key to understanding stream ecosystems. Thienemann (1953, as cited by Margalef 1960) compared the microcosmic character of lakes and the "flow of a river, a spatial manifestation of a continuous state of change 11 {quote from Margalef 1960). The movement of biotic and abiotic materials downstream is well documented (e.g., Leopold 1949, Waters 1972). Margalef (1960) pointed out that in a watercourse with only laminar flow no population could maintain itself, but turbulent flow is just one of the reasons why" ... all organisms do not end up in the estuary" (Patrick 1970). The "colonization cycle" of Muller (1954, as reviewed by Waters 1972, and Elliott 1971) in which emergent females migrate upstream to oviposit has been hypothesized as the method by which the fauna of upper reaches of streams are replenished. A number of examples of upstream movements by emergents have been reported in support of this hypothesis (e.g., Roos 1957, Elliott 1969). Additionally, a number of other papers (Minckley 1964, Momot 1966, Brusven 1970, Elliott 1971, and others listed by Elliott 1971) noted the upstream movement of benthic organisms. More than nutrient cycling, however, these upstream movements represent a cycling of genetic information essential for the maintenance of stream populations. Juday et al. (1932) suggested that the upstream migrations of salmon may be important in resuQP,lying essential nutrients to upstream areas. Donaldson (19670') and Krokhin (1967ft) have demonstrated the role of migrating adult salmon in phosphorus budgets of lakes and Fittkau (1970) has hypothesized a similar situation in Amazon effluents. Following a release of radiophosphorus, Ball, Wojtalik, and Hooper (1963) found a significant number of tagged insects upstream from the release site. However, Hall (1972) showed that the upstream movement of phosphorus by migrating fish was an extremely small percentage (<.1%) of total downstream movement of phosphorus. MODELING STREAM ECOSYSTEMS The modeling of ecosystems in trophic levels has been extremely valuable to theoretical studies in ecology. However, the typical trophic model consisting of producers, herbivores, carnivores, and decomposers has distinct limitations to stream ecology because, as discussed above, photosynthetic production is often not the primary source of energy. Odum (1956) used a simple trophic model, but his interest was in systems with high levels of primary production (Table 1). Other models have taken one of essentially three different approaches, physical, taxonomic or functional. As reviewed by Hall (1972). 69 �The model structure used by Fisher and Likens (1973) which emphasized inputs and outputs to the stream ecosystem, can be categorized as a physical model. The wide variety of hydrologic and hydrologic transport models currently in use can also be placed in this category. Minshall (1957) used a taxonomic approach. In his synthesis he placed each species in a specific trophic level based on its most common food habit. He used the trophic level concept to apply to both algae and detritus consumption. This taxonomic approach was generally followed by Hynes (1970) and Mann et al. (1972) though taxonomic groups were not placed in trophic levels but in functional categories such as filter feeders, browsers, grazers, and predators. Coffman, Cummins, and Wuycheck (1971) and others have noted that most insects eat a variety of foods making it difficult to define a species as herbivore, detritivore, or carnivore. Even organisms which have a fairly specific diet at one stage of the life cycle may alter their feeding habits at another stage of the life cycle. Based on this experience Cummins (1971) presented a stream model which emphasized the functional aspects of detritus utilization. Expansion of this model necessitated the introduction of the "paraspecies" concept (Boling et al. 1974a). A paraspecies grouping may combine various immature stages of different insect species, all with common feeding habits. The dynamics of microbial and mechanical detritus breakdown were expanded in another submodel (Boling et al. 1974b). At Coweeta where we are studying three very small first order streams we used both a functional approach and a taxonomic approach. We placed insects into three categories, shredders, collectors, and predators but placed crayfish and salamanders in separate categories because of their abundance and importance in these streams. Any stream model must be specific to the actual stream being studied. However in most cases a functional approach emphasizing the role of organisms in detritus breakdown will be preferable to a trophic or strictly taxonomic approach. GENERAL SOUTHEASTERN TROUT STREAM MODEL As a model structure which seems appropriate to streams that can be categorized as Southeastern trout streams we propose the model structure shown in Fig. 1. There are numerous examples of organisms in streams performing the functions in Fig. 1. With the exception of crayfish and vertebrate predators most of these are aquatic insects. As previously mentioned for most of our trout streams in the Southern Appalachians the main source of energy is allochthonous, primarily leaf litter from terrestrial communities. This leaf material, large particulate organic matter, LPOM in Fig. 1, is colonized by fungi and bacteria (Triska 1970). Studies have indicated there may actually be an increase in nitrogen content of leaves after wetting, apparently due to assimilation by the fungi and bacteria populations on the leaf surface (Kaushik and Hynes 1968). 70 �Photosynthesis D, drift, stream flow, excretion L,leachinQ E, emeroence M, mechanical breakdown R, respiration P, particle formation Figure 1.--Generalized Southeastern Trout Stream Ecosystem Model. The large leaf material and associated microflora are fed on by large particle detritivores or shredders (Cummins 1973). In the southern Appalachians some of the common examples of shredders are Peltoperla maria Needham and Smith (Plecoptera) (Wallace et al. 1970), Pteronarcys-sco-fti Ricker (Plecoptera) (McDiffett 1970), T~~?~) (Diptera) (Vannote 1969), Pycnopsyche spp. (Trichoptera) (Mackay and crayfish. The feeding of these shredders results in a large number of smaller detritus particles (from mechanical breakage and feces) or fine particulate organic matter, FPOM in Fig. 1. During the initial period that leaves are in water they may lose a considerable portion of their weight by leaching. Recently (Lush and Hynes 1973) it has been shown that this leachate, dissolved organic matter or DOMin Fig. 1, can form aggregates (FPOM in Fig. 1). These particles are formed both abiotically and biotically and such particles represent another possible food source for fine particle feeders (Lush and Hynes 1973). The aquatic insects have numerous adaptations for collecting fine particulate organic matter. Isonychia spp. {Ephemeroptera) possess a fringe of fine hair on their forelegs with which they filter organic matter from the water as they face directly into the current. A number of insects spin webs at the apex of silk tubes and use these webs to capture drifting organic particles, e.g. Calopsectra spp. (Diptera). Perhaps some of the most sophisticated 71 �structures for collecting food materials in streams are found in the net spinning Trichoptera or caddisflies. Various ~pecies spin nets with individual mesh openings ranging from less than 100 ~ to over 200,000 ~2. By microdistributional patterns with respect to current velocity, individual species are able to utilize a wide variety of drifting particle sizes at any one locality. Thus, within a taxonomic group there may be considerable partitioning of food resources in regards to both type and size of food (Wallace unpubl. data). Although most studies have indicated allochthonous detritus as the major energy input to streams (Table 2) there are a number of insects that feed primarily on periphyton. Blepharicerids (Diptera) and Neophylax spp. (Trichoptera) are two examples of 11 grazers 11 that feed primarily upon periphyton. Examples of predaceous aquatic insects that are fairly abundant in the southern Appalachian streams are immatures of Odonata, Perlidae (Plecoptera) and Corydalidae (Megaloptera). Tebo and Hassler (1963) studied the food of trout in Western North Carolina and concluded that trout are opportunistic feeders. All examples of shredders, collectors, grazers and predators cited above (and numerous others fitting the above categories but not specifically listed) were found in trout stomachs in Tebo and Hassler's study. The data in Table 2 and Fig. 1 show that successful trout management practices from the standpoint of available food is related to terrestrial management practices. Undoubtedly, actions that reduce or impede the inputs of terrestrial litter into our streams (Table 2, compare Coweeta data) are going to result in decreased production of trout food organisms. We presently need much more information on various aspects of these land-water interactions. SUMMARY Until recently much of the work on streams has been largely descriptive in nature. Future work must proceed toward an ecosystem approach and large scale modeling of streams. However, such an approach cannot ignore the internal dynamics of the ecosystem. We need considerably more information about the individual processes that occur in the stream. One of the more pressing needs is adequate information on the precise roles of fungi and bacteria as they influenc~ large and fine particle detritivore feeding. Also adequate information on seasonal cycles of individual species, including feeding habits and partitioning of food resources as influenced by age, species, temporal and spatial microdistribution patterns is essential. For example, some of the problems associated with the conceptualization in Fig. 1 have been mentioned with respect to the net spinning Trichoptera since within this one group considerable food partitioning is occurring. Finally, there are two basic areas that consistently impede stream studies. These are adequate, reliable sampling techniques and the problem of identification of stream organisms, especially the immature insects. 72 �LITERATURE CITED Allen, K. R. 1951. The Horokiwi Stream. 10:1-231. Bull. New Zealand Dept. Fish Ball, R. C., N. R. Kevern and J. K. Linton. 1969. The Red Cedar River report II. Bioecology. Pub. Museum Mich. St. Univ., Biological Series Vol. 4, No.4. Ball, R. C., T. A. Wojtalik and F. F. Hooper. 1963. 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Annual production of a stream mayfly population: a comparison of methods. Limnol. Oceanogr. 18:286-296. Westlake, D. F., H. Casey, H. Dawson, M. Ladle, R. H. K. Mann and A. R. H. Marker. 1972. The chalk-stream ecosystem. In Z. Kajak and A. HillbrichtIlkowsa (eds.). Productivity problems of freshwaters. Proc. IBP-UNESCO Symposium, Kazimierz Dolny, Poland, pp. 615-635. Wright, J. C. and I. K. Mills. 1967. Productivity studies on the Madison River, Yellowstone National Park. Limnol. Oceanogr. 12:568-577. 77 �STREAM CLASSIFICATION SYSTEM FOR WEST VIRGINIA by Randy E. Bailey, 0. Eugene Maughan, and Roy A. Whale~ ABSTRACT A classification system based on four factors--esthetics, access, use ,and productivity--was developed for \-lest Virginia streams. Each factor was weighted according to its importance to coldwater fish productionand was rated numerically from 1 through 5 with a 5 rating given to the most desirable condition. Productivity ratings were determined by computation of a numerical score based on optimal water quality characteristics for coldwater fish production. Each characteristic was assigned a weighting factor based upon its judged importance. Classification was determined by the summation of the products of each factor and its respective multiplier. Classification categories ranged from pristine streams of multistate importance (class 5) to highly polluted streams of only local importance (class 1). Data from Rich Creek, West Virginia was used to demonstrate the use of the classification system. 1/R. E. Bailey and R. A. Whaley are Graduate Students and 0. E. Maughan is Assistant Unit Leader, Virginia Cooperative Fishery Research Unit, Virginia Polytechnic Institute and State University, Blacksburg, Virginia 24061. 78 �INTRODUCTION The protection of existing stream ecosystems from pollution, overuse, and channelization is necessary if the increasing demands for fishing are to be met. Stream management is one mechanism to insure protection. However, some streams are more valuable and/or more fragile than others. Protection of these streams is especially critical. The first step toward intelligent stream management is to describe these streams. Identification of a stream's value to man requires that '.ve obtain baseline data on fish populations, water quality, and angler utilization. Several states have recognized the importance of rating the value of their streams and have integrated baseline information and professional judgment into stream classification systems. Montana's stream classification system is based on a numerical rating utilizing an evaluation of esthetics, productivity, availability to the angler (access), and angler use. These factors are weighted according to their judged relative importance, and a total numerical score is determined. Classification is based on this numerical score. Idaho currently uses the same format as Montana except that an alphabetical rating is used instead of a numercial rating. Classification systems in New Jersey and North Carolina are based on the fauna in the stream. The New Jersey classification system is based on standing fish populations as determined by a stream survey. Streams are classified as: 1) trout production waters --waters suitable for spawning and/or nursery purposes, 2) trout maintenance waters -waters that support trout throughout the year, and 3) non-trout waters -waters that will not support trout because of physical, chemical, or biological characteristics of the stream. A fourth category is currently being developed that would identify and classify those streams containing yellow perch (Perea flavescens) and smallmouth bass (Micropterus dolomieui) (Robert Soldwedel, personal communication). North Carolina classifies streams according to fish fauna present and physical and chemical factors such as stream width, pool depth and type, bottom type, flow, maximum summer temperature, turbidity, alkalinity, and pH (Richardson, 1964). North Carolina further classifies trout waters into trophy trout, native trout, or general trout waters (Hayden Ratledge, personal communication). Special seasons and gear restrictions are applied to each class of trout water. Montana's stream classification system is perhaps the most complex classification system we have reviewed. This system is based on four major factors. These factors include: esthetics, availability or access, productivity, and angler use or fishing pressure. Esthetics are rated on a scale of 1 (only fair esthetics or a polluted stream) to 5 (a clean and clear stream with wilderness characteristics and high natural beauty). The availability or access rating is also rated from 1 (access nearly impossible) to 5 (access good but not excessively good), The productivity ratings are based on the relative abundance of trout populations. The highest rating is given to streams with fish populations that will support heavy fishing pressure, as determined by fishery biologists. Use or angling pressure ratings are based on creel census 79 �data, U.S. Forest Service campsite use counts, and the subjective opinions of state fishery biologists (Gary Wood, personal communication). Many states recognize the desirability of a stream classification system and have developed such systems. Many additional states recognize the need to develop such a system as a means of helping protect their diminishing stream resources. New Jersey is currently developing water quality criteria (i.e., criteria for limiting the amount of thermal effluent that can be discharged into any particular class of stream) based on their stream classification system. Virginia, having recognized the value of various stream classification systems, is currently developing a trout stream classification system based on a combination of the systems from North Carolina and Montana (Robert Wollitz, personal communication). West Virginia has also expressed interest in a coldwater stream classification system. We have proposed a system for describing West Virginia's stream situation to meet the need for a coldwater stream classification system in West Virginia. This system has the same basic framework as the Montana system. However, each factor has been redefined or rewritten to more accurately reflect West Virginia stream conditions. Fishing pressure ratings and values are from Zurbuch's (1962) creel census of five major trout streams. These figures were updated or confirmed by West Virginia Department of Natural Resources personnel (Harvey Beall, personal communication). We developed several subset rating systems within the productivity rating in an attempt to quantify the potential productivity of a stream. The subsets are biological, physical, and chemical parameters considered critical by the West Virginia Department of Natural Resources (Don Phares, personal communication). The purpose of this classifcation system is threefold. First, to provide a framework for measuring each stream's relative value to the fishery resources of the state; evaluation of worth is essential if streams that satisfy recreational needs are to be protected from destruction. Second, to give fishery biologists a format outlining the types of data needed for stream management; identification of data gaps can help biologists by emphasizing data necessary for stream classification. Third, to provide a standardized stream survey format requiring field data that are easy to collect and are useful for the evaluation of the potential fishery. 80 �OUTLINE OF CLASSIFICATION SYSTEM The classification system developed for West Virginia provides the methodology for rating the relative value of each stream. Evaluation is accomplished when the stream is placed into one of five classes on the basis of its esthetic value, access, use, and potential productivity. These classes provide a rough measure of the relative value of each stream. The five class rating system was selected because it is simple to use and easy to understand, and involves no large or complicated measurements or numbers. In addition, the five class rating system has been successfully used in Montana since 1959 and more recently in Wyoming (Wyoming Game and Fish Commission, 1971). Although all the factors evaluated in the classification system are important to the potential fishery, some factors are more important than others. We assigned a multiplier of 1 to 4 to each factor to quantify its relative importance, The multipliers, which allow the judged proportional effect of each factor to be applied to stream classification, were selected on the basis of professional judgment of biologists, and were assigned as follows: esthetics, 1; access, 2; use, 3; and productivity, 4. The final classification of a stream results in its placement into one of the five following classes, based on a derived composite numerical value. Class 5 cold water fishery of multistate importance Class 4 cold water fishery of statewide importance Class 3 cold water fishery of regional importance Class 2 cold water fishery of local importance Class 1 stream unsuited for cold water species The first factor we considered in classifying a stream was esthetic beauty. Ratings are based on natural beauty of the surroundings plus the degree of human development. Although esthetics are important other factors are considered more important, Therefore, the esthetic rating was assigned a multiplier of one with the following descriptions of each rating: Esthetics x 1 Description Rating 5 Outstanding natural beauty, unique, and possessing wilderness characteristics; pollution free. 4 Comparable with a stream of rating five but lacking wilderness characteristics; some human development present, such as roads or farms. 81 �Rating Description 3 Some natural beauty but more common than rating 4 or 5; usually clear with little pollution; flows through attractive agricultural areas. 2 Unimpressive and not uncommon esthetic qualities; human development present but land is not abused; scenery is appealing. 1 Esthetic qualities poor; water quality problems include continuous high turbidity and pollution; lack of stream bank cover. Includes all newly channelized streams. The second factor considered in classification of fishermen access. Ratings are based on quantity access, such as a road bordering a stream, promotes and hatchery truck following by fishermen. Limited fishing pressure on the fishery. The access rating multiplier of two with the following ratings: was a~ailability and quality. Excessive stream bank degradation access can curtail was assigned a Access x 2 Rating Description 5 Satisfactory for modern cars; not excessive; (i.e., no road bordering the stream). Access in terms of posting and availability very good. 4 May be excessive (road bordering the stream). Posting not extensive. Stream bank not restrictive to fishermen access 3 Restricted to roads or trails suitable for 4 wheel drive vehicles, horseback, or foot traffic. Posting not restrictive. 2 Limited by posting, or otherwise restricted. 1 Inadequate because natural or man made restrictions nearly exclude fishermen. The third factor considered in the classification system was the amount of use or fishing pressure a fishery receives. Very heavy fishing pressure is undesirable because stocked fish are quickly removed from the stream and natural trout populations are generally unable to support such fishing pressure. Very light fishing pressure is also undesirable because underexploitation or underutilization of existing trout populations is likely. Therefore, no one or two ratings are given. According to West Virginia fishery biologists, moderate fishing pressure is the most desirable (Harvey Beall, personal communication). A stream with moderate 82 �fishing pressure receives the highest rating (5). The fishing pressure ratings are based on stocked streams because a large number (196) of West Virginia's trout streams are stocked. The ratings are based on the following figures and were assigned a multiplier of three. Use X 3 Rating Description 3 Very heavy 500 angler hours/acre/year 4 Heavy 300-500 angler hours/acre/year 5 Moderate 150-299 angler hours/acre/year 4 Light 3 Very light 50-149 angler hours/acre/year 50 angler hours/acre/year The fourth and most important factor considered in this classification system, and by far the most difficult and complex factor to access, is stream productivity. Productivity was therefore assigned a multiplier of four. Nine characteristics have been integrated into the productivity rating system. Each characteristic has been assigned a weighting factor, ranging from 1 to 3, based on each characteristic's judged relative importance. Four characteristics have weighting factors of three (pH, water temperature, total alkalinity, invertebrate abundance), one characteristics has a weighting factor of two (turbidity), and four characteristics have weighting factors of one (total hardness, conductivity, phosphates, nitrates). The range of values expected in West Virginia for each parameter was selected after consultation with state fishery biologists and evaluation of state water quality records (West Virginia Department of Natural Resources, 1969). The range of possible values was divided into 5 subranges that were rated from 1 through 5. The highest rating (5) was assigned to the subrange considered to give optimal coldwater fish production. We determined the score for each characteristic by multiplying the appropriate subrange rating by its respective weighting factor. The summation of scores for the nine parameters yields a productivity subtotal, which, in turn, is used to determine the productivity class. The productivity class is based on a range of subtotals determined by an acceptable range of ratings for each characteristic. A maximum and minimum productivity subtotal is calculated for each productivity class with the following ranges: Productivity Subtotal Productivity Class 5 90-80 4 80-57 3 61-46 2 44-35 1 22-18 83 �The possibility of overlap in the ranges of productivity subtotals exists between productivity classes 5 and 4 and 3. If overlap occurs, the biologist must subjectively decide which productivity class is appropriate for that particular stream. To determine the classification for a particular strea~, the biologist multiplies each factor's rating by the appropriate multiplier. The summation of the products for each factor determines the overall classification, The stream class determination is based on a possible total score derived from optimum ratings. Total scores for different stream classes are: 5, 50-45; 4, 44-36; 3, 35-26; 2, 25-20; 1, less than 20. The range of acceptable ratings for each factor was determined after consultation with state and federal fishery biologists in West Virginia. Data from Rich Creek, West Virginia are used to demonstrate the operation of this stream classification system. Rich Creek has some natural beauty, has little pollution, and flows through an attractive agricultural area, Therefore, the total score for esthetics is 3 (rating) x 1 (multiplier) = 3. The access factor total score is 4 x 2 = 8 (a state-secondary road borders Rich Creek). As determined from a creel census, Rich Creek is subject to heavy fishing pressure. The resulting rating of 4 x 3 yields a use total score of 12. The productivity rating is determined on the basis of the values shown in Table 1. A productivity subtotal of 72 gives a productivity rating of 4. Multiplying the rating by its multiplier (4) yields a total productivity score of 16. The summation of the values for esthetics, access, use and productivity yields an overall score of 39 (Table 2). This score results in Rich Creek being placed in the class 4 stream category. Conclusion Stream classification has considerable potential for use in stream management, because classification forces a resource agency to evaluate streams, Evaluation allows identification of data gaps and identification of resources in critically short supply. Classification also forces an agency to consolidate existing data, thereby faL_;_Jj_tating maximum use of that data, Stream classification may not be widely used for many years. Streams will, however, continue to lose the ability to support desirable fish populations as the result of pollution, channelization and other activities. These decreases in the number of fish-producing streams with an increase or stabilization in fishing demand will necessitate decisions. Fishery biologists must decide which streams must be protected to minimize the impact of stream loss on the fisheries resource. This classification system will assist in decision making. To meet future demand, managers must intensely manage the streams protected from destruction if the full potential productivity of such streams is to be realized. This classification system indicates a stream's potential value. The more intense the management, the more apparent the value of this classification system will become. The energy crises of the 1970's and the presence of huge coal reserves in West Virginia make its streams highly susceptible to destruction. The assignment of classifications in accordance with the systems described here could be a valuable step in protecting West Virginia's aquatic resource. 84 �Table 1. Data values used to determine a productivity subtotal for Rich Creek. Parameter Actual Data Value Rating Weighting Factor Score pH 00 4 3 12 vJater Temperature U1 7.0 78F 0 2 3 6 Alkalinity 140 ppm 5 3 15 Invertebrate Abundance 6.0 cc/ft 2 5 3 15 0 JTU 5 2 10 Nitrates 0.6 ppm 3 1 3 Phosphates 6.0 ppm 1 1 1 Total Hardness 160 ppm 5 1 5 Conductivity 220 micromhos 5 1 5 Turbidity Productivity Subtotal 72 �Table 2. Classification of Rich Creek, West Virginia. Rating Multiplier Score Esthetics 3 1 3 Access 4 2 8 Use 4 3 12 Productivity 4 4 16 Factor Overall Score 39 LITERATURE CITED Richardson, F. R. 1964. Survey and classification of the Wataga River and tributaries, North Carolina. North Carolina \Vildlife Resources Commission. 8 p. West Virginia Department of Natural Resources. 1969. West Virginia water quality network, compilation of data, 1969. West Virginia Department of Natural Resources, Division of Water Resources. 151 p. Wyoming Game and Fish Commission. 1971. Wyoming stream fishery classification. Fish Division, ~.Jyoming Game and Fish Commission. Zurbuch, P. E. 1962. A census of five major West Virginia trout streams. Prog. Fish-Culturist 24(1):31-36. 86 �STABILIZATION OF EROSION ON ~ MOUNTAINOUS ROAD CONSTRUCTION PROJECT Robert James Brown and Joseph Mickey, 0r.1/ Abstract.--The successful control of erosion from a mountainous road construction project in Western North Carolina resulted in the preservation of trout habitat. Cooperation between a citizen conservation organization, state and federal agencies and private enterprise was instrumental in the project's success. Methods of erosion control in mountainous terrain are stated and evaluated. Additional keywords: Highway construction, erosion control, trout habitat, trout, siltation, and sedimentation. The detrimental effects of siltation on trout streams are well-known (Lagler 1956, Tebo 1955). Siltation adversely affects trout reproduction, trout food supply and by changing the physical characteristics of the stream to make it unsuitable for trout. Siltation is the major cause of trout habitat destruction in Western North Carolina. The reconstruction of fourteen miles of North Carolina Route 181 located between Morganton and Linville, North Carolina involved extensive widening and straightening of the existing road bed. Construction in mountainous terrain (1094 to 3779 feet above sea level) resulted in major cuts and fills. Total construction cost approached four million dollars. As expected, the reconstruction has adversely affected the water quality of Steels and Upper Creeks which parallel either side of the project. Since 1962, these two high quality trout streams have been managed as a wild trout fishery based upon natural reproduction. The objective was to minimize siltation and save the trout fishery of Steels Creek and Upper Creek. The cooperation of federal and state agencies, Trout Unlimited and private enterprise, was instrumental in the successful preservation of two high quality trout streams. Damage to the streams was minimized and it is estimated that the streams will return to normal within three to five years. The North Carolina Highway 181 project was not required to have an environmental impact statement and all phases of erosion control were negotiated through the cooperating agencies. 1/ Fisheries Biologist and Fisheries Technician, North Carolina Wildlife Resources Commission, Morganton, North Carolina. We would especially like to thank Mr. John Kennedy and Mr. Floyd Brooks of the United States Forest Service, Mr. David Patton and Mr. Robert Crisp of the North Carolina State Highway Commission, and the Asheville and Blyth Construction Companies for their energy, time, and assistance. In addition we thank Trout Unlimited and the lOlst Airborne Division from Fort Campbell, Kentucky for volunteering their services. Mr. Hayden M. Ratledge reviewed and criticized the manuscript. 87 �PROCEDURES AND RESULTS The erosion control measures utilized in construction of Route 181 are listed in Table 1 along with an evaluation of their effectiveness. A diagramatic view of the location and construction of erosion control methods is shown in Figure 1. Trout standing crops and reproductive success (Table 2) were estimated using electrofishing techniques. These estimated were made following the two year construction period. Catch rates as reported to Wildlife Protectors in 1974 were 1.4 trout per hour for Steels Creek and 1.8 trout per hour for Upper Creek (Table 3). DISCUSSION Although erosion on the road construction project allowed siltation of both Steels Creek and Upper Creek, the successful reproduction of brown and rainbow trout occurred in the fall of 1973 and the spring of 1974 (Table 2). Further evidence of success in erosion control is the catch rates for trout taken during construction years which are comparable to those catch rates prior to construction (Table 3). Sources of erosion were the road bed, the surfaces of cuts and fills and waste areas. All three sources were problematic and no one source can be singled out as the worst. Experience on this project has produced several quidelines for successful erosion control: 1) Maintaining minimum areas of exposed earth (work and complete shorter sections of road); 2) Timing of earth moving to coincide with periods when revegetation is possible; 3) Designing of cuts and fills in critical areas to incorporate erosion control considerations (anticipate erosion); 4) Stopping and stabilization of erosion as close to its source as possible; 5) Utilization of rapid revegetation and heavy fertilization of revegetated MeMj 6) Mulching with straw or hay and using jute mats in drainage ditches; 7) Acquiring right of way easements or other permission to permit erosion control on or off right of way or on private property if necessary. Previous road construction projects have allocated from three to five percent of their total funds for erosion control (conversation with Mr. David Patton, Resident Engineer, North Carolina State Highway Commission). The total cost of Route 181 will closely approach four million dollars of which an estimated 15 percent will have been spent to control erosion. 88 �TABLE 1 EVALUATION OF EROSION CONTROL MEASURES UTILIZED IN RECONSTRUC'·.'ION OF ROUTE 181 MEASURE FUNCTION EVALUATION Road Shoulder Maintenance (Berm) Channels road bed run off into plastic drains and into erosion control devices, used during road bed construction. Very effective when maintained large enough to effectively channel water thus preventing erosion of surfaces of cuts and fills, mandatory. Plastic Down Drains Channels road bed run off into brush barriers minimizing erosion in area of water channelization Very effective and necessary Silt Basin Allows settling of suspended solids Very effective, mandatory Brush Barrier Filters run off from surfaces of of fills and road bed Very effective, mandatory in forested areas Temporary Silt Fence Filters large suspended solids from water run off Effective in filter action, but temporary nature allows trapped silt to move before stabilization occurs. Extensive use not recommended. Brush Check Dam Filters water once it passes initial brush barriers and silt fences. Not effective, log dams preferred Log Check Dam Allows settling of suspended solids during heavy run off peaks, semi-permanent nature allows for stabilization and reve etation. Very effective Seeding and Fertilization Covers exposed earth, use 150 pounds seed with 1200 pounds 8-8-8 fertilizer and 4000 pounds of lime er acre Very effective Top Dressing Applied to 2-1 or greater slopes Very effective of cuts and fills to insure ground cover, accompanied by Sericea lespedega at 50 pounds per acre and 750 pounds 8-8-8 fertilizer per acre Mulching Breaks impact of rain drops upon earth and seed, holds moisture and soil Very effective, mandatory Jute Mats Placed in median, berm and lateral ditches where road bed run off would erode seed before ground cover becomes established. Very effective, mandatory 89 �lf.oo..d be.) be.AI. m r;o-..J .sl.ou.f./e"-)--------------=:::~S~· ;o/t1-s fi' c slo!'e. JrcuN - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - ' ' t - ' - : b. C. d. e. ' j __ /.. -,_.; --I f3Ac.J. IJieLU o I A Ll?.J J4m .showi!VJ def~tile d c..oN..sf R.u c 7/oll/, q_) /.oj-£ f'i,ved f o~ .sw.fr o,._f. .6) "';~ «- 614 ._kln;.J. c) ;o J..,.sf:".sJ.. e-1-l"".!J. c/J bu.IC./AJ", e) b~IA.Sh FRoNt view of a.. /orJ d~m 90 �TABLE 2 TROUT ~ STANDING CROP ESTIMATES AND REPRODUCTIVE SUCCESS FOR STEELS AND UPPER CREEK - 1974 STREAM POUNDS OF TROUT PER ACRE TROUT REPRODUCTION PER ACRE (No.) Right Fork Steels (Silted) 24.2 60 Left Fork Steels (Unaffected) 3.6 120 Gingercake Creek (Unaffected) 34.2 65 Main Steels Creek Below Forks (Silted) 22.3 8 Upper Creek Upper Portion (Silted) 42.1 451 ~ Rainbow (~ gairdneri) and brown (Salmo trutta) species combined. TABLE 3 CREEL CENSUS RESUEITS FOR STEELS AND UPPER CREEK CATCH PER MAN HOUR OF EFFORT STREAM Pre-construction Years Construction Years 1970 1971 1972 1973 1974 Steels Creek 1.5 1.5 1.1 1.7 1.4 Upper Creek 1.8 1.4 1.5 1.4 1.8 YEAR 91 �CONCLUSION Cooperation, surveillance and public op1n1on favoring protection of trout habitat have been the keys to the protection of the trout resources of Steels and Upper Creeks. More time and money than ever before has been expended to protect wild trout and their habitat. We hope that the experience gained and the lessons taught by this project will be beneficial to other agencies which will face similar problems in protection of mountain trout resources. LITERATURE CITED Lagler, Karl F., 1956. Dubuque, Iowa. Freshwater Fishery Biology. Wm. c. Brown Company, Tebo, L.B., Jr., 1955. Effects of Siltation, Resulting from Improper -Logging, on the Bottom Fauna of a Small Trout Stream in the Southern Appalachians. Progressive Fish Culturist 17:64-70. 92 �LIMITING FACTORS ENCOUNTERED IN THE MANAGEMENT OF TROUT IN TAILWATERS James R. Axonl/ Abstract.--The major obstacle that prevents nearly every tailwater trout fishery from reaching its potential is unregulated releases for fish management. Under highflow conditions, the tailwater is not ideal for fishing. Bottom fauna productivity and consequent fish growth are retarded because of extreme flow. High water temperatures and low-oxygenated water sometimes occur during the summer and fall months when there is low flow or no discharge. Some of these problems have been solved by: providing a minimum flow, providing a minimum volume of water during a specified time period, and providing cold water releases that will maintain suitable temperatures in the tailwater for trout. Poor growth rate, predation and intense fishing pressure were once considered limiting factors in tailwaters where fingerling trout were stocked; these factors were nullified by stocking catchable-size trout. INTRODUCTION Tailwater trout management procedures have been vastly improved over the past decade as a result of intensive research; many tailwater trout fisheries are now being utilized to their maximum. There remain a few limiting factors that prevent most tailwater fisheries from reaching their maximum potential. It is the purpose of this paper to describe those limiting factors and discuss techniques that will minimize their limiting effects. DISCUSSION Fingerling trout, or catchable-size trout, or both are recommended for stocking in tailwaters, based on the criteria described below. In most tailwaters, catchables are preferred because of the lack of an adequate food supply for desirable growth of fingerlings, or the presence of predatory fishes that would cause low survival of fingerlings, or heavy fishing pressure; or any combination of the aforementioned factors. The rate and frequency of stocking trout are determined by fishing pressure and harvest. Boat fishing has been instrumental in increasing the fishing success and harvest on tailwaters having sufficient flow. ll Principal Fishery Biologist, Department of Fish and Wildlife Resources, Frankfort, Kentucky 93 �Certain tailwaters that were once stocked with fingerling trout are now being stocked with catchables because of overexploitation. The trout fishery on the White River below Bull Shoals Lake in Arkansas was initially maintained by stocking fingerling trout (Baker, 1959). Eventually, because of intense fishing pressure, stocking of catchable-size trout was necessary to maintain a quality fishery. Little (1967) recommended additional stockings of catchable trout in the Dale Hollow tailwater in Tennessee to reduce pressure on fingerlings that were also stocked. It may be desirable to impose a size limit on trout in situations similar to that below Dale Hollow Dam, thereby essentially preventing the harvest of fingerlings before they are able to grow and provide a quality fishery. A size limit would permit fingerlings to grow to a preferable size, and a quality fishery would be maintained without supplemental stocking of catchables. Their growth potential would be fully utilized in the tailwater (e.g., trout grow in the Dale Hollow tailwater at a rate of 0.9 inch per month), and rearing and stocking costs would be reduced. A major problem of great complexity often encountered in tailwater trout management is that of erratic flow. High flows create water conditions that are unfavorable for fishing. If high flows could be limited, the tailwater would receive more fishing pressure, resulting in an increase in harvest. Boles (1974*) reported that the major fishing effort on the Norris tailwater in Tennessee occurred during low flow or no discharge periods, particularly on the weekends. High flows were also detrimental to bottom fauna productivity and trout growth below Norris Dam. The Norris tailwater receives low-oxygenated water in the fall from the hypolimnion of Norris Lake, which is also detrimental to trout growth. The growth rate and condition of trout in the fall of both 1971 and 1972 decreased because the tailwater was deficient in dissolved oxygen (DO). During the most critical period in 1971, DO content remained below 4.5 ppm for 9 miles below the dam. The oxygen situation was improved, however, when the TVA began to schedule daily 2-hour shutoffs that allowed DO content to recover to 4.0 ppm at a distance of nearly 3 miles below the dam. Several aeration methods are available to correct the problem of low DO concentrations (described by Ruane, 1972). Most of these methods need further refinement before they become efficient enough to be economically feasible. Elevated water temperatures during the summer and fall months are a problem below Tenkiller Ferry Dam on the Illinois River in Oklahoma. Hicks (1966) recommended that the U.S. Army Corps of Engineers (COE) provide a minimum flow of 25 to 50 cfs, and water temperatures of less than 70F. Water temperatures were the main limiting factor in the tailwater below Bull Shoals Dam before the COE agreed to provide water temperatures below 70F. A minimum flow of 5 million cubic feet during any 48-hour period was assured by the COE for the Dale Hollow tailwater, in order to maintain water temperatures suitable for trout. A continuing effort is needed to secure cooperation from the tailwater regulatory agency in following the discharge program recommended by the tailwater fishery manager. *Personal Communication 94 �LITERATURE CITED Baker, Robert F. 1959. Historical review of the Bull Shoals and Norfork Dam tailwater trout fishery. Proc. 13th Ann. Conf. SE Assoc. Game and Fish Comm.: 299-236 Hicks, Don. 1966. Determination of how or if releases can be manipulated from Tenkiller Ferry Reservoir to improve habitat for trout. OK Dept. of Wild!. D-J F-15-R-1. Job Comp. Rep. 3 pp. Little, James D. 1967. Dale Hollow tailwater investigations. Wild!. Res. Agency. D-J F-30-R. 71 pp. TN Dept. of Ruane, R. J. 1972. Investigations of methods for increasing dissolved oxygen concentrations downstream from reservoirs. Eleventh Environ. and Water Res. Eng. Conf.: 33 pp. 95 �RECLAMATION OF DAMAGED STREAMS AS A TOOL IN RESOURCE MANAGEMENT Donley M. Hill Tennessee Valley Authority Norris, Tennessee INTRODUCTION For decades water resource managers, fisheries biologists, laymen, and others have viewed with dismay the degradation of increasing numbers of streams by a vast array of industrial, agricultural, and domestic wastes. A national movement toward environmental awareness, coupled with strict legislation such as the Federal Water Pollution Control Act Amendments of 1972, offer the prospect for reversal of this pollution trend. While the amended Act implies "zero discharge" by 1985, realities such as the current energy crisis and legitimate economic complaints goal to slip. may cause such a Hopefully, resulting compromises will be ones in which discharges are based upon known assimilative capacities of the receiving streams on a regional watershed basis. Whatever the tactic, extensive pollution abatement already under way will probably continue, even under adverse political and economic circumstances. Assuming functional biological recovery, currently degraded streams could contribute significantly to the stream fishery resource. The following is a discussion of factors which influence biological recovery of damaged streams and includes some case histories of stream recovery. FACTORS AFFECTING STREAM RECOVERY Biologists have long recognized that individual organisms and communities of organisms must be resilient and adaptable to survive even the adversities of 96 �natural events. Add to the vagaries of nature the innumerable perturbations man exerts upon aquatic systems and these attributes become even more important. Cairns et al. (1971) state that aquatic ecosystems have the ability to assimilate a certain amount of waste material and maintain near normal function. They found that when a system's assimilative capacity is overloaded, the system is disrupted, and the rate of recovery depends upon (1) severity and duration of the stress, (2) number and kinds of associated stresses, (3) recolonization of the area by useful aquatic organisms, and (4) residual effects upon nonbiological units (e. g., substrate, etc.). Larimore et al. (1959) stressed the importance of the ratio of damaged to undamaged reaches of a stream in their study of the rate of reinvasion of a small Illinois stream by fish and invertebrates. Additionally, they found that within a given year the rate of reinvasion is strongly influenced by water levels and seasons of the year. While any one of the factors mentioned above may affect the rate and extent of biological recovery, there are only two circumstances in which recovery would not take place: (1) if there are residual effects which make the area unsuitable for diverse communities of aquatic organisms; or (2) if there is not an adequate pool of organisms outside the affected area for effective recolonization. While extreme instances of these two circumstances are rare, it is equally uncommon that their influence upon recovery processes cannot be measured to some degree. The following case histories illustrate the manner in which conditions discussed above may affect stream recovery. TURBIDITY AND SILTATION Hill's investigation of the recovery of damaged streams following manganese strip mine reclamation on the headwaters of the South Fork Holston River (1971) 97 �indicated that,six years after reclamation of spoil areas by the U. S. Forest Service, functionally complete stream recovery had taken place. While recovery probably occurred earlier, no observations were available for those periods. Although extreme turbidities and siltation affected the entire lengths of these tributary streams and reduced faunal populations by 90 percent or more, recovery in streams draining fully reclaimed areas was complete in that conservatively estimated time period. However, streams draining partially reclaimed areas showed no more improvement than those below unreclaimed spoils. While this must be termed incomplete abatement, similar results could be expected from residual effects. A LKA I.JNE STRESS In June 1967 a fly ash holding pond at a power plant on the Clinch River broke, releasing approximately 130 million gallons of caustic materials. It was estimated that 216, 000 rough and sport fish were killed in 90 miles of the stream in Virginia and Tennessee. The Virginia State Water Control Board reported a drastic reduction in the number and kinds of bottom-dwelling fish food organisms for 77 miles below the spill. Snails and mussels were eliminated for 11. 5 miles downstream of the spill. Two years after the spill, Cairns et al. (1971) reported the reestablishment of diverse communities of fish and bottom fauna adequate to support a productive sport fishery, even though recovery still was not complete. Molluscs especially were slow in recolonizing, and the plant continued discharges of some effluents. Although the stress in this case certainly was severe, the absence of a residual effect, combined with extensive areas from which recolonization could take 98 �place made recovery rapid. The fact that recovery still was not complete after two years can probably be ascribed in large part to the high ratio of damaged to undamaged reaches of the river. TOXIC INORGANICS A large chemical plant located on the banks of the North Fork Holston River approximately 80 miles above its mouth discharged large quantities of chlorides and other inorganic substances into the river for more than 70 years. Over extended periods of time, the plant was discharging approximately 950 tons per day of calcium chloride and 575 tons per day of sodium chloride. Beginning in the 1950's the plant began using mercury in a caustic soda-chlorine process, and substantial amounts of the mercury found its way into the North Fork (Bailey, 1974). Unable to meet water quality standards, the plant closed July 1972. (unpublished) found that after two years Hill,~ al. limited recovery of fish and bottom fauna communities has taken place in the lower part of the river, but that there is no evidence of substantial recovery in the river several miles downstream of the plant. River sediment and fish tissue analyses (Bailey, 1974) show the persistence of high mercury concentrations which can probably be attributed to a continuing input from extensive abandoned waste lagoons (Hill, unpublished). Again, this is an instance in which incomplete abatement limits recovery. An additional limiting circumstance in the recovery of the North Fork Holston River is the nonavailability of certain groups of organisms for recolonization. While it appears that there is an adequate pool of fish and aquatic insect species for recolonization, species of mussels in the river have been reduced from more than 30 to about eight species and are not available in tributary streams or the 99 �South Fork Holston which the North Fork joins. Hopefully, TVA and other agencies, by working with the industry involved, can eliminate or reduce the continued input of materials from the waste lagoons, and then attempt faunal transplants of important organisms not available for recolonization. CONCLUSIONS In summary, although a complex of factors influence the potential of a stream to undergo biological recovery, two of the most important criteria are: (1) the absence of limiting residual effects or the continued input of detrimental substances; and (2) the availability of recolonizing populations of organisms adequate for the reestablishment of diverse, functional biotic communities. The prospects for broadening the base of stream fishery resources through the reclamation of damaged streams are very promising. Agencies concerned with pollution abatement should examine each situation carefully with regard to residual effects or incomplete abatement. Those agencies concerned with manage- ment of the stream resource should give consideration to the possibility of influencing faunal community structures through appropriate faunal transplants. 100 �liTERATURE CITED Bailey, D. S. 1974. The occurrence of mercury in the fish and sediment of the North Fork Holston River, 1970-1972. Virginia State Water Control Board. Basic Data Bulletin 41. Cairns, J., Jr., J. S. Crossman, K. L. Dickson, and E. E. Herricks. 1971. The recovery of damaged streams. ASB Bulletin, 18(3):79-106. Hill, D. M. tion. 1971. Stream faunal recovery after manganese strip mine reclama- Environmental Protection Agency Water Pollution Control Research Series. Project No. 18050 DOH. Larimore, R. W., W. F. Childers, and C. Heckrotte. 1959. Destruction and reestablishment of stream fish and invertebrates affected by drought. Amer. Fish. Soc. 88(4):261-285. l 01 Trans. �RESEARCH IN AQUATIC HABITATS AT THE SOUTHEASTERN STATION Thomas J. Harshbarger Southeastern Forest Experiment Station, USDA Forest Service Abstract.--Research is urgently needed to provide technology necessary to restore, maintain, or improve approximately 20,000 miles of trout stream in the southern Appalachian Mountains. Studies at the Coweeta Hydrologic Laboratory in western North Carolina have shown that man's activities change the quantity, quality, and stability of water flowing from forest land, and that land management practices which affect these parameters also affect the stream biota. A new program of aquatic habitat research has been started at the Southeastern Forest Experiment Station. Intensive research is needed to meet demands of trout fishermen. Additional keywords: Trout, research program, research approaches. Each year, millions of Americans visit the Appalachians, where they camp, picnic, fish, or just relax and enjoy the soothing qualities of flowing water. Approximately 900,000 sportsmen fish some 20,000 miles of trout water in the southern Appalachians. The popularity of sport fishing continues to grow, and mountain streams in our national forests are currently receiving increasing pressure from some 10 million sport fishermen who live within driving distance of this region. Despite this large and growing public interest, the management of trout fisheries has not received the attention on public lands that managers extend to wildlife. Most land managers appreciate the recreational aspects of sport fishing and the importance of protecting watersheds and water quality. But they have limited knowledge about trout stream management or the ecology of aquatic resources in general. There are three elements involved in managing a trout stream for sport fishing: the environment, the fish, and the angler. From the management or research point of view, these elements are not mutually exclusive. The environment and fish are parts of an intricate ecosystem upon which the angler is superimposed as an external predator. We know most about managing trout. Population structure and arrangement, territoriality, physiological functioning, attributes of different species of trout, etc., have all been studied in detail. We know considerably less about the angler and what motivates him to seek certain experiences in conjunction with his pursuit. For the most part, confirmed trout fishermen seem to be independent, intolerant, and demanding when it comes to land management activities that might influence their sport. Questions outnumber answers about managing or improving stream environments, because such environments reflect complex patterns of local geology, climate, and vegetation. Such patterns determine the chemical, physical, and biological features of streams, and these features, in turn, determine the condition of the habitat for trout. Research is needed to define those characteristics of trout habitat in the Appalachians which are subject to management and intentional and unintentional modification. Such knowledge will provide a sound basis for management decisions that will protect and possibly enhance the trout resource for future generations of fishermen. Our program for aquatic research is new; we are emphasizing trout habitat, recognizing that other aquatic habitats are also involved and equally important. This paper indicates the relevancy of past research by the U.S. Forest Service and describes trout habitat research that is proposed or currently underway at the Southeastern Station. 102 �PAST RESEARCH Research over the past 40 years at the Coweeta Hydrologic Laboratory in western North Carolina has shown that water is a most sensitive indicator of watershed activities. Early experiments at Coweeta documented the effects of mountain farming, logging, and grazing practices on water quality and yield (Lieberman and Hoover, 1948; Greene, 1950; Oils, 1952; Johnson, 1952). Later studies verified that water yield and timing can be changed substantially by drastically altering forest cover (Hewlett and Hibbert, 1961; Hibbert, 1966; Swank and Miner, 1968). Other studies examined road design, construction, and location with respect to erosion and water quality and pointed out the importance of minimizing soil movement during timber harvest (Hursh, 1935; Lieberman and Hoover, 1948; Jones, 1955). Some of the first documented evidence of the detrimental effects of logging on stream biology was collected at Coweeta by the North Carolina Wildlife Resources Commission in the early fifties. This investigation established relative values for invertebrate biomass, measured effects of siltation and stream zone clearing on bottom organisms and temperatures, and established feeding preferences of rainbow, brook, and brown trout (Tebo, 1955; 1957). Later studies showed that stream temperatures could be increased, decreased, or left unchanged depending on the type of cutting practice employed (Swift and Messer, 1971), and that temperature increases caused by clearcutting could be moderated by streamside buffer strips (Swift and Baker, 1973). In conjunction with the IBP Program, the processing structure of several small streams was partially revealed by taxonomic and trophic investigations. Studies showed that the benthic fauna in woodland streams can be altered by cutting treatment and forest-land conversion (Woodall and Wallace, 1972) and revealed nutrient pathways and the capacity of small streams to alter and process various kinds of material (Woodall, 1972). Many excellent studies have been conducted at Coweeta on small watershed streams. Investigations clearly show that man can and does change the quantity, quality, and stability of water floi'l from forest land, and that practices which affect these parameters also affect the stream biota. These findings provide a valuable beginning for the biologist concerned with the trout resource in the Appalachians. CURRENT RESEARCH The Program Streams are biological units which process and utilize organic and inorganic materials of terrestrial origin. Such units are sensitive to change, and activities on the land which disrupt or change the material balance between the stream and the watershed are potentially harmful to certain portions of the stream biota. Trout are very sensitive to chemical, physical, and biological changes in their habitat. While such sensitivity has eliminated trout from many miles of once productive water, it simplifies the research problem. The fish themselves are excellent response variables which can be used to determine how changes in habitat affect them. 103 �Our research program is designed to develop the technology needed to protect and enhance the aquatic environment and the trout fishery in the Appalachian Mountains while maintaining and enhancing other resource values. We hope to (1) determine how variations in water quality, food cover, and fishing pressure influence trout production; (2) establish environmental standards for logging, road construction, land clearing, and mining to prevent adverse impacts on trout; and (3) provide methods and technology for restoring and maintaining productive capacities of trout streams. Research Approaches Our approaches, when possible, are designed to predict the influences of land management practicies on stream biology. Effects of timber harvesting, reading, construction, and other forms of disturbance can be evaluated through land-use impact studies. This approach is readily applicable to management situations which could not be duplicated experimentally. The disadvantage of this approach is that it does not fully explain the reason for observed changes, and the results may not be directly applicable to other environmental situations. Another approach, and the one we will emphasize, is habitat analysis. This is a basic approach which relates population characteristics of trout and other organisms to the stream environment. When possible, observations will be made over a range of stream types, rather than one as in conventional case history studies. This technique adds realism to our models by considering the ofttimes overlooked dimension of natural variation and its effects on results. Current Studies We recently began research to determine reasons for the wide disparity among population densities, size of fish, and composition of trout in our mountain streams. One facet of this work compares the growth rate of different fish stocks with the relative abundance of the food and of the fish population. Another facet relates population density to the physical and chemical characteristics of streams. By measuring trout density, species composition, and growth characteristics and relating these factors to the availability of food and cover, water chemistry, and stream morphology, we will begin assembling fundamental data needed to formulate suitable management practices. In one opportunistic study, we measured the effects of a severe flood on protective cover for a large known density of trout. The flood significantly reduced quantities of logs, undercut banks, and brush, cover units used by large fish in study sections. These losses were offset by increases in the cover-affording capacity of stream-bottom material. The size of cover units available to fish after the flood was disproportionately reduced, however. As a result, study sections now primarily support a larger density of smaller size trout. We are also studying the effects of a small waste treatment facility on a trout stream. Results from this study will show what effects nutrients have on the biology of relatively sterile receiving waters. 1M �We are planning several important new studies. One will investigate the effects of cable logging on the aquatic resource. Such logging systems may greatly reduce formation and transport of erosion products which frequently damage streams during and after conventional timber-harvest operations. Another study will evaluate forest fertilization and its effects on stream biology. Fertilization may benefit trout by increasing overall stream productivity. Future Direction Our proposed program will require a team of researchers including specialists in fisheries management, aquatic ecology, and entomology. We will enlarge the overall research effort through cooperative programs with neighboring universities, State and Federal agencies, and interested conservation groups. We must closely examine existing food chains and webs available to trout. Efforts must be made to relate productivity of food organisms to water chemistry, food availability, and physical habitat. We must determine how the invertebrate biota is affected by land management and how the distribution, composition, and abundance of key invertebrates vary seasonally. We must begin to intensively evaluate the effectiveness of current guidelines for roading and logging practices as protectors of the aquatic environment. We must identify geologic, moisture, and soil conditions for which modified or new criteria are needed. In light of current demands for both trout fishing and forest products, we must also consider permissible ranges of alterations to the stream biota. Some alterations may benefit the fishery by, for instance, increasing the supply of available food or even cover without stressing other portions of the habitat. Perhaps the careful and limited removal of streamside vegetation could increase the growth of periphytic plants sufficiently to appreciably raise production of grazing aquatic organisms. Or, perhaps, changing the structure or species composition of streambank vegetation could provide additional cover and more nutritious or decomposable material to the stream biota. These are some questions we hope to answer. Studies which deal with various facets of protection and those which have immediate management potential will receive priority in our research program. LITERATURE CITED Oils, R. E. 1952. Changes in some vegetation, surface soil and surface runoff characteristics of a watershed brought about by forest cutting and subsequent mountain farming. Ph.D. Thesis, Mich. State Coll. Agric. and Appl. Sci., 205 p. Greene, G. E. 1950. 5: 125-126. Land use and trout streams. J. Soil and Water Conserv. Hewlett, J. D., and Hibbert, A. R. 1961. Increases in water yield after several types of forest cutting. Int. Assoc. Sci. Hydrol. Bull. 6(3): 5-17. Hibbert, A. R. 1945. Careless skidding reduces benefits of forest cover for watershed protection. J. For. 43: 765-766. 105 �Hibbert, A. R. 1966. Forest treatment effects on water yield. Natl. Sci. Found. Adv. Sci. Semin. Int. Symp. For. Hydrol. Proc. 1965: 527-543. Hursh, C. R. 1935. Control of exposed soil on road banks. Appalachian For. Exp. Stn. Tech. Note 12, 4 p. USDA For. Serv. Johnson, E. A. 1952. Effect of farm woodland grazing on watershed values in the southern Appalachian Mountains. J. For. 50: 109-113. Jones, LeRoy. 1955. A watershed study in putting a hardwood forest at the Coweeta Hydrologic Laboratory in the southern Appalachian Mountains under intensive management. M.F. Grad. Probl., Univ. Ga. George Foster Peabody Sch. For., 43 p. Lieberman, J. A., and Hoover, M.D. 1948. The effect of uncontrolled logging on stream turbidity. Water and Sewage Works 95(7): 255-258. Lieberman, J. A., and Hoover, M. D. 1948. Protecting quality of stream flow by better logging. South. Lumberman 177(2225): 236-240. Swank, W. T., and Miner, N. H. 1968. to white pine reduces water yield. Conversion of hardwood-covered watersheds Water Resour. Res. 4: 947-954. Swift, L. W., Jr., and Messer, J. B. 1971. Forest cuttings raise temperatures of small streams in the southern Appalachians. J. Soil and Water Conserv. 26: 111-116. Swift, L. W., Jr., and Baker, S. E. 1973. Lower water temperatures within a streamside buffer strip. USDA For. Serv. Res. Note SE-193, 7 p. Southeast. For. Exp. Stn., Asheville, N.C. Tebo, L. B., Jr. 1955. Effects of siltation, resulting from improper logging, on the bottom fauna of a small trout stream in the southern Appalachians. Prog. Fish-Cult. 55: 64-70. Tebo, L. B., Jr. 1957. Proc. 1956: 198-202. Effects of siltation on trout streams. Soc. Am. For. Woodall, W. R. 1972. Nutrient pathways in small mountain streams. Deciduous For. Biome Memo Rep. 72-58, 118 p. East. Woodall, W. R., and Wallace, J. B. 1972. The benthic fauna in four small southern Appalachian streams. Am. Midl. Nat. 88(2): 393-407. 106 �THE PLANNING APPROACH TO TROUT MANAGEMENT Joseph R. Fatoral! Abstract.--Trout management in the Appalachians under today's conditions with increasingly heavier resource demands should follow an orderly planning process utilizing resource survey and demand input and evolving to an operational plan considering the trout management area as a unit or logical subunits. Classical management techniques of habitat modification and population manipulation should be utilized when feasible and waters identified as high-use areas and native fish management waters managed with appropriate techniques. Additional keywords: Survey data, access, regulations. Trout management practices have classically involved modification of physical or chemical parameters to enhance the available habitat. Modifications that have been employed and continue to be utilized by agencies responsible for management include installation of habitat alteration structures such as splash dams, digger logs, cover logs, gabions, rock rip-rap, and similar devices. These devices are used variously to increase pool ratio, provide cover, increase water depth, or correct erosion problems. Other methods employed include installation of spawning channels or boxes, construction of fishways for spawning runs, use of barriers to prevent downstream ingress, addition of chemicals for artificial enrichment or alteration of pH, and revegetation of stream banks. Population manipulation also has long been used, including rough fish control, stream renovations, introduction of exotic species, continually supplementing the population with stocking, or planting of eggs in gravel bars. These classical methods have had varying success under different sets of conditions. The experienced trout manager knows what techniques to apply and can produce successful results under the proper circumstances. Managers are constantly being reminded that fishing "ain't what it used to be". Mullan (1960) expressed this very well--"Trout fishing isn't what it used to be and it never was: Regardless of how hard nature works towards primeval conditions ... it is obvious that the whole delicate balance . . . will never again be what it once was . . . The clock cannot be turned back." This fact is incontestable. Many miles of trout water have been seriously degraded and will remain so. Conversely, trout species are now found where they never occurred naturally. The productivity of trout waters also must accommodate many more fishermen than in the "good old days". Looking backward in time with misty eyes is a luxury that managers cannot afford. The basic underlying concept to today's conditions with increasingly of the resource as a unit consisting that fishery managers be planners, a management of Appalachian trout waters under heavier demands upon the resource is management of variably managed subunits. This necessitates function they have historically assumed. However, l/Regional Fisheries Supervisor, Georgia Department of Natural Resources, Game and Fish Division, Route 13, Box 322-A, Gainesville, Georgia. Mr. Robert F. Klant, Georgia Department of Natural Resources, Game and Fish Division, Route 13, Box 322-A, Gainesville, Georgia and Mr. Daniel R. Holder, Georgia Department of Natural Resources, Game and Fish Division, 270 Washington St., S. W., Atlanta, Georgia are acknowledged for critical review of the manuscript. l 07 �this is fraught with problems as pointed out by Libby (1974) -- "The mythology of comprehensive planning can generate the appearance of action without the substance. The products of planning--maps, charts, projections--can lull plannees into an illusion of improvement. However, the maps, charts, and projections are a necessary prerequisite to the planning process, but should not be construed as the end result. The first step involves collection of survey data. The survey data can be gathered and collected in a format suited to the purpose and desired result. These data can be applied toward developing various classifications based on legal, ecological, sanitation, or management criteria. Seehorn (1970) devised a survey format for evaluating and classifying trout waters that is effective and economical. Fish (1968) compiled the survey and inventory data of North Carolina waters. Information of this type is of direct value to future planning efforts. The input data collected as a result of the State Comprehensive Outdoor Recreation Plan in the cooperating southeastern states is definitely of value. This developed data on existing habitat parameters and on supply, demand, and need. Other data have evolved from the National Surveys of Fishing and Hunting (Department of the Interior) made at 5-year intervals beginning 1955. These examples provide the input--the maps, charts, and projections--which are of little value if not followed to conclusion, the planning effort. Comprehensive planning, the popular buzzword and nonentity of Libby (1974), is the next step in the usual planning process by planners. This is very often the end step and often only of theoretical value. Attempts at implementation often end in utter failure. This should be the first step in the planning process for recreational fisheries management--not the end result--but provide for development of an overall plan for implementing detailed planning. The detailed plan, or operational plan, is the end result, and an enormous effort involving managers, not planners, with an intimate knowledge of the resource for which they are managing and a recognition of the fundamental significance of fishing in outdoor recreation (Stroud, 1968). Another problem muddling the planning process is the number of state and federal agencies involved in planning. The in-thing today is to have a plan. It becomes quite obvious that several agencies planning for the same parcel of land will develop inconsistent plans. The only way to resolve this inconsistency is a single coordinated planning effort. Planners tend to maximize, an inherent falacy in most comprehensive planning. However, trout managers are at inconsistent odds with themselves. At one end of the spectrum they maximize to get the highest use of the resource possible, and at the other end, they tend to manage a resource for their conception of trout fishing, fishing on an inaccessible stream for native trout with artificial lures. Boiling this discourse down to basic principles more applicable to the trout manager, he must make use of the available input data on the resource and anticipated or generated demand and plan accordingly. It is during this operational planning phase, or formulation of the implementation program, that the trout manager can satisfy both ends of the management spectrum. Much emphasis has been placed upon optimum as opposed to maximum use of a fishery resource. There definitely is valid reasoning in planning for and obtaining use in excess of optimum on certain waters. These would be waters located near population centers, on the periphery of the main trout management area, or streams with well developed access patterns. These waters would, because of their location, size, or access, be able to absorb a high degree of fishing pressure, and would be heavily stocked to the anticipated demand. As an example, annual pressure was estimated at 8100 anglers/km during 1973 on Tallulah River, Georgia (England and Fatora, 1974). This stream is accessible by a proximate parallel road with developed campsites. 108 �Waters other than those designated for high use should be classified and managed based on existing or proposed access patterns and on biological parameters. Of primary importance here is the access patterns of the area to be managed, especially on small, easily fished streams. Large rough waters are more buffered against fishing pressure, but they too are susceptable. Access should be controlled as far as feasible on streams identified for native fish management. The desirable situation is to prevent future road access to existing high quality native fish waters. As soon as access is provided, these streams become degraded in quality, both from the physical impact of the road itself, and the increased angling pressure. Another factor of distinct importance beyond the effect of the existing and planned road net in the trout management area is the pattern of regulations and stocking applied to the various waters. Regulations are a highly valuable management tool, disregarding those implemented for traditional or moral reasons. Creel limits may be of some value on stocked streams to distribute the catch among more anglers, but are of relatively little value in preventing overexploitation of a native stream unless unduly restrictive. England (1974) in summarizing data on stocked Georgia streams reported 24% of the anglers attaining the limit under an 8-trout limit and 15% under a 10-trout limit. Hunt, Brynildson, and McFadden (1962) found little effect of a liberal 10-trout limit on harvest on a native brook trout stream. Minimum size limits are effective in controlling overexploitation. This insures a population under a selected minimum size depleted only by natural mortality and hooking loss. Minimum size limits can also be utilized for maintenance of special management fisheries, such as catch-and-release (Fatora, 1970) and trophy streams (England and Fatora, 1974). The main management value of regulations other than utilization to directly prevent overexploitation is in control of fishing pressure. Restrictive regulations have a tendency to reduce pressure (Shetter and Alexander, 1962; Fatora, 1970; Ball, 1971; Klein, 1972). These special regulations can range from artificials only and fly-fishing only waters to catch-and-release and trophy streams. The usual argument against such practices is discrimination against the majority of anglers by restricting fishing to an elite group. Some trout managers find it hard to justify limiting pressure and not obtaining heavier use. However, to manage streams as native streams with optimum use under current pressures exerted upon the resource, some method of reducing the pressure becomes mandatory. Restrictive regulations can accomplish the reduction in pressure and provide what is commonly referred to as a quality experience. The planting of catchable fish in small numbers throughout the season, generally referred to as supplemental stocking, has long been in common practice. The effect of stocking on the resident population has been suspected by managers, but recent data (Vincent, 1972) have revealed the depression of a wild trout population by catchable plants in a Montana stream. This study has reinforced the gut feeling of many trout managers. Thus, wild trout populations should be managed as such and · not disrupted by planting of hatchery stock. The reduction in pressure through application of restrictive regulations probably has more impact when anglers have access to a high use stream in the same locality. Georgia's wildlife management areas generally are provided with at least one high use stream with streams under native management with either state-wide or special regulations in effect. The high use streams with good access and camping areas absorb most of the pressure. 109 �In summation, the trout manager must utilize the input data of the planning process such as resource survey and classification data and on demand data and proceed through the planning process to development of an operational plan. Plans should consider the trout management area as a unit or logical subunits. Classical management techniques of habitat modification and population manipulation certainly should be applied. Trout waters identified during the planPing process as existing or potential high density use areas or as native fish management waters can then be managed utilizing appropriate management techniques. LITERATURE CITED Ball, K. 1971. Evaluation of catch-and-release regulations on cutthroat trout in the North Fork of the Clearwater River. Annual Completion Report, Project No. F-59-R-2, Job No. 1. Id. Fish and Game Dept. 38 p. England, R. H. 1974. Trout stream creel census, Study XV, Job 2. Statewide fisheries investigations, Project Final Report F-21-5, Ga. Game and Fish Div. In press. England, R.H., and J. R. Fatora. 1974. Waters Creek--a trophy trout stream. Ann. Conf. S.E. Assoc. Game and Fish Comm. 28. In press. Proc. Fatora, J. R. 1970. Noontootla--a sixteen-year creel and use history of a southern Appalachian trout stream under changing management regulations. Proc. Ann. Conf. S.E. Assoc. Game and Fish Comm. 24:622-637. Fish, F. F. 1968. A catalog of the inland fishing waters in North Carolina. Final Report Project F-14-R. N. C. Wildl. Res. Comm. Div. Inland Fisheries, Raleigh. 312 p. Hunt, R. L., 0. M. Brynildson, and J. T. McFadden. 1962. Effects of angling regulations on a wild brook trout fishery. Wis. Consv. Dept. Tech. Bull. No. 26. 58 p. Klein, W. D. 1972. Influence of special regulations and stocking on fishermen and the trout population at Parvin Lake, Colorado. Colo. Game, Fish and Parks Div. Tech. Publ. No. 29. 22 p. Libby, L. W. 1974. Comprehensive land use planning and other myths. Water Consv. May-June:l06-108. J. Soil and Mullan, J. W. 1960. and Game. 94 p. Div. Fisheries Trout stream management in Massachusett~. M~~s. Seehorn, M. E. 1970. A survey procedure for evaluating stream fisheries. Ann. Conf. S.E. Assoc. Game and Fish Comm. 24:308-315. Proc. Shetter, D. S., and G.R. Alexander. 1962. Effects of a flies-only restriction on angling and on fall trout populations in Hunt Creek, Montmorency County, Michigan. Trans. Amer. Fish. Soc. 91(3):295-302. Stroud, R. H. 1968. No. 192:1-7. Fishery management and state recreational planning. SFI Bull. Vincent, E. R. 1972. Effect of stocking catchable trout on wild trout populations. Abstract of paper presented at Western Div., Amer. Fish. Soc. Meeting, Portland, Ore., July 19, 1972. 110 �I I I I I I I I I I I I I I I I I I I I I I I I I I I I I I I I I I I I I I I I I I I I I I I I I I I I I I I I I I I I I II II II I I I I I I I I I I I I I I I I I I I I I I I I I I I I I I I I I I I I I I I I I I I I I I I I I I I I I I �JUST RELEASED- BOOKS WE ALL HAVE BEEN WAITING FOR Superb books by, for and about people of Western North Carolina and the Southern Appalachians founded in Western North Carolina at the Biltmore Estate. " It will hold your attention-don't fail to read it. "- Journal of Forestry 224 pages; illus. cloth $10.95 001 " ... a right good people" by HAROLD WARREN "One of a limited number (of books) that will win the approval of native mountain people."-Loyal Jones, Director, Appalachian Center, Berea paper $2.50 128 pages: 37 ills. 007 The Birth of Forestry in America 0 by CARL ALWIN SCHENCK paper $4.50 002 Down to Earth-People of Appalachia by KENNETH MURRAY "The memory will last forever."- Ambrose Manning, Professor of English, East Tennessee State University 128 pages; over 200 ills. paper $2.95 003 Bits of Mountain Speech by PAUL FINK 008 The Southern Appalachian Heritage Seventy full four-color illustrations plus a full color cover; 20 ,000 word text, including ballads, recipes, folklore, history, etc.; shrink wrapped. "Without a doubt the most beautiful, delightful. big book about our colorful region ever produced . . Long overdue."- Borden Mace, Executive Director, Appalachian Consortium paper $5 .95 0 A bodacious collection of tidbits of mountain speech. "Excellent .. ."- Rogers Whitener, in Folk Ways and Folk Speech 32 pages paper $1.25 004 Western North Carolina Since the Civil War by DRS. INA and jOHN VAN NOPPEN "A proud, positive history of a proud and independent people . . . Superb ... Should be in every home."- Dr. W. H. Plemmons, President Emeritus, Appalachian State University 436 pages; 132 ills.; indexed cloth $12.95 005 Western North Carolina Since the Civil War by DRS. INA and JOHN VAN NOPPEN paper $4.95 006 The Birth of Forestry in America by CARL ALWIN SCHENCK A reprint of the illustrated history of the first school of forestry in America, which was 009 Toward 1984: The Future of Appalachia SOUTHERN APPALACHIAN REGIONAL CON· FERENCE 144 pages paper $2.95 Ordering Information: We offer 10% discounts when three (3) or more books are ordered Add 3% N. C. sales tax where applicable We pay postage and handling charges on all prepaid orders Order from: The Appalachian Consortium Press 407 East Howard Street Boone, North Carolina 28607 � Dublin Core The Dublin Core metadata element set is common to all Omeka records, including items, files, and collections. For more information see, http://dublincore.org/documents/dces/. Title A name given to the resource Appalachian Consortium Press Publications Description An account of the resource This collection contains digitized monographs and collections from the Appalachian Consortium Press. Creator An entity primarily responsible for making the resource Appalachian Consortium Press Publisher An entity responsible for making the resource available Appalachian Consortium Press Date Issued Date of formal issuance (e.g., publication) of the resource. June 1, 2017 Contributor An entity responsible for making contributions to the resource <a title="Digital Scholarship and Initiatives" href="http://library.appstate.edu/services/digital-scholarship-and-initiatives" target="_blank">Digital Scholarship and Initiatives</a> Publication Digital Publisher Digital Republication Appalachian State University Dublin Core The Dublin Core metadata element set is common to all Omeka records, including items, files, and collections. For more information see, http://dublincore.org/documents/dces/. Title A name given to the resource Symposium on Trout Habitat: Research and Management Description An account of the resource This publication is the proceedings from a symposium on trout habitat held in 1974 at Western Carolina University in Cullowhee, North Carolina on trout habitat in the Southern Appalachians. Research and management issues were addressed, including challenges to trout habitats such as deforestation, fire, overgrazing, dams, mining, urban and industrial waste, road construction, and poor agricultural practices.&nbsp; <br /><br /><a href="https://drive.google.com/open?id=1iqlZ9vCleN_sdMKANGA-GKirYAFWr_yL" target="_blank" rel="noopener">Download EPub<br /><br /></a><a title="UNC Press Link" href="https://www.uncpress.org/book/9781469636498/symposium-on-trout-habitat-research-and-management" target="_blank" rel="noopener">UNC Press Print on Demand</a> Subject The topic of the resource Trout--Congresses Trout--Appalachian Region, Southern Fishery management--Appalachian Region, Southern Alternative Title An alternative name for the resource. The distinction between titles and alternative titles is application-specific. 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Temporal Coverage Temporal characteristics of the resource. 1970s Biology ecosystems fishery management mining Trout https://omeka-test.library.appstate.edu/files/original/7bdb3f32f5ec110884ddbb8d302fc314.pdf 29e762645d7f2b5361adec66a70ab22b PDF Text Text �Toward 1984 The Future of Appalachia A P P A L A C H I A N CONSORTIUM PRESS BOONE, NORTH CAROLINA 28607 �The Appalachian Consortium was a non-profit educational organization composed of institutions and agencies located in Southern Appalachia. From 1973 to 2004, its members published pioneering works in Appalachian studies documenting the history and cultural heritage of the region. The Appalachian Consortium Press was the first publisher devoted solely to the region and many of the works it published remain seminal in the field to this day. With funding from the Andrew W. Mellon Foundation and the National Endowment for the Humanities through the Humanities Open Book Program, Appalachian State University has published new paperback and open access digital editions of works from the Appalachian Consortium Press. www.collections.library.appstate.edu/appconsortiumbooks This work is licensed under a Creative Commons BY-NC-ND license. To view a copy of the license, visit http://creativecommons.org/licenses. Original copyright © 1975 by the Appalachian Consortium Press. ISBN (pbk.: alk. Paper): 978-1-4696-3674-0 ISBN (ebook): 978-1-4696-3676-4 Distributed by the University of North Carolina Press www.uncpress.org �May 13-16, 1974 SOUTHERN APPALACHIAN REGIONAL CONFERENCE Sponsored by The Appalachian Consortium Appalachian State University Blue Ridge Parkway East Tennessee State University Ferrum College First Tennessee-Virginia Development District Lees-McRae College Mars Hill College U.S. Forest Service Warren Wilson College Western Carolina University Western North Carolina Historical Association �ACKNOWLEDGMENTS American Petroleum Institute 1801 K Street, N. W. Washington, D. C. 20006 Appalachian Regional Commission 1666 Connecticut Avenue, N. W. Washington, D. C. 20235 Fed. Chairman: Donald W. Whitehead Atomic Energy Commission Washington, D. C. 20545 Chesapeake & Ohio Terminal Tower Cleveland, Ohio 44101 COALition Against Strip Mining Washington, D. C. 20003 Commission on Religion in Appalachia Ernest Nesuis, Chairman West Virginia University Morgantown, West Virginia Common Cause 2100 M Street, N. W. Washington, D. C. 20037 Duke Power 422 S. Church Street Charlotte, N. C. 28201 E.T. & W.N.C. 132 Legion Johnson City, Tennessee Exxon Corporation 1251 Avenue of the Americas New York, New York 10020 Mary D. Houska Associate Professor, Economics Rollins College, Virginia Richard C. Jackson Lees-McRae College Banner Elk, North Carolina Jack S. Kelley USDA Forest Service Box 2750 Asheville, N. C. 28802 LENOWISCO Planning District Commission Duffield, Virginia 24244 Helen Lewis, Sociologist Clinch Valley College Wise, Virginia 24298 Sources for Position Papers National Independent Coal Operators' Association Post Office Box 354 Richlands, Virginia 24641 Louis Hunter, Exec. Secretary Natural Resources Defence Council 36 West 44th Street New York, New York 10036 Norfolk & Western 8 N. Jefferson Street Roanoke, Virginia 24011 Pocahontas Land Corporation Bluefield, West Virginia F. Schmidt-Bleek Environment Center University of Tennessee Knoxville, Tennessee Dennis C. Shultz Sierra Club Matthews, North Carolina Southern Coal Producers' Assn. 1307 Kanawha Valley Building Charleston, West Virginia 25301 Quin Morton III, Exec. Vice Pres. Tennessee Valley Authority New Sprankle Building Knoxville, Tennessee 37902 Chairman: Aubrey J. Wagner United Mine Workers of America 900 15th Street, N. W. Washington, D. C. U. S. Steel Corporation 71 Broadway New York, New York 10006 Gratis D. Williams Appalachian State University Boone, North Carolina 28608 World Future Society Box 30369, Bethesda Branch Washington, D. C. 20014 For further information contact: Dr. Terry Epperson Associate Director Southern Appalachian Regional Conference Appalachian State University Boone, North Carolina 28608 �TABLE OF CONTENTS Acknowledgments Foreword Introduction First Session: Energy Second Session: Land Use Third Session: The Human Spirit Conclusion Appendix A Appendix B Appendix C iv vi 1 3 33 71 99 108 113 128 �FOREWORD In the fall of 1973 a proposal was sent to the National Center for Improvement of Educational Systems (Department of Health, Education and Welfare, United States Office of Education) from Appalachian State University and the University's Task Force on Appalachian Consortium Affairs, requesting funds to support a conference on Southern Appalachia. The proposal was subsequently funded and the Appalachian Consortium was asked to co-sponsor the conference and publish the proceedings. The funds from the National Center for Improvement of Educational Systems were administered through PROJECT OPEN, which was itself an outgrowth of the federal Training the Trainers of Teachers Program. Triple T was a $40 million effort by the United States Office of Education to get at the retraining of teacher trainers and break down the traditional walls that exist within educational systems and between educational institutions and their various constituencies . The six cluster groups* in Triple T were deeply concerned with the organizations and systems that influenced educational institutions. PROJECT OPEN was a continuing attempt to move forward what had been learned through five years of Training the Trainers of Teachers experiences and to build on it. This past year, PROJECT OPEN activities have involved interactions among persons from public schools, universities, and communities. These meetings, held across the United States, provided a variety of forums and action opportunities for the development of communications that might contribute to new learning and improved community relationships. �The organization of the Southern Appalachian Regional Conference was built around the idea that local, insular change is an inadequate goal and that a dynamic social-change strategy could begin to build a connected movement of institutional and personal change that would go beyond the isolated successes and failures of individual programs and places. It was realized that this change process could not impose prescriptions and directives from above or from outside. No longer could funding sources concentrate on any one individual program or institution and thereby overlook the possible inter-relationship and inter-dependence of all of the parts of any social equation. These conference proceedings will provide the reader with a classic example of how interested and concerned citizens in one region of our country got together to define common problems and propose solutions. It was known that these problems were being worked on constantly by various, discrete components—educational, political, economic, and social. It was hoped that the Appalachian Consortium with other organizations would be the constant mechanism for bringing together the coal miners, representatives of energy, zoning, and planning commissions, and those in political power within the states involved, to deal with each other and to listen to each other's point of view from some common base of information and shared concerns. The plan was to make the group even richer by inviting those concerned with preserving and enriching the environment for the human spirit itself— the preservation of our deeper value and the growth of personal learning. �Left to right: ASU Chancellor Herbert Wey, Governor James Holshouser (Conference Director) and Terry Epperson (Associate Conference Director) at the opening session. When this combination takes place, the opportunities for new perspectives arise and new groups form and increase immensely. The leadership of The Honorable James E. Holshouser, Jr. , Governor of North Carolina, who directed the conference and Professor Terry Epperson of the University Faculty who ably assisted the Governor is gratefully acknowledged. Thanks also go to the Director of the Appalachian Consortium, Borden Mace. Special thanks go to Hazel Horn for editing the proceedings and to Kay Carfagna and Nancy West for typing the manuscript. Herbert W. Wey Chancellor *Cluster Leaders: Appalachian State University Boone, North Carolina Hobert Burns, California State University, San Jose Richard Ford, Clark University William Hazard, Northwestern University Charles Ruch, University of Pittsburg Eugene Slaughter, Southeastern State College, Oklahoma Herbert Wey, Appalachian State University �Southern Appalachian Regional Conference Toward 1984: The Future of Appalachia? Proceedings INTRODUCTION As part of Project Open of the United States Office of Education, the Appalachian Consortium sponsored the Southern Appalachian Regional Conference (May 13-16, 1974) at the Center for Continuing Education at Appalachian State University. To be sure that as many points of view as possible were presented, the Consortium solicited papers from diverse organizations. Those represented are listed in the acknowledgments. At the opening banquet, the audience was addressed by Governor James E. Holshouser, J r . , North Carolina; John B . Howard, American Petroleum Institute; and Gratis Williams, Acting Vice Chancellor for Academic Affairs, Appalachian State University (Appendices A, B, C) . For convenience of discussion, the conference was divided into three main themes: Energy, Land Use, and The Human Spirit. The reader of these proceedings, however, will soon discover that these divisions could not be strictly maintained. Certain attitudes and conditions pervaded all three sessions. 1 �Strip mining, for instance, was acknowledged to be a quick contribution to the nation's energy resources , but was condemned as a threat to the land and therefore to the spirit of the mountaineers. Deep mining, on the other hand, would require long-range development before adding to the energy supply, but would do far less damage to the environment and, by providing long-term employment, would contribute substantially to the wellbeing of the region's workers. Another pervasive theme was how to retain for Appalachia its fair share of its vast wealth. Most of the profits now go to absentee landlords — not just to the corporate mineowners, but also to the developers of the scenic areas and second-home resorts. Other overlaps will become apparent to the reader as the f i l m s , position papers, discussions, comments, and summaries are covered in the following pages. The one general certainty seemed to be that each participant would go home, not only reinforced and better informed, but also aware of other experts' overlapping or discrete problems. 2 �First Session: ENERGY The session began with two films. The first, by Harley Jolly of Mars Hill College, showed the despoliation of Appalachia's mountains and streams. The junk yards and litter spots could be removed with reasonable ease, but other insults to the landscape appear to be ineradicable. The second film, by Phil Shelton of Clinch Valley College, showed efforts at reclamation—some good, some poor, some deliberate, some by chance— but a dismal prospect over all. The films were only a prelude to the discus- sion of energy resources and their immense importance to the region—namely how to develop them with minimum residual damage. An overshadowing problem is that, since the region does not control its own resources, the owning corporations can invest or not according to their own profit expectations and to the relative cost of other fuels. Too, the corporations are generally more interested in the current profit than in the long-term development and stability of the industry (although this may change when the international scope of the energy dilemma is fully realized). Twenty small groups discussed various aspects of the energy problem—as it exists worldwide, not j u s t in Appalachia. Summaries of the 3 �discussion have been distilled in the following paragraphs. More than one speaker pointed out that the natives of Appalachia have lost control of the development of their coal resources because they are so independent they will not band together even to fight exploitation. They have divided themselves and can be conquered by any enterprising mining corporation (or land developer, for that matter). Laws cannot prevent an individual from selling his coal, land, or timber, but they should certainly discourage him from doing so, e . g . , by regional zoning laws and state and federal long-range development plans. Above all, the local people, not the vested interests, should have the most say in the planning. The use of Appalachia's energy resources should bring prosperity to the area, since it is expected to provide for the whole nation, but how to retain the profits is a complex problem. Small owners can lease their coal to large operators who, in turn, resell it at higher prices (and the strip scar may or may not be reclaimed). If deep mines are to be opened or reopened profitably, they will probably be so highly automated that they will give comparitively little local employment and, again, their earnings will go elsewhere. Coal prices must remain competitive with other fuels, notably petroleum, by appropriate laws or other legislation. Improved technology such as liquefication and gasification at the mine-mouth might also help coal hold its price edge . The short- and long-run effects of both strip and deep mining came up in many of the discussion groups. Stripping leaves the deep coal inaccessible and presents a reclamation problem. Deep mining removes the coal 4 �efficiently but requires expensive machinery and must follow costly health, safety, and pollution regulations. Cooperative and concentrated planning seems to be the only way to establish a workable trade-off between the advantages and the disadvantages. If other fuel sources could be developed, high-grade Appalachian coal could be put to its best use, namely, in the metallurgical industries. Recycling waste and speeding the use of inexhaustible solar and nuclear power would go a long way toward solving this problem. The Tennessee Valley Authority was both praised and condemned, for its ends and its means are frequently in conflict. It is pledged to supply cheap power, but to do so it often uses strip-mine coal, floods usable agricultural land, or commits other ecologically harmful acts. Advertising by the public utilities was criticized by some as promoting overuse of a scarce resource. In rebuttal, it was maintained that such advertising sought to encourage conservation and proper use of water and power. Many participants were concerned with the future of Appalachia and its dependence on coal. Fuel prices will undoubtedly go up, bringing profit to the region for some time to come but, in the meantime, the resources will be depleted. If other resources are developed, what of the coal? Are present legislators well enough informed to set up laws to protect the future of the area? The speakers touched briefly on some points; they examined others repeatedly and at length. The principal concerns are apparent in the following position papers. 5 �ENERGY U.S. Atomic Energy Commission Washington, D.C. 20545 OUR ENERGY PROBLEM. The Atomic Energy Commission believes citizens should know what they can do to assure abundant, clean energy in coming years. World reserves of fossil fuels cannot last forever, and before we run out, we must have good alternatives to take their place. We must also use the alternatives we have more wisely and efficiently. Energy, of course, is essential to American life, but we are already experiencing shortages. Environment, technology, investment capital, foreign policy, trade balance, regulatory policies, and energy costs are a few of the complex factors that must be considered. HOW CRITICAL IS THE PROBLEM? Our overall energy consumption is doubling every fifteen years, and our electrical energy consumption is growing at twice that rate. In the next 30 years we will need more energy than throughout our 200-year history. We burn fossil fuel at the rate of 1.9 billion tons a year (accounting for more than 95% of our power) and oil at the rate of 18 million barrels a day. In less than 10 years, we will need from 20 to 25 million barrels a day. The natural gas problem is more acute, even with foreign sources to supplement our needs for this efficient and clean fuel. In 1970, imports provided only 4% of our supply. By the year 2 0 0 0 , they will provide at least 28%. Coal is plentiful (our known reserves are estimated at 2 trillion tons), but it is dirty—both to burn and to recover economically. Although strip 6 �mining is the most economically feasible method of obtaining coal, many ecologists want it completely banned. WHAT ARE THE SOLUTIONS? As our energy will not remain cheap and inexhaustible, we must, for the short term, conserve it—if necessary by establishing priorities and rationing. For the longer term, we must reduce inefficient use and develop additional resources. There is enough coal for hundreds of years, and processes are being developed to use it without contributing to environmental pollution. These include removing pollutants from coal during combustion or from waste gas before it goes out the stack and converting coal to gaseous and liquid fuels. For generating electricity, nuclear power competes with fossil fuels, but it now supplies only about 1% of our needs; it will probably supply as much as 50% within 25 years. A high-priority nuclear program is the development of the fast-breeder reactor. This will extend the life of our uranium reserves for thousands of years, because it will use up to 75% of the uranium energy, compared with 2% by present-day reactors. These breeders are expected to be in commercial operation in the 1990s. Controlled nuclear fusion, by which the sun generates its energy, is also being developed. It would be safe and clean, and its probable fuel, deuterium, is abundantly available from seawater. Vast deposits of oil shale promise increased oil supply. In the United States, such deposits contain more oil than the total world oil reserves. Costs for extracting the oil are not yet competitive, but improvements are being sought. In other areas, researchers are seeking ways to tap energy from the sun and to use geothermal energy. 7 �Both in our homes and in industry, less energy can be used to serve the same needs through technological improvements and new standards for equipment and construction. Our ingenuity and resourcefulness are challenged to solve the energy problem by balancing conservation against the need for ample energy and a clean environment for future generations. 8 �American Petroleum Institute 1801 K Street, N.W. Washington, D.C. 20006 The United States is faced with a serious energy shortfall. It did not begin with the Arab oil embargo, but developed because oil was forced to bear a disproportionate share of our sharply increasing energy demands. Other energy sources were unable to furnish much additional fuel. Coal use was curtailed; nuclear power came onstream more slowly than anticipated; and little additional energy was available from hydropower. Inadequate development of domestic petroleum sources made it necessary to import increasing amounts of oil. Then came the Arab oil embargo—and we were faced with a crisis. The crisis brought some benefits. The embargo reminded us that lack of energy leads to economic stagnation, unemployment, and spreading poverty, and that we cannot rely on insecure foreign supplies . If we are now convinced of the need to develop domestic energy resources, the embargo served us well. The failure to develop domestic supplies was the result of many forces: the rising energy needs of a growing population, restrictions on energy development brought on by concern for the environment, fragmented policies and inappropriate government decisions that discouraged domestic development, lack of foresight by industry, and imprudent energy use by consumers. There are three ways to solve the energy problem: decrease energy demand, increase energy supply, or combine the two. Energy demand can be cut either by allocation and rationing of fuel, -9 �or by encouraging more frugal use of it. Allocation and rationing offer no real solution; they are designed merely to share scarcity. Conservation is another matter. Permanent solutions will take time, but most people can start practicing conservation today. Many Americans, however, still have no car, no air conditioner, and no TV set; they should not be condemned by energy scarcity to poverty or second-class citizenship. Petroleum will have to furnish most of our energy needs for several decades. Coal, nuclear power, or new energy sources cannot supply enough to meet expected demand. Oil companies must go where there are large amounts of oil and gas, drill for them, move them to refineries—and construct more refineries. Six years ago, the largest oil field in this hemisphere was found in Alaska, but it will be 1977 before the pipeline is completed. The Outer Continental Shelf alone may contain twice as much of both oil and gas as we have consumed throughout our history, but industry cannot drill without obtaining a lease. Until recently, lease sales were few. Offshore drilling must be accelerated to tap these resources. Increased lease sales on the Outer Continental Shelf in the past year, the coming Alaska pipeline, and improved oil prices have finally brought an upturn in drilling after 15 years of almost steady decline. This will not bring an immediate increase in petroleum supplies, but is the surest route to increased domestic supplies and reduced dependence on foreign energy. 10 �Duke Power Company Charlotte, N . C . 28201 While the role of electricity has not been as prominent in Appalachia as in the more prosperous Piedmont Plateau of the Carolinas, it is beginning to catch up. Over the last five years, for instance, in the 29 Appalachian counties of North Carolina, 112 new industries and 267 expansions of existing industries have resulted in $641 million in new investment and in a payroll addition of $127 million for 2 4 , 2 5 5 new jobs. The six Appalachian counties of South Carolina, during that same period, acquired 81 new industries, 118 expansions of existing plants, and an investment of $706 million, resulting in a payroll of $92 million to be shared by 17,553 new jobs. Every one of these 193 new industries and 385 expansions in Appalachia required electricity in varying amounts . When it was needed, it was there, most of it generated by Duke Power Company. As for the future, the supply needed by new and expanded industry will be sufficient. By 1983, Duke Power will have expanded from a $3 billion investment to almost $12 billion. Of the amount allocated for generation, $6.5 billion will be invested in nuclear generating plants with a capability of about 12 million kilowatts. Much of the remaining money will be invested in pumped storage hydroelectric power for peaking purposes. 11 �Louis H. Hunter, Executive Vice President National Independent Coal Operators' Association Richlands, Virginia 24641 The United States, with 6% of the world's population, consumes approximately 33% of the world's total energy—much of it wastefully—and energy use has doubled in the past 20 years. Of the energy we use today 50% is oil, 30% gas, 15% coal, 4% hydroelectric, and 1% nuclear. We have vast coal reserves in this country, much more than all the other energy sources combined. The Appalachian area should develop more mines, more safely, more economically, and with better reclamation methods. The United States needs doubled coal production by the year 1983 from 600 million tons today to approximately 1.25 billion tons annually if we proceed with the present plans for coal gasification. We have been slow in this development and should strive toward it. Coal is being gasified in South Africa successfully, profitably, and more cheaply than other sources of gas supply. The great amount of water needed for gasification is a real problem for our Western states, which have plenty of coal. This is one reason we in the Appalachian area should take full advantage of our surrounding resources. Research should be done on a better method of heating with coal. It could be pulverized and cleaned and burned without a loss of even one BTU. It would be put in a completely sealed unit with very little waste going into the atmosphere. This can be done by recycling through water and other chemicals. Pulverized coal would be a great saving of other energy such as oil, natural gas, and bottled gas. Today there is a great loss of heat and 12 �energy through stacks and chimneys. Little has been done to improve the burning of coal. Industry, with government help, should use the millions of cubic feet of methane gas being extracted from the coal seams and wasted by dilution into the atmosphere. Even small seams of coal (8- to 15-inch seams) could be burned in place and the different gases used instead of left lying in the earth. The economy in Appalachia would suffer greatly if laws were passed to abolish or curtail surface mining. We must strive to keep good mining, both surface and underground, operating in our area. Surface mining is much safer and healthier than underground mining. Underground mines have been punished by much less production, because of many unneeded laws and regulations. 13 �Tennessee Valley Authority Knoxville, Tennessee 37902 Energy is so taken for granted in our society that only in times of shortage do we begin to comprehend its effects on our economy and on our daily lives. Energy supply has been vital to the advancement of civilization. To a considerable degree, man's wealth, health, and general wellbeing have directly reflected his use of energy. For example, the average American citizen uses the energy equivalent of 7 tons — 1 4 , 0 0 0 pounds—of coal each year and contributes $3,000 to the gross national product. In India, on the other hand, the average person commands the use of only 1/5 ton—400 pounds—of coal energy equivalent and contributes less than $100 to the gross national product. One wonders how we let the present energy crisis arise. Besides population growth, the environmental awakening of the county has helped to precipitate the crisis. Our accumulation of environmental problems clearly could not continue, but in our efforts to reverse the trend quickly, we have created new problems. For example, to reduce polluting fumes from coal-burning plants, industries turned increasingly to oil and gas, our scarcest fuels, and this action hastened their depletion. Our concern that strip-mined lands be reclaimed has led to actions that in some instances threaten to stop the flow of coal from surface mines. Our concern for the discharge of heated water into our streams and lakes has delayed and, in some cases, stopped the construction of needed energy-producing plants. Another reason is the delay in bringing nuclear generating stations into operation. 14 �There is a critical imbalance between our energy resources and how we use them. According to a recent study at Cornell University, only about 4% of our proven energy reserves is in oil, yet 42% of the energy we use comes from oil. Thirty-three % of the energy we use comes from natural gas, but less than 6% of our proven reserves is in gas. Coal, on the other hand, constitutes 86% of our known energy reserves, but only 18% of the energy we use comes from coal. At the present time only 1% of our energy is supplied from nuclear resources , using what we call light-water nuclear reactors . If we rely solely on them, they can use less than 1% of the uranium ore we mine. This fraction constitutes just over 4% of our total energy reserves and would be exhausted in 20 to 30 years. However, TVA has joined with others to build a demonstration breeder reactor near Oak Ridge, Tennessee. If it is successful, it will produce from the balance of the uranium ore more fuel than it consumes and so extend the life of our uranium reserves to provide for our energy needs for many centuries. Obviously, to solve our energy problems, we must rely more heavily on coal and on the breeder rea ctor. In the short term, heavy emphasis must be placed on conserving energy—turning down our thermostats, driving our automobiles less, and taking many other conservation measures. We must regulate strip mining of coal to provide satisfactory reclamation, but not to stop production, as half our present coal supply comes from surface mines. We must get new coal mines opened and, for the sake of the consumers, bring the runaway pricing of coal under control. 15 �Our air quality control regulations must be realistic. Ambient standards—the standards that control air quality at ground level—must be met, but emission standards can be given second consideration (at least until technology for sulfur dioxide removal has been proven). Finally, we must find ways to speed up the licensing and construction of nuclear plants without sacrificing safety standards. For the long term (to the end of this century), we must rely even more heavily on light-water nuclear reactors like those now being built. We must perfect the nuclear breeder reactor; we must learn how to use coal as a clean fuel; we must develop the fusion reactor, solar energy, and other power sources that offer unlimited supply and even better environmental acceptability. Research in these methods of energy production should be pushed vigorously. Substitution of electricity for scarce fossil fuels will be part of our long-range energy adjustment. In the years ahead, electricity will carry an increasingly large proportion of the ultimate energy load. Our fossil fuels are bound to become increasingly scarce and higher in price. About 25% of all the energy we consume in this country is now used to generate electricity. It is estimated that, by the end of the century, as much as 50% of our energy will be so used and that perhaps as much as 75% of all our end needs for energy could be met with electricity. In a very real sense, then, electricity is the solution to our energy problem, not a part of it. This leads to the problems of power supply in the TVA region. The TVA power system is the largest in the United States , with presently over 20 million kilowatts of generating capacity. It is a publicly-owned system 16 �responsible for providing power on a self-supporting, nonprofit basis, at the least possible cost to the consumer. More than 80% of its generating capacity'is in coal-burning thermal plants, and the rest in hydroelectric generation at large dams. The first nuclear generating unit is j u s t now being tested. When the construction of all nuclear generating units now under way or already purchased is completed, TVA's nuclear capacity will be about 16 million kilowatts, constituting 40% of the total generating capacity. The power system's two present major problems are fuel supply and fuel cost. For several months, TVA purchasers have been unable to contract for new coal in significant quantities. The system is burning more than it can buy and stockpiles are going down. New mines simply are not being opened. With the increased nationwide demand for coal and with the decreasing supply, the effect on prices has been disastrous for the consumer. As recently as four years ago, the average price TVA paid for coal was about $ 4 . 5 0 per ton. Today it is as much as $11.30 per ton, and reports arrive every day of some buyers paying as much as $20 to $25 per ton. About half the cost of electricity produced in the TVA system is represented by coal, and its coal bill last year was about $300 million. Unless something is done to stabilize the cost of coal, electric rates are going to rise dramatically. However, TVA power is still a bargain compared with other living costs. In 1940 the average family in the Tennessee Valley spent about 4-1/2% of its family income on power bills; today it is about 2-1/2% while using over ten times as much electricity. 17 , �Pocahontas Land Corporation Bluefield, West Virginia Coal is America's most abundant natural energy resource. It represents 88% of our known energy fuel reserves and 50% of the world's, yet it supplies only 20% of our nation's energy demands. Of the 790 billion tons of recoverable coal reserves in the United States, 150 billion tons (19%) are located in Appalachia. Because of its high metallurgical quality, bituminous coal mined in Appalachia is considered to be the finest coking coal in the world and is in high demand for domestic and foreign steel mills. In 1973 Appalachia supplied approximately three-fourths of all coal produced in the United States. Since coal plays a major role in Appalachia's economy, any changes affecting the coal industry will have a farreaching effect on the region. For several decades, coal has been a stagnant, secondary industry in our economy. It has been constantly faced with market dislocations and plagued with increasingly stringent and unattainable environmental regulations and an apathetic or even hostile government attitude. For example, under the Clean Air Act of 1970, large industrial plants using coal were required to reduce their stack emissions to certain levels by July 1, 1975. Since technology for meeting such standards was unavailable, many utilities converted from coal-fired boilers to oil- and gas-fired boilers. The result was a drain on two natural resources already in short supply and continuing market losses for coal. The Federal Coal Mine Health and Safety Act, which became effective in 1970, brought the coal mining industry additional woes. Although many 18 �of the goals of that legislation were admirable, many of the regulations are unrealistic and burdensome. For example, the Act requires that all underground mines install certain "permissible" electrical equipment designed to prevent explosions from the ignition of methane gas by sparks from electrical machinery. Even though methane gas is not present in all underground mines , all mines must comply with the requirement. Unfortunately, the equipment is too expensive for smaller mining operators and is often unavailable even for those who can afford it. As a result, many mines that do not have the "permissible" equipment will, more than likely, have to shut down. When mines are closed, even for a short period of time, employees take other employment and are not always available if the mines reopen. Through compliance with the Act, it is estimated that the coal mining industry has suffered a production loss of about 15%-25%. As a result of this loss and of additional labor and supply requirements imposed by the Act, underground mining costs have increased 20%-30%. Another threat to the viability of the coal industry is House Bill 11500—the proposed Surface Mining Control and Reclamation Act of 1973. Although the Act would permit surface mining, it does so with a number of restrictions that would, in effect, discourage surface mining or make it infeasible. When combined with reasonable reclamation procedures, sur- face mining can be an asset to both the environment and the economy. It makes possible the recovery of millions of tons of valuable coal that otherwise could not be mined economically and that often could not be mined by any other method. Such mining produces about 50% of our present coal 19 �supplies. Surface mining is not only more productive than underground mining but also safer. In 1972 the average tons of coal produced per miner per day through strip mining and auger mining (the two forms of surface mining) were 35.95 and 43, respectively, while underground miners averaged only 11.91 tons per day. In 1973, of 11,050 nonfatal injuries suffered in mining accidents, 9 , 4 5 0 resulted from underground mining and 1,600 from surface mining; 107 fatalities occurred in underground mining while only 25 resulted from surface mining. Our present emergency has brought the importance of our coal resources and their use clearly into focus . Our relatively low reserves of energy resources other than coal, the undesirability of depending on foreign f u e l , and the staggering balance of payments problem all point to coal as the keystone of our future energy economy. Coal is now seen as a primary industry, and its development as a national priority. For coal to expand and fulfill this new role, basic changes must be made in the legislative, governmental, environmental, and economic perimeters of the industry. 20 �LENOWISCO* Planning District Commission Duffield, Virginia 24244 One approach to the energy problem, particularly relevant to Central Appalachia, has not been dealt with extensively. In much of this area, the coal mining industry is the basis of the economy. Certain areas suffered heavy losses when the mining industry began to automate in the early '50s. They could do so again with any major fluctuation in the coal market or in production techniques since they have, as yet, failed to develop a stable economy independent of the mining industry. Whereas any industry or corporation has a responsibility to its employees and its community, this is particularly true when that industry is the mainstay of the local economy. What happened in coal producing areas in the '50s should never be allowed to happen again. The community and the industry should see to it that they are prepared for fluctuations that can affect a large segment of the community. The locality cannot be prepared for these changes without the cooperation of the mining industry. This responsibility has been largely ignored by industry, which can no longer be allowed to consider only its own survival. In many parts of Central Appalachia, the coal industry is the lifeblood of the economy, but it is extracting the most valuable resource and transporting it elsewhere for profit. When the coal resources are depleted or no longer in demand, the corporations will move on to other areas, but Appalachia and its people *The Cities of Lee, Norris, Wise, and Scott, Virginia. 21 �will remain, possibly with a shattered economy, a ravaged landscape, and a broken spirit. We are finally learning that our resources are not infinite, and Appalachia must look to its future. We must do everything in our power to assure that, when the coal mining is gone, we have something left, and that, as long as it is here, the people affected get their fair share. The coal industry must be more open in discussing those aspects of its business that affect the surrounding area, and if the nation wants our coal, we want a larger say in its marketing. The coal industry already has that kind of power, but the people who live with the coal, its benefits and detriments, have little or no say in national policies. We must face our responsibility to Appalachia and ourselves and see to it that those who affect us do likewise. 22 �Mary D. Houska Associate Professor, Economics Hollins College, Virginia 2 4 0 2 0 This commentary has three parts: (1) an analysis of changes in the energy market; (2) an analysis of the impact on the market for Appalachian coal of any future federal legislation restricting surface mining; and (3) an analysis of the probable impact of the first two on the economy of these mining regions. There are also recommendations for the direction of public policy. The two major markets for Appalachian coal are metallurgical use and power generation. Much of it has a high BTU content and is a high-carbon, low-to-medium volatile coal. This unique characteristic, plus seams from four to six feet thick, has made this coal the international source for metallurgical purposes. Power generation does not require such a highgrade coal, but a high BTU content is an advantage. Large power plants can switch fuels (from coal to petroleum and vice versa) at will and have done so as the relative cost of these fuels has varied. Furthermore, petroleum may be used for heating operations in metallurgical plants and it is possible to mix the high-carbon coals with lower-quality bituminous. From 1958 to 1968 the prices of coal and petroleum changed little, and resulted in a sharp recovery of the sales of bituminous coal, reaching a peak in 1970. Then bituminous prices began to rise rapidly and, by December 1 9 7 2 , they were 2 0 9 . 4 % of their 1967 level, while domestic refined petroleum prices had increased only 12% over their 1967 level. This sharp price increase caused both total and export bituminous sales to 23 �decline steadily, with the domestic output leveling off in late 1973, when the relative price between petroleum and coal had again shifted. The decline in bituminous output may be due to improved environmental standards for power plants operating in urban areas , but this cannot explain the sharp decline in export sales or the failure of sales of lowsulfur coal to increase. The Japanese market illustrates the impact of these extraordinary price increases on the export sales of U . S . metallurgical coal. In 1970, 50% of the coal imported by Japan came from the United States; in 1973, only 2 8 . 2 % . Coal imports by Western Europe have followed a similar pattern. Thus it is apparent that the large bituminous price increase in relation to the price of other fuels brought about a substitution of other fuels and a reduction of exports from 1970 to 1973. These circumstances changed abruptly late in 1973, with heavy cost increases in the use of refined petroleum. The domestic price of petroleum in December 1973 increased 125% over December 1972, while the price of bituminous coal increased only 17% in the same period. The price of petroleum is likely to stabilize at the present higher level. If so, and if the price of coal does not increase appreciably, the use of coal should increase briskly. The next point to consider is the impact of federal legislation limiting strip mining. In any market, the price of a homogeneous commodity such as coal is determined by its productivity and the cost of producing it, regardless of source. This means that a homogeneous product (e.g. , coal of various grades) sold in the same market will have the same market price. Since surface-mined coal has been selling for about 60% of the price of 24 �deep-mined coal, we conclude that much of the surface-mined coal is of lower grade than the deep-mined coal and that probably much of it is being sold for local power generation. Certainly, some surface-mined coal is high-grade coal and is apparently being sold to larger deep-mine firms and remarketed at the higher prices . Sales of metallurgical-grade coal (almost half the Appalachian coal) will not be affected by strip-mine legislation. If the legislation calls for the return of the land to its original contours, cost calculations suggest that profits would be high enough to permit reclamation of surface mines with high-grade seams. If the slope limitations placed on strip mining eliminate Appalachian strip mining, metallurgical coal, at present prices, can be deep-mined at a relatively high profit margin. The question of the marketing of Appalachian deep-mined coal for Eastern power generation is more complex. If only the higher-grade coal were mined, could it compete with the higher-priced petroleum? It has a higher BTU content than the coal presently used in power generation and much of it is low-sulfur. Should the present price differential between petroleum and coal hold, it is likely that, even with added costs of desulfurizing where necessary and of more stringent enforcement of mine health and safety regulations, deep-mined Appalachian coal of high-quality could be competitive in Eastern markets for power. Much also depends on shipping costs. At this time. Western coal cannot compete for the Eastern or MidWestern power generation market, because of its heavier water content and its lower BTU value. It is possible that Western sub-bituminous can be 25 �economicaliy converted to manufactured gas and transported by pipeline east of the Mississippi and be price-competitive. A coal-gasification project is now being developed in the Southwest. Gas conversion seems to be the only way that Western coal can compete for Eastern and MidWestern power generation. No public data are available estimating probable costs of this conversion or subsequent transportation of the manufactured gas. Because of the depth of the Western coal seams, if this coal is stripped, labor costs and the cost of reclamation are likely to be low per ton. Since the quality of the coal is low, any per-ton added cost (UMWA pension fund contribution or the Seiberling amendment) would have a greater impact on Western than on Appalachian coal. However, any requirements to reclaim Appalachian strip-mining operations similar to the present Pennsylvania law would probably end the stripping of poor quality and/or narrow seams in the Southern Appalachians as well. Another possible alternative energy source is nuclear power. The higher the cost of petroleum and coal, the better nuclear power will seem. Much, therefore, depends on the relative prices of coal and petroleum, and the price policy is now controlled by the petroleum industry. Furthermore, as for strip-mining legislation, any law that leads to the elimination of part or all of it would have to allow sufficient lead-time for the reopening of abandoned deep-mine operations and the opening of new ones. It is estimated that one to three years would be necessary for reopened mines to be fully operational and three to five years for new deep mines. Legislation that did not provide for this lead-time would cause 26 �extraordinary price increases for Appalachian coal and severely limit its competitive position with Western sub-bituminous or petroleum. Should legislation pass that gradually limits Eastern stripping but does not eliminate Western surface mining, we can expect the following: 1. an increased use of deep-mined Appalachian coal for Eastern power generation, with some price increase 2. given present Middle Eastern national petroleum policy, the preference of domestic petroleum firms probably to sell this Western coal rather than Middle Eastern petroleum for Eastern power generation (In the long term, they see their most profitable alternative in the development of Western coal reserves and other domestic sources of petroleum.) 3. -in about ten years, increased competition for Eastern power generation f u e l sources from nuclear energy and gasified Western coal. The effect on the economy of the Appalachian coal-producing areas should be large employment increases for about ten years. This increase would be derived from both the increase in coal production and the substitution of deep mining for some or all of the surface mining. We have the labor force in the area to fill these new jobs. This employment would generate about one other job in the region for each new job created in mining. Unfortunately, to date the economy of this region has not benefited from the presence of this valuable resource. By any social or economic measure, the coal mining regions are grossly behind the national average and similar to other isolated rural areas. States and localities should 27 �consider a tax to compensate them for the removal of this resource and for any social costs that result from this mining activity. Technological developments may occur in the next ten years that will help Appalachian coal keep its competitive position. An example is much larger-scale deep mining with at-site coal gasification. The major companies , however, appear to be focusing their research on Western subbituminous rather than on Eastern bituminous. Any future public policy must balance the economic importance of lowcost fuel against the potential environmental damage (both in extraction and use) and the human costs involved. Both the human and long-run environmental and economic costs can be minimized with sound public policy. 28 �Hugh B. Montgomery The Appalachian Regional Commission Appalachian rock is rich in entrapped energy—in its coal, petroleum, and natural gas—but the energy of the land, its waters, and its soils interweaves with still another energy—that of the human spirit, an energy of spirit that builds and destroys. In a geologic sense, m a n ' s destructive habits are no match for the constructive forces of nature. In a historical sense, so far, man's disruption of the surface exceeds the earth's regenerative powers. Today this imbalance between nature's ways and man's schizophrenic drive to enjoy and destroy brings Appalachia to a crossroads of conscience that tries both the human spirit and the Appalachian land. Appalachia's bounty is its millstone. Its coal has served the energy markets of the nation and it is expected to deliver even more. Whether or not coal will be supplied from here is not a question, but from exactly where, by what mining methods, at what rate, and for what price are major questions. Who will mine the coal—which corporate superstructures, which local companies, with which miners are also important questions. But the major consideration is "What will Appalachia be like when all of its economically minable coal is gone and no substantial mining industry is left to operate in the coal basin?" The Appalachian Regional Development Act and its administering instrument, the Appalachian Regional Commission, recognize the economic lag and the need to overcome the development deficiences caused both by the collapse of an earlier high level of coal mining activity and by the industry's apparently inherent inability to create 29 �a diversified economic structure that can shift to other actions as coal mining periodically subsides. The Appalachian Regional Development program has sought to help the states overcome those economic and social shortfalls that originate partly from the region's strong dependence on an economically and socially inflexible industry. The coal in the ground and its removal have been a qualified asset to Appalachia in the past and will be so in the future. However, the physical, social, and economic scars of the past use of coal and other resources must not be the heritage of the future. Miners should have reasonable health and post-mining economic security. The land and waters should nourish the wildlife and human life after the mining has moved on. The communities' and the state's coalmining areas must be able to finance their continuing needed services with adequate schools, hospitals, water and sewers, social and artistic outlets, the ability to travel to and from work, and the enjoyments of living. Man's link with the land determines his well-being. Land can be consumed in the sense that its characteristics can be obliterated, but it can be at least partially recycled. Nature itself recycles land, moves it about, reorders its characteristics, redresses it in greenery, and repopulates it with living creatures. Man should respect these processes. Energy extracted from the ground and moved about requires the digging of mines, wells, and shafts at the surface and subsurface, and rights-of-way cut swaths across the land for highways, service roads, railroads, pipelines, powerlines, and waterways. As energy is produced and moved around the country in larger quantities, more of these diggings can be 30 �expected and wili require even more attention to the consumption of the quantities and qualities of land, water, air, and wildlife. Furthermore, men will also continue to use convenient or available land that is subject to energy disorders of natural or man-stimulated hazards such as landslides, surface collapse, and flooding. The Appalachian Regional program has recognized the states' interests and needs in land use. It has served as a medium for defining and developing new ideas and the means for coping with the organization and financing of naturalhazards prevention and recovery from catastrophes. Looking ahead, as the population grows, as energy is developed, and as the land is re-formed to accommodate man's growth, we must develop a general land and wildlife ethic among our adults and young so that they can manage the limits of the earth as well as its bounties. Such an ethic should also be the foundation of economic development and governmental institutions serving the peoples' survival and well-being as it is vested in all of the land, regardless of ownership. Although the earth has always been bountiful, man must win the bounty. During the winning, he learns to love that land and develops a spiritual relationship with it. If his relationship to the land is rewarding, his community benefits from a full human spirit. Within the community, men can work together in ways most fulfilling to all. Chief among man's tools, outside of his constructive individuality, is that he can guide and settle matters of common concern. The clans of old were founded and perpetuated on leadership, respect, and structured 31 �relationships. Pride in these relationships added to the satisfaction of a fulfilled human spirit. In our time, our clannishness has given us government that can also be a just vehicle for insuring a satisfied human spirit. The Appalachian Regional Commission is only one useful expression of this. Individuality can bring us m u c h , but working together can compound the rewards. What we cannot do for ourselves, we must look for from our family, friends, and government. The tolerating, in the governmental process, of inadequate officialdom or questionable loyalties can and must be resolved by each man expressing his interests on his own behalf. The Appalachian Regional Commission is a government instrument of the people. All of the people of the nation share in its federal aspect, and all the people of the thirteen Appalachian states share in its state aspects. The future demands much of Appalachia's energy resources, its land, and, most of all, its people. Many have attempted to define a quality of life. It requires of every man (in government or in private) the intent to seek a full reward from the land, while assuring future generations an Appalachia worth inheriting. 32 �Second Session: LAND USE Of the several exhibits illustrating Appalachian life, the documentary "Appalachian Genesis" showed the effects of current exploitations on the young people. It showed how they lacked the small graces and comforts that most Americans take for granted, such as adequate education and basic medical services. The movie related these lacks to the effects of strip mining on the land and of deep mining on the people. The next movie showed how road building, generally considered a public good, can affect the land nearly as badly as strip mining. The moral, though unspoken, appeared to be that both road builders and miners should select their sites with greater care, determine ahead of time whether reclamation is possible, and attend to the restoration of the scarred land immediately. A third movie, "The Region—in Change," examined the impact of change on the environment of the Southern Highlands area as voiced by local citizens and officials. They questioned the present system of values and development processes, especially as practiced in the resort areas and second-home communities. 33 �The subsequent concurrent sessions on land use raised more questions than they answered. The proposed solutions ranged from strictly local determinations through a regional land-use policy to areas totally and deliberately denuded by technology. If the reader will keep in mind that no one item can be neatly separated from energy requirements and the needs of the human spirit, herewith are comments, opinions, and queries on the vexacious subject of land use. We must be aware of the shocks—both cultural and agricultural—of development. Growth is not necessarily good; material possessions do not necessarily lead to a better life. The medieval notion that man holds dominion over all he surveys is no longer upheld; on the contrary, he seems to be a misfit in the ecosystem, both naturally and socially. He puts buildings orr the most fertile land and will soon have no more food land. He has established an adversary relationship between the developers and the longrange inhabitants for the benefit of the outlanders, e.g. , campers, seasonal recreation users, and summer home owners. Public support is needed to inspire communities to petition for strict local zoning laws instead of following easy state standards. Such zoning could prevent the growth of industry along highways (especially the Blue Ridge Parkway) and confine it to the fringe areas of towns. Good land would thus be saved for agriculture and its related industries. Careful zoning would also eliminate high-density building by demanding adequate sewerage and minimum-sized lots, and would keep developers off the tops of ridges by requiring good sewerage systems, access roads, water and power supply, and erosion control. As conditions change, the zoning code 34 �would have to be reviewed regularly, of course, to see that no one man was locked into a life of sheep-raising while his neighbor was allowed to sell his land for quick profit. Taxation, too, could be used to offset misuse of land. The concept of private property has been considered unassailable and its ownership has admitted little or no responsibility for its misuse. This concept is now showing signs of erosion, even of revision. A recognition of public welfare, neighbors' or descendants' rights, utility, and justice is emerging, albeit slowly. (After all, private business is unlikely soon to curtail its own profits.) When private property is taxed, its true cost to the community should be considered, e.g., poor access roads, overuse of existing roads, uncontrolled runoff, and the like. Where possible, taxes should be heavier on projects that drain off municipal funds or deplete local resources and progressively lighter on those that do not do so.* The Appalachian citizens appear to need a Bill of Rights. Who, for instance, decides where energy sites are to go? Who insists on the reclamation of the devastation? The people need to be educated to want reform, to ask for a regional assessment of their environment, to demand a reorganization of their tax structure that will reflect a true best use of their land, not just the most profitable one. In short, they must find some one or some agency that will understand and work for those most affected. Such funds for local use will undoubtedly have to come from the federal government. The greatest frustration is where to start. *In spite of these zoning and tax precautions, the regional folk life is bound to be eroded by modern education, the influx of tourists, and voluntary emigration. 35 �The process of democracy is related to a Bill of Rights for citizens. It is exceedingly slow and the time for conservation is rapidly running out. As with depressed people generally, the mountaineers are inclined to reelect those who preserve their misery. (They distrust the federal government, in spite of its abundance of funds, for its custom of riding over everything local in its path.) Occasionally, both strict zoning and corrective taxation meet head-on with local practical politics. The local incumbent may be willing to press for either or both, but, if he should pinch off someone's immediate profit, he may not be re-elected. All this politician can do is hope that his electorate will see the wisdom of such a course and actually come to request it. Some Appalachians no longer wish to be "folks"--alternately exploited or patronized--but to be world citizens , weighing local needs against national and international needs. The frustration, again, is where to start. As resource use rises and benefits diminish, technology becomes demonstrably untrustworthy. Recreation and tourism have been satisfactory for some sections such as the reforested areas . (Absentee owners do pay relatively high taxes for slight tax use.) Little account, however, has been taken of the fact that industrialization affects urban areas differently from rural areas. In urban areas, local technicians are employed while, in the rural areas, few or no technicians are trained; instead the local citizens are given only unskilled or semi-skilled jobs in the factories and tourist complexes . A special example of technocracy in action is the Tennessee Valley Authority, which has both benefited and distorted the area. It has taught 36 �the inhabitants good resource husbandry and provided cheap power, but its flood control dams use the fertile flat lands and displace the people. Fol- lowing its mandate to provide cheap power, it has used strip-mined coal for its low cost, but has had questionable success in reclamation. As for the use of the forest lands it seems that the effects of overcutting are much the same as for strip mining. State forest services provide advice on the proper use of timber land, but only on request. The U.S. Forest Service's long-range planning concentrates on sustained-yield management, which takes account of the ecological balance--wildlife, watershed, soil, flora, etc. It includes both regenerative and intermediate thin- nings, followed by planting or seeding and encouragement of natural regeneration . Assignment of land for parks and recreation is a heartening project, especially if recreation is considered in its broadest sense, namely as recreation, not as duplication of the comforts of home. The human spirit would indeed be refreshed by visits to true wilderness areas. Cluster building in resort areas would preserve more of the wild surroundings by limiting the intensity of development to a level tolerable to the fragile environment. Urban centers could also profit from a variety of parks; bike trails, picnic areas, and green islands in shopping malls are only three examples. Support must be found for local and regional zoning laws and for subdivision regulations that favor the best recreational land use and expansion, especially in local communities. If any or all of the foregoing land-use plans are not used soon, man may be driven to the most radical solution of all—selective technical 37 �denudation.* Our current random destruction would be replaced, through ultra-long-range planning, by the choice of specific areas of the world for total consumption of the earth's crust. This would mean the use of all material, to and through bedrock, at this site and would have the advantage of confining the blight and pollution within its own boundaries. As the particular area was being systematically denuded, its surface resources (timber, farmland, etc.) would be re-established elsewhere. One summation of the land-use ideal was given as "land planning from local to state to national to world—with emphasis on the unique at each stage." The following precis of position papers elaborate on the points made above. *Robert E . Reiman. "Environmental Heresy: Ultra-long-range Planning for Technological Denudation." Boone, N.C.: Appalachian State University, 1974. 38 �LAND USE American Petroleum Institute 1801 K Street, N.W. Washington, D.C. 2 0 0 0 6 Second only to the talents and energies of her citizens, America's most valuable resource is the land, but, in an age of rapidly expanding industrialization and urbanization, we have almost lost sight of this fact. As a result, far-reaching decisions on the use of land are being made with too little thought for their ultimate effects on our entire way of life. It is impossible to over-estimate the need for policies that insure wise use of land. The current shortage of available energy is perhaps the best example of what can result from inadequate land planning. All but a small fraction of our energy needs are met by fuels extracted from the ground. Although energy and land are inseparable, the development, generation, and transmission of energy have been severely limited by inappropriate land-use policies. For example, it is becoming increasingly difficult to find suitable sites for petroleum refineries and deepwater terminals along our Eastern seaboard, where they are critically needed. One state has prohibited all petroleum development in or near its coastal zone and similar legislation has been proposed in other states. The expansion of off-shore oil production, which has been found after careful study to be environmentally acceptable and is urgently needed to increase domestic energy selfsufficiency, will be impossible if states prohibit the construction of pipeline and storage facilities onshore. 39 �Industry cannot bring new oil supplies from the ground unless it has access to the land; it cannot transport the crude oil to refineries unless pipelines and related facilities are permitted; it cannot refine the crude oil unless refinery sites are provided for; and it cannot move the finished products to consumers unless the transportation network is available. The failure of many states and localities to consider the need for energy has inhibited the consumer's ability to obtain the fuel he needs to heat and light his home, to power his factories, and to run his vehicles. The needs for energy facilities—needs clearly national in character—are inseparable from land. The failure of land-use plans to provide adequate domestic energy can lead only to increased dependence on foreign sources, to the dangers of even more serious supply interruptions than already experienced, and to rapid price increases. The United States would find it difficult to pursue an independent foreign policy, and its economy would be marred by the heavy expense of massive imports. Energy self-sufficiency is a high national priority. While energy industries must be permitted access to the land, they must recognize that in past years they have given insufficient attention to preservation of the environment. Probably the most glaring example of this short-sighted approach is in Appalachia itself, where strip mining of coal on steep slopes and insufficient attention to reclamation resulted in serious damage to the land and in pollution of rivers and streams. Fortunately, laws now exist to assure the continued preservation and restoration of ecological balance. 40 �Economic development (including energy development) and environmental integrity are not mutually exclusive goals. Land-use policies should be flexible to accommodate changing national growth patterns, technological advances, and economic needs, while assuring the maintenance of a healthy environment. Through careful land-use planning, we can conserve environmental values and still provide the energy to meet the growing demands of the consuming public and a healthy economy. 41 �F. Schmidt-Bleek Environment Center University of Tennessee Knoxville, Tennessee We must reconcile our energy needs with protection of the environment. We are talking about the quality of life—about being healthy and warm, and having transportation, about power and the goods we need without drowning in pollution. Energy is a key factor in the quality of life, as the American people have begun to realize, but it will take a good deal of energy to protect us from the negative impact of producing energy. Coal is the energy source with which we at the University of Tennessee Environment Center are most concerned. In the mining of coal, in both deep mines and strip mines, we incur quantifiable, measurable, and considerable environmental impact. The major thrust of our coal research project is to find out just how expensive and extensive these environmental damages are. Some of the obvious damages from deep mines include slag piles and contamination of streams. One effect, not so obvious, is the high incidence of death, disease, and injury to the miners. No other occupation is as hazardous. In Central Appalachian surface mining, the greatest impact is from the large land area involved. Typically, two to three acres of surface are disturbed for the production of 5000 tons of coal. Water quality is sharply affected, and water run-off problems lead to considerably increased flooding. Topography is changed and, in some cases, entire mountain tops are removed. Possibly the damage most difficult to calculate is the visual 42 �damage. It is fair to say that 50% to 70% of Central Appalachia has been visually affected by strip mining. We need more coal—and we can get it and still repair the damage caused by mining. More input in machinery, capital, and manpower will be required. Environmental restoration will necessarily increase the cost of coal, and the price of coal products, e.g. , electricity. In the mass media and in announcements by the energy industry, such price increases are frequently portrayed as enormous, but very adequate restoration of surface mines, for example, would increase the electricity end-price by only 5%. This seems rather insignificant compared to the enormous price increases TVA, for instance, has posted during the last 24 months. It is a mistake to think that the environment is going to "wait" until we decide to go back and repair the damage. The fact is that people who live in the mining areas are already experiencing costs as a result of the mining activity. Their lands are flooded, their agricultural activity is hurt, the visual beauty of the landscape is destroyed. These real costs are being borne by those least able to stand them—the residents of the affected areas. The cost should be borne by those who benefit from the use of a product—in this case, energy. We must make a serious effort to identify these damages and repair them, not just continue to behave as if the costs are imaginary and, after some catastrophe, scramble to patch things up. If we do not take care of environmental costs as early and as efficiently as possible, they will increase very steeply. We must try to recognize the true costs and make wise decisions on how to meet them. Otherwise, these costs we have been piling up will have to be paid all at once. 43 �For years now, our energy has been cheap and apparently plentiful, and the cost of providing environmental protection has seemed large in comparison. Because of increased demand on the one hand and decreased supply on the other, the costs of all kinds of energy are going to rise sharply and, in the future, environmental protection may not seem so prohibitively expensive. At any rate, it is time to talk in rational, dollars-and-cents terms about total costs and benefits and about how to distribute them. It is time to understand environmental damages as real costs and let them be reflected in realistic end-prices of goods and services. American consumers should have the right to make this decision, and should not continue to be fooled by pricing mechanisms that are bound to spring extremely unpleasant surprises on them from time to time. 44 �Louis H. Hunter, Executive Vice President National Independent Coal Operators' Association Richlands, Virginia 24621 If land was put on earth to be used by man, we should remove the natural resources, put them to their best use, and put the land back to a more productive state. The coal should be mined by safer methods, more economically, for a better environment, and with good reclamation. Appalachia needs more industry, and more land for homes, schools, churches, gardening, and many other things. This can be accomplished by proper, well planned surface mining of coal, especially in very steep terrain in certain areas, keeping in mind successful reclamation. In recent years a college, large elementary schools, airports, greenhouses, industrial plants, small farms, and many expensive homes have been built on reclaimed, surface-mined land in Appalachia and this can continue in the future. If it had not been surface-mined, it would remain a steep terrain of little or no use except for growing timber (of use a hundred years from now). With the shortages of today, we (worldwide) will more than likely have a food shortage, and all land will be needed for raising food for the hungry. The surface-mine benches left in the steep terrain, in addition to raising food, are useful for raising cattle and sheep, and are good for wild game. Many productive orchards and berry patches have been planted on surface benches. In Switzerland, Austria, and other European countries, the people reside on the side of the mountains and use the flat lands for farming only because the mountains are too steep for farming. In the Appalachian moun- tains, many small farms are being made by surface mining. 45 �With proper grading, these surface-mined areas can prevent land erosion and the washing of silt and topsoil down into the streams, although silt and topsoil washed into the streams can be very useful. The lowlands along the rivers have been fertilized by flooding for many years, long before surface mining of coal and other minerals was even thought of. It has been suggested at various times that the abandoned underground mines might be used for burial grounds, for storage, for aging of cheese and other foods that need even temperatures, or for garbage disposal. Recently an attorney at a surface-mine hearing stated that he purchased 500 acres of mountain land (without an access road) for $ 7 , 5 0 0 ($15.00 per acre). After this land, which is of steep terrain, is surfacemined and reclaimed, he plans to sell it for $80,000 to $100,000 for housing developments. Land use should be controlled by local and state, not federal, government because every locality has different soil and terrain. The proper way to use land in North Carolina and Virginia would be entirely different from Colorado and California, especially for land reclamation. We should be permitted to use our land as we see fit, rather than have someone else come in and tell us what to do. 46 �Tennessee Valley Authority Knoxville, Tennessee 37902 Beginning with the congressional deliberations that established TVA, wise use of land, including reestablishing the valley's badly eroded land base, was a central goal in its program for regional development. It was needed to overcome the economic and social troubles stemming from the ravaged land. Early TVA activities supplied the system of dams and reservoirs to reduce river flooding, creating protected land areas for settlement and other productive uses. The system also maintains sustained streamflows and assures water for domestic, industrial, and recreational purposes. Erosion of the land base was attacked through reforestation, reduction of fire damage, and improved forest management. Better soil management was achieved through promotion of the shift from row crops to pasture and other agricultural methods calculated to reduce erosion. Through the work of the National Fertilizer Development Center and cooperating state agencies, increased crop yields and improved agricultural practices have been realized both in the Tennessee Valley and throughout the nation. Other tools were provided to aid economic growth, including a commercially navigable Tennessee waterway and the TVA power system. These and other available resources enabled the region to begin developing the economic base needed for balanced regional growth. Community development has also been a TVA objective, and technical assistance in planning is one of the tools it has made available. The Norris new-town experiment was undertaken to test new ideas in community living 47 �and to demonstrate an alternative to large urban areas as human living environments. Under its tributary area-development, Townlift, communityimprovement programs, TVA has made available to participating communities many kinds of special assistance. Maps and data on flood hazards have enabled many communities to develop and enforce appropriate land-use regulations to avoid damage in flood plain areas. Using these tools, the Tennessee Valley region during the last 40 years has evolved from an underproducing agricultural region to an urban-industrial economy, with widespread community development and accompanying land-use problems. Today the urban pattern of the valley can best be described as a system of cities, ranging from communities of 50,000 to a few hundred people. An improved transportation system links these communities and makes possible considerable interaction among them. A special feature of the Tennessee Valley region during the 1960s, unlike the nation as a whole, was that a greater share of the region's growth occurred in the small- and medium-sized communities. While this smalltown growth offers a choice of environment to valley residents, it will also tend to increase pressures on the valley's land base. As the small- and medium-sized towns increase in number and size, and as rural growth occurs, there will be increased competition for the use of land. Land-use changes in wildlife, recreation and forest areas, prime agricultural lands, flood plains, and natural areas are likely to become more frequent and controversial. A related matter is the need to provide locations for facilities vital to the continued growth of the region—for example, power plants, power 48 �transmission corridors, and transportation facilities (highways, railroads, and airports). In adjusting to these changing conditions and to the needs of regional growth, we will need new approaches. Land-resource management is primarily a regional problem, and a regional problem-solving framework is needed. In the American system, state government is the principal regional governmental unit. A primary state objective in developing and carrying out a land-use planning program should be to promote economic growth and the protection of the human environment. This objective should be based on an understanding of environmental tolerances, land capabilities, and the needs of people. Further, technology must be used to help supply solutions to problems created by an urban society. For example, technology is particularly important in assuring air and water quality, in providing for waste disposal; and the' location and operation of power plants and other energy sources require technological assurances that the human environment will not be diminished. In addition, the state land-use planning program should provide for the use of special techniques for managing human needs. For example, new town developments should be guided, and modernization of older communities and revitalization of others should produce attractive and efficient places to live and work. Also in state land use, the value of the land for irreplaceable primary production such as minerals, food and fiber, and scenic beauty should be 49 �protected. In spite of the growth and visibility of nonfarm-related industry, farm-dependent business remains a viable segment of the economy, and farming an important source of income. Growth that depends on land primarily for space should be guided to areas that interfere minimally with the use of land for primary production or to compatible joint uses of land, such as disposal of urban wastes to rehabilitate strip-mined land or as a soil conditioner on farm lands. Technical assistance, drawing on TVA's multipurpose program and on information in a variety of functional areas related to land-use planning, is available to the states. TVA help in mapping, power plant siting, industrial park location and design, recreation planning, and community improvement are just a few examples of where collaboration can bring about better overall land-use planning. TVA will also continue to take on problemsolving activities involving more than one state. 50 �Dennis C. Shultz Sierra Club Matthews, North Carolina "Strip Mining Can Be Made Acceptable," said a headline over the comments of W.J. Burton of Duke Power Company in The Charlotte Observer of March 12, 1974. That headline is correct. Strip mining is already acceptable. It is acceptable to Duke Power, Consolidated Coal, the American Mining Congress, and others who expound cheap power without regard for tomorrow, as has been demonstrated by the continuing rape of the Appalachian mountains. The question really is whether strip mining can be made acceptable to the people who live in Appalachia, to those who love the hills, to those who live downstream on acidic and polluted rivers, to the 188 persons who lost their lives when a mine dam burst on Buffalo Creek in West Virginia, and to the future generations who will be forced to live among denuded hills, silt-choked, acidic rivers, and barren rock walls, and obliged to carry the burden of supporting a geographic area that has been physically and economically stripped. I hoped Mr. Burton would reveal how this might be accomplished. To my dismay, there was not a word about how Duke Power activities were to make strip mining "more acceptable." It appears that Duke is taking the position of talking the problem away with public relations rather than by facing it directly. What effort is Duke expending toward the reclamation of strip mines? How many professionals in mining engineering, forestry, hydrology, geology, or agronomy are employed for this objective? How does this budget 51 �compare with advertising, public relations, lobbying, and other activities that add to Duke's expenses without directly contributing to the generation of power? This problem is more immediately serious than coal costs. We, as responsible people, are charged with the stewardship of this land, which means that, despite fee titles and documents of ownership for today, we must shape the land legacy of our descendants. Severe regulatory legislation is the product of abuse, a form of coercion necessary to reestablish balance. Responsibility is not a product of coercion and, until responsibility is demonstrated, it will be necessary to force compliance with reasonable expectations of responsibility by legislation. Mr. Burton notes that strip mining is cheaper than deep mining. It would seem only reasonable that some portion of this differential be used to prevent acid drainage, siltation, and gross negligence of the stripped areas. This would still be compatible with avoiding deep mining because of its hazards and cost. The total economic and social costs associated with strip mining are not too well known. The reason is simple: American mining practices have been traditionally based on exploitation, not on conservation. To understand the degree of this exploitation, consider how little is spent to protect the environment. Coal can be stripped at an estimated $1.50 per ton less than deep-mined coal. Based on a productivity of 3 , 5 0 0 to 5 , 0 0 0 tons per acre, which is common in the East, the $200- to $500-peracre spent on reclamation (as estimated by TVA) amounts to 10 cents per ton 52 �for the environment. If this were increased to $1.00 per ton, it would still be competitive with deep-mined coal. In West Germany and Great Britain, where land stewardship is taken seriously, this is exactly what is being spent on reclamation. Why can we not learn from their experience? Must we wait until there is no recourse? As the article states, it is possible to reclaim some of the land to productive use, implying that some of the land cannot be restored. I understand that the bill originally co-sponsored by Representative Jim Martin was simply to prevent mining of nonrestorable land and insure restoration where possible. How can Mr. Burton object to this approach, if he accepts the premise that strip mining must be "made acceptable"? The question is, to whom? 53 �Duke Power Company Charlotte, North Carolina 28201 Duke Power Company owns thousands of acres in North and South Carolina, with a wide variety of environments from mountains to swamps, from city business districts to remote forest coves. The uses of the land are also varied—power generating plants, water reservoirs, watershed forests, marinas, transmission lines, coal mines, etcetera. Only land, of all the tangible possessions of m a n , is unique. This uniqueness gives land use the highest priority. The basic principle that guides all land use by Duke Power is that it must be used in a way that will improve the quality of life for the affected community. Decisions on land use for any particular location require both subjective and objective evaluations. In recent years, knowledge of the environmental sciences has expanded greatly, reducing the degree of subjectivity in decisions on land use, but it is far less than needed to eliminate it. From this background, let us consider the major kinds of land use in which Duke Power Company is involved. 1. Traditionally, Duke's power plant siting program has focused on large generating complexes, which often bring together in one area several feasible electrical energy generating modes. Lake Norman and the Keowee-Toxaway Project are examples of this long-range planning. Recent regulatory changes have necessitated selection of more geographically diversified sites, but such sites undergo the same intensive investigation as do sites of long-standing public record. Power plants require use of air, land, and water resources. Sites are selected after thorough consideration of social and economic 54 �factors, physical characteristics, and environmental impact. Duke is committed to locating its power facilities so as to maintain and enhance the quality of life in its service area to the maximum practical extent and in compliance with all governing state and federal regulations. 2. Obviously, power generating facilities must be linked with transmission and distribution lines to serve the more than one million customers in Duke's service area. Transmission-line routing is a product of detailed studies similar to those made for plant sites, and results in a prime route and several alternative routes. 3. The main reason for Duke Power to construct a water reservoir is the generation of electrical energy. The energy developed in the head of impounded water is converted into electricity and/or the impounded water is a vehicle to return accumulated waste heat to the natural environment in a diluted form over an extended period of time. Water reservoirs require large areas of land; therefore Duke Power believes it is wise land-use policy to expend additional funds and effort to maximize public use of the water for recreation (consistent with the primary hydroelectric purposes). 4. Generating plants require energy in the form of fossil or nuclear fuels. Duke Power owns land on which the immediate use is mineral extraction or coal mining by surface and deep mining. Since coal can be mined only where it occurs, the land use is dictated. However, mining is only one phase of land u s e . If mining of coal is a valid 55 �use of land, its reclamation for future production and use is equally important. 5. Duke Power owns land that is not used for plant sites, water reservoirs, or coal mining, but is typical rural real estate. We call it "non-utility land." Location, access, and amenities are the principal factors governing the use of non-utility land. Most of it has been developed for commercial timber and watershed protection. Commercial timber forests are used to provide additional recreation opportunities for the public and, through leases with state agencies, to promote growth of wildlife . 6. Certain small parcels of non-utility land are subject to intensive man-made developments. Decisions for land use in these cases are based mostly on social and economic considerations. Land use in the immediate neighborhood of a site is important. In some situations, the social factor takes precedence over the economic factor. Land use decisions require the utmost in careful fact-gathering and analysis. Duke Power attempts to use its land in an orderly system that produces the most benefit without waste, protects critical pieces of land, and includes information and opinion from many disciplines. 56 �Pocahontas Land Corporation Bluefield, West Virginia The term "land use" has many connotations, ranging from a farmer's rotating his crops to obtain maximum benefits from the soil to a government's regulation of certain land for specific purposes, i.e. , residential, industrial, public. Because of the rugged topography of Appalachia, land use in that region is frequently thought of as synonymous with mining. Many areas are unsuitable for any other purpose, and land level enough for farming, industry, and homes is both scarce and expensive. Roads and railroads cost from three to five times more to build in the mountainous region of Appalachia than in level areas of nearby states and are generally confined to narrow valley floors. Access roads are few, and many small communities are isolated even though only a few miles from large cities. Timber, oil, and gas are important resources in Appalachia, but coal is the most plentiful. As a result, coal mining plays a major role in Appalachia1 s economy, bringing boom and recession periods as markets rise and fall. Of the two basic methods used to recover coal, surface mining is the more controversial. It began in the mountainous areas of Appalachia during World War II under few restrictions or regulations. At a time when manpower was scarce and quick recovery of coal was vital to the nation's welfare, surface mining offered a quick solution to an energy problem. In addition, many coal deposits that were not recoverable through conventional underground mining became available through the surface method. A minimum of 57 �preparation, manpower, and investment was needed, and the percentage of coal recovery was high. Unfortunately, however, after such mining was completed, few efforts were made to reclaim the land. Such irresponsible use of the land brought a host of problems: soil erosion, landslides, stream pollution, floods, and resentment from residents and conservationists—associations that are still difficult to live down. As a result, many people today still think of surface mining as it was in that era and fail to see that, when accompanied by conscientious planning and reclamation programs, it can exemplify good land use in its fullest sense. Not only does the process yield mineral resources but it may also make the land more useful and valuable than it was before mining. Advanced planning and improved methods are breaking surface mining away from its shadowy past. For example, in a new approach to surface mining called box-cut back-hauling, all the earth that is removed from a cut made perpendicular to contour is redistributed or back-hauled into the preceding cavity or cut. Instead of soil being shoved over the mountainside it is restored to approximate the original contour. High walls are either reduced or nonexistent, and vegetation can be grown on the entire site. Another new approach is the mountaintop-valley-fill method. As its name implies , the entire mountaintop is removed down to a coal bed and the resultant overburden is placed in an adjacent valley. After mining, large plateaus of usable land have been created. Reclamation of surface-mined land has come a long way. No longer is the mere tossing of grass seed and the random planting of trees acceptable. Land reclamation has become a science, with the grading of land and 58 �the selection of vegetation tailored precisely to a particular environment. Mountain terrain formerly too rugged for any use but mining can be and has been converted into timber forests, lakes stocked with fish, grazing pastures for cattle, agricultural land, and flat areas suitable for homes and industry. In a region where level land is at a premium, proper surface mining and land reclamation offer residents of Appalachia valuable acreage and an opportunity for a better way of life. 59 �Richard Cartwright Austin, Co-Chairman COALition Against Strip Mining Washington, D . C . 20003 The new concern for energy and for the productivity of our land strengthens the position of the COALition Against Strip Mining. Strip mining should be phased out in an orderly manner in favor of expanded underground mining. This would develop the mining methods that can reach all our coal resources, including our abundant low-sulphur resources. It would also enable our ranchlands to raise meat, our farmlands to raise other food, and our Appalachian hardwood forests to raise timber. It would protect surface owners from the destruction of their property, and residents of the coalfields generally from sliding mountains and flooding streams. It would rebuild the coal industry nearer to what is needed and reduce transportation costs and transmission inefficiencies. Rebuilding underground mining could provide 100,000 new jobs where they are both needed and wanted—some in the West, more in the Midwest, most in the depressed Appalachian mountains . Three years ago, the national debate on strip mining stressed the environmental consequences of stripping and the damage to people and property. In the past year, attention has shifted to the question of how to obtain adequate energy supplies and still protect the productive capacity of timberlands, farmlands, and ranchlands. We have discovered that meat, other food, lumber, and energy are all in short supply. During this period. Congress has been considering legislation to regulate strip mining for coal. The Senate passed its Bill S425, in the first session of the present Congress. The House is currently considering its 60 �version, HR11500. Federal strip-mining legislation may give citizens important new tools to fight for adequate reclamation, but it will not win the struggle by itself. The legislation may provide means for banning strip mining in certain critical areas. It could abort the present plans of the energy industry and the Nixon administration to shift coal mining from Eastern deep mining to Western strip-mining where windfall profits can be made. It is on this point that the toughest fights remain. Up to now, a cautious Congress has been reluctant to ban strip mining altogether, but as it continues to replace deep mining, and as mining investment shifts from the East to the West, it is becoming apparent to more congressmen that these trends are destroying valuable lands while actually decreasing our capacity to use coal as a long-term energy resource. THE COAL IS DEEP. Using today's methods, there is eight times as much coal available for underground mining as for strip mining. As technologies improve and energy prices rise so that more coal reserves become profitable to mine, there will be 33 times as much coal available to deep mining as to stripping. Strippable reserves will be exhausted in some Appalachian states in one decade, but there is enough low-sulphur, deepminable coal in Appalachia alone to last this country for several decades. When technologies develop for the cleaner use of high-sulphur coals, the supply will become virtually unlimited. Coal is our nation's only truly abundant fossil fuel. The trend has been away from deep mining because strip mining has been more profitable to the operator. He has not had to pay for the long- term destruction of the productivity of the 3 , 0 0 0 square miles of America 61 �already stripped for coal. Deep-mine production and employment have dropped in the past decade. Squeezed by the competition, underground mines have cut corners at the expense of the health and safety of the miners. PRODUCTIVE, SAFE MINING. American underground mining technology is antiquated by world standards and the mines are unnecessarily hazardous because the energy industry has not been investing in underground research, development, and capital improvements. New methods, such as longwall mining, could remove 90% of the coal seam, double productivity, and greatly increase mine safety. A new government project has demonstrated that explosive methane gas can be piped from the coal seam in advance of mining. This not only improves safety, but will also, over time, nearly double our reserves of natural gas. Such developments can help make 18 billion tons of low-sulphur, high-energy coal available in Appalachia alone. This is thirty times as much as our total annual coal production. THE RACE WEST TO POOR COAL. Nevertheless , the largest coal companies are in a race to the West even though the major demands for coal and electricity from coal remain in the East. Western coal and lignite are generally of poor quality, having about half the energy per ton of Eastern coal, but stripping the very thick seams under the farms and ranches is so cheap and easy that a quick profit can be made. It takes a lot of energy (diesel oil and electricity) to operate the big machines that dig the coal. More energy is lost in thousand-mile transmission lines or expended for unit-train trips from Montana to Chicago to deliver low-energy coal, but 62 �these costs (and resulting shortages) would be passed on to the consumer through the utilities' rate structures. The people of the West don't want to be stripped. The people of Appalachia don't want to lose their major industry. The shift West is an inefficient way to obtain increased energy for our country. Nevertheless the shift is under way because capital investment in Western stripping brings a quicker return. DEEP MINE RESEARCH. The implications of these facts were beginning to dawn as the full Senate debated the strip mining bill last October. On the floor, the findings of the bill were amended to state that "the overwhelming percentage of the nation's coal reserves can only be extracted by underground mining methods, and it is, therefore, essential to the national interest to insure the existence of an expanding and economically healthy underground coal-mining industry." The purpose of the bill was strengthened to "encourage the full utilization of coal resources through the development and application of underground extraction technologies." The Mansfield amendment was added to halt the development of stripping of federal coal under private surface in the West; this would remove a significant portion of Western coal reserves from surface exploitation and slow the present movement to the West. And $20 million were authorized for coal research and demonstration projects for "coal mining technologies which provide alternatives to surface disturbance and which maximize the recovery of available coal resources, including the improvement of present underground mining wastes to the mine void, methods for the underground 63 �mining of thick seams and very deep coal seams . . . and safety and health in the application of such technologies. . . . " SEIBERUNG AMENDMENT. In November the House sub-committees went further and added the Seiberling amendment to the House bill in an attempt to redress the economics that presently favor strip mining over deep mining, at the expense of the land. This amendment would fund a program to reclaim previously stripped lands through a fee of $ 2 . 5 0 per ton on every ton of coal mined by any method. Before paying the fee, strippers could deduct their actual costs of reclamation, while deep mine operators could deduct the costs of health and safety equipment required by the Coal Mine Health and Safety Act of 1969, plus the costs of black lung benefits also required by that law. The net effect of the f e e , minus the deductions, would be to add about 25<£ a ton to the cost of deep mining, to add about $1.50 a ton to the cost of Eastern stripping, and to add about $ 2 . 2 5 a ton to the cost of Western stripping. This would make deep mining competitive with strip mining again, and enhance the economic incentives toward the development of new deep mines, which will be more useful in building a long-term capacity to meet our energy needs. Deep mines will also provide more employment and do less environmental damage. The vast Western reserves of low-grade coals and lignite can be developed usefully when technologies such as underground gasification are perfected to remove the energy in large quantities without disturbing the surface. It is folly to use today's primitive technologies—strip mines, steam plants, transmission lines, unit trains—to move Western energy inefficiently to the East and to destroy much of the West in the bargain. 64 �The Seiberling amendment and similar initiatives are being opposed vigorously by the energy industry—and by its bought-and-paid-for Nixon administration—because these proposals would upset the speculative investments that have been moving to Western strip mining. It is around these issues that the most intense battles will be waged as the House completes work on the strip-mining bill. 65 �LENOWISCO* Planning District Commission Duffield, Virginia The development of regional planning in Appalachia has only recently, and quite belatedly, recognized the necessity for land planning. Broadly speaking, activity in recent years has centered around the stabilization of Appalachia, with an emphasis on economic development, flood control, and transportation. Appalachian program development and activity have lacked broad goals to provide the needed direction for the basic finite resources, among them the land base. Consequently, it is imperative that land planning be included in this stabilization process. Furthermore, national and regional developmental policies must be clarified and adopted, and a concerted effort made to apply them in our day-to-day decision making. Regional planning can contribute in this effort. Many will ask if regional planning as a concept has a role in this process of land planning. The answer of those who work in regional agencies is clear. A broader interpretation, however, is given by decision makers at the national, state, and local levels. Here we find an increasingly greater thrust towards regionalism, especially in land planning. Therefore, to a significant extent the role of regional planning agencies in land-use planning is being formulated by other segments of the American system. It is suggested that the scale at which regional planning functions is a major reason it is being looked upon *The Cities of Lee, Norris, Wise, and Scott, Virginia 66 �as a mechanism that can make concerted efforts in applying policies in the daily decision-making activities of both the private and public sectors. Approaches to the implementation of land-use policies, planning, and programs at the regional level would best center around the informationcoordination-technical assistance functions of these areawide agencies. Within such a three-part framework, the regional planning agency can effectively initiate and develop land-use planning techniques. Information can be disseminated to local governments and citizen groups on new federal and state enabling legislation, on new techniques in land-use planning, and on the role of land-use controls in their particular region. The coordination can occur where the regional agency brings together local government agencies, elected officials, and citizen groups to effectively inform them about new developments, new problems, and present activities in land-use planning. Technical assistance can occur where the regional agency designs and completes the actual zoning ordinance and/or land-use plans. This array of functional activities can then be matched against three land-use planning objectives. The first would involve the development and adoption of a regional land-use plan, multi-county in scope, dealing with broad developmental growth trends and policies, closely related to the efforts of a state land-use planning system, and recognizing and reacting to any national land-use policies and programs. Secondly, the development of countywide land-use plans can serve the purpose of an official document for the county, delineate basic problems facing it, and offer specific landuse planning recommendations. Thirdly, land-use plans and their related legal tools may be reduced to a smaller scope involving planning area 67 �land-use plans, and perhaps where necessary to an even smaller scope that would involve a site-design land-use plan for a specific area. As a result of this framework or any like procedure, the many complex land-use issues that face Appalachia can be dealt with in such a way that the ultimate goal will be to achieve concrete and tangible results. Many of the prevailing issues of land use in Appalachia, such as growth or no-growth, the spatial arrangement of socioeconomic activities, and environmental preservation or use can be approached in a positive and constructive way. More specifically, these issues reflect the hard choices needed for the development of land for industry, commerce, and residential use (a "growth is good" philosophy) versus controlled population and socioeconomic growth; the arrangement of these activities in designed patterns versus uncontrolled and unregulated growth; the effect on the natural environment of Appalachia of the extractive nature of some economic activities. In short, land-use planning in Appalachia cannot be simply a reiteration of "critical issues" facing the region. These issues, which have time and time again been published, stated, and restated, must be placed in a mechanism that can operate in a constructive fashion. It is time for positions and policies to be carried out through whatever means we have at our disposal. For, without a concerted effort in applying these policies in our day-to-day decision-making routine, they become nothing more than the overblown rhetoric with which we are all too familiar. 68 �Jack S. Kelley USDA Forest Service National Forests in North Carolina P.O. Box 2 7 5 0 , Asheville, N . C . 28802 Most forest land in the Appalachians is in private ownership, usually of small acreage. These forest lands are not being managed on sound landuse principles, but on the policy of short-term economic gain rather than long-term management of their natural resources. Most states and local governments throughout the Appalachian Mountains do not have land-use regulations. State Forestry departments assist small landowners in marketing their timber and using wise land-use procedures to insure future crops of timber, but the service is not regulated and is only provided to those who request it. Presently much forested land is being developed for resorts, summerhome sites, and other uses, resulting in overdevelopment of marginal sites. The question isn't so much whether or not a summer home should be built on a mountain top, but whether the natural resources, mainly the soil, will support such a structure. Also, will the soil properly handle sewage dis- posal, et cetera? Large landowners and public land-managing agencies such as the U . S . Forest Service have long-range planning processes to insure the perpetuation of natural resources. In timber management, this is called sustainedyield management. The National Forests within the Southern and Central Appalachians contain 5 million acres. They are the Monongahela, Pisgah, Nantahala, Cherokee, George Washington, Jefferson, Chattahoochee, and part of the Sumter. 69 �Management decisions in this area integrate the needs of people— both attractive surroundings and opportunities for gainful employment, with effective management of the natural resources. The Appalachian hardwood ecosystem is a basic unit of nature comprising both organisms and their environment, interacting with each other. Multiple-use planning begins with an understanding of this ecosystem and its interactions, for together with social and economic considerations, it provides a basis for coordinated regional land-use planning and management. Management within the ecosystem considers the needs of all species of plants and animals as well as what it can produce. In harvesting timber, product considerations are made for wildlife, stream protection, and effective recreation opportunities. Harvest methods are regeneration and intermediate thinnings. Regeneration cuts are accomplished by either seed tree, shelterwood, or clearcut methods. Intermediate cutting is by either non-commercial or commercial thinnings . In 1973 on National Forest land in the Appalachians of North Carolina, silvicultural work consisted of planting or seeding over 3,000 acres; natural regeneration established about the same acreage. Thinning has been accomplished on nearly 2 , 5 0 0 acres. A 250-acre seed orchard is in operation to produce seed for superior trees. Virgin stands of timber are scattered throughout Appalachia but only a few are of any size, namely Joyce Kilmer Memorial Forest in North Carolina with 3,800 acres, Linville Gorge with 7 , 6 0 0 acres, and Ramseys Draft in Virginia with 1,800 acres. 70 �Third Session: THE HUMAN SPIRIT After introductions by Borden Mace, of the Appaiachian Consortium, Reverend R. Baldwin Lioyd, of the Appalachian Peoples' Service Organization, led off the group session with his feelings on the human spirit, especially as shown in the mountain regions. Fundamentally he felt that its strength lies in knowing oneself and one's brother and sister, in understanding them in relation to community life, and in living in harmony with the creative forces of life. If God gives man dominion over the birds, beasts, and fishes, it is only so that he may share and care for and love His creation. To use and to be in harmony with creation are a blessing; to abuse it is a curse that leads to loss of the human spirit. As demonstrated in Appalachia, the men who have become corporate men have lost sight of this spirit in the poor and thereby in themselves. Mr. Lloyd observed with regret the absence at the conference of representatives of the miners and the poor. Mr. Mace replied that, although many had been invited, few had been able to attend. Novelist and historian Wilma Dykeman Stokely followed with a conversation on the human spirit as it has been eroded but survives in the 71 �region. Regarding the prevalence of misery and exploitation, her overall observation was that the past is never past—past problems unmet, compounded by apathy and neglect, are still present problems. Beneath this visible misery, however, still lies the real Appalachian character, with its strength, independence, and integrity. She illustrated this with exten- sive and appropriate passages from her books. 1,2,3,4 By the nature of the subject, the small-group sessions were unable to arrive at a definition of the human spirit, not so much because it is vague as because it is so complex. The outcome of these concurrent sessions was therefore fragmentary, not conclusive. Among the observations were that: 1. while material comforts can frequently dull man's spirit, they can also relieve him from hunger, drudgery, and disease 2. the wants and needs of the nation must be weighed against its spiritual choices 3. the colonial, urban viewpoint dulls the native, rural values 4. appropriate energy use can give man leisure for spiritual and intellectual contemplation iwilma Dykeman Stokely. hart & Winston, 1962. 2 Tall Woman. New York: Holt, Rine- The French Broad. Knoxville: University of Tennessee Press, 1966. 3 Look to This Day. New York: Holt, Rinehart & Winston, 1968. 4 The Far Family. New York: Avon, 1972. 72 �5. Appalachian independence is vanishing under the influx of outsiders (students, tourists, second-homers), some of whom are semi-permanent, some transient 6. even when mountain folk go away to work, their regional spirit survives 7. certain unique qualities of the Appalachians (language, dialect, music, crafts, dancing) may affect their acceptance or rejection by the outside world 8. on occasion, we blame not the exploiter, but the exploited—for being ignorant, for selling his birthright for little return 9. not all regions of Appalachia are alike in want or need, e.g. , Kentucky and Georgia 10. the effects of absentee ownership have been generally disastrous when compared with the small but immediate benefits of income, education, and health services 11. a frustration by givers and receivers alike is determining where help ends and interference begins 12. some regional values, both spiritual and material, must change to meet the future 13. local action must establish the limits of cooperation vs. competition 14. both the cultural universals and the folk insights should be preserved; outside agencies are likely to destroy, rather than encourage, unique traits; options, not directions, should be given 73 �15 . aspirations should not be raised without the means to achieve them 16. the attitudes of the change agents should perhaps be changed, rather than the mountaineers' outlook 17. mountain crafts should be promoted as a form of creativity, not for their quaintness 18. Appalachian resources are needed nationally and worldwide, but the region must receive its fair share 19. corporations have been maximizing their profits; it is now time for Appalachians to maximize the quality of their daily lives 20. remnants of a belief in white magic and the benign practices of witchcraft have given mountain people a sustaining harmony with their surroundings and the spirit of God and man 21. the spirit, insofar as it implies transcendence, freedom, and creativity is destined for destruction in Orwell's 1984; the manifestation of the Appalachian spirit refuses to be intimidated by this prospect of a dehumanizing technology 22. the gross exploitation of Central Appalachia's natural wealth is having a dire and direct effect on the spirit of its inhabitants, for it is eroding their trust in their fellow men and their government 23. the spirit of Appalachia is well demonstrated in the spirit of the freedom-loving loners who sought out and settled in the mountains to keep their independence and self-reliance 74 �24. the distinctive culture of Appalachia is threatened both by the corporate exploiters and by the intrusive do-gooders 25. the Appalachian inherited a sturdy, self-reliant, stoic, reserved, and gentle way of life; it is in danger of extinction through loss of family cohesiveness even though material progress has brought improvements in health care, job openings, education, and housing 26. whether the mountain spirit can challenge, where necessary, and adapt to, where appropriate, the outside forces in control of so much of their resources must be faced 27. if urbanization and technology cannot be contained, their advance may mean the inevitable destruction of Appalachian spirit and culture 28. education should enable the mountain folk to communicate their special spirit, not replace it with new values 29. if the human spirit, Appalachian or otherwise, is truly transcendent, the future is open, not predetermined, unchangeable, or mechanistic 30. how best can the regional spirit survive the assaults of industry and a mainstream society whose temptations may rob and deplete it? From this rich array of observations, both hopeful and fearful, the reader will no doubt absorb the same feeling of frustration as many of the participants--a definition of the Human Spirit never emerged. The question 75 �of its nurture, however, was no problem—it can be fed in many ways as long as the diet is rich in love, compassion, and respect for a man's dignity. 76 �THE HUMAN SPIRIT Helen Matthews-Lewis Clinch Valley College University of Virginia Wise, Virginia 24293 Appalachia has a long history of struggle for survival in a long history of exploitation. Strip mining, tourist development, and industries seeking cheap labor are just recent chapters. It is an area incredibly rich in natural resources. Descriptions of it when early explorers came tell of the bounty of land and forest. The first exploitation was probably the game. Then the wealth of timber was discovered and the lumbering industry unmercifully cut away one of the finest forests of the world's temperate zone. The discovery of coal by geologists , industrialists, and New York and British financiers was the next documented take-over. Coal mining has since removed billions of tons of coal with little return to the area. Strip mining, dams, and ski resorts may be the death blows, but they are only insult added to years of injury. Those who once lived off the land and forest have become timberers, coal miners, cheap labor for factories , and economic refugees in the city. But mountain people have resisted and survived, and some mountain culture has been preserved through the families and the mountain churches despite the massive invasion of outside colonizers and civilizers who developed "brought-on" churches, schools, and other social institutions inimical to mountain ways. Their failures have been a testimony to the strength and persistence of an integrated culture. 77 �The traditional mountain way of life is antagonistic to urban, industrial, class-structured ways and values. It is more egalitarian and cooperative. Based on hunting and subsistence agriculture, it developed a way of life that stressed both independence and mutual aid. People should be selfsufficient and not depend on others for help, but if they can, they should be accommodating and help their neighbor. This mutual aid operates from a position of equality, a way of life that is antagonistic to situations of inequality, elitism, or hierarchical organization. Early visitors remarked on the friendly, equal relationships, on how generous and uncompetitive the mountain people were. Today, teachers find mountain students lacking achievement motivation, cooperative in play, and avoiding conflict. Mountain people were said to be free from selfconsciousness, direct, open, dignified, and courteous. It was not a cold, staid culture, but an expressive one with rhythm, eloquence, and great emotion shown in speech, song, theology, and religious expression. The destructive process still goes on and, although it is more dramatic where strip mining now occurs, it is happening throughout the mountains. Land, timber, natural beauty for recreation, and cheap labor are still sought and secured in Appalachia. With strip mining, we see more dramatically the dwelling places of mountain people destroyed and damaged. Strip mining also destroys a way of life and a way of looking at life. Strip miners treat mountains as just another commodity to develop or exploit, while mountain people have traditionally been less manipulative, more adaptive to the physical environment. 78 �Strip mining with its callous destruction results from a way of life based on competition, drive for profit, and a belief in the superiority of a technological world. As we destroy and sacrifice Appalachia for the energy needs of the country, we are destroying a culture more humane, more in balance with nature, and more concerned with a good life than with a good living. 79 �J . P . Lucas, Jr. , Vice President, Public Affairs Duke Power Company Charlotte, North Carolina 28201 For years the Appalachia of the sociologists has been the native heath of a clannish and homespun folk given to small arts and crafts, folkdancing, and the operation of countless illegal stills, all in a setting of hardship, if not grim despair. But the influx of outside support, the strengthening of education, new medical and other social services, the advent of substantial industry, and the incredible land boom have changed a way of life. The risk is that in this rapid change mountain men and women may lose some of the human values that made them a unique segment of American society. The qualities of directness and candor, of fortitude and faith, and of independence of spirit can gradually erode in a new-found prosperity. Many social problems still press in upon people, and opportunity is needed for the application of new knowledge and for the employment of many skills by a new generation of mountain f o l k . A people may choose to be farmers, factory workers, teachers, technicians, or real estate agents—but citizens they must be, citizens with as much as education can give them of personal integrity, community responsibility, and spiritual awareness. With so much emphasis on things that society does for the deprived individual, it is important to distinguish between social security and personal security, which proceeds only from what the individual does for himself. Encouraging people to believe in their own helplessness holds the seeds of tragedy. This is worth thinking about as a regional group as we 80 �face new dimensions of living in a new and perilous world. Our sense of national purpose must arise out of voluntary thought and action, and must represent the sum of the convictions, ideals, intelligence, and deepest desires of the people. Unless our primary goal is to be a great people we cannot for long expect to be a great nation. As a nation, we need a leavening of the pioneer tradition and a way of life that is more than the pursuit of money. The time has come when men may look less to Washington and more to their native hills. 81 �American Petroleum Institute 1801 K Street, N.W. Washington, D.C. 20006 The American Petroleum Institute claims no particular expertise in the human spirit. We would like to point out, however, that the availability of energy has been a powerful factor in human development and profoundly affects the human spirit. The United States is blessed by energy abundance. In the age when wood was the major energy source, our forefathers came to a continent covered with forests. When the age of coal arrived, we found that areas such as Appalachia contained what then seemed to be inexhaustible reserves. When oil became a major energy source, it seemed that our Southwestern states were floating on oil. The correlation between energy consumption and living standards is extremely close. Nations with high living standards have high per-capita energy consumption; those with low living standards are associated with low energy consumption. Some people in Appalachia still rely upon wood and on human and animal power for energy. All too often, these are in places of hardship, poverty, and despair that crush the human spirit and destroy human initiative. Human progress involves more than the mere acquisition of material goods. A human being is not necessarily better off if he has an electric blanket instead of a regular blanket. Such items are not necessarily uplifting to the human spirit, but some aspects of higher living standards do have value. For example, people with higher living standards can eat more nutritious foods, are healthier, and usually live longer. They can afford 82 �proper medical and dental treatment. Health affects human attitudes and the enjoyment of a full life. Another benefit of the higher living standards associated with energy consumption is increased leisure. No longer does man have to work from sunup to sundown just to provide food and clothing for himself and his family. He has time to get an education, to learn more about the planet on which he lives, and to enjoy art, music, or literature. These things act to expand man's horizons and uplift his spirit. Mankind has not yet learned to make full use of the benefits of being freed from devoting all his energies to obtaining the basic necessities of life. He is still beset by constant fruitless wars, by the increasing population, by a too-hectic pace of life, and by increasing violence and crime. These problems will not be solved by a return to the hardships and misery associated with low energy consumption. In our nation, energy has always been cheap and abundant and, as to be expected, it has often been wasted—a waste we can no longer afford. Wise use of energy can contribute to the advancement of the human spirit, to human progress, and to man's general expansion and development. Decisions on how it will be used must be made by all members of society. 83 �Tennessee Valley Authority Knoxville, Tennessee 37902 One day in 1907, as Gifford Pinchot, chief forester under President Theodore Roosevelt, rode through the park, he was struck by a new concept: The forest and its relation to streams and inland navigation, to water power and flood control, to the soil and its erosion, to coal and oil and other resources—these questions would not let [me] be. ... Suddenly the idea flashed through my head that there was a unity in this complication—that the relation of one resource to another was not the end of the story. . . . Seen in this new light, all these separate questions fitted into and made up one great central problem of the use of the earth for the good of man. Pinchot might have added that the proper use of resources, recognizing this interrelationship, opens the door for the human spirit. Tennessee Valley farmers of the 1930s depleted the soils, fostered erosion, and led impoverished lives . Drudgery was the burial ground of human energy—and the human spirit. Pinchot's philosophy, as embodied in the Tennessee Valley Authority, wrought great changes in this way of life. Farmers learned to use fertilizers, to heal their gullies, to plant pastures, and to shift to animal agriculture. Electricity brought labor-saving devices to the farm wife throughout the valley. New industries opened opportunities for skillful hands and alert minds. The horizons of the human spirit were greatly expanded. Today, the character of economic growth and social change in the Tennessee Valley has given a unique cast to many of the problems faced by the area. SOLID WASTE. An expanding population demands more products, many of which eventually wind up on the trash heaps. TVA helped in this field 84 �when it saw that many communities lacked the technical know-how for locating and designing landfills and enough private engineering consultants to do the job.. Its success is best illustrated by the junk car collection program. More than 25,000 junked and abandoned automobiles have been collected and recycled since the program began in the latter part of 1970. AVOIDING FLOOD DAMAGES. One persistent problem of any community is the management of its waters. Twenty years ago, TVA undertook a program of working with the people to avoid flood damage where floods could not be prevented—to "keep the people away from the water where you can't keep the water away from the people." On local request and with state participation, TVA flood control engineers analyze the flood problems of a community. More than 130 communities have taken advantage of this program. MAKING NEW TOWNS OUT OF OLD. Many small- and medium-sized towns were built in another era and are unequipped to serve the new industry, commerce, and tourism in the region. TVA's program in this field, called "Townlift," is designed to unite both public and private sectors in defining and seizing the opportunities available. HEALTH SERVICES IN RURAL AREAS. One of the most needed services in rural areas, and the most difficult to provide, is adequate health care. TVA has a number of sophisticated tools, acquired for its own use, which it is now using in cooperation with public and private medical organizations in the region. We hope that locally managed programs will evolve. EDUCATION. TVA's concern is directed in part to providing technical and financial assistance to public school systems, higher education, and 85 �any other segment of public education. RURAL FIRE PROTECTION . For a combination of reasons , tragically understandable and explainable, rural fire protection has been a neglected field of community action. TVA in 1973 made arrangements for a pilot project that revives the old-fashioned volunteer fire department principle dressed up with modern technology. For example, volunteers are summoned to an emergency by an electronic paging system using pocket-sized portable radio receivers. Man's ability to use his opportunities and solve his problems will always be limited. These examples, however, show TVA's pragmatic approach to working with the people of the region to remove some of the limitations and to encourage individual initiative. 86 �Louis H. Hunter, Executive Vice President National Independent Coal Operators' Association Richlands, Virginia 24641 Various concepts of the human spirit have been put forward by many individuals at different times in history. Let us develop the concept of the human spirit as a good steward. To do this, we must assume that the earth is the Lord's: "the world and they that dwell therein" (Ps. 24:1). All resources of the earth belong to God. Their use by the human spirit must at all times be governed by God's laws and guided by His purposes. The human spirit is then entrusted with the care and use of the earth and its resources. Private ownership of the earth is man-made and under the supervision of the human spirit. I believe that it is God's will that the resources of the earth be developed, conserved, and used in ways that bring maximum benefit, fulfillment, and abundance of life to all persons. Some advocate a ban on the use of resources and the land, but how could a human be a good steward if his life were lived out in doing nothing to help other people, understand who they are, why they are here, where they came from, and where they will go once this life is over? The human spirit as a good steward involves every area of life on this planet and is the investment of time, talents,energy, and abilities in the land and its resources. 87 �Pocahontas Land Corporation Bluefield, West Virginia Many visitors have tried to describe the human spirit of Appalachia and its people, but their accounts have failed to broaden an understanding of this spirit and have left the impression that the Appalachian people are a cold, close-knit breed who lack an interest in the outside world and live only with a hope that things will get better tomorrow. A native of the area finds all their views wanting. The people of Appalachia are a warm, generous people, who know and understand hard work and share everyone's desire for a better way of life. Appalachia is not without its problems, but through the dedication and inspiration of many individuals, corporations, foundations, and the federal, state, and local governments, the lives of the residents are improving. The efforts of Appalachian residents to lift themselves are exemplified by periodic stories of work on civic and regional improvements. The success stories include the development of the Appalachian Trail, the Blue Ridge Parkway, the Great Smoky Mountains National Park, numerous schools and community colleges, and Gatlinburg, Tennessee. It should be remembered that, in each of those successful efforts, citizens understood the common objective and worked hard to achieve it, whether the effort was directed toward developing the Appalachian Trail, which traverses the entire region, or toward building an outdoor theatre for local events, as many cities and towns have done. While it is hard to define the human spirit of Appalachia and its residents, it is this spirit that tells the mountaineer he would like to have just one person—one day—come 88 �into his hollow and show some signs of approval—not try to change him without first attempting to know and understand him. 89 �LENOWISCO* Planning District Commission Duffield, Virginia 24244 We have a situation in America, and more recently in Appalachia, where the human spirit is no longer being glorified, but is in danger of being irrevocably damaged. The thrust of the American Democracy of 1776 was to place on the individual the burden of responsibility for his own life and for that of his country. In two hundred years, amid excuses of too many people, efficiency, and equality, this process has been almost completely reversed and many question whether we even have democracy. We have a situation in which we commonly refer to our elected officials as being "at the top" and the people "at the bottom." This terminology alone indicates that something is badly wrong. Some contend that only a revolution will reverse our direction, but there are more peaceful ways of dealing with this problem. Mid-Appalachia, being outside the mainstream of American life for so many years, has not been quite so affected. Consequently, we are what many refer to as a "stubborn breed." Appalachia is still rife with people who retain that native American spirit, who want to make their own decisions and be responsible for their own lives. It is the ideal place to begin to reverse what is happening in America. Contrary to the professed beliefs of the decision makers, people are capable of making the choices necessary to govern their own lives. Agencies involved in making decisions must start to make a real effort to involve the people they serve in the entire process. Regional planning agencies can and should play a major role in this transition. Much of *The Cities of Lee, Norton, Wise, and Scott, Virginia. 90 �the work of these agencies can profoundly affect the lives of the people they serve, and the people are rarely, if ever, directly involved in the planning. Admittedly, trying to involve a large number of people in decision making will require more energy than we are used to expending, but someone must start. 91 �W. Grady Stumbo, M . D . , President East Kentucky Health Services Center, Inc. Hindman, Kentucky 41882 Almost 60 years ago, Horace Kephart wrote that "the mountaineers of today are face to face with a mighty change . . . the mountaineer at last is to be caught up in the current of human progress." Nothing so dramatic happened, and again today, the Appalachian region has been rediscovered by more people and more programs than any of us can remember. Appalachia is a complex geographical and cultural society. One can describe the Appalachian as a proud backwoodsman of English ancestry who pays his own way in a life isolated from the rest of the world. One can also describe him as a ne'er-do-well, living off handouts, and wanting to be classified as totally and permanently disabled. Both descriptions are true, over-simplified, and prejudicial. Any attempt to stereotype him leads to incorrect assumptions. Huge agencies organized for the Appalachians' interest, with bureaucratic precision, generate band-aid remedies that are sold as concrete efforts at problem solving, but they signify only betrayed hopes and broken promises. The "do-gooders" have defined them not responsible and attempt to impose paternalism, a concept rapidly being rejected by Appalachian residents. They are becoming so organized that expanded programs within the area have begun to give new life to the region. Among perpendicular hills, people still live in hollows, some of which are isolated from the population centers in the area. The economic growth centers are booming and are developing many characteristics generally found in this country. Their development has resulted in a sharp separation 92 �of "the haves" and "the have nots." We have been told that the people who live in the hollows must move to the centers as defined by the government. The hollows must be flooded to serve as electrical and water resources for the rest of the country. The development of these "economic growth centers" now makes it possible for the hillbilly to become a migrant in his own land—in the move from the hollow to the county-seat town. Among bureaucrats, co-ordination is a dirty word. Each agency goes about its work in the hollows with nothing but contempt for the others. As justification for such actions, one is told how badly the Appalachian measures up against the rest of the nation—how far behind he is in infant mortality, educational opportunities, and social activities. Resident hillbillies have never had much say in such decisions, but today the number of young Appalachian leaders is growing; they do not buy such cultural destruction. They have become educated, they have seen the mistakes, and still they have maintained the ability to relate to the resident hillbilly. One program is called the East Kentucky Health Services Center, a family-centered, primary-care facility offering a wide range of services reaching out from a professionally staffed ambulatory care center into the community with programs of preventive medicine. Primary care is delivered in the clinic by a team of physicians, nurses, community health advocates, and para-medical support personnel. The outreach efforts involve all staff members. EKHSC brought into the area the first laboratory, the first X-ray facilities, the first round-the-clock emergency coverage, a sliding fee-forservice practice, and many other innovations. 93 �It is in this kind of effort, where the changes are initiated by outsiders but governed by mountaineers, that the future lies. Here the doors of isolation can be opened, not in one sudden leap, but gradually, thus retaining what is good about the mountain way of living. 94 �Richard C. Jackson Lees-McRae College Banner Elk, North Carolina The following viewpoint may fairly represent that of some people who have neither aligned themselves with any group nor formed their own. I believe that a person has the right to do as he sees fit with his talents, gifts, land, and money, but it would be wrong for me (alone or with others) to force another person to do what seemed right to me. It is wrong to attempt to coerce another to use his resources in a certain way. It is also immoral to use one's talents and resources without regard for the welfare and dignity of one's neighbors, for the needs of those who will come after, or for the well-being of the earth itself. Enough attempts have been made to push people into "right" decisions, with more than enough disregard for neighbors, posterity, and the earth. It doesn't matter a great deal if we call it zoning, land-use planning, development, or just progress. Zoning, land-use planning, development, and progress are not in themselves undesirable, but the ways we have gone about initiating them are subject to question. The particular danger lies in our tendency to claim goodness for what is not good and to base decisions on inaccurate premises. Entertainment, recreation, rest, quietness, and prosperity are all seen as good. Consequently, the means to these ends (promotion of tourism, second homes, resorts, etc.) are also regarded as good. We have not inquired much into how things have been accomplished, what the long-range costs are, who benefits most, or what are the implications of the kinds of recreation that have been promoted. Until we have examined these matters 95 �closely, we stand in danger of having accepted, and acclaimed, a kind of cheap progress that ignores some basic human concerns: Is health care better? Is there less crime? Has the judicial process improved? Has alcoholism declined? Do the aged have more options? Many manifestations are disturbing. The "mountain way" is touted as being quiet and restful, but a lot of the paraphernalia of urban regions is being brought in to support a growing population of people accustomed to "conveniences." In short, the qualities that attracted people in the first place are rapidly being eroded. I believe that community, an important concept, is endangered. I cannot understand the "community" that stations guards at the entrances or is composed primarily of absentees who leave their driveways blocked by chains and gates. 96 �Gratis D. Williams Appalachian State University Boone, North Carolina Traditionally, the life of the Appalachian mountain man was selfcontained, complete, harsh at times, frustrated by conflict occasionally, and marooned in isolation generally, but nevertheless a satisfying and challenging life in the midst of rolling hills where he pastured his livestock, followed his traditions as a hunter, found the timber for his skills with wood, and gathered medicinal herbs for his health needs. He was selfsufficient, independent, and fiercely proud. In his isolation, he has kept alive those virtues and qualities of character that for his ancestors, at the time of the American Revolution, had been the strength that enabled 13 struggling colonies to resist successfully the tyranny of one of the powerful nations of the world. By remaining content with fewer material goods and fewer creature comforts, he increased his wealth of confidence, leisure, and accouterments of relaxation. He had more time to do what he wanted than men in the larger society had, and he knew how to enjoy time as it came to him. The simplicity of life in the mountains and the rich texture of the traditions there have become the envy in recent years of a jaded and falling American middle class, that long-touted moral backbone of our civilization groping painfully for some sign of regeneration, for some hope of relief from the tax burden, from the pressures of a society in which even the production of food has been preempted by big business, from the disruptions of everyday processes by greedy self-seekers, from the decay of the cities, from 97 �the paving of the countryside, and from the pollution of the atmosphere and the water sources. Just when Americans look with longing toward the mountains, the mountains themselves, so long symbols of freedom and independence, have been preempted by the ruthless bulldozers that lay hopeless waste to the highlands themselves. To cultivate again the dormant culture of the mountains, to provide more room for the human being himself to function as a free individual, we must preserve the mountains and save Appalachia from becoming a wasteland. 98 �Conclusion In these days of endless (and frequently futile) conferences, the Southern Appalachian Regional Conference, in its earnestness and enthusiasm, was an example to all. Its main topics—Energy, Land Use, The Human Spirit—while convenient for starting points for discussion, turned out to be inseparable. The worldwide need for ENERGY makes Appalachia a prime target of both the needy and the greedy. The mineowners use a legitimate resource, but leave little profit with the original owners; skim off the easily stripped areas, leaving rich veins virtually inaccessible; and abandon the land, frequently beyond reclamation. The owners generally avoid the deep though richer mines because of higher wages to the workers and because of a growing insistence that they abide by costly health and safety regulations. This ravage of the land has side effects less immediately visible—the building of otherwise useless roads, the harm to existing roads by heavy trucks and other machinery, and leaving the denuded land open to erosion and flooding. All the energy acquisition and use are, of course, a major, if not the major, aspect of LAND USE in Appalachia. Other problems affecting the 99 �land are the preservation of food acreage in a world approaching subsistence reserves (if not starvation), the matter of cutting timber for lumber or pulp weighed against letting it stand for flood control and water supply, the opening of the wilderness beauty for the delight of all vs. its destruction by those whom it was meant to please. Appalachian energy resources and land use both affect the HUMAN SPIRIT of the region. Where is the limit for any of the following? 1. extracting the coal for genuine need 2. applying the profits to local individuals and communities 3. opening the scenic areas to outsiders 4. preserving the timber, the agriculture land, and the water resources 5. the distribution of the economic benefits of both land use and coal mining to the original owners in their fight against ignorance, drudgery, and disease. It can thus be seen that each benefit must be weighed against a possible harm. The participants in this conference have done exactly that, as the following statement by the Goals and Objectives Committee and a dissenting opinion from another group will show. 100 �Statement by The Goals and Objectives Committee SOUTHERN APPALACHIAN REGIONAL CONFERENCE BOONE, NORTH CAROLINA May 16, 1974 The following statement was derived from a careful consideration of the major suggestions, concerns, and objectives put forth during the concurrent sessions of the conference. Recognizing that the patience of the people in Appalachia has been strained for many years, recognizing that past practices of the extractive and other industries have imposed not only great injustices, but also social and private costs upon the people, anticipating further a major increase in coal production for the immediate future, we urge the consideration of the following* observations, objectives, and concerns: 1. Since change is inevitable in Appalachia, and long-range planning for the quality of life in the region is desirable, it must include a concern for traditional values and cannot be done without the people shaping their own destiny. 2. The people of Appalachia must therefore become more active in the decisions that affect their future. Of particular significance are the decisions affecting educational institutions, land use policy, and economic development. Many important decisions about the future of the region must come from local communities; the people therefore urgently need to develop a sense of selfdetermination and a more sensitized, equitable, and responsive mountain leadership. *The sequence of items is no indication of their priority. 101 �3. Educational institutions in Appalachia must relate more consciously to the mountain experience. They must include a concern for the rich historical and cultural heritage of the region, an awareness of the relationship between human beings and their land, and of the alternatives for the future and for the human values involved. As for land-use planning, the following objectives are of major importance. Planners must: 1. develop through education the understanding by decision makers and by the general public of the physical, human, and economic impact and consequences of their decisions and of the effective use of the planning process as a tool for making their decisions and actions produce the maximum benefits to individuals and society. (Decisions might result in no change as well as controlled change.) 2. obtain the recognition at local, state, and national levels that the mountain terrain is a sensitive environment of limited capacity for development. It is essential to realize that the lack of rational, informed guidance and control of land use can generate crisis conditions in which subsequent recovery costs are excessive and the opportunity to protect and preserve basic values may be foreclosed 3. accumulate a considerably improved data base for the region, for sub-regions, and for localities so that land-use decisions can be 102 �supported factually, and develop the methodology to facilitate the use of this information for decision making 4. establish local implementation and enforcement of land-use controls that are locally determined instead of using the minimum standards and guidelines established at state and federal levels; the acceptance of state and federal guidelines is still necessary because land use and its changes affect areas beyond local political boundaries 5. establish patterns of land use that favor clustering over widespread dispersal wherever it can be shown that the environmental and social impact can thereby be minimized 6. provide for the development at local levels of land-use policies that reflect local values and the development capacity of the region. The relative long-term effects of growth versus no-growth policies should be critically examined 7. establish and maintain as basic the right of all individuals potentially affected by land-use changes to be heard through public hearings and petition 8. establish as a responsibility of those who cause change to provide all pertinent information that will allow for a comprehensive evaluation of the on-site and off-site, short-term and long-term effects of the proposed change for purposes of approval. In ad- dition, the principle of planned sequential use should be applied to all extractive industries to insure long-term community benefits as a consequence of their practices 103 �9. devise feasible ways to reclaim areas that have suffered from inappropriate land use in the past 10. facilitate the use of experts in tax-supported colleges and universities as a public service available to the community to protect its interests and the interests of society in general. In the area of energy supply and consumption we find the following observations vitally important. The goals of national energy policy ought to be equity and efficiency. We therefore make the following specific recommendations: 1. The goals of energy conservation and the promotion of increased energy production can best be achieved by permitting the price mechanism to work. We recognize that at present certain barriers distort these market forces, namely: a. the lack of accurate information b. uncertainty c. market imperfections such as the ownership of the major fuel sources by the international petroleum cartels. Where the price mechanism causes special hardship to segments of the population or to certain workers or businesses, the inequities ought to be corrected, but distortion of the basic market system ought not be used to achieve the corrections, e . g . , where low-income families are adversely affected by higher fuel costs or where a changing fuel market brings about unemployment. A solution to the first hardship might be some form of income supplement; a possible solution to the second would be funds for 104 �retraining, for moving costs, or for easing the burden of sudden unemployment. 2. Prices and costs of each energy producer ought to reflect full costs, including all social and private costs, so as to prevent, as far as possible, harmful social and private costs. This could best be achieved by federal legislation, setting national standards in health and safety, environment, and reclamation. States should have the option of setting higher standards. In addition, for certain social and private costs (such as highway construction, welfare costs, and damage to property), only states and localities can and should provide remedies. It is understood that such legislation must be vigorously enforced. 3. Increased research and development to explore existing and alternative energy systems are needed. These systems must be exam- ined in terms of extraction, transportation, conversion, and use. We need to study the technology, economy, and impact on the individual and society of these questions. It is important to look not only at individual components of energy systems, but also at their interrelation. For instance, coal is in direct competition with nuclear fuels, oil, and gas in electric power production. Thus technological or market changes in any of these fuels will have repercussions on the coal industry and thus on Appalachia. The following members of the Goals and Objectives Committee participated in the drafting of this statement of objectives and take full responsibility for its content: 105 �John R. Moore James Noel F. Schmidt-Bleek, Chairman Neil M. Walp Don aid F. Crickmer Ronald Eller James Hackett Ernest E. Hendrix Mary D. Houska 106 �MINORITY REPORT STATEMENT We recommend that this conference adopt a proposal to extend the Appalachian mountains a stay of execution. By this we mean that, while we are struggling with solutions to land use and stripping, it is imperative that the destructive actions be stopped until a reasonable study and policy be implemented to satisfy the will of the inhabitants of the affected areas. As it is, we are losing around 25 acres of land for each hour we carry on this dialogue. We find it irresponsible to sit in a burning building while planning ways to put the fire out. Frank Kilgore Rick Kirby Frank Taylor John Tiller Catherine Tiller Jack Wright Robert Raymond Burt Purrington Rhoda Cerny Kent Cave Judy Cornett Helen Matthews Lewis Kenneth Murray Jerry Williamson Charlotte T. Ross Jane Cummins James Branscome Steve Fisher Peggy Rives Beth Bingman Linda Johnson Mary Ellen Griffith 107 �Appendix A Speech by Governor James E. Holshouser, Jr. Regional Conference on the Future of Southern Appalachia Conference Theme Toward 1984: The Future of Appalachia? 13 May 1974 We're all here for this conference because we share an interest in this unique and special part of the world known as Appalachia, and because we all have a role in shaping its future. This is a big region. Its potential is unlimited, and its problems are complex. No longer is Appalachia an isolated, remote place of beauty, but, because of its vast and essential resources, its future has become closely and critically meshed with the future of this country—and even the world. That's why we are here . . . that's why this conference is taking place. We will have different opinions . . . our interests may seem to conflict, but all of us recognize that the future of Appalachia (and perhaps the future of all of us) demands that there be careful and thoughtful consideration, a free exchange of ideas and viewpoints, and sound and sober planning . I grew up in these mountains, and I've watched them change. Right here in this county, I have seen many changes in j u s t a few short years. We've seen a gradual influx of new industry, providing better incomes to many of our people. We've seen this area develop into a major, year-round tourist and recreation resort. We've seen the impact of such attractions as "Horn in the West," "Tweetsie Railroad," Grandfather Mountain and the Land of Oz on our economy and our way of life. 108 �We've seen mountainsides transformed into ski slopes, bringing thousands of visitors and part-time residents to share our winters with u s . We've seen total communities grow up around these resorts, complete with golf courses, swimming pools, and tennis courts. We've seen this campus grow from a small teachers' college to a major state university, producing leaders and scholars in many fields, while Western Carolina University and the University of North Carolina at Asheville have made great strides. We've seen community colleges and technical institutes spring up throughout the mountains, bringing greater opportunities to our people. None of these things could have happened without roads—the roads that have made these former "lost provinces" readily accessible to the world outside. In recent years, we have seen dramatic improvements in the highway systems serving all parts of Appalachia and have seen many airports constructed in the region. The most important single force for these changes and economic improvements in this region has been the Appalachian Regional Commission (ARC). When the Appalachian Regional Development Act was passed in 1965 , the 13-state Appalachian area had one of the largest concentrations of rural poverty in America. Unemployment was high, health services were sorely inadequate, and transportation systems were poor at best. This program began as one of our nation's first large-scale experiments in state-federal partnership. The success of this partnership has been a major factor in the emergence of the so-called "New Federalism" 109 �that has reversed the flow of pow er to Washington and is starting to send it back to state and local governments. Over the past eight years, Congress has pumped some $ 2 . 2 billion into this region through the Appalachian Regional Commission. In the 13state area, it has spent $1.3 billion for highways, $258 million for health programs, $169 million for vocational education, $ 9 . 5 million for housing, and $330 million in supplemental grants for various public works projects. In North Carolina alone, the ARC has provided more than $115 million to the 29 counties that are part of the Appalachian Region. This total includes more than $54 million for development of highways, almost $4 million for local access roads, $5 million for child development programs, $17 million for health programs, $1.5 million for soil conservation, $ 7 7 , 0 0 0 for timber development, almost $1 million for housing, $ 9 . 7 million for vocational education, almost $3 million for research, and $19 million to supplement other federal grants for construction of water systems, sewer systems, libraries, hospitals, industrial parks, solid waste systems, and other facilities. The Appalachian Regional program has played a vital role in improving the quality of life for our people. State and local officials, and private business and industry have made great contributions to this goal. This is not to say that the job is done, or even that we're approaching the finish line, but we have made progress. Yet progress, too, has its hazards. If we rush pell-mell to develop these mountainsides, to harness the rivers, and to remove the mineral resources, without looking to either side to see what is happening, we could 110 �wake up one day and find ourselves wondering if this is the same land that we all knew and loved. We know that this region—possibly more than any other—offers our best hope for solution of the country's energy problems and for enabling the United States to meet its energy needs independent of other countries. We know that the coal is there, but we also know the environmental dangers involved. It's, a big job, but one we can do. America has met so many challenges . . . the challenge of landing on the moon . . . the challenge of finding a vaccine for polio. Who is going to say that we cannot lick this challenge? With careful determination, we can find a way to remove the tremendous reservoir of coal that remains in the ground without doing irreparable damage to the mountains. In this, however, as in all we do, we must plan and work to make sure that we protect ourselves , that we don't wake up to find someday that we have let slip all the good things these mountains mean to us. An elusive term known as "quality of life" includes the ability of a man to provide for himself and his family, but it encompasses more than that—more than income or bricks and mortar. It also encompasses our environment—the air we breathe, the water we drink, and the beauty of the earth and trees and flowers . That's what this conference is all about—Energy, Environment, and the Human Spirit. I talked about growing up here in this corner of Appalachia, I talked about the changes I've seen, but I didn't mention the things that haven't changed, the intangibles that had an even greater impact on me. Ill �I'm talking about the great human and moral values that are ingrained in our people—values such as thrift, paying our own way, knowing that, with most people, a man's word is as good as his bond. These values are a vital part of Appalachia—perhaps the best part. As we look to the future of Appalachia, let us not neglect the importance of preserving these values and sharing them with the rest of the world. 112 �Appendix B John B. Howard Deveiopment of Energy Resources An Address to the Southern Appalachian Regional Conference Boone, North Carolina 13 May 1974 I was asked to come down to speak on one of the three topics of this conference—energy. In a sense, the entire conference is on energy. Since all but a small fraction of the energy we use comes from the land, land use and energy are inseparable. Energy also has a powerful impact on the hu- man being—since lack of energy can mean poverty and despair and a dampening of the human spirit. It is a pleasure for me to return to Appalachia. I say "return" because I was a reporter for U.S. News and World Report for a decade. This was the decade of Lyndon B. Johnson's war on poverty, and much attention was directed toward Appalachia. When we realized Appalachia was to be in the news, we decided to find someone who understood the region. I was impressed by a book entitled "Night Comes to the Cumberlands," written by Harry Caudill (whom some of you may know) and decided to go to Whitesburg, Kentucky to interview him. Following that interview, we got in his car for a tour of Appalachia I will never forget. We drove up the "hollers," over roads that were indescribable; I saw poverty such as I had not seen in our big cities. I met people to whom welfare was a way of life. I saw, long before environment became a cause in this country, the results of environmental negligence. Mountains had been literally ripped apart, streams poisoned by acid, places 113 �of great scenic beauty destroyed. The impact on my thinking was lasting. I returned twice to write stories on the progress, or lack of progress, of government programs to help Appalachia. If at any time in the rest of my speech I sound like an anti-environmentalist, believe me I am not. Even if we have to crawl on our hands and knees from one town to the other for lack of energy, we cannot rape our land and destroy it for future generations. Right off, of course, I am in deep trouble. You show great courage in asking someone from the oil industry to speak on energy here in coal country, but maybe it is appropriate after all. People working in the energy field recognize that they must look at the total energy picture—not j u s t at one particular fuel. In recent years, we have seen dramatic demonstrations of the interrelationships between energy sources. What happens in one energy field can have a heavy impact on all others. When you get right down to it, why do we have an energy problem? It is because coal can no longer be used in many of its major markets , because nuclear power has come on-stream much more slowly than anticipated, and because little additional energy has been available from hydropower. This means that petroleum—oil and natural gas—have had to bear a disproportionate share of the sharply increasing energy demand. Inadequate development of domestic petroleum resources made it necessary to turn to foreign oil to make up the energy shortfall. Then came the Arab oil embargo, and we discovered the folly of this policy. The events of the past winter, grim as they were, probably had some beneficial effects. For one thing, we were reminded that our society is sewn together with the thread of energy. We had been told, ad nauseum, 114 �that the United States, with only 6% of the world's population, consumes over 30% of its energy. This fact was supposed to fill us with horror because of its supposed inequity. It is true, of course, that this country has wasted energy. Resources that are cheap and abundant are usually wasted, but if a nation had 30% of the world's population and 6% of its energy consumption, it would contain a poverty-stricken people slaving from sunup to sundown to try to feed and clothe themselves and their families. Energy availability determines life styles. In the last century, the availability of coal, especially along our Eastern seaboard, transformed our nation from an agricultural to an industrial society. In this century, the gasoline-powered internal combustion engine has had equally far-reaching effects upon our lives. Just since World War II, we have seen a steadily increasing concentration of population in our large metropolitan areas and a huge expansion of suburbia made possible by the automobile. An intricate system of superhighways links our cities, and jet aircraft whisk us from one end of the country to the other in the time it took our grandfathers to travel to the nearest town. The increased ability to commute longer distances and more leisure time led to a booming travel business and an unbelievable expansion of resort areas along our coasts. I pass no value judgment on whether these changes were desirable or undesirable. I only note that none of them would have taken place without petroleum energy and the internal combustion engine. The Arab oil embargo and long gasoline lines served as a reminder of the importance of energy. Automobile and airline workers were laid o f f , and suppliers of these industries were affected by cutbacks in orders. Builders 115 �in resort areas suffered nightmares; they were joined by people in the travel business and manufacturers of powerboats, snowmobiles, trailers, and other gasoline-consuming pleasure vehicles. We had a brief demonstration of the inescapable fact that lack of energy can lead to economic stagnation, unemployment, and ultimately to spreading poverty and a decline in living standards. Another beneficial effect of the embargo was to provide an early warning of the consequences of heavy reliance on insecure foreign energy supplies. Reputable estimates by both industry and government experts, prepared in early 1973, indicated that by 1980 we might be dependent on foreign nations for half our oil needs, and that by 1985 this might reach two-thirds of U.S. oil requirements. If we ever come to depend on foreign nations for two-thirds of our petroleum, the measures that have helped us greatly to meet recent energy problems—such as turning back thermostats, driving more slowly, and carpooling—would be exercises in futility. If we are now convinced of the folly of excessive dependence on foreign supplies and of the need to develop our domestic energy resources, the embargo served us well. Had the embargo taken place five years later, when our dependence on Arabian oil was far greater, the result could have been a national disaster instead of merely a painful and unpleasant experience. In energy presentations, the usual approach is to discuss the shortage, trace its origins, then point the finger of blame at every group except the one you represent. Today, I propose to eschew Monday-morning quarterbacking. Let us admit that our energy shortfall is the result of many complex forces 116 �converging at once: the rising expectations and resulting energy needs of a growing population; restrictions on energy development brought on by an emerging—and too long delayed—concern for man's environment; fragmented and inappropriate decisions by government agencies that discouraged domestic energy development; too much business as usual and lack of foresight by energy industries; and imprudent energy use by American consumers stemming from our long history of energy abundance. We do not have to look very hard to find plenty of blame to pass around. We are now at the point in the energy crisis where rhetoric must give way to constructive solutions. Let us spend our time addressing the crucial issue of solutions, and leave history to historians. U . S . energy consumption is massive. It is measured in quadrillions of b t u ' s , billions of tons of coal, trillions of cubic feet of natural gas, or billions of barrels of oil—sums and quantities too big to be grasped. (Speakers should avoid them like the plague.) A few figures, however, are important to keep in mind. Fossil fuels today provide 95% of U . S . energy. Petroleum accounts for 78% of total energy needs. Oil alone furnishes 45%, which means that the United States consumes about 18 million barrels of oil a day. Coal sup- plies 17% of our energy, hydropower provides 4%, and nuclear power, the remaining 1%. Basic logic tells us that there are three ways to solve the energy problem: we must either decrease energy demand, increase energy supply, or do a little of both. Let us take a brief look at the options now open to us. To cut energy demand, we must do one of two things: (1) restrict 117 �demand by allocation and rationing of fuel; (2) reduce demand by encouraging more frugal use of energy by U.S. consumers. Allocation and rationing are not solutions to energy problems. They will not produce one more barrel of oil, one more cubic foot of natural gas, or one more watt of electricity. They are designed to share scarcity. When shortages reach unacceptable levels, these programs are vital to insure that essential users such as farmers, policemen, and doctors receive adequate fuel, but they never have and never will operate very effectively. Energy conservation is another matter entirely. It is extremely important. The oil industry and all energy industries are behind conservation programs 100%, and are spending millions of dollars every day on radio, TV, or newspapers to urge conservation. Unlike more permanent solutions, which will take time, we can start practicing energy conservation today. If we can curb demand, supplies will stretch farther. But energy industries are not seeking permanent 55-mile-per-hour speed limits, permanently chilly homes and offices, poor airplane service, darkened cities, and all the other problems, including higher unemployment. We need to provide citizens with energy, not deny it to them. I can walk ten blocks from my office and find Americans who still have no car, no air conditioner, and no dishwasher. I have seen with my own eyes the poverty in parts of Appalachia. These people have few or none of the energy-using appliances most Americans take for granted. Our country will be in deep trouble if we fail to supply them with energy, and condemn them to a life of poverty. 118 �Energy conservation, of course, involves a lot more than lower speed limits and lower thermostats. As about 40% of energy is used in industry, there is a big potential for energy savings in this field—but it cannot be realized immediately. It requires new equipment and processes to use energy more efficiently and re-use heat. I hope that we will develop a conservation ethic and make wiser use of energy. (I believe we will, especially since energy will be more expensive.) But even if future demand falls short of present forecasts—and these forecasts indicate almost a tripling of energy demand by the end of this century--we must still have huge increases in energy supplies. Energy conservation can reduce the growth rate of demand. The elimination of frivolous energy use is long overdue, but it is only part of the solution to the energy shortfall. We must operate on the supply side of the street as well as on the demand side. How can we increase energy supplies? For one thing, we can take a fresh look at coal. We have a sufficient supply of coal to last 300 to 500 years, but most of it cannot be used since its high-sulfur content cannot meet environmental regulations. As a result, thousands of manufacturing and commercial firms have been forced to switch from coal to oil—and when these environmental demands could no longer be met, the energy crisis was upon us. The oil industry does not now and never has favored scrapping the Clean Air Act. Protection of the environment is a necessity, not a luxury. Regulations designed to protect human health are essential. A number of regulations in effect, however, are not essential to human health. These can be looked at more critically. There are barriers to increased use of coal, including a lack of readily available 119 �coal supplies. There are also, as you well know, problems involved in the mining of coal. I pose as no expert in this field. It is very clear that strip mining cannot and should not be carried out in areas where reclamation is not feasible. It is clear that there are major health and safety problems connected with underground mining. It is also clear that we must solve these problems and make increased use of coal. This is really not an option—it is a necessity. Unfortunately, until coal can be converted to the more environmentally acceptable liquid or gaseous forms, its role in meeting future energy demands will be limited. The nuclear age is dawning, but very slowly. Almost 30 years after the splitting of the atom, it provides only 1% of our total energy. Nuclear plants have been delayed by both technical and environmental problems. Cumbersome and slow licensing procedures have been a major bottleneck. Fortunately, the government is attempting to speed up and streamline these procedures. The faster they can be brought on-stream the better. However, even if this is done, most experts agree that even by 1985 nuclear power will provide only about 10% of our total energy needs. Another option is to develop widely-discussed new sources of energy, such as oil and gas from coal, oil from tar sands, nuclear f u s i o n , or solar power. Indeed, although research and development of synthetic and "exotic" fuels must be accelerated, it is essential to look at the time frames for development. Oil shale, coal gasification, and coal liquefaction are mid-term solutions to energy problems. A few synthetic fuel plants may be built starting later in this decade, and many more in the next decade, but they will supply relatively little energy until the end of this century. The use of 120 �nuclear fusion and solar power, and harnessing the oceans' tides are solutions to 21st Century energy problems. Although we must have these new technologies available to supplement and eventually replace fossil f u e l s , to solve today's and tomorrow's energy problems, and those of the next decade, we shall have to rely on existing technology and conventional fuels. It is clear to anyone who has studied the energy problem that it cannot be solved without oil. What can be done to develop our domestic petro- leum resources? The answere are really not difficult. We have to go where the geolo- gists tell us we can find large amounts of oil and gas, drill for it, construct the necessary pipelines or other transportation facilities needed to move it to refineries, and construct more refineries. Let's talk first about the Outer Continental Shelf (OCS). While estimates vary, and some new estimates are lower, it is thought to contain about half of our estimated recoverable oil and gas resources. It may contain twice as much of all the oil and gas we have consumed since Colonel Drake struck oil in 1859. Do not confuse available proven reserves with potentially recoverable reserves. Sometimes, I read articles that leave readers with the impression that we have run out of oil and gas. Nothing could be further from the truth. We are not "out" of oil and gas. We are out of available supplies that we can tap and use now. Oil under the oceans off our coasts or the Arctic tundra cannot heat homes or run cars. We remain rich in energy resources. Certainly our fossil fuels are finite—that is obvious to everyone. Also, we will run low on oil and gas about the middle of the next century and on coal 121 �in two or three more centuries, but these resources are available now and we need them now. Why haven't we developed our offshore resources? First, the federal government owns the OCS. Industry must bid for leases if, as, and when the government offers tracts for lease. But lease sales have been small and few. Environmental opposition has strongly influenced government leasing policies, with the Santa Barbara spill in 1969 a powerful factor in curtailing OCS development. Nobody can defend an oil spill, but we think our overall environmental safety record is good. We have worked hard to develop foolproof devices to avoid oil spills, and additional ways to clean up those that do occur. We think the risks of environmental damage from offshore drilling is smaller than the risk of tanker accidents due to collisions , storms, and the like that will occur if we foolishly continue to rely on imports—imports we may or may not receive. Even though only about 2% of the OCS has been explored, we already get close to one-fifth of our domestic oil and gas from it. However, as a result of small lease sales, the percentage actually went down last year for the first time since offshore drilling began a quarter of a century ago. While strict environmental safeguards are essential, and must be rigidly enforced, we must sharply accelerate the development of this rich national resource. Second, let us talk about Alaska. Six years ago the largest oil field ever discovered in this hemisphere was found at Prudhoe Bay on Alaska's North Slope. This oil is still right there. Although we finally have clearance to build the pipeline after seemingly endless delays, it will be 1977 122 �at the earliest before it is completed and we get the first drop of that ten billion barrels of oil. Alaska may have a lot more oil, but for six years exploration and drilling have been virtually suspended since there was no assurance that any oil found could be marketed. We really do not know how much oil there is in Alaska. We may find two or three more Prudhoe Bays. We may need a second oil pipeline in Alaska, as well as a gas pipeline. We are confident that this valuable oil and gas can be extracted with minimal impact on the ecology of Alaska. Although the Outer Continental Shelf and Alaska are believed to contain most of our oil, much is still left in the lower 48 states. The "easy oil" close to the surface has been found, but there is still a lot of it deeper in the ground. The deeper you drill, the more it costs—and costs increase geometrically rather than arithmetically with depth. The production of this oil depends greatly on whether the price of oil is high enough to yield an adequate return on investment. Drilling is a high-risk business. The deepest well ever drilled went down over 3 0 , 0 0 0 feet in Oklahoma last year—and it was a dry hole. In fact, out of every 100 new-field exploratory wells drilled, only nine strike oil and gas, and only two contain commercially significant amounts. If there is little prospect of an adequate return, the risks will not be taken. An adequate price will also encourage the use of more sophisticated recovery methods, including what is called "secondary" and "tertiary" recovery. This uses water or chemicals to force more oil out of the pores of rocks, where it is tightly held, and bring it to the surface. 123 �As these methods are expensive, their use cannot be justified if oil prices are depressed. Between 1956 and 1973, the number of wells drilled in the United States fell by more than 50% because of depressed oil prices and the limited access of the industry to the most promising fields. Increased lease sales on the OCS in the past year, the prospect of being able to build the transAlaska pipeline, and improved oil prices have finally brought an upturn in drilling. This will not be reflected immediately in terms of increased energy, since it takes three to ten years to develop an oil field—but it is the only route to increased domestic petroleum supplies. Unfortunately, even if we can increase domestic oil supplies and reduce dependence on foreign nations for crude oil, we have another problem. Crude oil, by itself, is of little value; it must be turned into fuel oil, gasoline, kerosene, and all the other products we need so critically. Even if U.S. refineries run flat out, they cannot meet all our needs. There are not enough refineries to do it, because just about every conceivable factor has worked to discourage rather than encourage new refinery construction. One problem has been uncertainty about crude oil supplies. Obviously, you cannot build a plant without some assurance that the basic raw material needed to operate it can be obtained. Changes in the oil import-quota pro- gram last year removed some of this uncertainty, but, obviously, the Arab embargo raised new fears about crude oil availability. Economics has been another deterrent to new plant construction. A 150,000-barrel-a-day refinery can cost $200 million or more. Before deciding to invest that kind of money, a firm needs some assurance that the 124 �expenditure will be recoverable in the marketplace. The situation in the last several years, with Phases I to IV and various off-again, on-again price controls, has not encouraged heavy investment in additional refining capacity. Another problem involves location or siting. Everyone seems to want refineries as long as they are in someone else's back yard. Environmental opposition has been vocal and effective. One state passed a law completely banning refinery construction in its coastal zone. This problem is especially acute along the East Coast, which has the greatest need for refineries. The Atlantic Seaboard requires 40% of total U . S . oil consumption, but has only 12% of its refining capacity. We need to find reasons to grant permits to build refineries, instead of reasons to block or delay construction. It is estimated that we will need the equivalent of 60 new refineries to meet expected demands by 1985. Even if this figure turns out to be high, and we need only 40 or 50 as a result of energy conservation or more rapid development of other energy sources, you should know that only one new refinery came on-stream last year, one small one will come on next year, and none the next. This is because only the one refinery is presently under construction--and it takes at least three years to build one. A number of plans were announced last year to build new refineries. The Arab oil embargo shelved some of these plans , but it is hoped that they will now be revived. These announced plans for new refineries have already met powerful opposition. Many are likely to be delayed or never built at all. We have a few more problems in the oil industry, such as a need for deepwater ports and some worrisome material and manpower shortages . None 125 �of these problems is unmanageable if we are determined to remove bottlenecks and produce more oil and gas. Are we really determined to develop domestic energy resources? Will we be willing to use more coal? Will we speed up development of nuclear power? Will we accelerate development of new fuels? Will we develop our vital oil and gas reserves? Will we continue to practice energy conservation? Or will we go back to sleep, rely increasingly on foreign energy, and find ourselves one day confronted with far more serious energy problems than we have already experienced? We cannot be sure. In Congress, we have seen proposals to roll back crude oil prices to levels that would discourage the development of domestic petroleum resources and slow the pace of development of more expensive new fuels. At the very time when the industry requires much capital to undertake drilling and exploration, accelerate research and development, build refineries and deepwater ports, we see proposals to tax away much of the money needed to accomplish these things. There is talk of breaking up or nationalizing the industry. Higher taxes, lower prices, and a less efficient industry are not solutions to energy problems. We have a chance to reverse our earlier drift toward energy dependence and restore some semblance of self-sufficiency. Can we achieve this by 1980 as President Nixon said last year? I doubt it, but it is the direction that is important and not the timing. Future generations will hold us to blame if, at this key point in our history, we fail to take the steps 126 �necessary to insure energy self-sufficiency and enable them to live in a strong, independent, and free nation. 127 �Exhibit C Heritage of Appalachia Address by Gratis D. Williams Acting Vice Chancellor, Academic Affairs Appalachian State University to the Southern Appalachian Regional Conference Boone, North Carolina 13 May 1974 Appalachia can be seen as a vanishing frontier and the people as frontiersmen, suspended and isolated, while the rest of the country moves across the twentieth century. Although we are not as far behind now as we were 20 years ago, we are still close enough to the frontier days to describe them with some degree of confidence, for we have become concerned about recording the fullness of our heritage, particularly our cultural heritage. This cultural heritage probably owes more to the Scotch-Irish than to any other sub-national group. Although we cannot say that a certain percentage of the blood of the average mountaineer is Scotch-Irish, we know it dominates because the Scotch-Irish were a particular kind of people who dominated their communities even when they were outnumbered. I must tell you something about the Scotch-Irish, for this is mainly what we are today in the mountains. The Scotch-Irish, first of all, were survivors. They were a hardy group who had achieved a homogeneity over a period of 2 ,000 years by being pushed as remnants before various invaders into the hilly country of the middle of Great Britain—the Scottish border. They were not Scotsmen as we typically think of Scotsmen, nor were they English. They were a strange 128 �mixture, not only of the Scots and the English, but of other invaders who in turn were forced into the hills. This meant that they developed a physical quality that differentiated them from other British people. More than anything else, they became the kind of people who could survive on a shoestring. They were resourceful; they knew how to make do; and this in time affected their basic philosophy. They were, therefore, among the first to pitch wholeheartedly into the Reformation as it developed on the island of Great Britain, and their whole philosophy and history prepared them for Calvinistic theology, which they embraced with great fondness. They were, of course, in the center of the War of the Reformation. They followed Cromwell and John Knox. They were troublemakers. They were stubborn. They were literalists. When the time came to'resettle North Ireland, the Crown thought it best not to pick people who would in time either mix with the Irish or feel any sympathy for them. This meant that the Highland Scots were excluded. The English people themselves, being good Episcopalians, were still close to Catholicism. The ideal people to interest in going to Ireland were ones who would have nothing to do with Catholicism, namely, these middle Scotch-Irish who at that time had no label. So North Ireland, after the defection of the Earl of Tyrone, was resettled by these people, where for the first time in their history they had an opportunity to show what they could do. They developed linen industries that were a threat to the London merchants . They knew how to develop the soil to make it productive. They developed the first system of education similar to a public school system in America. They became the best educated common people in Europe. 129 �Within a 100 years, they became a threat to the established order. Laws had to be passed to protect the rest of English civilization against the advances of the Scotch-Irish. Tax laws were passed so that their linen industries could be held in place, and at that point the Scotch-Irish began to hate the British. Then the famines came and, by the middle of the 1730s, the Scotch-Irish had to move out. They came to America. At this time they found much land already taken in America. They had to pay indentureships because they were very poor. They came as bondsmen and paid off their indentureships often by serving as instructors or tutors in the homes of the wealthy. In time, when land was available along the border, they took it up. Here they reestablished their culture, supported by a hardy outlook on life and sustained by a Calvinistic philosophy that enabled them to be fatalistic about whatever lay ahead. They multiplied rapidly because they believed in large families. They were patriarchal because they thought father was the head of the household. The woman accepted this role and deferred to his wishes, as she still does today. Along the border they fought back the Indians . They went into the valleys and brought forth whatever was there. They were not yet differentiated from other frontiersmen. (They were not labeled as mountaineers until after the Civil War.) When the Revolution came, however, they remembered their experiences with the British in North Ireland, and almost to a man, were anti-British. When the time came to say "Let us see what we can do with Ferguson at Kings Mountain," they all came together without any rehearsal. They marched on Kings Mountain and took it, though mountain men were not soldiers in the usual sense, and they lacked some of the 130 �niceties and points of honor of soldiers. When the British (really, they were not British but sons of South Carolina—Tories, who were nice people then—and who simply wanted to defend the colonies against the intruders) came marching down the hill waving their white flags, the Scotch-Irish accepted them as prisoners of war but, not knowing what to do with them,they lined them up and shot them. There is still a quality of violence about us. (You can forgive me for anything I say, because I am a mountaineer. My people were all on the border at the time of the Revolution, and they have lived there ever since. I have in my background all those mountaineer traits, including whiskey-making and mountain feuds.) What did the Scotch-Irish bring with them? When they came to the border, they were supra-representative of our settlers. Probably they had higher intelligence than any other one group that came to the borders. They furnished the leadership that went over the mountains and into the valleys, carved out the Northwest Territory, and moved beyond the Mississippi. The cousins stayed in the valleys in the mountains and multiplied--like rabbits— because this is the way mountain people do. When the Civil War came, they were on the wrong side, and by this mistake, they fated themselves as mountaineers later. There had been no differentiation before the Civil War. That the mountain folk remained loyal to the Union was not known to either the North or the South while the war was going on. After the war was over, it became obvious to those who were in power again in the South that the mountaineers had been traitors. Consequently, such tax resources as were available in the states were not shared with the Appalachian area, but were used to reward the faithful. The road 131 �and the school funds were used to help those who had been good. As the mountaineers were allowed to support themselves only on lands that had no tax value, some public schools closed for 18 to 20 years. This meant three or four generations of youngsters who were absolutely illiterate and, though the grandfathers had come to the mountains with calfbound copies of the English poets, the grandsons could not spell their own classical names. They usually gave their children classical names, but these became disordered by the time the illiterate grandsons of the first illiterate generation were ready to write their names again. This also happened to some of the family names. Mountain culture became an oral culture. All that had been known in illiterate fashion settled down to the oral way. There was a redacticism in culture, when the English language itself went backward, and travelers began to observe things that reminded them of Anglo-Saxon. Those who came, looked, and listened said "A-ha! Pure Anglo-Saxon still being spoken." There is some doubt about that, but this purest old-fashioned English is a part of our culture. There had been great theologians, but now the grandsons were illiterate and their theology was simple folklore—passed on by word of mouth. Even the ministers could not read the Bible, but their theology was sound; if they knew how to preach, they could be ordained because it was assumed they knew what to preach. In the meantime, of course, with the revival along the border, mountain people had learned to compromise their theology so that there could be an "experience" of knowing that one is among the elect. Consequently, mountain people, although they were most theological and religious, waited for an "experience" before becoming a "joiner." They 132 �admired the flesh and the devil and found sin so delightful that they postponed the day of salvation as long as possible! The young people then were missed by the church completely, and it became an organization of older people. No matter what the denomination was, the basic theology was still Presbyterian. Forty-seven different brands of Baptists invaded the mountains, but were all basically Presbyterian. The Methodists were very successful in the mountains, but wherever they went, the basic theology remained Presbyterian. Religion was conservative, old-fashioned, and literal. It was a religion of the old people, and one became a "jiner" simply to protect himself from whatever waited after death, for religion had no particular bearing on community life. It was religion, pure and simple, not to be confused with social purpose, interpretation, or even conduct for that matter, because many people were most skillful in using religion as a cloak for their devilment. The artistic traditions were carried on as "foolishment," if you please. This word "foolish" does not mean foolish in the sense you might think, but rather it means "playful." When the mountain woman says, "Oh, this is just a bit of my foolishment," she means it is creativity in her mode and place. We have in this attitude the whole tradition of mountain crafts in the sense that they are used just as gimcracks. On the other hand, when women were quilting and had time to be playful, they were careful about the patterns they used. If they simply needed bed covering, they made crazy quilts. The men were the same way. If the blacksmith had time to be playf u l , he turned out something delightful, but most of the time he was doing 133 �something practical. He was always modest and apologetic about his artistic creations, his "little bits of foolishness." One did not learn to play an instrument, but simply played an instrument. This is an aspect of the Calvinistic view of life—you are either predestined to play an instrument or you are not, and if so, you pick it up and play it. If you are not, all the practice in the world could not help. The same thing is true of an ability to sing. This meant, of course, that mountain folk, being conservative people, carried on the old traditions of singing—the chanting of the Middle Ages, the "histing" of tunes, the exclusion of instruments from their religious services, the best singer in the community simply "tuning his nose" in the manner of Chaucerian characters, and everyone else joining in. There was no part-singing and no attempt to be artistic, for such was not religious. (You remember that Plato excluded the poets from his Republic. Poets fool people, and Presbyterian mountain folk had basically the same notion about the arts.) They found art a little sinful. They were always apologetic about art, even though they were quite skillful with it. Mountaineers were also conservative politically, extremely rugged, and independent, and these qualities we still have. We have a whole tradition of spoken English that is now different from any other part of the English-speaking world, though it is different more in quantity than in quality. We have the singing tradition, wherein people not only know more of the old ballads than anybody else in the English-speaking world, but also being in the tradition, they know how to use it to make ballads of their own. Now the country has been invaded from outside, and the old people who 134 �know these things are dying. We are interested in preserving our traditions for contemporary and future generations. Similar communities and groups in the past were allowed to dissipate their traditions without recording them for posterity, but we have the equipment and facilities nowadays to preserve them. As a matter of fact, we have seen in our own generation the rejection of things associated with contemporary civilization for things that have been in the mountains from the beginning. This is the proper use of our traditions. We should like to preserve them for the future. 135 �JUST RELEASED — BOOKS WE ALL HAVE BEEN WAITING FOR Superb books by, for and about people of Western North Carolina and the Southern Appalachians 001 "... a right good people" by HAROLD WARREN "One of a limited number (of books) that will win the approval of native mountain people."—Loyal Jones, Director, Appalachian Center, Berea 128 pages: 37 ills. paper $2.50 002 Down to Earth—People of Appalachia by KENNETH MURRAY "The memory will last forever."—Ambrose Manning, Professor of English, East Tennessee State University 128 pages; over 200 ills. paper $2.95 003 Bits of Mountain Speech by PAUL FINK A bodacious collection of tidbits of mountain speech. "Excellent . . ."—flogers Whitener, in Folk Ways and Folk Speech 32 pages paper $1.25 004 Western North Carolina Since the Civil War by DRS. INA and JOHN VAN NOPPEN "A proud, positive history of a proud and independent people . . . Superb . .. Should be in every home."—Dr. W. H. Plemmons, President Emeritus, Appalachian State University 436 pages; 132 ills.; indexed cloth $12.95 005 Western North Carolina Since the Civil War by DRS. INA and JOHN VAN NOPPEN paper $4.95 006 The Birth of Forestry in America by CARL ALWIN SCHENCK A reprint of the illustrated history of the first school of forestry in America, which was founded in Western North Carolina at the Biltmore Estate. "It will hold your attention—don't fail to read if—Journal of Forestry 224 p'ages; illus. cloth $10.95 007 The Birth of Forestry in America by CARL ALWIN SCHENCK paper $4.50 008 The Southern Appalachian Heritage Seventy full four-color illustrations plus a full color cover; 20,000 word text, including ballads, recipes, folklore, history, etc.; shrink wrapped. "Without a doubt the most beautiful, delightful, big book about our colorful region ever produced . . . Long overdue."—Borden Mace, Executive Director, Appalachian Consortium paper $5.95 009 Toward 1984: The Future of Appalachia SOUTHERN APPALACHIAN REGIONAL CONFERENCE 144 pages paper $2.95 Ordering Information: We offer 10% discounts when three (3) or more books are ordered Add 3% N. C. sales tax where applicable We pay postage and handling charges on all prepaid orders Order from: The Appalachian Consortium Press 407 East Howard Street Boone, North Carolina 28607 � Dublin Core The Dublin Core metadata element set is common to all Omeka records, including items, files, and collections. For more information see, http://dublincore.org/documents/dces/. Title A name given to the resource Appalachian Consortium Press Publications Description An account of the resource This collection contains digitized monographs and collections from the Appalachian Consortium Press. 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Title A name given to the resource Toward 1984: The Future of Appalachia Description An account of the resource Though titled the <em>Proceedings of the 1st Annual Appalachian Studies Conference, </em>this volume contains the speeches and papers of the Southern Appalachian Regional Conference held May 13-16, 1974 at the Center for Continuing Education at Appalachian State University. Governor James E. Holshouser, Jr. of North Carolina; John B. Howard, American Petroleum Institute; and Cratis Williams, Acting Vice Chancellor for Academic Affairs, Appalachian State University each spoke at the opening banquet. The primary topics of the conference were energy, land use, and the human spirit. The conference was sponsored by the Appalachian Consortium and was a part of Project Open of the United States Office of Education.<br /><br /><a href="https://drive.google.com/open?id=1FEpcojJtOfGbGa2M9fRbPl2NY6pAabQU" target="_blank" rel="noopener">Download EPub<br /><br /></a><a title="UNC Press Link" href="https://www.uncpress.org/book/9781469636740/toward-1984/" target="_blank" rel="noopener">UNC Press Print on Demand</a> Subject The topic of the resource Appalachian Region, Southern--Congressess Regional planning--Appalachian Region, Southern Energy policy--Appalachian Region, Southern Land use--Appalachian Region, Southern Appalachian Region, Southern--Social conditions Alternative Title An alternative name for the resource. The distinction between titles and alternative titles is application-specific. Proceedings of the 1st Annual Appalachian Studies Conference Creator An entity primarily responsible for making the resource Roseberry, Helen Date A point or period of time associated with an event in the lifecycle of the resource 1975 Publisher An entity responsible for making the resource available Appalachian Consortium Press Language A language of the resource English Format The file format, physical medium, or dimensions of the resource PDF Conference proceedings Type The nature or genre of the resource Text Rights Information about rights held in and over the resource <a href="https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by/4.0/deed" target="_blank" rel="noopener">https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by/4.0/deed</a> Spatial Coverage Spatial characteristics of the resource. https://www.geonames.org/4456703/boone.html Source A related resource from which the described resource is derived <a title="UA 76 Appalachian Consortium records" href="https://appstate-speccoll.lyrasistechnology.org/repositories/2/resources/9" target="_blank" rel="noreferrer noopener"> UA 76 Appalachian Consortium records </a> Is Part Of A related resource in which the described resource is physically or logically included. <a title="Appalachian Consortium Press Publications" href="https://omeka.library.appstate.edu/collections/show/82" target="_blank"> Appalachian Consortium Press Publications</a> Temporal Coverage Temporal characteristics of the resource. 1970s Multidisciplinary/ Appalachian Studies https://omeka-test.library.appstate.edu/files/original/3cd9e47db4f3fd25d3147f78d5222812.pdf 243bc2d64f32745dca2d58f6f4c471a9 PDF Text Text �The Appalachian Experience Proceedings of the Sixth Annual Appalachian Studies Conference Editors Barry M. Buxton Malinda L. Crutchfield William E. Lightfoot Jacqueline P. Stewart �The Appalachian Consortium was a non-profit educational organization composed of institutions and agencies located in Southern Appalachia. From 1973 to 2004, its members published pioneering works in Appalachian studies documenting the history and cultural heritage of the region. The Appalachian Consortium Press was the first publisher devoted solely to the region and many of the works it published remain seminal in the field to this day. With funding from the Andrew W. Mellon Foundation and the National Endowment for the Humanities through the Humanities Open Book Program, Appalachian State University has published new paperback and open access digital editions of works from the Appalachian Consortium Press. www.collections.library.appstate.edu/appconsortiumbooks This work is licensed under a Creative Commons BY-NC-ND license. To view a copy of the license, visit http://creativecommons.org/licenses. Original copyright © 1983 by the Appalachian Consortium Press. ISBN (pbk.: alk. Paper): 978-1-4696-3671-9 ISBN (ebook): 978-1-4696-3673-3 Distributed by the University of North Carolina Press www.uncpress.org �TABLE OF CONTENTS Introduction, Jim W. Miller I. Appalachian Images and Issues of Ethnic Diversity Images of Appalachia: A Critical Discussion, Melinda B. Wagner, Allen Batteau & Archie Green vii 3 Correlates of Appalachian Identification among Appalachian Migrants, William W. Philliber 10 Ethnic Conflict in an Appalachian Craft Cooperative: On the Application of Structural Ethnicity to Mountaineers and Outsiders, Susan Emley Keefe 15 A Preliminary Look at the Welsh Component of Celtic Influence in Appalachia, Loyal Jones 26 The Retreat from Consensus: An Exploration of Conflict Analysis Richard Drake 34 II. Appalachian Literature "Rings around a Hurt": The Dialectic Structure of The Mountains Have Come Closer, John H. Mongle 45 "Naked Words That Have No Subtle Meaning": Poetry and Teaching in the Writings of Don West, Michaelh Mary Lee Settle's Transmontane Society, Nancy CarolJoyner III. Appalachian Politics and Government Newsmaking and Social Change in Eastern Kentucky: "Why Aren't They Telling Our Side?" Sally Ward Maggard 54 61 67 The Congressional and Gubernatorial Elections of 1982 in Appalachia, Phillip A. Grant, Jr. 81 Appalachian Origin and Political Activity, Phillip J. Obermiller & Robert Oldendick 87 When the Bank Failed, John L. Bell, Jr. 95 Progressive Government in a Company Town, Russell D. Parker 102 IV. Aspects of Daily Life: Yesterday and Today Store Talk in Appalachian Social Life, George B. Ray 117 Locally Produced Religious Broadcasts in the Mountains of Northwest North Carolina, Howard Dorgan 123 One-room School Life in Appalachian Kentucky, James, M. Gifford 131 Beyond the Quaint and Curious: Folklore Research in Appalachia, Jean Haskell Speer... .138 �h T The Black Appalachian Church: An Agent for Change or System Maintenance? Stanley Taylor & ArthurJ. Cox 145 Race Relations in Asheville, North Carolina: Three Incidents, 1868-1906 Eric]. Olson 153 VI. Culture, Mental Health and Personality The Folk Banjo and Clawhammer Performance Practice in the Upper South: A Study of Origins, William H. Tallmadge 169 Mental Health Problems of Rural Appalachians with Pulmonary Diseases: An Exploration of the Relevant Issues, Mania F. Barron & John G. McNutt 180 VII. Economic Development in Appalachia: New Perspectives The ARC—Some Questions Relative to Its Past and Possible Future, Edgar Bingham 191 Appalachia as an "Enterprise Zone": Some Speculation on the Future Direction of Federal Policy toward the Region, Thomas R. Shannon 199 Housing Aspirations of Central Appalachian Coal Miners, Rosemary Carucci Goss 205 VIII. The Humanities in Appalachia: Progress Reports Missing Chapters: West Virginia Woman in History, Barbara Matz 219 A Case for a Humanities Curriculum Incorporating Sciences and Local Studies, Myra Jones 226 Library Outreach in Eastern Kentucky, Judy Martin 231 A Report on the East Kentucky Grass Roots Poetry Project, George Ella Lyon 235 Developing an Appalachian Literature Anthology, Nellie McNeil &Joyce Squibb 237 IX. Abstracts Involving Youth in Appalachian Studies: Collaborative Efforts between University and High School Faculties, Grace T. Edwards & Joyce L, Graham 241 Black Hillbilly Music: Black Influence in Non-Blues, Secular Music in the Southern Mountains, Edward ]. Cabbell 242 Lily May Ledford and the Coon Creek Girls: Radio's First All-girl String Band, Ellesa Clay High 242 Oral Histories of Appalachian Women—By Women, Joy Huntley 243 Women's Work, Women's Lives: Factory Labor and Its Impact on Women in Western North Carolina, Mary Anglin 244 "We're Looking for Work": Perspectives on Workplaces in Appalachia, Dick Futrell 245 Highlander in the Center of Black Southern Politics: The Problems and Prospects of Interracial Cooperation in Social Change, William H. Turner 246 �The Class Experience of Appalachian Coal Miners, Michael Yarrow 246 Staying Alive, Chemical Hazards in Maintenance Work, Paul Becker 247 Reclaiming Our Health: Grass Roots Epidemiology along Yellow Creek, Kentucky, Sabrina Cherry 248 Appalachian Environmental Education for Elementary Teachers: The Pine Mountain Journals, 1980-83, Walter P. Oldendort 249 A High School Festival Can Work, Shirley Underwood 249 Old Men and New Schools in the Mountains: A Gallery of Legendary Uncles, David E. Whisnant 250 Where the Old New River Flows: Contemporary Folk Music in Summers County, West Virginia, Deborah J. Thompson 250 Mountain Masters: Slaveholders in Western North Carolina, John C. Inscoe 251 �This page intentionally left blank �Introduction The papers gathered here reflect the diversity of disciplines, perspectives and concerns that make up Appalachian Studies, a community of scholarship of rather recent origin. For a long time there have been outstanding individuals concerned with understanding southern Appalachia and with working toward solutions to the region's problems and realization of its promise. From the early part of the century one thinks of Emma Bell Miles, Horace Kephart, and John C. Campbell. In more recent years outstanding contributions have been made by Harry Caudill, writer and historian; James Brown, the rural sociologist; and Gratis Williams, student of the region's literature and history. The efforts of these individuals, and others, have often been aided by organizations. The Council of Southern Mountains dates from the 1920's. The Highlander Center, established by Myles Horton, celebrated its 50th anniversary in 1982. Don West founded the Appalachian South Folklife Center in Pipestem, West Virginia, where the 1983 Conference was held. But none of these students of the region had what exists today: a network of people and organizations informed about Appalachia's past and present, concerned with and committed to working for the region's future—a community of scholarship represented by the Appalachian Studies Conference and reflected in the papers and abstracts brought together here. Over fifty years ago, when the Vanderbilt University Agrarians were attempting to work up a regional program for the South, Allen Tate, a member of the group, saw the need to create "an intellectual situation interior to the South." Where the Agrarians by their own estimate failed, it appears that people interested in mounting some similar program for Appalachia have succeeded—or at least made a start. Students of Appalachia have created—through the Appalachian Studies Conference, the Appalachian Consortium, Inc., Appalachian Studies centers throughout the region, through the involvement of young people on college and university campuses and, now, in secondary schools—an intellectual situation within the region that did not—and perhaps could not—exist before. In the past Appalachia has experienced change largely as the result of outside intervention—on the part of entrepeneurs, missionaries, planners, developers, assorted "change agents" and advocates of regional uplift. David Whisnant has written about such efforts in Modernizing the Mountaineer. But the new things we are involved in is an effort on the part of Appalachians to intervene in the life and culture of the region from the inside. (The landmark study of the Appalachian Land Ownership Task Force is a significant recent result of this effort.) Appalachian Studies looks more and more like a program of action as well as of ideas, carried on by two groups referred to by Lawrence Thompson as "action folk and creative people." Both groups are represented in papers presented at the 1983 Appalachian Studies Conference. The action folk illuminate aspects of the region's social, economic and political complexity. They contribute to a better understanding of ethnic diversity in a region thought of, until only recently, as having an almost exclusively white, Anglo-Saxon Protestant population. They focus on contemVII �Both groups are represented in papers presented at the 1983 Appalachian Studies Conference. The action folk illuminate aspects of the region's social, economic and political complexity. They contribute to a better understanding of ethnic diversity in a region thought of, until only recently, as having an almost exclusively white, Anglo-Saxon Protestant population. They focus on contemporary problems and issues in the areas of housing and health care, education, government and economic development—areas which typically make news in Appalachia and contribute to the region's media image. The creative people concern themselves with a deeper and fuller understanding of the region's history; with religious beliefs and practices; with the language of everyday life (an important index to the way people take themselves); with music, art and literature—the news that stays news. The two groups represent two powerful drives—the urge to change the world, and the desire to understand it and enjoy it as it is. Occasionally the needs for change and for continuity are seen to be compatible, as in the recommended use of biography as a change agent, or in a study of the writing of Don West, where art, religion and politics are fused in literary expression. The contributions of both groups have their uses. Appalachian, along with other Americans, have been deprived of much of the region's history of a complicated set of circumstances. Typography, settlement patterns, and events that were to flow from those patterns, made Appalachia a geographical, historical, and ideological American borderland too frequently subsumed under contrasting myths of the Savage South and the Sunny South. Even where Appalachia has been understood as a kind of "separate South," myths about mountains and mountain people have obscured the region's history. The French student of modern mythologies, Roland Barthes, speaks of a general "bourgeoise promoting of mountains" which, since the 18th century, has caused otherwise intelligent people to take enraptured leave of their sense "any time the ground is uneven." More and more, however, Appalachians and other Americans are casting off myths and stereotypes in favor of a better understanding of what the historian Carl Degler has called Appalachia's complicated "triple history"—the notion that not only does Appalachia figure significantly in American and Southern history, but that the region also has a history of its own as a borderland between North and South, a place between places. Our understanding of regions and their relation to the rest of the country has also changed. In the past regions and regional cultures have tended to be associated with primitive areas and peoples. Regions have been regarded as remnants of the past "curious survivals in a standardizing world." Regions have been equated with reactionary views and blinkered provincialism. Regionalism has been suspect, a potentially divisive force, or a futile effort to take refuge in a past believed to be simpler and pleasanter. Nowadays we know regions have as much to do with the future as with the past. We view regions in national and global contexts. All over the world people are rediscovering their regions and provinces. We have witnessed a revival of regionalism that complements a global view. It is possible to think of the world of the future as one world containing many local worlds. This significantly altered understanding of Appalachia's region to the rest of the country, and of regions generally, offers the prospect of depth and breadth as students of Appalachia address the needs identified by Gratis Williams: "...the learn the write our history...define our identity...write our own books...solve our own social problems...manage our own institutions, and build our own economy." VIII �From the vantage points of their several disciplines, the contributors of these essays and abstracts address those needs outlined by Gratis Williams. They show the Appalachian Studies Conference to be an alliance of action folk, creative people, scholars and nonscholars, all working to combine thought with action, knowledge with power, scholarship with citizenship in a region important to the nation and the world. —Jim Wayne Miller, Chairperson 1982-83 Appalachian Studies Conference IX �This page intentionally left blank �Appalachian Images and Issues of Ethnic Diversity 1 �This page intentionally left blank �Images of Appalachia: A Critical Discussion Melinda Bollar Wagner, Allen Batteau & Archie Green INTRODUCTION Wagner The purpose of this workshop is to draw together persons who are interested in images of Appalachia and to create an agenda for further research and thinking about this topic. What do we mean by "image"? An image is the ideas, the mental constructs, people have about one another. An image is a symbol of a basic attitude and orientation a person has toward another. Since it is socially and culturally constructed, it's more difficult to define what an image is—or what is included in a particular image—than it is to define a material object like a chair. As we learned in Appalshop's session this morning, it's easier to make a film about a chair, or chairmaking, than it is about image, or image-making. Image is often spoken of in the same breath with "identity." By "image," we mean the ideas we have of others; "identity" is the image we have of ourselves. Your identity adds meaning to your life. It's the hook you hang your life hat on. The image we have of others helps to define ourselves by opposites—by alter egos—and by putting what we think we are into relief. It seems there are several questions which could be asked about the image of Appalachia: 1) What is it, and who has it? 2) Does it fit or match reality? 3) Why is it like it is? I'm not sure that questions one and two have been answered adequately, but we are most interested in the last question—Why is the image of Appalachia like it is? Answers to this last question seem to fall into two "camps": Many scholars assume that images are created by dominants to justify or validate intergroup relationships—a kind of image imperialism. But others are beginning to talk about cultural symbols, paradigms, or archetypes being expressed in images of Appalachia. One side sees "images" as a function of economic and social organization, and as just so much cultural fluff. The other side recognizes that images are shaped and changed by economic and social conditions, but also recognizes the deep place cultural paradigms and archetypes have in images. So, in discussions about images, there has been an underlying argument about which is the tail and which the dog. One side would seem to say that Appalachian images are imposed from the "outside", created full blown for the use and gain of a particular segment of society at a particular time. The other would find in these images elements which are always "there" as parts of American culture. They would agree that these elements are at times picked up and used for "imperialistic" purposes, but would argue that this is just one of the functions and motivations served by images. The three of us are all on this last side. For example, in previous writings Allen has asked for a "recognition of the centrality of symbolic functions even in a modern society." Today, we 3 �want to discuss ways of achieving that recognition in the study and understanding of images of Appalachia. Allen and Archie will deal with when, how, and why various elements of the Appalachian image were created. They find elements of the image rooted in experiences which predate not only the discovery of Appalachia by outsiders, but also the original settling of Appalachia; these elements may, in fact, hark back to the onset of civilization itself. We each see Appalachia's image as functioning to (among other things) mediate cultural strains, in the way anthropologists say "myth" is supposed to do. In order to focus the discussion of why the Appalachian image is as it is, we have developed these questions for discussion: 1) Where does the image come from? This will lead us to think about the differences in "stereotypes" and "archetypes." 2) Why does the image of Appalachia exist? What is its social context? 3) Why does it take the particular form it does? What are the functions of this form? 4) How can this image be "used"? This question deals with "controlling" the image, especially from within. Allen will begin with his thoughts on these questions: Allen Batteau Stereotype or Archetype? I see the fourth question, "How can the image be used?", as a question about how to control the image of Appalachia, especially from within Appalachia. I will leave that question to Archie, who has thought more about it; I would simply say that my bias is that the image cannot be used or appropriated until one has understood how others have used it. The other three questions, ironically, can be answered with very little reference to the people of the southern mountains. Most of the image-making took place in the discourse of an educated elite outside of the mountains. The image-makers had their own motivations, and the southern mountaineers were convenient pawns for them in some larger games that they were playing. To understand these motivations, an essential distinction has to be made, between the image qua stereotype and the image qua archetype. The stereotype is the picture of the Appalachian as the Beverly Hillbillies, as seen in Paul Webb cartoons, in L'il Abner, and just last week on a television episode of "The A Team and the Killer Hillbillies." The archetype, on the other hand, consists of some basic ideas within our cultural understandings; these predate not only the discovery but also the population of Appalachia. One of these archetypes is the very basic distinction between civilization and nature, and the processual archetype that I have identified as the "Sacrifice of nature" in the service of civilization. As a nation, America has defined itself through this process of sacrifice of nature, and the consequent identification with and deification of the victim that accompanies any act of sacrifice. Symbols of nature, whether Natty Bumppo (Daniel Boone) or the Indian (red or white), are an important part of America's selfdefinition; and as we victimize these, we simultaneously identify with them, deify them, and in so doing, deify ourselves. Thus we set ourselves off from Europe, as Nature's Nation, of which Appalachia is a symbol par excellence. These national symbols are important, because nations, just as much as individuals, have to define themselves. America, over the last two hundred years, has 4 �created a set of images for itself, created them out of myth, legend, ritual, and dramatic episodes. Appalachia, I would suggest, has been a very important part of this. The national symbols associated with Appalachia include the pioneer heritage, the Revolutionary War, and the identification with Abraham Lincoln that William G. Frost constructed. Appalachians, one can read time and again, are in some manner archetypal Americans, and many of the images of Appalachians that have been constructed include the idea of Appalachians coming to the rescue of the national cause. A second question is "Why does the image of Appalachia exist? What is the social context of this image? The important point here is that the image was created by urban people talking to urban people; the literary circles of Boston and New York figure prominently in this. The motivation behind the images, I'm suggesting, were in that social context. To be sure, there are motivations like those of John Fox, Jr., or the National Park Service, or the missionaries, whose purpose in creating a stereotype of Appalachia was to position themselves in a relationship of superiority vis-avis Appalachians. But I would suggest that the positioning took place in the context of a larger game, and we have to understand some of the motivations involved in that larger game if we are to understand why the image was created. The third question asks about the form and function of the images of Appalachia, and gets at the heart of motivations. Images do not descend from the clouds, nor are they just thrown out broadcasts. Rather they exist within a certain discourse, within certain symbolic forms. If you want to understand what the person is trying to accomplish in propagating the image, you have to look not only at the content, but at the form, the symbolic vehicle that carries it. I have identified several forms used to propagate the Appalachian image. Each of these forms has its own typical author, its own distinctive content, and its own historical function. Some of these are: • Myth. Mary N. Murfree's short stories have many of the qualities of myth: they repeatedly set up the same contrasts between nature and culture, between woman and man, between mountain and lowland, between domestic and civil affairs, arranged in an analogical order; they invoke certain mediating figures, and they take place in a timeless never-never land, "The Tennessee Mountains," part Cumberland and part Smokey. The methods for analyzing myth developed by Levi-Strauss work perfectly on Murfree's stories, an exercise which I would invite any anthropologist to indulge in. • Journalism, particularly as presented by Harry Caudill in Night Comes to the Cumberlands and derivative documents, is a form of drama. Once one has arranged the diverse journalistic accounts of Appalachia from any era together into an extended narrative, one finds that they have their own dramatic rhythms, drawing on familiar archetypes, and building to such climaxes and resolutions as a congressional confrontation or a UMW election. Qua drama, journalism is a means of giving meaningful form to contemporary events, creating a new order of understanding out of the natural crises and climaxes of political and industrial strife. As an example of this, you could look at the journalism of Appalachia of the 1960s: from about 1959 to 1965 there was intense journalistic interest in Appalachia, climaxing in 1964. Out of that was created a new federal order, variously known as the Great Society or the War on Poverty; Appalachia was in many respects a tool for creating that order. • Pilgrimage. The trips that many hippies made to Appalachia in the 1960s had the distinctive aspects of pilgrimage, parallel to that of the 1930s when many left-wing and student groups made trips to Harlan County, the font of authentic radicalism. In both cases you find in their 5 �reports a sense of personal transformation for having made the trip, and a greater focus in the report on the pilgrim and his transformation, than on the mountain people. • Commodity. Appalachia qua commodity is, I would suggest, one of the biggest problems we will have to deal with in the coming years, especially in terms of appropriating or controlling the image from within. The mass production of "Appalachia", whether on TV, in the movies, in country music, or by various "handcraft" stores is the major way that the American public today derives its image of Appalachia. The examples are numerous, from "Foxfire" to "Coal Miner's Daughter" to the "Dukes of Hazzard," each of which for the sake of merchandizing obliterates other formal distinctions (between oral history and Broadway play, between personal history and song and autobiography and film, for example). The examples are so numerous, in fact, that the commodity form patterns representations in other vehicles: songs are written and plays are staged in terms of what will sell, rather than what is accurate or excellent. • Expository writing. The kind of descriptive prose that academics use has contributed the least of all forms to creating an image of Appalachia. Myth, pilgrimage, and journalism are the forms that have figured prominently in the imagemaking of Appalachia. In terms of dominant motivations for creating this image, I can identify three sorts: denying history, creating a national image, and promoting class mobility. For example, lately I've been looking at the way the New York Times reported and editorialized about the labor wars in Appalachia from 1912 to 1938. The Times denied that there was any historical significance to this activity, arguing that in no way did the strikes represent class conflict. Instead, the strikes are portrayed as an atavistic resurgence of primitive American individualism. And, as you might expect, they found a few atavistic types up in the hills to buttress this image. This denial of history was necessary, I would suggest, because the Times was afraid that the class conflict up in the mountains might be contagious—might spread to the working classes closer to home. The other motivation is the creation of a national image. For example, around the year 1889, there was much national self-doubt. There was the sense that the country was in a crisis; these immigrant hordes, it was suggested, were overrunning the country. And then somebody (William G. Frost, to be precise) discovered all the wonderful Anglo-Saxons locked up in the hills. One writer went so far as to suggest that the hillbillies would come to the salvation of the nation. The mountaineers did indeed come to the salvation of another national symbol approximately seventy years later in the Kennedy campaign in West Virginia. Again this was a time of national self-doubt, and the mountaineers provided a national symbol for American salvation. The third motivation for image-making is class mobility. Quite often the image of Appalachia has provided a vehicle for one class to move upward. In the 1960s this was the case with many university-educated middle class member who seized on Appalachia as a way to make their mark and get themselves established within the federal system. Civil Rights, Appalachia, and the various causes of liberation were vehicles of class mobility in the 1960s. All of these motivations can be seen at work in the forging of Appalachian images. But lacking in the making of the image of Appalachia is the motivation of making history—the motivation to push forward human events in a way that recognizes the importance of human actions and human agency. Time and again what one sees in the image of Appalachia is no sense of the Appalachian mountain people as being in any way responsible for their fate. They exist outside history, "frozen in time," in the words of William G. Frost. To put Appalachian Mountain People back in history should be, I would like to suggest, the next step in creating an image of Appalachia. 6 �Archie Green Let us carry attention to Appalachian images back into pre-history, back to the earliest European evidence of ideas about group identity. We look to traditional narrative forms, myths and legends, for formulas about tribal origin. Those accounts intrigue us which depict men and women emerging from the sea or babies suckled by wolves. We trace the story of a particular clan's genesis down to the ideology which girds a modern national state. Eventually, such ideas about a people's purpose and place reach contemporary eyes and ears: a New York Times editorial, a Mary Murfree sketch, a John Fox, Jr. novel, an Appalshop film. Appalachian activists fret constantly about stereotypes—comic, grotesque, demeaning. We can distance such negative portraits by consideration of two types of folktale. A myth is a sacred narrative; a legend, a secular narrative; a legend, a secular narrative. It seems that humans cannot live orderly lives without locating themselves in time and space. Myth and legend, together, explain the past, validate the present, and guide the future. As we secularize society, we turn religious myths into historical legends, but the underlying themes in each set of stories are the same. Myth content flows readily into that of legend. The ideas within these tales continue to play themselves out in fresh fiction as well as popular stage and screen drama. I would isolate three dominant strands in the making of the archetypal Appalachian story. The first explorers/entrepreneurs who ascended the Blue Ridge Mountains carried ideas as well as packs. Whether travelers from Spain, France, or England were formally educated or not, they accepted a triadic set of intellectual values. They know the Bible, Greek and Roman mythology, and the emerging science of the Renaissance. Within Biblical texts, the notion of dichotomy between Israelite and Philistine lasted long enough to touch Appalachian experience. Roanoke Island settlers identified with Israel, as did later pioneers in the Piedmont and the Blue Ridge. Chosen by Britain's rulers, Virginia's colonists saw Indians as Philistines. The Bible, itself, became a weapon in the destruction of Indian life as New Jerusalems were planted on American shores. The second aspect of European polarity encompassed reference to diverse peoples and rival citystates: Greek vs Barbarian, Athens vs Sparta. Many of the first explorers knew the Classics. They assumed that Athens represented civilization, and Sparta, the "backwoods" or "boondocks." Hence, their task was to bring New World Spartas up to Olympian heights, for example—Appalachia to Boston or Philadelphia. English historians and antiquarians developed the most important of the tensions pressed into service to depict Appalachian life: Celt vs. Anglo-Saxon. Hugh MacDougall in Racial Myth in English History (1982) describes the genesis of this paramount explanatory strategy. Geoffrey of Monmouth, a Welshman, in History of the Kings of Britain (1136), created an idealized past and has extended the Arthurian legend. Upon turning to King Arthur, today, one reads imaginative narratives which invert the role of Celts, actually subordinate to Anglo-Saxons at that distant time. Geoffrey, in his chronicles, switched a minor ruler of a conquered people into Britain's greatest monarch. Essentially, he stood a negative symbol upon its head by making Celtic Arthur a shining beacon for the ages. (We have used "Yankee" similarly, for originally it served as a term of British derision against the colonists.) Uncertain whether mountaineers today are moral giants (Sergeant York) or mindless hicks (Lil Abner), concerned Appalachians can appreciate something of Geoffrey's chosen task and lasting achievement. Polydor Vergil, an Italian scholar who came to England in 1502, rewrote Geottrey's history. Anticipating the importance of scientific learning, Polydor asserted that the true founders of the 7 �English nation had been Norsemen, Goths, or Anglo-Saxons—all upright, dynamic, practical, competent. Within Elizabethan Britain, imperialism and science came together to underscore this belief in Germanic priority and virtue. The new image helped a colonizing people achieve world power. Englishmen who embraced the Protestant Reformation grounded themselves in AngloSaxon "realities" rather than Celtic "superstitions." Clearly, we can use this three-pronged formulation of cultural difference (sanctioned by the Bible, Classics, and Science) to advance Appalachian studies. On the agenda for further consideration, we need especially to examine the diaries and travel accounts of early travelers and explorers who reached the highlands. We need to know the mind-set of those who came, blazed trails, subjugated the Indians, stole their land, and, in the process, became Indianized. I see exemplars of Appalachian life—Daniel Boone, Davey Crockett, John Sevier—as Indianized whites who played a double role, a role fraught with tremendous ambivalence. This ambivalence stemmed from beating the barbarians in the name of civilization, and becoming near-savages in the process. Appalachian frontiersmen in coonskin caps, buckskin garments, and native moccasins lived like Janus—facing contrasting lifestyles, balancing dual codes. All people engaged in a shift from mainstream to marginal life (in either direction), internalize various anxieties. Myth and legend ease tension and mark troubled paths. I suggest, here, that Appalachian images surfaced initially when white Europeans sensed their own ambivalence in dealing with native Americans. Narratives by and about Boone, Crockett, and Sevier helped these men and their peers mediate polarities between "backwards" and European life, and, as well, between regional and national life. Familiarity with the earliest history of ideas reveals that notions of region, tales of savagery, and depictions of wilderness adhered long before any local colorist wrote a Great Smokies or Cumberland short story. Upon beginning their careers, Mary Murfree and John Fox, Jr. accepted a body of thought which placed Appalachians in a framework of time-tested dichotomies. The so-called "inventors" of Appalachia, of the 1870s, validated a past and anticipated a future because they dipped into a body of ready-made rationalizations for cultural dissonance. Discourse about Appalachia can root literary and socio-political imagistic narratives in a past of tribal myth and legend. We empower ourselves by carrying current Dukes-of-Hazzard TV productions far back in time to assertions of difference between Israelite/Philistine, Greek/Barbarian, Anglo-Saxon/Celt. To look back gives strength to march forward. One need not quake before images as stereotypes; their complexity serves as challenge. We can embrace present-day notions of Appalachian identity, confident that such acts help open new definitions for self and community within region and nation. Discussion Batteau: It should be clear that all this image-making of Appalachia didn't just drop out of the clouds in the last 110 years. Even our own activity as scholars of Appalachia is, for better or worse, "imaging," whether we are observing, brokering, or creating an image. Looking at the way the image-making went on, especially in the 1880s and 1890s, I think should provide some cautionary tales for our own imagemaking. 8 �Wagner: Batteau: Green: Batteau: Wagner: Batteau: Green: For example, the fact that Mary Murfree used pre-existing formulas should suggest that we ourselves have to pursue our own work with greater creativity, lest we fall by the same wayside as Mary Murfree has. Another example would be William G. Frost. He is a more interesting example because he thought he was saying nice things about the people. In the context of his time, he though he was coming to their defense. I sometimes wonder if we ourselves won't be viewed the same way eighty years from now. Another example might be Harry Caudill. Ron Eller points out in his article, "Harry Caudill and the Burden of Mountain Liberalism," that Caudill paints a very negative picture of Appalachian people, but we Appalachian scholars seemed to have ignored that in our rush to embrace his work and his ideas. We were looking for a hero. We have the image that the people in that day all came down from the North to impose this false legend upon us. We now put them down as missionaries, as misguided social workers, as fotched on ladies. But I wonder, what motivated them? How complex were they as human beings? What was it in the mountains that they recognized as being true or beautiful? One answer to that question may be that many of those people had much ambivalence about progress. For example, Malcolm Ross, a Quaker missionary in the 1930s, said "If the hill people could have remained as they were, I for one would have been content to leave them in their innocence...free from civilization's boredom and irritations." I think this has been a fairly common motivational threat runing through the works of many of these people. Another motivational thread, which I'm borrowing from Archie, may be the dichotomy between those who wish to find difference and those who wish to deny difference. It's my thought that we could trace the history of that and perhaps it would be a parallel to progress/no progress and some other threads. Looking at the recent history of this dichotomy, some of the denial of difference has, I think, been the result of the denial of the culture of poverty idea. We perhaps threw the "cultural difference" baby out with the "culture of poverty" bath water. But Archie carries this dichotomy forward and looks at the possible political implications of wishing to find differences or wishing to deny them. Those who want to deny differences are claiming political sovereighty now. They are saying "We are like middle America, that's where sovereignty lies, therefore sovereignty lies with us." The folks who claim difference, if they carry that out to its logical conclusion, are seeing a vision of our nation as different than it is now. That is, we tend to say, this difference is probably here for a reason—we say that on various spiritual levels—and so what is that reason, if we don't mean that in the future there may be some different kind of nation where those differences can be useful? The denial of differences is the denial of alternatives. You have to ask, politically, what is David Stockman's vision for the mountains? What is James Watt's vision for the mountains? If you are going to take pride in your difference, then at some point you're going to be in the forefront of a movement to change the sovereignty of the nation state. 9 �Correlates of Appalachian Identification Among Appalachian Migrants William W. Philliber Ethnic group formation may be thought of as a process in which people assumed to share a common ancestry identify themselves and are identified by others as belonging to the same group (Singer, 1962). Ethnic group formation among Appalachian migrants is believed to have occurred as a response to discrimination designed to eliminate them from the competition for scarce resources and rewards, especially jobs, in the cities to which they moved (Philliber, 1981a). Appalachians migrated to the midwest at a time when the economic base of that region was beginning to decline. The competition for fewer jobs which natives of the midwest faced with each other was made more intense by the migration of Appalachians and southern blacks. Discrimination developed to eliminate Appalachians from this competition. McCoy and Watkins (1981) have collected jokes told about Appalachians which indicate their unsuitability. These jokes spread negative stereotypes and strengthen negative images about Appalachians in the minds of the native population. Obermiller's (1982) study of labelling against Appalachians found that especially strong negative images were held by working class whites who were not from Appalachia. It is this group which is in most direct competition with Appalachians and therefore would benefit most from discrimination against them. Philliber (1981a; 1981b) demonstrates that, with the exception of college educated Appalachians from middle class homes, white Appalachians obtained poorer jobs and lower wages than did other whites even after adjusting for a number of other differences. The penalty for not having a college education or coming from a middle class home was greater for Appalachians than for others. Three studies to date have demonstrated the extent to which Appalachian migrants have developed an identity with each other (Miller, 1978; Philliber, 1981a, Obermiller, 1982). These studies suggest that less than a third of the Appalachian migrants identify themselves as Appalachians, a figure comparable to ethnic group identification among other more recognized ethnic groups (Campbell, et al., 1964). However, these previous studies have not analyzed how Appalachian migrants who identify themselves as Appalachians differ from those who do not. The purpose of this paper is to analyze the correlates of Appalachian identity among Appalachian migrants. Data Data for this paper come from a 1975 survey of 595 adult residents living in Hamilton County, Ohio. Hamilton County is the location of Cincinnati, Ohio. Participants in the survey were selected through a random selection of blocks with quotas proportionate to sex, age, and employ10 �ment used to select people within blocks (Sudman, 1966). Details of the survey can be found in Appalachian Migrants in Urban America (Philliber, 1981a). Participants were categorized as Appalachian migrants if they or either of their parents were born in a county of Appalachia as identified by the Appalachian Regional Commission. Appalachian identification was determined by asking participants "Do you consider yourself to be an Appalachian?" Responses were classified as yes or no. Findings The correspondence between Appalachian status and Appalachian identification presented in Table 1 suggests that Appalachia as identified by the Appalachian Regional Commission is probably close to the broadest definition of the region that is possible. Only 1% of the people without a background in the region believed they were Appalachian and only a minority of those from the region identified themselves as such. Remembering that the Appalachian Regional Commission was created by a political coalition which had to secure sufficient support in Congress to pass necessary legislation, it is possible that areas not actually part of the region were included in exchange for political support. If this is so then a more restrictive definition of the region should show higher rates of identification among Appalachians. We will return to this possibility later in the paper. Table 1: Percentage of Appalachian Identifiers by Appalachian Status Percent Appalachian Identifiers Non- Appalachian 158 1% Appalachian N 18% Appalachian Status 372 Table 1 may also be interpreted to show that for a substantial number of first and second generation Appalachian migrants, identification of themselves as an Appalachian continues to occur. Although 18% is only a minority of the possible identifiers, that percentage translates to over 35,000 Appalachian people living in Hamilton County, based upon an estimated 200,000 Appalachian population. The comparison of Appalachian identifiers and non-identifiers shown in Table 2 should be interpreted as only suggestive of the differences between the two groups. The actual number of white Appalachians who identified themselves as Appalachians was only 24. * The means and percentages based upon this group are subject to wide sampling variability. The conclusions made can therefore be only tentative. The variables on which Appalachian identifiers and non-identifiers are compared are in no way definitive. Other variables might show yet greater differences. However, these variables reveal some unexpected findings. 11 �Appalachian identifiers are as likely to be black as are Appalachians who do not identify themselves as such. This finding was unexpected in light of other findings that the experiences of black Appalachian migrants are more similar to other blacks than to white Appalachians (Philliber and Obermiller, 1982). It may be that blacks are especially conscious of minority group memberships and therefore recognize their Appalachian status. However, we have no evidence that blacks and whites act together as a single group. Table 2: Differences Between Appalachian Identifiers and Non-Identifiers Identifiers Non-Identifiers 14% 17% (28) Percent black N (130) Mean years in Cincinnati area* N 21 28 (24) (104) Mean age* N 46 41 (24) (108) Percent first generation* N 88% 53% (24) (106) Mean years of education* N 10.6 (24) 11.0 (108) Percent manual workers* N 75% 66% (16) (65) Percent living in inner-city* 25% 40% (24) (108) N Percent fundamentalist* N 48% 36% (23) (105) Percent male* N 58% 41% (24) (108) Percent Southern Appalachian* N 83% 87% (24) (108) *Whites only. Appalachian identifiers are older in years but more recent in migration than are Appalachian non-identifiers. The average age of persons who identified themselves as Appalachians was 46 compared to the age of 41 for non-identifiers. They had lived in the Cincinnati area an average of 21 years compared to 28 for non-identifiers. These findings suggest that many Appalachians are assimilating into the Cincinnati area over time. Older persons who have been in Cincinnati fewer years perhaps had more established ties in Appalachia. Younger people, many of whom were born 12 �in Cincinnati, lost those ties. Although in the competition for goods and services they may be seen by others as Appalachians and treated as such, they no longer identify themselves in that manner. Appalachian identifiers have slightly lower socio-economic attainments than non-identifiers. Seventy-five percent are manual workers with an average education of 10.6 years compared to 66% of manual workers among non-identifiers with an average education of 11.0 years. Very few Appalachians in this survey were found among non-manual workers or people with more than a high school education. That lack of variation in the population makes only limited differences possible between identifiers and non-identifiers. On the other hand, the fact that some difference does exist is consistent with the expectation that ethnic group formation is stronger among non-middle class people. Fewer Appalachian identifiers than non-identifiers lived in the inner-city of Cincinnati—25% compared to 40%. It is often assumed that when people move out of the inner-city neighborhoods which served as gateways to the suburds they are assimilating into the local area. Such is not the case, at least among Appalachians. Instead the data suggest that Appalachians living in the suburbs are still living in Appalachian neighborhoods (Philliber, 1981a). They do not move at random but instead locate in neighborhoods where other Appalachians are found. That factor may be an important step in the emergence of Appalachian identification among migrants. An important factor in ethnic group formation is the presence of institutions which serve the group in question and facilitate interaction between persons. Churches often play such a role. The largest percentage of Appalachians are found in fundamentalist churches such as Pentecostal or Baptist while the native population is most frequently Catholic. Appalachian identifiers are more often found in these churches than are non-identifiers—48% compared to 36%. These churches may well be havens where Appalachians gather to share stories of the region or pactice customs not familiar to others, such as pot luck dinners. One of the major differences between identifiers and non-identifiers is that the majority (58%) of the identifiers are male while only a minority of the non-identifiers are (41%). This difference may in fact make more sense than one would imagine. Many women in Appalachian migrant families do not work outside the home. The men who do work outside the home come in contact with non-Appalachians more often where they may be the target of jokes, stereotypes, and sometimes plain discrimination. These experiences may have made them more sensitive to the fact that they are Appalachian. Finally, Appalachian identifiers are no more likely than non-identifiers to have come from Southern Appalachia. People who came from the Appalachian portions of Ohio, Pennsylvania, and New York are as likely as Southern Appalachians to identify themselves as Appalachians. Three interpretations are possible. First, almost all the Appalachians in this study were from Southern Appalachia. If every Appalachian identifier in this study was from Southern Appalachia, 83% of the non-identifiers would also be, given the marginals in these data. It may not be possible to observe the effects of region given the data. Second, whereas people living in the Appalachian portions of Ohio, Pennsylvania, and New York may not think of themselves as Appalachians, upon migrating out of the region they may be grouped by others as Appalachians and treated as such. Such treatment may produce an Appalachian identification. Third, it may be that portions of these states really are part of the region and scholars have simply been slow to recognize it. 13 �Conclusions Two different conclusions emerge from these findings—one supportive of assimilation, the other of ethnogenesis. That assimilation of Appalachians is occurring is supported by findings that younger Appalachians who were born in Cincinnati or have lived there for a long time do not see themselves as Appalachians. Appalachian identification is stronger among people born in Appalachia who have lived fewer years outside of the region. This is perfectly consistent with the notion that a "melting pot" effect occurs over time. Other findings, however, are more consistent with an ethnogenesis argument. Appalachian identification is stronger among lower socioeconomic males who participate in fundamentalist churches. Migration to the suburbs is also associated with stronger identification, instead of an indication of assimilation. All this is consistent with the argument that ethnic groups in urban areas are formed as a reaction to discrimination designed to eliminate them from competition for rewards within the system. The development of ethnic identification is the last step in this process. Whether Appalachians will form a strong urban ethnic group or assimilate into the dominant society perhaps will best be answered by the third generation, many of whom are now born and will soon take roles as adults in society. Footnotes 'Blacks were excluded from analysis because of the high correlation between race and many of the other variables. References Campbell, Angus, Philip E. Converse, Warren E. Miller, and Donald E. Stokes 1964 The American Voter: An Abridgement. New York: John Wiley & Sons McCoy, Clyde B. and Virginia McCoy Watkins 1981 "Stereotypes of Appalachians in urban areas." Pp. 20-31 in The Invisible Minority William W. Philliber and Clyde B. McCoy (eds.) Lexington: The University Press of Kentucky. Miller, Tommie R. 1978 Urban Appalachian ethnic identity: the current situation." Pp. 243-52 in Perspectwes-on Urban Appalachians Steven Weiland and Phillip J. Obermiller (eds.) Cincinnati: Ohio Urban Appalachian Awareness Project. Obermiller, Phillip J. 1982 Labeling Urban Appalachians: The Role of Stereotypes in the Formation of Ethnic Group Identity. Unpublished dissertation Union Graduate School. Philliber, William W. 1981a Appalachian Migrants in Urban America. New York: Praeger 1981b "Accounting for the occupational placements of Appalachian migrants." Pp. 154-62 in The Invisible Minori- 'y William W. Philliber and Clude B. McCoy (eds.) Lexington; The University Press of Kentucky. Philliber, William W. and Phillip J. Obermiller 1982 "Black Appalachian migrants: the issue of dual minority status" Pp. 47-53 in Critical Essays in Apapalchian Life and Culture Rick Simon (ed.) Boone, N.C.: Appalachian Consortium Press. Singer, L. 1962 "Ethnogenesis and Negro Americans today." Social Research, 29 (Winter): 242-55. Sudman, Seymour 1966 "Probability sampling with quotas." journal of the American Statistical Association, 61 (September): 49-1. 14 �Ethnic Conflict in an Appalachian Craft Cooperative: On the Application of Structural Ethnicity to Mountaineers and Outsiders Susan Emley Keefe The question of ethnicity in Appalachia has been raised by a number of researchers with inconsistent results. Some authors argue Appalachian people are not a unique subculture (Billings 1974; Fisher 1978; Ford 1962), while others believe mountaineers either have a distinctive culture (Jones 1978; Pearsall 1966) or in any case form an identifiable group exploited by the larger society (Batteau 1980; Lewis et al. 1978). Part of the problem lies in the racial and historical heritage of Appalachians, who are predominantly of white Anglo-Saxon and Scotch-Irish extraction and descendants of early American pioneers who settled the area in the 18th and 19th centuries. To many researchers, this makes them fundamentally "American" (Miller 1978; Whisnant 1976). Considering the complexity of the debate, we must begin with an examination of the concept of ethnicity. Scholars have come to no agreement on the meaning of the term (see Isajiw 1974). There appear to be at least three standard approaches to the concept of ethnicity: structural, cultural, and symbolic. The structural aspect of ethnicity refers to the boundedness and opposition of groups within the larger society. Cultural ethnicity is based on a distinctive pattern of cultural traits shared by members of a group Lastly, the symbolic approach to ethnicity puts emphasis on ethnic identification and pride. For some researchers, any one of these three aspects is sufficient for the identification of an ethnic group. For example, Glazer and Moynihan (1963) find the five ethnic groups they studied in New York City have little cultural distinctiveness but, rather, survive structurally as groups due to their action as political interest groups (see also Earth 1969; Leach 1954). Taking a symbolic perspective, Edward Spicer (1980) concludes that despite the loss of traditional cultura, ethnic groups endure because they adopt symbols of cultural difference and continue to perceive themselves as unique. Most scholars, however, believe ethnicity is a multidimensional phenomenon and find the interaction of two or more dimensions contribute to the formation and persistence of ethnic groups (e.g. Despres 1975; Keyes 1976). It is the purpose of this paper to develop the notion of structural ethnicity with respect to Appalachian natives. According to the distinction made above, the structural approach emphasizes conflict and the competition for scarce resources as the basis for ethnicity. The larger society is subdivided into ethnic groups which are defined by social boundaries—social interaction being primarily intra-ethnic. The ethnic groups support their own social, economic, and political institutions and form separate ethnic communities. The ethnic groups are stratified and differ in their relative accumulation of wealth, status, and power. Minority ethnic groups are discriminated against and ex- 15 �ploited by the majority group. Members of ethnic groups generally perceive the presence of different ethnic groups within the society and these perceptions are generally associated with identification with one group, prejudice toward other groups, the emergence of stereotypes and derogatory labels, and (among minority ethnic groups) the perception of discrimination by and feelings of inferiority in comparison to the dominant group. Finally, from the structural perspective, an ethnic group comes together to act as a political interest group in the larger society and thus comes into conflict with other groups over political goals, issues, and leadership positions. The Context: An Appalachian Craft Cooperative The empirical context for the investigation of Appalachian ethnicity was the study of a handicraft cooperative in the mountains of western North Carolina. At the request of the new manager of the co-op who required a better understanding of the large and diverse membership in order to better meet members' needs, the author undertook a membership survey and supervised personal interviews with members.1 The survey questionnaire was mailed to all 370 dues-paying members in March, 1982, and 172 were returned. The return rate of 46% is fairly high for mailed questionnaires. A comparison of craft production and residence data from the returned questionnaires with that from the membership cards on file at the co-op indicates the survey respondents are very representative of the membership as a whole. In addition, the manager and 13 members of the co-op were interviewed, including five members of the Board of Directors. Several Board meetings and membership gatherings were also attended. The co-op was first established by a federal Community Action Program (CAP) agency in an effort to help low-income residents in a four-county area. In 1964-65, shortly after its formation, the local CAP agency decided to encourage craftmaking as a means to supplement the income of poor mountain families. As Woods (1972) points out, a crafts program is well suited to Appalachian peoples' needs because: (1) the crafts can be made at home, allowing participation despite isolation or household and child care responsibilities, (2) the crafts can be made in spare time and need not interfere with a regular job, (3) those crafts made from natural materials require little or no capital investment, and (4) craftmaking takes advantage of already existing skills and creative knowledge. Skills such as sewing, quilting, and wood working are traditional to the Appalachian region and uniquely qualify the native people for craft production. At the same time, however, it is recognized that the production of traditional craft items such as wood-carved toys and rag dolls yields relatively small profits. But even the minimal supplementary income provided by craftmaking can be vital to those in poverty. As one low-income member put it, "If you can't make big money, I say make little money." The crafts program was successful, and in 1968, with the help of a grant from OEO, a nonprofit craft cooperative was established. The development of the co-op was far from unique. Cooperatives have often been advocated as a means of economic development, especially in rural areas (Counts 1966; Kuhm 1974), and co-ops emerged as an important means of organizing the poor during the social reforms of the 1960s (Marshall and Godwin 1971). Members join the co-op by purchasing one share for 10 dollars. This ensures membership control of the co-op. A Board of Directors is elected by the membership to set policy, and the co-op employs a manager to supervise craft production and sales. Crafts are marketed in three ways: (1) at two craft stores operated by the co-op, (2) during two craft fairs sponsored by the co-op, and (3) through wholesale distribution from a co-op warehouse. Members sell their own crafts from in16 �dividual booths at the craft fairs. Members receive immediate payment from the co-op for craft items accepted by the stores and the warehouse. Payment for crafts sold in the stores is 50% of the retail price. Despite what seems like an excessive number of members for a successful cooperative, the co-op has always had a large membership. In the year before incorporation, 480 craftspeople in four counties participated in the crafts program. After incorporation, craft classes sponsored by the CAP agency continued to bring in new members. By 1970, there were 6-800 craftspeople in the co-op. In the early 1970s membership also expanded geographically to include several adjacent counties. By 1982, membership had climbed to over 1,200. However, two-thirds of these had failed to pay their dues and were eventually dropped from the co-op by the Board in May, 1982, leaving a participating membership of around 400 craftmakers. Sales climbed as the co-op grew, going from $24,000 in the years before incorporation to $281,000 in 1981-82. Financial problems, however, now plague the organization which has run in the red for the past three years. Over-expansion appears to be a major problem. Due to the inability to meet operating costs, the co-op renegotiated their mortage in 1980 on the craft store they own and got a loan. Then the organization found it difficult to meet the higher loan payments in addition to their operating costs, and while the co-op managed to keep their mortgage payment current, payments to members for finished crafts were delayed. In 1981, the co-op obtained another loan from the North Carolina Rural Development Fund to cover expenses. Although the financial problems have developed primarily as a result of internal factors, the economic recession beginning in 1980 contributed to the recent precipitous financial state. Craft sales have declined and craft cooperatives everywhere are feeling the crunch. In addition, however, the co-op has suffered at one time or another from all of the difficulties enumerated by Arnold (1977) as common to cooperatives for low-income people: undercapitalization, inefficient management, marketing difficulties, insufficient volume due to inadequate membership participation, and poor record keeping. As co-op membership grew in the 1970s, it also diversified. Low-income status was not established as a requirement for joining the co-op, and members came to include more highly educated, middle-income people and professionally-trained, contemporary craftmakers. These new members are not Appalachian natives for the most part and have been attracted to the mountains by the life-style, aesthetic environment, and the area's reputation for craftmaking. Because the co-op has unrestricted membership, many of these new members do not even reside in the mountains but have merely joined the co-op as another means of seasonally marketing their crafts. Conflict has emerged in the last few years between the Appalachian natives and the newcomers provoked by the critical financial problems, competition for leadership, and the growing realization that the two subgroups have different values, needs, and participation styles. The development of co-op conflict based on a division into similar subgroups is evidently not unknown in Appalachia. For example, Wright reports: The Southern Highlands Handicrafts Guild was organized in the early 1930s to promote and market the handicrafts of the mountain people, and few would disclaim its indispensable role. In recent years a new kind of craftsman has come upon the scene—contemporary in feeling, often college educated, fineart oriented, aggressive, and less provincial. Contemporary craftsmen have taken an expanding role in the Guild, and some of the traditional craftsmen feel it has been at their expense. (1982:2) Internal conflict threatens the very basis for voluntary organization of co-operatives which is why 17 �specialists urge co-ops to maintain culturally homogeneous memberships (Marshall and Godwin 1971). It was the emergence of internal conflict in conjunction with the financial problems which prompted the co-op to seek the help of outside consultants and, eventually, the author. Ethnic Division Within the Co-op The perception of two different subgroups within the co-op has not escaped many of the members and leaders of the organization. The terms used to distinguish the two groups vary but generally they imply different cultural or geographic origins (e.g. "mountain people" or "locals" vs. "outsiders"; "locals" vs. "regionals"), different craft training (e.g. "folk" or "traditional craftsmen" vs. "professionals"; "indigenous craftsmen" vs. "trained, contemporary craftsmen") or a different approach to craft production or marketing (e.g. "craft workers" vs. "craft producers"; "wholesale people" vs. "craft fair people"), Despite the different terms used, the opposing groups which are perceived in fact amount to a distinction between native-born Appalachians and people born outside the region (referred to here as non-Appalachians). 2 The co-op membership is about equally divided between the two groups. Many of the characteristics referred to in the various terms cited above appear to be based on fact. For example, according to the survey data, most of the Appalachian members (77%) were born in the mountains of North Carolina. Another 14% were born in the nearby mountains of Virginia and Tennessee. In a true sense, then, they are "locals." The majority of non-Appalachians were born outside the south (58%) or outside the United States (8%). The label "outsider," therefore, is also relatively accurate. Moreover, over one-third of the non-Appalachian members currently live outside the Appalachian region (36% vs. 4%), and most of these do not even seasonally reside in Appalachia. Only 47% of the non-Appalachians live in the mountains of North Carolina as compared to 82% of the Appalachian natives. In fact, 68% of the Appalachian natives live in the original four CAP counties versus only 26% of the non-Appalachians. The nonAppalachians who reside in the Appalachian region are relative newcomers as well. They have lived in Appalachia an average of 13 years; one-half have lived here less than 10 years. Again, the labels "local" and "outsider" appear to be based to a great extent on actual background characteristics. Differences in craft production and training are also supported by the survey data. Appalachianborn members primarily (71%) make soft goods (e.g. dolls, stuffed animals, bonnets, etc.), quilts, canopies, and natural material crafts (the "traditional" crafts). Another 11% make wood crafts, many of which can be considered traditional. On the other hand, only 19% of the nonAppalachians make crafts in the four traditional categories. Half the non-Appalachians make crafts of wood or pottery. Only non-Appalachians produce metal or glass crafts and candles, while only Appalachians make canopies. Both groups often claim to be self-taught in their craft, but, in addition, non-Appalachians frequently have learned their craft from a teacher/professor, while Appalachians more often were taught by a relative, friend, or craft class instructor. Furthermore, the majority of non-Appalachians are likely to produce crafts year-round (51%) and to devote more than 30 hours per week to craftmaking (59%) while Appalachians are more likely to produce crafts part-time (61% devote less than 30 hours per week to crafts) and seasonally (64%), especially during the fall and/or winter. The approach to craft marketing also varies by subgroup. Almost all non-Appalachians have a diversified marketing approach and sell their crafts in additional ways outside the co-op: the majority sell through craft fairs and retail stores, and at least one-third sell to other co-ops or out of their home/studio. The majority of non-Appalachians (59%) belong to other craft organizations 18 �generally for the purpose of expanding their market. Within the co-op, the non-Appalachians are most likely to have sold crafts through the co-op stores (63%) and/or the co-op sponsored craft fairs (48%) rather than through the warehouse. The Appalachians, on the other hand, are more likely to be dependent specifically on the co-op for marketing their crafts. Most Appalachians (77%) do not belong to other craft organizations. Although two-thirds of the Appalachians also sell their crafts outside the co-op, this is most likely to be out of their own home or through local craft fairs. Appalachians put more time than nonAppalachians into working specifically for the co-op. For example, one-quarter of the Appalachians put more than 30 hours per week into making crafts just for the co-op compared to only 3% of the non-Appalachians. Furthermore, although non-Appalachians claim more income from total craft sales, the Appalachians receive a greater proportion of their income from sales through the co-op; 21% of the Appalachian members report one-fourth or more of their income is from the co-op compared to 9% of the non-Appalachians. Finally, the Appalachians (59%) most commonly sell their crafts through the co-op warehouse, which primarily markets traditional crafts. The survey data also bear out the existence of significant socioeconomic differences between the two groups. Appalachians are less likely to be employed in outside jobs (18% vs. 24%) and are less likely to have white-collar occupations (50% vs. 82% of those employed). Almost half the Appalachians (46%) are low income making less than $8,000 per year compared to 22% of the nonAppalachians. 5 The Appalachians are less educated; 40% have only eight years of schooling or less compared to 3% of the non-Appalachians. On the other hand, 51% of the non-Appalachians have college degrees versus only 13% of the Appalachians. Thus, the stratification within the co-op is not unlike the socioeconomic differences between Appalachians and mainstream Americans in the larger society. There is evidence of ethnic political leadership stratification within the co-op as well. The current manager and the President of the Board of Directors are both from outside Appalachia. In fact, both moved to the local area in the last five years. Only one of the current Board members is a native Appalachian. This appears to be a recent development to some extent, and it should be noted that the current Board and the manager have worked hard to encourage the participation of locals. The recent reticence of mountaineers to participate in leadership roles seems to be related to the organization's problems of the last few years. As one informant put it: When we hired our previous manager, we figured he was a good mix of business and crafts. But while he was manager, the co-op lost over $60,000 in the wholesale warehouse business. The mood on the Board became 'Since the wholesale isn't profitable, let's get rid of it.' That was when it started to break up into sides: the wholesale people versus the craft fair people—When we had all that trouble with the wholesale part of the co-op, the locals didn't know what to do to fix it, and the professionals didn't really care. At this time, the co-op solicited the services of an outside consultant, a specialist in business management. Based on an analysis of the co-op's financial statements and interviews with the President of the Board of Directors and the manager, the consultant made several recommendations beginning with the following: The major recommendation is to close the wholesale operation—this is a total drain on your cash flow due to its continuing loss position for the foreseeable future. This formal threat to the mainstay of the mountain people's participation in the co-op further antagonized these members. But perhaps more crucial to the growing political division and the mobilization of the locals on their own behalf was the failure of the past manager to pay members 19 �for crafts on delivery. Since more crafts bought by the co-op were for wholesale through the warehouse, this primarily affected the mountaineers. The amounts due traditional craftmakers increased as the co-op's financial status continued to decline while warehouse orders remained in force. The craftmakers, many of whom it will be recalled make less than $8,000 per year, were forced to continue buying materials to make their crafts without any financial return for months. For example, the co-op owed one quiltmaker $1800 for over five months before reimbursement. It was the lack of payment for crafts that prompted a group of mountain people to seek legal services and negotiation with the co-op leadership. One result was the termination of the manager—an action causing considerable internal conflict because many Board members liked him personally. The new manager, hired shortly thereafter, set about paying members immediately for all crafts bought by the co-op in the past and has returned to the policy of direct payment for crafts upon delivery. Due to the events of the last few years, most active co-op members recognize the two factions in the organization. The stereotypes portrayed in the remarks of a non-Appalachian informant seem in many ways to reflect the real situation: There are bitter feelings, especially by the locals against the professionals. The people who come from Pennsylvania and elsewhere to participate in the craft fairs to market their items are an entirely different type of people from the little old lady making rag dolls from scraps of material in her house in the backwoods. This causes trouble with representation on the Board. Each group wants to have more representation, voices, and power than the other. Moreover, active members tend to identify with one of the two groups and often express prejudice and even outright hostility towards the other group. For example, one member commented: Yes, I see a difference between the local people and members who are not from around here, especially the people who are from places like New York. They think they know it all. Those people think they know everything about making crafts. I really don't know from who or how they learned craftmaking, but they seem to take away from traditional local crafts. Also, they try to run the organization. It seems to me that they think they know how a fair is supposed to run. It is perhaps significant that this member chose to label outsiders as people "from places like New York" when none of the co-op members currently reside in New York (although a few were born there). Instead, "New York" is used to identify an alien place which has little in common with the people and culture of Appalachia. At a co-op meeting where the author's research findings were presented, mention of the division between the two groups caused much discussion. One woman, a middle-income mountaineer, broke in with an emotional story of a conversation she had had with neighbors who said they had heard the warehouse was having trouble filling its orders: They said this was because the old codgers back in the hills were too lazy to work! It made me so mad! I don't mind outsiders, but I think they are taking over the organization which was started for mountain people. We need to limit the membership some and make sure our people get represented. Other mountaineers have suggested similar measures. Some have suggested limiting membership to the immediate geographic area. In countering the consultant's suggestion, some wholesale people have recommended eliminating the co-op's craft fairs to help solve the financial problems. Special anger has been expressed against members who are also in other "competing" co-ops (and who, as described above, are primarily non-Appalachians). One informant complained in particular 20 �about another local co-op which was created years ago by college-educated, contemporary craftmakers who were also members of this co-op: They stole the idea for a co-op from us and now they are also taking over our Board. In fact, three current Board members are members of the other cooperative, and in the course of revising the bylaws in 1982, the co-op established a new rule which does not allow Board members to belong to other craft cooperatives. While current problems have exacerbated competition between the two groups, many informants see the need to ensure that both traditional and contemporary crafts continue to be marketed by the co-op. The need to maintain traditional crafts is cited not only to adhere to the original purpose of helping low-income people and to aid in the survival of traditional crafts, but also because of the drawing-card of folk handicrafts in marketing. In order to maintain production of the traditional crafts, on the other hand, these members also recognize the need to offer training in marketing and business skills especially for low-income members. The professional crafts people, of course, would be well qualified to lead workshops in these areas. One informant commented on the importance of better incorporating the traditional craftmaker into the organization: The co-op has changed to a focus on trained craftsmen. This is a problem. The trained people dominate the others. It isn't good. The indigenous craftspeople are very necessary to the organization. The contemporary craftspeople don't realize that they need the indigenous craftspeople. The indigenous craftspeople are the pull. Without them, the co-op would be like any other craft store in the world. Although it was not specifically the focus of this study, there is some evidence to suggest that important cultural differences characterize the two groups. Sex roles differ, for example, both as general cultural concepts and within the organization. Whereas non-Appalachian co-op members are about equally divided by sex, the vast majority of Appalachian members are women (86%). It is difficult to determine why Appalachian men are less likely to join the co-op. It could be that they are less likely to make crafts or to see craftmaking as a viable occupation and potential source of income, or perhaps they are less likely to join voluntary organizations. In any case, they are not well represented in the co-op. Researchers have suggested sex roles are separate and distinctive in Appalachia and that women are not likely to take on formal leadership roles (Beaver 1979; Hicks 1976). One informant pointed out the way in which this affects co-op politics: Mountain people won't say much at the meetings, especially the women. They think it's the men's decision and they're not supposed to overrule. Most local, mountain women don't like the current manager because they think she's a "bossy woman." She says what she thinks at the meetings. And it doesn't help to have a female President of the Board either. She's seen as being outside, a Women's Lib woman, and bossy—which is still very disliked here in the mountains. When the Board elected her President, the vote was four to three, outsiders versus locals. The preference for male leadership among the Appalachian members makes their political mobilization more difficult due to the small proportion of Appalachian men in the co-op. On the other hand, it is apparent that Appalachian women do become involved politically. For example, the group which sought legal services resulting in the ouster of the previous manager was made up of mountain women. Another cultural difference between the two groups has to do with age roles. The Appalachian members tend to be older than the non-Appalachians (54 vs. 47 mean years of age). There is a comparatively large group of young non-Appalachians under the age of 36 (347o vs. 13%) and a com21 �paratively large group of older Appalachians over the age of 64 (31% vs. 16%). Elderly widows make up 11% of the membership and almost all are Appalachian women. According to the data from this organization, craftmaking for income is done primarily by older people among mountaineers and by younger people among non-Appalachians. Many of the young non-Appalachian craftmakers have come out of the counter-culture movement and see craftmaking as a way to combine expressive and creative art with relative occupational freedom, an informal lifestyle, and profitmaking. Young mountaineers, on the other hand, frequently see craftmaking as "old fashioned" and, to some extent, symbolic of the poverty of the region. Of courser-the traditional crafts with which mountaineers are most familiar are not very profitable and could only serve as a source of supplemental income. Those craftspeople most likely to be able to live off their income are potters (Neapolitan and Ethridge 1982) and most potters in the co-op are non-Appalachians. A final cultural difference concerns the value of cooperation and avoidance of conflict which is more characteristic of mountaineers. Several ethnographers have remarked on the egalitarian nature of mountain people (Hicks 1976; Pearsall 1959), and Ross (1977) emphasizes the importance of the "communal" trait in contributing to the success of the Kentucky Hills craft cooperative, whose membership is exclusively native mountain people. Several informants perceived a difference between the two groups in the co-op with respect to participation styles. The non-Appalachian, contemporary craftspeople are perceived as more self-serving and less committed to the co-op as a whole. As one informant said, "The professionals aren't as used to the reciprocity of a co-op. They're more capitalist." The mountaineers, in comparison, are perceived as more group-oriented. In the words of a second informant, "There was and still is more cooperation and loyalty to the coop among mountain people." This informant goes on to contrast the more competitive decisionmaking style of the outsiders with the more collective orientation of mountaineers: You have to understand local, mountain people. They won't say anything one way or the other at meetings, until it's too late...When we had all that trouble with the wholesale part of the co-op, the profesionals would fight for their position and the locals wouldn't. It just wasn't and isn't their way. Now it's difficult to get locals to serve on the Board. Many have resigned in the past two years. They get frustrated, give up, and quit with bad feelings. The survey data supports this difference in collective orientation between the two groups. The Appalachian members are much more positive about the benefits of the co-op (e.g. income, craft market, craft training, etc.) and they are less likely to be critical of the co-op. Only 45% of the Appalachians listed a criticism compared to 59% of the non-Appalachians. This is especially interesting considering the fact that Appalachians selling to the wholesale warehouse were the members most directly affected by the recent mismanagement. Of course, many of these members may have since dropped out of the organization or for some other reason not answered the questionnaire. Nevertheless, the fact remains that for the most part the mountain people continued to sell to the warehouse despite the lack of payment while the contemporary craftmakers stopped selling to the co-op immediately. Conclusions As Ronald Cohen (1978) has pointed out, ethnicity emerges when cultural groups come into contact and there is the potential for conflict over resources. Researchers in Appalachian studies have frequently referred to Appalachian migrants in northern cities as an ethnic minority group (Maloney 1978; Obermiller 1977). Mountaineers who have stayed behind, on the other hand, are 22 �less commonly considered ethnics, perhaps because researchers tend to characterize the mountain population as homogeneous and isolated. Yet, tourism has been an important industry in Southern Appalachia since World War II, and the region is now an area of immigration and population growth. The popularity of the area for second homes for the wealthy also contributes to the diversity of the population. In his ethnography of a rural area in western North Carolina, for example, Hicks (1976) mentions the presence of Floridians during the summers and their resentment by the locals. Writers using the colonialism model have most frequently employed the notion of conflict between different cultural groups in Appalachia, specifically mountaineers versus outside corporations and absentee landowners (Gaventa 1980; Lewis et al. 1978). However, the concern here has been less with defining the nature of the Appalachian group and more with defining the nature of the exploitation and domination by the outside interests, particularly in the coal fields. It has been the purpose of this paper to suggest that mountaineers and outsiders who are recent immigrants interact in the mountains as separate social groups which are structurally differentiated and compete for resources. Although the case described is of a craft cooperative, this division is evident in general mountain life in the area as well. Members of these groups generally perceive each other as different and identify with a single group, identification being based on the ascribed trait of birth in the mountains as opposed to outside the mountains. The groups come into conflict as political interest groups which serves to further intensify group boundaries. It is suggested that the concept of structural ethnicity thus fits this case of mountaineers versus outsiders and that indication of cultural differences between the two ethnic groups strengthens the case for applying a general model of ethnicity to mountain people. Footnotes 'The research was conducted by the author and students in an anthropology methods class at Appalachian State University. The students included Kay Casstevens, Glenda Henderson, Wendy Jo Jackson, Carol Moeller, Linda Reed, Beverly Sizemore, and Vicki Watson. In addition, a graduate student, Deanna Dillingham, gathered information concerning the history of the co-op. Appreciation is expressed to all of these students for their dedicated and professional help in this research. 2 For the analysis of the survey data, Appalachian natives were defined as those people born in any of the counties designated as part of Central or Southern Appalachia by the Appalachian Regional Commission. This includes all of West Virginia and the mountains parts of Maryland, Virginia, Kentucky, Tennessee, North Carolina, South Carolina, Georgia, and Alabama. According to the survey data, 56% of the co-op members are Appalachian natives. 3 Of course, a large proportion of the Appalachian members might be expected to be low income given the history of the co-op, organized to help low-income mountain people. However, most of the Appalachian members surveyed joined the coop in the last 10 years after it became independent of the CAP agency. References Arnold E. Carroll 1977 Barth Fredrik 1969 "Appalachian Cooperatives: Economies of the Third Kind." Appalachia, 11:20-27, December. "Introduction." In Ethnic Groups and Boundaries, F. Barth (ed.). Boston: Little, Brown & Co. Pp. 9-38. Batteau, Allen 1980 "Appalachia and the Concept of Culture: A Theory of Shared Misunderstandings." Appalachian Journal, 1 23 �Beaver, Patricia D. 1979 "Hillbilly Women, Hillbilly Men: Sex Roles in Rural-Agricultural Appalachia." In Appalachian Women: A Learning/Teaching Guide, Sharon Lod and Carolyn Patton-Crowder (authors and editors). Washington, DC: U.S. Dept. of Health, Education and Welfare. Pp. 65-73. Billings, Dwight 1974 "Culture and Poverty in Appalachia: A Theoretical Discussion and Empirical Analysis." Social Forces, 53:315-323. Cohen, Ronald 1978 "Ethnicity: Problem and Focus in Anthropology." In Annual Review of Anthopology, Vol. 7, B.J. Siegel, A.R. Beals, and S.A. Tyler (eds.). Palo Alto, CA: Annual Reviews, Inc. Pp. 379-403. Counts, Charles 1966 Encouraging American Handicrafts: What Role in Economic Development? U.S. Economic Development Administration. Washington, DC: U.S. Government Printing Office. Despres, Leo A. 1975 "Toward A Theory of Ethnic Phenomena." In Ethnicity and Resource Competition in Plural Society, Leo A. Despres (ed.). The Hague: Mouton Publishers. Pp. 187-207. Fisher, Stephen L. 1978 "Victim-Blaming in Appalachia: Cultural Theories and the Southern Mountaineer." In Appalachia: Social Context Past and Present, Bruce Ergood and Bruce Kuhre (eds.). Dubuque, Iowa: Kendall/Hunt Publishing. Pp. 139-148. Ford, Thomas R. 1967 "The Passing of Provincialism." In The Southern Appalachian Region: A Survey, Thomas R. Ford (ed.). Lexington: Univ. of Kentucky Press. Pp. 9-34. Gaventa, John 1980 Power and Powerlessness: Quiescence and Rebellion in an Appalachian Valley. Urbana: University of Illinois Press. Glazer, Nathan and Daniel P. Moynihan 1963 Beyond the Melting Pot. Cambridge, Mass: Harvard Univ. Press. Hicks, George L. 1976 Appalachian Valley. New York: Holt, Rinehart and Winston. Isajiw, Wesvelod. W. 1974 "Definitions of Ethnicity. Ethnicity, 1:3-25. Jones, Loyal 1978 "Appalachian Values." In Appalachia: Social Context Past and Present, Bruce Ergood and Bruce Kuhre (eds.). Dubuque, Iowa: Kendall/Hunt Publishing. P. 101-105. Keyes, Charles F. 1976 "Towards a New Formulation of the Concept of Ethnic Groups." Ethnicity, 3:202-213. Kuhn, Johannes 1974 "The Role of Cooperatives in LDC's." Intereconomics, 4:116-119. Leach, Edmund R. 1954 Political Systems of Highland Burma: A Study of Kachin Social Structure. Boston: Beacon Press. Lewis, Helen Matthews, Linda Johnson, and Donald Askins (eds.). 1978 Colonialism in Modem America: The Appalachian Case. Boone, NC: The Appalachian Consortium Press. 24 �Lewis, Helen, Sue Kobak, and Linda Johnson 1978 "Family, Religion and Colonialism in Central Appalachia." In Colonialism in Modern America: The Appalachian Case, Helen Lewis, Linda Johnson and Donald Askins (eds.). Boone: Appalachian Consortium Press. Pp. 113-139. Maloney, Michael E. 1978 "The Implications of Appalachian Culture for Social Welfare Practice." In Perspectives on Urban Appalachians, Steve Weihand and Phillip Obermiller (eds.). Cincinnati, Ohio: Ohio Urban Appalachian Awareness Project. Pp. 253-259. Marshall, Ray and Lamond Godwin 1971 Cooperatives and Rural Poverty in the South. Baltimore: Johns Hopkins Press. Miller, Jim Wayne 1978b "Appalachian Values/American Values, Part IV." Appalachian Heritage, 6(3):23-34. Neapolitan, Jerry and Maurice Ethridge 1982 "Self-Perception in Terms of Professionalism and Skill Leads to Concept of Craftworker and/or Artist." The Crafts Report, 8(80): 13, May. Obermiller, Phillip J. 1977 "Appalachians as an Urban Ethnic Group: Romanticism, Renaissance or Revolution?" Appalachian Journal, 5. Pearsall, Marion 1959 Little Smokey Ridge: The Natural History of a Southern Appalachian Neighborhood. Tuscaloosa, AL: Univ. of Alabama Press. Pearsall, Marion 1966 "Communicating with the Educationally Deprived." Mountain Life and Work, 42(1):8-11. Ross, Smith 1977 Come Co With Me. Pine Knot, KY: Kentucky Hills Ind. Spicer, Edward H. 1980 The Yaquis: A Cultural History. Tucson: Univ. of Arizona Press. Whisnant, David E. 1976 "Brief Notes Toward a Reconsideration of Appalachian Values." Appalachian Journal, 4:46-48. Woods, Ernie 1972 "A Kentucky Group Learns to Design and Market Its Crafts." Appalachia, 5:27-30. Wright, W.B. 1982 "The State We're In." The State: Down Home in North Carolina, 49(11):2. 25 �A Preliminary Look at the Welsh Component of Celtic Influence in Appalachia Loyal Jones I have long been interested in the number of Welsh surnames in the Appalachian region and the fact that historians have paid scant attention to the Welsh as a distinctive group or have included them with the English. About 40 percent of the people in Wales have the names of Edwards, Evans, James, Jones, Lewis, Morgan, Morris, Phillips, Price, Roberts, Thomas and Williams. 1 Edward Hartmann claims that 39 Welsh names and their variant spellings include about 95 percent of all of the Welsh (including additionally such names as Richards, Owen, Davis, Hughes, Howell, Jenkins, Evans, Harris, Pritchard, Powell and Vaughn) names common in the region. Forrest and Ellen McDonald have shown through studies of surnames in the 1790 census that, contrary to earlier ethnic projections, the Celts (Welsh, Scots, Irish, Scotch-Irish) made up a large percent of the population in the colonies that border on the Appalachians: Pennsylvania, 42.8; Maryland, 38.7; Virginia, 41.7; North Carolina, 52.5; and South Carolina, 53.4. When Germans and other non-English are added, the English were a minority in each of these colonies.2 Celtic culture was not English culture. AsJ.G.A. Pocock put it, "The Celtic peoples are no more English than Britain is European." 3 Yet scores of romantics have written for years about the "Elizabethan" culture that is preserved in the mountains of Appalachia. Of the Celts, the Scotch-Irish have gotten the most attention, partially because they had two strong writers, Ford and Hanna, 4 to argue their case. The Welsh have had no writers of similar rank, and thus the Welsh have been a largely-ignored minority. The purpose of this paper is to argue that this was a mistake and that the Welsh had considerable influence in Appalachia as they did throughout America. Numerically, the Welsh were the smallest of the Celtic groups, making up the following percentages in the 1790 census; Pennsylvania, 5.9; Maryland, 7.1; Virginia, 9.5; North Carolina, 11.6; and South Carolina, 8.8. The numbers of Welsh heads of families projected were: Pennsylvania, 4,482; Maryland, 2,662; Virginia, 3,577; North Carolina, 5,942; and South Carolina, 2,215.5 Because of their relatively low numbers in the 1790 census, it is necessary to argue that there were later Welsh immigrants and that there was a Welsh distinctiveness that was influential. Wales lost its independence in 1282 when Kind Edward I of England killed the last Welsh prince, Llywelyn ap Gruffydd, and installed his own son as Prince of Wales. Yet Edward had to build a string of castles throughout Wales to assert English authority in the small mountainous country. Jan Morris wrote in an article in the New York Times Magazine: Yet despite centuries of subjugation by the English, Wales has somehow managed to retain its own identity—recognizably a different nation, honoring different values, cherishing different styles, even possessing a dif- 26 �ferent language, from its overwhelmingly English neighbor. It is a classic example—perhaps the classic example—of a small country defying all the odds of history, geography, economics, sociology, and cultural pressure to retain a sense of itself.6 The Welsh resisted with arms from time to time. In 1400 they rose under the leadership of Owain Glyn Dwr, and life in Wales was disrupted for years before they were brutally put down.7 With the Protestant Reformation, religious dissenter groups began to appear in Wales, some meeting clandestinely in remote vales. With such groups, especially the Baptists, came radical teaching, having to do with separation of church and state and religious liberty, baptism of believers (not infants), local autonomy and the scriptures as sole norm of faith and practice. People began to emigrate to the New World, usually in denominational groups. Arminian Baptists went with the Quakers to Penn's colony, and beginning in 1700, a large group of Calvinist Baptists went from south Wales to Pennsylvania. 8 David Williams describes the importance of the American connection: The late eighteenth century was a hinge of fate for the people of Wales. The first modern Welsh "Nation" was born with the American and French revolutions...It was a time of beginnings In the same period, the Welsh, by the thousand and thousand score, began their long march out of Establishment and into the spiritual world of Dissent. It is in the 1790s that this decisive change registers on the historical consciousness, in the crisis of modernization which cracked a society and a crisis of identity which created a "nation" and generated a millenarian migration to the USA.9 The "nation" Williams speaks of is the sense of Welshness which was ever in conflict with England and which several imaginative Welshmen tried to establish in the New World. Wales became a hotbed of political and religious dissent. With the beginning of the American Revolution, Richard Price published and distributed 60,000 copies of his Observations on the Nature of Civil Liberty, which argued that the American conflict was to legitimize popular sovereignty and the natural rights of man. This pamphlet was distributed in America, and the Continental Congress invited Price to advise the new republic. So popular was his Reflections on the Revolution in France that the French National Assembly went into mourning when he died in 1791.10 In 1782, David Williams, another pamphleteer, published Letters on Political Liberty which defended the Americans and advocated a radical program that included manhood suffrage, the ballot, small constituencies, annual parliaments and freedom of the press.11 Other Welshmen wrote less influential treatises on liberty. The nineteenth century brought much turmoil to those who remained in Wales. Eighty to eightyfive percent of the people became nonconformist in religion. The Rebecca riots protested toll charges for farm conveyances on public roads, and the Chartist demonstrations paved the way for labor unions. It was a time of enclosure laws, industrial penetration with attendant boom and bust, social upheaval and emigration. 12 Many Welsh believed that a countryman, Price Madoc, had discovered America in 1170 and that there were Welsh speaking Indians beyond the frontier who were either converts or descendents of Madoc and his followers. 13 Gwyn Williams explains the importance of the Madoc myth in the emigration of the Welsh to the New World: Madoc had been the catalyst for the whole process....The Madoc myth massively reinforced a sense of identity. It called out the missionary impulse so strongly rooted in Welsh Dissent....Ministers and elders were obsessed with the country, the Monongahela, Kentucky, the Ohio....It was deeper than that. For the Madoc legend was an almost perfect mythic projection of both the hopes and the predicament of the people who wished to be both Welsh and free The new Wales was to be an exemplar of univeral liberty— u 27 �In the minds of many of those who emigrated was the hope that they would link up with the Welsh-speaking North Americans and create the New Cambria (Wales), free from the restraints of England. The Baptists were the first of the Welsh to penetrate the Appalachians and influence the minds of those who were spilling into their eastern ramparts from the populations reservoirs of Pennsylvania and the Carolina Piedmont. A main purpose of this paper is to show that their influence is still apparent in the region today. The best known of the Welsh Baptist churches in America was the Pennepek church in Philadelphia, established in 1683 to become the mother of all Baptist churches in the middle colonies. Other Pennsylvania Baptist churches established by the Welsh in this early period were: Trediffron or Great Valley in 1711, the Brandywine Church in 1715, the Montgomery Church in 1719 and the Tulpohoken Church in 1738.ls The Welsh Tract in Delaware was settled by new Welsh and Pennsylvania Welsh in 1703. The Iron Hill Baptist Church of the Welsh Tract, a strongly Calvinistic one, spawned eight new Baptist churches in Delaware and Pennsylvania, and also the Welsh Neck Baptist Church in the Welsh settlement on the Peedee River in South Carolina.16 The Welsh Tract confession, from Rhydwilym, Wales, became the basis for the influential confession of the Philadelphia Association of Baptists.17 The South Carolina colony attracted the Welsh to the Welsh Neck settlement by allowing them a tract of 173,000 acres of rich land on both sides of the Peedee to be settled exclusively by the Welsh. Most of the tract, which was enlarged in 1737, was taken up mostly by Baptists from Delaware, Pennsylvania and Wales by 1746.18 The Welsh also settled in North Carolina in the 1730s along the Cape Fear Valley.19 There is no doubt that the Welsh also entered the migratory stream from eastern and western Pennsylvania, together with the Germans and Scotch-Irish, to spill into Virginia and North Carolina and eventually the rest of the Appalachians. Many immigrants from the old countries lost track of those back home, and likewise those who migrated from Pennsylvania or Deleware never communicated again with those whom they left behind. The Welsh appear distinctive in maintaining contact with one another. Partly it was the power of the church, not just Baptists, because large numbers of Welsh Anglicans, Quakers, Congregationalists and Methodists also immigrated to America. The National Library in Aberystwyth holds many collections of letters between scattered Welshmen, as does the Historical Society of Pennsylvania, containing comments on church matters, politics and economic conditions. Welsh people at home were intensely interested in the New World, and those who had come to America wanted news of their homeland and relatives. Likewise, in this country, the religious groups helped to establish churches in new areas and kept an active interest in how they were doing. North Carolina attracted Baptists and Quakers, as well as other dissenting groups because its Lord Proprietors had built religious freedom into its charter.20 The first Baptist churches in North Carolina were Arminian in belief, were loosely organized and without an adequate confession of faith. The Welsh Calvinist Baptist of the Philadelphia Association and those of Welsh Neck were concerned about the state of these churches. Robert Williams of Welsh Neck began preaching in the Kehukee Church in North Carolin, attempting to lead it back to Calvinist beliefs. He called on the Philadelphia Association for help. They sent John Gano, the eminent Calvinist Baptist, as well as others, and they won 16 General Baptist churches to Calvinism, patterned after Welsh beliefs.21 This happened just before Shubal Stearns came south preaching his Separate Baptist beliefs with in28 �cendiary effect, which turn the majority of Baptists toward the more optimistic gospel of free will and universal atonement, but there were those who have stuck to the old Calvinism of the early Welsh Baptist churches. The radical views of Baptists soon got them in trouble in the North Carolina colony. The colony's publicized toleration wore thin over the Regulator uprising of the later 1760s and early 1770s, which was concerned with regulating unjust or uneven taxes. Baptists objected to paying taxes in support of the established church. The matter came to a head in the Battle of Alamance in 1771. Governor Tryon hated Baptists, calling them "enemies to society and a scandal to common sense," and he blamed them and the Quakers for the Regulator troubles.22 He shortly arrived with a large body of troops and proceeded to hunt down or expel known Baptists. As many asl.500Baptist families fled to the Watauga country or into western North Carolina.23 Eleven of the signers of the Watauga Association document were of Welsh descent. Welsh colonists were apparent throughout the Revolutionary cause. Five signed the Declaration of Independence (although in Wales the myth was that a majority of the signers were Welsh). Some were prominent in the cause, such as: Robert Morris, "financier of the Revolution;" Generals Evan Shelby, Allen Jones, Daniel Morgan, John Cadwallader, Francis Nash; Dr. John Morgan, Physician in Chief of the Continental Army; and Revolutionary governors Button Gwinnett of Georgia (also a general) and Abner Nash of North Carolina.24 Two were commanders at Kings Mountain, Colonels Isaac Shelby (who became the first governor of Kentucky) and James Williams (killed in the battle), and at least 120 of the soldiers bore Welsh surnames.25 The fires of both the American and French Revolutions lighted political hope throughout Wales. Large numbers of Welsh people made plans to emigrate to the New World, plans often thwarted by restrictions on emigration and by Royal Navy press gangs. Nevertheless, Welshmen published tracts calling for mass emigration of Welshmen to find their destiny among Madoc's lost people and the Welsh who had helped to establish freedom in America. Kentucky and Ohio were seen as the promised land. A New Cambria seemed possible. Morgan John Rhys organized a joint stock company for establishing a community to be called Beulah. He landed in New York in 1794 and began a long scouting journey that took him through Pennsylvania, Delaware, Maryland, Virginia, North Carolina, Georgia, Tennessee, Kentucky and Virginia. His heart was set on Kentucky, but slavery repelled him, and Beulah was eventually established in western Pennsylvania. It failed for a variety of reasons. However, other less ambitious settlements were established in the hills of southeastern Ohio that prospered and retained their Welsh character into this century. The Welsh continued to immigrate into and around the Appalachians throughout the nineteenth century. Religiously, these later groups tended to be Methodist, reflecting the effect of the Methodist revivals of the preceding century. In the 1850s, Samuel Roberts, a noted preacher and writer, attempted to establish a large Welsh settlement on a purported hundred-thousand acres on the Cumberland Plateau near Huntsville, Tennessee, just south of the Kentucky line. The settlement foundered on disputed and overlapping land titles, disagreements between Roberts and the settlers over land and money and statements Roberts had made that appeared to justify Southern slaveholders, the last of which infuriated the strongly anti-slavery Welsh both in America and abroad.26 Many of the Welsh who hoped to settle in Tennessee stayed in Pennsylvania and New York or moved on to join the settlements in Ohio or those further north and west. However, some settled in Kentucky or elsewhere in Tennessee. 29 �The burgeoning coal and iron industries in the Appalachians brought skilled miners, managers and ironworkers to the region in the latter part of the century. Correspondence in the archives of the National Library of Wales gives some hint of the number of these industrial workers. Welsh miners and steel and iron workers provided needed skills in these industries. Permanent settlements resulted from their work in such places as Soddy, Chattanooga and Knoxville in Tennessee, Mason City and Hartford City in West Virginia, Birmingham and Jefferson County, Alabama, Jackson County, Ohio and Frostburg, Maryland.27 Place names elsewhere show the presence of Welsh people: Glomawr, Pembroke, Selwyn, Glen Wyn, Radnor and Nantyglo. I return now to the Baptists, because it is in the Old Regular and Primitive Baptist churches that the Welsh influence is most noticeable today. The Old Regulars are located mostly in eastern Kentucky and southwestern Virginia, although some are in neighboring states and in areas where Appalachians have migrated. Primitive Baptists are fairly common throughout the Appalachians and the South. Primitives are strict Calvinists. Old Regulars are modified Calvinists in that they do not hold with strict predestination. Both groups are traditionalistic, preach a separation from the things of the world, and guard against new beliefs and practices. Neither group uses musical instruments in worship and both brought "lining" hymnody into modern times. "Lining" a method of giving out the versus from noteless songbooks, line by line, to be sung in unison, is still the only method approved in the Old Regular churches; the Primitives, however, have gradually changed mostly to noted books, and lining is seldom used, except in black churches. Both of these churches subscribe to the "successionist" theory of Baptist history, and rely for authority on documents that show a direct lineage of people with appropriate beliefs from early times. An influential book was Joshua Thomas' History of the Baptists in Wales (1778), translated, abridged and added-to by John Davis as History of the Welsh Baptists From the Year Sixty-Three to the Year One Thousand Seven Hundred and Seventh and published in Pittsburgh in 1835. The attempt here is not to justify this theory of church history but rather to show the power of belief. Even John Edwards wrote that "the doctrine of uninterrupted succession is necessary only to such churches as regulate their faith and practice by tradition, and for their use it was first invented." Nor did the Baptists claim that there were Baptist churches earlier than the seventeenth century. Edwards explains: (A) Baptist has not the least trouble about what is called a lineal or apostoloc succession. His line of succession is in faithful men, and it is a matter of indifference with them, when or where they lived, by what name they were called, or by whom they were baptized or ordained A Baptist is one, who holds that a profession of faith, and an immersion in water are essential to baptism. 28 Just this year, an Appalachian Baptist, in discussion of Baptist history, asked me if I knew about the "Catholic Baptists." He referred, of course, to early Catholics in Wales and elsewhere who believed in baptism of adults rather than children and had other beliefs compatible with Baptist views. Regular and Primitive Baptist histories, such as Lawrence Edwards' The Baptists of Tennessee with Particular Attention to the Primitive Baptists of East Tennessee and Rufus Perrigan's History of Regular Baptists and their Ancestors and Accessors,29 refer to the influence of the Welsh. Perrigan writes: The Welsh Baptists claim that the principles of the Gospel were maintained pure and unalloyed in their mountainous principality all through the dark reign of popery. God had a regular chain of true and faithful believers in this country in every age, from the first introduction of Christianity to the present, and it was the Baptist faith. 30 30 �Perrigan also recounts that the Welsh affirm that the Apostle Paul preached in Wales in the year 68 and that Claudia, a Welsh princess, and her husband Budens were converted and baptized by Paul in Rome and that they came home to win converts. Perrigan also notes the contribution of the Welsh Baptists through their confessions of faith, especially the Philadelphia Confession which is the basis of belief for most Regular Baptist churches.31 Lawrence Edwards notes the influence of Welsh Baptists on Primitive Baptist beliefs, stating that this influence "held sway from New York to South Carolina." He believes that persecution in Virginia and the Regulator troubles, culminating in the Battle of Alamance were the chief causes of the influx of Baptists into the mountains.32 William Tallmadge writes that the practice of lining was noted and approved by the Westminster Assembly of 1644 and was transferred to the Colonies shortly thereafter. He states further that the Calvinistic Baptists were promoters of congregational singing in that period and credits a father-son team, Benjamin and Elias Keach, with furthering the practice. Elias immigrated to America about 1690 and became pastor of the predominantely Welsh Lower Dublin Church in Pennsylvania.33 Tallmadge quotes Louis Benson as believing that the promotion of singing among Baptists in the Colonies was from the Delaware Welsh Tract Baptists, whose articles of faith included an article written by the Reaches that proclaimed singing as a holy ordinance.34 It is important to note that in this period the General, or Arminian, Baptists were non-singers, and that hymn singing was in its infancy. The standard method in leading the hymns was lining them out. This method has been preserved in Regular Baptist churches as the proper, or only, way to lead singing, and such was the case also in Primitive Baptist churches until recent years. Some Primitives still hold to lining. It is part of the deep attachment to tradition. The theology of the early Welsh Calvinist is preserved practically unchanged in the Primitive Baptist churches, but has been somewhat modified by the Regular Baptists. However, among the Regulars and Primitives ordination of "called" ministers, the types of persons ordained, their relationship to the church and their preaching styles appear to be similar to those of the early WelshAmerican churches. Hartmann writes: Very few of the early Welsh-American...were college trained men. This condition remained pretty general throughout the nineteenth century. Most of the preachers were well-informed men, having obtained their knowledge through self-discipline, diligent application, and from the school of experience generally. Upon obtaining sufficient background in theology..., they presented themselves...as candidates for ordination. If accepted, they then served a period of apprenticeship—going about the country as itinerant preachers. In due time they were examined carefully by special committees If found worthy, they were then ordained....In practically every case, these clergymen had some other specialty of occupation to help support themselves....(They) worked during the week as farmers or miners...and some of them still do today." Somewhere along the way the Regulars and Primitives decided that the preacher was compromised when he accepted a living from the church, and therefore, their preachers continue to support themselves, eschewing contributions from the church. Hartmann quotes Erasmus W. Jones, a nineteenth century preacher, on the Welsh preaching style, a technique called hwyl (indescribable eloquence) by the Welsh: The effect often produced by the popular Welsh preacher is wonderful....(T)heir preaching...is usually marked by a great variety of intonations. I do not know the origin of this chanting style of preaching prevalent among the Welsh.... The judicious use of it is confined to the more passionate or pathetic parts of the sermon. It differs entirely from the monotonous tone that is heard in English churches...; it is a melody of the purest nature....The minister is never at a loss how to apply the words to the melody; they appear to 31 �ran together as by mutual attraction. The sentence is started, for instance, on E minor. The minister has his own peculiar melody. It ranges from here and there to the fifth, often reaching the octave, and then descending and ending in sweet cadence on the keynote. I am sure that in the genuine hwyl the intonations are always in the minor mode....36 Anyone comparing this statement with the preaching of Elder Russell Jacobs, of the Left Beaver Old Regular Baptist Church, Floyd County, Kentucky (who is featured in APPALSHOP's film, In the Good Old-Fashioned Way), would see a strong similarity. The lining chants, the sermons, the prayers of these modern Calvinistic churches are highly melodic and the practicioners are keenly aware of rhythm and the poetic turn of phrase. I believe that the influence of the nonconforming, religious, poetic and musical Welsh can be found in the character and practices of the Primitive and Old Regular Baptist churches in presentday Appalchia. There are other similar characteristics that one could note between Welsh and Appalachian people. Helen Lewis and John Gaventa have explored the similarities between the exploitive industrial systems of the two mountainous regions and the response of industrial workers to their situations. One purpose of this paper is to encourage additional work on the relationship between Wales and Appalachia. Footnotes 'Forrest McDonald and Ellen Shapiro McDonald, "The Ethnic Origins of the American People, 1790," William &Mary Quarterly (XXXVII, No. 2, April, 1980), pp. 179-99. 'Ibid. 'Ibid. 4 Henry Jones Ford, The Scotch-Irish in America. Princeton: Princeton University Press, 1915, and Charles A. Hanna, The Scotch-Irish, or the Scot in North Britain, Ireland and America. 1 vols. New York: G. Putnam's Sons, 1885-86. 'McDonald and McDonald, of. cit. 'Jan Morris, "The Unconquerable Welsh," The New York Times Magazine Vol. 70, No. 23, Dec. 12, 1981), pp. 46 ff. 'David Williams, A History of Modem Wales. London: John Murray, 1950, p. 16. •Gwyn A. Williams, The Search for Beulah Land: The Welsh and the Atlantic Revolution. New York: Holmes & Meier, 1980, p. 20. 'Ibid., p. 1. "David Williams, op. cit., p. 16. "Ibid., p. 170. "Ibid., pp. 229-45. "For a full treatment of the Madoc myth, see Gwyn A. Williams, Madoc: the Making of a Myth. London: Eyre Methuen, 1980. "Gwyn Williams, op. cit., pp. 135-36. "Edgar George Hartmann, Americans from Wales. New York: Octagon Books, 1978, p. 47. "Ibid., p. 50. "Interview with Hywell Davies, Baptist authority, Aberystwyth, Wales, 7-22-82. "Hartman,, op. cit., p. 53. "Ibid., p. 52. William s. Powell, North Carolina: A History. New York: W.W. Norton, 1977, p. 42. "George W. Paschal, History of North Carolina Baptists, Vol. 1. Raleigh: The General Board, Baptist State Convention, 1933, p. 48. "Ibid., I, pp. 211-15. M Ibid., I, p. 361. "Ibid., Vol. II, 1955, p. 163. "Hartmann, Op. cit., pp. 285-91. 32 �2S Numbers of Welsh signing the Watauga petition and at Kings Mountain were obtained from analysis of surnames listed in: J.G.M. Ramsey, The Annals of Tennessee to the End of the Eighteenth Century. Philadephia: Lippencott, 1860, p. 138; J.D. Bailey, Commanders at Kings Mountain. Greenville, S.C.: A Press, Inc., 1980, and Pat Alderman, One Heroic Hour at Kings Mountain. 'Published by the author at Erwin, Tennessee, 1968, pp. 55-64. M See Wilbur S. Shepperson, Samuel Roberts: A Welsh Colonizer in Civil War Tennessee. Knoxville: The University of Tennessee Press, 1961. Also the Tennessee Papers in the archives of the National Library of Wales, Aberystwyth. 27 Hartmann, op. at., pp. 81-82. "John Davis, History of The Welsh Baptists From the Year Sixty-Three to the Year One Thousand Seven Hundred and Seventy. Pittsburgh: D.M. Hogan, p. 171. "Edward's work is a master of arts thesis, University of Tennessee, 1940, privately published the same year by the author. Perrigan also privately published his book at Haysi, Virginia, in 1961. '"Perrigan, op. cit., p. 34. "Ibid., pp. 32-33. "Edwards, op. cit., pp. 6-11. "William H. Tallmadege, "Baptist Monophonic and Heterophonic Hymnody in Southern Appalachia," Yearbook of Inter-American Musical Research (Vol. 11, 1975), pp. 106-07. "Louis F. Benson, The English Hymn. Richmond: John Knox Press, 1962 (rpt.), p. 99. 35 Hartmann, op. cit., p. 110. "Erasmus W. Jones, "The Welsh in America," Atlantic Monthly (XXXVII, Mar., 1876), pp. 305-13. 33 �The Retreat from Consensus: An Exploration of a Unified Theory of Conflict Analysis Richard B. Drake Most American writing in the social sciences in the 1940s and 1950s was impressed with the forces that have held the United States together. Our immense, continental and heterogenous nation which performed so well in the Great War rather overawed scholars by its suprising strength and unity. Historians discovered various unities which held us all within the American experience. Daniel Borrstin, Samuel Eliot Morison, Henry Steele Commage, Alan Nevins and Richerd Hofstandter, among others,1 all saw various unifying factors that provided the consensus of the American genius. David Potter, after searching amongst the social sciences as well as the American past, discovered "abundance" in his People of Plenty2 - a consensus that Turnurians, economists and sociologists applauded. And the economist, John Kenneth Galbraith, reinforced this view with his book, The Affluent Society.3 Though other social scientists may have disagreed as to the force which unified us as a people, most in these years also found some unifying force which they thought the essential one: Louis Hartz in The Liberal Tradition in America saw us all as sons and daughters of John Locke,4 David Riesman discovered the "inner directed personality" spawned by the Renaissance, the retreat from which he traced in The Lonely Crows as our society was becoming dominated by "other directed personalities."5 Scholars from that troublesome portion of the United States, the South, even diluted past divisions by celebrating regionalism, an approved variety of divisiveness that could be celebrated, rather than a divisive sectionalism which had threatened national unity in the past.6 But most of the writers of history and in the social sciences in the 1960s, 1970s and 1980s have written to the rhythms of a different drummer. Recent writers have generally focused on the issues that have divided American from American. Even as American life itself became more fractured, William L. O'Neill celebrated this division by entitling his history of American Society in the 1960's, Coming Apart.7 No sooner, indeed, had Galbraith's Affluent Society identified the plenty that united us, than Michael Harrington, reminded us that there were several "other" Americas who did not share in the nation's affluence - in Appalachia, among Delta blacks, ghetto Puerto Ricans and among the elderly - all citizens of The Other America.' The rise of Black Studies was probably more important than any other movement in encouraging the growth of ethnic and class-based views that have presented the many challenges to the consensus view. We have come to discover various "ethnicities" (a term unknown until 1941') based on race, sexual and religious-recency-of-arrival bases, and on perceived cultural differences. So great has been the recent outpouring of writing on ethnicity that one scholar was led to remark that any attempt to draw up a bibliography of "ethnology at this time is like taking a snapshot of an avalanche."10 34 �In these same years - perhaps due to questions raised about the American system of government and economy, and its connected university and research program - a renewal of interest has emerged in Marxian and class-conflict analysis as the basis of division within American life. Marxian analysis, in fact, was never absent from the American academy even in the consensus years - Herbert Aptheker and Louis Hacker in history, and C. Wright Mills in sociology for example, present different, but clearly Marxian-based analysis of the American experience. But in those days of the early Cold War, most scholars were reluctant to pursue a careful class-conflict analysis. So great was the general suspicion of any analysis that suggested an economically based class antagonism between rich and poor that recognized scholars such as Charles Beard and Harry Elmer Barnes were derisively labelled as "Marxian", even though their presentation of economic-influences was far more Populist, even Progressive, than Marxian. The suggestion that class divisions were crucial to understanding the nature of American conflict, however, far antedated the arrival of Marxian analysis in America. For example, the writings of William Gouge provided a class-conflict basis for Jackson's attack on the U.S. Bank, and William "Coin" Harvey's criticism of the gold standard in the 1870's provided the background for the Populist, agrarian-based attack on Wall Street. Even George Fitzhugh's defense of the Slave System was an analysis predicted on class-conflict assumptions, and was a bitter critique of the free-labor system. Writers as diverse as James Madison and John C. Calhoun were convinced that economic differences provided the real basis for political conflict. The 1960's and 1970's have seen the emergence of an impressive neo-Marxian literature in America. Perhaps not the avalanche in quantity that describes ethnic analysis, but the quantity and quality of neo-Marxian writing is impressive. Such historians as Eugene Genovese, William Appleman Williams, Bernard Kolko, Staunton Lynd, Christopher Lasch and a host of others have created an analysis of American history that must be taken seriously by us all. A general review of this neo-Marxian literature has recently appeared entitled "The Left Academy", an analysis of Marxist scholarship on American university campuses, edited by Bertell Oilman and Edward Vernoff. Clearly, consensus has evaporated, and American scholars now seem caught up more in an analysis of the forces and issues which divide us than in a search for unifying themes. But so partisan have some of the scholars of conflict analysis become that occasionally they have been led to attack one another bitterly. Sharp divisions have developed in the scholarship of conflict analysis, largely between those who believe that class-based issues are the most fundamental, and those who believe that ethnic issues have been the most significant. In this paper I will attempt to: 1) say something about these two orientations of conflict analysis - the one emphasizing horizontal or income differentials, and the other emphasizing religious, traditional and general cultural differences; 2) to say something about how these two orientations are related to the study of the Appalachian South; and 3) how these two approaches might be merged into a unified theory of conflict analysis. One does not have to search very far to find evidence of this bitter exchange in present-day conflict analysis. Many who emphasize the importance of ethnic divisions flay those who see classawareness as the most crucial as Marxian and un-American, as if to impose such labels in our postReagan, neo-Cold War era, is to place such analysis outside serious scholarship, even as Charles Beard's Economic Interpretation of the Constitution of the United States was dismissed by ex-President William A. Taft in 1913. On the other hand, a disturbing number of those emphasizing the importance of class and economic divisions label those who believe that ethnic divisions are more crucial, 35 �as "romantic" or "neo-conservative."12 The debate is nationwide, and is present in literally all arenas of analysis that involve American minority/ethnic groupings that may have suffered exploitation. Whether the analysis involves blacks in slavery, women in the work-force, Amerind removal, discrimination against Catholics and Jews, or the exploitation of Appalachian resources, the struggles of the models of conflict analysis appear remarkably similar. Appalachian scholars such as Dwight Billings, David Whisnant and Helen Lewis, all most impressed with the class conflict analysis, have on occasion joined scholars such as Gunnar Myrdal and Andrew Hacker in making the charge that ethnic analysis is misleading politically and "romantic." Concerned as they are with a scholarship that will support progressive and action-oriented programs, such scholars seem to have little patience with analyses that may tend to blir the divisions that identify the groups they are trying to mobilize. Such charges may have some validity in some cases, but clearly the mere emphasis on ethnic or racial divisions is not sufficient grounds to conclude that such analysis is diversionary and escapist. On the other hand, some able scholars which I know in Appalachian colleges dismiss out-ofhand any suggestion that there may be a parallel between the exploitation of Appalachian mineral resources by American corporations on the one hand, and theLenninist-Marxian analysis of third world imperialism on the other. They label it as "sheer ideology, and betraying the blindness of a variety of Marxism that takes its lead straight from Moscow". One such scholar recently refused to read a paper by an undergraduate who had developed the concept of Appalachia as a colony of corporate interests, a comparison that many well-published scholars of the region have developed quite fully. To him, the idea was so absurd that he refused to dignify it with his time. It may be that the very complexity of the issues which divide us involves horizontal (or class) divisions as well as vertical (or ethnic) ones. It is my contention here that the issues that have divided us in the past have in literally all cases been at least partly ethnic as well as class-based. In fact, in the United States, even the most bitter class-based struggles in the labor movement have always had an important ethnic dimension. When struggles have been less violent, the divisions were generally not working in the same direction. Herbert Cans and others have even suggested that class and ethnicity may best be considered as somehow mingled, and has suggested for us the phrase, "working-class ethnicity".13 Most of our significant class conflicts have indeed been reinforced by ethnic divisions, as with the Irish Catholicism of the Molly McGuires and the racial basis of chattel slavery. Even today, many of the most aggressive advocates of class struggle make a great use of ethnic identification and folk expressions in song, language, dialect and religious style for the purpose of raising "working class consciousness". It may be that a unified field theory of conflict needs to be developed which will take into account both ethnic and class divisions. One could, for example, present a picture of how ethnic and class divisions mix in certain struggles on an x - y axis. Such a designation of how these struggles react to this depiction might look like the graph on page 37. If the major struggles in American history were to be plotted on such an x - y axis, it seems that all of them would have to be assigned values that involved both class and ethnic dimensions. Whether or not the specific values here assigned are totally accurate is subject to debate. But to attempt such an exercise is meaningful. Even the great labor strikes have all had very important ethnic dimensions. These largely class-based conflicts have often had a Protestant-Catholic dimension, or some other ethnic dimension that has often been nearly as important in setting capital against labor as the income differentials that separted them. 36 �The West Virginia mine difficulties of the post-World War I period involved a strong "insideroutsider" dichotomy which involved suspicions of damn yankees, and even suspicions of "agitators with a foreign ideology." Marxism in America has had to struggle with the ethnic disadvantage that Marx was Jewish and European. Even in Harlan, Bell, Letcher and Pike in the desperate strike of the 1930's which involved the Communist-dominated National Miners' Union, the "insideroutsider" separation was used by both sides, and attacks were made on the "foreign ideology", the interference of "outside missionaries", and the fact that "un-American conditions" were forced on American miners. Even in this perhaps most Marxian of our labor struggles, the ethnic dimension was considerable. Ethnicity It has long been observed by scholars that one of the characteristics of the American labor movement has been its very un-Marxian basis: American labor has not been sympathetic to the Socialist Party. Most American socialists have been intellectuals, reform-minded Christians or old-line Populists. And most successful American labor leaders have approached their jobs in the tradition of Samuel Gompers, following his approach of "safe and sane Unionism." In other words, such a labor leader approaches the sale of his commodity - labor - in an essentially business-like way: he wants to get as high a price (wages and working conditions) for his commodity as possible. In this case, the consumer is management, and he bargains in a market for as good a price as he can get. For the most part the American labor movement itself has really not bought the reality of class-struggle. Labor accepts the concept of opposition, to be sure. But this is more in the tradition of general adversarialism which permeates American law and the general competitiveness that characterizes American economic life generally. If we return again to our x-y axis above of class-ethnicity factors, we see that according to the placement of most of the major conflicts there appears to be a considerably stronger ethnicity37 �sectionalism quotient than class factors. Though there are those who would argue with this evaluation, most historians would agree with Carl Degler when he suggests: Contrary to the Marxists' assertion, it seems to me that the principal conflicts in American society have more often been related to racial and ethnic consciousness than to class consciousness. I suspect...there is considerably more evidence available from which to write history of the United States with racial conflict as the motive force than with class consciousness and class conflict." It may be that in Europe class-consciousness was the more important factor, but many agree with Degler when we look at the American experience. Our supreme struggle, the Civil War, seems clearly more ethnic, racial and sectional than based on any sense of class struggle. Charles Beard has indeed argued that the Civil War was basically an economic conflict, but between elites -between an industrial North and a plantation South." The separate laboring classes, in fact, generally supported their respective war efforts, though with the usual grumbling about "a rich man's war and poor man's fight". Clearly one of the characteristics of life in Appalachia has been conflict. In the period before 1750 when the area was held by American Indian nations - mostly the Iroquoian Cherokee and the 5 Nation Confederacy centered in New York state - the ethnic division was clearly predominant. The Indians fought desperately with Europeans, and racist rationales justified the complete dispossession of "savage lands." Surely there was economic repression, but a class solidarity that transcended racial divisions was almost entirely lacking. There were "back country" revolts within the British colonies such as Bacon's Rebellion in Virginia, the Anti-Rent Movement in New York, and the Regulator Movement in the Carolinas. Yet even those inter-British struggles were largely ethnic, for different waves of Europeans came to the colonies at different times and occupied different regions. The initial migration of south Englishmen established in the American South the country gentleman ideal with its plantation system. And this group of Englishmen was very different from later waves of border and north-country Englishmen and Scotch-Irish who attempted later to realize the yeoman ideal on their frontier farms. In New York, the original Dutch poltroons established a feudal system in a land surrounded by small yeoman farmers. Clearly some classconsciousness was evident in such struggles, but more apparent was the ethnic and cultural separateness that the Scotch-Irish, Germans and others brought with them. In that period during which the citizens of Appalachia found it necessary to relate to the new United States government in the two generations before the Civil War, the principal conflicts were initially with the new federal government. The issue was taxation as seen in the Whiskey Rebellion. Though economic issues were predominant, the solidarity of the western country for the plight of the rebels was clear. The major responsible spokesman for the Whiskey Rebels, however, was the unlikely patrician, Albert Gallatin, graduate of the University of Geneva, owner of a princely acreage in western Pennslyvania, and later Secretary of the Treasury and leader of American banking. The glee with which most Appalachian yeoman fell upon the lands made available by Cherokee removal can be explained in largely racist terms, though of course simple greed was important. Though the open struggle with the Indians of the Southeast largely had ended by 1825, until separate Indian nations were removed from Appalachia, individual acts of blatent violence were frequent. The rationale was clearly ethnic. When the Civil War came, many mountaineers were forced into the armies of both sides, most against their wills. There is ample evidence of how repressive the drafting policies were considered, 38 �and horrendous desertion rates, especially in the Confederate Army, attests to a feeling of the poor being made to fight for the rich.16 Yet the fact that very many of those who were poor and who deserted were mountain whites, also demonstrates an ethnic division. The mountaineer was, for the most part, an opponent of slavery, and had long been resentful of the over-representation of the prosperious, plantation counties and their control of the politics of the slave states. A separatist sentiment of mountain counties was a traditional part of the ante-bellum politics in Virginia, North Carolina, Georgia, Tennessee and Kentucky. Concerning the post-Civil War years, many recent scholars have deplored the lack of classconsciousness among Appalachians who, because of the lack of class- consciousness, have been increasingly pushed aside in the corporate quest for control of the region's resources. Ronald D. Eller, for example, in his recent Miners, Millhands and Mountaineers, sees the pre-Civil War Appalachian South as "only the quiet back-country of the Old South" which suddenly found itself "a new frontier for expanding capitalism."17 By 1930 most mountaineers "had become integrated within the new industrial system and economically dependent upon it as well"18 and hopelessly caught in "poverty and powerlessness." Eller suggests that "the failure of modernization in the mountains raises the fundamental question of our time"' about corporate greed and regional ineffectiveness.1' The clear plea is for an Appalachian consciousness based upon the region's shared lack of wealth and power which will right the wrongs brought by corporate exploitation. Lewis, Johnson and Askins, Colonialism in Modern America: the Appalachian Case, are much more specific than Eller concerning what the sources of Appalachian poverty and powerlessness are. Outside corporations have acquired our resources, and we have not developed mechanisms for the control of our own decisions and to gain back control of these resources. Warren Wright and John Gaventa claim that these resources were stolen from us.20 Mike Clark, Jim Branscome and Don Askins suggest a kind of education/literaray/media conspiracy to develop Appalachian institutions, literary heroes and entertainment stereotypes which are basically fraudulant, and have created debilitating arrangements which prevent the proper consciousness.21 According to the Lewis, Johnson and Askins studies, governmental programs have also been counterproductive in Appalachia. Thus, the best solution to the region's problems seems to be for scholarworkers to suggest new models of social science analysis that will enable us to work out a more equitable arrangement for Appalachia's citizens. Dennis Lindbert sees us presently as a "colony within a colony," and David Walls develops his "Internal Perifory Model" to account for some of the difficulties of a simplistic Lenninist analysis. Tom Plaut reminds us, finally, that there are deep cultural assumptions that separate Appalachian America from exploitive, corporate America, and that these two communities of English-speaking peoples still do not understand one another.22 It is exemplary that so many have been drawn into Appalachian studies from a burning desire to do something about the region's poverty and powerlessness. Most of our finest recent scholarship, in fact, has been clearly action-oriented, instrumentalist research, and most of it sees the Appalachian problem as a lack of class awareness.23 Yet the over-dependence on a too-simplistic class analysis does both mature scholarship and the region itself a disservice. If our call to action takes precedence over our attempt to understand a historical situation, we can be led into serious misunderstandings and serious misapplication of energies. Howard Zinn, because of his hatred for slavery and segregation, once said that he would not "tangle with cause, because once you acknowledge cause as the core of the problem, you have built something into it that not only baffles people, but, worse, immobilizes them."24 Terrible though we can agree Jim Crow segregation 39 �was, not to tangle with the ambiguities of historical events merely divides and dilutes the whole effort of understanding and improvement. Though ideology and myth can be great mobilizers, if they are built upon serious error, they can be counterproductive if not actually harmful. Serious scholarship needs to be as honest and as holistic as possible in order to guard against its abuse by either left or right-leaning politicians. Action-oriented scholarship can lead us into serious errors, as can apologetic court history. So let us listen to one another carefully, those of us who study the Appalachian experience seriously. Rather than joining in the ideological debate of mainline "Progressive scholarship", let us grant then that, in Appalachia at least, class or economic divisions have been mixed with ethnicreligious-cultural-racial divisions. It may be that individual clashes need to be considered on their individual merit. But in Appalachia, ethnic divisions are very real. Race, religion and pure chauvinism are not dead, and those differences in perception brought by unequal distribution of wealth cannot blur the traditional, ethnic divisions. On the other hand, as real want increases, and a prince and pauper economy becomes more and more real, the time may come in Appalachia when class issues may be the more significant. Footnotes 'Sec Daniel J. Boorstein, The Genius of American Politics, Chicago University of Chicago Press, 1953; Samuel Eliot Morison, The Oxford History of the American People, New York, Oxford, 1965; Henry Steele Commager, Ther American Mind, New Haven, Yale, 1950; Alan Nevins, The Ordeal of Union, 2 vols., New York, 1947; Richard Hofstadter, The American Political Tradition and the Men Who Made It, New York, Knopf, 1948. 2 David M. Potter, People of Plenty: Economic Abundance and the American Character, Chicago, University of Chicago Press, 1964. 'John Kenneth Galbraith, The Affluent Society, Boston, Houghton, Micflin, 1958. 'Louis Hartz, The Liberal Tradition in America, New York, Harcourt, Brace and World, 1955. 'David Riesman, Nathan Glazer and Reuel Denney, The Lonely Crowd: A Study of the Changing American Character, New Haven, Yale, 1950. 'See especially Rupert B. Vance, Human Geography of the South: A Study in Regional Researches and Human Adequacy, Chapel Hill, North Carolina, 1932; and Howard W. Odum and Harry Estill Moore, American Regionalism; a CulturalHistorical Approach to National Integration, New York, Holt, Rinehart and Winston, 1938. 'William L. O'Neill, Coming Apart: an Informal History of America in the 1960's, Chicago, Quadrangle, 1971. "Michael Harrington, The Other America: Poverty in the United States, New York, Macmillan, 1962. 'Apparently Lloyd Warner first used the term in 1941. See Warner Sollors, "Theory of American Ethnicity", American Quarterly, vol. 33, no. 3, p. 259-260. '"Ibid., p. 257. "Bertell Oilman and Edward Vernoff, The Left Academy: Marxist Scholarship on American Campuses, New York, McGraw-Hill, 1982. "See Gunnar Myrdal, "The Limits of Ethnicity", New Republic (25 June, 1977), p. 19. "See Herbert Gans, in Foreword to Neil C. Sandberg Ethnic Identity and Assimilation, New York, Praeger, 1974. "Carl N. Degler, "Remaking American History", Journal of American History, vol. 67, no. 1 0une, 1980), p. 17. This article is Degler's presidential address to the Organization of American Historians meeting in San Francisco, April 10, 1980. "See Charles A. Beard, The Rise of American Civilization, vol. 2, New York, Macmillan, 1936, p. 3-13, 28-37. "See especially Ella Lonn, Desertion During the Civil War, New York, Century, 1928. "Ronald D Eller, Miners, Millhands and Mountaineers, Knoxville, Tennessee, 1981, p. xix. "Ibid., p. xxiii. "Ibid., p. xxvi. 40 �"John Gaventa, "Property, Coal and Theft", in Helen Matthews Lewis, Linda Johnson and Donald Askins, editors, Colonialism in Modem America: the Appalachian Case, Boone, North Carolina, Appalachian Consortium Press, 1978, p. 141-160; and Warren Wright, "The Big Steal", p. 161-176, in the same book. 21 See Mike Clark, "Education and Explitation", p. 199-208; Jim Branscome, "Annihilating the Hillbilly", p. 211-228; and Don Askins, "John Fox, Jr.," p. 251-258; all in Lewis, Johnson and Askins, Colonialism in Modem America. "Dennis N. Lindberg, "Appalachia: A Colony Within a Colony?", p. 309-318; David Walls, "Internal Colony or Internal Perifory? A Critique of Current Models and an Alternative Formulation," p. 319-350; and Tom Plaut, "Extending the Internal Periphery Model; the Impact of Culture and Consequent Strategy," p. 351-364, all in Lewis, Johnson and Askins, Colonialism in Modern America. "The most recent Weatherford Award books have shared this vision of the region's problems. In 1981 David Corbin's Life, Work, and Rebellion in the Coal Fields, won the award; in 1980 it was John Gaventa's Power and Powerlessness: Quintessence and Rebellion in An Appalachian Valley; and in 1979 John Havener's Which Side are You On? "Howard Zinn, The Southern Mystique, New York, Knopf, 1964, p. 7. 41 �This page intentionally left blank �Appalachian Literature 43 �This page intentionally left blank �"Rings around a Hurt": The Dialectic Structure of The Mountains Have Come Closer John H. Mangle No clearer portrait of the contemporary Appalachian experience exists than in Jim Wayne Miller's The Mountains Have Come Closer. This collection of poetry, Miller's fourth, traces the dawn of political consciousness in an Appalachian person who has left the mountains to find success in America's cultural mainstream. The price of this success is the disfranchisement of his culture and the dispossession of his homeland. Employing the Hegelian dialectic to structure this journey of consciousness, Miller establishes a group of "inciting experiences," which start the collection's persona on a series of transformations to emerge as the Brier, Miller's culturally attuned, politically aware contemporary Appalachian. "It's almost like the thesis coming from the past and all of the culture you've inherited, and then you've got the present demands as the antithesis, and they collide and out of that comes some sort of synthesis. This is what I'm trying to do individually, and then I'm trying to make it more broadly applicable in The Mountains Have Come Closer in that I live in two worlds individually in the same way I think most of the people in the region live in these two worlds. We live among the vestiges of a traditional culture and then we have the modern, contemporary world all about us. And these things mix."1 The collection opens with a group of poems which Jerry Williamson, editor of The Mountains Have Come Closer, describes as an "absurdist vision of fragmentation" caused by "being severed from one's roots and the sense of self that those roots—only—can bestow." This condition, portrayed throughout part one, "In the American Funhouse," makes the "need for rebirth a very compelling psychological fact."2 This image is vivid in the opening poem, "Saturday Morning." The speaker awakes to find that his house, the mainstream symbol of stability, is loose from its foundation and "plowing" through a "moderate green sea." Disillusionment and fragmentation are created not only because a house is an object supposedly firmly set on its foundation, but also because the location is "seven hundred miles inland." "Nothing else has changed," but order no longer exists. "Every room is a non-stop show." The speaker's entire life is in upheaval. "Bells ring, whistles blow, glass breaks, timbers shatter." There is "yearning" which fogs windows and there is anxiety which causes "the palm of a catcher's mitt" to "break into a sweat." By turning into a nervous cat in the precarious situation of "trying to back down a tree," the speaker escapes the "whines" and the "hum and drone" of the household machinery that haunts him. The speaker sees himself as a "hammer" to be driven, a "twenty dollar bill" to be spent, and, finally, as a "suitcase" he knows "someone else will live a life out of when we arrive." 45 �"Getting Together" is about "old friends," splinters of the speaker's own fragmented mind. These fragments gather "suddenly" after being "separated years back...lost in the American Funhouse." The funhouse "walls are angled mirrors multiplying us many times over" and revealing the dialectic. The multiplying effort of the mirrors createstwo images for each of the "old friends." The thesis is "the friend he knew." The antithesis is the "one this friend has become." Standing "shyly" in the background of this scene, "like an unacknowledged companion" and as yet "unseen by our friends," is the synthesis, "the person we know we are." These fragmented images of the funhouse make the speaker feel the "force of tradition and the past" confronting "the situation of the present time," but they do not resolve the conflict. The solution to this dilemma is shown to be within the capacity of the speaker because "the person we know we are" is a "companion," but an "unseen," "unacknowledged" one. The resolution cannot come while the speaker is "lost in the American Funhouse" because "we hold back all but the little horrors." To achieve the higher truth promised by employing the dialectic as a structural device, everything, not just "the little horrors," must be exposed to scrutiny. The first and last lines of the first stanza of "Getting Together" end with the refrain "laughter.'. "Suddenly old friends are in the house. Laughter...unseen by our friends, stands the person we know we are. Laughter." The repetition of "laughter" establishes an eerie cadence that dominates the poem. A gathering of "old friends" is expected to be a light, festive occasion. But there is nothing light about the gathering. The images are distorted; the "old friends" are disoriented. The "laughter" is ironic. Miller repeats it again in the last line, but the "laughter" here is a raucous scoff, not an empty chuckle. The speaker realizes "I have forgotten parts of myself." The parts he has forgotten are his roots, his "sense of self." This is the "someone who holds out a hand" that he tries "to hold out a hand to." This is the "unacknowledged companion" present, but just out of reach. In "Certain Dreams," the speaker is nearing the end of what Williamson calls his "psychic rope." In "Saturday Morning," the persona "woke to waves crashing beneath the bedroom window." The disturbing images are now visiting the speaker in his sleep. They are "dreams that make you wonder." These dreams are as startling as "whistling and fumbling with my keys...I'd open the door onto the solid rump of a horse quartered in my fourth-floor office." The speaker is being shaken from the numbness of life in the funhouse. The unfamiliar is beginning to appear in familiar places "as if you were troutfishing back on Little Snowbird...and looked up and there...lay an alligator sunning on a rock." "Certain Dreams" signals that the rebirth necessary for synthesis is imminent, but there must be death before there can be rebirth. "With children and foxhounds" the speaker of "I Share" possesses "a way of sizing up how a situation smells." Death is the prevailing image in this poem; death is the way every "situation smells." A cough echoes in a hall and blooms "like sprays of funeral flowers." The speaker feels compelled "to express sympathy to the bereaved family" at "commencements." He wants "to step out of the church and head for the gravesite" after a wedding. The speaker is so preoccupied with his own demise that he sees death in every situation. He fears being caught with "my overcoat buttoned to my jacket,—of standing in a drizzly parking lot." The next image is even more disconcerting. The speaker sits disoriented in the present, "but quite lucid about the girl who sat beside me at eighth-grade graduation." Once again, he is "fumbling with my keys" as he did in "Certain Dreams," not to find a "horse quartered in my fourth floor office," but a "horsehair hanging on a barbed-wire fence in a mountain 46 �pasture." He is escaping the cars, including the one in which he is sitting, and asphalt by imagining the "lanterns of night fishermen bob in waterbeads standing on a car," the girl in eighth-grade graduation, and the mountain pasture. With "I Share" Miller is reinforcing the thesis and antithesis, preparing the reader for the death dream in "Going South" and the emergence of the "Brier." "Going South" opens with a mocking apology "to have so private a thing happen in public." The "breach of decorum" in the impersonal, urban world of the "American Funhouse" is the speaker's death. The impact of this event on the outside world is "one stalled car, one lane of traffic backed up." This event is spectacular enough to make the ten o'clock news only because it is a "breach of decorum," only because "so private a thing happen(ed) in public." The "eyewitness who discovered the truth" refers to the realization that a spiritual transformation is the only way to escape the funhouse of concrete and asphalt. But this realization is fleeting, fading into a commercial. The "newsprint will disappear like sooty snow. Traffic will flow smoothly once again." The passing leaves no mark on the American Funhouse. "Journalists with their noses into news" have documented the snarled traffic and the ambulance crew's removal of the body "slumped over the wheel," but they have missed "the only story worth telling." Just as the "black river of birds turned slowly and flowed south," the omnipresent "I" of part one turns to the mountains and his lost heritage. With this symbolic death and rejection of America's cultural mainstream, the process of transformation in part two, "You Must Be Born Again," unfolds. The speaker in part one has been taken to what Williamson calls "the end of the psychic rope." Miller's Hegelian scheme is vigorously at work in part two as the Brier is confronted with painful memories of the funhouse, his sentimental notions about the past, and the political realities of the modern day mountains. The pathos created for the disfranchised speaker of "In the American Funhouse" is relieved in part two with the introduction of the Brier in a riddle. "Brier Riddle" is a playful enigma whose true solution may not be applicable to the transformation of the persona. However, its image of a frog being kissed by "a lost girl" into "a handsome prince" does serve as a comic transition from the "I" persona in part one to the "he" persona in sections two and three. This frivolity is shortlived though as the next poem, "No Name," points out. The speaker has "stopped being able to say T " and will not use the pronoun again until the final poem, "Brier Sermon." This inability to say "I" is accompanied by the loss of "the gift of idle talk" and an impatience of the words of others "that rose like bubbles from the mouths of pretty goldfish." Ironically, this first step in the speaker's metamorphosis is an "impediment of speech," which Miller likens to a stroke that has "frozen his face." "No Name" is also a harbinger of the painful confrontations of past and present the Brier will undergo throughout part two of the collection. He "must swim against a current or else panic, crowd, suffocate, and die." This swimming "against a current" is spelled out in "Turn Your Radio On" when the Brier cannot "hear his own thoughts in the city that never slept...his thoughts rose and fell in a storm of static." The first evidence that a transformation is occurring is seen in the line: "Asleep or waking, he tried to keep a sense of direction south." In "Going South," he, like the "black river of birds," "flowed south," and now he "tried to keep a sense of direction south." In his dreams "he never drifted home before he woke," but images come to him "all the way from the mountains." These are less disturbing than those seen in the first section of the book. Fragmentation and death were the subjects of the dreams recorded "In the American Funhouse," but these images were shed when the speaker embarked on his spiritual journey back to the mountains. In "Turn Your Radio 47 �On," the old man and the grandmother who visit the Brier urge him to take his place and to come to terms with "the friend he knew" and "the friend he has become" so he can be the person he knows he is. In "Chopping Wood," the Brier's nerves, tormented by the idling traffic's fumes and "smokefilled meetings," are numbed by chopping wood, and "pain goes to sleep as night falls over any small farm of flesh." With this line, the Brier is saying that he has come to see Appalachia's disfranchised sons and daughters in the same way as he sees the region's small family farms disappearing from the mountain landscape. But this reveling in the virtues of "hard labor" does not last long. The Brier's hands betray his ideals by "foraging for magazines, sniffling about pockets for cigarettes," and "turning on television sets when he wasn't looking" in "His Hands." Despite this tugof-war between the old self and the self undergoing transformation, the Brier, as the river in "Winter Days," is "sure of where it (he) was going, in no hurry." This does not imply, however, that the Brier will give up everything from his recent past to totally embrace the world of his grandparents or that of his youth. The Brier's persona is at once both tainted and enhanced by the disorientation of the funhouse. As he will later preach in "Brier Sermon," "you don't have to think ridge-to-ridge the way they did. You can think ocean-toocean." This complexity of being able to experience the "ridge-to-ridge" world along with the "ocean-to-ocean" world is the brilliance of the Brier persona. Williamson describes him as "...the hillbilly come home, one of those middle-class Hazard students who found success outside the mountains but who found fragmentation and political alienation, too. He has come home now, or is in the process of coming home, half angry at himself for being such a fool, for allowing himself to be severed from the roots that count; he is angry, too, at the forces that made being a hillbilly such a shameful thing. The designation "Brier," like "hillbilly," is a term of derision, especially in Northern industrial centers where so many of the mountain migrants have congregated over the last 30 or 40 years. But Miller's Brier embraces that derisive name definitely and inhabits it."5 Once the Brier returns to the mountains his feelings about the place are mixed. The mixture of thoughts going on in the Brier's mind are evident in "Brier Visions." "His mind became a plowpoint digging in" in the first vision. When his thoughts strike obstacles, "a snag, a rock or root," the "bright point" raises above the surface, but "then dove deep again to his gee and haw." The Brier's mind is becoming disciplined like an old draw horse with his strength pitted against the task of turning rocky mountain soil. With this "dipping in" that is "turning a furrow in his brow," the Brier finds hope. "His mind, when he took hope, turned sunlight slanting down through leafless trees," the speaker says in the second vision. The third and fourth visions are not as pleasant as the images of hard work and "redbuds blooming" in the first two. The Brier's mind flies "black as a crow" over strip mines "where muddy water heaving rose and fell" in the third vision. There are no longer "redbuds blooming." The muddy river is "red froth and foam, bubbles of blood in the mouth of a gutshot deer.'' The final vision of the quartet describes parts of the "American Funhouse" that have been transported to Appalachia "like floodwaters rising in the night, radio waves moved up the mountain valleys." Along with the hillbilly music shows from Nashville and Wheeling, the Lowell Thomas and Edward R. Murrow reports, the radio waves have carried with them "a rising music" of consumerism. Appalachia's people become like "trees cut loose by singing saws," taken in by the "receding suck of sung commercials," causing them to drift, "floated like rafted logs toward the mainstream." 48 �In "Brier Visions" the Brier finds the mountains themselves have changed. They are wounded and bleeding like a "gutshot deer." A similar revelation is found in "Down Home." In this poem it's the Brier's feelings that "he kept meeting...like old schoolmates, faces whose names he'd forgot." Other feelings "he could enter again only as a stranger might a house he'd once lived in." These old responses have changed like "a once-green pasture field grown up in pines too thick ever to enter again." The realization is poignant not because he has just discovered it, but because finall y , "he had to admit it: he didn't live here any longer." At the end of "In the American Funhouse," the speaker of the poems had to go through a symbolic death and "flow south" in order to re-emerge as the Brier in "You Must Be Born Again." In "Turn Your Radio On" the Brier tried to "keep a sense of direction south" only to find out in "Down Home" that "he was settled in a suburb north of himself." The idea of the thesis and antithesis which Miller described has dawned in the Brier's conscious. He has answered the call of the traditional culture only to find that it is lost to him. He can draw from it and build on it, as he does in "Restoring an Old Farmhouse," but he can't escape to it. "He kept coming here," to the "country feelings, settled and gray." He must restore the farmhouse into something more serviceable. Each old "warped, split board" must be pulled to find another "just as old but seasoned and straight." The Brier must occupy himself "dismantling these country feelings" just as he had to experience "certain dreams" to escape the "American Funhouse." This "tearing down, building up again from what was salvaged" of the past is crucial to attaining the higher truth Miller has promised by using the Hegelian dialectic in this collection. The line "a coming shape, a new room and view, rose from old flooring" is the first sign that the Brier will synthesize his past and present, that he, like "fresh sawdust, "will be "spumed yellow as sunlight from old timber" in "Brier Sermon." To achieve the dialectic synthesis, the Brier must become political. He cannot, having escaped the American Funhouse, hope to come to terms with his past and the sociological factors that disfranchised him from it without becoming political any more than he could hope to live in the old farmhouse without restoring it. "Set Apart" is the first poem in the collection that deals with the Brier's emerging political consciousness. The "gutshot deer" metaphor in "Brier Visions" is a symbol of the violence that has shaped the region and will shape the Brier. The poem follows two about death, "He Remembers His Mother," and "Bird in the House," which create the grief, loss, and separation that make the Brier's mind fly "black as a crow" in "Brier Visions." In "Set Apart," the Brier carries a grudge, "pearl-handled...snub-nosed, heavy, bolstered close to his heart." The whines, hums, and drones of household machinery the "I" found so distracting in "Saturday Morning" are now the sounds of his own mind driven "so hard it sang like wheels rolling high over gaps and gorges on trestles of determination." "His black thoughts" are now "hunched over entrails like buzzards eating carrion on the road." These are the sounds and sights along the road of America's mainstream that the Brier was escaping as he "drove toward the mountains and the self he would become." "Set Apart" is a stark contrast to "Winter Days," a poem of pleasant pastoral images of the mountains to which the Brier has recently returned. This earlier poem is idyllic; it is an expression of the Brier's happiness of having escaped the funhouse. However, this state of mind is no longer available to the Brier because his mind has "flown black as a crow." It has been driven "so hard it sang," because the Brier has realized that neither he nor the mountains are untouched by the mainstream. They both have "floated like rafted logs toward" it. The final lines of "Set Apart" again point to the synthesis that will blossom in 49 �"Brier Sermon " once the transformation is complete. The Brier has been disillusioned throughout "You Must Be Born Again." Dreams of the funhouse still haunt him and almost everywhere he turns he finds that the worst parts of modernity have arrived in the mountains. These realities have created the anger embodied in the violent images of "Set Apart." The anger here must be read as political because the Brier still "drove toward mountains, and a self he would become." He will stand an "old man in faded demin, gray as a weathered barn, a fencepost at field's edge—until he moved" because part of his transformation is politicization. This theme is re-enforced in "Every Leaf A Mirror." Williamson says, in correspondence with the poet, the Brier "succeeds in getting himself all the way back...succeeds in entering a kind of collective racial identity." In this poem, the first stanza speaks of raising corn in "mountain fields" and "tobacco in branchback bottom patches." Tending of the "little garden ground" was left "to his wife and younguns." "In slack time" he would "work a spell in timber—stay gone till it pleased him to come home again." These are all images of the past, the things the Brier had hoped to return to, but found missing. Instead, he has found that "radio shows sang out of junked cars rolled over on their sides along the creek." He cannot escape the "time ticking." He hears it "even in the woods." His face was reflected in "every leaf...among smokestacks, billboards, shopping centers, mills,and vacation cottages hanging like a mirage along the ridgetops." Time has not only caught up with the region and its people, it has "swept past roaring like a tractor-trailer" leaving them "in a wake of fumes." Continuing with the argument that the Brier has entered a "collective racial identity" in "Every Leaf A Mirror," Williamson says the consciousness here is "in full cry, full pain." The hopelessness and despair revealed in "Every Leaf A Mirror" create a climate for the Brier's conversion. This comes in the next poem, "Born Again." "His memory clouded like a muddy spring," at times leaves him helpless in his search for the past. "He could find no more than traces, scattered signs, as if no more remained of that lived time." This condition is temporary and fleeting though. He could sometimes "see some long lost day as plainly as if it were a shing quarter." This is the Brier's conversion. His memory lived, died, and lived again. Each re-birth restoring him to himself, saying: You must be born again and again and again. The transformation which began after the death dream, "Going South," is now complete as seen in "Long View," the final poem in "You Must Be Born Again." Here, the Brier is "shooting down the highway at seventy miles an hour" leaving the roadside scenery "in blurred panic, receding...like falling screams." The synthesis is completed because "his heart" has been transformed. In his heart the Brier carries the essence of his culture, that "herd of graceful beasts still undiscovered and unnamed." This essence is "still undiscovered and unnamed" because it is buried "so deep" inside the mountains, the culture, and the people. This state of mind is further expounded in "Harvest," the first poem in "Brier Sermon." The metaphor here is "songs landlocked two hundred years" that "held all past time green...and made all love and death and sorrow sweet." Those songs like cultural consciousness are "what was lightest" because they could be carried in the Brier's head or in his heart, which "paced itself by those Kentucky knobs" in "Long View." The distortion and fragmentation of the funhouse still lingers in the Brier's memory. The commercialization and the strip mining are still in the mountains. These are still 50 �issues for the Brier, but he now feels compelled by his political awakening to address them. They no longer threaten his being because he has re-attained the "only roots that matter." The entanglements of the mainstream pitted against the sentimental memories "of that time lived" are the "heaviness always left behind to perish, to topple like a stone chimney." The poems in "Brier Sermon" have a distinct political tone. In "The Brier Losing Touch with His Traditions," the chairmaker is forced to give up "wearing a flowered sport shirt and drip-dry pants" in public because they do not fit the mountain craftsman stereotype. Without the stereotype, people are no longer interested in buying his chairs. Bitter irony is at work in the poem when the Brier is interviewed by magazines and has to "get rid of them before suppertime" so he can dress as he pleases, "open a can of beer and watch the six-thirty news on tv." The people who buy his chairs ridicule mountain people, call them briers and hillbillies, but they have no use for a chair built by a man who is "clean-shaven" and uses "power tools." A similar tone is present in "He Sings Ballads" and "The Brier Reviewing Novels." The "scholars" and mainstream America "marvel" at the Brier when he sings the old songs down on the "homeplace in Madison." But singing "the Country songs right off the jukebox" in an Asheville bar after a day's labor "as a gardener at some fine houses" makes his "neck turn red" and he becomes a character in "five hundred third-rate novels." "The Brier Reviews Novels" addresses stereotyping in a more general way. Miller is talking about those "five hundred third-rate novels" here. The Brier finds himself "jerked along" in these books about the mountains that "made clowns of kings and dignitaries." He sees himself in all of the literary cliches of the mountaineer, "moonshiner, feudist, speaking Elizabethian English." The readers of such books are the "comfortable people," those well heeled enough to hold title to a second home in the mountains. When these people go to sun themselves at the beaches they take nothing of the mountain culture with them except the stereotypes and the cliches—the "drowsy episodes of wittys, mountain maids, granny women." The Mountains Have Come Closer ends with "Brier Sermon—'You Must Be Born Again,' " a narrative poem representing the culmination of the transformation that has been occurring throughout the collection. Miller says "the format of this poem is that this is a mountain preacher in a mountain town and he's using the rhetorical devices that were familiar to what we would call fundamentalist religions."5 These devices include rhetorical questions, first and third person anecdotes, and direct indictments of the congregation coupled with the solution of salvation and the threat of the fate that awaits them if they reject the offer of salvation. Just as a farmer or a miner might receive the "call" to preach and begin ministering to his home community, the Brier, according to Miller, "conceives of himself here as nothing apart from these people that he's just spoken to. He is of them and a part of them....This Brier is someone who has grown up out of those people and there is not a thing that he can perceive or say that has not already gone on collectively in those people."6 A prose introduction opens the poem and sets the stage for the sermon. It is a Saturday, not a Sunday, morning; the message will be secular instead of religious. The Brier takes his place on a sidewalk in a mountain town across the street from the "Greenstamp Redemption Store." By doing so, the Brier has pitted himself in direct opposition to the mainstream commercialization and consumerism that has disposessed him from his homeland. As Williamson explains: "The Brier—by now something of a revolutionary—preaches his sermon on the street in a mountain town, the one place most calculated to find his political and spiritual message uncongenial. He has a good eye for 51 �his targets: he sees how the mountain middle class is constantly selling out, compromised by greed and seduced by the mercantile blandishments of the very America that makes them ashamed to be hillbillies."7 The Brier tells his audience, "You've kept the worst and thrown away the best." He uses an anecdote about mountain "boys with their cars jerked up on a pulley out under a tree somewhere." They are "laying flat on their backs...their hands mucking around in grease and gears." Bringing the analogy home, the Brier tells them "that's how America's got you, that's just the view you have of this country." Acceptance of the Brier's invitation for salvation does not mean living the past. "You can't, even if you try," he says. "The past is living in you." The Brier offers the crowd a prayer of salvation in much the same way a preacher would a sinner he was trying to convert. This prayer plays off of the traditional Protestant uttering, "Help us see ourselves as others see us." "Buddy, that's not a prayer we want to pray. I believe we ought to pray; Lord, help us to see ourselves, help us to be ourselves from seeing ourselves as others see us." Salvation, as the Brier preaches it, is "going back to what you were before without losing what you've since become." This is the synthesis Miller promised by using the dialectic structure. "The friend he knew" and "the one this friend has become" have merged to allow "the person we know we are" to come from the background. This "person we know we are" is no longer the shy, "unacknowledged companion." He has stepped to the forefront and now preaches to those people who are, whether or not they realize it, "lost in the American Funhouse." The "forgotten parts" of the Brier are now acknowledged and remembered. All of the horrors of the disfranchisement and fragmentation have been exposed and the Brier has moved through them—just as he tells the crowd on the street—he has "been through all the books and come out yonside." The difference in the Brier and his congregation is he got "lost in the American Funhouse" by leaving the mountains, they are lost "sitting right in the churchhouse." The original ending of "Brier Sermon" establishes a dichotomy of cynicism and innocence in the characters of a lawyer, which Miller has acknowledged is Harry Caudill, and a young mountain boy: " 'Why do you waste your breath?' the lawyer asked. 'Because,' the Brier said, looking past the lawyer. 'Wherever we are, a little child is listening.' "' In The Mountains Have Come Closer, "Brier Sermon" ends with the Brier blessing an "invisible crowd on the sidewalk" and disappearing "behind a motor home." This revision is more satisfying than the original because it allows the verse in the poem to stand on its own without elaborations. There will always be cynics and innocents. The majority of the crowd will not heed the message. These things are obvious. If reality were any other way, the persona would not have been disfranchised. The sermon would not have had to be preached. The Brier is left alone, diserted on the street. This is the effect of the new ending, but it should not be construed as a negative implication. By the virtue of his spiritual journey and transformation, the Brier has become a visionary, alone with his higher truth. This disertion enhances and reinforces the stark truth of the Brier's message. The Brier "is nothing apart from the people he has just spoken to." They have the potential for a similar transformation just as the "I" persona had in "Getting Together." The crucail difference 52 �between the Brier and the crowd is that he was sick of the disfranchisement and disorientation; they have not reached this point. When they reach this point, they—like the Brier in the original version of "Turn Your Radio On" and like Miller when he sought out Horace Kephart at age 17—will be "like a sick dog that knows how to find the herb or grass to make him well."' With "Brier Sermon," the journey of consciousness is complete. The persona in the collection has been transformed from a mainstream American success who is a "familiar stranger" to himself to a state which Williamson terms "psychological and political wholeness."10 Attaining this wholeness allows the Brier to see the damage done to his homeland by the mainstream that disfranchised him as well as the damage he and his fellow Appalachians have done themselves. He is able to see the role that the "soft-handed son-of-bitches" in Washington played in the destruction of Appalachian culture as well as those played by him and others who "moved to the cities, moved to town and left our spirits in the mountains to live like half-wild dogs around the homeplace." The message is clear: "you can turn loose, you can do it." Footnotes '"An Interview With Jim Wayne Miller," Appalachian Journal, vol. 6, no. 3, p. 211. 'Jerry Wayne Williamson, "Appalachian Poetry: The Politics of Coming Home," Southern Exposure, vol. IX, no. 2, p. 72. 'Ibid, p. 73. 4 "He Sings Ballads" is clearly based on a 1970, 16 mm. film, The End of an Old Song, produced by John Cohen and distributed by Audio Brandon Films, 34 MacQuesten Parkway S., Mount Vernon, N.Y., 10550. The film is a documentary on Madison County, N.C., ballad singer Dillard Chandler. After the film crew documents Chandler singing in his mountain cabin, it follows him to Asheville where he is a gardener, and on to a Lawrence Avenue bar where Chandler does such "redneck" things as drinking beer, singing along with the juke box, and trying to pick up a woman. 5 "An Interview With Jim Wayne Miller," p. 221. "Ibid. p. 219. 'Williamson, "Appalachian Poetry," p. 73. '"Brier Sermon—'You Must Be Born Again,' " Appalachian Journal, vol. 5, no. 4, p. 389. 'Ibid. "Turn Your Radio On," p. 372. (Miller used this same image in a 1979 transcribed conversation with Jerry Wayne Williamson. In this instance, Miller was describing to Williamson how he happened to find a copy of Horace Kephart's Our Southern Highlanders when Miller was a 17-year old student at Leicester High School, Leicester, N.C. 53 �4 'Naked Words That Have No Subtle Meaning": Poetry and Teaching in the Writings of Don West Michael Henson Don West is, by all reports, an opinionated, almost cranky man. I admire these qualities. I believe they are eminently useful to anyone who sets out to go against the trends in this country. So it is appropriate that this will be an opinionated and cranky paper. My thesis is that Don West, read widely among workers but almost totally ignored among academics, is a poet and thinker who demands our attention, who has cut a furrow and planted seeds and raised a fine crop of poetry and original writing that we would do well to examine before history lets it go to seed or the academic franchise builds a McDonald's on top of it. To this effect, I intend to do battle with a straw man. Usually fighting a straw man is a sort of intellectual machismo, a subterfuge in which one builds a reputation by fighting ideas that do not really exist. Here I believe it is a necessity. I think there is a battle to be fought here, but it is not so much against any particular critic as it is against a way of thinking. I believe there are critics who practice this way of thinking and that their critical silence on Don West is as eloquent as their denunciations would be if they bothered to take them up. My assumption is that the typical literary critic with access to the journal, and with the power to decide who will be anthologized and who will be taught has a judgment of Don West. After all, he's been around for a long time and he has sold thousands of books, and I assume that this judgement runs something like this: Don West, as poet and thinker, is a rough equivalent to Rod McKuen and is therefore not worth my time to seriously study his work, to critique it, to anthologize it, and to recommend it to others. I intend to clear away some of the assumptions which underly this way of thinking and to place Don West in his proper context. I will not attempt to make false or inflated claims or to put him in a context he does not deserve. Instead, I hope to make a realistic assessment of what he has to offer us and what lessons this teacher has for us. The first of these assumptions has to do with the proper sources of a poetry and its referents. In "Tradition and the Individual Talent," an essay that has been a fundamental theoretical document for at least two generations of readers and writers, T.S. Eliot argues that this historical sense compels a man (sic) to write not merely with his own generation in his bones, but with a feeling that the whole of the literature of his own country has a simultaneous existence and composes a simultaneous order. Hence, "The Wasteland" with its Sanskrit, Dante, and built-in footnotes. Hence, as well, sixty years of other wastelands written by univeristy-trained poets. Eliot's thesis is true as far as it goes, but the wording leaves out at least one sex and several continents and races for consideration of the literatures "he" needs to carry in those writing bones. It also leaves out, by implication, several classes as well. Perhaps this has all been said before, but do we really, considering the training most 54 �of us receive as readers and as writers, do we really know what to make of a writer whose literary generations come from, say Africa rather than Europe? Or whose English has its roots in a Liverpool slum rather than Cambridge? Most of us are not so trained, at least not in our formal educations. The second assumption has to do with the complexity of a poetry, the notion that, before a poetry is worthy of our consideration, it must be full of dark referents, complex in structure and symbol, and twisting with ambiguity. This is, of course, a part of our literary heritage from Eliot. Marge Piercy and Dick Lurie identified at least part of the basis for this notion as lying in the "political economy of poetry." They said, Poetry which can support a large critical apparatus (thus keeping, in a minor way, the wheels of the economy turning) tends to have at least two properties: either it was written far enough into the past (Beowulf) or enough embedded in its own time and place to acquire or excuse an army of companion volumes explaining the references and context of the work. Or, the poem must be dense enough in its symbols and language and structure and difficult and ambiguous enough in its meaning to enable a complicated system to be erected on or alongside it. Poets in the tradition of Eliot who have developed complex ways of saying little have also developed such armies of experts to explain and defend them. Accessible poets like West are ignored. This is not to equate them. There are things—important things—that Eliot can do that West cannot. But that does not justify the imbalance that overrates one type of poet and slights another. The tendency therefore is to prefer the writers on whom we can do extensive critical work. It justifies our roles as teachers and critics. This tendency has two negative effects. First, it tends to leave accessible poets worth the study unnoticed. Second, in terms of modeling for younger writers, it tends to discourage accessible and simple writing. How many of us who are university educated have the courage to write in a simple and accessible style? Those who do, like West, or, to take the example of a younger poet, Lee Howard, run the risk of being ignored. Such poets can virtually guarantee that they will never be studied seriously, not so long as there is a Chicago School. The final assumption we need to address is that poetry is not supposed to say anything. "A poem," we are told, "should not mean but be." Everyone knows this is true, just as everyone knows, when they're honest, that every poem has something to say. Eliot, for example, has some very clear things to say about the English working class, about religion, and about poetry itself. The dishonesty is usually that we tend to attack the poem which carries an uncomfortable truth or one we don't like or a truth so simple and radiant as to deny us the luxury of moral ambiguity. Each one of us, if we have been educated in an American college or university, shares in these assumptions. I remember, in my own education, how immediately I took to Whitman and to Black, and how I had to be "educated" into an appreciation of Eliot. And part of that education we all had was learning to feel inferior at not having all those languages and references and also learning to consider inferior the poetry which lacks them. As readers and writers of poetry we are not trained or encouraged to look for our sources and models outside those largely white males of the upper classes who are sanctioned by history as Eliot defined it. Thus, my straw man holds the following assumptions about poetry: that it must be "literary" in its sources, complex in structure, and morally ambiguous. The poetry of Don West violates each of these sanctions, and is in a sense, a declaration of war on them. So my straw man, with his mindset inherited from Eliot, has ignored Don West for the last fifty years. Luckily, this racist, sexist, and class and culturally biased mindset is being broken down. This is not merely a matter of literary affirmative action, although that is important by itself. Rather it is a matter of knowing good poetry. 55 �We cannot know good poetry until we take a serious look at it, free of the debilitating notion that it cannot be worth our attention unless it is obscure in language and referent. But let's face it. In poetry, there are no rules. There never have been, save that poetry must use a human language to embody a human truth. The more powerful the language and the deeper the truth, the greater the poem. One of the root problems of our time is a debased language and an obscured truth. I maintain that one of the values in the work of Don West and one of the lessons he has for younger poets and writers is that he has a lifetime of "naked words that have no subtle meaning," or as he said it in "Advice to the Would-Be Poets," Away with pious references To patriotism and to prayer, As the naked child is born Let the truth lie cold and bare/ If there is a thing to tell Make it brief and write it plain. Words were meant to shed a light, Not to cover up again/ Therefore, our job is to stop all these complaints against our straw man, and to look, first at the context and tradition in which Don West works, and second, to look at what he as a writer has to offer us. One obvious forefather is Burns, both in the dialect poems with their affirmation of our common humanity, but also in the simple and musical verse of which each is capable. Compare the lines from "Afton Water" Flow gently, sweet Afton, among the green braes, Flow gently, I'll sing thee a song in thy praise; My Mary's asleep by thy murmuring stream, Flow gently, sweet Afton, disturb not her dream. with West's "Memphis": Where Mississippi waters washed garbage from the street death came looking for a man and there the twain did meet. A sullen Southern dampness subdued the bullet whine it found the man in Memphis. He walked the picket line. The Afton and the Mississippi are very different rivers, but there is something of the same music, and a kind of clarity which is all too rare. In both poems, there is not one word out of place nor a word too many. The source in Whitman is obvious. We do not see in West the long line, the mysticism, or the never-ending catalogue. But we do see the same enthusiasm for the common person, the same insistence that we are all part of the same struggle for a greater and more collective consciousness, the same commitment to democracy, and the same attack on racism and prejudice. Yet another obvious source for the poetry of Don West is in didactic folk poetry, both printed and unprinted. These poems are written to preach, teach, and encourage and they appear in local 56 �newspapers, union newsletters, leaflets, pamphlets, and songs. Each week, look in the obituary section of the weekly paper of any mountain county and you will find samples of this form of popular verse. "The Dream of the Miner's Child," which was first published in a nineteenth century issue of The Mineworkers Journal is one good example of this verse. These poems make no pretense to be eternal art. They are universal, in the sense that they mean to teach. Like quilts, they are often socially produced, and they decorate the lives of the people who share them, but they are created primarily for use. We have gotten not of the notion of a poetry for use and have learned to despise it, but the truth is that art for art's sake as it has been taught most of us is a bill of goods. West makes no bones about his conscious break with this tradition. When asked once about the "educational objective" of his poetry, he replied, My poetry is very simple, very clear. I make no effort to be abstract or hard to understand. I feel that the responsibility of a poet is to try to "sensitize" his time and place, his people to the hurt and the hope and problems, the wrongs, the evils and the aspirations of plain ordinary common people. I feel that this is the poet's responsibility... We have been taught to disparage the teaching aspect of poetry. Yet teaching through poetry and in poetry has a long tradition. Pope, as just one example, believed strongly in the teaching aspect of poetry. In fact, the notion that poetry does not teach is the more recent and radical notion. In poetry and the art of poetry, there are, I believe, three kinds of teachers, each of them useful in a different way. The first is the teacher of rote learning, such as reading and the multiplication tables or automechanics or accounting or that tedious list of presidents of the United States. A good example is the first grade teacher each of us had. The second sort of teacher does not merely pass on skills and facts, but leads us to new ways of thinking. We see this dramatized in the Dialogues of Plato. We also see it in Engels in his very lucid writings on dialectics, Ely in recent poetry, or, if she taught us to trust ourselves and to open our imaginations, that same first grade teacher. The third teaches the basic truths which, in any society built on injustice and therefore on lies, are continually denied, mystified, or disputed. These truths must constantly be rescued from obscurity. The method is simple. Jesus was a master of this teacher, as were, in the novel, Tolstoy, and in poetry, Whitman. In our day and in our nation, Don West is one of the few such teachers we have. Listen: The people know more than they tell—always. The people know they don't have to live in misery forever, that they belong to each other, that they belong together... 1 1 Unity is an axe... The axe of wisdom— Sharpened in the University of Toil and Hunger. It's a mighty weapon In the hands of croppers and workers. It chops down fruitless trees. It is like a keen scythe Mowing down greed And exploitation. It's a sledgehammer 57 �Battering at the shackles That bind men. It is poetry and song On the lips of those who have long been silent... It might be objected that such a poem is something of a sledge hammer itself, that it lacks the subtlety, and ambiguity, and verbal play that characterize what we consider to be modern verse. Of course, this is all true, but it misses the point. West is deliberately avoiding subtlety, ambiguity, and verbal play. Clarity, simplicity, and repetition are the tools of a teacher. But there is a profound difference between such simplicity and simple-mindedness. Florence Reece's question "Which side are you on?" is an example of profound simplicity, for in such matters there are only two sides. Ambiguity, as it is explored by a poet like Robert Lowell, is a way of opening up the world to us. In other hands, and in certain situations, ambiguity obscures the world. For example, ambiguity in the hands of the Fugitive Poets obscures the reality of social relations in the South. What, exactly, is subtle about pellegra? Or a lynching? West's intention is not to explore subtlety where none exists or to obscure blatant social truths. His plan is to teach. This poem, "Unity Is An Axe," is a good example of West's didactic verse. It contains, in brief, several of the themes and motifs found in West's work. First, it is addressed to Kim Mulkey, West's own grandfather and an archetypal symbol in West's verse for the poor white Appalachian farmer who struggles against his own poverty and who passes down his humane values to his children and to their children. The poem itself is an attack on racism that obscures the real relations between Black and White. Forget your skin Is black or white. Pull back the scales That hide you From the future/ Unity, the axe, cuts through the lies and obscurities that keep us from a better future. This lesson is learned in the "University" of poverty, and this lesson is available to anyone who removes the scales from his or her eyes. Those who graduate from this university end their silence. They speak out, presumably, with the same clarity and force that this poem demonstrates and encourages. Unity, an end to the silence of the oppressed, the force of common speech, the dignity of labor, and a vision of a better life possible from the struggle are all touched on in this poem. Wipe your eyes, Kim. Look/ She waits to greet you. Shake her hand. Don't mind the dung on your own— She likes them oil-smeared. Look up, Kim, greet the Future, Give her your hand/ The symbols here are obvious. They are borrowed from the Bible, farm life, and the staples of political rhetoric. We have a personified Future which greets the liberated workers and croppers. There is some confusion as to antecedents, whether we are greeting Unity or the Future, but this is unimportant and in no way obscures the message. The poem is utterly opaque. There is nothing hidden in the verbal interstices. There is nothing startling here in image, thought, or form. And yet the poem strikes me as deeply felt and competent. Why? I think because West sets clear goals for 58 �himself in the poem and does what he needs to do. He has a truth, which is not a new or original truth, but it is an utterly necessary truth. And he has a language for that truth, which is simple and suitable for the job at hand. He is a teacher, not an innovator. "I have no desire to be different," he once told an interviewer, "in any way that does not make a difference." What does make a difference is his persistence, clarity, and commitment. Almost alone among his generation of Southern poets (one thinks also of John Beecher, another ignored poet) West raised these issues of class and race oppression. It is instructive to remember that, like the Fugitive Poets, Don West is also a graduate of Vanderbilt, although of a later period. The Fugitives, it will be remembered, were a widely respected school of modernist poets centered in Nashville. Their response to the crassness of Southern culture was to take flight in regionalism, traditionalism, and classicism. They were dutiful sons of Eliot and had read "Tradition and the Individual Talent.'' From that standpoint, they could write of a South of gentility and culture that, if it ever existed in any form, existed to mask genuinely brutal social relations based on slavery, landgrabbing, and poverty. Only rarely, as in Allen Tate's "The Swimmers," do they even acknowledge social relations as they really are. Thus, John Crowe Ransom could write of the South, in "Old Mansion," Emphatically, the old house crumbled; the ruins Would litter, as already the leaves, this petted sward; And no annalist went in to the lord or the peons; The antiquary would finger the bits of shard and so on. Compare the gentle irony of this piece to West's "Bill Dalton's Wife," His shore was painful The way Bill Dalton's wife Lay up thar on Bull Creek An' suffered out her life. The granny women from Over on Wolf Creek's head Come to tend the labor An' thar found Lizzy dead. The babe was crossed, Bill said. The doctor wouldn't come— Bill was powerfully in debt An" couldn't pay the sum. I would like to ask my straw man why the Ransom poem, and not "Bill Dalton's Wife" is the poem which is anthologized, taught, and held up as a model for younger writers. Is it really because of that gently irony, that careful rhythm? Or is it because of the racist lie that Ransom so delicately tells? "Bill Dalton's Wife" is just one of West's earlier poems in dialect, and one of his more successful. It has all the strengths of its simplicity, and again, we do not have a word out of place or a word too many. By placing such an elegy, with its simple dignity, in dialect, West is also making a statement about the dignity of the Appalachian poor. In later poems, he makes this lesson more explicit, as he does in his ground-breaking essays on Appalachian history and culture. There is much more that could be said about the poetry of Don West. We could look, for example, at the many bardic, prophetic poems that denounce the present social system and offer a vi59 �sion of the new, or the poems of historical sweep that cover generations of Appalachian history in a few lines. And we could look at the flaws and weaknesses in the poems, the flat prosaic language that sneaks in, his tendency to try to do too much. But we have said enough. My point is that Don West deserves the attention of critics and anthologists and that he has something to offer younger poets as a model. There are now a number of Appalachian poets who are working in region or classidentified modes, with a striving toward clarity, simplicity, and accessibility. They are working the same ground with new tools, and they can raise a different crop. But it was Don West who first plowed that field, who first showed that it could be done. 60 �Mary Lee Settle's Transmontane Society Nancy Carol Joyner Mary Lee Settle, native of Charleston, West Virginia, author of O Beulah Land, nine other novels, one autobiographical work, one historical study, uncounted short pieces of fiction and journal articles, winner of the National Book Award in 1978 for Blood Tie, a novel set in contemporary Turkey, is unquestionably one of the most significant Appalachian writers working today. I suspect that most of you are familiar with her name and few of you have read much of her work. That certainly was my situation until this year, when I was asked to write an article about her for a collection about contemporary southern women writers. Having set out to read as much as I could by and about Mary Lee Settle, I discovered a lot: principally that she has written more substantial, highly wrought novels than I imagined when I agreed to do this project, and that the critical attention to her is downright weird. On the one hand she has received laudatory reviews with each novel she has published since her serious writing career began in 1954, and on the other hand what little scholarship there has been about her—and there has been precious little—has about it an air of irrascibility. George Garrett, one of her few champions, is irrascible that she has not received her due attention by critics and reviewers. He has said that when she won the National Book Award in 1978 the Press seemed to be embarrassed by it, since its members generally had not read the book and so had nothing to say.1 Last July with the publication of The Killing Ground she made the New York Times Book Review's front page, where Aaron Latham goes on record as saying that since he had noticed her powers diminishing in the last °& years, he feared that this book would be "a stripped mine," but discovers after he gets in the middle of the book that it does contain ore worth mining after all.2 His conclusion is that Settle should go back over the five novels, remove the slag from them, and compress them all into a single work. That view is especially ironic in light of facts which Latham appears to have overlooked, that The Killing Ground is a revision of Fight Night on a Sweet Saturday and is double the length of the previous volume. Even the laudatory reviews are tempered by complaints about her prolixity, her confusing plethora of characters, her unwarranted shifting point of view, her too conventional treatment of her theme, her too unorthodox treatment of it, etc. The one serious critical article that I have found, which appeared in the Appalachian Journal in the Autumn, 1982, issue, is perceptive, well-written, and irrascible. In his article on the Beulah Quintet, William J. Schafer offers at the outset his opinion that Settle is "an ambitious, accomplished, and impressive writer of fiction and reportage."3 He then goes on to complain about her elliptical, fragmentary structure (like that of Forster but not so successful as his), her use of the little man rather than important historical figures in writing about historical events, (like that of Crane but no so comprehendable as his), and her tangential approach to history (like that of Tolstoy but not, you guessed it, as successful as his). After he holds her work up to compare it with that of past giants of the genre, he then goes on to mention, in one of the most insightful pieces of criticism I have read, her methods for achieving continuity in writing a five-volume series that 61 �covers a time span of over 300 years. This conclusion is that in the last analysis Mary Lee Settle lacks a broad, panoramic view of history. I agree with Professor Schafer's premise but not his conclusion. What I want to do today is to begin with the assumption that Settle's work is sufficiently accomplished and impressive to be worth study and to go about discussing some of the specific qualities of that art. My focus will be on the methods she uses to convey class consciousness in three of the novels in the Beulah Quintet. She does it principally through two kinds of details, interior decoration and dress.4 The first book I read by Settle, O Beulah Land, gave me a shock of recognition, for the frontier society which she portrayed was stratified. Not only were the settlers of different nationalities, but also they were of different backgrounds and circumstances. The first character we see is Hannah Bridewell, who has escaped from the Indians, having been captured during General Braddock's defeat. Hannah, we are later told, is in Virginia because she was transported, a convicted thief. She is rescued in the forest by Jeremiah Catlett, who had been sold as a bond slave by his father in Liverpool, and, after being mistreated in the new world and been born again, has escaped to the woods. The person most responsible for settling Beulah land, however, is Johnny Lacey, whose background is never specified but who has married into a wealthy family from the eastern shore. After Lacey has done his duty fighting in the French and Indian war, he stakes a claim just west of the Continental Divide and goes about establishing a settlement there. Several years after their marriage, he brings his wife, Sally Lacey, to the house he has built for her. Sally mingles with the other pioneers as little as possible, insisting that two campfires be built each night when they make camp. "I know ye're agin the two fires, but we got to learn them their place.' " she tells her husband. " 'Tis important to keep decorum, especially now' " (p. 201). The trip over the mountains is an arduous one, but there is only one real disaster, as Sally sees it. Just before their arrival, a wagon tips over and down and loses its cargo. Sally is distraught because in the accident are all but one of her "blue and white Cheeny plates, all sent from England" (p. 210). The single remaining plate becomes a symbol for status thereafter, being placed on a chimney ledge. When Sally has the other women in for hot chocolate, (which none of them knows how to drink) she allows each of them to hold it briefly and tells them that she once had had six such plates: "Ye niver had six of them/" Mary Martha was shocked. "I did too. I'll swear." Sal was firm. "Well, I'll be a cockeyed son of a bitch," [said another] and passed her leathery finger over the plate's surface (p. 227). Jonathan is dismayed beyond anger at Sally's behavior and tries to explain her new position in life, which her husband sees as basically democratic: "Now listen to me, ye poor leetle gel. There's a mightly lot ye've got to leave behind ye, over the mountains Tomorrow morning ye're goin to take a hoe over your shoulder, and ye're going down to the stockade field, and ye're going to work all day like a Negrew to show ye're one with the rest of us" (p. 223). But Sal didn't work in the field. The other women thought the work far to strenuous for someone with such delicate hands. They also wouldn't let her start such popish practices as holding Sunday services using a Prayer Book either. There is no doubt that Sally puts on airs. She calls the loft the second floor of the house, and is so unsatisfied with it, the finest house in the settlement, that she encourages everyone who passes by the river bank to bring home one rock so that the house might eventually boast a stone veneer. When her daughter marries beneath her, as inevitably she must, Sally manages the festivities all 62 �right, but when she thinks she is out of earshot she tells her husband, "All them cohees, common as dirt, entertained like they was quality. To think a daughter of mine should fetch up with such dirt as that." (p. 299). She insists on calling Beulah Cicero, the Greek reference apparently more upper class sounding to her than the Biblical one. In the second novel in the series, Know Nothing, the descendants of the Laceys, named Catlett, control Beulah. The novel begins in 1831, when the country was in a post-Jackson panic, and when the Brandon Laceys, the eastern branch of the family who are in financial straits, come to visit their "backwoods Catlett kin" (p. 13). Salley Lacey objects to Brandon's calling them that, and admonishes him that "they are Virginians even if they are transmontane." When they arrive they admire the new three-story brick house and the furnishings in the parlor, the red plush sofa, the table with the velvet covering whose fringe lay "gracefully abandoned on the flowered carpet, like a woman's skirts." (p. 58). Sally is gushingly enthusiastic: " 'Oh Brandon!" she said...Le dernier cri! They've got flock paper! Why can't we have it?...All the latest thing—oh, our little old furniture we've just had for generations!' " (p. 58) The backwoods kin are as conscious of fashion as their Tidewater relatives, and, by the mid-19th century, their position as members of the upper class has become as substantial as the heavy elegance of their house. The house belonging to the Laceys in the third volume of the Beulah quintet is even more imposing. The opening scene in The Scapegoats shows the daughters of the house gathered around the newest appendage, a Catling Gun in the front yard. It has been placed there not to be used, but as a warning to the incipient strikers in the coal mine owned by Beverly Lacey. Again the interior of the Lacey house is elaborately described, just as is the interior of the Catlett house, much less elegant now, for there some of the descendants of Beulah now reside, literally, on the other side of the tracks. Jake Catlett is employed by his cousin Beverly to work in the mine, and his wife is the cook for the Laceys. They gave her an old couch for her living room. Mrs. Lacey calls it Chippendale, but Jake, to tease, calls it Chickendale. The Catletts are of course socially superior to the Italian immigrants who work in the mine. When the threat of a strike appeared they were turned out of their cabins and were forced to pitch tents on Catlett property. If Settle is careful in her description of decoration of houses to indicate class, she pays even more attention to the clothes people wear, especially the women. In Beulah Land Hannah Catlett first appears having escaped from the Indians with her clothes in shreds. Her common law husband, Jeremiah Catlett, dresses her in deer skin and panther fur. When Sally Lacey writes to her husband away fighting with General Braddock, she tells him that she is to get a "new set of tamboured Ruffles" for her sister's wedding, but the sister will get a new dress, made of watered silk. When her daughter marries Ezekial Catlett, she is dismayed that he arrives for his wedding in buckskins "that had taken nearly the winter to make fine enough" (p. 295). A predominant theme in Know Nothing is the clothes of the women. One scene describes Melinda Lacey frantically cutting off the ruffles from the top of her dress and sewing them on her petticoat: "She closed her eyes and tried to recall the exact shape of the Northern ladies' Paris dresses, how they looked like they had risen out of clear water and not like a big gob of soapsuds" (p. 166). There is much talk of corsets, hoops, and ruffles, and whispers that some women are commiting the sin of wearing rings at breakfast. In The Scapegoat all the Lacey girls wear white. They are allowed to sit at the main table—for decoration—when a coal baron arrives in his private train (not a private car on the train, mind you, but in his private train). Lily, the eldest daughter, is determined to go into the mine and does so on 63 �the night the miners have walked out. Of course she gets her white dress filthy when she flits up to the coal face. Even so, the men who see her emerge think she is the ghost they have been told haunts the mine. Mary Lee Settle was a fashion model before she became a writer, a fact which may account for her skill at describing dress. My final example of her attention to clothes is a description of a hat that the middle sister, Althea, remembers. This passage not only indicates the symbolic significance of clothes in The Scapegoat, but also shows Settle's power and versatility as a writer: Oh I was the loveliest thing when I was a girl. Mother had bought me a hat in the Via Condotti in Rome. It was the loveliest thing you ever saw and it cost the earth, pale gray clouds of georgette with pink rosebuds faint behind them. I can still smell that smell of a costly hat before the Great War, smell of tissue paper, silk, and straw and hear the sound of the weightless lifting of it, a rustle and a falling breeze of tissue paper, and it had no weight at all and I moored it to my head with my best hatpin, filigreed gold, oh absolutely lovely, and I sallied out to meet my dear one who had followed us all the way from Lausanne. We were madly in love. Shit. I don't even remember his name. But I do remember the black trees, and the old, old shade, and I remember the hat, perched on the grass like a gray dove and I lost my cherry in the Borghese Gardens (p. 150). What I have done today is to talk about two minor motifs which decorate an extraordinarily rich and varied fictional canvas. Mary Lee Settle's books are large and complex and not easy to read. But I recommend her to you. She does us proud that we can claim her as an Appalachian writer. Footnotes '"Mary Lee Settle," DLB: American Novelists Since World War II, Second Series (1980). 2 "The End of the Beulah Quintet," NYTBR, 11 July 1982, p. 21. '"Mary Lee Settle's Beulah Quintet: History Darkly, Through a Single-Lens Reflex," Appalachian Journal, 10 (1982), 77-86. 4 Page numbers in parenthesis following quotations in the text are taken from the following novels by Mary Lee Settle: O Beulah Land. New York: Ballantine, c. 1956; 1981. Know Nothing. New York: Ballantine, c. 1960; 1981. (Also published under the title, Pride's Promise, New York: Pinnacle, 1976.) The Scapegoat. New York: Random House, 1980. 64 �Appalachian Politics and Government 65 �This page intentionally left blank �Newsmaking and Social Change in Eastern Kentucky: "Why Aren't They Telling Our Side?" Sally Ward Maggard Introduction Ever since Night Comes to the Cumberlands became standard reading on "the Appalachian problem," people have been altered to the fact that residents of mountain communities do not have control over use of the region's natural resources. Residents do not own the vast majority of the land. They do no own the minerals underneath the land. And they do not own the extractive industries which draw out these minerals.1 Domination in Appalachia, however, is much more complicated than control of land and natural resources. The economic and political power associated with patterns of ownership and control is integrally related to another form of power—the power to set the terms of a community's selfunderstanding. People with that power fashion the fools we use to interpret everyday life. They control access to information, and they influence values and self-perceptions. In short, through a series of subtle and complex processes, they wield a form of cultural power. The processes involved in shaping consciousness and situationally defining knowledge are complicated. As powerful interests strive to universalize their own beliefs, they attempt to use and influence a whole range of social structures and institutions—such as schools, churches, unions, the family, and the media. Taken together, these institutions—the cultural apparatus of a society—produce commonsense notions of what "reality" is like. In academic circles, the power to shape definitions of reality is known as "cultural hegemony." Central to any understanding of cultural hegemony is the recognition that domination may occur through ideas. If people believe, for instance, that individual profit-making, aggresssion, competition, and male authority are inherent in the "natural" order of things—are God-given, so to speak—then they will accept their own inferior statuses. Personal inferiority, inequality in general, and the exploitation of other people become part of a worldview that legitimates the power and privilege of dominant elites. No use of force or threat of force is needed to maintain the status quo. Instead, domination is maintained through widely held social, political, and cultural assumptions which saturate everyday notions of reality. This power is essentially the power to manufacture consent.2 It is within the institutions making up the cultural apparatus that the business of creating and maintaining cultural dominance is carried out. My concern in this paper is with one of those institutions—the news media. The media bring people their concepts, symbols, images of heroines 67 �and heroes, emotional charges, directional information, definitions of public values, even their language. As a result, there is great potential to reinforce the dominant order. Recent evaluations of the national news media have detailed ways in which modern news organizations produce a news product that is virtually always system-supportive. For instance, in Making News, Gaye Tuchman (1978) analyzes internal dynamics in newsmaking which "frame" the everyday world for news consumers in ways that legitimate the status quo. This framing process, she shows, inhibits inquiry, blocks analysis, and hinders social action. Todd Gitlin (1980), in The Whole World is Watching, reveals a series of denigrating techniques routinely used in covering protest movements which limit the terms of opposition in society. Harvey Molotch and Marilyn Lester (1974, 1975) expose the ways in which the news product mirrors the purposes and programs of powerful economicand political elites, rather than reality. And Robert Spiegelman's (1982) analysis of the media's manipulation of the growing antinuclear movement reveals subtle (and not so subtle) ways in which the media designates and controls the meanings of "issues." This body of research highlights routine aspects of newsmaking in modern news organizations, internal dynamics of the profession, and canons of the craft of journalism which operate to protect dominant interests. Little research, however, has been done on the hegemonic role of the local press in this country. It is this role of the local press that is the focus of this paper. In particular, this paper explores the relationship of community papers in eight eastern Kentucky counties to social change efforts. The Question of Press/Community Bonds Journalists have long tended to dismiss the provincial press as flatly unable to even approximate unbiased, investigative reporting which is supposed to be the hallmark of professional journalism (Ghiglione, 1978). Close intergration of the paper and the local community, including links between owners and local elites, the argument goes, prohibit the local press from operating as a neutral gadfly, protecting the public interest. This assumption—that distance from both the community and from powerful local interests will allow a critical news product—is faulty. In the first place, research on the national press, as indicated above, solidly documents the failure of even the cream of the profession to perform the "fourth estate," or protector-of-the-public role. Furthermore, some journalists believe that breaking community/press bonds poses a threat to any possibility for a "free" press. Ben Bagdikian is one of the few nationally known journalists to maintain an active critical stance toward his own profession. Alarmed by recent dramatic increases in the control of information organizations by a relatively small number of corporations, Bagdikian charges that some "one hundred men and women constitute a private Ministry of Information and Culture for the United States"—less than 100 corporate executives have ultimate control of the majority of each medium in this country (1979:15-16). As a result, journalism is now almost totally included in conglomerate corporations that are regularly reported, or unreported, in the media. The resulting conflicts of interest are frightening. Robert Spiegelman (1982) has recently shown that these fears are justified. In his analysis of coverage of the antinuclear movement, Spiegelman reviews intimate links between the major mass media organizations and the military-industrialbanking complex, which has much to lose if the movement breaks a national commitment to nuclear power and nuclear armament. He then dissects news coverage to reveal what he calls the militarization of the media, a series of reporting strategies which make disarmament unthinkable 68 �and depress and co-opt the real desire for disarmament into consensual support for an extended and elite-defined and managed arms control process. In addition to facing severe conflicts of interest with owners, managers of media organizations increasingly find themselves reporting to a new constituency. Stockholders now surpass both readers and advertisers as primary constitutents. Expanding size and rate of profit in order to maintain or gain a place on securities exchanges, the declaration of ever-growing dividends, competition for investment dollars as well as news consumers, are all forcing changes in the content and style of journalism, including a decline in the amount of serious news provided (Bagdikian, 1979; Tuchman, 1978; Gitlin, 1981). An additional challenge to the idea that distance from community increases chances for objective, investigative reporting comes from my own summary of the national press/Appalachia connection. The national press, despite its great distance from coalfield communities, has failed miserably in coverage of such issues and events as the 1977-78 national coal strike, wildcat strikes in the coalfields in 1976 and 1977, a West Virginia school textbook controversy, strip mine control legislation, persistent flooding, coal mine disasters, and federal development programs.3 The Local News Media and Social Change The question of closeness or distance from a community is not helpful in analyzing the media's role in setting the terms of a community's self-understanding. Instead, the media—both the national and the local media—need to be critiqued from the standpoint of their hegemonic role in a society. This approch raises much more appropriate questions such as how a news organization provides or blocks access to information, how it influences values, how it influences self-perceptions, and what tools it provides for interpreting everyday life. The kinds of issues and events generated in Eastern Kentucky have the potential for breaking through generally accepted interpretations of reality and exposing the operation of class interests in the social structure.4 Coverage of such events as coal strikes, mine disasters, citizen protests against strip mining, and community organizing around quality of life issues has the potential of demonstrating the inner workings of the social order. The possibility is there for reaching such bottom-line questions as, "Why does any one have the right to privately own and develop a country's energy resources?" or "Why, in a democracy, does a small group of people have the right to garner vast private fortunes from these resources while totally disregarding consequences to people and community?" Eastern Kentucky, then, located in the heart of central Appalachia, provides an excellent place to study the hegemonic functioning of the local press. Historically, the local press in the mountains endorsed the industrialization of the region as the arrival of the promised land. Generally speaking, the early local papers in central Appalachia were run by people who enthusiastically supported and helped legitimate the carving up of the agricultural economy into an industrialized natural resource base. They hoped to establish themselves in the new economy and in the new social hierarchy, welcome agents from financial centers of the nation and Europe with open arms, and blatantly denounce the preindustrial culture and history (Maggard, 1981: 33-42). They also served to help quell protest and block dissent which frequently broke out as the new economic order was established (Gaventa, 1980; Dreiser, 1970). Today, the Eastern Kentucky press defies simple catagorization. During the summer of 1977, I interviewed editors, publishers and staff members of local papers in eight eastern Kentucky counties. I also interviewed residents who had direct experience in trying to get access to local media. 69 �My objective was to develop a profile of the local newspaper business and to evaluate its response to a variety of organizing efforts, all of which raised serious challenges to corporate and government policy in central Appalachia. I expected that a fairly homogeneous picture would emerge. Instead, I found a diversified group of business people with a wide range of perspectives on local news and on Eastern Kentucky. And I found varying degrees of openness to critical analysis of issues, ranging from dramatic instances of the local press as protector of local elites to what is probably one of the most open papers in this country. Newspaper owner and editor Tom Gish has the broadest view of the power to inform of all the local editors I interviewed. His Letcher County paper, The Mountain Eagle,' has won national recognition for its solid reporting and strong stands. The list of topics regularly covered in The Eagle reads like a "Who's Who" of Appalachian problems: coal mine safety, unemployment, strip mining, education, welfare reform, statehouse and courthouse politics, toxic waste, federal development strategies, child care, health care, flooding, taxation, and on and on. Gish has been unique in his willingness to unleash young investigative reporters interning at the paper: "I stay out of their way except to avoid libel." They cut their journalistic teeth on some of the toughest issues in the mountains. Still, he feels it is an uphill battle to stay current on regional issues, and he would like to see an information-sharing network: Vast areas of public affairs are going unreported by anybody—education, child care, pollution, medicine. Keeping up with mine safety administration alone would take one full time person, and more. We need a dozen able people, separated into specialities to monitor programs....We're all proceeding in the dark as it is now. We are at a point of crisis in the mountains and don't know what to do about it. Your plans and schemes of the past haunt you. There is no question that there is massive development of coal and electricity ahead. That includes dams, water, coal waste, black lung. But this time it will be much more exaggerated than ever before. In Eastern Kentucky, Gish said, "just to keep up with the main news currents and breaking events, it would take ten reporters and one quarter of a million dollar budget." Gish's view of the proper domain of a newspaper would be comparable to visions of any of the country's most distinguished journalists. He believes that the local press in Eastern Kentucky sells its readership short and sells itself short: "They perceive their readers as ignorant and uniterested. All too many community papers are doing it." If The Eagle's relationship with its readership is any indication, Gish is right. The paper survived a long period when most local advertisers blacklisted it. Gish relied on subscriptions and sales until local businesses came back for advertising space in the widely circulating paper. The Eagle's popularity indicates that readers want more information, analysis, and involvement with their local papers.6 The kind of empowerment Gish envisions through access to information is a direct threat to the core interests of the elite in the mountains and in the nation. Giving rank and file miners broad rights to determine the conditions of their work, for instance, is a direct challenge to the dominant philosophy of coal mining in America which values production and profits over safety (Bethell, 1978). His paper survives without the support of most coal company people. "They won't have anything to do with us," he admits. "Working miners support us. The lines are drawn fairly sharply." Another refreshing paper in the overall Eastern Kentucky local media picture was the Herald Voice in Hazard, Kentucky. Even though the paper has since been sold and its progressive publisher has left Hazard, I include this summary to give more ideas about the potential in the local press. 70 �Publisher Don Gipson was one of several people running local papers who wanted to see a major daily come out of Eastern Kentucky as powerful as Louisville's Courier-Journal. "Hazard and Perry County make up a great news-producing area. I've never seen another place like it," Gipson said. "I'd move to a daily immediately if I could. We could help other Eastern Kentucky papers upgrade themselves, providing a photo service and a news service. I'd develop a mountain theme. You can be sure I would be printing both sides of the streams!" In the two and one-half years Gipson had been with the paper, there was plenty of evidence that he would run a news organization which would try to achieve such objectivity. He had already given news coverage to Perry Countians who never before had it: (1) a tribute to Frances "Granny" Hager whose death saddened hundreds of coal miners sympathetic to the UMWA and the Black Lung Association—this in a county noted for its anti-union power elite; (2) front page coverage of a neighborhood strip mine protest over damaged roads and threats to children riding school buses; (3) front page coverage of violence at a UMWA picket line which reflected miners' concerns; (4) front page coverage of complaints from public housing residents which reached a rentstrike stage and exposed deep-set racism in the area. Gipson's openness was, like Gish's, apparently paying off. His circulation was up from 3,400 when he took over the paper to 6,200. The paper's credibility seemed firmly established in the community, and not only with the local Chamber of Commerce of which Gipson was a member. Willard Akers, President for 16 years of the United Steel Workers local at the Hazard Appalachian Regional Hospital, summed up what he thought his fellow union members felt about the paper: We're proud of Don Gipson and our local paper. I've never gone to Don and asked for a story that we didn't get what we wanted. He's written our side of our contract strikes and he has run pictures of our local union members and our picket lines. That endorsement, from a man who was also one of the first United Mine Workers organizers in Perry County, indicates that the paper was committed to representing more than Perry County's local elites. Some local papers were not so easy to describe as progressive, although on particular issues, coverage was at times critical of Eastern Kentucky's power relationships. The best example of this sort of paper is the Floyd County Times (FCT). Since the paper was founded in 1927, the FCT has always born the mark of its first editor and long-time owner, Norman Allen. The Allen family's vision of the proper scope of the FCT stops at the county line. The Aliens see the paper as a nice, respectable business. They feel they cover the county's needs and that they live up to the promise of its masthead: "Speaking of and for Floyd County." But the Allen family and many Floyd County residents apparently have very different ideas about what it means to speak for the county. The paper's coverage of widespread abuse of federal medical programs by the area medical establishment provides an example. During the late 1960s and early 1970s, the Floyd County-based Eastern Kentucky Welfare Rights Organization (EKWRO) exposed the federal health care program operating there as one of the most corrupt in the nation and eventually got it defunded (Couto, 1975). But the FCT did not touch the issue until EKWRO had attracted the national press. A large public hearing was the turning point of the fight, and that was the first time the local paper covered the issue. Nick Frasure, then a member of EKWRO, described editor Norman Allen's response to the hearing: "He just grabbed someone at the end to get a story. There never was an analysis of the issues in the local papers." 71 �After the federal health program was shut down and efforts to reopen it with community people on the board failed, EKWRO moved to organize its own working class community clinic. The Mud Creek Health Project was born, a remarkable and historic effort by people usually thought to be fatalistic and ignorant. Eula Hall, EKWRO member and principal organizing strength behind the clinic, could not get local coverage for the clinic for years. She finally got one front page FCT story with pictures: "It was when we opened the miners' breathing clinic. But that was the first time they covered the clinic—after it was already several years old." EKWRO also waged a battle to get public school lunches and breakfasts into the Floyd County Schools. Kentucky lagged behind the nation in implementing the program, and EKWRO managed to get the first Kentucky lunch policy written. The local paper, however, ignored the issue and EKWRO's organizing efforts until the national and state press highlighted the controversy. Marie Childers, a UMWA widow at Auxier, Kentucky, led a 1977 fight against Austin Powder Company in Floyd County. The company's ammonium nitrate loading dock was plaguing the Auxier coal camp with chemical dust pollution, and trucks at its loading dock were completely blocking traffic. Paul Allen, reporter and photographer at the FCT and son of its owner, lived at Auxier. Still, Mrs. Childers could not get FCT coverage: The FCT has never come to see me or anyone else. I haven't ever seen them through this whole thing. I don't even know if they have any reporters! I've never known it if the FCT has covered a problem of any kind in this county...and they are the ones that could help us the most. I don't know of a house in Auxier that doesn't get it. David Allen, managing editor and another son, commented only: "We covered it." A general anti-union sentiment is clear at the FCT. Barbara Heinz, Allen's daughter who "does just about everything" at the FCT, described 1977 efforts to organize a chapter of the 1199 National Union of Hospital and Health Care Employees at an area hospital: "It was union trouble. Some workers didn't want to join, but would have to if it went in." Shirley Hill, wife of a UMWA miner, complained that the FCT did not cover meetings of the UMWA, even during the wildcat strikes of 1977 that were getting national attention. There is widespread sentiment in Eastern Kentucky that local papers could provide information which citizens crucially need. Marie Childers pointed out that local papers could help save lives by focusing on mine safety: "We need coverage. Not just on explosions in the mines after they happen. We need stories before the disasters. That would help change the mines." Her husband had been a mine electrician and had held various offices in the UMWA from the time the union was first organized. She could not recall any unbiased FCT coverage of issues important to miners. Managing editor David Allen appears to have little interest in mine safety: "The small mines are better regulated now and the big companies have been a long time." The fact that coal mining remains one of the most hazardous occupations in the U.S. does not tie into the Aliens' vision of what a local paper in a coal county should cover. "Norman accepts deep mines as part of the scene, or as a job for the UMWA to worry about," explained John Rosenberg, director of Kentucky Appalachian Research and Defense Fund: "Most people don't realize safety is as fad as it is. Norman might write more if he knew more about it himself. He regularly reprints stories from the CourierJournal." Since those stories regularly highlight dangers in mining, I find Rosenberg's excuse unsatisfactory. Recent stories in the Courier, for instance, had suggested that small operators were shutting down during the day and working at night to avoid inspectors. I asked David Allen if FCT was planning any coverage: " No." Furthermore, Allen was sitting on top of some key stories 72 �which he should have run and could have fed into the national and state media, helping to interpret the 1977 coal strike. Ernest Day, President of UMWA Local Union 1827, and a miner at Island Creek's Pevler Mine, described reasons why wildcat strikes had erupted that year: We can't keep a safety committee up there. They take dead aim on the safety committee and bring charges against each miner. Then it winds up in arbitration and the men get thrown out. Somebody needs to expose what the companies are doing to block us from having any say on safety. We don't have any choice but to strike. They company won't honor the contract and our men are constantly harrassed. Day laughed when I asked him if the FCT covered such issues behind the winter's wildcat strikes. Nick Erasure, now director of the Floyd County Field Service Office of the West Virginia Appalachian Research and Defense Fund, stressed the need for information to interpret the coal contract strike that year. People were facing such complex issues as abuses of the miners' health care cards, coal company refusals to honor the 1974 contract, company efforts to undermine the arbitration process, the relationships between the Health and Retirement Fund and the Union itself: Most people don't even know the Fund and the Union aren't the same thing. The papers could really help. All you hear about is how the wildcats last year broke the Fund. Nobody will get into the issues...Nobody is sending out reporters to try and talk to the UMWA locals....In the FCT you find out what's happening to people—who dies, who is visiting from Michigan. ..But what we need is a paper that will jump on the issues the print the damn facts. Frasure added, "If the FCT has a roving reporter, it don't rove no further than the local drug store." An aggressive investigative stance by the FCT is highly unlikely. I asked each paper how it would change its coverage if it had an unlimited budget. The FCT's vision is very limited. The staff suggested more coverage from the State Police and the county court house, adding more local photographs, purchasing syndicated features, and expanding the "social notes." The FCT has voiced strong opposition to the broad form deed (which gives owners of mineral rights precedence over the owners of surface rights). Owner Norman Allen listed it as "one of my pet peeves." The family also seems generally opposed to strip mining. But that sentiment is restrained in print. "Dad has urged strong protection from strip mine abuses," David Allen said, "but he knows coal is the base of our economy here." When flooding, aggravated by stripping, in the spring of 1977 devastated the coalfields of southwestern Virginia, eastern Kentucky, and parts of West Virginia, then Kentucky governor Julian Carroll placed part of the blame on farming practices. "The whole county was mad about that statement," Barbara Heinz said. "The state has never done anything about strip mining. Julian Carroll is strictly business," David Bell added. But the FCT did not write anything about Carroll's refusal to link stripping and the floods. Both Heinz and Allen insisted: "We don't ever rabble-rouse here at the FCT." Covering publically stated positions by a state governor on an issue that affected thousands of residents was considered rabble-rousing—precisely because coverage would not challenge the position of dominant elites. The FCT does not offer the possibility for broad community access of feedback. It does little to encourage people to think about crucial issues. It censors by news blackout those conscientious efforts by groups to act on issues, thereby helping to contain threats to the existing power relations. "A nice, respectable business" as a vision is a far cry from Gish's approach to The Eagle or from what Don Gipson hoped to develop in Hazard. Further south in eastern Kentucky there is a "small city paper" which dramatically illustrated that the power of the media lies as much in what is unwritten as in what appears in print. The Tri 73 �Cities News (TCN) in Harlan County circulates through the coal towns of Cumberland, Benham, and Lynch. Founded by the Freeman family of Harlan County, it changed hands several times and was owned by Press Company at the time of my interviews. Again, I include this description to illustrate the state of the local press in the late 1970s. Press Company, which no longer owns the paper,8 also published a sports magazine and state parks publications. Editor Bob Watson was sent from northern Kentucky to run the paper, and he quickly learned how to fade into the woodwork of the coalfields: "I haven't received a lot of reaction from anything I have written. I can't recall ever getting a letter to the editor on anything I've done." "I have a good relationship with all the public bodies I cover," Watson said. "That's because I give objective, unbiased coverage." To Watson, those public bodies meant the town council, education boards, and police departments—a news net which leaves out a lot of the action in those three cities. Lynch, for instance, is the base of one of the largest and most militant UMWA locals in the nation. But Watson had not gotten up with that public body. In face, he brought the wrath of the UMWA down on his head soon after he arrived in the area when he ran an editorial critical of the United Auto Workers' contract. "I should have known better, right here in UMWA country," Watson said. The Lynch UMWA local has been one of the most outspoken groups calling for stronger mine safety legislation. But Watson had not tapped this obvious lead for news. "Mine safety? I don't know a hell of a lot about it. I've never been in a mine, and that's all a foreign language to me." Cumberland, one of the Tri Cities, is the site of two ripping methane gas explosions which killed 26 miners inside Big Black Mountain in March 1976. The blasts put the Tri Cities on the national map for a full year. At the time I interviewed Watson, the national press was again gearing up for a foray into the mountains, as a major civil suit brought by the widows against the company was about to go to court. "Scotia? Well, I covered the recovery of the bodies,"said Watson. He made no effort to do any investigative work, yet he was publisher of the paper nearest to the disasters. "I stick to local news," he said. Watson's vision for his paper? "I've tried to build up the editorial end of the paper. I figure the rest will fall into place." When asked about the editorial end, he added, "Well, I remind the people all the time what the press did to Nixon and Agnew." If he had more money, Watson would "expand the news staff so we can cover the state police, the county school board and the fiscal court...then, I want to take a vacation." Just a few miles down the road from the TCN in Harlan is one of two daily papers generated in Eastern Kentucky, the Harlan Daily Enterprise (HDE).9 1 1 Sitting in publisher Clyde Lemarr's paneled office with its three-inch carpet ad executive desk, it appeared that this paper was a breed apart from the TCN. But the news products of the HDE and the TCN were strickingly similar. The people of Harlan County have had a daily paper for over 50 years, and for just about that long, residents have felt it was a tool of area coal interests. The mood from Lemarr's office was complacency. "We don't have any competition in terms of newspapers," he said. "We don't write many editorials. We don't need to." I began to understand the stories I had heard about talented young writers who stayed only briefly at the HDE. The HDE had six people on the news staff and twenty-one full time-employees. Yet the circulation was only 7,000 in a county with over 40,000 people. Issues which Lemarr felt the HDE should cover include trash, water and sewage, city zoning laws, and the county court's vote of retirement benefits to local officials. With regard to housing 74 �shortages, Lemarr blamed older families who kept property tied up. When asked if coal or land companies were holding land suitable for housing sites, an issue raised by the Appalachian Alliance (Appalachian Land Ownership Task Force, 1981), Lemarr replied: "That's no housing problem. Eastover Coal Company just gave sixty acres of land to the Chamber of Commerce." • HDE's attitude toward Eastover, and its owner Duke Power Company, clearly defines its allegiance to the economic elite. Eastover operated the Brookside, Kentucky, mine where the famous UMWA organizing drive in the early 1970s ousted the Southern Labor Union, a company union which operates primarily to control labor. Minnie Lunsford is a member of the Brookside Women's Club, which carried much of the weight of the organizing drive at Eastover. She let out a big laugh when I asked about HDE's coverage of the strike. Whey, boy! We had to pack up and go to Harlan during Brookside. We were going to padlock the place if they wouldn't get out and come to the picket line. Everybody was getting shot at and our homes shot at. But where was the HDE? The man there told us his reporters had to go home and do the wash or see their wives. We let them have it!....The papers just won't tell about it. They will tell about a security guard getting shot...but what about that helicopter flying over the picket line and the UMWA rallies and the strikers and all the shooting at the men? She added that the Southern Labor Union gets frequent coverage, but the UMWA gets a news blackout. Hobart Grills, an organizer of the Black Lung Association and retired UMWA miner, said the same thing: They will come out when there is a UMWA strike. But they cover it from the company's point of view only. When we had our big victory celebration at Brookside, they hardly mentioned it. Yet, they just recently wrote a big story about a Southern Labor Union festival. Grills had similar trouble getting coverage of the Black Lung Association organizing efforts and meetings. Minnie Lunsford spoke for many Harlan Countians when she said: "Us poor shots up and down these hollers in Harlan County never see a thing we need to see in that paper." The Paintsville Herald (PH) in Johnson County also resembled the TCN and the Harlan paper. Owner Allen "Bud" Perry uses the paper to promote his, and his business associates', interpretations of economic development. To Bud Perry, the hottest development idea to come Johnson County's way in the late 1970s was the Paint Creek dam and reservoir project of the Corps of Engineers. He used the paper for active lobbying for the project. "Bud Perry is all for the dam," Geneva Sherman said. She was a member of the Paint Creek Committee, representing the families that stood to lose some of eastern Kentucky's prime agricultural land if the dam went in: The Paintsville businessmen think, "Our friends in Prestonsburg have a lake (Dewey Lake), so we should have one too." They want our homes so they can retire and put a boat on a lake in their own county! Although Perry ran letters to the editor from Committee members and did cover the group's participation in local events, the paper did not cover the controversial issues surrounding the dam. Chuck Hoffman, then chairman of Kentucky Rivers Coalition, said, "The PH has never initiated any coverage or detailed reporting or investigations about the opposition to the dams." Wendell Sherman, who eventually lost his farm to the project, said, "There is no way you could call the PH unbiased. They want that dam built and they use the paper to push it." News editor Roger Frazier summarized the PH's vision of the local press. "People buy a local paper to read local news. They know what has happened. What they want to know is who got 75 �caught.." Obviously, the people who lost their homes to the dam had a different interpretation of what people want in their community press. The PH did not cover miners' wildcat strikes, mine safety, or the recent Scotia disasters despite the fact that many workers and retired miners and their families live in the county. "We cover local news and local sports. We cover 18 Little Leagues and adult Softball. If people want anything else, they buy the dailies," Frazier said. There is an additional theme that appears in the PH and several other local papers in eastern Kentucky: a sort of hillbilly-is-beautiful theme. "Any story in the outside press that belittles eastern Kentucky or the county, Mr. Perry is quick to point out," Frazier said. "We are not backward, illiterate people here." Pushing eastern Kentucky as a respectable place to live appears to be a major goal of one of the newest papers that had appeared in eastern Kentucky, the Appalachian Express. It has since been bought by a newspaper chain which merged the Express with its competitor, the Pike County News. The new Appalachian News Express contains much of the flavor of the early Express. Founded in 1976, the Express attracted a young, liberal, professional-looking staff. Then editor Forrest Cameron voiced hopes that the Express could become a major daily for the eastern end of the state, in direct competition with the Courier-Journal. "The Courier puts our people down," Cameron said.10 "I call this area a 'hountopolis,' a whole society of mountain people. We want to make eastern Kentucky politically powerful and end the Courier's anti-mountain bias." In direct contrast to the know-nothing position of Bob Watson at the TCN, and the corporateonly position of Clyde Lemarr at the HDE, the editor at the Express and its owners were trying to incorporate the entire mining community into its readership. "I consider all of us in mining here," Cameron said. Growth plans depend largely on attracting major coal industry advertising dollars. "We're cheaper than the trade journals," Cameron said. "As we grow, I can't see why they won't look to us." And giving the area "credibility" and establishing its political clout involves changing the way the state views coal miners. On June 30, 1977, the Express "saluted the coal industry." News editor Rosalind Stanley and photographer Gwendolyn Sturm visited Standard Sign and Signal's Pike County mining complex. They produced a good tribute to coal miners, and the issue encouraged area residents to dig up mining history, bring in sketches and stories and poems about their lives, and recognize miners as industrial workers who contribute to the entire nation. There was a glaring omission in the coverage, however. In 1976, over 100 miners forced that company to recognize the UMWA. The 110-17 vote was based on concern over safety and job security. Pike County, the leading coal producing county in the nation, is a stronghold of nonunion mines. This victory was a major breakthrough in labor relations. Yet there was not one mention of the UMWA victory and presence at Standard Sign and Signal in the paper. Equally important was the failure to mention the landmark suit which had just been settled against the company in favor of Steve Ratliff. A foreman at the mine, Ratliff had been reinstated after nine months when he had been fired for refusing to take miners under an unsafe root. He filed a "safety discrimination" suit against the company under the 1969 Coal Mine Health and Safety Act. This was the first time the little-used provision in the act had been used to protect a safetyconscious foreman. Ratliff filed his suit within minutes before a 30-day time limit expired. He did not know he had such rights under the law. Ratliff summarized the role the local press could play if it were committed to the "public's right to know:" 76 �Every coal miner in Eastern Kentucky, in the U.S., ought to know that the clause is in the act. We've got to get this story out into the local papers, if they'll run it. This is a life and death thing—and not one of us knows we've got these rights!" The paper's failure to recognize the union and to cover the safety discrimination case represents the sort of news blackouts which keep people uninformed about crucial issues and about possible action on those issues. In Martin County, two local papers were at war, each claiming the other was a mere tool for a local politician. Both emphatically claimed the other prints only lies, in contrast to its own objectivity and factual reporting. However, one paper, which has since ceased publication, did appear to be much more open to the problems of working and poor people. Most obervers of the Martin County political scene say that families in the county line up with one or the other faction and that the fight relates to control over the school board. "That's a shotgun county if I ever saw one," summarized Chuck Hoffman, then Chairman of the Kentucky Rivers Coalition which opposes numerous Corps of Engineers water projects in eastern Kentucky. The Martin County Mercury (MCM) was started by Tom Kirk and his two attorney sons, Raymond and John. It promptly started giving press coverage to Martin County families who haven't had it before. When miners voted to have the United Mine Workers represent them at the Martin County Coal Company, the company refused to recognize the union. During the related strike, the MCM interviewed strikers and protested a mass arrest which landed 86 miners in jail at once. Tom Kirk remembered: We had a fish fry over that. We burnt everybod up over that—the state police, the County Judge, the state government. There was one bathroom and no heat in that jail. The men were so packed in that their noses were sticking through the bars. In addition to news coverage, Raymond Kirk offered his legal services to help get the men released. "The Mercury, they told our side of it," said Riley Horn who was fired from Martin County Coal Company for union activities. "If it hadn't been for Ray Kirk, we'd have gone down the drain during the strike," he said. "The Martin Countian (MCM is an anti-union as they come!" Frances Horn feels nothing but bitterness toward the Martin Countian and the Courier Journal. Besides a bias against the union, Mrs. Horn charged that they did not help investigate the death of her son and daughter-in-law. The young couple was killed in their sleep by a 75-ton boulder which crashed through their home situated near a strip mine. "Both papers said that rock just up and fell by itself, because of the rain and sunshine," she remembered. The coal company, however, gave the couple's two children a cash settlement. Don Riffe, former editor of the MCM, said, "I don't think the Martin Countian has ever taken any kind of stand against a coal company or strip mining in its history." Floyd and Marie Jude agree. Their trailer was smashed by flying boulders from MAPSO's Martiki Coal Company strip mine on Peter Cave Creek. The MCM ran lengthy coverage. The competing paper ignored the incident, except to suggest that Jude had no business keeping his trailer located there. Besides showing little support for labor, the MCM appeared to be an apologist for the coal industry. Editor Homer Marcum described his editorial policy as "guided by my inner beliefs and integrity....We are for any good that goes in the county." And that "good" includes the coal industry. "I don't think there would be any newspaper or radio station in Martin County if it weren't for coal," Homer Marcum said. The weakest paper I encountered was the Knott County News (KCN). If it was effective at accomplishing anything, that would have been in keeping Knott County residents uninformed about 77 �local events. With a circulation of 1,500, all centered within the county, it reached less than 10 percent of the population. "The KCN just ain't no news as far as I'm concerned," said Mart Shepherd, then chairman of a local citizen's rights organization and also an economic development project supported by over 1,000 families. Shepherd was disgusted with KCH: "You can't get any news from them. All you can get is just to buy an ad. They never report any facts on what is going on in the county and the town." The KCN maintained only one staff person in a small second story office in Hindman. Kathy Ann Ashley, the "secretary," handled all requests for news—mostly announcements of engagements, legal notices, or reunions. She saw her job, however, as "gathering all the top local news in the county." Owned by Charles Whitaker, whose Superior Newspaper also publishes a Letcher County paper in competition with The Eagle, KCN has since failed. Its last issue was at the close of 1982, left in the dust in the heels of an exciting new paper, The Troublesome Creek Times. At the time of my study, Whitaker was worried about competition from the new Knott County Observer, which existed briefly in 1977. It folded after a few months due to the publisher's family troubles. When I asked Kathy Ashley about subjects receiving editorial treatment, she said, "Mr. Whitaker writes real well. He does good editorials. He's done two, I think, in the past few months." One claimed that the KCN prints only facts, no gossip. She couldn't remember what the other concerned. Whitaker's comments on KCN's virtues were in response to the Knott County Observer. "People were buying that paper hand over fist," Slim Manns said. Manns was then Chairman of the Knott County Property Owners Protective Association which exposed a land swindle that threatened the strip mining of 24,000 acres of the county and hundreds of homes. He commented on Whitaker's approach to a local press: The few weeks that the Observer was published, they ran more news and hard facts than the KCN ever ran. They say the pen may be mightier than the sword. But heck, you've got to use the pen first. The KCN has never covered the land swindle story, even though public meetings were attended by several hundred county residents. According to Manns: It would have helped the people here if the paper had covered the land grab. But they'd have had to get mixed up with local politics, and this paper just won't do that. I realize politicians can give you a hard way to go, but other county papers print news. I've got a brother-in-law that wouldn't give 10 cents for 10 years of the KCN. Shepherd points his finger at Whitaker, the owner: I've seen good people come and go on that paper. Whitaker won't keep them. It's the same with that Community Press. That paper owner just doesn't want the news printed. Conclusions and Suggestions The news media remains one of the primary sources of knowledge and self-understanding available today. It provides a crucial basis for social action. This research indicates both that it is possible for the local press to adopt an aggressive news gathering and reporting stance, and also that readers in eastern Kentucky want the press to do just that. Culture/media politics need to be developed in Appalachia, fostered by a study of cultural hegemony and linked to a broad regional organizational base. If an information-sharing network 78 �were established, it would be possible to up the supply of information and analysis to local papers and increase access to the kinds of reporting people need in order to face community and regional problems. Such a base would also make culture critique possible. It would provide the means for an aggressive and critical response to the national media's treatment of regional issues. It would provide help to progressive local papers, many of which are open to better news coverage but are strangled by small staffs and small operating budgets. This help could, in turn, make progressive papers more competitive and more likely to get a corner on the market for the local press. Furthermore, a culture/media politics would raise an angry fist whenever journalists or media programmers fall into stereotypical interpretations of events, issues and people in Appalachia. An all-out attack on the denigrating and ridiculing definitions of the region is in order and should be a top agenda item for a regional cultural politics. While much of the local press corps in the mountains functions to inhibit an understanding of domination, this research shows that the situation is by no means as bleak as images of the provincial press in America would lead one to expect. Instead, there appears to be a good potential for re-evaluating the local media and for opening up the local press as an important source for informing social action. Footnotes 'For thorough documentation of these patterns, see the seven-volumn land ownership study conducted by the Appalachian Land Ownership Task Force, 1981. 2 For a detailed discussion of the theoretical advances in social science which are merging into a full-blown theory of cultural hegemony, see my forthcoming article, "Cultural Hegemony: A New Understanding of Domination," Appalachian Journal. 3 This review is used in the article cited above to illustrate hegemonic forces in operation in the national news media. 4 See Spiegelman (1982) for a review of the national press's failure to report the most basic questions raised by antinuclear activists—such as the link between nuclear armament, militarism, racism, sexism, and capitalism. These links lead logically to questions about the transformation of the social order. Spiegelman explains the failure of the major mass media in terms of hegemony: "This is not only because they violate the parameters of the ruling ideological consensus but because they also threatened to raise and publicize public desire and expectation and thus pose long-range threats to the hegemony of the national-security state and prevailing patterns of class power" (1982:14). s Gish and his family recently purchased the Tri-Cities News in Harlan County, a refreshing change in ownership since that paper was one of the weakest papers I studied. 6 In 1983 Gish instituted a "Speak Your Piece'' program allowing readers to call in anonymous comments on topics of interest. A maverick move in journalism, Gish believes the program is but his latest step in continuing The Eagle's tradition of publishing strong opinions. Growing from a few columns to almost an entire section in just three months, "Speak Your Piece" has touched on women coal miners, the federal trade deficit, homosexuality, overloaded coal trucks, rude sales clerks, gasoline prices, and local politicians. Circulation in the same time period has increased by 1,000, reaching a total of 8,500 copies sold each week. 7 The Herald Voice was then owned by the Worrell Newspaper Chain, which Gipson felt gave him a free hand with the paper's content. That appears to have been true, since Worrell also owned the Harlan Daily Enterprise whose editorial tone was just about opposite Gipson's. 8 See footnote 5 above. 'In 1982, the Harlan Daily Enterprise was purchased by the New York Times. I am currently studying the impact on local coverage of this and the other ownership transfers mentioned. 10 On example of the Courier's anti-mountain bias, according to the Express staff, was coverage of Pike County boxer Mayfield Pennington. The Courier felt judges should have ruled his opponent, Emile Griffith, the winner. "The Courier just puts down eastern Kentucky," Cameron said. 79 �Bibliography Appalachian Land Ownership Task Force 1981 Land Ownership Patterns anil Their Impacts on Appalachian Communities: A Survey of 80 Counties. 7 volumes. Washington, D.C.: Appalachian Regional Commission. Bagdikian, Ben H. 1979 The media-conglomeration, concentration. America Federationist 86 (March): 14-23. Bethell, Thomas N. 1978 The UMWA: now more than ever. The Washington Monthly (March): 12-23. Couto, Richard 1975 Poverty, Politics and Health Care: An Appalachian Experience. New York: Praeger Publishers. Covert, L. Catherine 1981 Journalism history and women's experience: a problem in conceptual change. Journalism History 8 (Spring): 2-6. Dreiser, Theodore 1970 Introduction. Pp 3-16 in Levy, Leonard W. (editor).Harlan Miners Speak' Report on Terrorism in the Kentucky Coal Fields. New York: DaCapo Press. Gaventa, John 1980 Power and Powerlessness: Quiescence and Rebellion in an Appalachian Valley. Chicago: University of Illinois Press. Ghiglione, Loren 1978 Small-town journalism has some big ethical headaches. In Rubin, Bernard (ed.). Questioning Media Ethics (New York: Praeger). Gitlin, Todd 1980 The Whole World is Watching: Mass Media in the Making and Unmaking of the New Left. Berkeley: University of California Press. New video technology; pluralism or banality. Democracy 1 (October): 60-76. 1981 Maggard, Sally 1981 From farmers to miners: the decline of agriculture in eastern Kentucky. Pp. 25-66 in Busch, Lawrence (editor). Science and Agricultural Development. Totowa, New Jersey: Allanheld, Osmun & Co. Molotch, Harvey and Marilyn Lester 1975 Accidental news: the great oil spill as local occurrence and natural event. American Journal of Sociology 81:235-60. 1974 News as purposive behavior. American Sociological Revieu>39: 101-12. Spiegelman, Robert 1982 Media manipulation of the movement. Social Policy 13 (Summer): 9-16. Tuchman, Gaye 1978 Making News: A Study in the Construction of Reality. New York: The Free Press. 80 �The Congressional and Gubernatorial Elections of 1982 in Appalachia Philip A. Grant, Jr. On November 2, 1982 the citizens of the nation elected thirty-four members of the United States Senate and four hundred and thirty-five members of the House of Representatives. In addition to filling these congressional seats the residents of thirty-eight states chose governors and legislatures. As in previous off-year political contests, the congressional and gubernatorial elections of 1982 were viewed by many observers as indicators of the popularity (or lack thereof) of the party controlling the White House. Traditionally the party in power has lost at least a modest number of congressional seats and governorships in off-year elections.1 In November 1982 the Democrats continued that pattern by gaining twenty-six seats in the House of Representatives and seven governorships. There was a consensus that many, if not most, of these Democratic victories were attributable to a decline of confidence in the economic policies of the Republican Administration of President Ronald Reagan. Whether or not Reaganomics was the paramount issue throughout the country in 1982, it seemed incontrovertible that the various results proved genuinely encouraging to the Democrats and quite disappointing to the Republicans. Among the regions having substantial numbers of spirited electoral clashes in 1982 was Appalachia. Within Appalachian there were six well-publicized races for the United States Senate and four significant gubernatorial elections. There were also approximately ten sharply contested races for the House of Representatives. The purpose of this paper will be to provide a brief analysis of the principal elections of 1982 in Appalachia. In 1982 there were Senate contests in Maryland, West Virginia, Ohio, Tennessee, Pennsylvania, and Virgnia. The Maryland, West Virginia, Ohio, and Tennessee races involved Democratic incumbents who in 1980 and 1981 had been considered vulnerable to Republican challenges. In Pennsylvania a Republican senator seeking re-election occupied a seat held by his party since 1947. In Virginia there was a vacancy created by the retirement of the Senate's only Independent, a gentleman who had succeeded his illustrious father in 1965. In Maryland the Democrat, Paul S. Sarbanes, trounced his Republican opponent, former Congressman Lawrence J. Hogan, by 278,478 votes (62.8%). Sarbanes, who in 1976 had lost the three Appalachia counties in Western Maryland by an aggregate 40,861-27,361 majority, in 1982 had the satisfaction of prevailing in these counties by a 28,065-27,503 margin. 2 In West Virginia, the only state located exclusively within Appalachia, the Senate Democratic Leader, Robert C. Byrd, was challenged by freshman Republican Congressman Cleve Benedict. Benedict in 1980 had become the first Republican elected from the Mountain State's Second Congressional District since 1946. While most analysts expected that Byrd would be re-elected, few foresaw that he would overwhelm Benedict. The official 1982 figures were as follows: Byrd 81 �382,028'(70.9%); Benedict 171,432 (29.1%). Byrd, who had been unopposed in 1976, managed to carry all but one of West Virginia's fifty-five counties.3 The Ohio election had originally involved Democratic Senator Howard M. Metzenbaum and veteran Republican Congressman John M. Ashbrook. After Ashbrook's untimely death on April 24, the Republicans nominated State Senator Paul S. Pfeifer as their candidate. Metzenbaum, who had been elected to the Senate in 1976 by a relatively narrow margin, had aligned himself with Senator Edward M. Kennedy in the 1980 Democratic presidential race. Thereafter he became a severe and constant critic of President Reagan's economic policies. It was a source of elation to Ohio Democrats that Metzenbaum increased his 1976 plurality of 117,305 to 542,669 in 1982. Metzenbaum in 1976 had carried the twenty-eight Ohio counties encompassed within Appalachia by a precariously thin 4,004 votes. Consistent with his performance throughout Ohio, he handily won the state's Appalachia area in 1982.4 Tennessee was a state where Republicans had triumphed in four of the past five presidential elections and six of the eight most recent presidential contests. Defending his seat against ultraconservative Republican Congressman Robin L. Beard, Jr. was moderate Democrat Jim Sasser. In 1976 Sasser had been elected to the Senate by a mere 81,183 votes. Beard had completed five terms in the House and in 1980 had been re-elected without opposition. It was generally anticipated that the outcome of the Tennessee election would be reasonably close. Instead Sasser retained his seat by 287,863 votes (61.9%). Much of Sasser's success in 1982 was explained by his remarkably strong showing in the forty-nine Appalachia counties in the eastern half of Tennessee—counties which previously had supported Republican Senator Howard H. Baker and Sasser's 1976 adversary, former Senator William E. Brock. Collectively these counties in 1976 had voted for Brock 335,620-288,022. In 1982 the proportionate split of the vote was entirely different as Sasser prevailed over Beard 323,944-225,035.5 In Pennsylvania Republican John Heinz was considered by the leaders of both parties to be one of the most firmly entrenched Senate incumbents. Heinz, who had compiled a comparatively liberal voting record during his three terms in the House and one in the Senate, was endorsed in 1982 by the AFL-CIO's Committee on Political Education (COPE). Re-elected by a landslide majority, Heinz carried all but two of the fifty-two Appalachia counties in Pennsylvania.6 Virginia was the scene of an extremely close Senate contest between Democratic Lieutenant Governor Richard J. Davis and Republican Congressman Paul S. Trible, Jr. After all the ballots were tabulated, Trible outpolled Davis by a 723,988-689,818 margin (51.7%). Although Davis was unsuccessful in his quest for a Senate seat, he accumulated more votes than any other Democrat in the Commonwealth's history. To a remarkable extent this electoral contest was a struggle between the Appalachia and Tidewater sections of Virginia. While Davis carried the mountainous Ninth Congressional District in Virginia's southwest corner, he was decisively defeated in Newport News, Hampton, and the rural counties of Trible's First Congressional District.7 Of the twenty-six House seats gained by the Democrats in 1982, seven were in Appalachia. In two states, West Virginia and Pennsylvania, the Democrats wrested two seats from the Republicans, while in two others, Virginia and North Carolina, they gained individual districts. In Tennessee the Democrats also won a newly created constituency. In West Virginia the Republicans in 1980 had won the Second and Third Districts. The Second District, consisting of the eastern half of the state, had elected Cleve Benedict (102,200-80,661), while the Third District, centered in Charleston and several nearby counties throughout the 82 �Kanahwa Valley, had chosen Mick Staton (94,084-84,976). After Benedict decided to relinquish his seat and run for the Senate, the Democrats nominated State Senator HarleyO. Staggers, Jr. Staton in 1982 was challenged by Staggers' colleague, State Senator Bob Wise. Both Staggers and Wise were victorious by substantial margins. Staggers, carrying all of the district's twenty counties, outpolled Republican J.D. Hinklejr.by a vote of 87,506-48,878 (64.2%) and Wise unseated Staton 81,669-58,914 (58.9%) and won eleven of the district's fourteen counties.8 In Pennsylvania, the Eleventh District, located in the City of Wilkes-Barre and the surrounding Wyoming Valley, had deviated from its Democratic heritage and supported Ronald Reagan for President and Republican James L. Nelligan for Congress. At the opposite end of the state the Twenty-Fifth District, wedged between Pittsburgh and the Ohio border, had voted for Reagan and Democratic Congressman Eugene V. Atkinson. In 1982 Nelligan was defeated by Democrat Frank Harrison in a contest which saw his 1980 plurality of 7,053 transformed into a deficit of 11,997. In the Twenty-Fifth District Atkinson, after supporting Reagan on several key tax and budget roll calls, had changed his party affiliation to Republican. Atkinson in 1982 was challenged by State Representative Joseph P. Kolter. In a dramatic reversal of 1980 Atkinson, who in that year had been re-elected as a Democrat by 60,638 votes (76.1%), was defeated in 1982 as a Republican by 35,935 votes (39.1%).' The major surprise in Appalachia in 1982 occurred in Virginia's Ninth Congressional District. The contest in the Ninth involved nine-term incumbent Republican William C. Wampler and Democratic State Senator Frederick C. Boucher. In one of the closest congressional elections in recent years Boucher edged Wampler by a 76,112-74,974 margin (50.3%). Although the two parties were fairly even in registration figures, Wampler in 1980 had been re-elected by 64,618 votes (68.8%). Indeed Wampler had averaged 59.7% in his nine victorious congressional races.10 Somewhat less surprising was the result in North Carolina's Eleventh Congressional District. In 1980 this district, whose principal city is Asheville, supported Ronald Reagan (100,868-89,129) and Republican William M. Hendon for Congress (103,215-89,330). In 1982 the Democrats nominated State Senator James M. Clarke to oppose Hendon. Clarke, who had gained substantial exposure during his six years in the North Carolina Legislature, outpolled Hendon 85,378-84,062 (50.3%). This race established a record voter turnout for an off-year election in the Eleventh District.11 As a consequence of the reapportionment mandated by the Census of 1980, Tennessee was allotted an additional congressional seat. The Legislature thereupon created the new Fourth Congressional District, consisting of twenty-three counties extending diagonally from Virginia in the Northeast to Alabama in the Southwest. Competing for this seat were two political novices, Democrat Jim Cooper and Republican Cissy Baker. Twenty-eight years of age, Cooper was the son of a former three-term Tennessee governor. Baker, two years younger than her opponent, was the daughter of Tennessee's senior senator, Republican Floor Leader Howard H. Baker. While Cooper was slightly favored because of the area's past voting patterns, his emphatic victory (93,506-48,586) over Baker removed any doubt about the political tilt of the Fourth District.12 In 1982 there were gubernatorial contests in Maryland, Tennessee, Pennsylvania, and Ohio. The Maryland, Tennessee, and Pennsylvania elections were featured by incumbents seeking re-election to second terms. In Ohio a vacancy was created by the retirement of Governor James A. Rhodes, who had served as the Buckeye State's Chief Executive for sixteen of the previous twenty years. 83 �Democrat Harry R. Hughes was easily returned as Governor of Maryland, defeating his Republican challenger 692,247-424,247 (61.6%). In 1978, while winning his first term, Hughes had lost the three Appalachia counties in Maryland by a 32,718-27,469 majority. In a sharp reversal Hughes in 1982 carried these counties by a 32,975-26,675 margin." In Tennessee Republican Lamar Alexander was re-elected by a resounding 736,553-499,942 margin (59.7%), marking the third such Republican victory in the Volunteer State since 1970. Alexander, who in 1978 had won Tennessee's Appalachia counties by an 87,615 vote plurality (58.6%), increased his winning margin in this area to 182,626 (66.8%) in 1982.u Certainly the most exciting gubernatorial contest in Appalachia occurred in Pennsylvania, where Republican Richard L. Thornburg was oppposed by Congressman Arlen E. Ertel. Thornburg had refrained from engaging in controversy during his first term and was considered a distinct favorite to defeat the relatively unknown junior congressman. It was not until late election night that Thornburg was finally projected the winner in a close race. The official voting statistics were as follows: Thornburg 1,868,240 (51.4%) - Ertel 1,754,601 (48.6%). Ertel fared particularly well in the Appalachia sections of Pennsylvania, which accounted for nineteen of the twenty-one counties he carried. His collective plurality in Fayette, Washington, and Beaver Counties in southwestern Pennsylvania was 112,560-73,256, while his combined margin in Luzerne and Lackawanna Counties in the northeastern part of the state was 104,77,117. Thornburg, however, by attracting 354,641 votes (66.9%) in the suburbs of Philadelphia, was able to withstand the Ertel challenge to his re-election.15 Ohio in 1982 furnished the most lopsided Democratic triumph in all the races for governorships. The Democrats had lost four of the past five gubernatorial elections in Ohio, and incumbent Republican James A. Rhodes was the nation's senior governor. The respective candidates in 1982 were Democrat Richard F. Celeste, a former state representative and lieutenant-governor, and eight term Congressman Clarence J. Brown. Most of the public opinion polls indicated a solid victory for Celeste, who had lost to Rhodes in 1978 by only 47,536 votes. Indeed Celeste did score an easy victory, outpolling Brown 1,978,635-1,302,583 (60.1%). In 1978 Celeste had been defeated by Rhodes, largely because of his inability to carry many of the normally Democratic counties in Ohio's Appalachia belt. In 1978 he had won only nineteen of Ohio's eighty-eight counties, while in 1982 he prevailed in sixty-one counties.16 In 1980 the Democratic Party achieved a noteworthy political comeback in Appalachia, a region where Ronald Reagan and the Republicans, two years earlier, had registered a number of impressive victories. Reagan, in 1980, had defeated Jimmy Carter in Pennsylvania, Ohio, Virginia, North Carolina, and Tennessee and had lost Maryland and West Virginia to the former President by comparatively small margins. The Democrats in 1982 countered by winning key contests in Ohio, Maryland, West Virginia, North Carolina, and Tennessee and by making highly respectable showings in Pennsylvania and Virginia. Reagan in 1980 had carried Pennsylvania, Ohio, North Carolina, and Tennessee, all of which had favored the Democratic presidential nominee in 1976. These states had provided Reagan with an aggregate plurality of 910,556 votes. Reagan's successes in the four states had been in large measure due to the electoral results in Appalachia, where he prevailed over Carter in one hundred and twenty-two of one hundred and fifty-five counties. In Maryland and West Virginia, Carter in 1980 had a combined plurality of 115,810 votes over Reagan, a statistic which contrasted with the 1976 figure of 217,205 votes. Although Reagan had 84 �lost both states, he carried the three Appalachia counties in Maryland and twenty-three Appalachia counties in West Virginia. Reagan, in 1980, had won Virginia by 237,535 votes, marking the fifth consecutive Republican triumph there in a presidential election. In 1982 the Democratic senatorial candidate was defeated by only 34,170 votes, and unlike Jimmy Carter in 1980, won the Ninth Congressional District in Appalachia. Also, the Democrats elected a member of the House from the Ninth District, the first such victory since 1964. The elections of 1982 in Appalachia admittedly were waged within the confines of individual states and individual congressional districts. In most instances local issues and local personalities were the dominant components in these contests. Nevertheless, these elections clearly demonstrated that the Democratic Party had regained the political initiative and that the Republican Party had experienced conspicuous harm. In the wake of the elections the Democrats held three hundred and fifteen of the five hundred and thirty-five congressional seats and thirty-four of the fifty governorships. Probably reflecting the political climate of the nation, these elections both conformed to historical trends and suggested that most citizens were skeptical, if not hostile, to the basic philosophy of the Reagan Administration. Footnotes 'Except for 1934, the party in power has always lost congressional seats in off-year elections. In 1958 the Democrats gained sixty-four seats, while in 1974 they added fifty-one seats. The Republicans increased their membership by eighty-one seats in 1946 and fifty seats in 1966. ^Politics in America (Washington; Congressional Quarterly, Inc., 1982), pp. 518-520; America Votes, 1976 (Washington: Congressional Quarterly, Inc., 1977), p. 166; Congressional Quarterly, October 9, 1982, pp. 2531-2532; November 6, 1982, p. 2829; Post, Washington, D.C., November 4, 1982, p. A29. 'Politics in America, pp. 1279-1281, 1285; America Votes, 1976, p. 396; Congressional Quarterly, October 9, 1982, pp. 2605-2606; November 6, 1982, p. 2825; Gazette, Charleston, W.Va., November 3, 1982, pp. 1, 6. 'Politics in America, pp. 932-934; America Votes, 1976, pp. 295-296; Congressional Quarterly, October 9, 1982, p. 2572; November 6, 1982, p. 2823. ^Politics in America, pp. 1121-1122, 1135-1137; America Votes, 1976, p. 347; Congressional Quarterly, October 9, 1982, pp. 2591-2592; November 6, 1982, p. 2824; Tennessean, Nashville, Tenn., November 3, 1982, pp. 1, 6, 8. 'Politics in America, pp. 1022-1023; America Votes, 1976, p. 3187; Congressional Quarterly, October 9, 1982, pp. 2580-2581; November 6, 1982, p. 2823; Press, Pittsburgh, Pa., November 3, 1982, p. D8. ^Politics in America, pp. 1234-1235; Congressional Quarterly, October 9, 1982; pp. 2600-2691; November 6, 1982, p. 2825; December 11, 1982, pp. 3012-3013; Times-Dispatch, Richmond, Va., Novembers, 1982, pp. 1, 10, 11, 13. 'Politics in America, p. 1286; America Votes, 1980 (Washington: Congressional Quarterly, Inc., 1981), p. 409; Congressional Quarterly, March 27, 1982, pp. 694-696; October 9, 1982, pp. 2606-2607; November 6, 1982, p. 2825; January 8, 1983, pp. 54-55; Gazette, Charleston, W.Va., November 3, 1982, pp. 1, 6, 12. 'Politics in America, p. 1046, 1073-1074; America Votes, 1980, pp. 340, 342; Congressional Quarterly, October 17, 1981, p. 2029; May 1, 1982, pp. 997, 1001; October 9, 1982, pp. 2582-2584; November 6, 1982, p. 2823; January 8, 1983, pp. 43-44. ^Politics in America, pp. 1248-1250; America Votes, 1980, p. 300; Congressional Quarterly, November 29, 1981, p. 2359; October 9, 1982, p. 2603; November 6, 1982, p. 2825; January 8, 1983, p. 53; Times-Dispatch, Richmond, Va., November 3, 1982, pp. 1, 11. "Politics in America, p. 917; America Votes, 1980, p. 300; Congressional Quarterly, June 5, 1982, pp. 1360-1361; October 9, 1982, pp. 2570-2571; November 6, 1982, p. 2823; January 8, 1983, p. 40; Observer, Charlotte, N.C., November 4, 1982, pp. 1, 21. "Congressional Quarterly, November 7, 1981, p. 2174; October 9, 1982, p. 2592; November 6, 1982, p. 2824; January 8, 1983, p. 47; Tennessean, Nashville, Tenn., November 3, 1982, pp. 1, 7. 85 �"Politics in America, p. 514; America Votes, 1978 (Washington: Congressional Quarterly, 1979), p. 164; Congressional Quarterly, October 9, 1982, p. 2532; November 6, 1982, p. 2820; Sun, Baltimore, Md., November 3, 1982, pp. 1, 10, 11. "Politics in America, p. 1117; America Votes, 1978, pp. 322-323; Congressional Quarterly, October 9, 1982, pp. 2591-2592; November 6, 1982, p. 2824; Tennessean, Nashville, Tenn., November 3, 1982, pp. 1, 4, 6. "Politics in America, p. 1021; Congressional Quarterly, October 9, 1982, p. 2581; November 6, 1982, p. 2823; Inquirer. Philadelphia, Pa., November 4, 1982, p. B6; Press, Pittsburgh, Pa., November 3, 1982, p. D8. ^America Votes, 1978, pp. 273-274; Congressional Quarterly, October 9, 1982, pp. 2572-2573; November 6, 1982, p. 2823. 86 �Appalachian Origin and Political Activity Phillip}. Obermiller Robert Oldendick The importance of ethnicity in the formation of a political culture among white immigrant groups has received a good deal of attention since the "ethnic renaissance" of the late 1960s and 1970s (Glazer and Moynihan, 1975, Krickus, 1976; Litt, 1970; Weed, 1973). More recently discussions and documentation of ethnic group formation among Appalachian migrants have begun to appear in the literature (Miller, 1976; Obermiller, 1977, 1982; Philliber, 1982). Marger and Obermiller (in press) have put forth a theory of emergent ethnicity based on a combination of four theoretical models. The first model posits the development of a culturally based community within the group in question; the second model requires the development of an ethnic identity among group members and recognition of the group by outsiders; the third model depends on the development of clear ecological patterns which contribute to in-group solidarity; the fourth model of ethnic group formation is that of political mobilization of group members. Political mobilization comes in response to competition from other ethnic groups, but the political consciousness centers on communal symbols and institutions. While each of the first three models have been subjected to a variety of empirical investigations among urban Appalachians (Obermiller, 1982; Philliber, 1981), the political model has had scant attention. The purpose of this paper is to examine the salience of American political culture in Hamilton County, Ohio. More specifically, two objectives will be pursued: to determine the degree to which a distinct political culture has emerged among Appalachians in the county, and to identify the critical factors which have contributed to the development of such a culture. Hamilton County and its largest urban center, the city of Cincinnati, have long been major destinations for Appalachian migrants (McCoy and Brown, 1981). Most Appalachian families came into the county seeking jobs. The Appalachian workers were generally young, married, and less well educated than their urban counterparts, and frequently in the unskilled or semi-skilled sector of the labor force (Brown, 1962; Philliber, 1981). They settled in various urban and suburban neighborhoods throughout the county, close to their places of employment and other Appalachian migrants (Philliber, 1981). In 1980 there were over 213,000 first- and second-generation Appalachians in the county, constituting just under a quarter of its population (Obermiller, 1982). Although a variety of historical and contemporary studies have focused on politics in the Appalachian region (Gaventa, 1980; McKinney, 1978; Ritt, 1967; Ryan, 1975), few have dealt with the political culture of out-migrants from Appalachia. In a 1959 survey Roscoe Giffin (1962) found no significant differences in political participation between "Southern Appalachian migrants and others of similar social status" in Cincinnati. Schwarzweller, Brown, and Mangalam (1971) noted a strong tendency toward individualism in party affiliation among Beech Creek migrants in Ohio. Ninety percent of the residents of Beech Creek were Republican, but only 65 percent of the urban migrants from that area were Republican, while 13 percent were independent, and 22 percent were Democrats. This group of migrants was also found to be on a par with national average for registra87 �tion and voting. In contrast, a recent study of Appalachians in Hamilton County conducted by William Philliber (1981) found that only 41 percent had voted in the 1974 elections (compared with 69 percent of white natives and 62 percent of the blacks) and that nearly half of the Appalachians in the county were not even registered to vote. McCoy, Brown, and Watkins (1981) observe that Appalachians in urban areas are neither recognized nor organized as a significant political constituency. They point out that this condition is not so much a function of Appalachian culture as it is a dysfunction of urban political structures. The earlier studies indicate that political differences between Appalachian migrants and urban natives are insignificant, while the later descriptions conclude that strong differences do exist without adducing evidence as to the nature, extent or cause of such differences. The present study addresses these questions by focusing on the political culture of the residents of Hamilton County, that is the political knowledge, affiliation, participation, and interest of county residents, and by comparing the relative positions within that culture of non-Appalachian blacks, white Appalachians, and non-Appalachian whites. The Data The data set employed in this study is taken from the Fall, 1980, Greater Cincinnati Survey (GCS). Using random digit dialing the GCS collected telephone interviews with residents of Hamilton County, Ohio, following the November presidential election. The survey included 753 white non-Appalachians, 237 white Appalachians, and 127 black non-Appalachians. Thirty-six black Appalachians have been deleted from the data set due to their small number and because of a reluctance to confuse race with ethnicity in the present study (cf. Philliber and Obermiller, in press). Respondents were coded as Appalachian if they were born in Appalachia (first generation) or if at least one of their parents was born in Appalachia (second generation). A slightly modified version of the Appalachian Regional Commission (ARC) definition of Appalachia was created for this study; Clermont County, Ohio, was deleted from the ARC list of 397 Appalachian counties because of its proximity to Hamilton County. This avoided the problems of including residents of the eastern suburbs of Cincinnati in the Appalachian cohort. Discussion Appalachians in greater Cincinnati have the same general age profile and sex ratio as other whites and blacks. All three groups have, on the average, lived in the area approximately the same number of years. Distinct differences do appear, however, when the three groups are compared for educational attainment, occupational status, and income. Disproportionately few Appalachians and blacks have had any college experience when compared with the non-Appalachian white population; conversely the two groups are clearly overrepresented among those who have not attained a high school diploma. In terms of occupational status, all three groups have independent profiles. Fifty-three percent of the black workers in the county are found in the two lowest status occupational categories; the same is true for 29 percent of the Appalachians but only 17 percent of the other whites. Non-Appalachian whites predominate in the middle and upper status categories, followed by the Appalachians and the blacks. Income attainment for the Appalachians and other whites in Hamilton County is quite similar, but the average income for blacks is about $5000 less than that for the two white groups. �Table 1 Selected 1980 Demographics for White Non-Appalachians, White Appalachians, and Black Non-Appalachians in Hamilton County, Ohio. White NonAppalachians AGE LENGTH OF RESIDENCE 41 years 42 years 28 years (Mean) Black NonAppalachians 41 years (Mean) White Appalachians 24 years 28 years * LOCATION City of Cincinnati Balance of County 33% 67% EDUCATION Less than H.S. Diploma H.S. Diploma/Voc. Train. Some College or More 71% 29% 753 N= 31% 69% 236 126 27% 37% 36% 38% 31% 31% * 16% 36% 48% N= * * OCCUPATIONAL STATUS Professional /Technical Managerial/ Admin. Sales /Clerical Craftspeople Operatives Laborers /Service 21% 19% 9% 10% 38% 14% 7% 10% 664 113 31% 30% 39% 46% 29% 25% 613 INCOME $0-14,999 $15,000-24,999 $25,000 or more 227 30% 27% 43% N= 26% 17% 19% 10% 12% 4% 21% 10% 17% 36% 199 104 * N= *p « .05 When key indicators such as education, occupation, and income are combined to form an index of socioeconomic status, the relative status of the three groups becomes quite clear.1 Important differences are found among all three in both the high and the low status categories. Blacks are overrepresented in the low status category and underrepresented in the high status category. The same is 89 �Table 2 1980 Socioeconomic Status of White Non-Appalachians, White Appalachians, and Black Non-Appalachians in Hamilton County, Ohio. White NonAppalachians White Appalachians Black NonAppalachians HIGH 45.2% 32.6% 20.4% MEDIUM 42.4% 46.1% 42.8% LOW 12.4% 21.2% 36.8% true for Appalachians when compared with the other whites. In terms of schooling, work, and income, blacks are significantly less well off than the two white groups, Appalachians hold a middle position between the blacks and the other whites, and the non-Appalachian whites in the county are significantly better off than blacks and Appalachians. In order to compare the political cultures of blacks, white Appalachians, and other whites in the county, six questions were selected from the Fall, 1980, Greater Cincinnati Survey which reflect the respondents' political knowledge, affiliation, participation, and interest. When members of the three groups were asked whether they considered themselves politically liberal, moderate, or conservative, Appalachians appeared to be distinctly more liberal but less moderate in their political self-image than other whites. Although blacks are more likely to consider themselves liberal than the two white groups, they were not substantively different from the Appalachians in their responses. In response to a question seeking party affiliation, Appalachians and other whites were quite similar with over two-fifths of each group characterizing themselves as independent, better than a third as Republican, and less than a quarter as Democrats. Blacks were much more heavily Democratic and much less Republican in their party affiliation. The differences here are distinctly racial; blacks of all educational and socioeconomic levels, of all ages and both sexes, living in both urban and suburban locations reported similar patterns of party affiliation. When asked if they voted in the last election, only slightly more than three-fifths of the Appalachians said that they had, as compared with almost three-quarters of the other whites, and better than two-thirds of the blacks. Although Appalachians were overall less likely to vote than members of the other two groups, their rate of participation (or non-participation) in the electoral process is much more similar to that of blacks than that of other whites. As an indicator of political knowledge respondents were asked to name the two United States Senators from Ohio. Appalachians most closely resembled other whites in their responses, with significantly fewer blacks able to identify either senator by name. Political interest was probed using two questions, one asking about interest in government and political affairs in general and the other asking specifically about interest in the recent political campaigns. In both cases white Appalachians and non-Appalachian blacks resembled each other in their responses, contrasting significantly with those of non-Appalachian whites. The Appalachian and 90 �Table 3 Responses of White Non-Appalachians, White Appalachians, and Black Non-Appalachians in Hamilton County, Ohio, to Questions Regarding Their Political Knowledge, Affiliation, Participation, and Interest. White NonWhite Black NonAppalachians Appalachians Appalachians * CONSIDER SELF? Liberal Moderate Conservative 18% 44% 38% 681 N= 25% 35% 39% 208 32% 41% 27% 108 * PARTY AFFILIATION? Democratic Independent Republican 23% 46% 32% 223 127 73% 27% 61% 39% 69% 31% 723 227 125 35% 29% 36% 31% 27% 43% 17% 25% 58% 726 225 127 39% 45% 16% 41% 33% 26% 45% 31% 24% 721 225 127 34% 37% 28% 39% 27% 33% 36% 26% 28% 723 VOTE IN LAST ELECTION? Yes No 56% 36% 8% 701 N= 21% 42% 37% 225 127 * N= ABLE TO NAME SENATORS? Both One Neither N= * GENERAL POLITICAL INTEREST Very much Some Not much N= POLITICAL INTEREST IN RECENT CAMPAIGN Very much Some Not much * N= *p « .05 91 �the black cohort each displayed greater internal polarization between group members with a lot of political and campaign interest and those with little interest in these matters. The non-Appalachian whites tended to be more moderate in their general interest in politics as well as in their interest in the 1980 electoral campaign than the other two groups. Appalachians clearly form a middle group between blacks and other whites in the county according to the demographic comparisons. However, with two exceptions, they most closely resemble the black cohort in terms of their political culture. In light of the other findings, their resemblance to non-Appalachian whites in Republican affiliation may be more a function of the intergenerational transmission of party affiliations than a sense of common political cause (cf. Knocke and Felson, 1974; Schwarzweller, Brown, and Mangalam, 1971). Since over 61 percent of the Appalachians who migrated to the county came from eastern Kentucky or southeastern Ohio, both highly Republican areas, this explanation seems highly plausible. The differential ability of Appalachians and blacks to correctly name their U.S. senators is commensurate with the findings of similar studies (cf. Ryan, 1975). To the extent that strong differences appear between Appalachians and other whites, and modest differences appear between Appalachians and blacks for the variable tested, it seems reasonable to posit the existence of a distinct political culture among Appalachians in the county. In order to test the salience of an Appalachian heritage in the formation of the county's political culture, the four questions regarding political knowledge, participation and interest were combined into a Political Index which ranged from very little knowledge, participation and interest to very much knowledge, participation and interest (Labovitz, 1970, 1974). A stepwise regression analysis of this Political Index was conducted using the following demographic variables: sex, education, age, income, length of residence in the county, race, location in the county (urban/suburban), and Appalachian designation (Appalachian/non-Appalachian).2 The results of the regression indicate that educational attainment is the most important variable in explaining a high ranking on the Political Index. Following education as explanatory variables are, in order, age, sex, and income. The variables of race, residential location, Appalachian designation, and length of residence contribute insignificantly to the Political Index (See table 4, "Appalachian Designation). Another way of testing the salience of Appalachian heritage is to distinguish between the first and second Appalachian generations by inserting them into the regression as dummy variables, holding the non-Appalachian population constant. Again, the fact of being either first or second generation Appalachian has no significant explanatory power in the regression (See table 4, "Appalachian Generation"). Conclusion It seems that Appalachian ethnicity has very little direct influence on the establishment of a political culture within the county. On the other hand, socioeconomic factors such as education, age, sex, and income account for better than a quarter of the observed differences in political knowledge, participation, and interest found among the county residents sampled. Taken in themselves, these factors would appear to lend more credence to a social class explanation of the political differences observed than to an explanation based on ethnicity (Wright, Costello, Hachen, and Sprague, 1982). However, variables such as education and income can be strongly influenced by discrimination based on an individual's perceived ethnicity. If such were the case for Appalachians, class could in the end be an intervening variable between Appalachian ethnicity and political 92 �culture. This suggests that a simple dichotomy between class and ethnicity should be avoided in future studies and that a more sophisticated theoretical orientation, such as that of Milton Gordon's "ethclass" (cf. Danigelis, 1982), may be of more utility in understanding the nature of urban Appalachian political culture. Table 4 Stepwise Multiple Regression: Beta Weight for Variables Explaining Political Involvement of White Non-Appalachians, White Appalachians, and Black Non-Appalachians in Hamilton County, Ohio. Appalachian Designation Appalachian Generation EDUCATION -.371 -.366 AGE -.366 -.380 SEX .123 .124 -.122 -.124 LENGTH OF RESIDENCE .069 .079 RACE .022 .020 LOCATION .015 .018 APPALACHIAN DESIGNATION .011 — FIRST GENERATION APPALACHIAN — — .022 -.037 .50 .50 INCOME SECOND GENERATION APPALACHIAN Multiple R = Footnotes 'The socioeconomic index was created by combining weighted intervals of income ($0 - $14,999, $15,000 - $24,999, $25,000 and more), education (less than a high school diploma, a high school diploma and/or vocational training, some college or more), and occupational status (white collar, blue collar) into appropriate categories, in this case high, medium, or low. A respondent had to have had at least two our of three characteristics in the same category before being enumerated in that category. 2 Due to the manner in which the raw data were collected some retired people, full-time housekeepers and students were included in the occupational category of their last full-time occupation. Because of the potential distortion this situation could cause in the regression, occupational status was not included in the final regressional anaylsis. However, when test regressions were run including the occupational status variable, the results were not significantly different from those obtained when the variable was deleted. References Brown, James, S. 1962. "The Great Migration, 1940-1960," in Thomas R. Ford, ed., The Southern Appalachian Region: A Survey. Lexington: University of Kentucky Press. Danigelis, Nicholas L. 1982. "Race, Class, and Political Involvement in the U.S." Social Forces, 61:532-550. Gaventa, John, 1980. Power and Poiverlessness: Quiescence and Rebellion in an Appalachian Valley. Urbana: University of Illinois Press. 93 �Giffin, Roscoe. 1962. "Appalachian Newcomers in Cincinnati," in Thomas R. Ford, ed., The Southern Appalachian Region: A Survey. Lexington: University of Kentucky Press. Glazer, Nathan and Daniel P. Moynihan. 1975. "Introduction" in Nathan Glazer and Daniel P. Moynihan, eds., Ethnicity: Theory and Experience. Cambridge, Mass.: Harvard University Press. Knoke, David and Richard B. Felson, 1974. "Ethnic Stratification and Political Clevage in the United States, 1952-1968." American Journal of Sociology, 80:630-642. Krickus, Richard. 1976. Pursuing the American Dream: White Ethnics and the New Populism. Garden City, New York: Anchor Books. Labovitz, Stanford. 1970. "The Assignment of Numbers to Rank Order Categories." American Sociological Review, 35:515-529. 1974. "Statistical Usage in Sociology: Sacred Cows and Ritual." Sociological Methods and Research, 1:13-37. Litt, Edgar. 1970. Beyond Pluralism: Ethnic Politics in America. Glenview, 111.: Scott, Foresman. McCoy, Clyde B. and James S. Brown, 1981. "Appalachian Migration to Midwestern Cities," in William W. Philliber and Clyde B. McCoy, eds., The Invisible Minority: Urban Appalachians. Lexington: The University Press of Kentucky. McCoy, Clyde B., James S. Brown, and Virginia McCoy Watkins. 1981. "Implications of Changes in Appalachia for Urban Areas," in William Philliber and Clyde B. McCoy, eds., The Invisible Minority: Urban Appalachians. Lexington: University Press of Kentucky. McKinney, Gordon B. 1978. Southern Mountain Republicans, 1865-1900: Politics and the Appalachian Community. Chapel Hill: University of North Carolina Press. Marger, Martin N. and Phillip J. Obermiller. (In Press). "Urban Appalachians and Canadian Maritime Migrants: A Comparative Study Emergent Ethnicity." International Journal of Comparative Sociology. Miller, Tommie R. 1976. "Urban Appalachians: Cultural Pluralism and Ethnic Identity in the City." M.A. thesis, University of Cincinnati. Obermiller, Phillip J. 1977. "Appalachians as an Urban Ethnic Group: Romanticism, Renaissance, or Revolution?" Appalachian Journal, 5:145-152. 1982. "Labeling Urban Appalachians: The Role of Stereotypes in the Formation of Ethnic Identity." Ph.D. dissertation, Union Graduate School. Philliber, William W. 1981. Appalachian Migrants in Urban America: Cultural Conflict or Ethnic Group Formation? New York: Praeger. and Phillip J. Obermiller. (In Press). "Black Appalachian Migrants: The Issue of Dual Minority Status," in Richard Simon, ed., Critical Essays in Appalachian Life and Culture. Boone, North Carolina: Appalachian Consortium Press. Ritt, Leonard, 1967. "Presidential Voting Patterns in Appalachia: An Analysis of the Relationship between Turnout, Partisan Change, and Selected Socioeconomic Variables." Ph.D. dissertation, University of Tennessee. Ryan, John P. 1975. Cultural Diversity and the American Experience: Political Participation Among Blacks, Appalachians and Indians. Beverly Hills: Sage Publications. Schwarzweller, Harry K., James S. Brown, and JJ. Mangalam. 1971. Mountain Families in Transition: A Case Study of Appalachian Migration. University Park: Pennsylvania State University. Weed, Perry L. 1973. The White Ethnic Movement and Ethnic Politics. New York: Praeger. Wright. E.O. C. Costello, D. Hatchen, and J. Sprague. 1982. "The American Class Structure." American Sociological Review, 47:709-726. 94 �When the Bank Failed John L. Bell, Jr. On November 30, 1930, the Central Bank and Trust Company of Asheville, North Carolina, failed to open. The failure of this bank had great economic and political consequences for the city and county, and tragic consequences for a number of individuals. The purpose of this paper is to examine the background of this failure and to determine its impact on the community. Located on Park Square in Asheville, the Central Bank and Trust Company was chartered in 1912 and grew from a small-town bank into the third largest bank in the state by 1930. This phenomenal growth was largely the result of local economic growth and the astute management of the president, Wallace B. Davis of Asheville. Having only a fifth-grade education, the diminutive David started in banking at age sixteen and rose to the presidency of Central Bank at age thirty-five. Through his banking connections Davis bought controlling interest in the bank and numerous other corporations and was a millionaire by 1930. Under his leadership the bank established—in addition to savings and checking—trust, insurance, and bond departments. By 1930 the bank had total assets of $50 million, but it was teetering on the brink of insolvency.1 The basic cause of the bank's difficulty was a downturn in the local economy in 1927. Before then the economy had thrived as tourists and tubercular convalescents had discovered the cool and healthy climate of the Land of the Sky. Men like George Vanderbilt and E.W. Grove publicized the potential of the area, and realty development, hotels, and service industries soon followed. The population jumped from 28,000 to 50,000 in the 1920s. Unfortunately high pressure realty developers moved to Asheville in 1925 from Florida and sparked a frenzy of speculation with visions of unlimited riches for Asheville. Subdivisions sprang up like mushrooms, and the only thought was to buy today and sell at a higher price tomorrow. But there were more lots than buyers, and prices crashed in 1927 and slumped further in 1928. The speculation had ended, but the visions of Asheville's greatness continued, and banks and businesses held on by their teeth, believing that another boom was just around the corner. Even that hope was destroyed by the stock market crash in 1929.2 Wallace Davis and his bank were caught up in the speculative frenzy and lent money by the millions to buyers and purveyors of realty and even to mills to saw the lumber for buildings. The bank's problem was that it had lent too much money on real estate, some $5 million, and overextended borrowers were unable to make payments. Davis needed to call in loans or demand more collateral to get the cash needed to operate, for the state was unrelenting in its requirement of a fifteen percent cash reserve on demand deposits.3 To secure the cash needed and to avoid foreclosing on the leading businessmen in Asheville, Davis took varied courses of action. He called for more collateral, called in part of the principal on loans, and even foreclosed on $1.4 million in loans to lumber mills (but was forced to operate them at a loss when he could find no buyers). Davis even used slight-of-hand to turn questionable loans into assets. He created seventeen realty companies, assigned $3.4 million of the bank's slow real estate notes to them, and had the companies issue bonds to be held by the bank as assets.4 95 �Davis also found creative solutions to emergencies. When Thomas Ray Byrd, one of his largest borrowers and depositors, threatened to withdraw his money and ruin the bank, Davis wheeled and dealed. Byrd owned four mortgage companies worth about $3 million that had lent money mainly to real estate developers. Byrd also owed the Central Bank $620,000 on which he was unable to make payment. Davis's solution to this problem was to create the Central Securities Company to hold the stock of the mortgage companies, cancel the $620,000 note, give Byrd stock and bonds in the new company for the balance of his sale price of $1 million, and have the bank's seventeen real estate companies buy $550,000 in preferred stock to give the company operating capital. Davis became president and main stockholder in Central Securities which was used to raise industrial development capital through bond sales and to bring industry to the mountain area. But the stock market crash ended that plan. Instead, Davis used the $3.7 million raised by bond sales for a little Reconstruction Finance Corporation for the community—for extensions on loans, new loans to keep merchants in business, and money to replenish the bank's cash reserve.5 To his credit, Davis did work to attract industry to diversify and strengthen the local economy. He helped to secure the American Enka rayon plant in 1928, and he requested R.C.A., Firestone Tire, Victor Talking Machine, Colonial Radio, and even Hill Casket to locate in the area, but to no avail.6 Davis believed that the salvation of the Central Bank lay in the acquisition of a prosperous bank or investment trust company in the Northeast to give the bank access to cash and spread out risk. In 1928 Davis did acquire the American National Bank in Asheville, but its assets were meager, and it served mainly to give immediate credit for Central's checks drawn on other banks. Negotiations to buy a Philadelphia bank were fruitless, but Davis's search linked him up with another man who was in the market for bonds.7 This man was Luke Lea, former U.S. Senator from Tennessee, reputed Democratic boss of Tennessee, and a leading newspaper publisher. Lea and his partner, Rogers Caldwell, head of Caldwell and Company of Nashville, a $650 million investment bank, had the same problem as Davis. The collapse of a real estate boom and a lagging economy had left them short of cash. Lea proposed that he and Davis and Caldwell establish a giant holding company to hold the stock of Lea's newspapers and Caldwell's and Davis's banks. In addition Lea proposed to acquire, with northern financial support, a chain of banks extending through Tennessee, Kentucky, and Pennsylvania. The latter part of the plan fell through when Lea's Northern financial support collapsed when the stock market crashed. Still, Lea and Davis cooperated through 1930, each lending the other their assets to keep one another afloat. Lea had even arranged a $1.5 million loan for Davis to buy his investment trust company when Caldwell and Company failed in early November, 1930, shattering Davis's plans.8 Davis still had a last major resource to save his bank. His connections with the Democratic party, in particular a small group of men known as the "Ring," who controlled the city and county governments, enabled Davis to secure unusually large deposits of public funds. By 1927 the city was keeping $3.6 million and the county $2.6 million on deposit constantly. To obtain these funds the city and county issued short-term notes secured by anticipated revenues. The total amount deposited was enough to keep each government operating for over a year. Although many people knew of them, the deposits were not publicized.9 Unfortunately for Davis and the bank, his connections with the Ring placed him in the middle of a taxpayers' revolt and a resurgence of the Republican party in 1928. The revolt was led by a county Taxpayers' League numbering some 1,800 members and headed by James M. Westall, a lumber dealer and Thomas Wolfe's uncle. (Wolfe's You Can't Go Home Again recounts this boom 96 �and bust period from the League's viewpoint.) The League was appalled at the great debt of $50 million and the high city property tax rate of $3.62 per hundred dollars of evaluation that the Ring had saddled them with in order to provide all manner of services and buildings during the boom. And the debt and taxes were high; the debt was an eleventh of the total public debt in North Carolina, and the tax rate was the highest in the state. The League actively entered politics in 1928, unsuccessfully supporting anti-Ring candidates in the Democratic primary and charging the Ring with stealing the election. These charges of corruption in the primary, the Hoover-Smith campaign, and Democratic defections by the hundreds resulted in a great Republican victory in the fall elections. For the first time in thirty-two years the Republicans won every legislative seat and every county office but one. The Repubicans would have won the city elections, too, but they were held the year before in 1927, and the Democrats were safely in office until 1931.10 From 1928 on the League was convinced that the Central Bank provided the lite blood tor the Ring, and the Ring could be neutralized only by withdrawing the public funds from the bank. At first the League found an ally in Newton M. Anderson, the new Republican county finance commissioner who planned to redistribute county fund equitably among all the city banks. But Anderson, developer of the Malvern Hills subdivision, found that Davis owned the mortgage company that held his note for $600,000 and on which Anderson was unable to make a $100,000 payment. Davis graciously allowed Anderson to defer payment to a more convenient time, and Anderson increased the county deposits in the bank another million dollars. The League found Democratic Mayor Gallatin Roberts, an honest but pliable man, very uncooperative in its efforts to reduce the city's deposits, and he secretly increased these deposits by a million dollars in 1930." At first these public deposits were well secured, as required by state law, but unidentified enemies of the bank began writing the surety companies in 1928 that the Central Bank was a poor risk. Their purpose was to force the withdrawl of public deposits. The surety companies began cancelling their bonds with Central, but a local legislative act in 1929 enabled the bank to use commercial paper as surety for the public funds. Although this paper consisted of notes of the "best men in Asheville," it was deemed of doubtful value. Mayor Roberts trusted Davis and accepted whatever paper he offered, but the Republican county treasurer, L.L. Jenkins, worked diligently to upgrade the county's collateral. This use of commercial paper as collateral greatly hampered the bank, for by 1930 two-thirds of its assets were tied up as surety for public deposits.12 With these kinds of conditions, the bank was in its death throes by October, 1930. It took only a "whispering campaign," connecting Central Bank with the failed Caldwell and Company, to cause a steady withdrawal of $1.2 million in deposits in a few weeks. On November 20 the bank had insufficient cash to continue and closed. The next day the American National Bank closed also." The failure of Central and American National had an immediate and detrimental impact on other institutions closely connected with them. Within a month over twenty banks in twelve western North Carolin counties failed. In December,Central Securities and its mortgage companies folded also.14 At first the public reaction to this banking disaster was one of shock but confidence that Asheville could weather the storm. But shock soon turned to anger as auditors' reports on city and county finances were made public. The reports revealed that public credit had been perverted for the gain of a private institution and used far beyond what local fiscal needs dictated. Also, the security for the city's deposits, enough money to run the city for two to three years, was virtually wor97 �thless, much of it being in the form of second mortgages. The security for county deposits, thanks to the labors of L.L. Jenkins, was better. 15 The anger aroused by these events resulted in demands for the resignations of all officials involved in lending the bank public monies. Anderson, Jenkins, and the other Republicans were defeated in the election of 1930 and left office ten days after the bank failed, so the demands for resignations fell upon Mayor Roberts and his commissioners. By December 11 they had all resigned, protesting that they had done what they thought best for Asheville.16 Not satisfied with these resignations, the public demanded full investigations by federal and state grand juries. Federal officials moved first on February 4, indicting and arresting President Wallace B. Davis, his brother, Vicepresident Russell C. Davis, and Cashier J. Charles Bradford of the Central Bank and President L.L. Jenkins of American National on charges of conspiracy to violate national banking laws. On February 21 the state indicted all former city and county officials, the Davises, and eight other Central Bank officers on charges of conspiracy to pervert the credit of the city and county. More state indictments came in March as Davis and other bank officers were charged with violating state banking laws and Luke Lea and his son, an associate, and Davis were charged with conspiracy to defraud the Central Bank of its assets. Lea and his son willingly came from Tennessee to submit to arrest, claiming their innocence of all charges. More federal indictments swept up Davis and William D. Harris, president and vicepresident of Central Securities, on charges of using the U.S. mails to defraud buyers of Central Securities bonds. In April other state indictments were returned against lesser bank, city, and county officials on related charges.17 Some people broke under the strain of being arrested. J. Charles Bradford, Davis's right-hand man, tried to commit suicide on February 9 by slashing both sides of his throat with a safety razor, but his life was saved and he was committed to a mental hospital. On February 17 Arthur E. Rankin, vicepresident of Central's branch office, shot himself in the head. He had not been indicted, but he had made an unauthorized loan of $35,400 from the bank. On February 25 Mayor Roberts walked calmly to the restroom in his office building and put a .38 caliber bullet through his head. Making himself a sacrificial offering, Roberts wrote that he was laying down his life for his city and hoped that people could stop hating one another and work for the common good.18 In a series of six state and federal trials from May, 1931, through the summer of 1933, only three people were convicted of violating state or federal law. Wallace B. Davis was convicted of making a fraudulent report to the state bank examiner, and Davis and the Leas were convicted of conspiracy to defraud the Central Bank of its assets. Davis went to state prison in 1932 and served two years of a nine to thirteen year sentence before the governor paroled him. Luke Lea and his son fought extradition but finally went to state prison in 1934. After serving ten weeks, Luke Lea, Jr., was paroled because of illness, but his father served two years of a six to ten years sentence being paroled in 1936.19 Although these personal tragedies may have satisified the community desire for justice and vengeance, it required cool heads to meet the fiscal problems bobbing in the wake of the bank failure. The worst problem was the lack of money to keep the city and county governments operating, for they were left with only a few thousand dollars in cash and the normal incoming revenues. They could not borrow large sums because their debt was large and their credit overextended. Public officials therfore looked for other ways to obtain or save money. Back taxes and assessment amounted to some $4 million, and the tax collectors pounced on these delinquent accounts. The 1931 legislature authorized the local governments to combine their health and engineering departments and to establish a central authority to oversee their budgets, all with a 98 �view to saving money and coordinating the tax burden. By the summer the city and county had retrenched and cut their operating budgets in half. Parts of these cuts were made possible when the state took over the county prison and roads as part of a statewide plan.20 Yet these cuts were not enough to provide money to sustain the public school system, one of the best in the state. Providing classes from kindergarten through the new junior college, the system consumed over half of the operating budget. By February, 1931, the county could not pay the teachers, and the schools were kept open only because the school personnel agreed to work out the year without pay and at great personal sacrifice. In the fall the county received permission to use a debt escrow account to pay back salaries. The school system was thus saved, but it operated in the coming years on greatly reduced budgets with fewer personnel.21 The knottiest fiscal problem was the bonded debt. The city and county and special tax districts defaulted on their combined debt of $83.2 million, thirty percent of the assessed value of all property, in May, 1931. What should be done was not clear. Some people suggested declaring bankruptcy, but the thought of having receivers control local government for some forty years was not appealing. Others suggested repudiating the debt incurred under Ring rule, but this course promised only a poor credit rating. The course finally adopted was a compromise. The city and county would pay over the next five years the interest, but not the principal, on the short-term notes used to shore up the bank. They would pay neither the principal nor interest on the long-term bonded debt over the next five years in order to give time to attack the legality of certain debts. In 1936 the principal and interest on all outstanding debts was finally refunded with new bonds maturing over a fortyyear period, and only in 1976 did Asheville free itself from this earlier debt.22 The main political problem to be solved after the bank failed was the restoration of confidence in city government. There could be no confidence as long as it was possible for the Ring to rig elections and put its cronies in office. Although the mayor and commissioners hadresignedin December and new officers were appointed, people charged that the Ring still had its friends in key positions and was ready to operate the city for its benefit. Reformers wanted to change the structure of local government to minimize the influence of the Ring, but there was no consensus on how to do it or who should do it. There was agreement that the regular political parties could not be trusted to propose changes.23 Into this leadership vacuum moved three newly organized groups in December, 1930. The first group was the League of Women Citizens, a non-partisan group of six hundred women committed to establishing clean government. Next, about three hundred young business and professional men established the Young Men's Council to promote good government. In turn, the Young Men worked to establish a small Legislative Council, consisting of representatives from civic and professional clubs, to work with the legislators to secure laws modifying the form of city government.24 It was this Legislative Council, supported by the women and young men and the Taxpayers League, that worked out the reforms. Cooperating with the legislators, the Council secured the exemption of county local elections from the statewide absentee ballot law, a new charter changing the city government from the commission to the council-manager form, and non-partisan city elections. These last two changes were approved by popular referendum, a vote of about 5,200 to 3,000. The absentee ballot in local elections below the office of legislator was abolished because the Ring had used it so effectively to steal elections. The council-manager form of government supposedly helped to fix responsibility and promote efficiency in government. The new charter also provided for civil service to stop the practice of making firemen and policemen political appointees. Non-partisan primaries were used to nominate council members, and the general election was non99 �partisan and city-wide, making it more difficult for the Ring to elect its people. In the first general election in April, 1931, all nine elected council members had reform sympathies.25 Between 1931 and 1936 the city and county had thus worked their way out of these difficulties. If one can draw any single conclusion from the events surrounding the decline and failure of the Central Bank, it is that the people did not submit to despair but looked with hope to the future, expecting to work their way out of their political and economic difficulties. Other conclusions may be drawn also. The bank experienced a three-year period of weakness because of land speculation, lending too much money on real estate, and extending the bank's resources too freely to help people in trouble. Wallace Davis made many reasonable efforts to protect the bank, but his daily banking practices were loose, unwise, and downright illegal. Also, Davis had a run of bad luck, his industrial development and attempted acquisitions of banks coming at the wrong times. Davis was also unwise in using public funds to shore up the bank just when his political connections would bring the bank under attack. The main impact of the bank failure on the community was to curtail local fiscal resources immediately and for years to come. The trauma of this period spurred people to make political reforms which they hoped would bring more honest and open government. Footnotes 'Asheville Citizen, May 12, September 18, 26, 1931; State Bank Examiner's Report on the Central Bank and Trust Company, July, 1930, in State vs. Davis. 203 N.C. Reports, Original Cases, North Carolina Supreme Court Reports, North Carolina State Archives, Raleigh. (Hereinafter cited as Bank Examiner's Report, 1930.) Charles Aurelius Webb, Asheville, North Carolina; Forty-Six Years in Asheville; 1889-1935; Reminiscences and Observations (Asheville, 1035), p. 19; William Howard Plemmons, "The City of Asheville; Historical and Institutional," (Unpublished master's thesis, n.p., 1935; Copy in Pack Memorial Library, Asheville, N.C.), p. 232; Asheville Citizen, September 26, 1931. 'Asheville Citizen, May 10, 1031. 'Asheville Citizen, May 12, 14, September 26, 1931. 'Asheville Citizen, September 18, 24, 25, 26, 1931. 'Asheville Citizen, September 25, 1931. 'Asheville Citizen, September 26, 1931; November 25, 26, 29, 1932. 'Asheville Citizen, December 14, 1930; January 18, March 4, July 1, September 26, 1931; State vs. Davis. 203 N.C. Reports 18. 'Taxpayers Bulletin (Asheville), April, December, 1930. (Copies in the North Carolina Collection, University of North Carolina Library, Chapel Hill, N.C.). '"Asheville Citizen, February 14, 18, November 1, 7, 1928; letter of James M. Westall to the editor, February 19, 1931; Asheville Times, August 10, 18, 1928; Zebulon Weaver to R.L. Doughton, November 15, 1928, in Zebulon Weaver Papers, University Archives, Western Carolina University Library, Cullowhee, N.C. "Asheville Citizen, May 22, 23, 1931. Taxpayers Bulletin, April, December, 1930. "Taxpayers Bulletin, December, 1930; Asheville Citizen, September 26, 1931, November 24, 27, 1932. "Asheville Citizen, November 21, 1930, September 26, 1931. "Raleigh News and Observer, November 21, 23, December 16, 17, 1930. "Asheville Citizen, December 6, 7, 1930, January 8, 1931. "Asheville Citizen, December 7, 10, 11, 1930. "Asheville Citizen, February 5, 22, March 17, 1931. "Asheville Citizen, February 10, 18, 26, 1931; Bank Examiner's Report, 1930. "Asheville Citizen, April 21, 1935, in Clipping File, Pack Memorial Library, Asheville, N.C. New York Times, May 10, 11, July 28, 1934, April 2, 3, 1936. "Asheville Citizen, November 22, 29, December 2, 3, 5, 6, 10,1930, February 12,15, March 12,19, 22, April 21, June 100 �10, July 2, August 7, 1931. "Raleigh News anil Observer, December 17, 18, 1930; Asheville Citizen, January 24, 27, February 1, 28, March 28, April 1, May 1, 13, July 15, September 25, 1931. "North Carolina Tax Commission, Report, 1932, pp. 182-194, 208-222; Asheville Citizen, December 21, 1930, February 6, April 29, August 21, September 2, 18, 1931; New York Times, June 3, August 27, November 16, 1936. "Asheville Citizen, December 4, 15, 1930, January 30, 1931. "Raleigh News and Observer, March 22, 1931; Asheville Citizen, January 21, May 2, 1931. M Asheville Citizen, January 30, March 27,April 17, 22, May 10, 13, 1931. 101 �Progressive Government in a Company Town Russell D. Parker From the time the city was incorporated in 1919 to 1956, when the first "outside" city manager was employed, ALCOA acknowledged that the city was the company's creature; the company, in paternalistic manner, dominated every facet of the lives of its citizens. A paradox, perhaps more apparent than real, existed in the adoption of progressive forms in municipal administration. Recent revisionist scholarship in the area of American progressivism serves, in fact, to bridge the paradox. "Progress" came to be identified with technological development as American industry succeeded in adapting progressive rhetoric to its own uses.1 The progressive era of the early twentieth century was an "experiment in bureaucratic order" in which authority became more centralized and occupation became more important than community.2 The early history of ALCOA's presence in East Tennessee is consistent with such an interpretation. By its contrived and rigid structure, the company town...precluded the development of a social and political hierarchy based on color ethnicity, that is, a caste system, within the working-class community. Its standarized living and working conditions prohibited socioeconomic competition and mobility, and its highly rigid capitalistic structure established distinct class lines, based not on an ethnicity or race, but on occupation. 3 A student of the phenomenon has defined a company town as "any community which has been built wholly to support the operations of a single company, in which all houses, buildings, and other real estate property are owned by that company, having been acquired or erected specifically for the benefit of its employees, and in which the company provides most public services."4 In the heyday of company towns, isolation from centers of population, lack of highways and transportation facilities made it essential for companies to provide housing and other community needs. Development of the automobile and highways has eliminated that necessity.5 This is not to say that the company town is extinct as an institution. It is alive and well, particularly in the South, where its paternalism—systematized, all-inclusive, and at the same time intimate—has done more than any other one thing to render workers uncomplaining and dependent. Certain "adverse consequences of a psychological, social and economic order" are demonstrated in lack of stimulation to assume civic consciousness and community responsibility.6 The concept is still widely employed in third world settings. The government of Guyana recently nationalized an operation of Aluminum, Ltd., Demerar Bauxite Company, Ltd., particularly as a response to dissatisfaction at the rigid stratification of the community of McKenzie into an exclusively white enclave of top company officials and middle management on the one hand, and on the other unskilled lower organizational workers. The latter had been obliged to sign leases providing that "I will vacate the house on request of the Company without any notice and in the event of any 102 �failing to leave, the Company shall have the right to take possession and eject me without recourse to the law." 7 In fairness, some paternal systems grew out of a social responsibility and some third world governments seek a pretext for nationalization. In the era of ALCOA's establishing a planned community in East Tennessee, there were models aplenty. Two suggest themselves as immediately contemporary and well publicized. George M. Pullman in his thinking was something of a precursor to the progressive ideal; he was obsessed by the need for system; businessmen must seek order and control through innovation and expansion.8 He hoped to demonstrate that industrialization need not lead to social disintegration. Proper housing and community planning would develop middle class standards; social reform and good business practices were complementary.' Pullman had patented the railroad sleeper car which featured an upper berth hinged to the side of the car and supported by two jointed arms, also a lower berth achieved by hinging the back seat cushions so that the back extended to meet its opposite number. He organized with partner Ben Field the Pullman Palace Car Company in 1867 and developed the vast system of Pullman car operations that came to embrace the whole nation. His first plant was at Palmyra, New York; removed shortly to Detroit, Michigan. Other plants were established in St. Louis; Elmira, New York; Washington, Delaware; and San Francisco. In the environs of Chicago twelve miles south of the business district he built in 1880 an entire town that bore his name and enjoyed an independent existence for sixteen years (until the state supreme court declared it in violation of the corporate charter). The town was everything that Chicago was not—planned, orderly, green and antiseptic—built to "reinforce virtues of self-help and personal discipline such as industry, frugality, and cleanliness..."10 In many ways the citizenworkers were made to feel that they were on public display and must conduct themselves in such a manner as not to bring shame on the company.11 Pullman secured four thousand acres, five hundred for the town. Gas, water, streets, sewer facilities, and housing were provided. A brick works supplied building material from the clay deposits around Lake Calumet.12 As the town developed, it contained 1,800 tenements, library, theatre, stores, parks and playgrounds. There was a dairy farm to supply the inhabitants. 13 Peak population was 12,500 around 1893—just before a major strike brought the town to national attention. All town officials were appointed by the company except the school board, which, although elective, were employees of the company. The chief administrator was the town agent, who supervised eleven municipal departments. 14 About the only enterprises not operated by the company were the retail stores.15 The Pullman Journal, a semi-official organ of the corporation, supported all of Pullman's policies.16 The company was determined that the town should bear its own weight. Consequently, rents were high. Leases forbade alteration of premises; no pigs or chickens were permitted.17 On the job there was blacklisting, nepotism, arbitrary dismissal and tyrannical foremen; Pullman, a calculating conservative, had no patience with talk of unionism.18 A strike was precipitated in May 1894, with four thousand workers, who had organized under the American Railway Union, calling for investigation of shop abuses, reduction of rents and restoration of wages, which had been slashed.19 U.S. Attorney-General Richard Olney, charging that the union was obstructing the mails, obtained an injunction restraining Eugene V. Debs, the union president. Federal troops were moved in; Debs and his lieutenants were arrested; the strike collapsed. A modern chronicler of the Pullman experiment concludes that "modern America's search for control and order through city and regional planning may have been derived in part from the early activity of the business community in its quest for industrial efficiency."20 103 �Another model in the same region, Gary, Indiana, has been termed "the largest attempt at urban genesis and town planning ever undertaken in American industry." 21 The founder was U.S. Steel, formed as a corporation in 1901. In 1906 the company began quietly (and anonymously) buying up a 9,664-acre tract. 22 A huge complex of mills and furnaces was laid out. In the townsite, the utility franchise was granted a U.S. Steel subsidiary.23 The work force, until around 1915, was predominantly east European immigrant. A bitter strike in 1919 and a national policy of immigration curtailment led the company to bring in Mexican and Negro laborers.24 During the strike the National Guard and federal troops were called in to quell the workers and render their efforts generally ineffectual. 25 ALCOA's planning incorporated both examples. Similarities to the Pullman case are especially striking, although ALCOA was not so idealistic, hence not so frustrated. Whatever form the community assumed must be traced in some measure to the domineering influence of Arthur Vining Davis, president of the company at the time of the city's establishment. Davis gave close attention to both the administration of ALCOA and more especially to a model town, Arvida, in Quebec which bore his name. On the Saguenay River, Arvida is the site of a reduction plant which processes bauxite. When Davis died in 1962, the town was a beneficiary of his $400-million estate.26 Municipal governments in the United States developed as concentrations of population created a need for such services as police and fire protection; health and sanitary measure including water supply and sewage and waste disposal; traffic regulation; and building construction regulation. Three forms have been common to the United States—mayor/council, commission, and council/manager. The mayor/council form, which has been most common over the years, features an elective legislative body and an elective executive. The mayor appoints and removes administrative officers (in a variation, some are elected), prepares a budget for the council's consideration, and passes upon ordinances submitted by the council. In the commission form, a number (usually five) of elected officials serve singly as heads of city departments and collectively as the legislative body for the city. One of the number acts as mayor—elected specifically or chosen by his colleagues. His powers are limited to titular head of the city for ceremonial purposes. The most recent form to gain acceptance is the council/manager plan, in which a small elective council appoints the manager for an indefinite period of time from (normally) out-of-town applicants. This has imbued the post with a certain professionalism. An engineering background is desirable and frequently required. The manager appoints and removes administrative employees, prepares a budget for the council's consideration, and carries out council policies. His tenure is generally determined by the results he achieves. The ALCOA form most nearly resembles the council/manager formula, although it was termed commission/manager. ALCOA was the second city in the state to adopt the city manager form; Kingsport, controlled by Eastman Kodak, was the first. The commission/city manager form is associated with progressivism and the degree to which the South was genuinely involved in that reform movement is the subject of some debate. Perhaps significantly, another Southern city, Staunton, Virginia, in 1909, was the first community in the nation to adopt the council/manager plan by popular vote in 1912; and Galveston, Texas, as an efficiency device after inundation by a tidal wave was the first to adopt the commission form (in 1900).27 104 �The quarrel among progressives with the popular mayor/council form was that the mayor, by manipulating the council and regimenting the city's wards through a cadre of carefully chosen lieutenants, could establish himself as "boss," perpetuate himself in office, and preside over a corrupt regime. Recent scholarship has brought to light that if the ward government of city bosses was corrupt, it was at the same time close to the people and sensitive to their needs.28 This sensitivity contrasts starkly with a concern for efficiency that characterized the progressive thrust, often at the expense of democracy. Evidence of that character lies in the imposition of the system. The people of Alcoa—and of many another model community in the South and elsewhere—did not opt for a city manager. He was the gift of the company—and a company employee. Alcoa's city charter in 1919 provided for a board of three city commissioners elected for twoyear terms by popular vote—they were to choose one of their number mayor—at the salary of one dollar per annum. The mayor enjoyed a vote but no veto in commission deliberations. The commission appointed and fixed the salary of the city manager; he served at their pleasure. They also fixed the salaries of the recorder, police chief, and city attorney, although the manager appointed them. The recorder had a seat, but no vote, on the commission. He imposed and collected fines and served as city judge. The chief of police brought cases before his court. The city attorney might attend meetings of the commission if he wished.29 That power and heavy responsibility of government rested with the manager and, in view of their shared duties, the city recorder was in no wise extraordinary, since the city manager form aimed at concentration of authority for efficiency's sake. As has been pointed up earlier, the manager for the bulk of the period under consideration in this study was Victor J. Hultquist, who held the position from the city's incorporation in 1919 until his retirement in 1948. He was succeeded by Arthur B. Smith, who had served through Hultquist's tenure as city judge/recorder/treasurer. Both were employees of ALCOA. Hultquist's responsibilities in that capacity as head of the Construction Department and Properties Manager were varied and awesome. He was a mechanical engineer and had been with the company since 1912 with prior assignments in New Kensington, Pa., and Badin, N.C. Smith who was hired by ALCOA in 1917, became assistant works manager and chief clerk of the Construction Department (later termed General Services) and bore no less a heavy load for the company.30 That either of them in their roles as city manager exercised any appreciable degree of independence from the company could hardly be sustained. The commissioners tended to be ALCOA men or employees of Babcock Land and Lumber Company, which became Bond-Woolf Company in 1934 and Veach-May-Wilson in 1946. The Babcock company had come in just before ALCOA's entry and had been cooperative from the beginning; C.L. Babcock was the first mayor. A long-time city official tells of ALCOA representatives—one a Democrat, the other a Republican—who orchestrated city elections under ALCOA's direction. Their expenditure of effort in campaigning was dependent upon whether the company's choice was opposed—he often was not—and the calibre of opposition.31 Since election of commissioners was staggered, citizens would be voting for one office-holder on the first Saturday in June, as prescribed by ordinance. Coupled with the necessity in the early period of a citizen's paying his poll tax (for educational funding) at a prior deadline to qualify for voting, the light turn-outs are understandable.32 The company was concerned that city government should be competent and honest, and the men who served as commissioners seem to have been for the most part public-spirited and serious about their responsibilities. Graft and corruption is singularly conspicuous by its absence in the city's affairs, which were carefully overseen by the company. 105 �The commission was early preoccupied with fashioning a workable framework of government. The manager controlled police, fire and education departments; he appointed both the superintendent of schools and all teachers and fixed their salaries; he was director of public welfare; he countersigned checks issued by the recorder, who was tax collector. The commission by ordinance levied taxes based upon the recorder's stated needs for the fiscal year.34 At the outset, until the city became more imaginative, the principal source of income was the property tax, which meant that ALCOA bore the lion's share of tax load. In its first year, with a tax rate of $1.15 per one hundred dollars assessed value, total city income was $94,946, of which $60,026 was derived from property tax. The assessed valuation of real and personal property for the year 1920 was $4,731,573. By contrast, in the terminal year of this study, with the tax rate still at $1.15 (although it had risen to a high of $1.75 during the twenties and thirties) the proposed budget was $672,830 with $227,900 from property tax. State and county school funds netted approximately $225,000, with additional income from state street aid, sales tax, beer tax, and rentals; a $64,000 unexpended balance was carried over from the previous year.35 Manager Hultquist expressed his regrets to his principal correspondent in the Pittsburgh office that the tax rate in 1923 would be $1.75, up ten cents over the previous year, due mainly to the decrease in ALCOA's assessment—down $222,170. There were "grumblers" at this development, he reported—"Watson Ford, the Hannums and Proffitts." The Maryville tax rate was only $1.50. When this news was conveyed to Arthur Vining Davis, the president informed Hultquist that ALCOA would contribute $5,000 to the education sector to bring the rate down to $1.65.36 Major expenditures went annually to public works and education. Allocation of the assessment in an early year (1924) was municipal expense, .866; general, .321; streets, .100; and debt retirement and interest, .455." There was a great deal of street grading and paving with sewer lines to be laid. Occasional bond issues were necessary to fund such projects or to build or improve schools. Interestingly, many people of the area are convinced that the company built the city schools, as was often the case in company town settings. In Alcoa this was true only to the extent that the company was a major taxpayer. In that capacity and as the city's overseer, the company was not reticent in making its feelings known. When city planners in 1923 fumed over where to locate Bassel School, Edwin S. Fickes, a Pittsburgh-based company official, strode to the present site, dug in his heel, and snapped in his curt, direct style, "Build it here."38 When Alcoa High School was constructed in 1939, WPA furnished almost half the funding. There is irony here, since company and city officials were notorious for delivering themselves of diatribes against the socialistic tendencies of the New Deal. There was no hesitancy, however, to accept that assistance nor the considerable federal aid to road-building projects in that era of depressed national economy. The company was not slow to voice its displeasure at the city's early plan to fund street repair through issuance of bonds for onethird of the cost and an assessment on lands abutting the streets to garner the other two-thirds.39 Salaries for city officials at the outset were: manager $2,000, recorder/treasurer $2,100, engineer $125 per month. A black principal's salary was $125 per month while two whites received one hundred dollars and eighty-five dollars, but John T. Arter, as discussed above, was meant to be more than principal. Teachers' salaries were at $75 per month. 40 At the depth of depression in 1932 salaries stood at: manager $1,850, recorder/treasurer $4,560, chief of police $1,710, school superintendent $3,325, teachers $27,875. The latter figure was a reduction from the previous year, illustrating the dictum that education is the first to feel hard times.41 Salaries were frozen the following year, but an added expense of $1,250 for special deputies speaks to the labor unrest in that year; it was a continuing expense in the thirties and totalled $3,750 in the explosive year of 1937.42 106 �The manager's job was considered part time, as is indicated in the pay scale. Hultquist usually spent half his day in a tour of the several posts for which he held responsibility in his company employ. Most of them touched intimately some aspect of city affairs, as his oversight of townsite construction and maintenance; the power, light and water utility; quarry, brick and tile works; concrete mixing plant and lumber mill. To illustrate, the Knoxville Power Company, a company affiliate, was awarded the franchise to "sell and dispose of water within the...limits of the City..."43 A control motive is discernible in the early ordinances. Some bore a feudal flavor, as one that discouraged employment agencies that might hire off ALCOA workers.44 A poll tax of one dollar (later two dollars) was levied on all males age twenty-one through twenty-five; males twenty-one through twenty-five were required to work on the streets of the city five days of each year. The alternative was to send an able-bodied substitute or pay the city recorder five dollars.45 The Aluminum Bulletin reminded Alcoans how lucky they were—the Blount County road tax was twelve dollars.46 Ordinances enacted during the twenties forbade "the sale of, transportation, or possession of intoxicating liquors," forbade "immoral conduct or the keeping of disorderly or bawdy houses," forbade "gaming and the keeping of gambling houses and gambling devices," prohibited vagrancy, defined as applicable to those possessing "no visible and lawful means of support," forbade "fighting or quarreling in a rude and boisterous manner in a public place," made it unlawful to "prowl after dark on or along the streets, highways, alleys or upon or about private property," or "to appear in public masked or in disguise." Businesses were closed on Sundays.47 An ordinance prohibiting prostitution was not passed until 1943, when World War II brought over-crowding and relaxed lifestyles.48 Reflecting the repeal of prohibition, an ordinance of May, 1933, regulated the sale of beer and other intoxicating beverages.49 Further reflecting the depression of the thirties, ordinances in 1934 extended deadlines for delinquent taxes and appropriated extra monies to the welfare fund. 50 During the labor upheaval of 1937 an ordinance provided that the city manager shall have the power and shall be authorized to appoint policemen in such manners as may be necessary and proper to protect and care for the property, lives and safety of the people within the corporate limits of the City of Alcoa. Another authorized borrowing of $25,000 for "emergency expenses of the city incurred during the strike and labor troubles."51 There were numerous petitions calling for street repair; this has been cited as a contributing factor to the workers' dissatisfaction which exploded in 1937. But the New Deal's green light to labor and the organizing initiatives of the CIO were undoubtedly more fundamental to that unrest. The city's police chief, Arthur L. Lively, has been characterized as "determined" and "nervous," as was demonstrated in his handling of the 1937 labor trouble. Lively, who held his office for over thirty years (1926-57) and his assistant, Tom Love (1929-46), ran a "tight" town. Their control of the black community was especially rigid, reflecting racial fears and expectations.52 Before the city purchased a police car, Love "walked" the town at night. A black community leader recalls that they were respected, with the reservation that Lively was "hard on chicken thieves" but permitted bootleggers to operate.53 A striking feature of Alcoa city government is that the company knew its man in Hultquist and he was allowed to serve longer in his manager's post than any other manager in the country to that time. He in like manner, once he found the personnel suitable to his purpose, was not given to ex107 �perimentation but stayed with people of proven quality. Whether he did it from instinct or from observing ALCOA's practice is problematical. The most obvious example is Arthur Smith, his strong right arm. Arthur Lively was chosen after a brief period of experimentation with other law officers. In the field of education, Hultquist tried two other candidates, then settled on V.F. Goddard, a Maryville College graduate employed at the State Normal School at Minot, North Dakota. Goddard was highly regarded in educational circles there and was considering making the race for state superintendent. Hultquist, who could be tight-fisted on the subject of paying educators, did not flinch at the $3,000 salary it took to bring Goddard to East Tennessee.54 The able superintendent retired in 1957 after thirty-three years at his post. In the course of his tenure his alma mater bestowed an honorary doctorate upon him.55 Alcoa's efficient administration attracted state and national attention. In 1949, according to the FBI, there was less crime in Alcoa than in any other city of comparable size in the United States.56 In 1956, Alcoa was cited by the Tennessee Muncipal League for twelve years without a traffic fatality, praised for the excellence of its annual report, its low per capita city debt, its recreation program and school system.57 Changing conditions, in particular a rapidly growing population at home, in the contiguous city of Maryville and in Knoxville close by, necessitated a more sophisticated approach to government. Although neither municipality seems to have pressed for the tardy realization of a major connecting artery,58 the Maryville-Alcoa juncture was achieved in 1943, creating a thoroughfare for tourist traffic through the twin cities. In 1944 a city ordinance provided for a three-member planning commission to concern itself primarily with streets. The city manager would serve and appoint with commission approval two others for two-year terms; in 1948 the city was divided into three wards; in 1952 a comprehensive zoning law was enacted; and in 1955 a recreation commission of five members with the manager and superintendent of schools serving permanently was created.59 The remarkable feature common to all these actions is that they were not taken earlier. A transaction negotiated in 1955 added considerably to the complexity of government. The city through a $1.5-million bond issue purchased the electric distribution system of Tapoco, Inc., the ALCOA subsidiary. It was an arrangement mutually beneficial to both city and company,60 and in 1960 the company would pass on its water utility as well. It became immediately necessary to appoint a utilities board. The city manager named five members to four-year terms; they were to appoint a superintendent of the electric system.61 The flurry of resignations by the "old guard" in the late fifties was, in all probability, coincidental to their serving out their long careers in chorus, but a more independent posture is evident in city affairs with the arrival of a professional manager in 1956. The issue of integration was pressing for resolution. The racial cauldron, on which the lid had been tightly secured through the years, would boil; heated tempers would flare. One suspects that the long-time public servants left with relief beyond the satisfaction of a life's work done. As to the company's role in municipal affairs, there was well under way by this time a gradual disengagement. The reasons were varied and are elaborated elsewhere in this study. To expect the company to remove itself entirely from the political arena would, of course, be unreasonable, but the more recent involvements appear not so corporate as personal. One illustration that goes beyond the purview of this account will serve as an ironic epilogue. In 1968 the city commission erupted in political in-fighting. This was not unknown in the past but restraint and decorum had been the rule. The company would not tolerate undue bickering. 108 �Moreover, since the company's point of view was paramount, the parameters of dispute were limited—fundamental program was never at issue, only mode of implementation. The explosion in 1968 revolved about the educational system. In the upshot, it was decided after half a century that the city should have an elected five-member school board. The city manager/commission's involvement would be limited to fixing the educational budget.62 In this rush to change, the commission, too, was enlarged to five members. In the course of vigorous debate, an ALCOA official, Public Relations Manager for Tennessee Operations, took a hand. He read a five-page paper enunciating the company's interest—and reckoned that since the company pays eighty percent of local property and sales taxes sustaining the city government, its voice should be heeded.63 His arguments were taken at face value, while his strident manner was viewed as anachronistic. He favored, incidentally, the changes. Since the modifications have been effected, politics in the city have been more raucous; there is evident a gutter quality more in keeping with American tradition. The public has become more interested and involved. A participant in the 1968 historionics that wrought a fundamental change in Alcoa city government, when asked to assess the government as presently constituted, responded, "Well, it's more democratic, but it's not as efficient."64 City Manager: 1919-1948-V.J. Hultquist 1948-1956-A.B. Smith Recorder & Treasurer: 1919-1948-A.B. Smith 1948-1957-W.H. Jones Assistant Recorder: 1919-1921-Vacant 1921-1940-A.R. Frye 1940-1943-Glenn H. Flack 1943-1949-H.D. Huffman 1949-1954-William L. Bolton 1954-1963-K.D. Boram City Attorney: 1919-1951-Homer A. Goddard 1951-19 -Joe C. Gamble (Assistant City Attorney - 1948-1951) City Engineer: 1919-1920-Blair Wilcox 1920-1920-R.T. Hale (April to November) 1920-1929-G.M. Bassel 1929-1947-R.T. Hale 1947-1949-W.W. Woody - Acting City Engineer P.P. Newman - Assistant City Engineer 1949-1950-R.V. Moschell - Assistant City Engineer 1950-1958-R.V. Moschell 109 �Chief of Police: 1919-1920-Charles Acuff 1920-1921-C.W. Wynne 1921-1922-O.L. Hicks - Acting Chief of Police 1922-1926-Henry Grizzard - Acting Chief of Police from May to July Jesse S. Hutton 1926-1957-A.L. Lively Fire Chief: 1919-1942-Vacant 1942-1958-F.L. Baker Superintendent of Schools: 1919-1925-Vacant 1925-1957-V.F. Goddard Health Officer: 1919-1929-Dr. J. Walter McMahan (Dr. K.A.Bryant, Assistant, 1929) 1929-1949-Dr. L.C. Olin 1949-1966-Dr. H.T. Vandergriff City Food & Dairy Inspector: 1920-1928-A.B. King 1928-1931-W.H. Wright 1931-1941-Fred H. Yearout 1941-19 -C.F. Lamb Property Custodian: 1942-19 -Thomas Claude Gray Commissioners: 1919-1921-C.L. Babcock - Mayor W.V. Arnold - Vice-Mayor S.A. Copp 1921-1923-C.L. Babcock - Mayor S.A. Copp - Vice-Mayor T.C. Gray 1923-1924-C.L. Babcock - Mayor S.A. Copp - Vice-Mayor L.S. Munch 1924-1925-C.L. Babcock - Mayor R.F. McLaughlin - Vice-Mayor L.S. Munch 1925-1928-R.F. McLaughlin - Mayor L.S. Munch - Vice-Mayor G.U. Thompson 110 �1928-1933-L.S. Munch - Mayor G.U. Thompson - Vice-Mayor J.H. Studley 1933-1937-G.U. Thompson - Mayor L.S. Munch - Vice-Mayor J.H. Studley 1937-1939-J.H. Studley - Mayor L.S. Munch - Vice-Mayor G.U. Thompson 1939-1941-J.H. Studley - Mayor G.U. Thompson - Vice-Mayor O.W. Brumfiel 1941-1943-J.H. Studley - Mayor O.W. Brumfiel- Vice-Mayor G.U. Thompson 1943-1944-O.W. Brumfiel - Mayor J.H. Studley - Vice-Mayor G.U. Thompson 1944-1947-O.W. Brumfiel - Mayor J.H. Studley - Vice-Mayor Thomas Blakely 1947-1950-O.W. Brumfiel - Mayor Thomas Blakely - Vice-Mayor J.H. Studley 1950-1955-O.W. Brumfiel - Mayor J.H. Studley - Vice-Mayor A.G. Chambers 1955-1963-O.W. Brumfiel - Mayor A.G. Chambers - Vice-Mayor Paul R. Hicks Footnotes 'Paul W. Glad, "Progressives and the Business Culture of the 1920's," Journal of American History, LIII (June 1966), 80, 81. 'Robert H. Wiebe, The Search for Order, 1877-1920 (New York: Hill & Want, 1967), xiv. 'David A. Corbin, Life, Work and Rebellion in the Coal Fields: The Southern West Virginia Miners, 1880-1892 (Urbana: University of Illinois Press, 1981), 61. 4 James B. Allen. The Company Town in the American West (Norman: University of Oklahoma Press, 1966),4. s lbid., 140. 'A.D. Shea, "Oilworkers" Housing and Community Integration in Isolated Areas," International Labour Review, LXX- XVIII (July 1963), 604. 'Quoted in Maurice St. Pierre, "Race, the Political Factor and the Nationalization of the Demerara Bauxite Company, Guyanan," Social and Economic Studies, XXIV (December 1975), 487. Ill �'Stanley Buder, Pullman: An Experiment in Industrial Order and Community Planning, 1880-1930 (New York: Oxford University Press, 1967), xiii. 'Ibid., 36, 230. '"Ibid., 228. "Ibid., 95. "Almont Lindsey, "Paternalism and the Pullman Strike," American Historical Review, XLIV 0anuary 1939), 274. "Ibid., 274-75. "Ibid., 276. "Ibid., 277. "Ibid., 279. "Ibid., 281. "Ibid., 273. "Ibid., 287. 20 Buder, Pullman, 232. "Anthony Brook, "Gary, Indiana: Steeltown Extraordinary," Journal of American Studies, IX (April 1975), 35. "Ibid., 39. "Ibid., 46. "Ibid., 41, 47. "Ibid., 42. 26 Thomas V. DiBacco, "Arthur Vining Davis," in John A. Garraty, ed.. Dictionary of American Biography, 1961-1965 (New York: Charles Scribner's Sons, 1981), 167. 27 C. Vann Woodward, Origins of the New South, 1877-1913 (Baton Rouge: L.S.U. Press, 1951), 388-89. 28 Alexander B. Callou, ed. The City Boss in America: An Interpretative Reader, (New York: Oxford University Press, 1976), 3. 2 'City of Alcoa, Ordinance Book, I, 1-32. '"Smith's widow asserts that he literally "worked himself to death" for the company and city. On much-needed vacations he must keep contact with Hultquist, who might wish to call him for information. Mrs. A.B. Smith, interview in Maryville, Tennessee, March 13, 1975. "Paul R. Hicks, interview in Alcoa, Tennessee, July 13, 1982. "A case in point is O.W. Brumfiel, who served as mayor from 1943 to 1965. Brumfiel worked as cashier at the fabricating plant. When he made the race for city commission on June 8, 1953, he was the only candidate; he received sixtynine votes. There was public apathy even when elections were contested. When Joseph H. Studley defeated J. Frank Snelson on June 4, 1949, the vote was 198 to 143. "Miscellaneous," City of Alcoa, General File, Alcoa, Tennessee. "City of Alcoa, Ordinance Book, I, 20-22, 43, 41, 16. "Ibid., 15. x lhid., 216-21; III, 1096-1100. "Victor J. Hultquist to Edwin S. Fickes, August 20, 1923; G.R. Giffons to Arthur V. Davis, August 23, 1923; Davis to Hultquist, August 29, 1923, City of Alcoa, General File. "City of Alcoa, Ordinance Book, I, 380-85. "J.B. Alexander, interview in Maryville, Tennessee, February 25, 1975. "City of Alcoa, Ordinance Book, I, 69. '"Ibid., 58-61. 41 Ibid., 535-40. <2 Ibid.,'568-73, 611-17. «Ibid.; 52-54. "Ibid., 295-97. «Ibid., 62-64. "•Aluminum Bulletin, II (September 1920), 46. "City of Alcoa, Ordinance Book, I, 95, 122-23, 137, 145-46. "Ibid., II, 762-63. "Ibid., 550-54. '"Ibid., 566-68. "Ibid., 609-10. 112 �"Ralph Love, interview in Maryville, Tennessee, July 11, 1982. "Beulah Brown, interview in Alcoa, Tennessee, April 14, 1975. "Hultquist to V.F. Goddard, June 24, 1924. City of Alcoa, General.File. "Tennessee Alcoan, VII (June 1953), 5. "Ibid., Ill (May 1949), 1-2. "Ibid., VII (July 1953), 1, 8; ibid., X (July 1956), 1. "Paul R. Hicks, interview, July l a , 1982. "City of Alcoa, Ordinance Book, II, 794-97, 857-59, 949-70, 1037-38. "Paul R. Hicks, interview, July 13, 1982. "City of Alcoa, Ordinance Book, II, 1070-72. "Knoxville News-Sentinel, February 11, 1969. "Ibid. "Paul R. Hicks, interview, July 13, 1982. 113 �This page intentionally left blank �Aspects of Daily Life: Yesterday and Today 115 �This page intentionally left blank �Store Talk in Appalachian Social Life George B. Ray The neighborhood grocery store is a common feature of the Appalachian landscape. The small, local store, often operated by one person, stocks commonly used goods, but selections are often limited and prices high. Limitations are even more striking when compared to goods available in modern supermarkets which seem to be increasingly appearing. Yet people choose to patronize local stores, often by their regular visits as well as by their purchases. Visits to country stores are common and important forms of social interaction in Appalachia (Coles, 1972, pp. 325-334; Hicks, 1976, pp. 84-87). Less well known are details which define the nature of talk in country stores. This paper presents a description and interpretation of talk in neighborhood grocery stores in Appalachia. After discussing the form of interaction in stores, the paper will address issues associated with functions of store interaction in Appalachian social life. Description of Interaction in Stores Several authors (Halliday, 1978; Hymes, 1974; Gumperz & Hymes, 1972) have discussed methods for describing naturally occurring occasions of speech. One useful approach is the ethnographic method advocated by Hymes (1974). Hymes's primary unit of analysis is the speech event: The term speech event will be restricted to activities, or aspects of activities that are directly governed by rules or norms for the use of speech (p. 52). It is important to view speech events as structured, according to norms, and specific. That is to say, a speech event is discernible from the many events going on in the group of interest. For the present study, the descriptive framework (Appendix A) contained these elements: 1) linguistic varieties; 2) linguistic units of description; 3) setting; 4) participants; 5) ends; 6) act sequences; 7) key; 8) norms; and 9) genres. The information was gathered through participant observation and intensive interview methods. The data for the study were gathered over a 15-month period of investigation. The author was a resident for three months during this period and a regular visitor during other times. The grocery stores observed were located in Chestnut Flat in Jackson County, Kentucky. Chestnut Flat is a small, rural community in southern Jackson County. There are approximately 350 residents in the community. Information obtained through interviews indicates that the community dates back to 1913 when a commercial lumber company was established. The community was literally started there and then as the lumber company was built. The owners bought up thousands of acres of virgin timerland and at one time reportedly owned up to one-fourth of Jackson County. At its peak of operations, the company employed over 500 persons and at that time many more people lived in Chestnut Flat than at present. By 1930 the virgin timber in the area had been logged and the lumber company ceased operations. The timberland was eventually sold to the Daniel Boone National Forest. The lumber company moved to Leslie County and reportedly offered jobs to those employees who were willing to relocate. 117 �From 1930 to the present, Chestnut Flat has been basically a farming community. The community lies about 20 miles from a city in which many people work and trade. Residents also work in other cities located up to 45 miles away. Other than farming, the occupations of those employed within the county include U.S. Government work (Dept. of Agriculture), state jobs (Transportation and Human Resources), county positions (school board), local small businesses (sawmills, store clerks, small coal mines), and a few who are self-employed (storekeepers). There are several mining companies that have come into the area and leased mineral rights, and lately some oil companies have leased drilling rights. Coal deposits are not extensive by most standards and several residents said the coal will be exhausted within ten years. No petroleum drilling has taken place as yet. The nearest school is an elementary school about four miles away with another, smaller elementary school about the same distance away. The only high school in the county is located near the County Seat, McKee. There are two churches in the community, a Baptist and a Pentecostal Holiness Church. Both churches have about the same number of regular attenders, roughly 100. The Holiness preacher receives pay while the Baptist preacher volunteers his services. Chestnut Flat has four grocery stores, three tilling stations, a laundromat, a restaurant, a roller rink, two insurance agencies, and a U.S. Post Office (open about two hours a day) with no rural route affiliated with it. The community is the location for one of the four voting precincts in that part of the county. Williams (1975, p. 505) classified residents in Appalachia as living in one of three types of settings: town and city dwellers, valley farmers, and branchwatermountaineers. In this scheme, the valley farmers live along river valleys, near the mouths of creeks, or on main highways, and are relatively prosperous people. The valley farmers comprise the largest of Williams' three residential groups. According to this classification, Chestnut Flat would most closely resemble the valley farmer setting. The descriptive framework led to the following explication of store talk: 1. Linguistic varieties: American English is used exclusively by all speakers. What has been called Appalachian English (Wolfram & Christian, 1976) is the dialect of American English common throughout the Appalachian region. There are many variations in the dialect throughout Appalachia, but similarities are quite striking. What seems to best characterize Appalachian English is the particular combination of certain grammatical and phonological features of speech. Wolfram and Christian reported extensively on the speech of their West Virginia speakers and many similarities seem present in the speech of Chestnut Flat speakers. Similarities in phonology included: 1) consonant cluster reduction (guest—gues'; just—jus'); 2) the intrusion of T in consonant clusters (cliff—clifft; once—oncet); 3) deletion of auxiliary verbs (I seen a fox last week.); 4) unstressed syllable deletion (She told me 'bout the fire.); 5) deletion of initial voiced TH (The patrolman said he'd stop 'em.; 'at old man couldn't say nothin'.); and 6) alternation of ER and OW in final positions (The tobaccer or baccer patch was drownded out.). Similarities in grammatical features included: 1) a-verb-ing (She came a-runnin'.); 2) subject-verb agreement, especially in the past tense of the verb BE (They was drivin' down the road.); 3) the use of DONE as a perfective marker (She done forgot to get the mail.); 4) the use of TO with participial verbs (The men started to cuttin' the baccer.); and 5) substitution of THEY for the expletive THERE (They's snakes along that ridge.). The use of these and many other linguistic forms is quite complex with regard to the age, sex, and status of speakers. Because the emphasis in this study was on speech usage rather than linguistic aspects of speech, detailed analysis of these forms was not attempted. One aspect of nonverbal communication was observed regularly. It was not uncommon for speakers to maintain low levels of eye contact. In some cases, men whittled wood and looked at their whittling rather than the listener. Another nonverbal behavior often seen was the use of one's fingers to indicate the size of 118 �something, for example, the length of an ear of corn. It was common for a speaker to refer to physical dimensions nonverbally rather than verbally. 2. Linguistic units of description: There seems to be no particular way of referring to store talk. Some men say, "I like to go to the store and talk with the boys.' Others speak of going to the store in order to visit. 3. Setting: The store in Chestnut Flat is open from 7:00 a.m. until 9:00 p.m. in the summer (sometimes it is open until 10:00 p.m.). The store has one entrance and one area where one goes to pay for purchases. Seldom do customers have to wait in line to pay. People standing near the cash register area are often talking after they have paid for their food. The store also sold sandwiches and during the noon hour many people came there for a meal. There are two types of store talk differentiated according to place, talk inside the store and talk outside the awning. Clerks are typically not very busy and customers can usually talk with them for brief periods. Outside the store was a setting for longer conversations. Other than the early morning and the supper hour, in the summer there are usually some people sitting outside the store talking. When the Post Office is open, one can see people sitting there where a bench is placed. The store is near a laundromat and a filling station and some people come to the store from these other places of business. 4. Participants: Store talk is engaged in by teenagers as well as adults, almost exclusively male. Only once this past summer were women seen outside the store. Women talked inside the store and occasionally women waited in front of the store in automobiles. Women also talked inside the laundromat, but during the summer there were relatively few customers at the laundromat. Other than teenagers, most of those outside the store were over 40 years of age. 5. Ends: The store is a place to engage in casual speech. Some participants are regularly seen at the store talking, but not necessarily at regular times. Some men came to the store to pass the time outside their homes. Most store talkers came to the store to talk, not to make purchases. This is especially true of teenagers who sometimes came to the store to meet their friends. Teenage meetings often occur after dark, especially on Friday and Saturday evenings. In the summer the roller rink is not open and the store is a substitute meeting place for some teenagers. The storeowner believed that teenagers meeting in the night left considerable refuse in front of the store. He got tired of cleaning up the refuse and decided to discourage the teenagers from meeting in front of the store. He removed the stumps, but within two days someone brought several concrete blocks to the store for use as seats. There is a pay telephone under the awning, but most people waiting to use the phone do not sit and talk. 6. Act sequence: Inside the store there are three phases. First is a greeting followed by short questions about one's general condition. The second phase is a brief exchange of news (weather, local events). Both of these phases may be omitted if the visitor is not known very well by the clerks. The third phase, taking leave, may follow the payment of goods if the visitor has little time. When a customer is about to leave the clerk does not ask him or her to stay, but the clerk may say, "Come back." Clerks usually said thank you to the customers. All food stores had signs saying "No Credit" but at least one store did in fact allow a few trusted customers to make credit purchases. Outside the store, talk had some of the same features as indoors, but the lack of definite expectations alters the sequence. The most basic sequence has two phases, greeting and leave taking. If speakers have the time to talk, then there may be casual talk and information exchange may be condensed into a few short utterances. A speaker not intending to spend much time at the store is likely not to sit down. 7. Key: During store talk, a relaxed mood prevails among interactants. There is a free and open atmosphere which makes it easy for whoever may come along to feel comfortable. When one goes to the store it is uncertain who will be there, who might come along during the visit, and how long anyone will be there. Such uncertainty makes store talk less of a setting for spending time with someone and more a time for just talking. Meeting someone at the store has fewer implications for one's relationship with someone. One can go past the store and feel no need to explain why he did not stop to see someone. No one at the store feels obligated to make another feel welcome or comfortable. Because of the uncertainty of time and participants' activities, store talk is not usually intimate. Two participants over a period of time may discuss some personal matters, but only if they enter into the conversation knowing they will be there for a period of time. Often one hears participants referring to intentions which signal the time they have to spend at the store. Unlike adults, teenagers sometimes arrived, talked, and departed as groups. 119 �8. Norms: Two aspects of normative behavior deserve comment. One norm is that adult women should not sit and talk outside the store. It is acceptable for women to talk inside the store, but not outside. One person said it would be "unladylike" for a woman to sit outside the store. Teenage women were usually not seen at the store during the day, but occasionally they were there in the night. Another norm concerns sitting while talking, except when there were no seats available. Preferences in sitting while talking may be due to discomfort of standing, although it appears that sitting signals an intention of taking time to talk. 9. Genres: The genres are casual speech (no particular topic) and storytelling (relating past experiences in narrative form). Several aspects of this analysis of store talk ought to be noted. It is significant that visitors who spend time talking at the store are almost exclusively male. Women shop at the store and sometimes linger indoors to talk, but women are rarely seen in front of the store. Although teenagers and adults talk at the store, adults predominate. When teenagers do talk at the store, they tend to talk only with other teenagers. There is a sort of segregation occurring at times when teenagers and adults are present. Individual males tend to talk with one group or the other and the groups stay separate. Purposes of speakers should also be noted. People going to the store for talking do not attempt to conceal their intentions. Instead of referring to shopping or visiting another establishment, men simply say they are going to the store. Talking at the store is a perfectly acceptable activity and there is no need to hide one's participation. So natural and typical is store talk that the store in Chestnut Flat is equipped with seats to accommodate visitors. The storekeeper did not provide the seats, but once seating appeared it remained and was used. As the description mentioned, when the storekeeper attempted to remove the seating, the seats reappeared. It is hypothesized that speakers wanted the store to be a place for talking and they were determined to provide seats to facilitate their meetings. The Store as a Locus for Interaction The grocery store in Appalachia falls into a category of places which are settings for interaction. Other places, such as the feed mill, the post office, or the filling station, are also important arenas for interaction. However, the store occupies a prominent position among these various settings. The prominence of the store as a meeting place is one reason for the importance of the store. As Hicks (1976, pp. 86-87) points out, networks of men are important communication linkages. Such linkages allow for the rapid dissemination of information, but more importantly, these linkages provide a social bond. The relationships established and maintained through gossip are important elements in the human contact that binds small communities. Aside from the binding function, stores also offer a kind of forum for discussion. Taxes, illness, foxhunting, and an innumerable list of other topics arise during store talk. To find out what topics are on the minds of people, the store is probably unparalleled as a place for speech. This public forum aspect of store talk appears similar to the kinds of talking that Clark (1964, pp. 35-54) referred to in his monograph on stores in the American South. There is something particularly rural about the interaction occurring at country stores. Perhaps it is the presence of the farming economy that gives periodic free time for men to set their work aside and seek out others. Another factor could be the need to discuss farming topics such as crops, methods, equipment, or prices. In any case, the store provides a setting away from the home where men can go to talk to other men. Store talk also functions in the maintenance of male role identities in Chestnut Flat. The store is a place for talk among men. Other speech settings are principally for males too, but the store offers 120 �ready access at various times of the day and evening. Part of the male role identity is to demonstrate an ease of conversing about certain topics (farming, hunting, etc.) with other men. Another aspect of male role identity is having time available for talking at the store. As Matthews noted in a Tennessee ridge community, "One of the most respectable activities for men is to loaf and loiter with other men" (1965, p. 86). Unlike other cultures in which loafing might be viewed as a waste of time or an unfavorable sign of laziness, in Chestnut Flat, loafing is acceptable, even necessary behavior for a man. Talking at the store not only functions as a means of sharing information, but as a way of providing vital involvement in a male network. Talking at the store means a man has shown he can freely choose to socialize away from his home on his own terms. This form of interaction has a way of allowing men to mutually confirm their identities much in the same way Watson and Potter suggested: "...sociable interaction gives form to the image of the self and the image of the other; it gives validity and continuity to the identifications which are the source of an individual's self esteem," (1962, p. 246), There is an interesting parallel between store talk in Chestnut Flat and talk at the La Havre Island general store (Bauman, 1972). Both communities are rural and both economies are tied to production of food, seafood in the case of the La Havre Islanders. Bauman notes that talk at the general store is nearly always among males and the most widely discussed topic is fishing. Talking at the La Havre Island general store was more important than any purchases that might be made there. What may be the most striking similarity between the two communities is the role identity function of store talk. As Bauman stated: "Much of what the men felt to be important about themselves could only be imparted to others by telling them about it. By the same token, these were the kinds of things each man wanted to know about others. The sessions at the store represented a forum in which this information could be exchanged (1972, p. 336). We see, then, in two separate societies, talk which seems to be performing a similar function, namely the maintenance of a male role identity. Aside from being a noteworthy social phenomenon, role enactment here reserves for speech a special quality. Talk becomes a valuable form of interaction, enjoyed for its own sake apart from instrumental purposes. Talking is part of the competence males in these two societies must have in order to be members of the group. As such, talk in the community store ought to be regarded as a significant activity not to be overlooked by students of Appalachian culture. Summary and Conclusion This paper discussed talk in stores in an Appalachian community. A framework for observing store talk was presented along with an application of the framework to observed instances of interaction in stores. Store talk was analyzed as an activity functioning to enable male role enactment in the community. The structure and function of talk in Appalachian stores can reveal some of the intricacies of verbal interaction in communities. As an arena for speech, grocery stores are rich sources of insight into social behavior. While store talk's functions are quite important, talk can also be viewed as a significant activity which in its own right deserves comment. This paper has been an effort toward that end. 121 �References Cites Bauman, Richard. "The La Havre Island General Store: Sociability and Verbal Art in a Nova Scotia Community," Journal of American Folklore, 85, 1972, pp. 330-343. Clark, Thomas D. Pills, Petticoats, andPlows: The Southern Country Store. Norman, OK: University of Oklahoma Press, 1964. Coles, Robert. Migrants, Sharecroppers, Mountaineers. Boston: Little, Brown, and Company, 1972. Gumperz, John and Hymes, Dell (eds.). Directions in Sociolinguistics: The Ethnography of Communication. New York: Holt, Rinehart, and Winston, 1972. Halliday, Michael A.K. Language as Social Semiotic: The Social Inerpretation ofLanugage and Meaning. Baltimore: University Park Press, 1978. Hicks, George L. Appalachian Valley. New York: Holt, Rinehart, and Winston, 1976. Hymes, Dell. Foundations in Sociolinguistics: An Ethnographic Approach. Philadelphia: University of Pennsylvania Press, 1974. Matthews, Elmora Messer. Neighbor and Kin: Life in a Tennessee Ridge Community. Nashville: Vanderbilt University Press, 1965. Williams, Gratis. "Who are the Southern Mountaineers?" in Higgs, Robert and Manning, Ambrose (eds.), Voices from the Hills: Selected Readings of Southern Appalachia. New York: Frederick Ungar, 1975, pp. 493-506. Wolfram, Walt and Christian, Donna. Appalachian Speech. Arlington, VA: Center for Applied Linguistics, 1976. Appendix A Descriptive Framework 'Linguistic varieties: What linguistic varieties (languages, dialects, nonverbal codes) are used in the community? 'Linguistic Units of Description: What are the local categories of speech events and speech acts? 'Settings: What are the times and places which serve as bounds or contexts of speech usages? Participants: What are the possible categories of participants in the uses of speech? 'Ends: What are the ends, goals, or purposes of the speech usage under consideration? 'Act sequences: What are the individual speech utterances and how to they function in a speech event? In what order to related acts in a speech event occur? 'Key: What are the various keys, tones, manners in which a message may be delivered? 'Norms: What are the specific behaviors and properties that accompany speech usages? 9 Genres: What are the categories of speech such as poem, story, oration, etc., which are present in speech events? 122 �Locally Produced Religious Broadcasts in the Mountains of Northwest North Carolina Howard Dorgan If you were to find yourself traveling through the mountains of northwest North Carolina on a Sunday morning and were to switch on your radio you would immediately be introduced to one of the phenomena that have characterized the life-style of this region—the extemporaneously programmed, highly emotional, culturally interesting, locally produced religious broadcast. The station to which you would be turned would probably be WATA, Boone, North Carolina; WKSK, West Jefferson, North Carolina; WJPT, Newland, North Carolina; or WMCT, Mountain City, Tennessee; and if you were to stay with that station for any length of time you would hear a series of religious happenings—few of which were planned and probably none of which were rehearsed—with titles such as "The Morning Star Gospel Program," The Old Fashion Gospel Time," "Gospel Airwaves," and "The Bread of Life Gospel Service." The sponsoring group might be identified as the Calvary Baptist Church, Damascus, Virginia; Mountain Union Baptist Church, Lancing, North Carolina; Shaun's Mission Church, Shaun's Mill, Tennessee; The Full Gospel Fellowship, Creston, North Carolina; or Rainbow Chapel, Sugar Grove, North Carolina. This paper will examine three aspects of these colorful media happenings: (1) the improvisational nature of the productions, (2) the delivery styles of these mountain preachers, and (3) the rhetorical themes that predominate within their sermons. The Improvisational Nature of the Productions As was mentioned above, these broadcasts appear to be only minimally planned and never rehearsed. In fact, it is a basic tenet among mountain preachers that they should not prepare their remarks; to do so would exclude the possibility of on-the-spot divine inspiration. Indeed, as this mountain preacher begins his sermon he usually asks his congregation, or the listeners "out in radioland," to pray for him as he searches for the message "God wants him to preach." Thus he claims merely to be the Deity's instrument of communication. If he falters that morning, if his sermon does not rise to inspirational heights, it is simply because on that day the Lord has chosen not to use him. This trait of improvisation carries over into the entire production—the question of what songs will be sung and to whom dedicated, the question of who will lead the various prayers, the question of who will give testimonies, and even the question of who will preach. The author has witnessed numerous situations in which a visiting "brother" has entered a studio and immediately been asked to "say a few words for the Lord." Indeed, on one occasion the author was asked if he would like to say a few words himself. 123 �Most broadcasts have a basic format to follow, but what happens within the loose confines of that format is left very much to spur-of-the-moment decisions. To understand fully these free-form happenings, however, the reader must visualize the typical setting for these broadcasts. To begin, there are only perhaps a half-dozen persons who are the regular personnel of one of these radio producations. There will be the preacher, perhaps his wife to make the various announcements and lead the singing, a piano player or a guitarist, and three or four singers. But these will not be the only persons who typically are crowded into the small production studio. The walls will be lined with friends and supporters, each of whom may only occasionally drop by to take part in these radio services. For example, a person will wander in to give the preacher 10 dollars for the continued support of the broadcast and then remain to help sing, to contribute to the "Amens," "Hallelujahs," and "Praise Gods," and even to contribute a testimonial. Regular supporters of the program do not hesitate to drop in and participate, frequently walking in on a show in progress. But always that supporter will be immediately greeted, perhaps on the air by name, and occasionally by requesting that he say a word or two to the radio audience. Such practices give these individuals a sense of importance and cultivate a body of followers who feed off these experiences, both in terms of self-image and spirituality. Thus, to a large degree, the programs become Sunday get-togethers of old friends and neighbors and are listened to probably as much for this old-friends-andacquaintances factor as for the purely religious factor. With a show such as the "Morning Star Gospel Program," which has been broadcast over WATA, Boone, North Carolina, at 9:00 every Sunday morning for 33 years, this old-friends-and-acquaintances factor can become extremely strong. While observing one particular broadcast the author witnessed the arrival of an elderly supporter—some 10 minutes after the show had begun—and saw the entire program group crowd around him to give hearty greetings to the "brother." The gentleman had been in a hospital for some weeks, and the group was obviously glad to see him return. Nevertheless, during all this the mikes were left unattended and listeners were treated to a jumbled sound of background noises. Finally the preacher brought the radio audience up-to-date with what was happening. Returning to the topic of the improvisational nature of the sermons themselves, it should be observed that there are several tricks of the trade that are employed by these preachers to facilitate this free-form style. We will see later—in our discussion of delivery—that these preachers speak at a very rapid rate. As a result they do not have much time to think about what comes next and must develop some of these tricks to keep the rhetoric flowing. First, an interesting partnership often develops between the preacher and some of his helpers relative to idea generation. These helpers—his within-the-studio congregation—are frequently throwing out comments of their own in the form of responses. The preacher then feeds off these comments and thus manages to keep his own thoughts flowing. Although in most cases one of these responses would only be an "Amen," "a Hallelujah," a "Bless him, Lord," or the like, in some instances it will take a "Tell us about " form. One preacher who has a regular program on the Mountain City, Tennessee, station—Brother James Simms, pastor of the Shaun's Mission Church—has developed an interesting rhetorical partnership with the woman who leads the singing for his show. Simms begins to preach so fast and furiously that after a while he loses his train of thought and begins to run down. Whenever this happens the woman in question simply throws out a bit of miscellaneous scripture, which usually has little or no relationship to what Simms has been saying. Nevertheless, Simms picks up the verses of scripture as his new theme and once again climbs to heights of eloquence. 124 �Another trick is that these preachers regularly employ what classical rhetorical theorists have called ' 'commonplaces,'' modular units of thought—or lines of argument—that can be memorized and integrated into messages in numerous combinations and for various effects. A verse of scripture and its interpretation, the recounting of a personal experience, a dire admonition, or a timely element of theological dogma can be pulled from the memory upon demand and used to illustrate, support, or extend the particular point of the moment. A final trick to be discussed relates to the preachers' uses of their own "Amen," "Hallelujahs," "Praise Gods," etc. as vocal segregates that in the same instance both fill space and slow down the flow of substantive rhetoric, thus giving the speaker more time to formulate thoughts. We will look at how this technique works by examining a sample of mountain religious radio rhetoric, again using Brother James Simms as our exemplar. On November 18, 1973, Simms delivered the following passage during his regularly scheduled radio sermon. Throughout his message Simms maintained a gasping rhythmical pattern that will be discussed later in this paper, and he employed the "Come on, Churchn" and "Amen!" interjections to whip his small studio congregation into a paroxysm of religious fervor. When they responded with their own "Amens," "Praise Gods," and "Help him, Lords" they provided a counter rhythm similar to the respondent effect in Gregorian chanting. Simm's part of the exchange went as follows: Neighbor, when the inside gets saved (gasp) the outside does too. (gasp) Come on, Church! Amen! Hallelujahn! (gasp) You can't wash teacups (gasp) unless you get the outside clean, (gasp) Come on, Church! Amen! (gasp) If you put it in the water— (gasp) Glory to God! Amen! Hallelujah (gasp) If you repent before God— (gasp) and go down in the water (gasp) of baptism in Jesus's name, (gasp) you got to be clean, (gasp) Come on, Church! Amen! (gasp) That's what's wrong (gasp) With a bunch of people today, (gasp) They go down a dry sinner (gasp) and come up a wet sinner, (gasp) The "Amens" and "Hallelujahs" that Simms and other mountain preachers interject into their rhetoric are not necessarily used as affirmations of the statements which they immediately follow. Indeed, the preacher might be in the middle of naming some social or theological evil when he throws in a "Praise God." If taken literally, the "Praise God" would pronounce approval of the evil. This, however, is not the preacher's intent. Notice how this principle works in the passage that follows, particularly the "Praise God" after "you're a-bound for hell." The excerpt was taken from a radio sermon sponsored by the Full Gospel Fellowship Church of Creston, North Carolina. The preacher was identified only as Brother Priest. So many people, Amen, (gasp) are just a preaching for money, (gasp) The love of money— (with rising inflection) Amen!—is all they're after, (gasp) 125 �Not for the soul of man. (gasp) Praise God! (gasp) If we lay aside (gasp) the lust of luxury (gasp) and all these things (with rising inflection) and get with the work of the Lord— (gasp) Amen! I'm a-talking, (gasp) Amen, to the preachers (gasp) out in this land and country, (gasp) Amen! If you're out there, (gasp) Amen, and a-preaching for money, (gasp) Amen, and not for the soul (with rising inflection) Amen, you're (gasp) a-bound for hell, (gasp) Praise God, (gasp) just as sure (with rising inflection) as I'm standing here (gasp) this afternoon, (gasp) Amen! (gasp) Delivery Styles These two brief examples of the rhythmical style of mountain preaching should lead us naturally into a discussion of delivery factors. Typically the mountain preacher begins his sermon at a slow pace, almost drawling out his opening remarks. He may have a few words to say about the joys of the day—the blessings that he and his listeners have received "at the hands of the Lord." Then he may issue a special welcome to someone in the studio—or out in the listening audience—who has been ill and has just been released from a hospital, and he may, as was indicated earlier, ask for prayers relative to the message "the Lord is about to provide." Usually this preacher employs the scripture reading to start his build, cautiously testing his voice, the tempo, and the "spirit," lest some hasty and not properly prepared passion burn out his oratorical wick before the fuel catches. Indeed, this is often the roughest part of the preacher's performance, since he tends not to be a good reader. He may stumble over words, misplace emphases, and generally confuse meaning. But he reads with conviction and fervor, even when he misreads. Occasionally there will be a false start or two as the preacher attempts to move from his scripture to the more rapidly paced rhythmic delivery of his sermon. At these moments he may subside, fumble awkardly in search of inspiration, read another verse or two of scripture, then catch the spirit and begin his climb once more. By the time this spirit and his homiletic theme have developed, the preacher's delivery will have accelerated in pacing, volume, and intensity until it has reached a kind of climactic plateau from which the speaker can climb no further. The physical limits of his voice and the mental restraints imposed by the demands of impromptu speech at such speed usually hold him at this plateau. He may occasionally drop down to rest or to regain inspiration, but for the most part he "hangs his toes in the heavens" and proclaims his message with all the passion he can muster. Now speaking at a rate of approximately °&& hundred words per minute and intoning his message in staccato bursts of rhetoric that are similar to irregular lines of unrhymed verse, with an occasional phrase that rises like an auctioneer's chant and approaches song, the preacher pours out his words with such a flow that at the end of each linear segment he gasps for air. It is this gasp, a 126 �sharp, bark-like sound, that constitutes the dominant beat in his rhythm and that is usually thought of as the hallmark of the Appalachian mountain sermonic style. An accomplished mountain preacher is able to maintain this rhythm even when integrating scripture into his sermons or when extemporaneously shifting from one unit of thought to another. Furthermore, once the initial climb has been completed and the speed and rhythm have been established, the preacher maintains this level of delivery until he slows down for one of his breathers. This means that everything is run together as if it were one long continuous thought. In fact it is often difficult to distinguish where one sentence ends and another begins. The following passage from a July 17, 1977, radio sermon by Brother Earl Sexton of West Jefferson, North Carolina, was all part of one climactic plateau. At no time did Sexton break the rhythm or slow the 200-plus words-per-minute rate of delivery, even when inserting scripture into his message. But thank God that light (gasp) has shined down into our hearts, (gasp) that guiding morning star (gasp) that Jesus said he was (gasp) there in the Book of Revelations, (gasp) Read that "I am the bright and Morning Star." (gasp) And again He said, "To him that overcometh (gasp) will I give the Morning Star." (gasp) Thank God for that Morning Star today/ (gasp) We read of wearied and down, (gasp) in a world of darkness, (gasp) And things are getting darker every day. (gasp) But praise God this morning, (gasp) amid all this darkness, (gasp) any child of God (sung with rising inflection) that can see the Morning Star (gasp) because it's a shining in your heart, (gasp) But thank God this morning (gasp) the Morning Star is shining, (gasp) And we come on up to the time (gasp) when Jesus built the church here in the world, (gasp) He went away for a period of time, (gasp) He's not come back yet. (gasp) But He's coming one of these days, (gasp) He told the disciples when He gathered them there, (gasp) just before He went back to the Father, (gasp) He said, "Let not your heart be troubled, (sung with rising inflection) Ye believe in God. Believe also in me. (sung with rising inflection) In my Father's house there are many mansions, (gasp) If it were not so I would have told you. (gasp) I go and prepare a place for you. (sung with rising inflection) And if I go I come again (sung with rising inflection) and receive you into myself, (gasp) that where I am (gasp) there you may be also." (gasp) Rhetorical Themes That Predominate Within These Sermons Nothing in our discussion of delivery should suggest that these mountain radio sermons are all style and no substance. These preachers know that their listeners will not pardon them for being 127 �anything other than real persons. This means that they must occasionally address themselves to the problems of ordinary life. It further means that in so addressing themselves they must employ the language and advance the values of the people. They must never try to rise above the congregations that they lead. Instead, they must recognize and declare their own commonness and thus their own vulnerability. The messages that they relate tend to be plebeian ones, colored by religious fundamentalism and social conservatism. They are laced with the values to which mountain congregations ascribe, and they expressed in imagery that is "down home" and uncultivated. There is much discussion of such common problems as drinking; marital discord—including infidelity; proper roles within families—father, mother, child; social cohesiveness in churches—the danger of congregational splits; the traditional thou-shall-nots—various scriptural admonitions, particularly the Ten Commandments; and the certainties of heaven and hell—streets of gold and hell fire and damnation. According to most of these sermons the task of distinguishing between the godly act and the ungodly one is a fairly simple dialectic process: Is the act just (the do-unto-others-as-you-wouldhave-them-do-unto-you principle), and is the act in accordance with scriptural commandments? There is little patience for more sophisticated views on social morality. One you should take the Bible literally, and "Brother, you'd better know where you stand," Brother Arvel Hardy of Doe Ridge, North Carolina, told his radio audience: Because there's so many doctrines— (gasp) so many corruptible things in this world— (gasp) so many people changing the world of God (gasp) and saying, "It's all right, Brother, to do this." (gasp) But, Brother, sin's sin. (gasp) Black's black and white's white, (gasp) I don't care how you look at it, or what you make of it. (gasp) Brother, you can rub it down (gasp) and smooth it out, (gasp) but still underneath it's still black sin, (gasp) and corruptible sin, (gasp) sending men and women to a devil's hell, (gasp) Brothers, that's the way it is, (gasp) and the only way it's gonna be. (gasp) One aspect of this "only way it's gonna be" relates to traditional gender roles, and here mountain preachers tend to maintain positions that would infuriate supporters of the feminist movement. The author's favorite passage in illustration of this point comes not from a radio sermon but from an October 8, 1975, revival sermon preached by Brother Vance Triplet!. That night Brother Triplet! was addressing the congregation of Bethany Baptist Church in the Matney community of Watauga County, North Carolina, and spoke on the theme "When Men Do Down." Taking as his scriptural base a passage in the first chapter of Ruth which states simply that Elimelech "went down" into Moab, Triplet! delivered a disjointed account of several examples of how men "go down." For the most part these were homey stories illustrating the violation of basic TenCommandment virtues. The account he gave of the man who went to work for TRW serves as an illustration of the point being made here. Prior to his "going down" this man had been a solid mountain citizen, attentive to his wife and children and to his occupation of being a farmer and part-time carpenter. His ruination, however, 128 �began when he left that farm and went to work for TRW, a manufacturer of electronic components, with a plant in Boone, North Carolina: They put this friend, Amen, (gasp) in charge of a bunch of women, Amen, (gasp) there at that TRW plant, (gasp) I want you to know, Amen, (gasp) when men give in to the flesh (gasp) they go down. Amen/ (gasp) They go down/ (with rising inflection) That plant manager put him in charge, Amen, (gasp) of this bunch of women, (gasp) And he saw them every day. (gasp) And he walked among them every day. (gasp) And he smiled at them every day. (gasp) And they smiled at him every day. (gasp) And he went down, (gasp) and under, (gasp) and beneath, (gasp) and below, (gasp) and down/ (gasp) 'Til he forgot the spirit (gasp) and gave in to the flesh, (falling inflection) It should be noted immediately that the writer saw in Triplett's demeanor no evidence of a conscious use of this passage for sexual titillation. He did not smile, and his audience certainly did not respond with knowing chuckles. The "down, and under, and beneath, and below" ending seemed to have been nothing more than a stylistic flourish. But the main point is that Brother Triplet! made it clear that the real problem in this situation was caused not by the man, but by the women: they were out of their proper element—the home. He communicated this position clearly when, after he finished the story, he leaned across the pulpit and said, "Now, Mothers, you know we love you. Amen? You know we love you. But you've got your place in this world. Amen, you've got your place." Women, therefore, should first of all be mothers. Their place is in the home, and when they move out of the house in any great number society is thrown out of kilter. Under such circumstances both men and women have to be on their guard against social disintegration. The Outspoken Directness of the Messages Mountain preachers are frequently very explicit when naming sins and sinners, even over the radio. An excellent example of this occurred on November 18, 1973, when Brother Albert Tester of Sugar Grove, North Carolina, was making some announcements at the beginning of his "Gospel Time" broadcast over the Mountain City station. "We received a letter this week," announced Brother Tester, that on November 4th Sister Morefield was called to be with the Lord....I'd like to pass on a prayer request to you people. The Mrs. Morefield whom God called home—her husband, Robert Morefield, is unsaved, up in years, and unprepared to meet God. Robert, if you're listening to me today—which I understand you do listen to me—God loves you, and God wants to save you. And all these years that has passed, you still have an opportunity today. Robert, will you give that heart and life to God today and let Him save you? Because then you can pass on over yonder to be with your wife in the presence of God. But if you refuse and go out to meet God unprepared you'll never see her again, because you'll have to go down to that awful lake of fire and brimstone. 129 �Tester did not stop here. He went on for another two minutes with this message—voiced over a very public medium—directed specifically and very personally at Brother Robert Morefield. The episode is recounted here to illustrate the basic assumption to which many mountain preachers ascribe—that they have a right, given by God, to reprimand any and all of the spiritually errant. So Brother Albert Tester does not hesitate to tell Mr. Robert Morefield that he is headed straight for perdition. He is, after all, only acting as that instrument of God. He simply points his people toward "known" truths. Futhermore, with God on his side he does not have to issue the reprimand or warning in a personal way—at least not personal in the sense that it is solely Albert Tester issuing the rebuke. Instead it is God using Albert Tester as His medium for the message. Thus the preacher is able to maintain his own humanness—perhaps even his own sinfulness—while leveling some rather harsh charges at his listening congregation. 130 �One-room School Life in Appalachian Kentucky James M. Gifford, Ph.D. Introduction The following paper is an oral history dialogue on one-room school life in early twentieth century Appalachian Kentucky. The two speakers are representative figures. The narrator (N) is a person of the 1980s whose questions and observations reflect the advantages of synthesis and hindsight. The teacher (T) is a composite of dozens of former one-room school teachers who were interviewed for this project. The teacher's response is either one former teacher's representative observations or it is a blend of several speakers whose remembrances combine to provide sufficient detail. The result is a two-person drama that, while purposely anachronistic at times, provides a former teacher's perspective—in his/her own words—on one-room school life. Most of these former teachers are still living; many are still active in the community where they once taught, and a few are still teaching. For that reason, all personal name references have been removed from the text. The following selection is the first stage in what I hope will eventually emerge as a book-length study. Like most scholars, I have accumulated numerous debts of assistance, and I want to acknowledge the bountiful aid and encouragement of many people. Many Morehead State University graduate students who are also full-time public school teachers in Eastern Kentucky conducted one major interview that is incorporated into the 500- page transcript from which the following article is excerpted. These interviewers include Lu Ann S. Asbury, Henry Boone, Connie Clayton, Carolyn S. Cogswell, Danny Cummins, Betty Dorsey, Gary Griffith, Betty Hamilton, Randy Harrison, Judy Hawkins, Cheryl Herrin, Katie Hunt, Carol Klaber, Willa Meadows, Edith Curry Newdigate, Carol Norris, Donna K. Phillips, Jimmie Staton, and Kay Strode. I also wish to thank three Graduate Assistants who provided significant help at various stages of transcription, compilation, and analysis: Vicky Riddle Horton, Kirstina Shepherd Campbell, and Claudette Pennington Green. Mrs. Eleanor Kersey, Jesse Stuart Foundation consultant, participated in several public presentations of this project. I especially wish to thank Philip W. Conn, Morehead State University Vice President for University and Regional Services, for his support of this and all projects related to MSU's Appalachian Studies Program. The most delightful source of local information was Mrs. S.D. Foster of Ashland, a former one-room school teacher and Moonlight School Teacher, who devoted many days over the last several years providing information and inspiration for this project. Finally, in deep appreciation for her love and sacrificies, I dedicate this work to my late grandmother, Clara M. Clark, a former one-room school teacher who set standards of personal and professional conduct that guide my life. Whatever I have done thus far that is of value and whatever good I may yet accomplish is a monument to her. Oftentimes, scholars study change efforts in Appalachia by examining major institutions of American life, like the Church, or complex social engineering projects, like the New Deal or The 131 �Appalachian Regional Commission. Indeed, a general tendency in studying change is to examine "large-scale efforts." However, one of the greatest engines for change efforts in Appalachia was one of the mountain's smallest institutions—the one-room school In the nineteenth century, these early schools were located within walking distance of a few families who could pay the teacher. By the early twentieth century nothing had changed except that the teacher was paid by the county. During the 1918-19 school year, Kentucky had its largest number of one-room schools in operation—7,076. By 1968-69, the number had dwindled to 146. All were in Eastern Kentucky. Today (1983) there are still three one-room schools operating in isolated hamlets of Appalachian Kentucky. An examination of one-room school life in Appalachian Kentucky during the period 1900-1940 reveals that these tiny schools that dotted the hills and hollows were, collectively, a salvation to a region that was still suffering the tragic effects of the Civil War. What these schools lacked (measured by today's standards) in modern conveniences, they overcame with students who were willing to endure hardships in order to learn and improve themselves and teachers who were dedicated champions of progress and learning. Who were these forgotten heroes and heroines that Jesse Stuart termed "immortal teachers"? Most of them did not give poverty a chance to impede their love of learning. We were a poor family; my parents had a hard time making a living. My father was sick. He had asthma and died at age 56. I was only twelve years old. I always loved school. I was always afraid I would have to miss. My mother used to say I would worry her every morning about giving out my spelling words. I would hear the school bell ring and jump up and down saying, "Hurry, Mom; give out my spelling. I'm going to be late for school"—which was only a short distance. I just liked school. From the time I grew up I played school and wanted to be a teacher. At that time teaching was the best opportunity for a woman. The one-room school teachers all shared a desire to help individuals and promote the best interests of their community. I decided to be a teacher after I talked to this man who couldn't read or write. Every Saturday afternoon, Pop would bring him into the room to pay him, and he would sit down. And if there was a magazine, or book, or anything anyways near, he'd pick that up and go thumbing through it and look at it, and he'd say, "My, how I wish I could read." And he'd say, "Now what is this? What does this say?" And then I would read it for him, you know. So I made up my mind, then and there: if I was a secretary I would be just helping one person, and if I taught school I could help lots of people. Some young people became certified teachers by taking a qualifying examinations that was developed annually by the State Department of Education and carefully administered by the County Superintendent. A retired teacher from Mason County remembers: That's the way I got my first teaching certificate, by examination taken at the superintendent's office. The questions were sent out by the state, and you spent the bigger part of two days in an essay-type test. And then they were sent to the state department to be graded. And if you made a passing grade, they issued you a certificate. Others received teacher certification from college training. One left home to attend Berea College and, like many youngsters away from home for the first time, became quite homesick. Oh yes; I cried. When I went to chapel on Sunday night they'd play "Home Sweet Home." And I was sitting close to a boy that was from my home and I didn't know him at that time. I cried 132 �and he'd call me "Cry baby." I'd say, "Shut your mouth/" And then he'd call me "Cry baby" again. After completing the eighth grade in a one-room school, another went to Morehead Normal School. The normal schools were for training teachers. I started there in 1923 and graduated in 1925—didn't graduate, we received a teaching certificate for two years' work. Many became teachers because economic and social conditions blocked other professional opportunities. Although my grandmother said many of us became teachers because we liked to "be boss", I don't think I chose to be a teacher. Economic conditions really made me become a teacher. The great depression was four years old—there was no money anyplace. I had wanted to be a lawyer or an interpreter in the Diplomatic Corps. The duties of teaching in a one-room school were broad-ranging. One former teacher remembers: "Having to do the floors with oil. See, we came right off a muddy creek place and the floor was usually muddy, and about three times a year we'd have to oil, see, so that the dust just wouldn't suffocate us." The one-room school teacher was also nurse, counselor, janitor, playground director, and lunchroom supervisor. In spite of the hard work and long hours, the pay was very low. From 1845 to 1934 trustees were responsible for appointing teachers and maintaining schools. A trustee often considered more than teaching credentials when making an appointment. I wanted to go back to teaching, but that was in the '30s, during the Depression. It was hard for a woman teacher who was married and had a husband who had a job to get a job, when there were some men that needed work. I had to go to Happy Hollow to teach that year. I had to take what was left. They were thinking about the men. Nepotism was another factor which influenced hiring decisions. Each school district had a trustee at that time empowered to hire a teacher for his school—but not from his family. This was circumvented by hiring some other district trustee's family member and then, with the blessing of the five-member county Board of Education, "swapping" schools. My dad was trustee. Not surprisingly, some of the trustees were bribed from time to time. Much to the discredit of some of the people who served as trustees, it was said that some of them in some localities sold the position to the highest bidder. Students and teachers looked forward to "recess periods." Sometimes neighbors and family members would come and play with the children: "It was a cordial, amicable sort of situation." Students entertained themselves playing baseball, Annie Over, Drop the Handkerchief, and many other schoolyard games. They generally always made up their own games and, you know, of course I always played with them. From twelve noon to one was dinner time. Those who lived near went home to eat; the others ate quickly—in nice weather, outside—and headed to the play yard. The older girls would sprinkle the floor with water and sweep out the accumulated dirt. Fresh water was drawn—if a bug was in the pail it was dipped out. If a lizard or snake was around the well box, it necessitated the big boys to come kill it. The four windows and door were open. Fat flies, wasps, bumblebees and butterflies wafted in and out. Occasionally, we had a bird pay a visit. 133 �Students and teachers looked forward to "recess periods." Sometimes neighbors and family members would come and play with the children: "It was a cordial, amicable sort of situation." Students entertained themselves playing baseball, Annie Over, Drop the Handkerchief, and many other schoolyard games. They generally always made up their own games and, you know, of course I always played with them. From twelve noon to one was dinner time. Those who lived near went home to eat; the others ate quickly—in nice weather, outside—and headed to the play yard. The older girls would sprinkle the floor with water and sweep out the accumulated dirt. Fresh water was drawn—if a bug was in the pail it was dipped out. If a lizard or snake was around the well box, it necessitated the big boys to come kill it. The four windows and door were open. Fat flies, wasps, bumblebees and butterflies wafted in and out. Occasionally, we had a bird pay a visit. Most children had sufficient food for lunch, but nothing fancy. Snacks or anything store-bought was out. There just wasn't any money to buy. They had meat and biscuits. Canned fruit that had been preserved during the summer or apples that were kept in the root cellar was often found in the lunchboxes. Usually something sweet in the way of cookies or cake was found. Occasionally someone had money to buy peanut butter, which was ideal for the lunch. This was often mixed with cream, probably to stretch the peanut butter and make the choking less. Few one-room school teachers faced dramatic and frightening confrontations like the bloody fight that Jesse Stuart had with Guy Hawkins in Lonesome Valley. You did not have any discipline problems then. As far as discipline was concerned, we didn't have too much trouble in those times. They knew what "no" meant, but they don't today do they? If I had serious discipline problems, the memory has faded. Corporal punishment was the order of the day for infractions. I was hardly five feet tall and weighed barely 100 pounds, but I was tough and mean. I could not allow any breech in my authority. If some problem did arise over fighting, truancy, or failure to get assignments, a note to the parent would suffice. My grandfather, father, and four aunts had taught in that building before me and the community judged I knew what I was doing. What kind of discipline did you use? A paddle. In must schools, a teacher had to maintain his/her credibility as a disciplinarian. If students knew they were going to be punished, they rarely misbehaved. And if parents knew their children were fairly punished, they were almost always supportive of the teacher. Disciplinary measures usually produced desired results. There was a little boy that would ride to school with me and he was just a little thing; he was about five years old. And one day we were eating dinner and he wouldn't eat his dinner. He was just playing. The older children were running over his dinner bucket and I told him: "Get your bucket, honey, and if you're not going to eat your dinner, put your lid on your bucket and take it in the house." And he said, "Well I'm not gonna do it!" And I said, "Oh yes you will," and I picked up a little stick and started towards him. And he just got that bucket in the house as fast as he could go. He never did tell me he wasn't gonna do anything anymore. Infrequently, however, disciplinary situations emerged that tested a teacher's commitment and courage. On one occasion, a young scholar was kept after school because she had not completed her spelling lesson. Eventually, her father, an irate giant of a man, arrived on the scene. 134 �And he said, "Moll, get your books and come on home. That little old teacher ain't going to tell you what to do or not let you have your dinner. You just get your books and come on home." Well, I was petrified. He just scared the heart and soul out of me. I tell you I was really frightened, and I thought, I have to say something, and I said, "Now, you know that you was the very first person that came to me and congratulated me when I got this school. And you said you knew I'd be a good teacher, and you wanted me to help your children get a good education." And, "Now look what you're doing. If we don't have discipline in this school, we can't have any school." And, "If I can't have discipline, I'm gonna quit; If this child gets by with this, then all the rest of them's going to try the same." He said, "I don't care. You ain't telling my kid what to do. And that ain't half: before the day is over, my wife is coming up with a butcher knife and cut your head off!" Not surprisingly, the teacher posted one student to watch the road and another to have her pony saddled and ready for a rapid getaway at the end of the day. On the way home she encountered the angry parents, who were on their way for a "parent-teacher conference". After much discussion, however, the parents became sympathetic to the teacher's viewpoint and even invited her to dinner. Needless to say, I thought of a million excuses, 'cause I certainly wasn't going down there with the man and woman both. I knew they could do a good job of cutting my head off if I ever got down to the house. So I never did go to their home. But after that they was just the best friends I had. On another occasion, a schoolyard fight between members of feuding families resulted in "reinforcements" from one family arriving at school the next day. Several had been in trouble before and one had killed a man. After school started, these bully boys remained in the schoolyard playing ball and waiting. After several interruptions, the teacher decided to confront them. "Boys, we're trying to have school in here, and the law is on our side, so I think you boys better leave.'' To my surprise, and much to my relief, each one of them had a bat or ball or something, and they turned around and laid their balls and bats on the ground and went over the hill. The routine of school life was occasionally shattered by special social activities. Generally speaking, these socials fell into two categories: day-time events for the students that centered around either holidays or scholastic competitions; or evening activities, like pie suppers, which were community socials that also provided operating funds for the school. I remember that on one Christmas we had a tree and a Santa Claus. The father who was the Santa Claus walked up to his small son and spoke to him, but the child was so frightened he jumped under the first seat in a row and crawled under the seats to the back of the room. He didn't know it was his father then, did he? No, he didn't know it was his father. But most of the older ones did and the people visiting did, so that brought a big laugh out of all the people. On another occasion, when we were having our Christmas entertainment, I had a large boy who was playing the part of Santa Claus—and the quarters, naturally, were small—and he was dressing behind a curtain in very crowded conditions and probably became frustrated with hurrying, and he got the top part of him dressed and he stepped out to perform without getting his pants on. Needless to say, this just about broke up the entertainment that day. Frequently on Friday afternoons after a hectic week we'd have a spelling bee or an arithmetic match. It was surprising sometimes how long those third and fourth graders could stand and spell. And some of those kids were almost human computers in arithmetic. 135 �We had no PTA or other organization to help, but the parents were always willing to help. At least once a year we'd have a pie supper to raise some revenue for school supplies. Transportation to and from school, measured by today's standards, ranked somewhere between inconvenient and impossible. Everyone—students and teachers—usually walked. It was not uncommon for children to face a three-mile walk each way. Sometimes teachers rode a horse or pony. Other came in a horse-drawn buggy. By the 1930s, some were driving to school. The automobile, however, did not greatly facilitate travel because of bad roads and isolated schools. I walked through the fields in the winter. I think, sometimes, how could I do that every morning and night, in all kinds of weather. There were no "snow days" in the one-room schools. The teacher and the students "bundled up" and walked through the snow. Many wrapped newspapers around their legs before walking through the snow to school. For the most part, transportational "difficulties" were accepted as part of the rugged, no-frills way of life in early twentieth century Appalachian Kentucky. Today, parents would worry and children would complain about a six-mile round trip to attend school. At the time, however, this walk often provided an exciting time of unsupervised recreation for young people who experienced real (or imagined) adventures that soon became an exciting part of the history and folklore of one-room school life. The school day began at 8:00 a.m. At five minutes of, I pulled the bell rope. The students lined up, boys on one side, girls on the other of the porch. They marched in to their seats. Then we had roll call and a ten-minute devotional service—it might be a section from the Bible, a recitation, or the Ten Commandments, or each child might recite a Bible verse. We'd say the Lord's Prayer, give the Pledge of Allegiance, all with the same reverence. God first, though, then Country; we knew our priorities. 4:00 p.m. was dismissal time. (I'm exhausted right now from thinking about it.) You can understand that on this treadmill every night I carried home pounds of papers to grade and duly inscribe so that I could fill out grade cards at the end of the month. The school was of frame construction. It normally had a front door that faced the road or path, three windows on each side of the building, and a painted blackboard across the back. Two long recitation benches faced the teacher's desk and blackboard. Rows of desks or benches, a water bucket, and a warm morning stove concluded the list of basic equipment. Building a fire every morning in the old pot-bellied stove wasn't exactly something I loved. The school board furnished coal but no kindling. After a few days I gave a boy who lived nearby a key and for five cents a day he'd have a roaring fire each morning and he furnished his kindling. This job had to be rotated because others wanted that nickel a day. In most schools, there was also an American Flag, a picture of George Washington and/or Abraham Lincoln, a globe, a dictionary, and a Bible. All teachers of the county met in mid-July at the county seat for two days of orientation and to gather their supplies. I really don't remember much about what went on at the meetings except I was given an attendance book and the names, ages, and grades of my students, plus a book of standards the state department expected. Late the second day I went to a room in the courthouse where an official issued my supplies: text books with teacher's manuals, a wooden box of chalk, six felt erasers, a water bucket with a long handled dipper, cursive alphabet chart, and a broom. I had also subscribed to the magazine The Instructor which was a great help. Sometimes a rope to a bell hung from the ceiling. In the corner, nails were driven into two wide boards attached to the walls for students to hang their coats and heavy clothes. 136 �At one end of the lot and playground was the girls' toilet—raw oak, full of splinters—sitting over a creek. In the right front was the boys'. There was no toilet paper. Fortunately, Sears Roebuck and Montgomery Ward issued thick catalogues. The teachers creatively devised learning materials for their students because, almost without exception, neither the state nor the county supplied books or any other teaching materials. For first graders, I would cut big magazine pictures into pieces and they would put them together, or maybe I'd take a calendar and put the numbers in an envelope, and they'd sit there until they could put the numbers in order. Sometimes local merchants donated supplies. When the candy came with layers of cardboard between the layers of candy, the merchant would save the cardboard for us and that way we could make number cards and flash cards, word cards for the children to use. And it took a lot more work on the part of the teacher because we didn't have the supplies. In many instances, the teachers spent a great deal of their meager earnings on their school and students. And, of course, by the time I got through dressing these children and buying my material I never had anything left. I just might as well have been staying at home. All I was getting was experience. Almost without exception, former one-room school teachers have happy memories about their teaching days and positive thoughts about their accomplishments. Although teaching eight different grades each day was hard on the teacher, the teachers did not feel that the students learned less. Many still take great pride in the accomplishments of students who sat before them fifty years ago. I wouldn't want to trade what we have for the one-room school, but I must say that I'm convinced that some good things have been lost in the transition from the one-room school to our consolidated schools. Some of the "old timers" even felt that the old ways were preferable. A teacher should be able to do much better. The schools are really under fire from every corner now, aren't they? People are sick of supporting a system whose products can't read a newspaper, write a coherent sentence, add up a grocery list, or spell correctly the names of their hometowns. Everybody is calling for the "back to basics." It seems to me that a competency test for teachers has to be derived by somebody. But who is to do it? Certainly not the Colleges of Education. What did you learn there to make you a better teacher? That's what the one-room school was—a great emphasis on basics. One-room school education produced students with a special creativity, a mature self-reliance, and an intensified level of independence. Gradually the thousands who attained these qualities began to elevate the quality of life in their mountain homeland. By the end of World War II, they had restored much of the quiet, survival-oriented rhythms of life on the land that had been shattered almost a century before by the sound of distant drums in Charleston Harbor. In retrospect, it is obvious that today's Appalachian society owes much of its present state of advancement to the thousands and thousands who "learned their basics, and learned them right" in the one-room schools. 137 �Beyond the Quaint and Curious: Folklore Research in Appalachia Elizabeth C. Fine, Assistant Professor Jean Haskell Speer, Associate Professor In the popular mind, folklore and Appalachia are associated with survivals from the past: quilting bees, archaic language, quaint folktales and folksongs, and old handicrafts. Craft fairs and folk festivals throughout Appalachia perpetuate the popular view. Unfortunately, many folklore studies of Appalachia also reinforce this stereotype. As W.K. McNeil points out in his review of Appalachian folklore research, most of it has been devoted to recording "memory culture," or traditions and stories that live only in the minds of older persons. 1 Since most folklorists have simply collected texts or described traditions but have failed to analyze their functions in the culture, they have done little to dispel the notion that folklore is vestigial and quaint, and hardly germane to social studies of the region. Thus, it is no surprise to see contemporary social scientists such as Allan Batteau lodge strong criticisms against the impact of folklore studies on Appalachia. Batteau writes, "The assignment of folk identity to a population permits the treatment of that population as irrelevant. By definition, 'folk' is that which is nonrational, pre-modern, marginal to the modern industrial system." 2 If Batteau's criticism is correct, then folklore may be contributing to exploitation of the region. Batteau's assessment, however, is based more on folklore studies from the past than on contemporary, professional folklore research. Today, most academic folklorists include literate, modern, and even urban peoples within their study. Indeed, current definitions of folklore focus more on the type and quality of "lore" transmitted than on any preconceived definitions of who constitutes the "folk." Thus, Dan Ben-Amos defines folklore as artistic communication in small groups, and Richard Bauman defines folklore as verbal art performance, or an "assumption of accountability to an audience for the way in which communication is carried out...." 3 Like many other contemporary folklorists, Ben-Amos and Bauman view folklore as a dynamic process which reflects and responds to the continuities and changes of life. It is from this contemporary, dynamic performance approach to folklore that we would like to offer a blueprint for folklore studies in Appalachia. We offer these ideas not simply from a theoretical perspective, but from our experience putting these ideas into practice in a two-year oral history and folklore project in Patrick County, Virginia. In designing and implementing the NEH funded project, "Continuity and Change in a Rural Community," we conducted oral history interviews with 100 residents, of all age groups, races, and walks of life. Rather than focusing only on elderly people and memories of the 19th century, we centered our questions on the social history of the twentieth century. The project went beyond simple collection to include a variety of public programs aimed at interpreting and presenting the findings of the oral history and folklore research to the community. In the following pages, we will first outline the design of the Patrick County Project, and then illustrate this dynamic and functional approach to folklore with examples from the folklore of two families. 138 �Project Design The Patrick County Project was designed to explore human experience in a rural, AppalachianAmerican community. Through oral histories, we documented the major changes and the changeagents in the county and the continuities or traditions that have helped county residents cope with or resist change. We hoped county residencts would become more aware of change and tradition and their interworkings in the lives of individuals and the whole community. From taped oral history interviews, transcriptions, and our fieldwork in the county, we developed a series of public programs for presentation to county residents. The public programs synthesized the recorded experiences of county residents and provided a forum for public reflection and comment on change, values, cultural traditions, and some uncomfortable realities of human experience. We used various formats for public programming, including slide-tape presentations, nine thematic folklife programs, and a documentary film about the community. Following the approach of anthropologist Clifford Geertz and others, we used an emic perspective for cultural interpretation in the project. 4 An emic perspective represents the native point of view, focusing on what is recognized and treated as meaningful by members of a particular cultural group. To aid in this process we established a project advisory board of local people, trained local residents as oral history interviewers, and featured local persons in all public programming. The emic perspective kept us mindful throughout the project that while there are verifiable historical "facts" in the life of any community, we all operate from our own perception of those realities. We construct, individually and in concert with members of our communities, a view of the past and present from which we make sense of the world. Even in such a small, rural county as the subject of our project, there are multiple, often competing, sometimes unpleasant views of the reality of local life. To avoid distorting the picture of county experience, we chose interview subjects from all categories in the local spectrum. Although the project featured oral histories and folklife, the project staff and county participants learned more about life in the county today, confirming our belief that the past, including folk traditions, is always about the present. Our work with two county families particularly demostrated the vitality of folk tradition. The Shelor Family In Patrick County, the Shelors are known as a strong, extended family prominent for their musical heritage and community leadership. The patriarch and matriarch of the family, Jesse and Clarice Shelor, come from and have spawned a long line of traditional musicians. Jesse, now in his eighties, learned to play the fiddle at ten years old, and his brother was a mountain singing-school teacher. Clarice, who plays a rollicking piano style, is part of the musically famous Blackard family. Her father, Joseph Blackard, taught singing-schools in the early days of the county, and the community credits him with bringing the first store-bought banjo into the area. Cecil Sharp, the noted English folksong collector, visited Pa Blackard to document his rich musical resources. In the early days of their marriage, Jesse and Clarice journeyed to Bristol, Tennessee, to sing for Ralph Peer of Victor Records, but traveling from Patrick County to Bristol was so difficult, they never returned to join the ranks of Jimmy Rodgers and the Carter family who were recorded at the same time. The Shelors are featured, however, on two record albums. Although most of the Shelor clan still live in Patrick County and all make music together, some family members are particularly accomplished. Bill Shelor, Jesse's cousin, owns fourteen fiddles and teaches shape-note singing in the tradition of his father. Another family cousin, Buddy Pendleton, is widely known in the region as a champion fiddler. In the family of Jim Shelor, one of Jesse and 139 �Clarice's sons, all family members play and sing together, and fourteen-year-old Clay carries on the long tradition of Jesse, Bill, and Buddy: he is an accomplished fiddler, playing his grandfather's handed-down fiddle. The Shelor family demonstrates time and time again the "presentness" of tradition and the ways in which traditions provide continuity for coping with life changes. Jim Shelor, a bank vice president in the county, serves as an interesting case study. He has faced a number of major changes in his life, and he has used family and local traditions to help resolve or manage the tensions such changes produce. Jim grew up "on the mountain" in Patrick County, spending his youth in a rural, insular lifestyle. Of his childhood days, Jim recalls the county sharply divided into isolated communities, each with its own school, distinctive speech patterns, community rivalries, and small, rural churches where creek baptizing was the norm. He remembers his youth as a time of rootedness to the land, family, and community, a time and place in which music was a major expression of family, community, and religious values as well as the major form of entertainment. At eighteen, Jim Shelor was forced to leave his home county, facing the prospect of the draft and no job opportunities. He moved to Roanoke, Virginia, the largest city in the region, where he became a banker and began to rear his own family. But the pull of home was strong, especially his belief that the county was a better place for his children, so in 1972 he returned. Jim explains his odyssey this way: I have always wanted to come back to Patrick County; I never wanted to leave to start with. Every evening [in Roanoke], I would go out and look towards the Meadows of Dan and dream of coming back home; finally, I had a chance to come back to Patrick County. I'm sure there's other places as good—I haven't found one yet. I don't know, it's just home. I love the mountains, the isolation, and I like the people here. I don't know, you'd have to be from Patrick County to understand what it's like, I guess. When he returned home, Jim realized he had changed and so had the county. As a banker, he found it necessary to live in the county's only large town rather than in his home community; he was something of a outsider, having lived away from the county for many years and being a native from "on the mountain" now living in town. He discovered differences in attitudes between himself and his family who had remained living in the county. His membership in the town's large Baptist church marked a shift from the rural religious practices of his youth. The county, so sharply sectionalized in his school days, now boasted consolidated schools, county-wide social services, and widespread influences of mass culture such as more uniform speech and less socializing among community neighbors. In addition to these changes, as bank vice president, Jim felt keenly the county's problems with increasing unemployment and crime, out-migration of the county's young people in search of jobs, lack of industrial development, and racial and class divisions in the county. Jim has turned to a number of folk traditions and traditional values to cope with these tensions, to re-negotiate his position in the community and to re-establish communal bonds with his family and friends. For example, although Jim and his family must now live in town, he is building a log cabin "on the mountain" on land passed down to him from his grandfather, land on which his father and brothers still live. He is using 100-year-old logs and riving shingles for the cabin, finding modern practicality and durability in these old methods. Although Jim realizes the cabin will be a weekend retreat and is a mark of present-day affluence, it still symbolizes for him a return to land and family and a place for his own children to find such rootedness when they become mobile. In this same vein, Jim has his children work on a cabbage farm in the summers, so they will always know the value of hard work and joy in working the land. 140 �Since musical traditions constitute the most powerful body of tradition among the Shelors, Jim has naturally turned to music as a strategy for mediation. He gathers with his family again every Sunday, as he did as a youth, to make traditional music—old-time and gospel music predominate. Although Jim finds he disagrees with his brothers on many issues since his return, they find common ground in the old tunes they love to play and sing. Traditional music also provides Jim a vehicle for coping with some contemporary problems that plague us all—the pervasive influence of mass culture, particularly through television, and social strife, both economic and racial. Believing that television was eroding family and cultural life, Jim and his family decided to relegate the television set to the garage and spend more time as a family making music, talking, and socializing with friends, frequently at musical gatherings. Not only has traditional music strengthened the bonds of family, but it has formed a bridge across racial barriers which sometimes divide the community. Jim Shelor, a white bank vice president, and Turner Foddrell, a black store-owner, developed a friendship stemming from their shared interests in traditional music. Although they hoped to learn from one another's distinctive musical heritages, they discovered their musical traditions often overlapped. In the process of exploring the commonalities and differences in their musical traditions, Jim and Turner rejected traditional black-white interaction patterns and found a new, more productive relationship. Tradition and change intertwine in their lives. The Foddrell Family Folklore is far from dead in the Foddrell family. Marvin and Turner Foddrell are brothers who play black gospel, blues, and secular songs. They learned to play traditional music from their father, Posey Foddrell. Despite the acclaim which Marvin and Turner have received for the music from outside the County, they have to deal with tensions about their music within their own family and community. In confronting these disagreements, Marvin and Turner use a type of folklore called gnomic expressions—clever, pithy, and often humorous sayings which simultaneously encapsulate the conflict and mediate the tension. The source of the Foddrell's problems with the music they play stems from their religious background. When their father Posey joined the Hardshell Baptist church, Hylton's Thessolonian, he had to give up playing instrumental music, of which the Church does not approve. Several years ago, Posey, now in his eighties, played a guitar on a television talk show. When church members saw this, they excommunicated him for awhile. The Church also frowns on the blues. Turner says that when they were children, "Mama wouldn't let us play no blues on Sunday...we had to play gospel." In summing up this story, Turner uses a gnomic expression and says, "But one thing about the blues and gospel. The blues says 'Oh Baby' and the gospel says 'Oh Lord', but they really got the same chords sometimes." With this saying, Turner uses humor to point to an underlying similarity between the blues and gospel. In another instance, both Turner and Marvin perform a gnomic expression together. When an interviewer ignorant of the church's position on instrumental music asks if he can listen to them play music at the church during the family reunion, the Foddrells reply: M: Those hardshell don't hardly go along with that picking and grinning. T: They do a lot of picking, but no grinning. This expression also uses humor, but takes a dig at the Hardshells as well. Both expressions allow the Foddrells to relieve a recurring source of tension in a socially accepted way. 141 �Conclusion Our argument in this presentation reflects a view of folklore theory and practice which has continued from the work of Bronislaw Malinowski fifty years ago to the present day. This view has been recently re-articulated by folklorists Roger Abrahams and Richard Bauman. Abrahams writes: "Recent workers [in folklore] have become less focused on the historic past and more on the processes, social and cultural, of the present. In such a case, folklore is employed as a term for the accumulated wisdom and practice of a social group, one in which there is a close relationship between the producers and the consumers: the makers and users in the case of material culture; the performer and audience with regard to expressive culture."5 While Albrahams identifies the shift in folklore studies from preservation of the past to processual study of folklore in the present, Bauman provides a rationale for field study of folklore in context. He argues: If we are to understand what folklore is, we must go beyond a conception of it as disembodied superorganic stuff and view it contextually, in terms of the individual, social and cultural factors that give it shape, meaning, existence. This reorientation in turn requires us to broaden the scope of our fieldwork; a contextual perspective on folklore makes the enterprise of folklore fieldwork much more ramified and complex than the simple butterfly-collecting approach—the collecting of anachronistic antiquities—that often passes for fieldwork in folklore.6 Bauman goes on to identify six salient foci around which to organize field data to comprehend its contextual interrelationships: (a) context of meaning (what does it mean?); (b) institutional context (where does it fit within the culture?); (c) context of communicative system (how does it relate to other kinds of folklore?); (d) social base (what kind of people does it belong to?); (e) individual context (how does it fit into a person's life?); and (f) context of situation (how is it useful in social situations?). 7 Much of Appalachian folklore collecting and study has been precisely the variety Bauman decries—the collecting of anachronistic antiquities. But there are hopeful signs in the work of trained folklorists now in the region. The Blue Ridge Parkway study undertaken by the American Folklife Center a few years ago, the work of Brett Sutton in Appalachian religious music, the careful attention to details of material culture in Roddy Moore's work, and the keen analysis by David Whisnant of issues involved in understanding folklore as culture are symptomatic of the rising fever to take Appalachian folklore scholarship beyond the quaint and curious to the center of social and cultural life in the region. ENDNOTES 'W.K. McNeil, "Appalachian Folklore Scholarship," Appalachian Journal, 5 (Autumn 1977), 55-64. 2 Allan Batteau, "An Agenda for Irrelevance: Malcolm Chapman's The Gaelic Vision Scottish Culture A Review Essay," Appalachian Journal, 8 (Spring 1981), 214. 'Richard Bauman, Verbal Art as Performance (Rowley, Mass.: Newbury House, 1977), 11. 'Clifford Geertz, The Interpretation of Cultures (New York: Basic Books, 1973). 5 Roger Abrahams, "Interpreting Folklore Ethnographically and Sociologically," Handbook of American Folklore, ed. Richard M. Dorson (Bloomington: Indiana University Press, 1983), p. 345. 'Richard Bauman, "The Field Study of Folklore in Context," Handbook of American Folklore, p. 362. 'Bauman, "Field Study," p. 367. 142 �Black Appalachians in Social History 143 �This page intentionally left blank �The Black Appalachian Church: An Agent for Change or System Maintenance? Stanley Taylor Arthur}. Cox Traditionally, Appalachians have been viewed as solving their problems primarily through individual and family-oriented approaches rather than acting through more formal social structures such as the church or local government (Cabbell 1980). Black Appalachians have been no exception, having been historically unorganized in attempting to solve their problems. With the recent influx of Blacks into Appalachia has come a move toward community organizing as a problem-solving method. The church has been identified as one of the primary community organizations through which these efforts have occurred (Cox 1981). This reported utilization of the church as a community organization spearheading change represents an exception to the traditional manner of relying primarily on more individualistic means of problem-solving. There is question as to whether the church is actually an exception in this regard due to research findings which revealed that the church in Appalachia tends to be conservative and resistant to change (Cox 1981). The purpose of this study is to determine if Black college students who are church members in Appalachia regard the church as an agent for change or system maintenance. This will serve as a pilot study for a later investigation into the role of the Black church in Appalachia. Orginally, we intended to administer a questionnaire to members of local Black Appalachian churches, but there was too much opposition from local ministers. The results of this study will offer those in the helping profession ideas about how students regard what the church may or may not do in assisting Black Appalachians in resolving their everyday social problems. A more accurate understanding of the role of the church would provide community organizers better insight in determining to what degree and in what manner students' perceptions of the church can be utilized in planning social action programs. Additionally, since Black Appalachian institutions have been rather neglected in the literature this information will help in the development of a better data base upon which to base further studies. Literature Review A search of the literature indicates that there is a scarcity of material regarding the Black church in Appalachia. In fact, little is written about any institutions primarily serving Black Appalachians. The material which was most readily available and relevant concerned the Appalachian church in 145 �general, the Black church in America, and the identification of social problems faced by Blacks in Appalachia. A recent research piece by Cox indicates that although Blacks suffer discrimination from the Criminal Justice system; have lower incomes and poorer housing than their white counterparts; complains of biased newspaper reporting, token intergration, unfair discipline in schools, and a lack of Black-oriented social life, they tend not to participate in change-oriented community organization activities. Cox's study reveals that there has been an increase in the number of Blacks moving into Appalachia since 1970 and that these Blacks brought with them knowledge about organizing to solve problems within the Black community. He concludes that among those Blacks considered active, the church is identified as one of the primary agents for community change. In a study on health care of Afro-Americans, Cox identifies a trend of self-destructive behavior in young Blacks (Cox 1980). Cox sees changes in the structure and role of the Black church occurring over recent years as one of the primary causes of this self-destructive behavior. In the absence of the Black church, young Blacks have no system on which to rely for support and feel a lack of control and no sense of belonging (Comer 1979). Cabell comments on how little research has been conducted on Black Appalachians and how few Black Appalachians were knowledgeable about their potential for organization (Cabell 1979). He further notes that collective community problem-solving is new to the mountains and that those organizations which have existed in the past, such as Affirmative Action Programs, Labor Unions, and Local Government, have been of little help to Blacks. Since the discontinuation of the Appalachian Regional Commission, there "has been no organization powerful enough to bring the Black leaders of Appalachia together" (Cabell 1979). According to traditional Appalachian belief, social and political issues have no place in the church (Humphrey 1980). Humphrey also advocates the notion that Appalachians tend to find it difficult to form long-range goals (1980). Essin's collection of edited papers reports: "The Appalachian church is rather conservative in contrast to churches in other areas of the nation and that one of its primary functions is that of socializing people properly into the preferred American type of citizen. Church attendance may be a poor measure of religiousity in Appalachia because the more conservative segment of the population is probably the majority of the church members regular attendies. The church in Appalachia also fulfills certain psychological needs, especially for the powerless and those suffering from psychic deprivations" (Essin 1975) On the other hand, Hill argues that the Black church is the most organized force in their community and remarks that most of what is accomplished by Blacks is done through the church (Hill 1974). E. Franklin Frzier, notes that due to the exclusion of Negroes from American political processes, the Negro church became the medium through which the need for power and the struggle to attain it were dealt with (Frazier 1960). In a national survey conducted by Lewis Harris, over 60% of Blacks involved felt that the Black church and ministers were helping the Blacks cause either greatly or at least somewhat; 17% felt that the Black church was only a marginal influence or was no help at all, and the remaining 23% were uncertain. The rejection of the church is most apparent among young Blacks and as a consequence many grass-roots organizations are assuming the roles formerly performed by the Black church. From the foregoing the following questions were formulated: 1. To what extent do college-age students who are members of a Black Appalachian church see it as an agent for change or system maintenance? 146 �2. To what extent do college-age students who attend church regularly see the Black Appalachian church as an agent for change or system maintenance? To answer the questions two hypotheses were formulated: 1) College-age students who are members of a Black Appalachian church when compared with students who are not members will regard the church more frequently as an agent for system maintenance; 2) College-age students who attend church regularly are more likely to view the Black church as an agent for system maintenance than those students who attend irregularly. Definition of Terms The term "Members" refers to those who held enrolled membership for at least one year in a Black Appalachian church. Appalachia, for the purposes of this study, will encompass Upper East Tennessee, Southwest Virginia, and Western North Carolina with the intention of forming a general base representing the larger Appalachian region. The term "System Maintenance" means social forces which attempt to maintain social stability and meet the needs of Black Appalachians in a manner which is in accordance with prevailing social values and institutions. "System Change," on the other hand, means forces involved in directly changing significant elements of the social structure. "System Change Activities" suggests challenging such things as the status quo, distribution of resources and wealth, existing social boundaries. When pertaining to this study, the concept of regular attendance in church will refer to attendance of services at least 50% of the time that services were scheduled. College-age students will be used in reference to students enrolled at East Tennessee State University, Johnson City, who are between the ages of 18 and 25. Methodology Target Population and Sample Selection This study focused on Black college students from Appalachia attending East Tennessee State University. A list of the Black students attending the university and residing on the campus at the time of the study was secured from the university Admissions Office. From this list, the names of those students whose home addresses were located in Appalachia were separated from those students who lived outside of Appalachia. This meant a potential pool of 115 students. A nonrandom sample of 50 was selected from this pool for actual survey administration. Description of Instrument The survey questionnaire consisted of fourteen closed ended questions, but due to difficulties in the application of the survey, one question was deleted. The survey was designed to identify the age and sex of the respondents, to determine whether or not respondents were members of Black churches and whether or not respondents attended church on a regular basis, and finally to determine whether or not respondents were active in programs aimed at effecting change or maintaining the status quo in the community. Procedures The students randomly selected for the study were visited in their dormitories after appointments were made. The questionnaire was given and completed by them while the researchers 147 �waited. Upon completion, the questionnaires were placed in a common folder before examination to insure that confidentiality was maintained. Findings There was no significant difference between the attitudes of members and non-members concerning the role of the church in the community (see Table 1 & 2). Members were almost evenly divided in their views of the church as an agent for change and for maintenance of status quo. It was further noted that when the attitudes of those who participated in church activities which were aimed at community change were compared with those who did not participate in such activities, the difference was also insignificant (see Table 3). Again, members and non-members were almost evenly divided in their assessment of the church's role in system change and maintenance activities. However, the opinions regarding the adequacy of the church's work in the community did differ significantly at the P = .05 level between college-age students who claim to have been with a church less than a year or feel they are not a member of a church (see Tables 4,5, & 6). One explanation for this is such a small sample of participants who were either not affiliated with a church or had not attended a church for a year. It could be that these persons were not familiar with the churches' activities. On the other hand, it could very well be that their familiarity with the church caused them to feel this way. Even with this explanation more members who have attended a church more than a year felt that the church's work in the community was inadequate in solving social problems as can be seen in Tables 4, 5, & 6. Conclusions The only difference found was between members and non-members regarding the adequacy of the church's work in the community. As shown in Table 4, eighteen members felt that enough work is being done in the community and twenty-one felt that this was not so. No non-members felt that the church's work in the community was adequate, while six non-members felt that it was inadequate. As indicated here, there is dissatisfaction with the performance of the church in the community. These results seem contrary to the informal information gathered by previous authors in that before most of the opinions regarding the church were rather positive, while here, there is displeasure expressed. Evaluation of Effort Originally, the researchers intended to administer the questionnaire in a church setting, but there was too much opposition from local ministers. As a result, several weaknesses developed. These are: 1) the necessity of using a non-random sample selection due to a smaller sample population than anticipated, 2) the use of a questionnaire in its original form due to lack of time to modify it, 3) the questionnaire content was subject to misinterpretation and this was not discovered until after application, 4) the questionnaire did not elicit meaning of an adequate level of activity to resolve social problems faced by Blacks. There are several strengths in this study: 1) the study is a beginning data base on the Black Appalachian church and its role; 2) the study provides professional helpers a beginning understanding of the capacity of the church as a community organization to engage in change activities and; 3) it suggests the level of investment the Black Appalachian church has in the status quo. The most important implication for social work professionals is the need for further research dealing with Black Appalachians in relation to the church and with Black Appalachian in general. A lack of knowledge in this area cannot help hindering attempts to assist the Black Appalachian. 148 �RESULTS Table 1* Differences in attitudes toward the role of the church in the community between members and non-members as they are defined by this study: "Do you feel the church is working to:" Those who have been members more than 1 year Those who have been members less than 1 year Total improve problems faced by Blacks in the community? 17 2 19 maintain standards in the community? 14 4 18 1 3 1 4 34 7 41 not get involved at all i n t h e comm Total: X2 - 1.4157 *5 responses of "don't know" were omitted 4 responses were deleted due to the checking of multiple answers Table 2* Difference in attitudes toward the role of the church in the community between those who attend services on a regular basis and those who attend irregularly: Those who attend regularly Those who attend irregularly Total improve problems faced by Blacks in the community? 15 4 19 maintain standards in the community? 15 3 18 not get involved at all in the community? 2 2 4 32 9 41 "Do you feel the church is working to:" Total X2 = 1.9457 *5 responses of "don't know" were omitted 4 responses were deleted due to the checking of multiple answers 149 �Table 3* Differences in attitudes toward the role of the church in the community between those participating in church activities aimed at community change and those not participating in such activities: "Do you feel that the church is working to:" Those who participate in Those who do not church activities aimed at participate in such activities community change Total improve problems faced by Blacks in the community? 11 8 19 maintain standards in the community? 11 7 18 not get involved at all in the community? 1 3 4 23 18 41 Total X2 = 2.0218 *5 responses of "don't know" were omitted 4 responses were deleted due to the checking of multiple answers Table 4* Differences in attitudes concerning the adequacy of the church's work in the community between members and non-members as they are defined in this study: "Do you feel that the church's work in the community is:" Those who have been members more than 1 year Those who have been members less than 1 year Total enough 18 0 18 not enough 21 6 27 Total 39 6 45 X2 = 5.6 *5 responses of "don't know" were omitted 150 �Table 5* Differences in attitudes concerning the adequacy of the church's work in the community between those who attend services on a regular basis and those who attend irregularly: "Do you feel that the church's work in the community is:" Those who attend regularly Those who attend irregularly Total enough 16 2 18 not enough 18 9 27 Total 34 11 45 X2 = 1.8 *5 responses of "don't know" were omitted Table 6* Difference in attitudes concerning the adequacy of the church's work in the community between those who participate in church activities aimed at community change and those who do not participate in such activities: "Do you feel the church's work in the community is:" Those who participate in church activities aimed at change in the community Those who do not participate in such activities Total enough 10 8 18 not enough 14 13 27 Total 24 21 45 X2 = .0037 *5 responses of "don't know" were omitted References 'Edward J. Cabbell, "Black Invisibility and Racism in Appalachia: an Informal Survey," Appalachian Journal, Autumn 1980, p. 50. 2 Arthur J. Cox, "Black Appalachians: Perspectives on Social Change," Forthcoming in Dignity, Diversity, anil Opportunity in Changing Rural Community, University of South Carolina Press, 1982. �'Ibid. 'Ibid. " 5 Arthur J. Cox, "The Afro-American Family and the American Health Care System," in Family Health and Human Relations, ed. Robert D. Patton, (Lexington, Massachusetts: Ginn Custom Publishing, 1980), p. 154. 'Cabbell, p. 48-52. 'Richard A. Humphrey, "Religion in Appalachia: Implications for Social Work Practice," in East Tennessee Slate University Journal ofHumania, ed. Eugene D. Anderson 0ohnson City, Tennessee: East Tennessee State University Department of Social Work, 1980), pp. 12 and 15. •Emmett M. Essin, ed., Appalachia: Family Tradition in Transition (Johnson City, Tennessee: East Tennessee State University Research Advisory Council, 1975), pp. 4, 45-47. 'Robert B. Hill, The Strengths of Black Families (New York: Everson Hall Publishers, Inc., 1972), pp. 33 and 34. 10 Alphonso Pinkney. "Franklin E. Frazier, The Negro Church in America, (New York; Schocken Books, 1969), p. 43. Sample Questionnaire INSTRUCTIONS: You are being asked to help Stanley Taylor and Schary Cade in their research efforts to gain an understanding of the church role in the communities of Appalachia. Through this research we hope to gain information to help us and others eradicate some of the social problems in the community now and in the future. Everything will be in complete confidentiality. Results will be made available for anyone who is interested in them. It is completely on a volunteer basis. Thanks for your cooperation. 1. Age 2. Sex Male 3. Have you attended a church... More than 1 year Female Less than 1 year 4. Do you consider yourself a member of this church? YES 5. If not, are you a member of another church in the area? NO YES NO 6. How many pastoral sermons does your church have a week? 7. How many pastoral sermons do you usually attend a week? 8. If you do not attend on a weekly basis, how many pastoral sermons do you usually attend a month? 9. Do you think that changes are needed to improve the opportunities and/or problems of Blacks in the community? YES NO 10. Which of the following do you consider a problem in the community? Racism Employment Medical Needs All of these 11. Do you feel that the church is working to: Improve problems faced by Blacks in the community. Maintain standards in the community. Not getting involved at all with community problems. Don't know. 12. Do you feel that the church work in the community is Enough Not Enough No problems. Don't know. 13. Do you participate in activities from the church that are concerned with solving community problems? YES NO 14. If no, is it only because the church... interested in them. Does not have such activities 152 Have the activities but not �Race Relations in Asheville, North Carolina: Three Incidents, 1868-1906 EricJ. Olson (The mountaineer) had acquired a hatred and contempt for the Negro even more violent than that of the common white of the lowlands, a dislike so rabid that it was a black man's life to venture into many mountain sections. 1 Appalachians have not been saddled with the same prejudices about black people that people of the deep South have. 2 There are other quotations that might have been chosen to illustrate the differences of opinion on the relations between the southern mountaineers and their black neighbors. These differences of opinion continue to be sustained, in part, by a lack of basic informatin and research on black Appalachians. As Edward Cabbell has noted, "Black people in Appalachia are a neglected minority...(their) invisibility also supports the myth that Appalachia is land of 'poor white hillbillies' beset solely with 'white problems' and not the color problems that plague the rest of America." 3 An examination of the published histories dealing with Asheville and western North Carolina reveals an almost complete absence of attention to the black portion of the population, which for Asheville has accounted for between one-third and one-fourth of the total. 4 This paper presents some of the results of a survey of the local and regional newspapers for materials dealing with black mountaineers. The newspapers were sampled in order to discover the extent to which blacks were mentioned at all, and to try to categorize the occasions and context in which they appear. Underlying the survey were questions to which the newspaper accounts might provide an answer. Based on newspaper coverage, were blacks important in the mountains? Did the style and content of the newspaper accounts suggest racial harmony? Did the black experience in the mountains appear to differ substantially from that of blacks in the lowlands? The next three sections present accounts of three brief episodes in the history of Asheville and Buncombe County. All three incidents had racial aspects and all three were violent. It seems likely that the racial feelings of the community would be revealed during periods of racial tension. These events are presented in the words of the current accounts. Eighteen-Sixty-Eight: Mob Violence The North fought the Civil War to defeat secession and ended by abolishing slavery. Accepting the emancipation of 1865 as the price of defeat, the southern states enacted Black Codes in 1865 and 1866 to effectively retain the Negro in peonage and, in particular, deny the Negro the right to vote. Foster A. Sondley, Buncombe County's historian stated, 153 �Legally, if ever legally, negro emancipation occurred on December 18, 1865 with the proclamation of the adoption of the Thirteenth Amendment to the Constitution of the United (sic.) States. The practical abolition of negro slavery, whenever it took place, produced an immense change in Buncombe affairs. The Republican Congress passed the Fourteenth Amendment in 1866 which incorporated the provisions of the Civil Rights Act of 1866 into the Constitution. This Act had included Negroes as United States citizens, extended to them the right of property and the judicial system, and provided for them equal protection under the law. The Reconstruction Acts of 1867 provided that new governments would be organized in the insurrectionary states under military supervision, required mandatory Negro suffrage, and disenfranchised some of the former rebels.6 Among other actions, the Radical Republican governments raised taxes to repair the war-damaged South, to pay off some of their war debts, and to establish public schools to educate, among others, the freedmen. Thus, "land owners who had previously governed the South in their own interest, now found themselves bearing the major tax burden while the benefits went in large measure to businessmen and Negroes." 7 The Union League, a northern patriotic society imported into the South during reconstruction, was a secret society composed of blacks and white Republicans, serving both as a fraternal organization and an arm of the Republican party. The Ku Klux Klan was organized in 1866 at Pulaski in Giles County, Tennessee. Democrats, when they acknowledged its existence, ascribed the Klan movement to high taxes, corrupt Republican officials, and the need to deter and punish Negro crime. However, as Trelease concludes, "The Klan became in effect a terrorist arm of the Democratic party." 8 The Klan first appeared in North Carolina in the spring of 1868. The Klan seems to have first prospered in the foothill regions surrounding the southern mountains—Giles and Maury Counties in Tennessee; York County, South Carolina; Cleveland and Rutherford Counties in North Carolina; the counties from Fayette southward to the Tennessee line in Kentucky. 9 These were counties with rather small black populations, but with substantial unionist, white republican elements who were usually small farmers located on the less promising lands of the county. Thus, partisan political hatreds were compounded by race conflict and aristocrat/poor white antipathy. Political violence continued the strife and hatred bred between neighbors by the war. The individuality and self-reliance required by the relative isolation of nineteenth-century rural life combined with military training and a decay in the enforcement of law and order fostered vigilante action and summary justice. This continued the troubles that began after the 1862 Conscription law when the foothills and mountains were populated with deserters and outliers, often temporarily organized as provisional military outfits, other times as mobs to punish their former friends and neighbors who supported the opposition. Sondley's History describes troubles during the 1868 election in Asheville: In 1868 turbulent negroes in Asheville attempted to force upon other blacks subservience to the spirit of hatred toward their former owners. This hatred was inculcated by visiting whites who became negro-leaders and disseminated their baneful teachings through secret political societies composed chiefly of rowdy exslaves and known as 'Red-Strings' and 'Union Leagues.'10 Sondley then goes on to describe a riot between whites and blacks on election day that resulted in the death of one black and the wounding of several blacks and whites. The incident was reported in the Raleigh Weekly North Carolina Standard, a Republican paper, as follows: At Asheville a colored man went to the polls to vote. According to the Constitution he could do so, but the election clerk told him that he could not, because he had been whipped at the post. Words passed and the 154 �colored man was knocked down. It seems that the fracas was stopped, but out of it grew the subsequent disturbance, in which one negro was killed and five or six others wounded (Nov. 11, 1868, p. 3). Three years later, in 1871, Nicolas Woodfin, a wealthy Asheville lawyer and former slave holder described the incident in his testimony before the Joint Select Committee of the United States to Inquire into the Condition of Affairs in the Late Insurrectionary States: There was one negro killed who had behaved himself very badly....He and two or three other colored men, and this white man and another white man, were quarreling, and each had clubs and were walking up and down the streets menacing the others during the day of the difficulty. They started a fight early in the day, which was supressed by the sheriff. That quarrel kept up during the forenoon, and until, I suppose, maybe 2 o'clock in the afternoon, or later when it culminated in a pretty general fight, firing and throwing of stones, which lasted a minute or two only. I understood that it originated in this white man challenging the vote of a colored man inside; it was objected that he had no right in there to challenge, and he attempted to fight with one colored man in the yard afterward—During the evening one colored man voted the democratic ticket, and some of them threatened to whip him, and others to kill him, for that. They surrounded him, some of the young men, to protect him with their pistols. This negro man that was killed was one who had been in difficulty in the morning; he was foremost in making a threat against the negro that had voted the democratic ticket...I was counsel for the white man who was imprisoned for the shooting, and the other white men who were indicted for rioting. Silas, the negro man they sought to attack, was surrounded by some white men for protection. This troublesome man, Ledford—he is a troublesome and bad man, proved to be so since—was knocked down by this negro man that was slain, as it was supposed—It never was ascertained by whom the shot was fired. There was a general firing; the firing was very rapid; there were eighteen colored men wounded; no white man was badly wounded; I believe one or two were touched a little in the leg, maybe...the negroes were all running away, and I met them as I was going there. A few persons pursued them a short distance and then stopped. Two or three troublesome men of each color originated that difficulty, and prosecuted the quarrel all through the day, and seemed to be determined to get up a general disturbance." The results of a coroner's inquest were reported in a piece in the Asheville Pioneer which was reprinted the next week in the Salisbury Old North State: James Smith came to his death while engaged in a riot at Asheville, N.C. on the afternoon of Tuesday, November 3, 1868 from a pistol shot in the right side of the face Said shot was probably fired by Milton Ledford, although shots were fired about the same time, and in the direction from pistols in the hands of Jesse Crook, Gaston McDowell, William A. Blair, and William Grubs. The jury also finds that shots were fired about the same time and in the direction of the white crowd from a pistol in the hands of an unknown colored man and a pistol in the hands of Simon Henry, colored. The jury further finds that the first stone or missile thrown came from the hands of the said James Smith, deceased (Nov. 14, 1868, p. 2). The jury also concluded that the civil officers of the town had neglected to take proper precautions to guard against the occurrences of this riot. In the fall term of the Superior Court of Buncombe County, Milton Ledford was committed and a true bill for murder found against him. Woodfin, who represented Ledford, recalled the following events: The case was removed to the Henderson court, and upon full examination, upon habeas corpus, before Judge Henry 12 he thought the evidence did not justify the prosecution going further, and the case went off...it was difficult to ascertain who fired the fatal shot...and they allowed a verdict of not guilty to be rendered. Since that time Ledford has behaved very badly. He left the state, but after a while came back, and has been cutting up in the same way." The others involved in the incident were indicted by the same Grand Jury for riot and affray. In addition to the names mentioned above, the accused included several from prominent families such as Blair, Alexander, Merrimon, and Patton14 The court minutes that reported the results of the 155 �Grand Jury's deliberations also provide an interesting sidelight on the feelings of blacks coming before the bar. In State vs. Sandy Gardner, colored, who was being tried on charges of murder, "the council for the prisoner moved the court to instruct the sheriff to summon on said panel such men of color as are competent, but the Court declined to give such instruction, allowing the Sheriff to exercise his own desc(r)ession in summon('ng) said panel."15 Woodfin, who was also attorney for the whites involved in the riot, reported the result of the trial: All the young men indicted for rioting were let off at the insistance of the council for both sides. I appealed to the Judge to stop the case with the view of allowing quiet to prevail; to let bygones be forgotten as much as possible; to permit the solicitor to enter a nolle pros; to take a confession of submission, and to submit to a nominal fine for a riot....It was approved by all members of the bar present....They said to the court that it was the best thing, for prosecuting it would only keep up bad temper, and imprisoning them would perhaps lead to further prejudice." Woodfin then commented on the state of public affairs in the years between 1868 and 1871: Since that time we have had no disturbance there on any public occasion at all. Well there is more disposition to conciliate the colored vote now by both parties. Since it was found that their right to vote is fixed, that it is unalterable, as they suppose, I think both parties are now seeking for their votes I think these causes are pretty well done away with us." Sondley, from a different perspective summed up the period: For years this condition (turbulence and hatred) existed....The negro political gatherings were held in a negro school house where Poplar Street now is. Later white men regained control of town government. 18 Eighteen-Ninty-Seven; Lynching "The two decades beginning in 1890 brought the rights and privileges of American Negroes to their lowest ebb."19 If the blacks were not congenitally inferior, at least they were lower on the evolutionary ladder; full equality was something to be realized only in the dim future, if ever. This attitude could also be seen in the country's overseas adventures and in the suggestion that the United States had a civilizing mission among our "little brown brothers" in the Philippines and elsewhere. Blacks were disenfranchised by a series of legal tricks circumventing the Fifteenth Amendment and the enactment of Jim Crow laws which evaded the Fourteenth. In North Carolina the Democrats fostered the Suffrage Amendment to the state consitution which required a voter to pay a poll tax and to be able to read and write any section of the constitution. Voters who had been registered to vote before January 1, 1867, or their lineal descendants, were exempted from this requirement. Thus, "the Democrats, tired of repressing the Negro vote by intimidation, election manipulation, and fraud, determined to secure the permanent legal elimination of the Negro from North Carolina politics."20 The campaign for national, state, and local offices in 1896 was unusually bitter and recriminatory. On national issues the Democrats and the Populists fused in support of William Jennings Bryan. The state and local offices were carried by a fusion of the Republicans and the Populists. Republican Daniel L. Russell was elected governor mainly by the large black vote in the eastern counties. The Democrats seized upon the increased black political activity and "depicted Negro domination as threatening North Carolina civilization with anarchy, violence and 156 �collapse."21 Furnifold Simmons, State Chairman of the Democratic Party, appealed to the voters of North Carolina to crush the party of Negro domination that favored WHITE WOMEN...arrested...by negro constables...NEGROES in charge of white schools...NEGROES holding inquests over white dead...NEGRO MAGISTRATES trying white women. 22 The newspapers of the late summer of 1897 were full of news of racial troubles, riots, and lynchings. In Madisonville, Ephraim Brinkley was lynched for general bad character.23 In Wadesboro, "Brogan, the negro who outraged Mrs. Brunner, hung from a sycamore tree near the courthouse, his body riddled with bullets." 24 After a lynching in Salisbury in August of 1897 an Asheville paper reported that "the women of this section are thoroughly aroused and many approve of the lynching. One prominent lady...cut off the ear of one of the victims."25 Asheville appears to have avoided most of the racial tension and conflict that surrounded it. When blacks were mentioned at all in the local news, it was generally to observe some local black peculation involving cards, liquor, or women. Or it was a humorous observation similar to the following from The Citizen: From the Louisville Times. That North Carolina doctor who asserts that eating a watermelon does a negro no good must be both blind and deaf—blind to the expression and deaf to the grunts of satisfaction with which Sambo demonstrates the fact that watermellon is the satisfyingst truck the sons of Ham have found in all the journeyings through this vale of tears and sweat (August 4, 1897), p. 2). Therefore, the following headline, while perhaps not unexpected, must have been especially shocking amidst the sporting news of the "Asheville Moonshiners" and the report of the proceedings of the annual reunion of the Rough and Ready Guards who had been addressed on Sunday, August 9, 1897, by Col. T.F. Davidson and Major J.M. Gudger. A FIENDISH SUNDAY CRIME COMMITTED BY NEGRO BRUTE NEAR WEAVERVILLE THE PEOPLE ARE AROUSED VIGOROUS SEARCH IS BEING MADE FOR THE MAN MISS KITTIE HENDERSON ASSAULTED WHILE ON HER WAY HOME FROM SUNDAY SCHOOL One of the darkest crimes in the pages of Buncombe's history startled the people of the Weaverville section of the county yesterday. The perpetrator is a young negro and his victim, Miss Kittie Henderson, a pretty girl and daughter of John Henderson, who lives about a mile and a half from Weaverville, near Coleman homestead. Yesterday Miss Henderson went to Sunday school at Alexander Chapel and about 11:30 was on her way home. When at the crossroads not far from her home she was startled by the sight of a negro who appeared to be stealing upon her. A moment later the negro sprang upon her, caught her about the throat and bore her to the ground. Miss Henderson is a partial cripple as a result of an attack of meningitis some years ago and was unable to resist successfully the strength of the black brute who dragged her a short distance into the woods...There he choked her almost into insensibility, consumated the assault and made off. Miss Henderson begged and prayed of her assailant...the news spread through the community rapidly and soon searchers were out...she described the negro as being heavily built and about 23 or 24 years old and said she could recognize him if she were to see him again Miss Henderson is about 22 years old and of a family that has respect of the people of the community. 26 The paper was pleased to report in its next evening's edition that "the law is supreme," that 157 �the assailant had been captured and that the friends and neighbors of the young girl had allowed the officers of the law to take the young man to the jail in Asheville. The reporter noted that such a submission under the fearful provocation - the greatest that can be known - shows the most admirable self restraint, and will be imitated here in Asheville by ready acquiesence in the regular forms of law, under which this brute will be speedily tried and by which he will come, we doubt not to his deserved end. Let the law be supreme.27 The Citizen described the capture and subsequent events as follows: Bob Brackett, the negro who has been hunted since Sunday last as the fiend who so fearfully assaulted Miss Kitty Henderson on that day was captured at 4 o'clock this morning by Goodson Ramsey in the cabin of Sandy Ray, a negro preacher living on Whittmore Branch near the Madison County line...Deputy Joe J. Chambers, who was in the searching party that captured Brackett, told The Citizen that the whole of the distance on the road from the time of the capture until the deputies from Asheville arrived, was devoted by the cooler heads in quelling the spirit that was rife for a quick hanging...Deputy Reynolds said to them that he was sent by Sheriff Worley and Commissioner Brown to say that a special term of court would be called at once, if they were sure of their man, and that justice would certainly be done (August 10, 1897, p. 1) Brackett was taken into the presence of Miss Henderson where she identified him as the assailant despite his denials. In the meanwhile a crowd had gathered outside the house with cries from the mob that "God knows he ought to be hung!"28 The report continued that Miss Henderson then appeared on the steps and exclaimed, "I prayed in my helplessness that God would spare my life and send friends to avenge me, and now they have come to help me (August 10, 1897, p. 1)". At this point Deputy Reynolds intervened into the din with, "Men, if you hang him, you are all known, and will be tried for murder." Deputy Reynolds was seconded by Walter Vandiver of Weaverville rose in his stirrups and with a few ringing words to the men to save the fair name of the county from what would be a dastardly crime, the calmer ones, who had all along been moving through the crowd as peacemakers succeeded in making themselves heard—a man, as the party left: 'There he goes to the chain gang for a few months, where they'll make a trusty of him.' While riding behind W.B. Brown on the way in, the negro confessed his guilt. He told Mr. Brown he had been in Asheville for about a week, and was on his way back to Big Ivy (August 10, 1897, p. 1). Brackett told the Citizen reporter that he was 23 years old, had come from Caswell County to Buncombe County about a year and a half ago, and that he had worked on farms in Madison Coun- ty- While the law had reigned supreme on Tuesday morning in Weaverville, it was not so fortunate in the evening. As the Citizen reported: For several hours last night a portion of Asheville was in the hands of a howling and tipsy mob, not a cool and determined body of sober men....On court square men talked openly of becoming members of a lynching party.2' A mob of about 200 men, "principally from the country," had gathered near court square to discuss the situation. Adjourning shortly after eight o'clock, they started in a body for the jail reminding the observer of the Common of Paris. A large number of boys under 20 years of age fell into line....In a surprisingly short time the main crowd was there, and had filled the street in front of the jail yard and many of the vacant lots in the vicinity. In fact everybody was there—except the police. They were near—some of them—but did nothing (August 11, 1897, p. 1). The Chief of Police was there but did nothing. Sheriff Worley attempted to deputize every other man in the crowd but found the men unsympathetic: 158 �The sheriff was brushed aside and the weak struggle for law and order ended ignominousley (sir). As the battering ram improvised by the use of a heavy piece of timber pounded effectually against the not too heavy door, the lovers of order could only stand aside...the leaders soon burst the door down Then for several hours the work of destruction went uninterruptedly on (August 11, 1897, p. 1). Fortunately, deputies had removed the prisoner from the jail earlier in the evening in a carriage bound over Beaumont Gap for Swannanoa, where they hoped to catch the early train for Raleigh. However, when the mob tired of wrecking the jail they boarded the vertibule train at Biltmore: They had no tickets but were well supplied with axes, guns and pistols, and were quite a surprise to the train crew. When approached by Capt. Mauney, who told them they would have to pay fare, the men only showed their weapons and whistled...at Terrell's, the siding near the west end of the Swannanoa tunnel...an unknown mob of 75 strong gathered there awaiting no. 16...Brackett was taken by the mob. The officers escaped (August 11, 1897, p. 1). The Governor of the state responded in two ways—first, by ordering out the Asheville Light Infantry to assist the Sheriff to preserve law and order. He later sent a telegram to V.S. Lusk, Solicitor for Buncombe, which stated that if Brackett were not lynched and the jury convicted him, the Governor would guarantee that the Negro would be hanged within two weeks; to no avail, however, as the Charlotte Observer's headlines announced: THE CAPTURE BY THE MOB THE LAWLESS ELEMENT OF THE MOUNTAINS FULL OF MOONSHINE LIQUOR, TAKEN BRACKETT FROM THE OFFICERS THEY HEAR HIS CONFESSION WITH LEWD CURIOSITY THEY WERE NOT AVENGERS OF BLOOD, BUT SIMPLY ON A LAWLESS LARK30 While the mob was escorting Brackett fromthe Swannanoa Tunnel back to Weaverville, the authorities were organizing at the Asheville Armory. The Infantry left in carriages at about 12:30, but the military company reached the scene of the lynching 20 minutes too late. Probably half a hundred men and several women were present when the act was committed....Brackett met his fate calmly. Kittie Henderson, the young woman outraged by Brackett was there, and to her the negro again confessed his guilt...After the rope was in position, Brackett was lifted up, the ropes was fastened to a limb, and then the negro dropped. He died easily. One of the strange sights of the scene of the lynching was to see a number of women walking about wearing small twigs taken from the tree on which Brackett was hanged.31 The Charlotte Observer noted that Sheriff Worley had reported to Governor Russell that some of the lynchers were known and that it had been reported that "Smith and Ramsey of Weaverville, realtives of the outraged girl, led the mob." (August 14, 1897, p. 1) An inquest was held the next day. The Chief of Police recognized a few of the men who went into the jail, but "most of them were strangers."32 One that he recognized was Milt Ledford and noted that Ledford was violent." None of those who testified admitted to know any of the persons involved in the lynching. Where there was any elaboration on the lack of knowledge of the lynchers, it was speculated that they were from the country or were from out of town. "Ex-Patrolman R.K. Stephenson...knew none of the men....A spare built man with a moustache had a good deal to do with it."34 W.T. Herritage testified that: It was 10 minutes past three when the men lifted the negro on their shoulders as the rope was pulled up and tied, and at five minutes of four the sheriff came. There were no masks on the men's faces. There were 15 men who brought the negro up and about 100 spectators. The man who tied the rope to the limb slid down the rope, stamped on the negro's head and then kicked him in the face....The 15 men who hung him were the ones who had brought him from Terrell's (August 13, 1897, p. 1). 159 �The coroner's jury concluded that On the llth day of August, 1897, at about 2:30 o'clock in the p.m. near Hemphill's school house, Buncombe County, the deceased, Robert Brackett, was hanged by the neck until dead by about 15 men whose names are to us unknown (August 13, 1897, p. 1). In the same issue of the Citizen as the report of the inquest was the following editorial: While no one regrets the death of Brackett for the worst crime known to civilization, the circumstances surrounding his taking off will long be remembered as a blot on the fair name of the county Had the neighbors and friends of the victim of his brutality taken him away quietly after identification and returned without him, the general sentiment of the community would have acquiesed in the justice of the act, even if there should be a passing regret at the informality of it....Lynching is always wrong, but it is because it is not the greatest wrong and because it is, after all, a rough form of justice, as well also as because of the delays and uncertainties of legal procedure, that it can be tolerated by public sentiment in an otherwise law abiding community Neither can it be said that prominent citizens took part in the lynchings. The affair at the jail was participated in wholly by persons from out of town—We can only regret that the lynching that closed the dark chapter yesterday in the history of the county should not have occurred two days earlier than it did, or failing that, that the law was not allowed to take its course, once it was called into the case at all." A week later the Citizen noted matter of factly that Harvey Deberry, colored, was hanged in the yard of the Shelby County Jail....This is the first legal hanging for attempted rape that has ever taken place in Tennessee." Nineteen-Hundred-Six: Negro Desperado In May of 1873 the Asheville North Carolina Citizen, edited by Klan leader Randolph Shotwell, commented with disgust on black involvement in the town elections: We are sorry to state that the two later names on the ticket were American gentlemen of African 'scent' thicklipped, kinkey-headed, and complexion of tar-can-hue (May 8, 1873, p. 3). By the summer of 1906 blacks had been pretty well excluded from the political life of North Carolina. Citizens of Asheville were interested in blacks only insofar as their involvement in petty crime and their potential for giving offense to white women were concerned. The newspapers that summer and fall were full of reports of racial unrest and violence in the larger South. The headlines of the Asheville Citizen for September 28th are representative: FIERCE RACE WAR MAKES NIGHT HIDEOUS IN CITY OF ATLANTA NEGROES ARE CLUBBED TO DEATH ON STREETS WHEREVER SEEN INFURIATED CITIZENS OF GEORGIA RUTHLESSLY KILL MANY NEGROES IN THE OPEN STREETS OF ATLANTA EVERYTHING IN READINESS FOR QUICK ACTION NEGRO LASHED BEFORE GAZE OF MULTITUDE Assaults on white women within past two days throw Atlantans to high state of excitement. 15 negroes known to have been killed. Fifteen hundred U.S. marines and sailors preparing to land in Cuba. Pays the penalty for brutal assault on two women at whipping post. 2,000 persons claim to see execution (September 28, 1906, p. 1) In the next month the Citizen reported that two Negro undertakers who had shot white policemen were lynched in Mobile, Alabama.37 Three days later it reported that a "twelve year old negro, accused of attempted assault on a four-year-old white girl escapes lynching."38 Also in Oct160 �ober a black man had been shot to death in Hendersonville, North Carolina, over dog stealing and threatening an officer with a stick.39 In the same issue of the Citizen it was reported that Negroes in Nashville were reported as forming their own "White Caps" organization to protect themselves from white mobs and Ku Klux activity. Later in the month, "Cliff Fowler and Frank Strout (black) were accused of killing Sidney York (white) on Mountain Street after York made an improper proposal to women in their company."40 As the newspaper characterized it, the series of events which commenced late in the evening of Tuesday, November l a , 1906, found "Asheville stirred to its depths" and caused "the most exciting day in its history." What little satisfaction could be taken from the events was that "reason and sober judgment (held) sway under trying circumstances."41 A black man calling himself Will Harris had an argument with another black man in an apartment on Valley Street, one of the main thoroughfares of the black section near downtown Asheville. After Harris threatened him with a rifle that he had bought that morning, Toney Johnson ran to the police station to summon assistance to his girlfriend's house. Captain Page and Patrolman Blackstock of the Asheville City Policy hurried to his assistance: As Page reached the corner of the house and Blackstock reached the door, the negro threw open the door and shot the patrolman through the breast, he falling with a groan in his tracks, never moving again. Page turned, but before he could draw a pistol, Harris fired, disabling his right arm. The negro fled, promiscuously shooting as he ran. Before he reached the square by way of Eagle Street, he had killed one of his own, wounded two and shot another through the trousers. 42 In truth, on his way from Valley Street, first east on Eagle Street, then north on South Main Street, Harris killed three blacks, Benajamin F. Addison, Walter Corperning, and Tom Neil. The Citizen account continued: On went the murderer, dealing death from his deadly savage. He turned up South Main Street towards the square firing at everyone in sight. He passed the Laurel Valley saloon just as Geo. W. Jackson, the colored bar tender came out. Jackson was made a target, the bullet cutting through his trousers and underwear without breaking the skin or drawing blood (November 14, 1906, p. 1). A white witness described Harris' progress up South Main toward Pack Square: I was in the British-American Club when the shooting started, talking to Spears Reynolds. On hearing the shots the black attendant rushed to the door and when he returned his face was white and he shouted, "There's a nigger down stairs shooting up the town.' Reynolds jumped to his feet, pulled his pistol and started down stairs with Calvert Rosenfield of Baltimore and myself following. In the street was the black man with a repeating rifle over his arm. On seeing the flash of Reynolds' pistol he turned and fired, the bullet striking the house and glancing off, barely missing Reynolds (Nov. 14, 1906, p. 1). On reaching the Square, Harris met Patrolman James W. Bailey who had been sent down North Main Street to alarm and gather together as many of his comrades as possible. After stopping at the Sheriff's Cafe to deputize some assistants, Bailey stepped into the Square, where He and the desperado exchanged shots till the brave patrolman was killed. Bailey shot three times partly protected as he thought by the post. A bullet from the powerful Savage passed through the side of the post into Bailey's mouth, burying itself in his brain. His heart beat faintly for about one minute, but he was never conscious (November 14, 1906, p. 1). After shooting Patrolman Bailey, Harris fled south on Main Street toward the direction of Biltmore. The citizens of Asheville were summoned to action by the ringing of the general fire alarm; several posses were formed; and the Chief of Police wired to Tryon for bloodhounds to be sent on the next Southern Railway train. 161 �Harris disappeared into the snow early Wednesday morning and as the Citizen's headline put it, "Day starts with trail of bloodhounds—animals believed to have scent of murdered but they lose it at water's edge—many conflicting reports." 43 A posse had been sent to Olivette toward Marshall where the desperado had been sighted. At about the same time there were also posses heading towards Bailey, four miles west of Alexander, and another heading south toward Biltmore, while yet another searched over Beaumont Gap. In the meantime O.H. Allen, Judge of the Superior Count, had "outlawed" Harris in Buncombe County, which meant that he could be shot on sight by any citizen of the County. By mistake, Lemuel Morrow, a black coachman, was shot on his way to work as he passed over Pearson's Bridge. When he was stopped by a citizen patrol, Morrow thought he was being held up; and when he reached for his pistol, the patrol took him for Harris. Fortunately, the wound was not fatal. Attempting to prevent a recurrence of the lynching of nine years before, and to protect the citizens whose city had armed men in every street, the mayor of Asheville closed all the saloons. In addition the grand jury met on Wednesday morning and presented a true bill of indictment against Harris so that, "If Harris is caught and brought to Asheville he will be tried immediately in superior court and sentenced to be hung in short order."44 The Citizen described the city on Wednesday as, a sober city. There were no threats, far less cursing than usual, the quiet of a Sunday almost save for the many determined people on the streets. The snow fell thick and fast and none noted it (November 15, 1906, p. 1). For the black population the most disquieting event was the search of their section of the city for the missing Harris: Men with rifles were coming in from vain hunts and others were coming to take up the search in the city. It was felt that the colored people would uncover the desperado if possible, but it was considered possible that he might be hidden by some through fear of his threats or by dissolute people and so a search was made of all houses in the vicinity of Valley and Eagle Streets and also in all the purlieus. It was a search made dispassionately, only officers entering, while the armed men guarded the outside (November 15, 1906, p. 1). It was not until noon of the next day that the "bullets of avengers end(ed) (the) negro desperado's career." After being spotted near Buena Vista, Harris was tracked through Skyland and Arden until he was cornered near Fletcher, and "a chase of two nights and a day ended with the cheers of avenging citizens which rang through the silent woods as the desperado fell in his tracks." 45 The body, filled with bullets and with its head partially shot off, was returned to Asheville in the afternoon where it was placed on display in the window of the undertaking firm of Hare, Bard, & Co. The following day, after hearing testimony on the events of the previous several days, in particular whether the desperado was the notorious escaped convict, Will Harris, James Harvey of Forest City, Virginia, or Rufe Lindsey of York, South Carolina, the coroner's jury delivered the following verdict: First, Will Harris, alias Rufe Lindsey, on account of unprecedented murders and crimes had been duly according to law declared an outlaw....Second, said Will Harris, alias Rufe Lindsey, came to his death at the hands of public spirited citizens who at the time were in the fearless and unselfish discharge of a public duty that the law might be vindicated and justice delivered Third, that the citizens above referred to, constituting the posse aforesiad, as well as others who participated in the search and spontaneous efforts to bring to justice this incarnate fiend and desperado are entitled to the commendation and thanks of the entire community (November 15, 1906, p. 1). 162 �The previous evening most of the black community had met to hold funeral services for two of the men slain by Harris. The funeral oration by E.L. Matteson, pastor of the Zion Methodist Church, had included a request urging the listeners that while endeavoring to lead the vicious to a right way of living they should independantly and in cooperation with the whites supress so far as they had power, all tendancy to evil doing, discountenance crime and repudiate all who persistently pursued their evil ways (November 15, 1906, p. 1). Also on Friday evening there was a mass meeting of black citizens which among other things resolved the following: We the colored people of Asheville contemplate with horror the crimes of this alledged Will Harris, and that we utterly repudiate the man as a member of our race. His name and memory bring to us a foul stench....We heartily endorse the styles taken by our good white fellow citizens to rid this community and the world of the presence of this notorious character who had proven at such awful cost to others his utter unworthiness of human life....We heartily commend our white fellow citizens for the absence of any and everything that could suggest in the least degree feelings against us as a race....We as citizens of Asheville are on the side of law and order and we are unalterably opposed to those members of our race who violate these, such persons shall not receive either sympathy or shelter (November 15, 1906, p. 1). If the citizens of Asheville could take comfort at the conclusion of these events, it would be that an extraordinary series of events which involved both blacks and whites did not produce a general race conflagration like that in Atlanta a few months earlier. The races were able to cooperate, and the prosecution of justice was kept within the bounds of law and order. Finally, the citizens of Asheville seemed to derive some satisfaction and comfort from the fact that, whoever he was, the fiendish desperado was from out of town and not one of Asheville's law-abiding blacks. There are any number of difficulties in drawing even narrow conclusions from the reports of three such brief and isolated events. Perhaps the most troublesome problem is the lack of a broad spectrum of newspaper points of view. This paper is based largely on accounts appearing in the Asheville Citizen which represented the view of the Democratic Party from its founding by Randolph Shotwell in 1870. Unfortunately, very few issues of newspapers representing the Republican Party, such as the Asheville Pioneer, or those published by blacks, such as the Asheville Mountain Cleaner have survived. In a community which was about one-half Republican and about onequarter black this represents a large omission. In reference to the three questions that were mentioned in the beginning of the paper, the following conclusions are presented. The doings of Asheville's black population were hardly mentioned unless they fell into one of two categories. If a black were involved in some criminal activity, or if there was some humorous aspect to the story, it might be printed. This is not particularly surprising as the Democratic Party and its publishing allies constantly emphasized the black membership of the Republican Party and delighted in holding them up to ridicule and presenting them in their worst light. The very small sample of Republican papers suggests that they tried to avoid mention of blacks. The extent to which the mountain region differed from the rest of the South in racial matters is one of degree. There appears to have been less violence and brutality, although this generalization might not hold up in per capita terms. It also appears that isolated incidents were less likely to spread into generalized race violence, which may also reflect the relatively small size of the black population. What is perhaps most interesting is the suggestion that the foothill areas, between the mountains and the piedmont,were the most volatile areas of racial unrest. In the low country the conservative Democrats generally had control, while in the mountains many areas were controlled by Republicans. It was in those areas where control was less definite or more shifting that unrest developed into overt hostilities. It was in these counties where the Klan first appeared. 163 �At least in terms of the sentiments expressed in the newspapers, there seems little to differentiate Asheville from Savannah. The opinion of lynching expressed in the editorial of the Citizen appears congruent with that of the Georgia lady and the crowd to which she spoke. However, it is with respect to this question that the lack of Republican and black papers is the most troublesome. Lacking such evidence it does not seem unreasonable to conclude that abolitionist or Unionist sentiment was not necessarily equivalent to pro-black sentiment. Insofar as the people in the mountain areas were more tolerant of blacks, the lack of racial conflicts may simply reflect the smaller proportion of blacks in the population. One aspect of the news reporting that a current reader finds most jarring is the quirky sort of frontier humor that pervades these otherwise horrific stories. Whether this reflects the journalistic style of the period, the southern attitude toward blacks, or an attempt to lighten a dreary situation, it gives an odd quality to the reading. It would be useful to compare the style of these reports with the news of other contemporary violence, such at that in the factories or coal fields, to see if they also contain a leavening of humor. Footnotes •W.J. Cash, The Mind of the South (New York: Knopf, 1941), p. 219. 2 Loyal Jones, "Appalachian Values," in Voices from the Hills: Selected Readings of Southern Appalachia, ed. Robert J. Higgs and Ambrose Manning (New York: Ungar, 1975), p. 512. 'Edward J. Cabbell, "Black Invisibility and Racism in Appalachia," Appalachian Journal, 8 (Autumn, 1980), p. 48. 'John Preston Arthur, History of Western North Carolina (Asheville: Daughters of the American Revolution, 1914); Foster A. Sondley, A History of Buncombe County, North Carolina (Asheville: Advocate Printing Co., 1930); Douglas Swain, Cabins and Custles: the History and Architecture of Buncombe County, North Carolina (Asheville: Historic Resources Commission of Asheville and Buncombe County, 1981). 'Sondley, p. 698. 'Black enfranchisement was incorporated into the Fifteenth Amendment to the United States Constitution, ratified in 1870. 7Alan W. Trelease, White Terror: the Klu Klux Klan Conspiracy and Southern Reconstruction (New York: Harper & Row, 1971), p. xxxiii. "Trelease, p. xlvii. 'Trelease, pp. 28, 71, 125, 338. '"Sondley, p. 699. "Testimony, taken by the Joint Select Committee to Inquire into the condition of Affairs in the Late Insurrestionary States, Volume 2, North Carolina (Washington, D.C., 1872, reprinted, New York: AMS Press, 1968), p. 239. 12 Judge James L. Henry, a Republican. "Testimony, p. 240. "Buncombe County, Superior Court, Minutes, Book A, p. 432, December 6, 1868. "Buncombe County, p. 411, December 4, 1868. The minutes report (p. 469) that Gardner was found "not guilty" on July 1, 1869. "Testimony, p. 240. The judge was again James L. Henry, the solicitor, Virgil L. Lusk, both Republicans. The defendants, including Simon L. Henry, were fined one cent and costs. "Testimony, p. 240. "Sondley, p. 698. "Trelease, p. 420. 20 Hugh Talmadege Lefler, North Carolina: the History of a Southern State (Chapel Hill: University of North Carolina Press, 1954), p. 522. "Lefler, p. 520. 164 �z2 Lefler, p. 521. "Salisbury Carolina Watchman, July 29, 1897, p. 1. "Asheville Daily Advance, July 7, 1897, p. 1. K Asheville Daily Citizen, August 4, 1897, p. 1. ^Citizen, August 9, 1897, p. 1. "Citizen, August 10, 1897, p. 1. ^Citizen, August 10, 1897, p. 1. "Citizen, August 11, 1897, p. 1. 30 August 12, 1897, p. 1. In the same issue there is an article on Mrs. Rebecca Felton, Georgia's "best known woman writer and suffragist," who spoke endorsing lynching. "She declared that as long as the men of the state should find sufficient rope, they would defend their wives and daughters." Her audience assured her that she had voiced their views and those of the people that they represented. "Citizen, August 12, 1897, p. 1. "Citizen, August 14, 1897, p. 1. M Milt Ledford was also the name of the man who was acquitted of the murder of James Smith in 1862. "Citizen, August 13, 1897, p. 1. ^Citizen, August 13, 1897, p. 1. Emphasis added. "•Citizen, August 19, 1897, p. 1. "Citizen, October 9, 1906, p. 1. 3> Asheville Semi-Weekly Citizen, October 12, 1906, p. 2. "Citizen, October 2, 1906, p. 1. "Citizen, October 26, 1906, p. 1. "Citizen, November 15, 1906, p. 1. In addition to a brief account in Arthur, p. 345-6, fictionalized accounts can be found in Thomas Wolfe, The Web and the Rock (New York: Harper, 1939), p. 132-56; and Bob Terrell, Grandpa's Town (Asheville, 1978). "Citizen, November 14, 1906, p. 1. "Citizen, November 15, 1906, p. 1. "Citizen, November 15, 1906, p. 1. "Citizen, November 16, 1906, p. 1. 165 �This page intentionally left blank �Culture, Mental Health and Personality 167 �168 �The Folk Banjo and Clawhammer Performance Practice in the Upper South: A Study of Origins William Tallmadge This presentation is primarily concerned with achieving answers to the following two questions: (1) who transmitted the banjo and the clawhammer manner of playing it to musicians living in upper southern states, particularly in mountain areas of Kentucky, North Carolina, West Virginia, Virginia, and Tennessee and in the piedmont areas of North Carolina and Virginia? and (2) when was this transmission accomplished? In addressing these two questions, it was also necessary to come to grips with a third question concerning the role played by Joel Walker Sweeney in the development of the American banjo. The banjo is a variant of a long-necked, skin-head lute "common in West Africa, the Middle East and Asia" (Odell 1980: 118). Both the name and the instrument itself came to the West Indies and the North American mainland from West Africa, though both aspects of this statement need to be qualified somewhat. Names for a similar instrument in Africa vary with different tribes; however, two banjo prototypes that are quite well known are the molo, a three-string instrument made of a gourd with a skin head, and the halam, a five-string instrument, also made of a gourd and having a skin head. Three of the strings of the halam are drones, whereas only the fifth, highest string of the present-day banjo is a drone string. , Sibyl Marcuse noted that "the Senegalese still have a lute named bania" (1975: 435); also, Bruno Nettl suggests the bania as the ancestor of the banjo (1976: 93). To date, however, I have not found the bania described by African scholars, nor have I found any discs of West African music that provide musical examples of such an instrument. Perhaps it is significant in this regard that Dena Epstein in her documentary history of the folk banjo (1975) did not list the bania as a possible source for the name of the American banjo. An African instrument called the bangelo was described by a ,li ^ dealer in the mid-18th century (Epstein 1975: 351). In the Caribbean area banza was a common name for a banjo-like instrument (Ibid., 359-360). Another writer surmises that "the name of the instrument probably derives from the Portuguese or Spanish bandore" (Odell 1980: 118). Apparently, the exact source of the name of our banjo will never be clearly established.1 TH^ugh the banjo came from West Africa, there is no evidence that it was brought here in its corporeal form; rather the way of making it was carried here in the minds of slaves who had made similar instruments before they were captured. Gourd banjos, though usually known by different but somewhat similar names, have been described in the western hemisphere as early as 1678. They appeared first in the English and French col -lies of the Caribbean Islands, but by 1774 they were being mentioned on the mainland (Epstein 1V/9: 359-360). Apparently, the banjo did not find a permanent home in Portuguese and Spanish colonies; the popularity of guitar-type instruments in those areas may have channeled the interest of slaves vard those instruments instead of the banjo. During the period from 1694 through 1851 a number of descriptions of banjos in the West Indies and on the mainland were cited by Dena Epstein (1975), and they clearly establish that slaves 169 �made and played a four-string instrument. Only one of two 1851 citations described the making of a five-string instrument, but by that time black-face minstrels had already made the switch from a four-string to a five-string instrument. Since a drone (chanterelle) string (or strings) exists on some banjo prototypes in West Africia, it is reasonable to suppose that a drone string was one of the four strings of the plantation banjo; but unfortunately, 17th and 18th century banjos were described in all but few instances by nonmusicians who could not recognize a drone tone if they heard it or understand the purpose and function of the thumb-string if they saw it. Be that as it may, we can be certain that by the end of the 18th century, slaves in South Carolina (and very likely elsewhere) were playing a four-string banjo with the high fourth string used as a drone. The tuning peg for the drone string was placed halfway down the neck next to the lowest string just as on later five-string banjos. Such a banjo is pictured in a watercolor painting, "The Old Plantation." This painting was done between 1777 and 1800 and is in the possession of The Abby Rockefeller Folk Art Center at Colonial William sburg. Joel Walker Sweeney The painting mentioned above is the missing link which enables one to properly assess the contribution of Joel Walker Sweeney (1813-1860) to the development of the American five-string banjo. Sweeney was raised in a rural area in Buckingham County, Virginia, not far from Appomatox Court House. Judge R.B. Pore of Appomatox Court House recalled that Sweeney was raised "in the midst" of slaves (Arthur Woodward 1949: 8). Arthur Woodward continues the description. Though he does not list his sources, his account has the ring of truth, and, but for the remark about the addition of the fifth or thumb-string, has been generally accepted by scholars: By the time he was thirteen, Joel was intensely interested in music, and according to family tradition he could play quite well not only upon the four-stringed gourd shell Negro instrument, a favorite with the slaves of the early 19th century, but upon the violin as well— As Joel grew older he became dissatisfied with the gourd shell, and made an instrument of wood with a skin head instead of the more fragile gourd. About the year 1831 he added a fifth or thumb-string to this new invention, thus producing the first of a long line of banjos. Joel's musical career was launched when he was twenty-one. He attended the County Courts in Buckingham and adjacent counties, where, on court days, there was a certain amount of festivity in the towns.... His fame spread, and his part-time avocation became a full-time career.... About 1840 Joel was on his way to being a professional. He joined a small circus and for several years traveled through Virginia and North Carolina....Then...he moved north and gave banjo concerts in the Eastern states....His success in Yankee land encouraged him to cross the ocean and tour England 1949: 7-8i. Woodward's description appears to be a fairly conservative account of Sweeny. For example, when Robert C. Toll writes that "by the late 1820s, blackfaced white American performers like...J.W. Sweeney...toured the nation"...(1974: 27), one is inclined to doubt such an early date. On the other hand, the following observation by Hans Nathan is quite credible: "It is said that in 1838, when traveling as a Negro singer with a circus company through the South, he William M. Whitlocki met Joe Sweeney, the famous banjoist, and received a few lessons from him" (brackets and emphasis added) (1962: 115). If it be doubted that Sweeney could be regarded as famous in 1838, it should be pointed out that no white banjoist other than Sweeney is mentioned prior to the year 1838 by Wittke (1930), Nathan (1962), or Toll (1974). Nathan, in fact, cites the "late thirties and early forties" as the period when solo banjoists began to develop (1962: 59). Perhaps Sweeney was not the first white banjo player in America (his contemporaries never claimed that honor for him), 170 �but certainly he was the first white banjo player (and very likely the first player, black or white) to play a five-string banjo. This, in itself, was sufficient to have carried his name north even before he arrived in person. After being taught by slaves how to make and play a four-string gourd banjo, the fourth string of which was a drone thumb-string, Sweeney, sometime between 1831 and 1835,2 constructed a banjo with a wood frame to which he added a fifth string. The drone string, as the strings are presently numbered, then became the fifth string instead of the fourth. When one understands what Sweeney really did, it is easy to see how the judgment of those who have debated Sweeney's accomplishments has been beclouded by a confusion in terminology. When it has been claimed that Sweeney added (or invented) the fifth string to the banjo, it has been automatically assumed by scholars that the drone thumb-string was the string in question. Poor old Sweeney; if he were alive today, it would be difficult for him to describe what he did: Question: I see you have a five-string banjo there. Were you the first to add the fifth string to the banjo? Sweeney: Yes, I was the first to add it. Banjos only had four strings before I put the fifth string on it. Question: So you were the first to put a thumb-string on a banjo? Sweeney: No, I wasn't the first one to do that. Question: Well, isn't the fifth string on a banjo the thumb-string? Sweeney: Yes it is. Question: But you just said you were the first one to put a fifth string on a banjo. Sweeney: That's right. Question: Let's try another question. Did you put a thumb-string on your five-string banjo? Sweeney: Yes, I put a thumb-string on it. Question: You seem to contradict yourself. You said you were the first to put a fifth string on the banjo; you have agreed that the fifth string on a banjo is the thumb-string, but you also said you weren't the first person to put a thumb-string on the banjo. You are confused. Sweeney: I am now. The confusion of scholars regarding Sweeney was abetted by 19th century writers, mostly from the North, who until the drone string appeared on the banjo, had no idea of its purpose or function. The first thumb-string that they knew of was the one on Sweeney's banjo. Little wonder, then, that they thought he invented it. Woodward quotes banjoist Fred Mather, who wrote in 1897: I knew "Old Joe Sweeney" about 1846 or '48 when I was a boy of thirteen to fifteen. He came North with a circus twice in different years. He taught me how to bring down my thumb and play "Grape Vine Twist."...! believe there is no doubt that he was the first to put the thumb string on the banjo, the "chaunter" or "chanter" we called it then, but I've not heard the word in years [1949: 9] . In the light of what we now know about Sweeney's accomplishments, how is one to evaluate statements made by scholars such as Foster Damon (1936: annotations to "Old Tare River") or Alan Lomax (1947: 78)? Both assert that Sweeney added the fifth string, but neither writer stipulates that it was the thumb-string that was added. Without making unwarranted assumptions about what they had in mind, their statements must be regarded as correct. Therefore, when Jay Bailey accused John Lomax (sic) of repeating the Sweeney story "with unusual naivete" (1972: 59), it is Bailey who may have been naive; and careless at that, since he drew upon Gene Bluestein (1964: 243) for the Lomax quotation, and Bluestein quoted Alan (not John) Lomax. It is easy to understand why the great majority of minstrel banjoists, most of whom were from the North, continued to play a four-string instrument (with no thumb-string) "until the late 1840s" (Nathan 1962: 153). It took them that long to learn from the playing of Sweeney, from the playing of those who had studied with Sweeney, or possibly from the playing of slaves, what the purpose and function of a thumb-string was and the technique of using it effectively. 171 �Playing Styles The playing style of plantation slaves is believed to have consisted of a brushless clawhammer technique. That is , it was a melodic, non-chordal style played in a percussive manner.3 The terms rapping or knocking have been used to describe such a performance practice, and both terms (together with clawhammer) are appropriate descriptions of the manner of playing as it still exists as played by some Blacks and Whites in the southern mountains and in the piedmont areas of North Carolina and Virginia. The evidence that supports the clawhammer practice among slaves is circumstantial but strong when it is considered cumulatively. Descriptions of the playing style are rare, but two citations are significant. A French monk, Jean Baptiste Lebat, writing of his experience in Martinique in 1694, described a four-string instrument. Dena Epstein summarizes his description as follows: "They had a kind of guitar, made from half a calabash covered with a piece of skin and with a long neck. Four strings were raised on a bridge about the skin. This instrument was played by plucking and striking the strings" (emphasis added) (1979: 30). Fanny Kemble described a slave on a Georgian plantation, who in 1838-39 "seemed...to thump his instrument with every part of his body at once." (1863: 97). Another indication supporting a belief that the plantation playing technique consisted of a clawhammer tradition is that several of the pioneer minstrel banjoists, including Joe Sweeney, Ned Christy, and Billy Whitlock are said to have learned how to play their instruments directly from slaves (Tool 1974: 45-47). Since it has been clearly established by Hans Nathan and particularly by Robert B. Winans that the early minstrel banjoists employed a brushless clawhammer technique, it can be assumed that the minstrel tradition came directly from slaves (Nathan 1962: 126-127; Winans 1976: 412-416). Winan's comment regarding Sweeney is appropriate in this context: "Sweeney's relationship to minstrel playing is analogous to Earl Scruggs' relationship to bluegrass banjo. His influence was so great that the fact that he learned from blacks is nearly enough in itself to tie the whole tradition of minstrel banjo to contemporary folk black playing" (1976: 417-418). Perhaps the most telling evidence that plantation slaves played in a frailing, clawhammer manner is that a number of black banjo players in the southern mountains and in piedmont areas continue to do so.4 These are elderly men who, for the most part, learned from individuals whose lives go back well into the 19th century. Unless it is proven otherwise, we may assume that this black performance practice represents a direct continuation of the black antebellum tradition. Perhaps it is significant in this regard that Robert Winans, who maintains the hypothesis that it was the minstrels that introduced the clawhammer tradition to mountain Whites (to be discussed later), wisely remained silent regarding the possibility that they introduced the style to piedmont and mountain Blacks. Banjos were fretless until about 1880 (Heaton 1971: 64), and some performers prefer fretless, homemade banjos at the present time. Until he died in 1965, Frank Proffitt of Watauga County, North Carolina, made, played, and sold them. And Winans mentions that Wade Ward, Hobart Smith, Glen Smith, and Fred Cockerham play fretless banjos (1976: 416). Christopher Lornell states that the Negro performer John Snipes of the piedmont section of North Carolina also plays a fretless banjo (1975: 28). The addition of frets to the banjo simplifies the playing of chords and makes it easier to play pitches in tune. On the other hand, the presence of frets tends to inhibit the use of neutral pitches (quarter-tones), which have been employed by folk musicians the world over (Buchanan 1940: 81). 172 �Such neutral pitches appear in some of the early modal songs and banjo and fiddle duets, and the fretless banjo played in a non-chordal, brushless clawhammer style is able to match the neutral pitches of the voice and fiddle. This aspect of banjo playing is implied by a remark of Eric Davidson, who, in commenting on the introduction of the guitar into the mountains at the end of the 19th century, notes that "only very skillful guitar players can fit their instruments to traditional Grayson and Carroll Counties banjo and fiddle music. It was simpler to adapt the older music to the attractive, easy-to-learn new instrument" (1962: 4). Writers have not agreed upon answers to the two questions posed in the introduction to this essay. Gene Bluestein considers them, and his comments are appropriate: As Alan Lomax pointed out, the banjo became the characteristic instrument of the southern mountaineer. The manner of transmission is not clear, although there have always been small numbers of Negroes in the mountain areas. Mr. Archie Green has suggested to me that the early penetration of the mountain areas by railroads using mainly Negro labor was a major source of contact....It is from the playing of southern Appalachian white banjoists that we have learned most about the style of the instrument. And since their manner of playing is no! closely related to the minstrel tradition, it may be that it represents a closer approximation of earlier Negro styles (emphasis added) (1964: 246). Archie Green's statement will be considered later, but Bluestein's final sentence above is somewhat paradoxical in that he agrees with, and cites, Hans Nathan's remark, quoted above, concerning the similarity of slave and minstrel styles. Another remark of Nathan's, not cited by Bluestein, emphasizes the clawhammer (percussive) relationship to an even greater extent. In describing Billy Whitlock's performance practice, Nathan observes that "Whitlock played his banjo with complete abandon, roughly striking the strings with the nail of his forefinger." Nathan then draws a direct parallel with Negro practice: "That this was the genuine Negro style becomes clear from a description of a colored banjoist in Kemble,"—He then cites the Fanny Kemble passage that was previously quoted (1962: 126). The next writer to treat the questions posed in the introduction was Jay Bailey. He notes the resemblance of the playing styles of slaves and early minstrels and observes that the early minstrel style closely resembled "what is now called 'frailing' or 'beating' the banjo." He does not consider the question of its transmission to mountain Whites, but mentions the dates "1880 to 1930" as the period when white mountain musicians "took over and adapted the instrument for playing AngloAmerican folk music" (1972: 61-62). That this date is too late will be established later; but Bailey is not alone in ascribing such a late time-frame to the introduction of the banjo to mountain Whites. Charles Wolfe has observed that ' 'by the turn of the century the banjo had made its way into the mountains" (1977: 20). Wolfe did not think it necessary to stipulate the particular century, but it is clear from the context that he means the turn of the 20th century. Here it is maintained that the same statement might be applied to the turn of the 19th century. A significant contribution to the two questions posed in this essay is made by Robert B. Winans. He cites the directions for playing the banjo found in Thomas F. Briggs's Banjo Instructor of 1855 and in Phillip Rice's banjo method book of 1858 and concludes: Any reader who is familiar with old-time southern mountain banjo playing styles will recognize the style described above. It is frailing, or more specifically since there are no chords, it is a combination of what have been called 'brushless frailing' and 'drop-thumb frailing' (which is also known as the 'clawhammer' style)....It is generally acknowledged that frailing is the earliest mountain banjo style. But not so generally known is the fact that non-chordal, or brushless, frailing is earlier than frailing which employs 'brushed' chords (1976: 412-415). Winans then cites Eric Davidson in support of this point. 173 �It is clear, on the basis of information obtained from old people, that the clawhammer banjo style [by which he means brushless, drop-thumb frailing] is the earliest remembered style. For example, Wade Ward's mother-in-law, Granny Porter, was asked if Wade's style clawhammer is different from that current at the time of her childhood. Granny is now [1962] 85, and in full possession of her very considerable faculties. Her first husband was a very fine banjo player....She replied that Wade's banjo style is the same as that her first husband used and the same that he learned when he was a boy [Eric Davidson, notes to the disc Traditional Music from Grayson and Carroll Counties cited by Winans (1976: 416); brackets and elesions in original], Transmission to Mountain Areas Winans next presents the hypothesis that since "the earliest mountain folk style of banjo playing...is essentially identical to the early minstrel style,...mountain banjo playing is a direct descendant of minstrel playing" (1976: 416). This is the hypothesis which Winans supports and one to which this essay takes exception. But going on, Winans, in subsequent explication, considerably strengthens Nathan's original thesis that early minstrel banjoists relied directly upon the Negro slaves for their musical style and performance practice. He then questions whether Negroes could have transmitted the style directly to mountain Whites, and cited Archie Green's suggestion made to Gene Bluestein (see above)that the Negro workers on the railroads may have been a major source of contact. To that point Winans replies what is read between the lines, "This suggestion acknowledges that there were few blacks in the mountains; one must find evidence that they were brought in, for one reason or another, to be able to establish much contact between blacks and mountain whites." He then concludes that "exploring the possibilities for transmission from minstrel show to mountain whites is a more logical and fruitful approach" (1976: 419). Subsequently, Winans establishes that during the mid-1850s traveling minstrel shows, particularly those on showboats on the Ohio, Cumberland, Tennessee, and Big Sandy Rivers could have been the means whereby the banjo and the frailing method of playing it were transmitted to mountain areas. He also mentions traveling medicine shows, circuses, the Civil War, and the travels of mountain people to urban areas as ways they could have come in contact with white minstrel music. He discounts the idea of any direct transmission between Blacks and Whites in mountain areas; yet he cites evidence that would seem to support, at least indirectly, such transmission, and he misses or ignores available evidence suggesting a direct transmission from Blacks to Whites. Winans quotes from an 1874 source cited by Hans Nathan in which a white banjo player from "Western Virginia" by the name of Ferguson was described as having so impressed Dan Emmett, who was in the area in 1840 with the Cincinnati Circus Company, that Emmett persuaded the manager to hire Ferguson, who procceeded to teach Emmett how to play the banjo (1976: 420-426, passim). Winans thinks that the Ferguson incident was atypical and observes that "while this seems to show some very early penetration of the banjo into the mountains, I do not think the establishment of the tradition can be dated from this early period" (Ibid., 426). Winans erred, I think, in not according that incident the importance that it deserved. Social historians.and other writers have concerned themselves with the "common" people as a class, but names of such individuals were seldom mentioned during the 19th century (or any other century for that matter). Therefore, when an individual such as Ferguson does appear in print it is most significant, and it may be assumed that other white mountain banjo players existed in the same area. Folklorists, in particular, ought to grant this premise because they know that the materials of their profession have usually been around for a long time before being identified in print. Furthermore, they know that the appearance in print of a certain item—for example, a ballad—is usually an indication that that particular ballad had achieved a degree of currency by the time of its appearance. 174 �Ferguson was not the only mountain banjoist to be described in print before 1850. A citation in Nathan mentions a book of 1833 that described a frontier frolic in Tennessee in which a black banjoists played for white dancers (1962: 190). It is not clear whether the frontier area in question was in the mountains; so perhaps that was the reason that Winans did not mention this reference. Certainly, however, he ought to have mentioned Eileen Southern's reference to Thomas Ashe, who in 1806 visited a ball in what is now Wheeling, West Virginia. There he saw and heard two black banjo players who were playing for the dance (1971: 144). In my opinion these three references do indicate that Blacks and Whites had established a banjo tradition in the mountains and that they had done so before the minstrels arrived. There is little doubt but that the banjo was omnipresent among Negroes of the southern United States by the end of the 18th century. A number of citations have established that point (Epstein 1975: 347-360, passim), but Thomas Jefferson's 1781 comment is perhaps best known: "The instrument proper to them is the Banjar, which they brought hither from Africa" (Chase 1966: 67). It seems most unlikely that the Scotch-Irish, German, and English settlers who passed through the Shenandoah Valley and the piedmont areas of Virginia and North Carolina on their way into and across the Blue Ridge Mountains during the last half of the 18th century (some bringing along their Negro slaves) would have been unaware of the banjo. In any event, the present existence of a black clawhammer performance practice in piedmont areas seriously weakens Winan's hypothesis that it was the minstrels who introduced the banjo to mountain areas during and after the 1850s. Winans takes cognizance of the existing piedmont tradition and cites a conversation with Alan Jabbour, who proposed that the existence of it "provides a basis for arguing that there was, some time in the nineteenth century, a direct transmission of the banjo and the clawhammer style of playing it from blacks to whites in the piedmont, and that whites thereafter carried the style into the mountains" (1976: 436). Winans does not discuss this possibility, but concludes his essay with the observation that "this knowledge does not cause me to alter the basic thesis presented here" (Ibid., 437). The Black Presence The remainder of this essay is written in support of Jabbour's arguement. In addition, it is proposed that recent population studies indicate that considerably more Negroes were present in the mountains during the first decades of the 19th century than was formerly believed, and that the salt industry in both the Kanawah region of what is now West Virginia and in eastern Kentucky provided sufficient contact between slaves and mountain Whites during the first two decades of the 19th century to have established the transfer of the banjo and the clawhammer style of playing it. The advent of the minstrels along the waterways of the mountain areas shortly after the mid-19th century would have served to strengthen an existing practice and to have popularized it. Writing of the salt industry in western Virginia, John Edward Stealey, III, observes that "in 1808, the salt industry developed on the Great Kanawha River and Kanawha Salines rapidly became the largest production area for the basic necessity in the ante-bellum United States" (Stealey 1974: 107). Negro slaves did the heavy work in the salt mines. The mountain people had to have salt, so they either traveled to where it was produced or got it from traveling peddlers. In any event, contact with slaves did occur at the salt mines, if not elsewhere. Robert Winans cites Gene Bluestein and Archie Green in order to make the point that the number of Negroes in the mountains were too few to have transmitted the banjo and a style of playing it to mountain Whites. Recent studies of the black population in the southern mountains 175 �suggest otherwise. Stealey, in discussing the West Virginia salt industry, notes that "in the period 1810-1820, the number of slaves in the county [Kanawha] more than tripled from 352 to 1,073....In 1850 the slave population count reached its highest figure—3,140 slaves" (brackets added) (1974: 108). Production of salt in the Kentucky mountain counties was not as extensive as that at Kanawha, but the industry in Clay County and Greenup County (later divided to include Carter County) was significant. "In 1810 about one-half of the State production (323,388 bushels) was produced in the mountain counties (160,388 bushels). Of this, 43 percent was from Clay County and 53 percent from Greenup County, which then included the works on the Little Sandy near what is now Grayson, [in] Carter County" (brackets added) (Morgan 1976: 140). The number of slaves listed in Clay County increased from 53 in 1810 to 160 in 1820 (Ibid.). The slave population of Greenup County for those dates was not mentioned, but since the production of salt in that area was greater than that in Clay County by ten percent, it may be presumed that more slaves were employed there. A history of Carter County does mention that "by 1800, salt had been discovered, and the Grayson Salt Works were established" (Bicentennial Committee 1976: 3). Also it was stated that "at the outbreak of the war in 1861, there were approximately 320 slaves owned by Carter County families" (Ibid., 50). The black population was spread unevenly throughout antebellum Appalachia. James B. Murphy, writing specifically about mountain areas, cites the following figures: In 1860, Appalachian Kentucky had 5,349 blacks, slave and free; the next smallest black population was 6,868 in Appalachian Alabama. For other areas the figures were more than twice as large. The 1860 census reported 14,395 Negroes in the North Carolina mountains, and 25,527 blacks in Appalachian Georgia. Tennessee and Virginia led Appalachia in Negro population, with 31,660 and 69,334 persons respectively. The entire Appalachian region was home to 153,133 blacks on the eve of the Civil War. To state the black population as a part of the total black and white population in 1860 is another way of making the state-by-state comparison. Blacks comprised 3.9 percent of Kentucky's mountain population. In Appalachian Virginia the figure was 12.6 percent. In North Carolina and Tennessee, slaves and free black formed 11.5 percent and 10.2 percent of the population. In Georgia and Alabama, Negroes were 19 percent and 13.4 percent of the total Appalachian population. For the six-state region the figure was 11.5 percent [1982: 153-154]. While it is true that Murphy's figures do not indicate the population for the Appalachian mountains during what I consider to be the critical period—1790-1830—when the banjo and its playing style was transferred from mountain Blacks to mountain Whites, elsewhere he does indicate that the greatest slave growth momentum for the six-state Appalachian region occurred prior to 1830 (Ibid., 156). These population figures seem to indicate that the number of Negroes living in the mountains was adequate for the transmission of the banjo and a playing style to mountain Whites between 1790 and 1830. Actually, there only needs to be one black banjo player in an area in order to initiate the transmission process. The character and extent of the contact made between Blacks and Whites does not seem to depend as much upon a population count as it does upon matters of social custom and what elements of culture are being transmitted. One is confident that wherever slaves were present, the banjo was also present. The banjos were homemade, and it does not stretch the imagination to think that an interested man from the mountains, having arrived to pick up salt, might pass some time listening to an off-duty slave strumming a banjo. Nor does it violate the natural order of things to imagine that a subsequent event would consist in a swap of some items the slave wanted 176 �for his banjo. After all, he could easily make another. In fact, when it became known that something could be had for an old banjo, banjos for trade would soon appear like gourds on the vine. "What will you take for that there belly-whacker?" might have been the opening gambit. In conclusion, three methods and three time-frames have been suggested for the transmission of the banjo to mountain Whites. First, Bluestein supports Archie Green's idea that it was the black railroad workers' "early [?] penetration of the mountain areas" that was the means of transmission. I have questioned the term early in that quotation because the time-frame is actually rather late for the Negro to have introduced the banjo. Railroads came into the mountains to carry coal out; but "until the late 1890s the Southern Appalachian coal fields were relatively unexploited" (Barnum 1970: 17). By 1890-1910, when railroads came into most mountain areas, Negroes, with few exceptions, were no longer playing banjos; they were playing guitars. If they introduced any instrument to the mountains at that time, that instrument would have been the guitar. Second, Robert B. Winans introduces the banjo and the frailing style into the mountains mainly by means of the white minstrels and concludes that "the mountain tradition was established between 1865 and 1880" (1976: 435). I find it difficult to believe that the mountaineers could have been unaware of the banjo and the Negro way of playing it, which by 1865 had been present in America for about 100 years. Also, the two Negro banjo players of 1806 in Wheeling, the Negro player of 1833 in Tennessee, and the white banjoists, Ferguson, who taught Dan Emmett, must be accounted for. Winans, in order to support his hypothesis, is forced to deny any significance to Ferguson and to ignore entirely the black presence in the mountains. In addition to the points above, the current presence of elderly Negroes in the piedmont areas ought to have been treated by Winans. It is most doubtful, for example, that the black practitioners who preceded these performers adopted the clawhammer technique from the minstrels; though they, along with Negroes everywhere, including the singers of spirituals and secular songs, did derive tunes and texts from white minstrel sources. Last, the present essay supports the hypothesis suggested to Robert Winans by Alan Jabbour, that Whites had already been introduced to the banjo by Blacks before either group came into the mountains; if not, mountain Whites could have received the banjo from mountain Blacks shortly after their arrival. Population figures indicate that there were enough slaves in Appalachia by 1790-1830 to have transmitted elements of their culture to any interested white settlers, and the salt industry supplied a direct means of contact. Notes I would like to thank Francis S. Hutchins, former president of Berea College, for suggesting the salt industry in West Virginia and Kentucky as an early source of contact between slaves and mountain Whites. This paper was presented, and copies of it were distributed, at The Sixth Annual Appalachian Studies Conference held at Pipestem, West Virginia, March 18-20, 1983. 'Sweeney's original banjo is housed in the Los Angeles County Museum of Art. After investigating the probable date of it, Jay Bailey concludes that "possibly the Sweeney banjo dates from as early as claimed, around 1831-1833" (1972: 61). Since the earliest name for a banjo-like instrument found in the western hemisphere is the banza, this is very likely the direct source for the name banjo. A 16th-century report, apparently unknown to Dena Epstein (1975), seems to suggest that the name banza derives from the name of the village of Mbanza (now Mbanza-Ngungu in Zaire). Gerard Behague noted that "Duarte Lopes had already described similar unfretted instruments popular at the Congo court in Mbanza (1568-87)" (1980: 525). 2 For a complete description of minstrel and mountain brushless clawhammer techniques, see Winans (1976: 408-416). 177 �Winans also cites Art Rosenbaum's Old-Time Mountain Banjo (New York: Oak, 1968), pp. 43-46, as an additional source for a description of clawhammer styles. 'See Lornell (1975: 26-32); Bastin (1979: 3-19); and Conway and Thompson (1974: 63-66) for discussions of black banjo players in the piedmont and in the mountains. Also, selections played by Irving Cook and John Galloway on the disc Virginia Traditions: Non-Blues Secular Black Music (BRI-001) illustrate the non-chordal clawhammer styles of black performers in the piedmont. A black, chordal clawhammer mountain practice can be heard on the disc Blues Roots: Music From West Virginia (John Henry Records-001). References Cited Bailey, Jay 1972 Historical Origins and Stylistic Developments of the Five-String Banjo. Journal of American Folklore 85 0anuaryMarch): 58-69. Barnum, Darold T. 1970 The Negro in the Bituminous Coal Mining Industry. Philadelphia: University of Pennsylvania Press. Bastin, Bruce 1979 Black Music in North Carolina. North Carolina Folklore Journal 27 (May): 3-19. Behague Gerard 1980 Latin America. In The New Grove Dictionary of Music and Musicians, No. 10. Bicentennial Committee, Rogers et al 1976 Carter County [Kentucky] History 1838-1976. Grayson, Kentucky. "Blues Roots: Pre-Blues Music From West Virginia with Uncle Homer Walker and Clarence Tross." 1978 John Henry Records 001. Jacket notes by Ed Cabbell and Joan Fenton. Bluestein, Gene 1964 America's Folk Instrument: Notes on the Five-String Banjo. Western Folklore 23: 241-248. Buchanan, Annabel Morris 1940 A Neutral Mode in Anglo-American Folk Music. Southern Folklore Quarterly 4: 77-92. Conway, Cecelia and Thompson, Tommy 1974 Talking Banjo. Southern Exposure 2: 1, 63-66. Damon, Foster 1936 Series of Old American Songs. Providence, Rhode Island: Brown University Library. Davidson, Eric 1962 Brochure notes to "Traditional Music From Grayson and Carroll Counties." Folkways FS 3811. Epstein, Dena 1975 The Folk Banjo: A Documentary History. Ethnomusicology 19 (September): 347-371. 1979 Sinful Tunes and Spirituals: Black Folk Music to the Civil War. Urbana, Illinois: University of Illinois Press. Heaton, Cherrill P. 1971 The Five-String Banjo in North Carolina. Southern Folklore Quarterly 35 (March): 62-82. Kemble, Frances Anne 1838-39 Journal of a Residence on a Georgian Plantation in 1838-1839. New York: Harper & Brothers. 178 �Lomax, Alan, ed. 1947 Folk Song U.S.A. New York: Duell, Sloan and Pearce. Lornell, Christopher 1975 Pre-Blues Black Music in Piedmont North Carolina. North Carolina Folklore Journal 23: 26-32. Marcuse, Sibyl 1975 A Survey of Musical Instruments. New York: Harper & Row. Morgan, Mr. and Mrs. Kelley 1976 History of Clay County, Kentucky 1767-1976. Manchester, Kentucky: Morgan Book Company. Murphy, James B. 1982 Slavery and Freedom in Appalachia: Kentucky as a Demographic Case Study. The Register of the Kentucky Historical Society 80 (Spring): 151-169. Nathan, Hans 1962 Dan Emmetl and the Rise of Early Minstrelsy. Norman, Oklahoma: University of Oklahoma Press. Nettl, Bruno 1976 Folk Music in the United States: An Introduction, rev. 3rd ed. Detroit: Wayne State University Press. Odell, Jay Scott 1980 Banjo. In The New Grove Dictionary of Music and Musicians, No. 2. Southern, Eileen 1971 The Music of Black Americans: A History. New York: W.W. Norton. Stealey, John Edmund, III. 1974 Slavery and the Western Virginia Salt Industry. The Journal of Negro History 59 (April): 105-131. Toll, Robert C. 1973 Backing Up: The Minstrel Show in Nineteenth-Century America. New York: Oxford University Press. "Virginia Traditions: Non-Blues Secular Black Music" 1977 BRI Records 001. Brochure notes by Kip Lornell. Winans, Robert B. 1976 The Folk, The Stage, and the Five-String Banjo in the Nineteenth Century. Journal of American Folklore 89 (October-December): 408-416. Whittke, Carl 1930 Tambo and Bones: A History of the American Minstrel Stage. Durham, North Carolina: Duke University Press. Wolfe, Charles 1977 Tennessee Strings: The Story of Country Music in Tennessee. Knoxville: The University of Tennessee Press. Woodward, Arthur 1949 Joel Walker Sweeney and the First Banjo. Los Angeles County Museum Quarterly 7 (Spring): 7-11. 179 �Mental Health Problems of Rural Appalachians with Pulmonary Diseases: An Exploration of the Relevant Issues Marria F. Barren, A.C.S.IV. John G. McNutt, A.C.S.W. I. Introduction This paper discusses mental health aspects of pulmonary disease among residents of rural areas in Southern Appalachia. Pulmonary disease threatens one of our most basic needs—the need to breathe. Because it threatens our breathing, it also threatens our lives. Pulmonary disease, however, is more than just a physical problem. These diseases also threaten our social and psychological health. Victims of chronic disease, such as some of the pulmonary diseases, must often make major alterations to their lifestyles and expectations (Strauss, 1973; Mailick, 1979; Bracht, 1979). How diseases affect the person is dependent on many factors, not all of the physiological. In this paper, some of those non-physiological variables will be discussed. The course of a pulmonary condition is shaped by social, cultural, intrapsychic and environmental variables, as well as the interaction between the disease and the person's physiology. These non-physiological considerations can facilitate the patient's ability to deal with the disease. On the other hand, some of these variables can retard the person's recovery or adjustment. II. The Physical Diseases: There are a number of conditions that fall under the general category of "Pulmonary Disease." Many of these diseases are acute, or short term in nature. Common examples of acute pulmonary diseases include influenza, acute bronchitis, pneumonia, and the common cold. While these diseases are usually transient in nature, they can lead to lung damage and more chronic conditions. Serious acute pulmonary conditions can result in death. Other pulmonary conditions are more chronic in nature. Included in this category are such ailments as tuberculosis, chronic obstructive pulmonary disease, cystic librosis, lung cancer and Asthma. These diseases can last for years and have a significant impact on the person's life. While all illnesses can be said to have a psychosocial effect, the problems of the chronic patient seem to have the greatest relevance for our discussion. It should be made clear, however, that much of what is said about chronic pulmonary conditions is also true for acute pulmonary conditions. In the discussion below, the major physical manifestations of selected pulmonary diseases will be presented. The purpose of this section is to provide the reader with some background for subsequent discussion of the non-physiological factors. Obviously, the literature on these diseases is extensive, and this discussion represents a very shallow treatment. With this disclaimer in mind, several diseases are discussed below: A. Pulmonary Tuberculosis: Once referred to as "consumption" or "The White Plague", tuberculosis was once a major cause of death in the United States (Felton and Lewis, 1966; Nor180 �throp, 1978). While pulmonary tuberculosis afflicts the lungs, tuberculosis is not strictly a lung disease (Felton and Lewis, 1966). Tuberculosis is caused by the introduction of the tubercle bacteria into the person's body and is spread from person to person (Felton and Lewis, 1966). Treatment for this disease is usually through the use of antibiotic drugs and hospitalization (Northrop, 1978). B. Chronic Obstructive Pulmonary Disease: Ostrow (1978: 530) s t a t e s : Chronic obstructive pulmonary disease (COPD) encompasses several related disorders that share a common functional defect, the inability to expire air completely and rapidly from the lungs. He goes on to say: The major types of chronic obstructive pulmonary disease include emphysema, chronic bronchitis, and chronic bronchial asthma (Ostrow, 1978: 530) Chronic obstructive pulmonary disease is, then, a collection of related diseases. These diseases will be discussed in turn. 1. Emphysema: According to Ostrow (1978: 530): Emphysema is defined as an anatomic alteration of the lung, characterized by an abnormal enlargement of the air spaces (alveoli) beyond the smallest conducting lung airways (terminal non-respiratory bronchioles) accompanied by destructive changes of the air space (alveolar) walls. Obley (1970: 15) indicates that the emphysemic's lungs are always, at least partially, inflated. He goes on to say that "The predominant symptom of emphysema is shortness of breath... usually he (the patient) also has a cough, which frequently he has had for some time" (Obley, 1970: 23). Serious cases of emphysema can lead to disability or even death. Ostrow (1978: 532) notes that "in 1967, of 310,947 workers granted Social Security Disability allowances, 19, 227 were considered disabled with emphysema." 2. Chronic Bronchitis: Ostrow (1978: 530) defines chronic bronchitis as: A clinical disorder characterized by excessive mucous secretions in the bronchial tree and manifested by chronic or recurrent productive cough, presented on most days for a minimum of three months in each year for at least two successive years. The disease occurs when the airways become enlarged, causing restriction of the air intake. Ostrow (1978: 530) points out that: The patient with chronic bronchitis may look deceptively healthy, except for a tendency to purplish or bluish discoloration of the lips and fingernails (cyanosis) and a daily hacking cough, resulting in constant spitting up of phlegm...this person...may appear quite healthy until a cold or flulike illness develops resulting in rapidly worsening breathlessness, blue lips and nail beds, and a tendency to collect excessive amounts of fluid in the body (edema). 3. Asthmatic Bronchitis (Asthma): Ostrow (1978: 48) defines this disorder as: A disease characterized by increased responsiveness of the major airways (Trachia and Bronchi), to various stimuli and is manifested by widespread narrowing of the airways that varies in severity, either spontaneously or as the result of treatment. The asthma usually occurs when the patient is exposed to a substance or infection that he or she is sensitive to (Ostrow, 1978: 531, Felton and Lewis, 1966). The result is spasms of the bronchial tubes (Felton and Lewis, 1966: 89). Treatment for COPD, according to Ostrow (1978: 535): Utilizes a comprehensive approach aimed at educating the patient as to the nature of the disease, lessening 181 �the degree of airway obstruction, and ceasing cigarette smoking; treating intercurrent respiratory infections; improving general body conditioning, combatting depression; and providing the severely affected individual with certain home devices such as supplimental oxygen and Positive Pressure Breathing (I.P.P.B.) machines. Hospitalization is needed, from time to time, for the treatment of acute episodes and infections. In some cases, the sufferer may be confined to the home. C. Pneumoconiosis: According to Selby (1973): "Pneumoconiosis is a term referring to all chronic diseases caused in the lungs as a result of prolonged inhaling of injurious dusts." Perhaps the best known variant of this condition is black lung. Dust coats the lung tissue and interferes with the function of the lung in exchanging air with the environment. Selby (1973: 178) points out that "the most common symptom...is shortness of breath". D. Cystic Fibrosis: Cystic Fibrosis is a genetically transmitted disease that affects a number of organs (Oppenheimer and Ruckers, 1980). Anderson (1978: 345) notes that: Gastrointestinal symptoms include persistantly bulky bowel movements and a failure to grow or gain weight despite a large appetite. The signs of pulmonary involvement include repeated episodes of wheezing, persistant cough with excessive amounts of mucus, and recurrent respiratory infections. She goes on to say that "there is no cure for cystic fibrosis" but suggests that the disease can be managed medically (Anderson, 1978: 345). E. Lung Cancer: Lung cancer, or bronchiolar carcinoma, is a serious, generally chronic lung disease. Lung cancer is usually hard to detect in the early stages (Selby, 1973). Selby (1973: 1180) states that "Some of the symptoms that are considered warning signs in lung cancer include chronic dry cough, chest pain, weight loss, blood spitting, and shortness of breath." Balchum (1974: 121) notes that "Practically all subjects with lung cancer are smokers." As in many cancers, treatment can include surgery, chemotherapy, and nuclear medicine. III. Commonalities and Ramifications of the Conditions: The diseases that have been discussed have a number of common characteristics. All are life threatening. The life of a chronic respiratory patient is often a constant state of illness, punctuated by acute episodes. During these acute episodes, death is often a possibility. These diseases, like other chronic diseases, are expensive to treat (Bracht, 1979). Hospital stays, constant medical attention, high priced medications, and other health-related expenses are costly. Treatments are often disruptive to the life situation of the patient. Strauss (1973: 33)states: "Each chronic condition brings with it multiple problems in living." He points to the chronic patient's need to normalize his or her situation (Strauss, 1973). Much of what we have learned about chronic diseases in general (Bracht, 1979; Mailich, 1979; Strauss, 1973) is applicable. In brief, chronic illness creates a multitude of barriers to maintaining the usual lifestyle of the patient (Strauss, 1973). Adaptation to the social situation requires a complex interplay of cultural, social, psychological, and physiological considerations (Strauss, 1973; Mailich, 1979). Several researchers have identified anxiety (Knapstein, 1973), social isolation (McGeough, et, al, 1980), and depression (Knapstein, 1973: 193; Ostrow, 1978: 536), as well as other psychological problems as associated with chronic pulmonary disease. Vocational problems have been noted by Ostrow (1978), Knapstein (1973), and others. 182 �Adaptation to a chronic pulmonary disease is a serious problem for the patient and his immediate social circle. A model of this process, as it is experienced by resident of rural Appalachia, is presented in the next section. IV. A Model for Interpreting Adaptation to Chronic Pulmonary Diseases by Rural Appalachian Patients: This section presents a conceptual model for examining the process by which the Appalachian pulmonary patient is drawn into a complex web of forces that often have a deciding effect on the balance of his/her life. The model is presented graphically in figure 1. The major components of this model are the sick role, learned helplessness, cultural factors, social conditions, and the disease itself. Each component will be presented individually, and then in interaction with other components. V. The Sick Role: The concept of the sick role was formulated by Parsons (Bracht, D., 1979). While his original concept has come under criticism (Levine and Lozloff, 1978), his work has great importance in medical sociology. The sick role is a type of social role. Like other social roles, the sick role has responsibilities and benefits that accrue to the person who occupies the role (Light and Keller, 1982). The expectations of the sick role include the assumption of a dependent position and the acceptance of help from a medical practitioner (Bracht, D., 1979; Solomon, 1982). As a quid pro quo, the person is relieved of his normal duties and cared for by others (Bracht, D., 1979). The person is not considered responsible for his status (Bracht, D. 1979). Solomon (1982: 284) notes: "The sick person becomes a passive, dependent and weak individual who is at the mercy of the medical skills and expertise of the healer." In acute conditions, the sick role can be a transitory phenomenon. In chronic diseases, the sick role can continue indefinitely. Figure 1. Mental Health Aspects of Pulmonary Diseases in Rural Appalachia: A Conceptual Model. 183 �VI. Learned Helplessness: Learned helplessness is a product of the research of psychologist Marvin Seligman. It has been applied to a number of social situations and social problems, including spouse abuse (Walker, 1979) and the interaction between health care providers and chronic patients. The basic idea behind the concept of learned helplessness is that the person does not receive an appropriate positive response when he manipulates the environment in the proper manner. This leads to depression and a feeling of helplessness as the person "learns" that whatever action he takes is of no avail. The chronic pulmonary patient who religiously follows medical advice and is rehospitalized for an unavoidable infection or acute episode is a prime candidate for learned helplessness. Eventually, he will learn that he is helpless and not in control of his fate and his future existence. When the nature of the disease is combined with the social conditions and cultural situation that will be discussed below, the chances of a patient acquiring a sense of learned helplessness are excellent. Since the interaction between the sick role and learned helplessness is obvious (eg: helplessness and dependency), these two concepts should be considered mutually supporting of each other. An illustration can be found in Solomon (1982: 282). VII. Social Conditions in Rural Appalachia: The rural Appalachian community presents a harsh environment for the pulmonary patient. Four elements of this environment (Worklife, Poverty, Health Care, and Geographic Distances) are especially taxing. A. Worklife: As Carlson, et, al (1981)notes. rural economic systems are largely based on extractive industries. In Southern Appalachia, this generally means farming, mining or timbering. These industries offer, for the most part, manual labor requiring a great deal of physical endurance. Pulmonary diseases reduce the worker's ability to engage in physically demanding work (Ostrow, 1978). This effectively closes the door to available positions in the rural community. In addition, many pulmonary patients find it advisable to avoid settings where large amounts of dust are present (Ostrow, 1978). This may mean that the worker must leave his usual occupation. In an area with a wider range of occupations, the proper approach would be to find the worker a position in less demanding office work. In rural areas, however, office jobs are not as easily found, and generally do not pay as well as many manual jobs. Even when office work is available, the patient may be unqualified to accept it. The problems of the Appalachian educational system are adequately documented (Caudill, 1963: 1976). A person without an adequate education (including good basic skills) cannot do some types of office work. As Harry Caudill (1976) notes: To a man with a virtually forgotten fifth grade education, a sad shyness nurtured by an obvious lack of social graces, living in a society with a diminishing supply of simple jobs for which employers would pay wages, there were no prospects (Caudill, 1976: 143). In addition to structural barriers, many Appalachian male workers have been socialized to consider non-physical labor as "women's work." They may reject this option (office work) in defense of their already damaged self esteem. Discrimination against the handicapped is also a problem. Even in the face of legal protections, it is quite likely that many employers continue to discriminate against the handicapped. Legal protections have been established for the handicapped (Hull, 1979), most notably the Vocational Rehabilitation Act of 1973 (Public Law 91-111). 184 �B. Poverty: It has become somewhat of a cliche to say that Appalachia is a rich land whose people live in poverty. For the pulmonary patient and his family, the problem of income is compounded by the expense of treating the disease and the employment problems mentioned above. The lifestyle that poor people are forced to adopt provides a fertile ground for disease to take hold and thrive (Light and Keller, 1982). Poverty can affect many aspects of the person's life as they relate to pulmonary disease. Some government benefits are available to the poor of rural Appalachia, but they are generally inadequate (Caudill, 1976). Current political developments almost assure that these benefit programs will be reduced, eliminated or maintained at current low levels. C. Health Care: Obtaining adequate health care is a problem for many rural residents, including those in Southern Appalachia (Carlson, et, at, 1981). This situation can be more serious for the person with a pulmonary disease, who, in some cases, may need ready access to a health care delivery system. Health care professionals are in short supply in many rural areas (Carlson, et, al, 1981: 116). Many communities lack nearby hospitals. Access to a physician with a specialty in pulmonary medicine can be more of a problem. Another aspect of medical care is patient self care. The pulmonary patient often requires a treatment regime based on diet, drugs, equipment such as home oxygen and an I.P.P.B. machine, exercise, posteral drainage, etc. Environmental conditions may have to be modified. For instance, the pulmonary patient may have to move to a location where dust is less of a problem (Obley, 1970). Some types of self care presume a level of education, that, because of the education system and other factors, may not be present among some rural patients. While home health care is an obvious problem solving method, it is not always available. Even in urban areas, with theoretically higher literacy and access to resources, Avey, et, al (1980: 168) found adequate self care a problem for some asthmatics. D. Geographic Distances: Distance is a significant issue in the lives of many rural Appalachians. They must travel to work, health care and other services. Mass transportation is not generally available (Carlson, et, al, 1981) in many rural areas. The pulmonary patient who does not have the use of a car may find himself unable to secure the goods and services he requires to control his disease. Distance is also a factor for the delivery of home bound services. Shelley and Evans (1980) identify distance as a factor in the management of disease among Appalachian people. VIII. The Cultural Dimension: Culture affects many aspects of the way that people, including pulmonary patients, manage their lives (Light and Keller, 1982). In Appalachia, the patient may find himself responding to more than one cultural influence structure. Plaut (1979: 250) notes that "Appalachia is viewed as a region where competing cultural systems clash." He goes on to say that "rural Appalachia and the industrial world that surrounds it are two distinct cultural systems" (Plaut, 1979: 251). While the application of medical care to pulmonary patients is not specifically dealt with in Plaut's (1979) paper, it is reasonable to assume that the way traditional rural culture deals with disease will be different from the management of disease by industrial society. Shelley and Evans (1980: 209) provide an examination of health care in traditional Appalachian society. They state: "...Traditional health care concepts and folk medicine practices are still a 185 �significant part of the lives of some Appalachian peoples" (Shelly and Evans, 1980: 215). They go on to say: "Appalachian people usually attempt to choose between modern and traditional health care systems, or sometimes both, on the basis of personal and cultural factors"(Shelly and Evans, 1980: 215). They also discuss the role of religion, distance, and work schedule on health care selection (Shelley and Evans, 1980: 215). The traditional Appalachian culture also supports an extended kinship systems model of the family (Brown and Schwarzweller, 1970). Properly used, these family models can be the basis for a powerful social support system for the pulmonary patient. The utility of informal support systems is well documented in the literature of the helping professions (Collins and Pancoast, 1976; Gottlieb, 1981). The traditional social system owes much to its frontier heritage (Erikson, 1976; Jones, 1972). The Appalachian values of individualism, self reliance, and pride (Jones, 1972: 110) have great relevance here. The worker who has deeply ingrained values of self reliance and individuality may experience considerable anxiety when faced with the prospect of dependent lifestyle. Workers who are obviously very ill may continue to work, to salvage their self-image as independent, self-reliant persons. Of course, another reason for this would be economic. Many workers know that the benefits available are not adequate to maintain their lifestyle. Appalachian culture is, then, a two-edged sword. Traditional culture can interfere with the delivery of modern medical care by encouraging traditional healing. On the other hand, the strong family ties and support systems can provide the patient with resources to better manags to establish that one of the diseases we have been discussing is present. The disease then becomes a social, as well as a medical fact. IX. Interaction of the Components: The disease is the initial factor in the model. Most of the chronic pulmonary diseases are established by diagnosis. The physical signs of the disease are not defined as a disease until a practitioner diagnoses them as such. Most laypersons would be able to identify a broken limb or serious bleeding situation, in most cases. These signs are easily identified. Many of the pulmonary diseases have few abnormalities in the early stage. Cough is a frequent symptom, but is also presented by most of the general population from time to time. A trained person must assemble the clues to establish that one of the diseases we have been discussing is present. The disease then becomes a social, as well as a medical fact. In the usual process for acute diseases, the person adopts the sick role and proceeds to have the disease cured. The sick role is then dropped (Bracht, D., 1979). In chronic pulmonary disease this does not happen. The sick role is not dispensed with. For reasons that were explored earlier, the sick role and learned helplessness can be said to be interacting variables.. Both the cultural situation and the community setting have elements that can reinforce the sense of helplessness. The expectation of results from a person's attempts to reach culturally prescribed goals can be blocked by both community and cultural factors. When the person learns that he cannot reach his goals or influence his environment, a sense of helplessness is inevitable. Frustration can be expected in such a situation, which can lead to anxiety and stress. This can lead to further damage to the patient's psyche. The interaction of the major parts of the model can be important assessment tools in dealing with the mental health problems of pulmonary patients. The anxiety, stress, and depression observ186 �ed in pulmonary patients (Ostrow, 1978; Knapstein, 1973) become a form of adaptation to a hostile environment that promises to snuff out his life. X. Implications: There are a number of implications to this model. The most obvious need is for culturally relevant psychosocial services as a adjunct to medical care. This will include modification of the environment as well as psychotheraputic approaches. Early intervention may prevent some of the psychosocial effects from occuring. In order to fulfill the needs of this patient group, mental health workers will need an understanding of the physical diseases. They will also need a working appreciation of Appalachian communities and Appalachian culture. They must learn to intervene with mezzo and macro systems, as well as micro systems. There is a need for more research. The interaction between pulmonary disease and traditional culture is an area that needs further study. Another fruitful area would be an analysis of Appalachian patient careers. Pulmonary disease is a frightening situation for the person and his family. The mental health professional, working with the physician, can help to make the world of the pulmonary patient a little less frightening. References Anderson, R. (1978) "Cystic Fibrosis" in Goldenson, R. Disability and Rehabilitation Handbook. New York: McGraw Hill. Avey, C.H., March, J., and Brook, R. (1980) "An Assessment of the Adequacy of Self-Care by Adult Asthmatics" in Journal of Community Health. Vol. 5, No. 3, Spring. Balchum, O.J. (1974) "The Aging Respiratory System" in Chinn, A. ed. Working with Older People: Clinical Aspects of Aging. Washington, D.C.: U.S.G.P.O. Best, I. (1972) Appalachians Speak Up. Berea, KY. Brack, D. (1979) "Assessing Psychosocial Effects of Illness" in Bracht, N. Social Work in Health Care. New York: Haworth Press. Bracht, N. (1979) "The Social Nature of Chronic Disease and Disability" in Social Work in Health Care. Vol. 5, No. 2. Brown, J. and Schwarzweller, H. (1970) "The Appalachian Family" in Photiadis, J.D. and Schwarzweller, H. Change in Rural Appalachia. Philadelphia, PA: University of Pennsylvania. Carlson, R., Lassey, R. and Lassey, D. (1981) Rural Society and Environment in America. New York: McGraw Hill. Caudill, H. (1963) Night Comes to the Cumberland!. Boston: Little-Brown. (1976) Watches of the Nigh'. Boston: Little-Brown. Cobb, A.B. (1973). Medical and Psychological Aspects of Disability. Springfield, IL: Thomas. Collins, E. and Pancoast, D. (1976) Natural Helping Network. Washington, D.C.: N.A.S.W. Erikson, Kai. (1976) Everything in it's Path. New York: Simon and Schuster. 187 �Felton, J. and Lewis, M. (1966) A Survey of Medical Practice and Medicine for the Rehabilitation Counselor. Washington, D.C.: U.S.G.P.O. Gottlieb, B. ed. (1981) Social Networks and Social Support. Beverly Hills, CA: Sage. Hull, K. (1979) The Rights of Physically Handicapped People. New York: Avon Jones, Loyal. (1972) "Appalachian Values" in Best, I. Appalachians Speak Out. Berea, KY. Knapstein, J. (1973) "Respiratory Disorders and the Rehabilitation Process" in Cobb, A.B. Medical and Psychological Aspects of Disability. Springfield, IL: Thomas. Leving, S. and Kozloff, M. (1979) "The Sick Role: Assessment and Overview" in The Annual Review of Sociology. Vol. 4. Light, T. and Keller, S. (1982) Sociology. New York: Knopf. Mailick, M. (1979) "The Impact of Severe Illness on the Individual and His Family: An Overview." in Social Work in Health Care. Vol. 5, No. 2. McGeough, A. Edwards, J., Chamberlain, R. and Nogeire, C. (1980) "Social Isolation in Lung Cancer Patients" in Social Work in Health Care. Vol. 5, No. 4. Northrop, C. (1978) "Tuberculosis" in Goldenson, R.M. Disability and Rehabilitation Handbook. New York: McGrawHill. Obley, F.A. (1970). Emphysema. Boston: Beacon Press. Oppenheimer, J. and Rucker, R.W. (1980) "The Effects of Parental Relationships on the Management of Cystic Fibrosis and Guidelines for Social Work Intervention" in Social Work in Health Care. Vol. 5., No. 4. Ostrow, J.H. (1978) "Chronic Obstructive Pulmonary Disease" in Goldenson, R. Disability and Rehabilitation Handbook. New York: McGraw Hill. Plaut, T. (1979) "Appalachia and Social Change: A Cultural Systems Approach" in Appalachian Journal. Summer. Selby, J.H. (1973) "Respiratory Diseases" in Cobb, A.B. Medical and Psychological Aspects of Disability. Springfield, IL: Thomas. Shelley, K. and Evans, R. (1980) "Women Folk Healers of Appalachia" in Sommerville, W. ed. Appalachia/America. Boone, N.C.: Appalachian Consortium Press. Solomon, K. (1982) "Social Antecedents of Learned Helplessness in the Health Care Setting" in The Gerontologist. Vol. 22, No. 3. Sommerville; W. (1980) Appalachia/America. Boone, N.C. Appalachian Consortium Press. Strauss, A. (1973) "Chronic Illness" in Society, Vol. 10, No. 6. Walker, L. (1979) "The Battered Woman," New York: Harper and Row. 188 �Economic Development in Appalachia: New Perspectives 189 �This page intentionally left blank �The ARC—Some Questions Relative to its Past and Possible Future Edgar Bingham Heralded in the late 60's and early 70's as the prototype for regional development, the Appalachian Regional Commission and the planning program it was designed to develop and administer will likely go by the boards before the first term of the Reagan administration is over. But before we don the black of mourning perhaps we should take stock of what it has really accomplished. The program was created out of the stuff that dreams are made of. It was part of the Kennedy dream given reality by the Johnson administration. It was the advance column of the war on poverty, attacking not just the symptoms but the root causes, and structured to involve all levels of government with the basic planning at the grassroots level, the Local Development District. In particular, it was not to become a local relief program, but rather a process by which physcial and human resources would be put to work to create a self-sustaining economy, fully integrated for the first time into that of the rest of the nation. The apparent soundness of the approached to be followed is indicated by the effective integration of public officials and professional planners, with the former largely concerned with policy and the latter with the details of implementation. Professional staffs at the local development district level were to assist county and municipal governments in establishing their own planning bodies and developing their individual plans as a part of the regional effort. Assuming that those named at the local levels were truly representative of the people, then the paper organization for planning seemed to cover all areas of concern. The primary policy-making body was composed of representatives of all Appalachian states and a representative of the federal government. The federal member and one elected from among the representatives of the member states were to serve as co-chairmen. Recommendations for consideration were to originate in the states, with options for local input available at the local planning district levels. And the regional program was given strong federal financial support to supplement state and local sources in creating the basic infrastructure needed to attract industry and provide a healthy life support system for the people. It should have had a tremendous impact on the lives of everyone in Appalachia. But remarkably, its impact on the lives of Appalachia's poor, the people it was really supposed to serve, will have been little more than a ripple in the stream of Appalachian life. Apart from the highway development, funds for the basic public facilities were too limited to overcome the massive deficiencies of the region. And typical of most federal programs, the areas with the most severe needs were the ones most often by-passed in that most grants had a matching clause that the more poverty stricken communities could not meet, plus the fact that the guidelines laid down by the Appalachian Regional Development Act directed the ARC to channel federal funds into designated growth centers. 191 �Perhaps the most visible local remnant that will be left will be the various local planning commissions and the comprehensive plans they helped to create. Unfortunately, the legacy of their work will show little alteration of the local landscape, in that local planning is only as good as the planning body that does the work and the local government that acts on the recommendations that are submitted. And in most jurisdictions life has tended to go on pretty much as before, with commercial strips extending unimpeded and unguided outward from the towns, housing developments taking over good agricultural land, and with local planning commissions spending all their time debating requests for zoning changes and variances, rather than trying to come up with creative plans for community improvement. At the broader regional level, many would question the general assumption around which the regional development program was built, and the primary approaches for dealing with Appalachia's problems. The primary concern behind all efforts was supposed to be regional poverty, and the general assumption was that it was chiefly due to isolation from the mainstream of American economic life. Assuming this is a correct assumption (and there are many of us who have questioned this from the beginning), the framers of the Regional Development Act put as the first priority the development of a regional highway system to interconnect with the federal interstate system. Critics point out that the system that evolved seemed more concerned with providing interconnections for outside interests than with using them for internal development (see Gautier, Howard, "The Appalachian Development Highway System: Development for Whom?", Economic Geography, April 1973, and Munro, John M., "Planning the Appalachian Development Highway System: Some Critical Question," Land Economics, May 1969). Their primary focus tended toward already established centers, with little concern for providing the real pockets of poverty with accessways that might lead to their development. Niles M. Hansen questions the validity of the assumption that a well developed highway system will attract enough firms to the area to assure self-sustained growth, pointing out that most private firms are attracted to already developed areas because of the variety and importance of external economies found in such areas. He notes that in addition to transportation and natural resources, these include proximity to supplies and markets, skilled, labor, social and cultural amenities, auxilliary business services, and relatively well developed education and health facilities (and we might also add a docile, non-unionized labor situation). (Hansen, Niles, M., "Some Neglected Factors in American Regional Development Policy: The Case of Appalachia." Land Economics, Feb. 1966.) Munro (op.cit.) supports Hansen's view that highway development does not really attack the basic reasons for Appalachia's lag, which has been identified as (1) a regional industry mix made up of too many declining and stationary industries, (2) unattractive amenities—notably the squalid physical appearance of many inhabited areas and the general neglect of education, (3) an unplanned and wasteful use of land resources, especially coal, timber and water, (4) a largely unskilled and poorly educated labor force, (5) a general shortage of social overhead capital, (6) the resistance of the region's inhabitants to migration, and (7) a traditional society generally unreceptive to new ideas and economic change. While we do not agree with all reasons listed, we agree fully with Munro as he notes that the system was poorly planned, with the costs of the program essentially unknown until a very late stage in the planning, benefits never carefully specified, and with the highways located in an economically irrational manner...which does not conform to the original objectives of the development highway system which was to "stimulate the flow of goods to and through remote areas which have developmental potential." The original study report by Litton Industries (Preliminary Analysis for 192 �Economic Development Plan for the Appalachian Region, Report to the Appalachian Regional Commission, U.S. Department of Commerce, Nov. 1965, Washington, B.C.) showed few parts of West Virginia and Eastern Kentucky with even fair growth potential. However, Munro notes that 851 miles of development highways were scheduled to be built in these two areas (Munro, op.cit.). Tied into the highway development scheme and the recipients of most of the social and economic overhead expenditures were the "Appalachian Growth Centers," urban areas considered to have the greatest potential for development. Apart from serious questions about the growth center concept itself, serious questions have been raised about the appropriateness of the concept as applied to the Appalachian region. Malcolm J. Moseley (Growth Centers in Spatial Planning, Pergamon Press, New York, 1974) suggests that a growth center should be a fairly large city capable of attracting and supporting a reasonably diversified industrial sector with well established links to the national economy. It should offer major wholesale and retail services and a high level of tertiary functions, and should be supported by growth promoting forces—large scale firms, technically advanced, innovating and dominating, which exert a strong influence on the surrounding environment, and are capable of generating sustained growth over a long period of time. And according to Berry (Berry, B.J.L., "A Summary, Spatial Organization and Levels of Welfare: Degree of Metropolitan Labor Market Participation as a Variable in Economic Development," EDA Research Review, June 1968, pp. 1-6), the greatest payoff for growth centers would be in cities of 250,000 with few of less than 50,000 having any influence of importance on surrounding areas. This conclusion agrees with findings of E.G.A. Robinson (in Robinson, E.G.A., ed., Backward Areas in Advanced Countries, St. Martins Press, New York, 1969) who states that the minimum size of growth points that experience has shown to be successful as "nearer to a population of 100,000 than to one of 10,000 and that the 100,000 was likely to be an underestimate than an overestimate." Apart from Charleston, West Virginia there are no growth centers in hard core Appalachia that fit the above size definitions, and within the entire area defined by the ARC, essentially all urban areas large enough to be effective are either in the Great Valley or are on the periphery of the region. In many respects, the more logical growth centers serving Appalachia are outside the area designated, and therefore not eligible for ARC assistance. Perhaps more basic than the questions raised about the limited number of Appalachian centers large enough to function as growth centers, are the questions raised relative to the concept itself. The concept assumes that as centers develop there will be economic spin-off that will spread to surrounding areas. However, in order for the spread effect to really work, there has to be an interconnection of some consequence between the center and the area surrounding it—products of the area that are used in the center or a means of combining products of the center with surrounding raw materials and labor to produce another good. While there has been some minimal spread effect associated with the larger cities within and peripheral to Appalachia, the strategy has better served as a tool for distributing funds allocated for Appalachian development and for interception potential migrants who would otherwise have left the region. In many cases rather than having a beneficial effect, the developing growth center has caused the market for retailers in the hinterland to dry up, so that rather than stimulating the economy away from the center it has depressed it, and communities that may have in the past had a self-sustaining quality become bedroom towns for the growing center. Stavros Xiarchos ("Empirical Works on the Growth Center Concept," Review of Regional Studies, Spring 1978) found that the sum total of the studies he examined supports the conclusion 193 �that "growth centers and their peripheral areas do not have linkage mechanisms of sufficient strength and number to justify general use of growth center policy in the United States." Among the studies cited to reach this conclusion are those of William G. Lewis and James R. Prescott ("Urban-Regional Development and Growth Centers: An Economic Study, "Journal of Regional Science, Vol. 12, no. 1, 1972) who state.'Though the growth center strategy is designed to promote development at the regional level, our analysis indicated that growth patterns within the FEA (the Department of Commerce's Functional Economic Areas) are not highly complimentary with this investment strategy. The strength of spatial spending patterns from the smallest rural town to the central cities of FEA suggest that policies promoting centralized urban growth alone will have severe impacts on commercial sales in peripheral communities." And Stewart and Benson, in their analysis of growth center-peripheral area relations by means of correlation, regression analysis, and analysis of migration data, concluded that "the findings cast doubt on the entire growth center strategy, insofar, at least, as smaller metropolitan areas are concerned" (Stewart, Charles T. and Virginia G. Benson, Linkages Between Smaller Metropolital Areas and Hinterlands, With Implications for Regional Development Policies, paper prepared under EDA, Washington, The George Washington University, 1972). Increasingly, people of Appalachia are objecting to growth center strategies on ideological grounds that are closely related to concerns that have surfaced in underdeveloped areas of the world. Appalachia, long isolated from mainstream America, has most of the characteristics associated with the underdeveloped world. Income levels are low; educational and health facilities are more limited and of lower quality than in the rest of the country; primary economic activities are relatively more important, focusing here on exploitation of coal and timber largely under control of giant externally owned corporations; and the manufacturing industries that are here tend toward the low skill, low income generating types—all in all an economic colony of metropolitan based financial interests. And the whole Appalachian Development program from the beginning tended toward strengthening the hold of external interests over the region, assuming that economic benefits would trickle down as corporate America expanded its scale of operations here. The growth center concept with its transportation development corollary has served in particular to strengthen the role of the giants, giving them better access to raw materials and cheap labor, and providing for cheap shipment of finished goods over publicly created and maintained transportation facilities. Michael E. Conroy ("Rejection of Growth Center Strategy in Latin American Regional Planning," Land Economics, Nov. 1973, pp. 371-380) notes that the primary arguments presented by Jose Luis Coraggio against growth center theory at the United Nations Vina del Mar Seminar were (1) aligning one's national economy with a pattern of dominant and subdominant poles of development (which in contemporary terms means submission to the dominance of the economics of the United States, Japan, and Western Europe), (or for Appalachia, the dominance of externally based multi-national corporations); (2) artifically inducing internal growth consistent with the world system of dominant poles (as distinct from regional organization consistent with presumably more beneficial autonomous national growth); and (3) encouraging further foreign investment as the only feasible means of obtaining the requisite large scale, dynamic oligarchic, high technology propulsive industries described as the core of any polarized scheme of development. 194 �Another set of specific objections noted by Conroy that have a parallel in Appalachia were voiced by Warwick Armstrong and Raimundo Santos "Critica de la Teoria de Polos de Desarrolo," Documento de Trabajo no. 51, Centre de DeSarrollo Urbano y Regional (CIDU), Universidad Catolica de Chile, June 1972) who suggest that the form of "concentrated decentralization" to which growth center strategy logically leads is a solution dictated by an apparently unchangable private concentration of economic activity in mammoth corporations and by the absence of government policy instruments to effect anything other than the location of these increasingly concentrated units. Growth pole theory in their view, is being forced upon the less developed countries to rationalize the inevitability of Western dominated capitalistic expansion. They suggest that it is a new form—though more refined than earlier—of persuading the less developed of the capitalist world to open their doors and establish a satisfactory climate for implanting branch companies by the giant multi-corporations. At the time the ARC was formed, the proposal that appeared to offer the best hope for internal development of Appalachia was one suggesting the creation of public development corporations (similar to those formed in England in its New Town program) which would use federal funds to develop local resources to produce energy and process regional raw materials using regional labor. Possibilities included development of public power facilities, small industries (especialy those using timber), and tourism. The private utility loggy, led by Appalachian based American Electric Corporation, killed all possibilities for public power development. And in combination with other corporation interests destroyed the possibility of developing locally controlled small industries. Tourism was about the only local developoment possibility left, and the federal program that eventually emerged in this economic area did little to enhance the local employment situation. Reflecting the political clout of corporate America, the ARC subsequently stated that it would take no action that would infringe in any way on existing business operations within the region— meaning that the region continues in the same situation as before, an economic colony of the large corporations with continuing exploitation of natural and human resources for the benefit of nonAppalachian owners and stockholders. This early decision assured business as usual for big coal, big recreation, and outside industrial interests, with federal dollars used to assure them of easier access via the Appalachian corridor system. At the time of its founding liberals in Appalachia saw the Regional Commission as a possible means of countering the dominance of external control, but every suggestion to move in that direction was turned down. This was not really surprising in that few Appalachian governors would dare oppose the interests of corporations operating within their jurisdictions, and the most powerful figure in the Commission during its early development was the elected state's representative, John Whisman. Throughout his career, Whisman has had a record of playing hand in glove with business interests. As Executive Director of the Eastern Kentucky Development District, his Board of Directors were composed of one M.D., one minister, one college president, one newspaper editor, two coal company executives, two oil company executives, and a realty developer-owner. His selection as the state's representative on the ARC in 1965 assured the corporations that their interests would be in good hands. In the overall organization of the ARC the one place that it appeared that the voice of the people might be heard would be at the Local Development District level. And in the public meetings of the District Planning Commissions, individuals can appear and state their concerns. However, the membership of these commissions and the special advisory committees named to work with them 195 �tends to be as dominated by special vested interests as is the Regional Commission. Representatives are named by the elected bodies of the various counties and municipalities, and any radical voice is quickly stilled (in 1972 the author of this paper was asked by the Executive Director of the Mt. Rogers Planning District Commission to serve on the Economic Advisory Committee of the District. However, on recommendation by the Board of Directors, his name was removed). The District Commission is able to exert tremendous pressure on local governments by means of purse strings, in that it serves as the A-95 review board for all agencies seeking public funds. To give credit where credit is due, we should add that the professional planners at the Local Development District level have in most cases done acceptable jobs under very trying circumstances. They have been fairly effective in educating elected bodies and the general public about the benefits of planning, and in creating a consciousness about land use and the long-term need to control abusive use. Theirs is a frustrating role, and in most cases they have done a good job in spite of the limitations imposed by the ARC, the state, and their own boards. There is one final question we should raise. Should the people of Appalachia press for a continuation of the Regional Commission and the funding program needed to support it? In terms of what it has meant to most of the people of Appalachia, I would say no, in that a lot of money has been spent not really to alleviate the problem of poverty here, but rather for the benefit of the business concerns milking the region's human and physical resources. The highway development-growth center-trickle down approach has done little to create a healthy, self-sustaining economy, and certainly has strengthened the hold of external ownership on the region. Considering what it has cost, the limited benefits gained by people do not appear worth it. However, there is a parallel question we should raise. Will there be anything in a more positive way to replace it when it has gone? We are faced with a dilemma. In a region that most desperately needs the benefits of good planning, we have gotten poor, limited purpose planning, designed more than anything else to benefit the people only as a spin-off from the real beneficiaries. The irony of it all is that nowhere is good planning more needed than in Appalachia. Economic planning is still needed here to deal with unemployment that is higher than in the rest of the nation, and where earned income still falls considerably below the national average; educational planning is needed to bring the quality of education up to national standards; health planning programs are needed to improve the quality of medical services and facilities and to deal with occupational health problems such as black lung and respiratory disease. Despite heavy concentration of ARC funds on transportation development, a high percentage of Appalachian people remain isolated for lack of any public transport facilities. Creative planning is needed here. Imaginative planning is needed if we are to preserve the natural landscape in the face of the exploitative economy which tends to prevail here. The quality of the area's air and water is still being degraded by pollution from mining and industry, and slopes are still being denuded by recreation and second home developments. In spite of all the recognized shortcomings of government efforts in the past, many feel that the best hope for the future is in keeping the structure that we have, seeking to gain the power of decision-making through effective political organization. Those favoring this see two avenues by which this might be done. At the national level, the right president, committed to improving the lot of America's poor, could conceivably alter the situation at the top by naming a strong federal representative, who with his veto power, could possibly counter the corporate focus at the top. For those who would seek to work within the existing structure, perhaps the best possibility for effective involvement and effective action is at the district commission level where the most fundamental 196 �decisions are made. They would seek to organize successful political efforts at the county and municipal levels, with ultimate control gained through the voting booths. In seeking to accomplish what is needed in Appalachia, it is difficult to imagine that there will be any drastic departure from past approaches as long as we operate within the present political structure. Planners will continue to operate as before—seeking to bring about an improvement in the human condition within the terms of the present society. If this situation is to be changed it will not be by or through the existing system. For as Lakachman has noted, "Planning by conservatives in a conservative country is not likely to promote radical objectives." (Robert Lackachman, "Planning: By Whom? For What?", Journal of Current Society Issues, Spring 1976.) J.A. Palmer has suggested that "if the poor are to bring about the necessary changes in the institutions and structures which implicitly or explicitly block opportunities for advancement and self-determination, they can only do this collectively, not as individuals." (In Introduction to the British edition of Robert Goodman's After the Planners, Pelican 1972, p. 49.) In the final analysis, the essence of planning is control, and the only way that the process of planning can bring about a redistribution of resources or social benefits within a society is through assumption of power over planning. Consequently, the alternative which many in Appalachia would favor would be to let the ARC die a natural death and start all over, either with or without the standard structure of government. Ideally, this would involve a breaking of existing bonds between government and industry and the establishment of a socialistic system with the primary control over regional resources and industry resting with the people. Unfortunately, at the moment the pendulum seems to be swinging the other way. Bureaucratic conservative control seems to be increasing, facilitated by local arms of the ARC. Perhaps it is through this unusual extension of power that the system is vulnerable to attack. For increasingly, this interlocking system of politicians, industrialists, and resource exploiters are becoming identified as the primary source of Appalachia's problems. As Goodman notes, there is a growing distance between those who work and the unions and management who make decisions on their behalf; between the claims of politicians and businessmen that people have never had it so good and the actuality for people who have really never had it in the material sense of the word (Goodman, After the Planners). It should be emphasized that any proposed reform of the present system will not achieve any real shift in control. To be accepted, reforms are made to fit the status quo, with the result that they can never work as effective mechanisms for change. Power to make the key decisions in planning cannot be given, it has to be assumed. Understanding the reality of the situation as it now exists, perhaps a better possibility for the immediate future would be through developing a political power bloc within Appalachia, with primary efforts directed toward maximizing benefits to localities that are derived from Appalachian resources and labor. Such a power bloc might attack a number of issues such as the reclaiming of land rights lost by the use of the broad form deeds; bringing wage rates in Appalachia up to the national average; use of federal funds to improve education and health standards within the region; and the use of more realistic severance taxes on resources removed from Appalachia with benefits to be used in diversifying local economics and improving essential services in Appalachian counties. A trap that those who would assume control over their lives should avoid is the concept of advocacy planning by professionals. Generally, it proves very rewarding to the planners, while the same time precluding direct involvement of the people themselves. Rather than having someone from within the system effect changes, Goodman suggests that if real change is to occur, the in197 �tervention must come from outside the system. And it must be planned intervention with the motivation behind it coming from the people now excluded from government and power (Goodman, After the Planners). Fisher and Foster (Steve Fisher and Jim Foster, "Models for Furthering Revolutionary Praxis in Appalachia," App. Journ., Spring 1979) suggest that if a coordinated effort against the existing bureaucratic system can work anywhere it should work in Apaplachia. For in no other region are the political, social, and economic issues so clear cut; nowhere in America is there a stronger tradition of rebellion; and nowhere else are there so many already established local groups geared for action. The real task is in the development of an effective means of organizing all the groups into an effective revolutionary coalition, with the capability of moving with a common purpose. As a postscript, it might be noted that during the July 1982 meeting of the Applachian governors, proposals were made for "finish-up" projects, including completing the highest priority 530 miles of the Appalachian Highway System and a limited number of development programs. Of major concern to the people of Appalachia is the creation by the governors of an Appalachian Development Foundation proposed to being in 1983 with funding by corporations doing business in Appalachia. Early evidence suggests that the foundation will be dominated by the existing power structure with little citizen input or participation; will be poorly funded; and will be directed toward job creation and education—hardly a realistic agenda to deal with the many problems that still exist in Appalachia. Of real concern to the various groups and private agencies which have in the past been supported by private foundations is the apparent intention of the new foundation to seek funds from these endowed foundations. 198 �Appalachia as an 'Enterprise Zone': Some Speculations on the Future Direction of Federal Policy toward the Region Thomas R. Shannon The world system of capitalism is changing in ways which are having an increasing impact upon both the domestic economy and the problems and policy options facing the national political leadership. The changes appear to be fundamental and far-reaching. As a consequence, past strategies of state managers to enhance national economic power, maintain domestic social stability, and assure their own legitimacy are proving to be unworkable under the new conditions. The era of the liberal "welfare-warfare" state appears to be drawing to a close. The current discussion is a frankly speculative attempt to suggest what the implications of these economic and political trends may be for conditions in Appalachia. We will first sketch the broad outlines of some of the basic economic trends in the world capitalist system which are creating problems for the domestic economy and challenging past public policy approaches. We will then examine what appears to be the emerging policy response of state managers—both in the United States and many other countries. Finally, we will address the issue of what this policy response may mean for conditions in Appalachia. World Economic Trends Current trends in the world capitalist system can be summarized in two phrases: "the internationalization of capital" and "the intensification of international economic competition." The operations of the massive conglomerate corporations which dominate the economics of the advanced capitalist countries have become global in scope. It has become relatively easy for these corporations to transfer technology and industrial operations to different locations around the world. Modern transportation systems make it possible to produce sub-assemblies at widely separate locations and produce products for a global market. Rapid jet transport and almost instantaneous communication allow the movement of money, information, and managers with a speed and ease which makes possible the control and coordination of far-flung manufacturing operations from a distant central headquarters. Changes in the technology of production allow the organization of production using very low-skilled workers (in relatively small numbers, given trends in automation) with little prior industrial experience. Consequently, multi-national corporations are in a position to shift capital to those locations and kinds of activities which offer the lowest costs, most congenial operating environments, and the greatest potential for profit. The immense size of the multinationals (an outgrowth of a decades-long process of corporate concentration) gives them the resources to shift operations, and the diversity of their operations means that they are not wedded to any particular product or activity based in a particular locality.1 The result, as one observer has put it, is an international economy in which: ...global corporations manufacture at multiple sites for export to world markets. They also import Third World labor to the metropolitan countries. Hence, we purchase underwear and transistor radios made in Kuala Lumpur, Volkswagens made in Germany by Turks, and beans harvested by Mexicans in the United States.2 199 �At the same time (and partly as a result of the above trends), there has been an intensification of international economic competition which has increased the incentive for multinationals to seek the lowest cost locations for their operations. American corporations no longer operate in the comfortable environment of an insulated domestic market in which oligopolistic pricing practices allowed them to pass on the inefficiencies of low productivity and high wage costs to consumers. The period in which the United States enjoyed technological and financial hegemony in the world economy is gone. Foreign-based corporations, with resources and technological expertise equal to or greater than the U.S. conglomerates, are successfully challenging them, both in the domestic and world market. In the very recent past, the competition has become even more intense as a result of slow world economic growth and the concommitant development of massive excess capacity in many industries (e.g. steel, autos, electronics, textiles).' The long-term consequence of these trends has come to be known as the process of "deindustrialization"—both of certain regions of the country and the country as a whole. Multinational corporations, seeking to maintain their rate of profit, are shifting the location of manufacturing operations in the attempt to find environments which allow them to maximize what the economist David M. Gordon has called "quantitative efficiency" (low productions costs) and "qualitative efficiency" (control over work rules and the conditions of employment). Domestically, what this search has meant is that there has been rapid "disinvestment" in and the eventual closure of aging plants in the high-wage, unionized industrial regions of the North and the shift of capital investment (in both old and new industries) to the "Sunbelt" (including parts of Appalachia) and, more importantly now, overseas.4 In addition, over the slightly longer-term American multinationals are shifting their resources out of the highly competitive, low-return, heavy manufacturing sector (e.g. steel) into other activities: "high-tech" products, resource extraction, financial speculation, and the delivery of managerial, technical, and financial services.5 Policy Responses The problems deindustrialization creates for American (and Western European) political leaders are manifold and, by now, relatively well-known. Declining investment in the domestic economy translates into slow growth or economic stagnation and a concommitant stagnation in state revenues. Balance of payments deficits associated with the decline of domestic production and the increase in imports of manufactured goods create domestic problems and limit state power in the international arena. At the same time, there is an increasing demand for state expenditures to deal with the problems of unemployment and the economic decline of the old industrial regions. The fiscal problem is further complicated by the desire of the political leadership to respond to the loss of U.S. political and military hegemony in the world system by increasing military expenditures. In short, economic trends are intensifying the problem O'Connor has called the "fiscal crisis of the state."6 The basic response of state managers in the United States and other advanced capitalist societies has been roughly the same. National governments are engaging in a frantic competitive scramble to create conditions which will attract or hold multinational investment. To do so, they are attempting to eliminate the conditions which they perceive as the causes of capital flight and the weakening of domestic industries. Increasingly, the "successful" model which has attracted the attention of the leaders of many of the advanced capitalist countries (especially the conservative leaderships of Great Britain and the United States) are the "import-export" or "free production" zones which were established in the 200 �Third World in the 1970's and similar country-wide policies in such countries as Brazil and South Korea. Although there has been considerable country-to-country variation in these policies, an ideal-typical characterization of the policy approach would include such things as: (1) reduction or elimination of duties on the importation of manufacturing machinery, the importation of production inputs, and the export of finished products, (2) little or no taxation of corporate income and no restrictions on the repatriation of profits, (3) no foreign exchange restrictions, (4) the provision of subsidized financing, transportation facilities, production facilities, and production support services, (5) minimal health, safety, and pollution regulations, (6) low or no minimum wage laws, (7) severe restrictions on union activity, and (8) government police and legal activities to assure industrial discipline of the workforce.7 As adapted by the state managers of advanced capitalist countries to the conditions in their societies, the attempt to emulate the Third World has taken two general forms. One is a societywide set of policies designed essentially to reverse the three-decades-long development of the liberal welfare state. This approach involves—especially in Great Britain and the United States—such things as: (1) subsidies to corporate investment and operations through changes in the tax system, (2) major reductions in welfare services—both to reduce the corporate tax burden and make low-wage work attractive, (3) regulatory "relief" for corporations in such areas as health, safety, environment, consumer protection, and financial transactions (e.g. mergers), (4) weakening the power of labor unions through changes in labor laws or labor law administration, (5) more reliance on repression to contain discontent among the very poor, and (6) tolerance of high unemployment rates to depress wage rates and dampen union militance.8 The second approach, a direct adaptation of Third World "production zones," has been the proposal to create "free enterprize zones" in the depressed inner city neighborhoods of the large cities. Touted as a means of dealing with high unemployment and declining tax bases by reversing industrial flight, the policies which have been suggested to create such zones include: (1) income tax waivers for corporate operations located in the zones, (2) investment tax credits for those corporations which locate in the zones, (3) substantial easing of health, safety, and pollution regulations in the zones, (4) local government subsidies of corporations operating in the zones by means of such things as subsidized construction bonds, reduced or postponed property taxes, use of local condemnation powers to clear land, etc., and (5) elimination of minimum wage laws—especially for teenagers.' In short, the strategy which is emerging is to create conditions of corporate subsidy, low-wage rates, and industrial discipline similar to those which exist in the Third World countries which have been attracting multinational industrial investment. Implications for Appalachia What does all this have to do with Appalachia? It appears likely that the general, society-wide policies designed to encourage multinational investment in the domestic economy will have a specific impact on Appalachia. That impact will result in Appalachia more closely approximating a regional 201 �version of an "enterprize zone" than most other regions in the country. This special regional outcome of general national policy will be the result of the very particular social, economic, and political heritage of the region which will mediate the impact of national policies. To put it simply, current economic trends and the likely direction of federal policy will tend to reinforce existing conditions and problems in the region which already give it a special role in the regional economic division of labor in the United States. Appalachia, besides its more traditional role in resource extraction, is already serving as one of the areas in the United States for the location of generally low-wage industrial work—including, in the recent past, "runaway" plants from the North. In addition to the prevailing low-wage level, Appalachia is attractive for the location of such plants because of the low level of unionization, a relatively docile labor force (the Mineworkers not withstanding), and a system of local political elites willing to use their power to protect corporate interests (e.g. through such things as maintaining a low level of local taxation, minimizing land use controls, and providing a low level of social and welfare services to both keep taxes low and encourage industrial disciplines).10 What the current direction of national policy appears likely to do is to reinforce this economic role of the region. The reduction in programs which serves the working poor, such as Food Stamps (a particular target of recent budget slashing), is likely to have a disporportionate impact on Appalachia given the prevalence of extremely low-wage industrial workers in the region. At the same time, the reduction of services and the tightening of eligibility requirements for the dependent poor will make even this unsupplemented low-wage work more "attractive" to Appalachian workers. In addition, if the attempt to return a number of social service programs to the states and localities succeeds, the extent of service reduction is likely to be particularly great in Appalachia because of the traditional reluctance of local elites to raise taxes to provide such services. (It may also augment the ability of local elites to exercise control over workers in favor of employers—an important traditional technique for discouraging political and work-related activism.)11 The fact that much of the traditional industrial work in the region is in industries such as furniture and textiles, which are in direct competition with plants in the Third World, may have a further depressing effect on wages. In other words, the direction of change may be to reduce prevailing average living standards—making Appalachia even more of a low-wage "island" in the national economy.* Other policies should further contribute to making Appalachia the regional equivalent of a "free enterprize zone." Lax enforcement or administrative modification of labor laws should have the most impact on those regions which already have poorly organized labor forces and lack a strong industrial union tradition—such as Appalachia. The increasing devolution of certain kinds** of regulatory enforcement upon states and localities is likely to encourage all states and localities to compete with one another to reduce regulation and to attract industry. However, again because of the traditional pattern of local policies in the region, Appalachia seems likely to have particularly lax local enforcement policies. Should the ARC survive, it may do so by becoming, even more than it is now, a program primarily devoted to subsidizing industrial relocation—both directly though site preparation and indirectly through infrastructure development for a few urban "growth centers."12 Attempts to further open the National Forest System to resource extraction would probably mean that Appalachia, with large areas of National Forest land which contain exploitable minerals and fuel, would become even more dependent on extractive industry. Coal for export may become more important if certain current corporate and government initiatives succeed: the weakening of environmental, health, and safety regulations in the coal industry, the increasingly successful at202 �tempt by the large coal companies to cripple the Mineworkers Union, and state and federal programs to encourage coal for export through subsidies of coal transportation facilities (e.g. port facilities and coal slurry pipelines). The doubly disturbing thing about these policy trends is that they are likely to create problems for the people in the region whether they succeed or fail in their stated objective of attracting multinational investment. A reasonable argument can be made that these policies will fail. It does not seem likely that domestic wage rates in any region of the United States can be driven down to point anywhere near to being competitive to those rates which prevail in the Third World. Similarly, the other conditions which would have to be created to make any domestic region fully and permanently competitive with the Third World for the location of low-wage, low-skill manufacturing operations would imply almost incredible deterioration of environmental conditions, health and worker safety standards, worker rights, and the like.13 Politically, that would seem to entail a willingness and an ability on the part of national political leaders to engage in sustained mass repression. One can be enough of an optimist to suppose that the attempt to even partially replicate Third World conditions would provoke sufficient political counter pressures to frustrate the attempt. If so, the outcome of the current direction of public policy may be only the worsening of conditions in Appalachia without provoking the intended investment response on the part of multinationals. Whatever industrial relocation did occur would be temporary, and Appalachia could expect to eventually participate in the continuing general national trend toward deindustrialization in the traditional manufacturing sector—with all the attendant social, economic, and human costs. On the other hand, current policy could "succeed," but it would be a curious kind of "success." As some of the more successfully industrializing Third World countries are discovering, the conditions necessary to attract investment must be maintained or capital will simply flee to a more congenial investment climate. That means sustained low wages, corporate subsidies, minimal regulation, repression of workers, and the like. Thus, industrialization of Appalachia in the current era may not have the same outcome (however temporary it is now providing to be) as it did in the North earlier in the century in terms of relatively high wage rates and good working conditions. Rather, it would be industrialization more of the sort found in the high- and low-tech sweatshops of Singapore, Sri Lanka, and the Philippines In short, the prospect in either case seems likely to be a deterioration of conditions—whatever the limited short-term benefits which might temporarily accrue to currently unemployed workers from industrial relocation to Appalachia. Conclusion This discussion has been an attempt to tentatively explore the possible implications for Appalachia if present trends in the international economy and national policy responses to those trends, continue. It has been argued that the consequences of the apparent current direction of federal policy would be primarily negative for Appalachia: it would intensify the existing tendency for Appalachia to function in the domestic division of labor as a center of low-wage labor and resource extraction. Whether current policies "succeed" or fail in achieving their intended results, they appear likely to have a negative impact on the social, economic, and environmental conditions of the region. 203 �Assuming that such a conclusion is a reasonable extrapolation of current trends, the issue which needs to be addressed is what would be an effective strategy for the people of Appalachia to employ in order to respond to these trends? What sorts of short- and long-range demands should they seek to make of the local and national political leadership? How should they make those demands? There do not seem to be any simple and obvious answers to these questions. What does seem to be certain is that we are entering a difficult and perhaps dangerous period in which both the preservation of past modest gains and the hope for further improvement in conditions are in doubt. Footnotes 'Barry Bluestone, "An Interview with Bennet Harrison and Barry Bluestone," Working Papers X (January/February, 1983), pp. 43-44. 'William W. Goldsmith, "Bringing the Third World Home," Working Papers IX (March/April, 1982), p. 26. 'Bluestone, op. tit., p. 44. 'David M. Gordon, "Class Struggle and Stages of American Urban Development," in David C. Perry and Alfred J. Watkins (eds.), The Rise of the Sunbelt Cities (Beverly Hills, Ca.: Sage Publications, 1977). 'Barry Bluestone and Bennet Harrison, "Why Corporations Close Profitable Plants," Working Papers VII (May/June, 1980), pp. 15-23. 'James O'Connor, The Fiscal Crisis of the Slate (New York: St. Martin's Press, 1973). 'Goldsmith, op.tit., pp. 29-30. •Andre Gunder Frank, Crisis: In the World Economy (New York: Homes & Meier, 1980), pp. 102-146. 'Goldsmith, op.tit., pp. 29-30; Edward Humberger, "The Enterprise Zone Fallacy," Journal of Community Action I (September/October, 1981). 10 On the economic role local political elites and their relationship to the working class see: John Gaventa, Power and Powerlessness: Quiescence and Rebellion in an Appalachian Valley (Urbana, 111.: University of Illinois Press, 1980). "Ibid. 12 David E. Whisnant, Modernizing the Mountaineer (Boone, N.C.: Appalachian Consortium Press, 1978), pp. 153-174. "Goldsmith, op.tit., pp. 31-32. "Ibid. *It certainly is not the only such "island" in the domestic economy, but it is one of the most distinctly regional ones. **The emerging regulatory trend under the current administration seems to be one in which those regulatory functions which localities are likely to use to restrict corporate behavior are being retained and augmented at the federal level, while those which localities are likely to be lax in enforcing are being moved to the state and local level. Thus, the federal is moving to restrict state and local attempts (e.g. in California) to impose environmental laws stricter than those at the federal level (e.g. controls on nuclear power plants and hazardous dump sites). 204 �Housing Aspirations of Central Appalachian Coal Miners Rosemary Canned Goss Housing has long been recognized as a major problem of the Central Appalachian region (Hayes and Kimbrough, 1977; Lewis, 1978, Spence, 1979; U.S. Coal Commission, 1925; U.S. Department of the Interior, 1947; and the President's Commission on Coal, 1980). However, as noted in the 1970 and 1980 Census, housing conditions have improved. For example, homes without plumbing in West Virginia decreased from 18% in 1970 to 6.8% in 1980 and from 21% to 7.6% in Kentucky during that same period, (USBC, 1972; USBC, 1982), with much of this improvement coming in the Central Appalachian areas of these states. But, meeting minimum standards such as indoor plumbing does not necessarily mean that the housing conditions meet the culture's or family's norms for housing. The National Council on Urban Problems (1968: 274) stated, "A house can meet the legal standards set in a local code, pass a housing code inspection, and still be unfit for human habitation by the personal standards of most middle-class Americans." Within the economic framework of the Appalachian region, miners often have incomes which allow them to live in some of the best housing in the community. However, "in some areas of Appalachia, even the increased salary levels of miners do not enable them to obtain the same quality of housing available to coal miners in other regions or industrial workers in metropolitan areas." (President's Commission on Coal, 1980: 26). Many of the constraints to quality housing in this region are somewhat unique. The boom and bust economy of Appalachia often discourages miners from taking on long-term loans for housing. For example, the renewed emphasis on coal as a source of energy after the 1973 Arab oil embargo led to a very strong economy in the late 1970s, but today unemployment has surpassed 15% in many part of the coal fields. Moreover, it is extremely difficult to find land that is both suitable and available since much of the land is mountainous and/or owned by out-of-state corporations. Other constraints include the lack of a housing delivery system, conservative financing and very high development costs. Government and mining officials, as well as grassroot organizations, have recognized the need for improved housing conditions for miners. While popular literature has emphasized the fact that miners fear that housing developed with federal or state assistance will fail to meet miners' needs, no empirical data is available. Improved and/or additional housing is needed in the Appalachian coal fields; many government attempts to house the Appalachian people have often been met with extreme criticism; and there is a 205 �lack of empirical information about the miners' housing aspirations. Therefore, the purposes of this paper are to describe the housing aspirations of the Central Appalachian coal miner, to analyze the relationships of housing aspirations to various demographic data, and to examine whether or not miners desire and are willing to pay for new housing. Previous Research Popular media coverage of the Appalachian lifestyle such as "Little Abner" and the "Beverly Hillbillies" has presented the mountaineer as an uneducated, barefooted moonshiner. Even Weller (1966), a noted writer on the region, has described the mountaineer as a person of fierce independence and traditionalism with a sense of fatalism which gives the mountaineer a different outlook on life from that of other rural societies. But a comprehensive study of the Southern Appalachians (Ford, 1962) which was conducted in the late 1950s revealed a substantial change in the aspirations and values of the Appalachian people even in the late 1950s. Ford found that the peoples' outlook of passive resignation was rapidly disappearing. Like other Americans, the people of the Region want the material comforts and social services that only an advanced economy can support. If they cannot get them in the Region, they will seek them elsewhere, but increasingly efforts are being made to secure such benefits in the Southern Appalachians. (Vance, 1962, p. 290) Similar findings were reported by Schwarzweller, Brown and Mangalam (1971) in a more recent study of a mountain community in Kentucky. Those who wanted to improve their economic and social lifestyle moved to industrialized, urban towns in Ohio. Those who remained behind were exposed to a more urban lifestyle through visits and correspondence with those who had moved away. This interaction has remained constant through the years because of the very strong sense of familism on the part of the residents and those who had moved away. Hansen (1970) viewed the aspirations and values of the Appalachian people as similar to those of contemporary America. He, too, reported that many were willing to migrate, or at least have their children migrate, in order to attain a better quality of life. The suggestion that exposure to more urban lifestyles was a result of contact with family and friends who moved away (Schwarzweller et a., 1971) could help explain the movement of the aspirations of mountain people toward the American norm (Hansen, 1970; Montgomery and McCabe, 1973). Although housing aspirations of various groups have been studied over the years (Rainwater, 1966; Paynter, 1975; McKown, 1975; McCray, 1975; and Montgomery and McCabe, 1973), only Montgomery and McCabe have examined the housing values and aspirations of Appalachian families. Montgomery and McCabe used a weighted scale to determine the degree to which national housing images are reflected Southern Appalachia. They concluded that housing aspirations of Appalachian people were quite similar to the American norm. They reported that only one-fifth of those surveyed were oriented toward a mountain traditional house. The higher the income, the more likely a family was to have a surburban housing image. Housing aspirations of Southern rural people have also been found similar to the American norm. In a study of differential aspirations for housing between Blacks and Whites in rural Georgia, Belcher (1970) reported that various social and economic factors were the important variable in aspirations; race, per se, was largely irrelevant. McCray (1975) found that low-income 206 �rural Florida residents and urban Tallahassee public housing tenants had similar housing aspirations; however, the urban group reported higher expectations for achieving its aspirations. Similar to findings reported by Montgomery and McCabe (1973), McCray and Day (1977: 249) found that both urban and rural respondents "desired a modern brick home with characteristics typical of the middle-class surburban single-family house." Based on findings of previous rural and Appalachian research it is hypothesized that Central Appalachian miners desire housing similar to the American Methodology The sample was selected from the rank-and-file coal miners employed at mines located in McDowell County, West Virginia. The miners were classified by number of employees (small, medium and large) and by location (six magisterial districts) within the county. A table of random numbers was used to select one mine from each category within a strata. An interview was arranged with the appropriate person at each mine to explain the study. In each case the contact person agreed to participate by providing a mailing list of the company's employees. From this list a proportionate sample was drawn using a table of random numbers. A questionnaire was developed, pilot tested, revised and mailed to 687 miner families. The female head of household was instructed to complete the first four sections of the questionnaire (condition, satisfaction, aspirations and demographics) and the male head of the household was asked to answer items in the final section (purchasing a new dwelling). The assumption was made that since the miner was usually the sole and primary wage earner, he would have more influence than the female co-head or spouse in a decision to purchase a new dwelling. Measurement scales for conditions, satisfactions, and aspirations were modified from scales used by Birch, 1973 and Frieden and Solomon, 1977; Morris, 1976; and McCray, 1975 respectively. The Total Design Method (Dillman, 1978) for data collection was followed. A total of 438 usable questionnaires (63%) were returned. Data from the survey was coded, transferred to IBM cards, verified for accuracy and analyzed descriptively and statistically using the Statistical Package for the Social Sciences (SPSS). Analysis of Data Frequency distributions and percentages were used for the descriptive analysis of the data. Student's Mests and chi-square tests were used for the statistical testing of the hypotheses. Hypotheses were tested at an alpha of .05. In addition, the magnitude of the relationship or substantive significance (Gold, 1969; Kish, 1959) was also considered. Results and Discussion Housing aspirations were assessed through a number of questions related to desired characteristics of a dwelling unit. The respondent was asked to describe the home he/she would like to have. A series of forced-choice questions followed to determine specific features of the desired dwelling. The features considered most desirable and the percentage of respondents desiring each feature are presented in Table 1. The five most desirable characteristics chosen by over 75% of the respondents were; a laundry room, family room, dining room, garage and brick exterior. The number of respondents desiring specific characteristics in some categories (i.e., number of bedrooms or baths) was lower than expected. One possible reason for this finding is that many miners were approaching retirement and their children had left home; therefore, a small house was desirable. Another possible reason is the 207 �fact that some respondents may have responded as to what they thought was realistic in terms of affordability or availability as opposed to "the dream house." Table 1 Housing Features Considered Most Desirable by Respondents « Adjusted Percent Laundry room 366 94.1 Family room 354 90.1 Dining room 328 83.5 Garage 313 77.7 Brick exterior 307 76.9 More space than is currently available 283 69.7 Deck or patio 262 64.5 Two or more baths 181 44.7 Four or more bedrooms 159 39.3 Feature Housing Aspiration Index A housing aspiration index (Table 2) for use as a measure of the respondents' expressed housing aspirations was patterned after one developed by McCray (1975). All housing characteristics related to housing aspirations were weighted between 1 and 2. A score of 2 was assigned to features considered indicative of higher aspirations, and a 1 was assigned to the feature considered indicative of lower aspirations. The total possible score for each respondent ranged from 12 to 24, and actual scores ranged from 16.7 to 23. Weighted totals of the desired characteristics were grouped into three levels of aspirations: low (16.7-19.9), moderate (20-22.9) and high (23-24). Respondents were distributed as follows: low, 8.0%; moderate, 60.0%; and high, 32.0%. Table 2 Percentage of Responses to Items on Aspiration Index (Weightings in parentheses) Characteristic Think about (2.0) Yes, (1.7) Yes, (1.4) Yes, (1.0) No n 232 112 40 36 kind of home desired for family often sometimes but not very often 208 Adjusted Percent 55.2 26.7 9.5 8.6 �Desired exerior finish (2.0) Brick (1.5) Alumium siding (1.0) Frame 307 60 17 76.9 15.8 4.3 Desired cooling system (2.0) Central air conditioning (1.7) A room air conditioner (1.4) Attic fan (1.0) None 273 68 25 30 67.6 16.8 6.2 7.4 Desired rooms Dining room (2.0) Yes (1.0) No 328 65 83.5 16.5 Dining area in kitchen only (2.0) No (1.0 Yes 291 96 75.2 24.8 Family room (2.0) Yes (1.0) No 354 39 90.1 9.9 Laundry room (2.0) Yes (1.0) No 366 23 94.1 5.9 159 220 26 0 39.3 54.3 6.4 0.0 181 190 34 44.7 46.9 8.4 262 136 4 4 64.5 33.5 1.0 1.0 313 82 8 77.7 20.3 2.0 Desired (2.0) (1.7) (1.4) (1.0) number of bedrooms Four or more Three Two One Desired number of baths (2.0) Two or more (1.5) One and a half (1.0) One Desired (2.0) (1.5) (1.0) type of outdoor space Deck or patio Porch None Other Desired car storage (2.0) Garage (1.5) Carport (1.0) None 209 �Desired (2.0) (1.5) (1.0) amount of space More than is present now About the same Less than is present now 283 110 13 69.7 27.1 3.2 The correlation between housing aspirations and length of time in dwelling, age of household head, family income, housing deprivation and housing satisfaction was calculated by use of the Pearson product-moment correlation. The point-biserial correlation was used to measure the strength of the relationship between housing aspirations and form of tenure, location of dwelling and race. The null hypotheses that the population correlation coefficient was equal to zero versus two-tail alternatives were tested with the f-test. The degree of nonlinear association between education of household head and housing aspirations was examined through the use of the eta coefficient. The null hypothesis was tested against the nondirectional alternative hypothesis using the F-ratio. Only one significant relationship was found between housing aspirations and any of the variables mentioned below (Table 3). Although the relationship of family income to aspirations was statistically significant, the r value was low and indicated little, if any, correlation. Table 3 Relationship of Housing Aspirations and Housing and Family Characteristics Correlation Coefficient Calculated p Value Length of time in dwelling -.055 .317 Form of tenure -.001 .982 Location of dwelling -.008 .882 Age of household head -.096 .083 Family income .111 .048* Education of household head .160 .522 Race .041 .435 Housing deprivation .052 .378 Housing satisfaction .032 .982 Variable Miners desired a brick home with central air conditioning,a dining room, family room, laundry room, three bedrooms, one-and-half baths, a deck or patio and a garage. Similar findings were reported by Montgomery and McCabe (1973) and McCray and Day (1977). Findings of the survey of miners' aspirations, and observation of the researcher indicate that the desires of the Appalachian miner closely fit Rainwater's (1966)descriptionof the housing aspirations of the traditional working class: "a pleasant, cozy home" with major conveniences and relatively little concern about adding aesthetic features in furnishings. One factor that might explain the contrast in the desire for a "pleasant and cozy home" and one that represents all-American affluence is that housing in the Appalachian region is often viewed 210 �more as shelter than as an investment. In many cases, automobiles, not housing, serve as the status symbol in the area. Over 80% of the respondents owned at least one automobile, 66% owned one or more trucks, and 15% owned a camper. The automobiles and trucks were relatively new with over 60% and 55% respectively being four years of age or less. The mean age of the automobiles in the study was 4.9 years, compared to a national mean of 6.6 years in 1980 (Motor Vehicle Manufacturers Association, 1982). Although income was statistically related to aspirations, the magnitude of the relationship was weak. Had this relationship been of greater magnitude, findings of this study would have paralleled those of Montgomery and McCabe (1973) and Belcher (1970). These researchers failed to find other demographic and housing variables that were associated with housing aspirations. The Desire to Alter One's Dwelling or to Move Propensity to move was determined by asking if the respondent was satisfied with the present dwelling, would like to make changes in the present dwelling or would like to move to a different dwelling. Approximately 13% of the respondents reported that their dwelling was just as they wanted it. Of those who wanted to make some changes, 56.3% said they would like to make changes in their present dwellings, and 43.7% reported they would like to move to a different dwelling. An open-ended question provided an opportunity for respondents to share information about present housing or future housing plans. Comments about present housing or future housing plans were recorded for 103 respondents (23.5%). Their comments can be divided into six major areas: future housing plans (25), financing and affordability (22), problems with community services (20), lack of land and/or dwellings (16), general comments about current housing (15), and problems with dwelling structures (5). The eta coefficient was used to measure the strength of the relationship between the desire to remain in the present dwelling as it is, alter one's present dwelling or move, and housing aspirations. The null hypothesis was tested against the non-directional alternative hypothesis using theF-ratio. No significant relationships were found. Locational Differences Although all miners in the sample worked in McDowell County, West Virginia, only 51% of the miners lived there. A f-test (two-tailed) revealed there was no difference in housing aspiration scores between miners living within McDowell County and those living outside the county.1 As with the miners' study, McCray and Day (1977) reported no differences between housing aspirations of rural and urban Florida residences. Acquiring a New Dwelling: The Male Respondents' View One expressed purpose of this study was to determine if miners were interested in new housing units and how much they would be willing to pay to rent or purchase them. If homes were being built within driving distances of their jobs, 48% of the respondents reported they would be interested in buying a new home (Table 4). However, only 5.6% would be interested in renting a new apartment near their work. The amount respondents would be willing to pay for new homes or apartments has a number of implications for housing in the Appalachian coal fields. Most respondents wished to pay relatively low prices for housing: approximately 50% were not willing to pay more than $30,000 and only 211 �6.5% were willing to pay more than $50,000 and 2.0%, $60,000 or above. Based on these findings, most of those willing to buy a new home would pay less than $40,000 and thus, housing choices would be limited primarily to mobile or modular housing. A reluctance to pay for shelter was also seen in rental figures. Most (58.6%) respondents wanted to pay less than $150, and no one was willing to pay more than $250 per month for rent. Table 4 Desire to Purchase or Rent n Adjusted Percent Would not be interested in purchasing a new home 211 51.6 Would be interested in purchasing a new home 198 48.4 40 63 53 32 9 4 19.9 31.3 26.4 15.9 4.5 2.0 372 94.4 29 7.5 17 10 2 58.6 34.5 6.9 Correlation Coefficient Calculated p Value -.021 .701 -.098 .072 Variable If interested in a new home, purchaser would be willing to pay under $20,000 between $20,000 and $29,999 between $30,000 and $39,999 between $40,000 and $49,999 between $50,000 and $59,999 $60,000 and above Would not be interested in renting a new apartment Would be interested in renting a new apartment Would be willing to pay a monthly rent for a new apartment under $150 between $151 and $200 between $201 and $250 Housing deprivation and desire for New home New apartment 212 �This reluctance to pay as much as the cost of a median priced new home can be explained in many ways. One possible reason has been mentioned before. Miners in the Appalachian region often view housing as shelter and not as an investment. Also, miners have not had to pay as high a mortgage or rent payment as many Americans. Historically, rental rates for company houses have been low. After World War II, many dwellings located in the "coal camps" were sold by the companies at very low prices. Furthermore, miners fear the "boom and bust" cycle of the coal fields and are reluctant to take on long-term mortgages. For example, in 1980 when this study was conducted, respondents had incomes averaging over $20,000 per year. Today many of these respondents are unemployed and would have difficulty meeting even minimum mortgage payments. The chi-square test was used to test for differences between the amount miners living in McDowell County and those living outside McDowell County would be willing to pay for new housing. A statistically significant difference was found; of the miners indicating a desire for a new home, those living outside McDowell County (Mercer County, West Virginia and Tazewell County, Virginia) were willing to pay more for a home. Perhaps housing in the Mercer and Tazewell County areas is somewhat more expensive than in McDowell County since there is more new housing, more housing choices and very few houses that were once part of "coal camps." In some parts of Mercer and Tazewell counties, Savings and Loan Associations offer loans with lower down payments required. Thus, miners living outside McDowell County are willing to pay more for housing, have easier financing available, and may be accustomed to paying more for housing. Implications Findings of this study support the conclusion that Appalachian miners desire a brick home with central air conditioning, a dining room, family room, laundry room, three bedrooms, one-and-ahalf baths, a deck or patio and a garage. These aspirations closely approximate American cultural norms for housing. In addition, miners who are interested in buying a new home are unwilling to pay the median prices for new homes; therefore, housing choices are often limited to mobile or modular housing. A strong preference for owned single family homes was apparent. Multifamily structures such as townhouses and apartments would rarely be successful. Results of this study can be used by educators, industry, policy-makers and researchers when housing needs and programs for the region are being considered. For example, findings of this study indicate that mobile and modular housing will be one way to meet the housing demands of this region. Extension personnel could provide additional information to assist consumers to improve their living environment. For example, step-by-step, do-it-yourself plans for adding skirting, decking, or patios or expanding mobile or modular homes could be useful. Also, a two or threeyear landscaping plan to improve climate control, appearance and livability could be developed for both mobile and modular homes. A plan such as this would require the use of common trees and shrubs, since there are not many large nurseries in the region. Mobile home parks could establish stricter park standards for maintenance and appearance. As the need for housing in the Appalachian coal fields increases, the housing industry will be called upon to help solve these housing shortages. The first step on the part of the manufactured housing industry should be to staff local sales offices with competent, well-trained sales personnel who can provide technical assistance to help miners choose houses suitable to their needs. Consumers wanting to build a home could save money by purchasing building materials at large building supply stores in neighboring counties. Previous research (Lewis, 1978) has shown that 213 �building supplies are much more expensive in the coal fields than in towns like Bristol, Virginia. Some large chain stores provide packages of building materials for an entire house, including a variety of styles and price ranges. Perhaps a more aggressive marketing plan could benefit both the building supply stores and the consumer. Because the region lacks a strong housing delivery system, finding a builder to follow the pre-selected plans for which all materials would be delivered to the site would be an easier, and perhaps less expensive, plan for the consumer. Policymakers at the state and local level should actively support and promote housing programs and policies that will benefit the region. State housing finance agencies and state offices of housing could assist states in meeting their housing goals. States need to do whatever possible (e.g., taxing land at its market value or even using the power of eminent domain) to encourage large landholding companies to sell some of their land for housing. In addition, several respondents expressed apprehension regarding long-term housing loans for fear of strikes and layoffs in the future. Miners and local lenders need additional safeguards against the previous history of the boom and bust cycles of mining. Special insured mortgages could encourage lenders to make more loans and consumers to purchase housing if there were an assurance of assistance during a prolonged work stoppage. Because housing problems in the Appalachian region still exist and because this region has some unique constraints, additional research, especially in the area of manufactured housing, is recommended. References Belcher, John C. 1970. "Differential Aspirations for Housing Between Blacks and Whites in Rural Georgia." Phylon 31: 231-243. Birch, D., 1973. American's Housing Needs: 1970 to 1980. Cambridge, MA: Joint Center for Urban Studies. Dillman, Don A., 1978. Mail and Telephone Surveys: The Total Design Method. New York: John Wiley and Sons. Ford, Thomas R., editor, 1962. The Southern Appalachian Region: A Survey. Lexington: University of Kentucky Press. Frieden, BJ. and A.R. Solomon. 1977. The Nations Housing: 1915 to 1985. Cambridge, MA: Joint Center for Urban Studies. Gold, David. 1969. "Statistical Tests and Substantive Significance." The American Sociologist. 14: 42-46. Goss, Rosemary Carucci. 1982. "Housing of the Appalachian Coal Miner: Conditions, Satisfactions and Aspirations." Ph.D. Dissertation, Florida State University. Hansen, Niles M. 1979. Rural Poverty and the Urban Crisis. Bloomington: Indiana University Press. Hayes, D. and J. Kimbrough. 1977. "Decent Housing: The Unmet Agenda." Appalachia 11 (1), 1-8. Lewis, Helen and Associates. 1978. Coal Productivity and Community: The Impact of the National Energy Plan in the Eastern Coalfield. Prepared by the U.S. Energy Department, Washington, DC. Kish, Leslie. 1959. "Some Statistical Problems in Research Design." American Sociological Review 2 (3), 328-338. McCray, Jacquelyn W. 1975. "A Comparison of Housing, Values, Aspirations, and Satisfaction of Low-Income Rural Florida Residents and Urban Tallahassee Public Housing Tenants." Ph.D. Dissertation, Florida State University. McCray, Jacquelyn W. and Savannah S. Day. 1977. "Housing Values, Aspirations and Satisfactions as Indicators of Housing Needs." Home Economics Research Journal 5 (4): 244-254. McKown, Cora, 1975. "Social Factors Related to Housing Selection." Homing Educators Journal 2 (1): 11-15. 214 �Montgomery, James E. and Gracia McCabe. 1973. "Housing Aspirations of Southern Appalachian Families." Home Economics Research Journal 2 (I): 2-11. Motor Vehicle Manufacturers Association. 1982. Motor Vehicle Facts and Figures. Detroit, Michigan: MVMA. Paynter, Mary Ann. 1975. "An Exploratory Study of Family Commitment to Housing Goals." Ph.D. Dissertation. The Pennsylvania State University. NCUP, National Commission of Urban Problems. 1968. Building the American City. Washington, DC: Government Printing Office. Pickard, Jerome. 1979. "Appalachian Population Growing, Income Catching Up." Appalachia 12 (5): 41-45. The President's Commission on Coal. 1980. The American Coal Miner. Washington, DC: Government Printing Office. Rainwater, Lee. 1966. "Fear and the House-as-Haven in the Lower Class." The Journal of the American Institute of Planners 32 (1): 23-31. Schwarzweller, Harry K., James S. Brown and J.J. Mangalam. 1971. Mountain Families in Transition. University Park: Pennsylvania State University Press. Spence, B. 1979. "More Than a Shortage—A National Disgrace." Mountain Life and Work. 55 (1): 4-9. USBC, U.S. Bureau of the Census. 1972. Census of Housing: 1970. Vol. 1: Housing Characteristics for States, Cities and Counties. Washington, DC: Government Printing Office. USBC, U.S. Bureau of the Census. 1982. General Housing Characteristics. Washington, DC: Government Printing Office. U.S. Coal Commission, 1925. Report of the U.S. Coal Commission. Washington, DC: U.S. Government Printing Office. U.S. Department of the Interior. 1947. A Medical Survey of the Bituminious Coal Industry. Report of the Coal Mines Administration, Washington, DC: U.S. Government Printing Office. Vance, Rupert B. 1962. "The Region's Future: A National Challenge. In T.R. Ford (Ed.) The Southern Appalachian Region: A Survey. Lexington: University of Kentucky Press. Weller, Jack E. 1966. Yesterday's People. Lexington: University of Kentucky Press. Footnotes 'Although there was no significant difference in housing aspiration scores between McDowell County residents and nonresidents, significant differences were found between residents and non-residents in terms of housing deprivation and housing satisfaction (Goss, 1982). 215 �This page intentionally left blank �The Humanities in Appalachia: Progress Reports 217 �This page intentionally left blank �Missing Chapters: West Virginia Women in History Barbara Matz While change permeates American society today, perhaps the most fundamental change is in the role of women. Change is the most evident for many in the consideration of work, for women are experiencing the need to support themselves and their families. Fifty-one percent of all women in the country of working age, i.e., between the ages of sixteen and sixty-four, are in the labor force. That number is expected to grow to about sixty-seven percent by 1990. The average work life expectancy of a woman is presently 33.9 years.1 In West Virginia, where the employment rate for women is 36.6%, lowest in the nation, 2 the participation of women in the work force has increased from 236,200 in 1978 to 248,600 for the following year.3 Women enter the labor force because they need the money. They are single, widowed, divorced, separated or have husbands who earn less than $10,000 per year.4 For the single woman it is a matter of finding some method to support herself when she finds her living situation is out of step with her expectations of lifelong wedded bliss. The widow, on the other hand, thought that her husband would support her, only to find upon her husband's death that social security, welfare, pension or other financial aid was not available until she was sixty-five or unless she had dependent children. The divorced or separated mothers are the victims of the hard statistics about child support failure. Only fourteen percent of those awarded child support receive the payments after the first year. Meanwhile, the incidence of divorce continues to increase. In West Virginia, in 1981, there were 16,721 marriages and 10,748 divorces.5 The need to work and the probability of being single is but one aspect of women's rapidly changing lives, but it is a significant one. It is a change which women find traumatic and one for which they are usually unprepared. Coping with change can be very difficult, particularly for a woman in Appalachia. As members of a culture that has been based on constancy and tradition, a culture where time stands still or at least seems that way, the hard realities of coping with change for which they are unprepared brings great apprehension. Because altered circumstances must be addressed, however, Appalachian women need to be able to view themselves in other than traditional roles. This paper will first identify the reasons why change is so difficult for women in Appalachia, then consider what factors encourage maintenance of the status quo, and thirdly, examine what methods have been used to facilitate the change process. Finally, we will note how biography about Appalachian women presented to local groups may be used to assist in changing attitudes and encouraging women to consider wider options. Historically, the people who came to settle the mountains were fiercely independent. They came to make a life for themselves unhampered by the expectations or demands of others and intended to depend on their own ingenuity to conquer the hard life in the hills.6 The experience of living in 219 �isolation reinforced individualism so that the mountain people came to evaluate all of life in relationship to themselves and life events were viewed as hampering or enhancing the meeting of individual needs. This resulted in commitment to kin and little need to join the few community groups outside the family. Having little experience with people outside the known kinship circle, they became suspicious of outsiders and their ideas. Life was always hard in the hills and, as the coal mining industry developed, it brought a boom or bust economy. The possibilities of getting ahead economically were very restricted and depended on the decisions of people who were from outside the region. The fluctuations and uncertainty of demand for coal coupled with the mountaineers' lack of control of the market fostered a feeling of helplessness and hopelessness. The mountaineer reaction is stoic and fatalistic, developing an attitude that one must survive, must maintain existence.7 Anything more is too much to hope for. If the only thing on the horizon was more and continual unemployment, it was unrealistic to plan ahead, so the mountaineer became focused on the here and now rather than the future, on being rather than doing. Planning becomes unimportant; there is no need for disciplined action, meeting a schedule or viewing time as significant. In this kind of life, anything that looked exciting or diversionary was met with enthusiasm. A serendipitous invitation to go squirrel hunting with a friend becomes infinitely more enticing than any routine activity.8 The land, the mountains, were very important and a family's portion of that land takes on a personal identity.9 This was demonstrated by the names given to hollows like Cooper's Creek and Haney's Branch. The locale itself is family oriented with various arms of the clan extending up and down the hollow. Within the family orientation the reference group is the most compelling social tie. According to Weller, the reference group "is composed of persons of the same sex and status and of approximately the same age." For adults, the reference group tends to be family-based, including members of the extended family. "So strong is the reference group structure of the society that even husbands and wives tend to pull away from each other toward their respective reference groups."10 Dependent upon the reference group for self-image, the mountaineer tends to reject anything which would cause her to pull away from her reference group. Education, travel, affluence, or any other element which might make her differ from the group is thus unattractive. The mountain family is a closely knit one, not because of the shared activities which are usually done with the reference group, but because of emotionaldependence^Emotional dependence comes partly from the fact that people are evaluated by who they are, i.e., what family they belong to, rather than in terms of what they can do. The individual is constantly reminded of the origins and the achievements and shortcomings of the family.12 There is strong and ongoing involvement with the comings and goings and even the physical health of all of the extended family.13 The addition of a new child is an event looked forward to with great anticipation. Children are always welcome. In the past it was assumed that the more children one has, the more hands available to do the work. Young children are attended to with great care, receive much attention, holding and cuddling.14 Children are communicated with in very warm terms through their early years. As children gain greater independence they are viewed as the responsibility of the whole clan.15 When the child begins to be self directed the adults tend to reduce their direct focus on the youngster, and the child is permitted to gravitate to his peer group.1' In the mores and values of the peer group it is not proper to question what someone else says or to initiate conflict in any way. One does not embarrass another or diminish another's stature in the eyes of the group. This is true even if it means suppress220 �ing one's own opinions or the group avoiding decisions so that people will not have to take sides. It becomes all important to be seen as one of the group and thereby maintain acceptance.17 It becomes very difficult to choose any role which is not a familiar and traditional one. As young boys grow up they can follow their fathers and brothers into the mines or work on cars or take up a trade. They often join the armed services to escape the hopelessness of Appalachian life, and they are assured of an income.18 In the Korean War, West Virginia sent more young men (as a percentage of total male population) to the armed services than any other state; in Vietnam, it was second. Women, however, do not have these options. Many times they do not even know that roles, other than thetraditionalones of wife, mother and maybe teacher, exist. The schools do very little tohelp them look at the broader alternatives for themselves. The people of Appalachia do not view education as having much significance. The school Systems do not measure up to national standards as indicated by the student scores on national examinations.19 The teachers are indigenous to the region. They often attend the nearest college in the region and return to their home areas to teach.20,21 Even if vocational education is offered, the training is apt to bear little relationship to the opportunities for local employment so that students and their parents come to believe that "book learnin" " doesn't do you much good.22 This is exemplified in the statistics for students dropping out of school. In 1981-82, 21.9% of West Virginia students had left school prior to graduation. This was the lowest dropout rate recorded in the decade and was attributed to the current abnormally high unemployment rate. As women grow they do not view education as meeting their perceived needs and tend to not finish school. They have few options for gainful employment and they do not feel the need to have marketable skills. Their peer group applies pressure for them to be like everyone else and they follow the traditional expectation that they will pair with a young man, get married and have babies. The statistics bear out the pressure to follow this pattern at a very young age. A B W.Va. 1981 Vital Statistics Table 39 W.Va. 1981 Vital Statistics Table 9 (amended) Age of bride Age of mother at birth of first child 10-14 15-19 20-24 12 13 14 15 16 17 18 19 49 5195 5547 - 1 - 9 - 65 - 230 - 635 -1054 -1429 -1888 (Illegitimacy is not considered problematic in the hills.)23 Whether by choice or perhaps by default, most Appalachian women are living traditional roles. It is difficult for women to see viable alternatives, to view themselves in circumstances other than traditional ones. Very few women they know have chosen differently. There are often no role 221 �models. They are not accustomed to thinking about what they want to be. Alexis Herman, when she was director of the Women's Bureau, said "No one ever became what she has never heard of." In many respects the Appalachian woman has "never heard of" other roles. Or at least "never heard of" them before the intrusion of television into the mountains. There is hardly a cabin in the remotest hollow today which does not support a TV aerial. Dr. Dorothy Johnson says in her work on the influence of television that the people of Appalachia do not see television as an educational tool but rather view it as entertainment, as a diversion. It is available as an avenue to widen perceptions of options. Appalachians are avid viewers and will go to great lengths to receive multiple channels as demonstrated by the purchase of satellite discs which have proliferated across the mountains. Television, however, portrays a very different kind of life than they are used to living. On television Appalachians are exposed to ideas, value systems and lifestyles different from their own. This perpetuates a feeling of "different from" but television itself, over a period of time, becomes familiar and acceptable. Dr. Johnson indicates that Appalachians have greater confidence in television's credibility than other viewers.24 Dr. Johnson further states"...the evidence tends to support the proposition that television exposure (is) related to modification of traditional perceptions."25 On television, women in Appalachia are able to view women in nontraditional roles such as police officer, detective, lawyer as well as those of waitress and teacher with which they are more familiar. While television can portray different roles, it does have limitations. These images are on the television; they are not "real life." They are not something that the women can relate to oneto-one within their community, or more specifically, within their familial ties or kinship system. Stories told about women who have lived and worked in their locale, doing work that was different from their usual role expectations, have the potential for greater impact. Biography, particularly orally presented biography, given in the local area of the biographee has the possibility for providing useful, acceptable, supportive role models for women. When Susan Dew Hoff's great grandniece hears that her aunt is being honored as a significant contributor to West Virginia history, it has much more impact on the potential for her own life than if she saw a woman doctor in an urban neighborhood portrayed in a television drama. The West Virginia Women's Commission had not perceived this aspect of its project when planning and implementing Missing Chapters. The original intent of Missing Chapters was to research and document the contributions and achievements of West Virginia women. West Virginia history textbooks recount fewer than a half-dozen noteworthy women in the state's history and there is a dearth of information about the contributions of women to the state. Jim Comstock's appendix on women to the West Virginia Encyclopedia is the only easily available source about West Virginia women. The Women's Commission learned about the unavailability of information about West Virginia women in history when the project Missing Chapters was under consideration. In preparing the proposal further research uncovered almost no additional sources and highlighted the need for the project. Partially funded by the Humanities Foundation of West Virginia, the project began in October, 1981 with a call for papers on women who had made outstanding contributions to the community in which they lived or to the state. These papers were to document women's place in West Virginia history, to be presented to civic and social organiztions around the state, and to be published in a book. The initial call for papers generated some fifty inquiries and twenty-nine papers, of which nine will be published. The series of public presentations have been presented to 222 �nineteen groups in the last six months and aired three times on public radio. Arrangements are under discussion for an appearance on public television. The women being presented in this project include a journalist, a midwife, a physician, a photographer, a teacher, a suffragette, two social workers, and a musician. They provide potent role models for women in Appalachia. The Missing Chapters staff was unprepared for the response the presentations received. Audiences listened with rapt attention and discussed not only the life of the biographee but also the mechanics of how she could have managed such a full and productive life. Often the audience included relatives and acquaintances of the subject and occasionally these women added to what was known about the subject by offering an anecdote or personal experience they had had with the subject. Sometimes they identified with the particular kind of work the subject had done and, occasionally, the audience debated how the subject could have managed to be so non-traditional and yet operate within the confines of traditional society. They discussed how the subject had to overcome her own timidity or a physical problem in order to do the work she set out to do. They always identified other women in their locale whose lives should be researched and documented. In one instance a student in training for a medical job shared her consideration of an occupational change, describing a plan to obtain training to be a writer. In another, a professional writer who has considerable research skills told staff that she was choosing to write about the grandmother of a friend despite the materials easily available in the archives on women from other areas of the state. She felt the need to document the life of this woman who had contributed so much to the settling of the local area while there were many living relatives to share their remembrances. The impact of the presentation is greatest when delivered to groups organized for purposes not related at all to history. Local women's groups in Appalachia often assume an importance beyond that of similar groups in less isolated areas. Churches and homemaker groups are among the very few social events in the life of women who are traditionally not joiners. When a program about a local woman is presented to such a group, the presenter and the material can be incorporated as meaningful and related to the familiar and acceptable. This serves to broaden horizons of those women. The project has identified a significant interest in and enthusiasm about women's history and as the project moves to its second call for papers, the response has highlighted a need to investigate the effect of learning about non-traditional women's lives in their part of Appalachia on the women's views of possibilities for themselves. An in-depth inquiry into the implications and ramifications of this project would be useful. Does learning about the possibility of other alternatives foster the expectation of opportunity to use skill and knowledge in a local area? The women of Appalachian often feel helpless, hopeless, and without expectation of any kind. When reality is very depressing, depression quickly leads to immobilization. Dr. John Corcella, a psychiatrist with whom I have worked, prescribes medication for depressed patients in doses designed to alleviate the depression just enough to free energy to work on problems. In some respects, the consideration of alternatives and the concomitant surge of enthusiasm of discovery about women's past has the effect of freeing up energy to work on a problem. Writer after writer has stated that change will come to Appalachia only at the instigation of Appalachians. Biography, an appreciation of women's past contributions to Appalachia, is one step in active commitment to self and to the region to address its problems. 223 �Footnotes 'Pacing the Future: Education and Equity for Females and Males. Dialogues from CCSSO/NASB Regional Seminars on Educational Policy and Sex Equity held in the Fall of 1980, ed. Martha Matthews (New York: National Association of State Boards of Education, 1980), p. 9. 2 United Press International dispatch, The Charleston (W.Va.) Gazette, August 8, 1982. 3 W.Va., Department of Employment Security, Labor and Economic Research Section, West Virginia Women in the Labor Force: A Labor Market Information Report, (Charleston, W.Va.: n.p., 1978) p. 31. *U.S., Department of Labor, Women's Bureau, Twenty Facts on Women Workers, (Washington: Government Printing Office, 1982), p. 1. s W.Va., Department of Health, West Virginia 1981 Vital Statistics, (Charleston, W.Va.: State of West Virginia Graphic Arts, 1982), p. 95. 6 Today's Girls, Tomorrow's Women, Proceedings of a National Seminar Held at the Wingspread Conference Center, Racine, Wisconsin, June 13-15, 1978, n. ed. (New York: Girls Clubs of America, 1978), p. 12. 'Jack E. Weller, Yesterday's People (Lexington, Ky.: University Press of Kentucky, 1965), p. 37. 'Ibid., pp. 40-41. 'John Fetterman, Stinking Creek (New York: E.P. Dutton & Co., 1979), p. 31. '"Weller, p. 58. "Ibid., p. 59. "Frank Riddel, Appalachia: Its People, Heritage, and Problems (Dubuque, la.: Kendall/Hunt Publishing Co., 1974), p. 69. "Ibid., p. 48. "Weller, p. 61. "Riddell, p. 66. "Weller, pp. 64-65. "Ibid. pp. 79-80. 18 Dorothy R. Johnson, "The Influence of Television Viewing Upon Perceptions of Various Concepts Among Appalachians and Non-Appalachians" (unpublished Doctor's dissertation, Ohio State University, 1972), p. 30. "DavidS. Walls andJ.B. Stephenson, Appalachia in the Sixties (Lexington, Ky.: University Press of Kentucky, 1972), p. 225. 20 Riddell, p. 171. "Walls and Stephenson, pp. 221-223. 22 Weller, p. 108. "Ibid., p. 23. 24 Johnson, p. 204. "Ibid., p. 260. Bibliography Campbell, John C. The Southern Highlander and his Homeland. Lexington, Ky.: University Press of Kentucky, 1969. Caudill, Harry M. Night Comes to the Cumberland;. Boston: Little, Brown and Company, 1962. Dixon, Ruth B. "Measuring Equality Between the Sexes," The Journal of Social Issues, XXXII, 3 (1976), 19-30. Dreitzel, Hans Peter (ed.). Childhood and Socialization, Vol. V. Recent Sociology. New York: Macmillan Publishing Co., Inc., 1973. Elkin, Frederick and Gerald Handel. The Child and Society: The Process of Socialization. New York: Random House, 1972. Facing the Future: Education and Equity for Females and Males. Dialogue from CCSSO/NCSB Regional Seminars on Educational Policy and Sex Equity held in the Fall of 1980, ed. Martha Matthews. New York: National Association of State Boards of Education, 1980. Fetterman, John. Stinking Creek: The Portrait of a Small Mountain Community in Appalachia. New York: E.P. Dutton & Co., Inc., 1970. 224 �Gornick, Vivian and Barbara K. Moran (eds.). Woman in Sexisl Society: Studies in Power and Poiverlessness. New York: Basic Books, Inc., 1971. Hunter, Jean E. "Images of Woman," The Journal of Social Issues, XXXII, 3, (1976), 7-17. Johnson, Dorothy Rench. "The Influence of Television Viewing Upon Perceptions of Various Concepts Among Appalachians and Non-Appalachians." Unpublished Doctor's dissertation, The Ohio State University, 1972. Johnson, H. Wayne, (ed.). Rural Human Services: A Book of Readings. Itasca, 111.: R.E. Peacock Publishers, Inc., 1980. Looff, David H. Appalachian's Children: The Challenge of Menial Health. Lexington, Ky.: University Press of Kentucky, 1969. Riddel, Frank S. Appalachia: Its People, Heritage, and Problems. Dubuque, la.: Kendall/Hunt Publishing Company, 1974. Today's Girls, Tomorrow's Women. Proceedings of a National Seminar Held at the Wingspread Conference Center, Racine, Wisconsin, June 13-15, 1978, n. ed. New York: Girls Clubs of America, 1978. U.S. Department of Labor, Women's Bureau. Twenty Facts on Women Workers, n.a. (Washington): Government Printing Office, 1982. Walls, David S. and John B. Stephenson (eds.) Appalachia in the Sixties: Decade oj Reawakening. Lexington, Ky.: University Press of Kentucky, 1972. Weller, Jack E. Yesterday's People: Lije in Contemporary Appalachia. Lexington, Ky.: University Press of Kentucky, 1965. W.Va. Department of Employment Security. West Virginia Women in the Labor Force, n.a. Charleston, W.Va.: State of West Virginia Graphia Arts, 1978. W.Va. Department of Health. West Virginia 1981 Vital Statistics, n.a. Charleston, W.Va.: State of West Virginia Graphic Arts, 1982. 225 �A Case for a Humanities Curriculum Incorporating Sciences and Local Studies Myra Jones Macon County, in Western North Carolina, shares many of the characteristics of the rest of Appalachia. We are a mountainous region with relatively low income and relatively sparse population. Much of our land—and half—is owned by the federal government. Traditionally the area has been isolated so that the small communities have been homogenous, close knit and have changed slowly over the years. Many jobs have been in agriculture or related to textiles—small cut and sew operations. The mountains hold some mineral wealth, such as mica, coruncum, or olivene, which has been mined in the past. Now there may be oil, and explorations are under way. More recently, Macon County has begun to change more rapidly, largely due to the development of tourism. Population diversity and growth has increased: total growth during the last census period was about 27%, compared to the state increase of 17%. Folks want to vacation in Macon County, they build summer homes there, and they retire there. Macon County also has one of the largest retired populations in the state—nearly one third. Most recently, the county has seen a large influx of younger people who want to get their children out of cities and city schools. Often they move in without jobs or job prospects. In consequence, the county has suffered a number of stresses: culture shock between natives and in-migrants and between younger and older generations, and competition for scarce jobs and for ownership of land and other dwindling resources. Exacerbating this situation are the stresses besettling the nation as a whole: the knowledge/technology explosion and the resulting upheavals, such as unemployment, that we seem unable to cope with; and the country's worsening political and economicposition worldwide. In Macon County, some teachers became concerned because they realized that traditional education simply did not prepare students to cope with the complexities of modern life. Students learned separate bodies of fact in various classes, but they did not learn what the facts meant or how to use them. Teachers wanted to develop a more useful type of learning. And they decided to begin with what the students already knew—their own communities. They could use the communities as classrooms and laboratories, to begin showing students how to make connections between the types of knowledge learned in various classes. They could help students develop concepts and reasoning skills—developing minds that were flexible and adaptable, so the young people could meet future situations and solve future problems that cannot at present even be predicted. Two informal teacher teams got together for discussion, one from our local high school and one from the middle school. Beginning with what they had already tried in class that they felt was useful, interesting, or relevant, they began to work out an overall framework, a way to incorporate their ideas into an organized curriculum. They began a search for more ideas and materials. At this point an administrator and a college profesor got into the act and wrote a grant proposal. The team was awarded a grant from the National Humanities Faculty—one of 15 nationwide—to help 226 �develop the project. The NHF grant has provided services (but no cash), in the form of a Faculty Advisor, scholarships to a summer institute for five team members, and visiting scholars to work with teachers and students. The project team received a great deal of help from Western Carolina, who agreed to collaborate on the project. Additionally, the team has received two other small grants: stipends for two high school members to attend a workshop on using community resources in class, and a Kodak grant for the middle school to pay for some of the photographic supplies for the project. But most of the work has been done without any financial aid, after or before school, or in the summer, by the teachers themselves—long hours of work on their own time. After they completed a tentative course outline, the high school team received permission to teach an experimental Humanities course for seniors in the Fall of 1983. To do so, they agreed to give up their planning periods. The situation at the middle school is more flexible, so that teachers will be able to work together and incorporate the new activities into the existing curriculum. Curriculum At the Middle School, the classwork will concentrate on local studies content. Students will study such topics as: Mountain Chemistry: Soapmaking, whiskey distilling, using native plants as dyes and medicines, and food preservation techniques. Mountain Ecology: How the natural environment influences the human environment, as shown in such activities as farming practices, location and construction methods of buildings, and in daily customs such as recreation, courting customs, recreation, and so forth. The above list is not conclusive. While students are studying the local course content, they will be developing many skills and concepts in English, social studies, and science. The high school course will bridge the gap between local studies and Western Intellectual Development. Teachers have constructed a seven or eight unit course, with each unit being four weeks long. The units center around pivotal thinkers such as Aristotle and Einstein, who have changed the course of history. The theme of the course will be CHANGE. Concepts to be taught, related to Change, are: —Human society advances by change —Change in society has good and bad consequences —When change occurs in one area of human endeavor, it affects others as well —The certainty of change coexists with the uncertainty of the future —Change is caused and regulated by power: natural, political, social, artistic, & technological. —Man is susceptible to change by forces beyond his control. —Change occurs in time and space; the rate of change in one function of technology. Students will study how events, in one field affect developments in all fields: science and nature, philosophy and religion, politics and society, and literature and the Arts. They will examine how the Appalachian people fit into Western Historical patterns, and wherever possible they will examine parallels between global and local developments. Some examples of activities are: —to contrast attitudes of pioneers and native Americans toward land ownership and nature —to relate the Reformation to regional religions —to relate British music and dancing to Mountain music and dancing —to investigate how British culture and language in the 17th and 18th centuries adapted to the mountains 227 �—to show present land ownership patterns in Appalachia, examining how they reveal power structure and attitudes toward economic and ecological matters; to compare patterns here with those in Third World Countries. —To compare a mountain ecosystem to a coastal ecosystem, showing how human development is regulated by natural, economic, and political considerations. —to show how the principles learned in Civics class actually operate in the local political system. What are national and global parallels? Who controls power and resources? How can students get involved in the local decision-making process? (How are decisions made?) —How do social customs reflect the role of women? Men? Children? How is this shown in science? Literature? Religion? The Arts? How do different times and places settle these roles? The high school team will try to cram all of the above into one course next year. They hope that the one experimental class will evolve into four courses, each one building on the one before, that can act to help students synthesize their knowledge and begin to use it, while they learn creative reasoning and problem solving skills. The scheme would be compatible with state Scope and Sequence guidelines: 9th grade: Philosophical inquiry. Practical civics: how the government operates at the local level. Physical science with a philosophical approach. 10th grade: Humanities, the subject matter traditionally associated with this course, but with emphasis on regional literature, music, and so forth. llth grade: American History/American Literature. Concentration on American course content but showing how other developments and ideas are reflected in literature. 12th grade: Capstone Course—the History of Western Thought through English literature and the arts. These courses would be taught by teacher teams, for credit in lieu of regular English, Science or Social Studies courses. They would perhaps be taught in two or three hour blocs, with teams of teachers, to allow flexibility of planning or student activity such as field work and research. The above is an ideal plan, which would solve some very real problems with traditional education. However, it depends on action by policy makers, not just teachers, so it is doubtful if the plan will ever materialize fully. Problems in implementing the team's ideas will be more fully discussed below. Benefits None of our project ideas are new, unique, or revolutionary. In fact, most of our plan seems like such an obvious thing to do that we wonder why it hasn't been done as a matter of course. The benefits are legion; the drawbacks are practically nil. By moving the classroom into the community the following things happen: —Students already are interested in the subject matter —Students can test textbook knowledge against reality; they can begin to put together knowledge learned in various classes. —Teachers can enrich classes by drawing on community experts, resources, and facilities. —Students perform real tasks that can be of real benefit to the community. They can recognize busywork when they see it, and they resent it. —Student self esteem goes up: they are doing something real; and they begin to realize that their 228 �own families and experiences are valuable and constitute part of education. There are also many benefits from a situation that allows teachers to work together: —There can be division of labor. No one person has to become an expert on everything. —Time is used more efficiently, flexibly, and creatively —Teachers can enjoy peer interaction and can exchange ideas. This helps both the curriculum and teacher morale. It is obvious that the traditional education is not doing the job. One recent study showed that schools even promote juvenile delinquency because they separate students from the adult community and do not let them develop "meaningful social roles." ("Schools Can Create Delinquency," Educational R &D Report, Winter, 1982—3) Another study, in the same journal, revealed that experiential education is the most valuable element of an alternate curriculum for "marginal students." For every marginal student who drops out of school, there are surely dozens of more docile students who suffer in silence. This is an extravagant waste of teacher and student time which we can no longer afford. Eliot Wigginton, in the Introduction to Foxfire Six, makes an eloquent case for experiential education and for giving students real responsibilities both in the community, as part of their classwork, and within the schools. Our NHF project team is working toward this goal. Problems The Macon County team has run into plenty of problems. Many of them could be summarized as parts of one basic problem: the educational bureaucracy is sometimes so rigid and inflexible that it has difficulty responding to any innovation—particularly one from the grass roots level-teachers. Moreover, the hierarchy becomes so involved in keeping the system going that people forget what the primary task of the whole construction is—the education of students. For example, if something is difficult to schedule, the teachers and students must bend to fit the schedule. It should be the other way around—the schedule should be made to fit the needs of the students and teachers. Below are listed some general problems that we have noted. Like our curriculum, they are not new, either. But they should be noted and commented upon because one needs to be clear about the fact that no good idea is going to be successful unless the problems at the top are solved. • Educational needs should be kept in context. All too often, some new problem is noted and the policy makers get together some patchwork program to attack the symptom. They need to look at the system as a whole. • Policy makers should stop blaming the victim. Like a rape victim who finds that she is the one on trial, teachers often find themselves being blamed for a system that they have no control over. If teacher preparation is poor--who is responsible? The "experts" note some deficiency, like poor teaching of composition, and they immediately set up a workshop to teach the teachers. In many cases, the problem is not that the teacher doesn't know what to do, but that the classroom situation is so impossible that the necessary instruction cannot take place. No one can inspire a classroom full of Hemingways if there are 150 papers to grade every day. • Planners should consult the real experts when they are developing new programs. Teachers are the ones who know what is actually going on in the classroom: they know what is possible or not, what is useful or not. Some policy makers have not been in classrooms in years—if ever. How can they develop viable programs without input from teachers? 229 �• Teachers need time for planning and working together. One of their most pervasive complaints is that they work in isolation without time during the day for interaction with their peers. Too often good ideas never get around because the teacher has no way to communicate them to others. Educators should consider a technique which has proven fruitful in Japanese industry: quality circles, in which production workers have time built into their work day to get together and discuss ways to work and to improve their performance. Then they work as a team on the job. Essentially, we feel that educators at all levels must work together. Our project team has committed itself—has already given a lot of time and effort—to improve the quality of education that they can offer. But a successful effort needs support from all levels. Our project does show that educators at different levels can work together. We have been helped a great deal by our collaboration with Western Carolina University, who has provided us with guidance and resources that we could not otherwise had access to. The National Humanities Faculty is another effort, on the National Level, to get university people and public school teachers together. These efforts show how much can be accomplished, even when things do not always work perfectly. MEMBERS OF THE HUMANITIES PROJECT TEAM Franklin High School Sharon Johnson, team leader Frank D. Jones JoAnn Jones Mary Layne Macon Middle School Jerry Arnold Joann Clark Charles Yonce Project Coordinator Myra Jones University contact person Dr. Richard Berne, Western Carolina University NHF Advisor Dr. James Peacock, University-Chapel Hill For further information about the Macon County project, contact: Myra Jones, Macon County Schools, PO Box 1029, Franklin, NC 28734. (704)524-4414, or Dr. Richard Berne, Center for Environmental Education, Western Carolina University, Cullowhee, NC 28723 (704) 227-7476. 230 �Library Outreach in Eastern Kentucky Outreach to me is a two-way street. Professors don't mind being paid to teach the sons and daughters of mountain parents but often are fairly aghast at the idea that their academic institutions might have something to learn from the mountain parents of their students. I'm not at all uncomfortable with the idea of a university or a library having a community outreach program and hope that ofter this presentation we'll have time to discuss specific outreach programs and problems on the part of public, college, university and school libraries. Kentucky may be known for its beautiful women, fast horses, and bourbon whiskey; but to the library world we are known for our bookmobile program, reputed to be one of the most extensive and best in the country. Berea College put the first bookmobile on the road as early as 1916. It was a shelved delivery wagon with two horses and a student driver. The library staff member along distributed reading materials of all kinds—magazines and newspapers as gifts and books on loan and free Bibles to those requesting them. It was the dream of Miss Euphemia Corwin, Berea's librarian from 1903-1933 and the first professionally trained librarian in Kentucky. She and her staff in the library actually raised the money for the first three years; later the wagon was replaced by a truck and continued until 1943. In some counties in 1937 packhorses were used to tote the books up the hollows. Eventually hearses, ambulances and jeeps were carriers of books and librarians. In 1982 Kentucky had 123 modern commercial bookmobiles. They were practically custom-made and the problem was those bright, shining commercial bookmobiles cost $36,000 apiece. Ellen Hellard, Director of Kentucky's public library outreach, which is called Field Services Division, took one look at that $36,000 price tag and another look at bread vans. By converting bread vans into bookmobiles, Ellen has saved Kentucky taxpayers over $156,000 annually. By using prison labor to construct shelving, Ellen's "home-made" vans costs about $20,000. So the issue today is not so much the initial cost, but the maintenance cost and the philosophical questions: are bookmobiles still needed? Are they widely used by mountain people? According to the January 1982 Statistical Report of Kentucky Public Libraries and Archives, 75% of state-wide circulation comes from libraries and only 25% from bookmobiles. To compare the state-wide circulation average with use in Eastern Kentucky I looked at county percentages in the five Eastern Kentucky library regions: Buffalo Trace, Kentucky River, Cumberland Valley, Big Sandy, and FIVCO. I found that out of the 33 countries, only 6 had percentages matching or above the state-wide 75/25% average, so about 82% of the county libraries in these five regions do not conform to the state-wide statistics. In Leslie County, the library circulated 26,000 books, and Mason Collett, the bookmobile librarian, circulated 109,000 books. That's a 20% circulation for the library and an 80% circulation for the bookmobile. Several other counties also had high circulation figures for bookmobiles. One librarian I talked with was a little miffed at the way the state compiled its statistics. She claimed that people in her county didn't check out many library books from the bookmobile when it was in the garage or "tore up completely" and yet the state "averaged in" circulation figures from inoperable bookmobiles with those on the road. That seemed a little strange to lump circulation of broken and operating bookmobiles together, so I asked Frankfort for a definition of "bookmobile' and found she was right: three categories of bookmobiles are listed—operable, inoperable, and stationary—but all three categories are lumped together for statistical purposes. Well, let's assume that the bookmobile is "operable" and on the road in an Eastern Kentucky county. Where does it stop? Whom does it reach? I told you that the Leslie County bookmobile 231 �driver checked out 109,000 books. Considering that there are only about 14,000 people in Leslie County, his circulation averages about seven books per person. In neighboring Knott County, which has about 4,000 more people than Leslie County, the bookmobile driver checked out only 5,000 books. How come? And how could an outreach program in Appalachian Kentucky make more stops and reach more people? I think if I were a bookmobile driver I'd make scheduled stops at laundromats. That may seem odd, but I've never been in one in Eastern Kentucky that didn't contain a group of mothers and children. You think any of those busy mothers would mind if on a hot summer day the librarian took her children inside the air-conditioned bookmobile and presented a storyhour or puppet show? Do you think while she is waiting for her clothes to dry she herself would ignore a ten or fifteen minute program if it touched on one of her interests? People tell me that Appalachian women won't bring their children to a storyhour or library program. Well, I wouldn't drive my girls sixty miles round-trip for a twenty minute storyhour either; but if I were at the Health Department waiting several hours for my five year-old to get her shots for first grade I could be persuaded to let her step into the bookmobile for an interesting activity. One of the more successful bookmobile stops I know about occurred at a large factory during the lunch hour and during the fifteen minute morning and afternoon breaks, when the bookmobile driver set up a display in the cafeteria. One librarian told me: "Teenagers are the hardest group to reach; they never come to library programs." O.K., how about planning a program with a local beautician or hair stylist. Ask her to give a prize or a free haircut, and have a library program inside the shop: maybe on makeup or grooming, displaying related library books; hopefully eventually following up with some kind of discussion: how does how you look affect how you feel about yourself? Does where you live or your family background affect your self-image? Bookmobiles don't have to stop just at private homes; they can stop at garages, nursing homes, clinics, grocery stores, or day care centers. Do they? The Rural Child Care Program (RCCP), an East Kentucky Head Start program, reaches almost 1,000 children and their parents in 13 Eastern Kentucky counties. Pat Carroll, state-wide RCCP Educational Director, did a preliminary county-by-county survey, and found most bookmobiles do not even stop regularly at Rural Child Care Centers. Only one in the 13 county area presented storyhour programs for the preschool children or provided any programs for the parents who met regularly in the center. Pat is not pointing a finger at anybody, but she and I are going to go beyond the academic pondering of the situation and make a concerted effort to involve bookmobile librarians and RCCP preschool children in an experimental program. At this point I can only say that we intend to work with some very dedicated regional and county librarians to try to obtain a circulating preschool library for a five or six county area. I think it is possible that we can get statewide, regional and local support and cooperation for such a project. If it works, Pat may be here next year to tell you how we did it; if it doesn't work, we may be back anyway reporting the problems and asking for your advice. Speaking of advice, right before the conference I had to call Ellen Hellard with another puzzling question. I had figures to how some counties do very little outreach programming: Menifee County, for instance, gave a total of two library programs in 1981 and reported that they had reached an audience of 32 people during the year. Breathitt County, on the other hand, reported 128 programs and an audience of 17,340 people. Do you know how many people live in Breathitt County? There are 17,004. Now I'm from Eastern Kentucky and I've heard of dead people voting, but do dead 232 �people in Breathitt County also read books and attend library programs? Ellen had the answer: part of the problem has to do with a nonuniform system librarians use in reporting "library audience," but the interesting thing is the Breathitt County librarian doesn't consider the library to be just a place for books—she apparently thinks the library building is a sort of community center for any group or organization that wants to hold a public meeting or present a program for the community. In Breathitt's case both the bookmobile and the building function in a kind of "open door" outreach manner. Suppose you are interested in working in a library that has this kind of community center approach. Let's say you've been teaching in Jefferson County making $17,000 a year; but you want to come home to the mountains and work with books and people of various ages. Since you have just a bachelor's degree, you'll have to go back to graduate school: the minimum requirement of library director is a master's degree or a college degree with 21 hours in library science. So you invest a year of your time and all your savings to go to library school. Suppose you are especially bright, work extra hard, graduate with honors, and get the job of Library Director of Robertson County. In 1981, the director of that library was paid $5,141. That's pretty austere: besides, Robertson County only has 2,270 people. So you move on to a larger county (5,117 people) and a higher salary—$89 more a year, or a grand total of $5,230. If you wanted to move to a bigger place you could go to Wolfe County, but you'd have to supervise more people—and take a $406 cut in salary! $4,824 is what the boss makes in Wolfe County. Where could you go in Eastern Kentucky, with your Master's degree and your commitment, and make your Louisville public school salary? If you take all the salaries of all the library directors in those five library regions in Eastern Kentucky and eliminate the two highest and the two lowest salaries, the average is less than half of what you were making as a public school teacher with less education and fewer supervisory duties. There are only three counties in Eastern Kentucky where you could make $17,000 or more and I hate to tell you, but those jobs are taken. The people in Frankfort know they are not going to get people with Master's degrees to work for minimum wage, so they did what the school people did when Eastern Kentucky schools couldn't meet accreditation standards—they lowered the standards. For any county with a population of 15,000 or less, the library director doesn't have to have a Master's degree; the director doesn't even have to have a college degree; you can substitute eight years of library experience and fifteen hours of library science. Actually the state has no way of enforcing these or any other qualifications for staff. The local library board can hire anyone it chooses for any salary that person is willing to accept. Frankfort recognizes the problem and has some pretty novel ways to encourage library boards to hire qualified people and pay them more, but some of the most dedicated librarians I know work for five, six and seven thousand dollars a year. They must love their work. The state and counties may not be able to provide adequate financing for public libraries, but they have come up with two new exciting programs: CATCH 'EM IN THE CRADLE and READ TO YOUR CHILD FOR THE FUN OF IT. If you've ever had a baby or visited a friend in the maternity ward, you may have noticed that some companies offer a welcome wagon kind of package to new mothers: a free box of Pampers from Procter & Gamble, baby oil from Johnson and Johnson, a sample copy of Parents magazine. Your friendly library is now offering a freebie: a promotional kit of materials designed to encourage the new parents to talk and read to their your children and to visit and use the resources provided by the local library. Kentucky officials maintain that 50% of the intellectual development of a child takes place between the child's birth and four 233 �years of age and that parents are important teachers. READ TO YOUR CHILD FOR THE FUN OF IT is a state-wide campaign. Some county librarians are offering these parents, non-library users, a pamphlet promoting reading which they hand out. Other county librarians are enthusiastic about this year-old campaign and are doing some very interesting promotions. There are problems, no question about that. I noticed as I was interviewing for this presentation that one particular librarian was entirely unimpressed by my own enthusiasm for the role bookmobiles could play in the Read to Your Child effort. She said: "Nobody believes in bookmobiles anymore." I said: "Ellen Hellard believes in bookmobiles; she and some of the Frankfort staff I interviewed seemed committed to rural outreach. They think bookmobiles are needed and they can demonstrate the program is cost-effective." The librarian looked me in the eye and said: "Neither you nor Ellen Hellard have ever driven my bookmobile one mile on the roads in this county. Don't either of you talk to me about the value of bookmobiles in Eastern Kentucky until you've spent a week behind the wheel and under the hood. As soon as I can I'm going to get rid of my bookmobile. It's more trouble than it's worth." More than one Appalachian librarian has shared her frustration with maintenance problems on older vehicles and some Kentucky librarians are petitioning the state office to let their county eliminate bookmobile service. Some of the people most opposed to bookmobile service are bookmobile librarians; their problems are very real, but I hope there will be people here at the conference who will want to address the present needs and the future of bookmobile outreach in the mountains. Several decades ago, Berea had a kind of human bookmobile for over 40 years in the form of Henrietta Child, who carried books and told stories on her walks to one-room schools up the hollows. Today the Berea College Librarian has appointed an Outreach Committee to investigate ways the library might serve the townspeople—young and old as well as students. I wondered if any other colleges in Eastern Kentucky were involved in a similar evaluation or already had outreach extension programs. Did any college follow up on Jim Wayne Miller's assertion that colleges should work with local high schools to help them enhance or even start regional collections? Are there children's literature professors who do storyhour programs in Day Care or Head Start Centers? How may librarians do book review columns for local newspapers or make it a point to tell high school teachers aobut recent publications? I sent a survey to twenty colleges in Eastern Kentucky and got a wide range of responses. Some schools are quite clear that their resources, their libraries are reserved for the student body only. Eastern Kentucky University, which is 19 miles from the nearest public library, does not allow any child or adult in the county to check out a children's book from E.K.U.'s extensive children's collection. Most colleges, however, take the position that it is true that their resources are primarily for students and professors, but that the school is part of the community and has a commitment to be of service to the region. As long as community use does not interfere with student use, most libraries will allow both adults and children to check out books, visit exhibits, attend programs, view films, etc. Cumberland College is rather exceptional: they've never had KEEP OUT! signs on campus; administrators were not worried that too many community people would try to use the library—they were concerned that not enough people were using it! The college sent out 1000 survey forms to find out what they could do, followed up with requested programs in genealogy and oral history, instituted workshops and announced that the year-long Outreach Campaign resulted in the issuance of over 375 non-student new library cards. 234 �I've wondered if some elementary and high schools have few Appalachian books in their libraries because they didn't have enough information about what was available. A very generous man in Berea and a neat lady have supplied a new resource. The generous man is Al Perrin and the lady is me, and the resource is CHOOSING BOOKS FOR APPALACHIAN CHILDREN, a 300-page spiral-bound annotated bibliography of over 500 in-print children and young adult books with Appalachian settings, characters, themes, or authors. Most of the reviewers (Booklist, Appalachian Journal, Appalachian Notes) have found the second section particularly interesting: it contains curriculum suggestions and related activities for teachers, parents, and librarians. There are only three places in the world where you or a school or an Appalachian Studies Program can get a copy: directly from me (Route 2, Box 328, Berea, KY 40403), from George Brosi, or from the Council of the Southern Mountains bookstore, both in Berea. Al and I saw a need for this bibliography and now we are involved in a related project: compiling an Appalachian Children's Traveling Library. As we sell CHOOSING BOOKS FOR APPALACHIAN CHILDREN, the money is being used to purchase the books in the bibliography and make them available to school, public and academic libraries and other interested groups on a loan basis. In a sense buying the bibliography ($12.00 plus $1.50 for postage) will also buy children's books for a junior high teacher doing a social studies unit on coal because she can borrow a whole shelf of books (fiction and non-fiction) that deal with coal mining in the mountains. A preschool teacher can try out a series of loaned picture books before she spends her limited funds; a county librarian can offer an interested patron a book she might not buy for the library. A children's literature professor or Appalachian Studies teacher may want to borrow books for a week for a special discussion on Appalachian children's literature. If you are interested or know of a teacher or organization that would be, let me know. If you need a resource person or someone to make a presentation along with the books, ask me. Any expertise I have I am willing to share. Judy Martin A Report on the East Kentucky Grass Roots Poetry Project Grassroots began with Gurney and me sitting on the grass last summer in front of the Administration Building. We were trying to figure how to get money for words. The 1980 Appalachian Poetry Project, officially over at the end of that year, had continued to encourage writers in the region through volunteer efforts and the support of the Appalachian Center. But we felt a need to move beyond the campus and our mailing list. We wanted to promote a more direct recognition and celebration of Appalachian voices. The original project had done 18 workshops in 5 states, but funding was easier to come by then. Perhaps we could do something just in Kentucky. And how about not only writing but reading workshops, teaching workshops? Not for a selfselecting group of already-interested writers but for public school teachers and students. Why not? We could put the work in their hands. That's how it got started. So when John Stephenson asked if I'd like to work on a grant proposal to fund the Appalachian Component of theWomenWritersConferencefor 1983, I said yes, not knowing that these two projects were going to collide or embrace or at least get tangled together. As I began working on the proposal, I found that the Kentucky Humanities Council wanted to fund public school projects, expecially ones based in Eastern Kentucky. Thus it made sense to have the Women Writers Con235 �ference participation in the spring be the culminating event of a larger effort to let mountain voices be heard. With this in mind, I came up with the following plan: The fall would consist of 5 district-wide workshops with teachers aimed at providing an introduction to poetry from the region along with some demonstrations of ways to teach it. For these workshops, I would prepare a unit of poetry selected for classroom use, suggestions for teaching, writing exercises, a bibliography, and a list of regional periodicals. Each teacher attending the workshops would get in-service credit along with one of the teaching units. Two weeks later I would come back to each county and do a shorter writing workshop with interested students. To set this up I worked through the Department of Education in Frankfort. Once they okay'd the workshops as in-service, I began calling instructional supervisors to find districts which would participate. I had to contact 14 counties to get 5 committed to the project, though it cost the schools nothing but in-kind donations of space and supervisors' time. During each phone call, I stressed that I myself was from Harlan Co. and that the main goal of the project was to increase students' enjoyment of and skill with language by introducing them to poetry from their own place. According to the original schedule, all these workshops would be finished by Thanksgiving and the project would lie dormant till March, when each district would have a writer from the region available to meet classes for one day. Then in April, these writers, along with 3 others, would come to the Women Writers Conference, present a panel on writers in the schools, and give a reading which would be videotaped for distribution to the 5 districts. That way, though Grassroots would formally close down at the end of May, the schools in Laurel, Leslie, Clay, Owsley, and Harlan counties would have a tape of 6 readings along with the teaching unit to build on the next year. Well, almost all of this but the Writers Conference has come to pass. Jo Carson, Lee Howard, and I have gone into the schools; Maggie Anderson, Betsy Sholl, and Jane Wilson Joyce will join us for the panel and reading at the conference, where Jo will also be a featured reader. Certainly the fall portion of Grassroots is ripe for evaluation. I find myself still too close to the work to do that more than superficially, however. I know that I learned a lot. To begin with, I found out that grant proposals can be funded and so the writer should not promise more than funds and human energy can cover. Ten workshops in 5 counties turned out to be a great many, especially since I had to coordinate as well as run them, all the while holding other jobs. The work was at least 3/4 time and should have been funded as such. In trying to be realistic about funding possibilities I was unrealistic about many other things. Second, I encountered three areas of resistance in the teaching workshops: some people were offended at the politics of some poets; others were offended at poems that did not rhyme; many felt caught in a double bind being asked to teach poetry which used "bad" grammar or "strong" language. All these people raised basic issues about the nature and purpose of poetry. I addressed the issue as best I could according to the size and disposition of the group. Looking back I wish I had been a bit bolder. As it was I tried to keep as many doors open as possible. Third, I discovered that I should have limited the number of workshop participants, stressing that only those really interested in teaching poetry and in writing take part. The necessity for this did not occur to me, but crowds of 48 teachers and 125 students, some of whom were bored into rudeness, made it clear. 236 �Finally, it would have been more effective to make a greater difference in the teacher and student workshops because many of the teachers attended both. Interested in writing themselves, they came back for more, only to find some exercises and illustrations repeated. All in all, I think Grassroots has been worthwhile. Some students who had never liked writing apparently wrote with eagerness. Some teachers were enthusiastic about teaching poetry from the region. Teachers and students alike responded to tapes of writers reading their own work—Jo Carson, Lee Howard, Gurney Norman, Jim Wayne Miller, Jane Joyce—their live words said more about voice than all my generalizations and they testified to the nourishing power of what Stevens called "the bread of faithful speech." George Ella Lynn Developing an Appalachian Literature Anthology We are developing an anthology of Southern Appalachian Mountain literature suitable for secondary use. The need for such a textbook has been expressed by many secondary teachers who have an interest in regional cultural resources and have been trained in area teachers colleges and universities in this content area. Since the rediscovery of Appalachia in the 1960's, Appalachians have taken a close look at their culture. Courses focusing on Appalachia have flourished within the region. Along with this renewed interest in Appalachia have come an avalanche of books and articles and countless symposia, workshops, and professional organizations. Almost all the colleges and universities within the region have some type of Appalachian studies program. This is not an academic fad nor a local color movement. On the contrary, courses and research activities now have become a regular part of the curricula of higher education with some schools now offering a major or minor in Appalachian studies. Additionally, the American Bicentennial caused Americans, both academic and the general public, to examine and value their regional history and culture. As Flannery O'Conner writes in Mystery and Manners, "A descent into one's self will be a descent into one's region." This study of values and traditions of the region makes people think of where they have been and examine it in light of where they are going. This search for and prizing of regional values becomes even more important with increasing cultural standardization. The culture of Appalachia does not belong only to those now living there. Frederick Jackson Turner points out that the American character is shaped by the frontier—frontier values which still persist here in Appalachia which was once the American frontier. These are the values and traditions carried with the westward movement. These are the values and traditions also found today in the industrial cities of Dayton and Detroit and Akron and Cleveland to which over two million Appalachians have migrated since 1940. These are basic values and traditions. Elliott Wigginton with his phenomenal Foxfire success underscores a latent interest in Appalachia awakened to its potential. Foxfire illustrates the oral tradition which grew out of the old Southwest Territory that is part of Appalachia today. Wigginton's work has focused on the "how to's" of Appalachia; however, he has also uncovered the Appalachian's proclivity to make a story for every point he wishes to illustrate. This is a land of storytelling. 237 �Public and private secondary school teachers schooled in Appalachian colleges and universities and aware of public interest in regional culture earnestly want to include native material in their curricula. Such material, if available, would have use in the 4,500 secondary schools of Appalachia. This material could be used in social studies classes; however, its greatest use would be in language arts. Every high school requires American literature for graduation. Because Appalachian literature is a sub-genre of American literature, it could augment that required course. Also many secondary schools have elective programs with semester courses designed thematically or according to genre. For eight years we have taught Appalachian studies to high school students. We find the subject matter of these classes exciting even to students who are otherwise apathetic. The student participation and passing ratio is the highest of all classes we teach. Though these classes continue to be a part of the curriculum, there is no textbook available for use. Rather, we have xeroxed and dittoed as copyrights permit at great expense and trouble. Other teachers "make do" as we have. We are assembling a textbook composed of Appalachian literary material: poems, short stories, excerpts from novels, articles and essays written by both known and unknown Appalachian writers. We are also including material from traditional sources such as ballads, anecdotes, legends and proverbs. There is a section on dialect. The text is thematically arranged around the following dominant topics: our heritage (culture and traditions); our legacy and loss (natural wealth and technological exploitation); our legends and lore (heroes, heroines, and legendary stories); our independence and self reliance (frontier character of mountaineers); family ties and kindred strengths (family unity and reliance upon kin). We envision this text to be approximately 350 pages which is a suitable length for use during one semester. It will be illustrated with works of Appalachian visual artists. There will be chapter introductions, headnotes on the literary sections, media suggestions, and follow-up activities. Because of the traditional content of the literature which we include, this text will dovetail with the current emphasis on education in the basics. Yet it will rise above provincialism to show these themes as universal. We feel that this text has tremendous possibilities because there is no textbook which deals with the roots of America's past in this fashion. Nellie McNeil 238 �Abstracts 239 �This page intentionally left blank �Involving Youth in Appalachian Studies: Collaborative Effort between University and High School Faculties Grace Toney Edwards & Joyce L. Graham Realizing that the study of Appalachia is important to all age groups within the region, we began a project last spring. Ultimately, it will involve university faculty, high school faculty, high school students, and experts in the field of Appalachian Studies. The collaborative efforts involved in this project will provide participants with a wide range of opportunities for interaction with people genuinely interested in regional affairs. A program on this project would include a look at "Awareness of Appalachian Heritage: History, Oral Tradition, Music, Crafts, and Literature," a grant funded by the National Endowment for the Humanities. The project originated with the thought that Appalachian youth (ages 13—18) need the opportunity to focus on their own cultural heritages without the structure found in an academic setting. Funded from January - December, 1983, the grant will involve thirty youth from Montgomery County, Virginia, in a three-month educational program, a living/learning experience, and ongoing individual projects that will be presented to local audiences (i.e. churches, 4-H clubs, etc.). During the program, information concerning all facets of the project will be discussed. Initially, the audience will be informed about the NEH grant application process. Materials concerning the solicitation of applications and screening of applicants will be distributed. Finally, the educational experiences available to the grant participants will be presented. Throughout the program, an emphasis will be placed on the importance of, and procedures used in, educational programs for all age groups. Suggestions will be made on ways to facilitate a program of cultural significance. It is our belief that educating young people about their cultural heritage will enhance their social and intellectual development. As Jim Wayne Miller stressed in the May, 1982, edition of Appalink, this is a crucial time to involve secondary school students in studies of Appalachia. This program's main focus will be to suggest specific ways in which high school students can participate in cultural enrichment programs. 241 �Black Hillbilly Music: Black Influence in Non-Blues, Secular Music in the Southern Mountains Edward J. Cabbell It was not until hillbilly music, or country music as it is called today, became nationally popular that a large segment of the American population began to take a second look at the music of the Southern mountains. And for those music scholars and enthusiasts wondering where the music of this region, with its undertones of sorrow and its sweet but harsh melodies came from, they can find the answer in the music of black Appalachians and its relationship to their struggles in the hills and valleys of the Appalachian South and nearby Piedmont. The meeting of the African banjo and the European fiddle introduced the rhythm necessary for what we call mountain music and the clogging or flat foot dance that usually goes along with it. Although few black musicians today are exemplars of this unique non-blues, secular music tradition their influence remains very strong among most white musicians in the Appalachian South. Moreover, since non-blues black musicians traditionally have not been recorded unless they were involved with gospel or jazz it is extremely difficult to do any major documentation of these unique black musicians. This paper will provide a general overview of available information on black hillbilly musicians and their influence on the music of the Southern mountains. Lily May Ledford and the Coon Creek Girls: Radio's First All-Girl String Band Ellesa Clay High This presentation would discuss Lily May Ledford, an old-time musician born in 1917 in the Red River Gorge area of Kentucky, and who was the lead performer of the Coon Creek Girls, a group generally regarded as the first all-girl string band on radio. In 1936, when she was just nineteen years old, Lily May joined the popular "National Barn Dance" at WLS Radio in Chicago. Later, she and the Coon Creek Girls spent eighteen years performing for both live and radio audiences at Renfro Valley, Kentucky. Soon after the band was organized, it played for the Roosevelts and the King and Queen of England at the White House. In recent years, Lily May has come out of retirement and now performs as a solo act at folk and old-time music festivals and concerts. Though she plays a variety of instruments, including the fiddle, guitar, and bass, she is best known for her hard-driving, old-time mountain style of banjo picking. This presentation would center around taped excerpts from two radio documentaries concerning Lily May Ledford and the Coon Creek Girls, which were written, researched and narrated by Ellesa 242 �Clay High. These documentaries, which include early original recordings of the group and other more recent music performed by Lily May, were prepared for National Public Radio and aired over the national network during 1982. In addition to these excerpts and other commentary by Ellesa High, the presentation also would be highlighted by photographs of Lily May, the Coon Creek Girls, and the Red River Gorge. Oral Histories of Appalachian Women—By Women Joy Hunt "While the term oral history is of recent coinage, the fact is that oral history is as old as history itself—it was the first type of history." (Ellesa Migh, "Oral History...," unpublished paper, p. 5.) As a distinct research method, however, oral history took a big step forward in the 1960's, with the appearance of such tools as inexpensive cassette recorders. "Oral history is particularly effective for recording the way of life of those who have relied on spoken rather than written traditions and have felt alienated from the dominant culture." (Ibid., p. 3.) Not surprisingly therefore, oral history looms disapportionately large in studies of two oppressed groups: women and Appalachians. And it is not surprising that some of the most empathetic and effective oral histories are being done by members of the groups, i. e., studies of women by women; studies of Appalachians by Appalachians (e.g., Our Appalachia); and studies of Appalachian women by women who are either native born or who are living in Appalachia, sharing the lives of the women they interview. (An example would be Kathy Kahn's Hillbilly Women, although it contains contemporary interviews as well as history.) Because recollections of interviewers are acts of imagination as well as sheer reportage, oral history tends to combine fact and reflections on those facts. This does not render oral accounts less accurate than written histories. But it does mean that some oral historians are consciously combining it with fiction, biography, autobiography, etc. An example might be Harriet Arnow's The Dollmaker. Last, one of the effects of doing oral history with members of oppressed groups is that interviewees begin to explore their roots, to express themselves easily, and to draw the historian into an appreciation of their world. They enhance their capacity to celebrate themselves, as individuals and as a group. My colleagues and I are proposing a panel that would celebrate Appalachian women with oral her/stories done by women who are living in central and northern Appalachia. In addition to introductory and bibliographic material about oral history in general, we would share our worksin-progress with residents of the Red River Gorge, with Black Appalachian women in Ohio, with older Appalachian women in southeastern Ohio, and with women in Appalachia-based intentional communities for personal/social change. The focus is on oral her/story and the major research method is taped oral interviews. But some of the panelists are also working with other genre: fiction, journals, and library research. 243 �It would be exciting to expand this celebration of Appalachian women by including other presenters and other media, e.g., Joyce Hancock's celluloid contribution, Kizzie's Garden, which was presented first at the ASA 1981 annual meeting. If it is not possible to include the entire panel in the 1983 meeting, I would be interested in presenting a single paper as part of another panel. Some of the other panelists may be similarly interested. Women's Work, Women's Lives: Factory Labor and Its Impact On Women in Western North Carolina Mary Anglin My research on women in Western North Carolin is posed against conventional descriptions which typify Appalachian women as a homogeneous group whose lives center around their functions as farmers' wives and members of extended kins networks. Rather than assume that Appalachian society, and women's experiences within that setting, have been and are based on static social patterns, I argue that Appalachia has been experiencing different forms of economic development since its initial settlement and that it is thus impossible to speak of social patterns as if they were invariant over time or even across the region. To understand the meaning of Appalachian women's lives, it is necessary to locate our studies within the context of a historical analysis. Moreover, it is vital that such an analysis include an examination of Appalachian women's class positions, since what it means to be a woman, in Appalachia as elsewhere, is dependent upon the existing class structure. My research on women in a rural county in Western North Carolina is an attempt to develop this perspective, by studying the wage labor women have performed since the early 1900's—focusing in particular upon their work in textile industries—and by relating women's work involvement to other aspects of their lives. In particular, I have been concerned with the relation of the waged labor that women perform to the changing (i.e., narrowing) nature of women's domestic labor. While women in the area I am studying are still involved in farm work and other subsistence activities, it is evident that the extent of their involvement has been undermined by their commitment to their jobs. It is not simply a question of having less time or energy for farm work. Women's productive roles have increasingly become defined as the work they perform for a wage, and their wages are used to purchase the goods and services they once performed for their families. With these changes in women's productive roles come other changes—in the value placed on women's work, in the roles they perform as members of their families, and in women's conceptions of their lives. My research is equally concerned with these latter issues, which, taken together, speak to the reorienting of women's lives in relation to their position as members of the working class in a rural area where class relations are becoming more sharply defined. 244 �"We're Looking to Work:" The Future of the Workplace in Appalachia Dick Futrell Many dreams have been dreamed about Appalachia, its resources, its people and its availability as a stage for social action. Outsiders with visions of riches to be taken, and resolutions to be fought; and insiders with visions of fortunes to be made, and enemies to be vanquished, have found the region a fertile ground for their ideas and intentions. All in all, anyone who is interested in the Appalachian region for whatever reasons, will fall somewhere along continuums such as these. The region has a unique mystic quality which continually evokes the interest of all sorts of entrepreneurs—economic, moral, political, historical and social. This session locates its interests in economic realms of action. Specifically, we will consider the topic of the workplace in Appalachia. We will host three panels, each taking a different perspective on work and the contexts within which it is done. The first panel will focus on selected "private sector" attempts at economic development. The core of this panel will consist of entrepreneurs of the "classical" small business mold who have developed industry in the mountains. These folks will present and discuss lessons and insights they have gained through their promotion of small scale industry and its models of the workplace. The second panel will shift the focus of attention from private enterprise to the strategies and experience of the rural industrial cooperative effort and it's models of the workplace. The core of this panel will also consist of people who have been involved in actual attempts at applying this mode of organizing economic production and the workplace. The third panel will again refocus the interest by shifting the emphasis to the household as a productive economic enterprise. This panel will also consist of people with practical experience. All panels will include at least one member whose interests are primarily theoretical. The purpose of this is to provide an opportunity for beginning a synthesis of theoretical and practical perspectives on defining, once again, the problems of economic organization in the mountains. A basic assumption of the entire session is that alternative networks of economic activity can be formed out of private enterprise, community-based producer cooperatives, and productive households. The intent of the panels is to explore the opportunities for cooperatively linking these three modes of organizing production through mechanisms such as regional barter systems, cooperative marketing ventures, and mutual benefit exchange networks. The session will conclude by beginning a dialogue among practitioners and theorists of the different economic modes of action represented on the panels. We will be looking to alternative strategies to follow in future entrepreneurship and workplace development in the Appalachian mountains. The emphasis will be on utilizing practical experience to define the problem faced when developing production in the mountains. 245 �The sessions can be of various lengths. We can plan a "long" version with each panel taking 45 minutes to 1 hour and the entire session taking 3 to 4 hours. Alternatively, we can plan a short version with each perspective represented on a single panel or discussion group and limit the time to about 1 and 1/2 hours. The longer session with three panels is preferable and would allow an as yet unspecified mixture of presentation modes. These may include visual (such as video tape, movies and slides); performing arts (such as music, folk tales, readings); and any other creative methods of presenting ideas and stimulating thought we can come up with. Highlander in the Center of Black Southern Politics: The Problems and Prospects of Interracial Cooperation in Social Change William H. Turner, Ph.D. The general public and students of the Civil Rights Movement are led to study the gloss "great man/woman and highly-visible organizations' of that period. As well, much of the well-known scholarly work on the era, the personalities, events, and the issues of the Movement tend to focus on persons, ideas, and events after the fact of their familiarity has become apparent to the public. This paper traces the 'adult educational services' made available to grass roots organizations, emergent community leaders, and political organizers by the Highlander Center...including the developments in Lowndes County, Mississippi which led to the basis for independent black political parties in that state (the Mississippi Freedom Democratic Party), the training had there by Septima Clark of John's Island, South Carolina, Rosa Parks of Birmingham, Alabama, and Dr. Martin Luther King of the Southern Christian Leadership Conference. Overall, the paper examines the Center for its role in catalyzing the black civil rights movement in the South during the 1950s and 1960s as well as the benefit to it of working the blacks—the classical experiment in theory and practice of organizing desperate communities: black and white organizers. The Class Experience of Appalachian Coal Miners Michael Yarrow In this paper I will explore the class experience of Appalachian coal miners. In the first part of the paper I will aim to distill the fundamental factors which shape that experience both in the ways it is shared by workers other than coal miners and in the ways it is distinctive to Appalachian coal miners. I will consider briefly the domains of property relations, work, community and culture. 246 �After this brief consideration of the objective factors shaping the class experience of Appalachian miners, I will scrutinize how miners perceive and understand their class experience. I will address the question of how miners see the class dynamics in their lives by combing through the 75 transcribed interviews with 50 miners I have conducted in central Appalachia between 1978 and 1982. The resulting montage, I will argue, suggests a number of characteristic class analyses making different interpretations of the data. These class analyses imply different class stances vis-a-vis class peers and bosses. Which of these available analyses miners adopt depends to a considerable degree on their estimation of the consequences of taking the various class stances. The consequences of taking a given class stance vary with changes in the political economy of the nation in general, the coal industry in particular and the condition of the miners union. On the micro level of the work group and the community the consequences are also affected by how the class stances are labeled and the treatment accorded them by class peers and bosses. Staying Alive, Chemical Hazards in Maintenance Work Paul Becker Many building and construction trades workers spend much of their working lives carrying out manufacturing and reconstruction in chemical and maintenance plants. Compared to their fellow workers inside these plants, their exposures to toxic chemicals are difficult to characterize, and these workers lack basic information on the risks they face from these chemicals. Because these workers often move from site to site, and because the channel of information on toxic chemicals much go from plant personnel to contractor to building trades union, little precautions are taken to prevent chemical exposure. However, these exposurs can be quite serious. Chemical hazards in welding, exposure to asbestos and solvents, as well as chemicals manufactured or used in chemical processes may result in higher exposures while doing maintenance work than when operating the plant. The Institute for Labor Studies has received requests for training in the nature and prevention of exposure to toxic chemicals under these circumstances. In response a seven part slide/tape training program has been developed to aid building trades workers recognize chemical hazards on the job. The program consists of the following seven segments: Welding Confined Spaces Hazards Lockout and Tagout Solvent Exposures Chemical Hazards in Demolition Work Protection Against Chemical Exposure Union Strategies for Preventing Workplace Chemical Exposures Each segment includes narratives by West Virginia workers highlighting hazardous conditions they have experienced. These experiences are followed by generalized descriptions of the hazard at issue and ways in which the hazard can be abated. 247 �Reclaiming Our Health: Grass Roots Epidemiology Along Yellow Creek, Kentucky Sabrina Cherry The Appalachian region has been plagued by numerous incidences of improper handling, treatment, and storage of toxic substances. Yellow Creek, Kentucky, which has been polluted for at least fourteen years by industrially tainted treatment plant effluent including carcinogenic heavy metals, is one example. For the last two years, the Yellow Creek Concerned Citizens have organized to clean-up the creek, provide safe drinking water, enforce environmental legislation, and protect their health. In the summer of 1981, the Yellow Creek Concerned Citizens formed a Health Survey Committee to document health problems related to pollution and asked the Center for Health Services to assist their effort. Using the help of regional epidemiologists and toxicologists, students from the Center and the Survey Committee designed a survey which could document the health status of the population along Yellow Creek, the nature of their exposure to the pollution, and the rates of disease incidence when compared to county, state, and national data. In the summer of 1982, the Survey Committee and students from the Center conducted surveys on 1000 creek residents. The response rate was excellent. Less than twenty people refused to take survey. Citizens group members conducted the interviews in pairs, spending much time away from family and work to do so. The surveys are currently being coded and will then be analyzed, hopefully making results available at this conference. The health survey will serve as baseline health information on residents along the Creek and lend clues as to what health effects are developing from the long standing pollution problem. Our goal is that the survey will generate additional evidence to encourage the appropriate governmental agencies to enforce the environmental regulations on the City and the tannery (the industry generating the waste), and to take action to alleviate the threat to local residents' health and well-being. The survey has been a unique action taken by a citizens group consuming many hours of volunteer time, involving the teaching and mastering of very technical skills, and reflecting the tenuine concern and commitment of the Yellow Creek Concerned Citizens. This survey, in its design and implementation, can serve as model for community based epidemiology. Our presentation will focus on the process of designing a study, combining citizen, student, and professional resources, and particular strategies used in implementation. We will provide information and encouragement to other citizens groups interested in duplicating similar efforts in their own community. 248 �Appalachian Environmental Education for Elementary Teachers: The Pine Mountain Journals, 1980-83 Walter P. Oldendorf This 30 minute slide/tape presentation explores the experiences of elementary science education teacher candidates at Pine Mountain Settlement School's Environment Education Center, Harlan County, Kentucky. Selections from student journals are matched with scenes of the beauty of Pine Mountain contrasted with the destruction of the strip mines. Under the leadership of Mary Rogers, Pine Mountain teacher since 1942, students reflect on the relationship between people and their physical environment in Appalachia. Students also discuss the progressive educational heritage of Pine Mountain Settlement School and its implications for their classrooms. Curriculum guides and textbooks may "mandate'' what a teacher does in the classroom, but the ultimate curriculum is a reflection of the teacher's values as much as formal direction. If teachers do not feel that environmental education is important, it will not be taught in any significant way. The Pine Mountain experience offers an excellent example of how teachers can acquire environmental values crucial to the Appalachian region, and learn ways of teaching those values that are uniquely effective. A High School Festival Can Work Shirley Underwood In a Knox County, Tennessee school with almost 1,000 students in grades 9-12 a major threeday celebration of our Appalachian heritage brought high praise and great joy to all persons involved. Although not an outgrowth of an Appalachian Studies class (none existed in the school at the time), the festivities involved all students, most of the staff, and many area citizens as both spectators and active participants. During the celebration one full day was designated oral traditional day (story-telling and music), the second day was community involvement day (emphasis on crafts and oral history presented by local citizenry), and the final day was author day with six regional writers presenting their works to the entire Powell High School student body through English classes. The presentation will feature a report of the activities, slides and/or videotapes of various phases of the event and an actual step-by-step plan for planning such a festival. Emphasis will be centered on utilizing resources within the school and the community. 249 �Old Men and New Schools in the Mountains: A Gallery of Legendary Uncles David E. Whisnant Many of the mission and settlement schools established in the mountains after the mid-1890s tied their local and larger public images to a legendary "old man of the mountains," in response to whose call the school was supposedly established and through whose warrant it achieved part of its legitimacy and stature both within and beyond the community. Uncle Sol Everidge of Hindman Settlement School and Uncle William Creech of Pine Mountain Settlement School were the best known, but there were others such as Uncle Luce Scroggs of the John C. Campbell Folk School, Abisha Johnson of Alice Lloyd College, and lesser known ones. My paper will sketch the existence of this gaggle of uncles and explore the pattern of assumptions, values, intentions, and effects implicit in it. I will consider especiallly the cultural and political dimensions of the legends that were constructed around the old men, and their possible implications for achieving a better historical understanding of the educational and cultural enterprises with which they were associated. Where the Old New River Flows: Contemporary Folk Music in Summers County, West Virginia Deborah], Thompson Discussions concerning the question "What is Appalachian folk music?" have arisen within and without the region ever since Cecil Sharpe, John C. Campbell, and other early collectors first captured the music with pen or recorder. When Randi Silnutzer and I came to Summers County (in which Pipestem Park is located), our intention was to interview and tape musicians in the county and let them define their own music. Through a slide/tape show and discussion of our findings, we would like to communicate a sense of the area and its musical culture. Special attention will be paid to the range of musical adaptations we found within a continuous tradition, in our attempt to determine which changes intrude upon and which are in harmony with the folk culture. 250 �Mountain Masters: Slaveholding in Western North Carolina John C. Inscoe An examination of slaveholders and their black property in the mountain counties of North Carolina refutes the common assumption that slavery played little part in antebellum life in the Southern Appalachians. Despite the relatively small number of slaves in the region, the social and economic impact of the "peculiar institution" was considerable. The demands of mountain farming alone could never have justified the labor force of even the few slaves in the area, nor was the output of those farms sufficient to support, much less profit by, those slaves. Yet slavery not only proved profitable to most western North Carolinian slaveholders; in contrast to other parts of the upper South, both the number and value of mountain slaves were increasing on the eve of the Civil War. Mountain slaveholders differed most from their counterparts elsewhere in the South in the diversity of their economic activity. With few exceptions, the largest slaveholders had sources of income derived from non-agricultural enterprises. They were doctors, lawyers, merchants, hotel-owners, and real estate investors. Through many of them were farmers as well, there is no correlation between the size of their slaveholdings and that of their cultivated lands. Rather mountain masters found other means of utilizing and profiting from their black labor forces, either in their own business ventures or by hiring them out, which proved particularly profitable during the region's mining boom in the early 1830s and railroad construction in the late 1850s. The successful application of slave labor to the mountain economy demonstrates that it was flexible and adaptable to situations other than large-scale agricultural production. Because these mountain masters also provided the initiative, the entreneurial spirit and the leadership that led to considerable economic development and growth in western North Carolina during the antebellum era, they and their ownership of slaves proved far more influential to the social and economic character of the Southern Appalachians than has generally been recognized. 251 � Dublin Core The Dublin Core metadata element set is common to all Omeka records, including items, files, and collections. For more information see, http://dublincore.org/documents/dces/. Title A name given to the resource Appalachian Consortium Press Publications Description An account of the resource This collection contains digitized monographs and collections from the Appalachian Consortium Press. Creator An entity primarily responsible for making the resource Appalachian Consortium Press Publisher An entity responsible for making the resource available Appalachian Consortium Press Date Issued Date of formal issuance (e.g., publication) of the resource. June 1, 2017 Contributor An entity responsible for making contributions to the resource <a title="Digital Scholarship and Initiatives" href="http://library.appstate.edu/services/digital-scholarship-and-initiatives" target="_blank">Digital Scholarship and Initiatives</a> Publication URL https://www.uncpress.org/book/9781469636719/the-appalachian-experience/ Digital Publisher Digital Republication Appalachian State University Dublin Core The Dublin Core metadata element set is common to all Omeka records, including items, files, and collections. For more information see, http://dublincore.org/documents/dces/. Title A name given to the resource The Appalachian Experience Description An account of the resource The <em>Proceedings of the 6th Annual Appalachian Studies Conference</em> contains papers on a variety of academic disciplines and contemporary issues, reflecting interest in Appalachia from both scholarly and activist viewpoints. Topics addressed include ethnic diversity, literature, politics and government, culture, and economic development. <br /><br /><a href="https://drive.google.com/open?id=1TZtiRFQeJteaueWpRpBnkBsbJB_UUyMx" target="_blank" rel="noopener">Download EPub<br /><br /></a><a title="UNC Press Link" href="https://www.uncpress.org/book/9781469636719/the-appalachian-experience/" target="_blank" rel="noopener">UNC Press Print on Demand</a> Subject The topic of the resource Appalachian Region--Congresses Appalachian Region--Social Conditions Appalachian Region--Economic conditions Alternative Title An alternative name for the resource. The distinction between titles and alternative titles is application-specific. Proceedings of the 6th Annual Appalachian Studies Conference Creator An entity primarily responsible for making the resource Buxton, Barry M. Crutchfield, Malinda L. Lightfoot, William E. Stewart, Jacqueline P. Date A point or period of time associated with an event in the lifecycle of the resource 1983 Publisher An entity responsible for making the resource available Appalachian Consortium Press Language A language of the resource English Format The file format, physical medium, or dimensions of the resource PDF Conference proceedings Type The nature or genre of the resource Text Rights Information about rights held in and over the resource <a href="https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by/4.0/deed" target="_blank" rel="noopener">https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by/4.0/deed</a> Spatial Coverage Spatial characteristics of the resource. https://www.geonames.org/12212302/appalachia.html Source A related resource from which the described resource is derived <a title="UA 76 Appalachian Consortium records" href="https://appstate-speccoll.lyrasistechnology.org/repositories/2/resources/9" target="_blank" rel="noreferrer noopener"> UA 76 Appalachian Consortium records </a> Is Part Of A related resource in which the described resource is physically or logically included. <a title="Appalachian Consortium Press Publications" href="https://omeka.library.appstate.edu/collections/show/82" target="_blank"> Appalachian Consortium Press Publications</a> Temporal Coverage Temporal characteristics of the resource. 1980s Multidisciplinary/ Appalachian Studies https://omeka-test.library.appstate.edu/files/original/858d51438721e57b601bace9706463af.pdf 5b356fc62c3a8e331f3c1553b1a4ef24 PDF Text Text �This page intentionally left blank ��The History of Blowing Rock by Barry ML Buxton WITH PHOTOGRAPHS BY JERRY W. BURNS by S* �The Appalachian Consortium was a non-profit educational organization composed of institutions and agencies located in Southern Appalachia. From 1973 to 2,004, its members published pioneering works in Appalachian studies documenting the history and cultural heritage of the region. The Appalachian Consortium Press was the first publisher devoted solely to the region and many of the works it published remain seminal in the field to this day. With funding from the Andrew W. Mellon Foundation and the National Endowment for the Humanities through the Humanities Open Book Program.; Appalachian State University has published new paperback and open access digital editions of works from the Appalachian Consortium Press. www.collections.library.appstate.edu/appconsortiumbooks This work is licensed under a Creative Commons BY-NC-ND license. To view a copy of the license, visit http://creativecommons.org/licenses. Original copyright © 1989 by the Appalachian Consortium Press. ISBN (pbk.: alk. Paper): 978-1-4696-4132-4 ISBN (ebook): 978-1-4696-4133-1 Distributed by the University of North Carolina Press www.uncpress.org �to �Judy Mrs. Dr. Mr. B. Mr. Gwyn Mrs. Mrs. Amy Ms. Durr Mr. Ms. Mr. Designer �A by contributions the individuals BENEFACTOES In memory of Mr. John Miles Abernethy by Caroline J. Abernethy Mr. Mrs. John L. Barbara. Baker Bennett Blowing Rock Rotary Club Linda and David Brown In Memory of J.E. Broyhill by Mrs. J.E. Mrs. Allene Mr. and Mrs. Paul H. Senator Mrs. T. Broyhill Mr. Mrs. Willard A. Gortner Annie L. Cannon Family by Anne Cannon Forsyth Dr. H. Frank Forsyth Mr. Mrs. Edwin A. Morris Dr. Jock Tate Nella Cannon Tate Moores Zachary R. Tate Rheba and Jack Crane Mr. Mrs. Henry Enterline Mrs. Clyde H. Harriss In memory of Laura C. W.L. Holshouser by Janice N. Jerry W. Burns Judith M. Burns Sylvia E H. June and Merle Dye, Jr. Katie Merle Dye Mr. Mrs. Howard R Holshouser and Howard R Holshouser, Jr. and John W. Holshouser Mrs. Virginia Holshouser Louise and William L. Holshouser William L. Holshouser, Jr. Louise W. Turner Ernest C. Williams, M.D. Lyons Mr. and Mrs. J.W. Abernethy, Jr. American Legion Post 256 Mr. and Mrs. William J. Gilleland Enterprises, Inc. Mr. and Mrs. E Mr. Mrs. John D. Penn Mrs. W Jr. Mr. H. Shore, Jr. Betty Herbert Swisher �Zola L. Kenneth E Adair Anita Tom Allison Mr. Mrs. Bud Altmayer Mary Sue Claude Arm field In memory of Jed Athas by Jo Hogshead Ellen Bill Afers Mr. and Mrs. George M. Ball Mr. and Mrs. James W. Beach Anne and Alex Bernhardt Mr. and Mrs. Guy A, Berry Mrs. Irene R. Mrs. Elizabeth S. Bisanar Mr. Mrs. George Bernard Blumenthal Properties Mr. Mrs. Francis S. In memory of Ethel H. and Jesse M. by Janice N. Jerry W. Judith M. Burns Sylvia E Ronald H. Burns In memory of A.K. Buxton by Dr. Mrs. Barry M. Buxton Mr. Mrs. Guy L. Byerly, Jr. Mr. Mrs. Robert W. Cancfler, Jr. Mr. and Mrs. George M. Carpenter Mr. Mrs. Paul R. Caruso Jane Wayne Cawley Chetola Properties Reverend Kenneth Clapp Mrs. M. Mr. H. Glenn Tbni and Everette Coffey In memory of C.C. "Kelley" Coffin by Ann Jackson Coffin Mr. and Mrs. Allen M. Coker Sarah M. Cooper Mr. Mrs. William M. Courtney Mrs. David J. Craig, Jr. Linda S. Craig Mr. and Mrs. Robert L. Crain Mr. Mrs. Richard D. Cmver Mr. Mrs. Frank H. Crowe/I Mr. Mrs. Walter S. Crump Jam's and Jim Culp Mr. Mrs. John L. Dabbs Mrs. Jeanne P. Darr Dr. Mrs. Charles Davant, Jr. Dr. and Mrs. Chalmers G. Davidson Louis Dessaint Mr. Mrs. Robert T. Dickson Mr. Mrs. Anthony S. Mr. Mrs. J. Robert Dixon Judge Mrs. Frank B. Dowling Elizabeth Duncan Mr. Mrs. Donald B. Dunlap Mr. Mrs. Maurice D. Ewing Dr. William A. Exum Mr. Mrs. Robert W. Fisher Mr. John A. For lines. Jr. Jim Foreman Creative Photography Reverend and Mrs. Frederick D. Frey Mr. Mrs. Watson R. Gabriel, Sr. Mr. and Mrs. William J. Gackstatter Dr. Lucius G. Gage, Jr. In memory of Jane Bud Gamble by Betsy and Pucho Hansen' Catherine Troy Garrison Mr. M. Lee Garrison Mrs. W.B. Garrison Mr. Mrs. William B. Garrison, Jr. Dr. Lynn D. and Ruth E George Mr. Mrs. James E. Gibson, Jr., Family Nancy Ofte and Thomas Coulter Gibson Peggy W Robert B. Gibson Mr. Ralph E. Glaser, Jr. Mr. Mrs. Alfred H. Grant Rachel David Greene Mr. Mrs. John A. Guy ton. Jr. Mr. Mrs. Virginia J. Hall Col. Mrs. Rufus E. Hallmark Mr. Mrs. C. Rush Hamrick, Jr. Mr. Mrs. E Gwyn Harper, Jr. Mr. Claude E. Harris Mrs. Shearon Harris Mrs. Bernice Hertfelder Mr. Mrs. Leston Hilton Robert L. Hock Mrs. B.S. Mr. and Mrs. Graham Hoyle Mr. Mrs. John H. JsenJiour, Jr. Carmen E Jackson John W. Jackson, Jr. Mr. Mrs. Harry Richards Dr. Mrs. R.S, Jones Mr. Mrs. Charles A. Ketchie Mr. Mrs. Homer R. Ketchie Mr. J.E Ketchie Evelyn D. Clyde Keyes Mrs. Kathryn M. King In memory of Mr. George C Kinsman by his wife, Jerry Kinsman Martha William Koerschner Opal Koone Mr. Mrs. Dallas S. Lanier �and Bill Lee Charlene Bill Lentz Mr. Mrs. Joseph W Lineberger Mrs. Quintine J. Lowry Mr. Clarence Herbert Lutz Maxine Horace Lutz Mr. Mrs. C.R. Lynch Mr. Mrs. W Franklin Mabry Mr. Mrs. Jack C. Mallory Mr. and Mrs. Manning Malloy Dr. M.L. Marion Dr. Mrs. Frank Alfred Mathes Esther D. McCarthy Marguerite Haywood McCown B. Gen. (Ret.) Mrs. John A, McEwan Mr. and Mrs. Thomas R. McGehee Mr. McLeod Joanne Dale Mercy Ann Larry Meretsky In memory of Mr. EL Miller, Jr. by Mrs. EL Jr. Dr. Mrs. Miller Mrs. Leonard (Helen) Moretz Irene Morris Mr. Mrs. Thomas J. Morrison Mr. Mrs. Andrew H. Nimmo Mr. Mrs. Jeff L. Norris In memory of Annette Olson by Robert J. Olson Mr. and Mrs. Green Penn ^enterprises, Inc. Mr. and Mrs. Hayden C. Pitts Sonny Sam Rabin Mrs. T.H. (Juel) Mr. and Mrs. David H. Rankin Dr. and Mrs. Carmen Razzano Mr. Mrs. T. Henry Redding B.J. Mrs. Lena M. Robbins and Family Dr. Stacy L. Rollins, Jr. Saint Mary's of the Hills Episcopal Pearl S. and Hovey Scoggins Mr. Mrs. Joseph A. Sedlak Mr. and Mrs. J.C. Shaw Mr. Mrs. William G. Shelton Mr. John R. Shepley Mr. John S. Snerman, Jr. Mr. and Mrs, Adrian L. Shu ford. Jr. Mr. Harley E Shu ford Mr. Mrs. William H. Mr. Mrs. O. Slough Mr. Mrs. J. Don Smith Elizabeth Ann Smith Anne R. Snively Mr. Mrs. C Snyder, Sr. The George C. Snyder, Jr. Family Dr. Mrs. H. Lisle Snyder Mr. Mrs. Luke Snyder II Mr. Mrs. Martin Stein Mr. Mrs. M.E. III Virginia A. and David H. Stevens Dr. and Mrs. James E Steward Stonehaven Realty, Inc. Victoria E. Sylvia Mary and Charles Tarr Dr. Mrs. W. Chandler Thompson Mr. Mrs. R.L. Thornton, Jr. Lt. Gen. (Ret.) Mrs. John J. To/son III Delia Bill Jreneer Richard Jrexler Dr. Thomas D. Carol A, \4nce Mr. and Mrs. Edwin B. Vosburgh In memory of Mr. Jack M. Wagner by Mrs. Jack M. Wagner Mr. and Mrs. Earl D. Jr. Ed Walterman Mr. and Mrs. William R. Watson Dr. and Mrs. Q Mr. and Mrs. W Whatley Mrs. J. Francis White Vira S. Mr. and Mrs. Hugh T. Whitehead In memory of Mr. and Mrs. Cameron Williams John S. Betty C. Williams by Louise W Turner Ernest C. Williams, M.D. Gene Lloyd Williams Jean and Bill Williamson Mr. and Mrs. WV. Williamson, Jr. Nancy and Mason Wines Mr. and Mrs. H. Jr. Mr. Mrs. William B. Wood Barbara Lentz Wright �Lillian B. Frederick R. Appleton Mr. Mrs. S.C. Blowing Rock Oil Mrs. Kathryn K. Dr. and Mrs. C. Lynn Brown Marian G Calvin Mr. Mrs. Perry C. Cartwright, Sr. Mrs. Viola Coffey Church Mr. Mrs. Joe N. Clawson Mrs. Helen Clear Mr. A. Collier, Jr. In memory of Harry Collins by Charlene Collins Rick Crandell Dr. Mrs. Charles Davant III Mr. and Mrs. C. Deal Dr. Mrs. Frank G. Dickey, Sr. Mr. Mrs. Joseph D. Dulaney Mr. Mrs. CJ. Dulin Dr. Mrs. Courtney D. Egerton S. Falkey Mr. Mrs. Richard G. Finley In memory of Mary Y. Ralph A. Ford by Sylvia F. H. Burns Mr. C.C. Fox Mrs. Mary D. Gaddy Mary May Gillespie Mr. Mrs. S. Graham Mr. Earl J. Grant Ann Greene In of Nettie Robert Lee by Caroline Greene Robbins Peter Greene Robert (Pug) Greene Benjamin L. Greene Susie L. Greene Mr. Mrs. D. Susan J. Mr. Mrs. M.R. Harrison, Jr. In memory of by Dare Hartley Filepski In memory of Stella Kerley Hartley by Fred Hartley Mr. Mrs. Lyon Harrman Mr. Mrs. M. Mr. Mrs. E.J. Kentner Mrs. K. Keys Mrs. Wanda B. Lanahan Mr. Mrs. F. Love III Mr. Mrs. C. Mr. Mrs. Tom Morris Mrs. Ceil S. Murphy Mr. William R. Murphy Mrs. Mrs. W. Mr. N.O. Jr. Elizabeth R. Pope Mr. and Mrs. WX Price Pride Ridgeway Motel Caroline Greene C. Mr. James M. Barbara and James M. Scott Mr. William M. Shaheen L. Mr. Thomas E. Shreve Louvene W. Stone's Carpet Service, Inc. Harriet H. Mr. Mrs. J.L. Thompson^ Jr. Nancy Earl Jrexler Joyce and Joe Villani Mr. Lee Warnock Mr. Mrs. Ray Weakleyt Jr. Mrs. Julia Williams Mr. Mrs. David Wmy Mr. Mrs. John Y. Jr. �ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS in a as this, it is and the people of are the Worthy of of our community's its Two of this The and all to who in the as a In the a to I to for in Club to to the the out this this to like Bill Herrin, to a a good of The and on a of has The his I am me has in John the has for A is be Clinton of community the the has the They in the a in of Gwyn of has of his of to my at the Norris has a a is of the has for the Art Rex the the to the Gene Lohr, and by Mr, My the the has by are Clinton Pitts, and Morton, and the late Carl Bill a We My His of our for Jerry's of my Durr, on Their is the by Jo Gibson, Wood, job on the of to us all has the and a has for the the Jerry �I on of One — my of to my for My has Carrie, the real and life. any is has my for the critic, of this M. 11 North 1988 �CONTENTS Acknowledgements i Introduction v CHAPTER I Land of the Breeze and Home of the Brave 1 CHAPTER II Starting A New Century 27 CHAPTER III Great Estates and Prominent People 53 CHAPTER IV Hotels, Inns, and Boarding Houses 89 CHAPTER V "Book Learning" in Blowing Rock 109 CHAPTER VI Our Religious Heritage 127 CHAPTER VII Healing the Sick 145 CHAPTER VIII Becoming a Seasonal Mecca 159 A Photographic Tapestry 193 Blowing Rock Landmarks 209 "Wauhonhasee — The Legend of Blowing Rock 215 Index 221 ��INTRODUCTION In his T.S. us to our lives. He said the end of our will be to we and the for the first So it is for me this I was in the old Clinic in 1949. The was a by the of Davant, Jr. My up in Park, the in a of I the High, and University, in the me in the 70s but I to a at the Consortium in 1980. Four to I a call a of the Judith The of the call was to as to the Consortium be in a of Rock, Judith, as as felt a to be which the Judith's a with me I to for a my the it not go Two on 19, 1986, I was to at a of the Club. the end of the I to in a for the Club be to in a of Blowing Rock. Judith's idea fell on ears the Dr. and Mr. Bob me to the that I was to key Club at Bob Bob Bill Bob and We the with such a the for the the I to to the was to The Consortium as the to publish, the if it met the Publications It was at this in the Bill the of the the sale of the to the of The was a of it uniform all the two virtually in the with to see a concerned about the town beautifying the around Mayview Lake. The compatibility of the two the of both. historic in Bob Whatley's Bill and Bob Gibson set a for the project. Our first on October 23, 1986 in the American Four key of Caroline Abernethy, Jerry Pitts, and Chris May. Under Bill the a The history book/lake so we to publish the history as originally The in and and It was this was an idea had and the of all of us With we our for the and to a color which would on Blowing Rock A of the was of Bill Gibson, Chris and We two for the our in a Broyhill, son late �J.E. of the so The of of the the in the of the no We an They Foundation, to our Ironically, an in Mayview Lake to its beauty, was a to Anne Cannon Forsyth. In the relatively short history in support for the critical she and Dr. to our on the trip to we one to see the a we the of the was as of the $300,000 of for be so for me, for the of the is it a a of to a to a My I of air the to old and of is still forthcoming, is for publish a community history has in of our town. Indeed, we much for which to what Rock has this project, I I I see the of Eliot^s My is the of any particular on my part, nor this it my and in community, who of life of for to It has as a to of Now I the is A to the my of air Rock. VI it is not a who contributed to our Village. which, the on the history. It is for to Those �Village Tapestry ��LAND OF THE BREEZE AND HOME OF THE BRAVE/Page 1 CHAPTER I Land Of The Breeze And Home Of The Brave has a price from to in her The by both Indians and whites Only within the last century-and-a-half have to the growth resulting in the Blowing Rock of today. The Rock this time served as an two tribes, the Cherokee to the and the Catawba to the The of the North Carolina mountains. Ships from at or other northern ports, from the western jumpingoff point of Pittsburgh the Great Valley of Virginia. Virginia into Kentucky most of the colonists, and only the ambitious (or of and the of the Tar Although and found in and Caldwell dating of years, saw few Native Americans.1 A of visitor to the Blowing Rock the Gottlieb in 1752. At time, all of Western North Carolina in a property to the of Granville. To encourage settlement, he 100,000 to the Moravians, so set out a survey party to out the • An old known as the Nickajack Trail ran the present-day Hickory, to Lenoir, to Linville, to the Nickajack Caverns Chattanooga, directions a hunter soon led the Bishop's party off any of a trail. Journal entries to a route up the St. John's River, to the River The valley, to New River, then out of the mountains by way of Yadkin. Anyone who has ever trouble von the trip to Blowing the Bishop^s account comfort in it could hav ve worse, much For he "the wol es, whi vch...give us such music of six cornets, the like of which I in my life.**2 The uphill journey "Part of we to crawl on we to the drag up the mountain, for in of falling backward." Finally by the of the them. "Arrived on at last, we hundreds of mountain all us, a in a storm " Unfortunately for the Moravians, they not visitors. The December 3, 1752, entry continues to "We our tent, but scarcely we when a us, we could it. I I in encountered so or so cold a wind. The covered with snow — water froze for us fire. Our thoroughly disheartened." on a of Winston-Salem, at A of Rock prospective citizen far away. �2 / Chapter I Before "The War" Little over the next one hundred years. The Revolutionary War North Carolina; in any the family known to in the Rock did not arrive until the 1790s. These the prolific Greenes. By the micUSOOs, when the first summer visiting Lenoir, the Greene family with living the future site of the Green Park Hotel, and the brothers Joseph living the Mount German Reformed Church. the Boyden house would be built, Amos the location of the house, 4 Robert by what would be Cone Lake. Lot Estes, who was married to Benjamin's Chancy, bought the property that would be into the Chetola for $5 in 5 1846. The can rightfully lay to the of Rock. The Hayes, Storie, Bolick, Coffey families, all prominent in town history, early in southern County.6 Pioneer life for a harsh reality, where survival self-sufficiency. A contemporary account of life with the Reuben Coffey in the century the ability to cope. "All out of the ground, both wearing...The women would "G.L. Storie s Stock certificate card, spin, clothing for children. They of in the Lenoir and Blowing colors stripes. They got their colors from indigo of their own raising, copperas, Rock Turnpike Company " various kinds of The first calico I ever for my sister, old. He a old for six which the dress."7 Local primarily south to Lenoir. The through the at Council's (not yet known as Boone) and then to Wilkesboro. Cabbage, hay, livestock — mostly — brought down the for By the 1840s, Lenoir livestock in the mountains, too. joined by eager to the cool A few for short of time, but most of the out. The from their would local for talk and trade.8 The in the for a the C. the of prominent Lenoir merchant Harper, the for the town of Lenoir when it in 1840. He the of the Lenoir community to the secured the incorporation of the Lenoir-Blowing Rock Turnpike Company in 1845. James C. Harper not only the the construction by of both but as the of the Turnpike Company until his The built with pick, shovel, Mules hauled off the debris. The Turnpike a by pulling to the smooth, 9 to the for heavily-laden wagons. ^ „„ , . „ , . „ , tt r Traffic on the Lenoir-Blowing Rock Turnpike before the turn of the century, the ran ways. exclusively to Lenoir. In the fall, so to an of the the current county building) it 10 as "Hog Wild." Shortly the Turnpike's completion, the was in Mountain to this 11 thread. The of Lenoir, too, of the road. A was only a day was for it was built, the Rock, is to be the he "Summerville" He was by Millers, and Lenoir families.12 common locally mill of in the who in 1856 which prominent �OF THE OF THE 3 to Rock's as a the was by the call to five of 150 the Army of the Confederacy County, and County. the Caldwell was 3rd Joseph B. Clarke, who would the of Rock.13 Due to its nature, in County had to Consequently had an of the The County Census for 1850 only 84 to 29 free and 3245 By the to 4957, with only the of the economy was not a crucial to lie low in the the war by. As as 100 are to slipped the line to the Union Army.14 The was one He first on the side in of 1862, by his who as his The two while a to When a month without the of opportunity, the action. and with oak to toe. He to the unit with a and was as for for her, was able to her by the less of her Blalock was involved in a less humorous one the by the When his rash his to and he to he was by who convinced he was a to the Confederacy. Coffey, fed and the they to Tennessee, a Union Coffey was pointed out to as a Union by a John He was a his body was in a of When returned in 1866, one of his acts was to kill The was over; Blalock had no to the killing, and was of He was by the occupation government, however, and went to trial the century, of a in history.15 Where the of war within the the from Kirk a of Union in had the gall to call the Third North Carolina Mounted Infantry, United Army. His was of a of of as In of 1865, his to he his command. One Lenoir the by to su Wilkesboro. Kirk was left in to pply lines the country control Kirk, too, his Major'Bahney was sent to Gap to the east and WW. was sent to with about two to watch the at his headquarters with about four hundred troops. For military purposes, Blowing Rock was known as Gap and set up a the site of the Rock He to give a to the and the original Harper was at this to for the The site was for its Fort As it few Confederate left in the Far to any the Union free to raid the in of and In responsibility the of over one thousand Lenoir, for in Ohio.17 The Civil War �4/ I It's a War's end saw the to .. of a in Rock. During the war the South had fled to the safe North Carolina Lenoir was so by 1864, the of a Colonel she could no (in town) to board.18 Spillover up the mountains. Although their first may by war, of as The by not The still the was built in 1870 as a The for in a of to the with eventual for fourteen The Martins, who a in Lenoir, the with Mayor J.B. Clarke in 1889, the Martin 19 a civic for years. the in 1874, built Rockfs 20 He ran a office, real construction business. John Schenck, Sr. to the so that lanky Mr. Stringfellow had to with his out the 21 the on them. The Morris cooking widely however, such as for visits. Room 50 cents a day, or $15 a month.22 The was 1877 by WW. Sherrill, who built two or for had This did not the was to the family.23 LW. "Len" the Chetola the town^s The was then Silver Lake, trout fishing a major attraction. Again, the rooms small, the — for visitor. In a letter of general for the Estes* the by "As to the I add chickens, to you both a I Will in his night, is he There is a not far they a Oh! yell, they bell, are a "24 Zeb in in Morris1 for is he Vance, war politicians, did much by their in the post-war to Blowing Rock a resort of choice for socially prominent Carolinians.25 in the Victorian They the as life to to the as "cottagers " The to three-story to be They to as for the the 77ie Martin Cottage The Earl Estes Farm and Way Station in 1885, The farm would later become Boarding House then Chetola. to �OF THE Light in the the Finding a the which a of which the was AND was be for by from was a bit the view. For for the in who be a 6" not F Crockery the 5 OF THE not on but 10' be set in the for The of a did not was in by or the Cisterns the to run-off, which could be by and for The of by the size of the or not the was also an option, but the rocky soil a of had to be A would be set off, the lit, and so on to a of fifty feet or more. As the well lucky workman to be in a to the the to the The difficult, would be cut and to out the gas. Outhouses, by sex but not an For use, the of construction had to be as was for wells. The was of of the a was the of in as and by at the of the As a boy John Miles Abernethy an up the Turnpike. He sat in the of a the of the cow. by run by the and Millers. Fruits, by to their by the More common spring as a source of ice was as the of and to a of six feet on the to be the by Local to cut of ice at Chetola in winter, to the ice bury in When the the ice would be with a worth of or be in the to blocks of ice. vvthe be Dairy not for long, but the for perishables.26 life was thus both A fine to a but only first in a tub. The servant who the on at his privy out be ^r ^ they are .^, ' ^ than to the inconveniences. The Boy den Cottage The Patterson Cottage �6/ I Do For the The Lenoir-Blowing Rock the of the on the to the The of in to to the — or in the the fun. a Until Hickory few North trip, the late out the to the the A had to the Civil War. By 1852 a line as far as but The Assembly a North in to be by the the rest to to by its No further was so a was two "paper as the did not The was not yet as the so the War. the the to the by up and The line had to get the to tap rail In the line two it the at A line to was the to the south.27 was not on the line of the but a to was in 1884. The leg into Lenoir an At to the and push it its the was to of of dirt rail link shortly this one the The &L the in 1882. The Linville Land, and Company of Wilmington, North the less Linville Company) was in the of 29 a the industry. The in 1895, Cranberry to Linville. The Lumber Company the to in 1900, the Whiting it to Shulls Mill in 191546. The a to the at in 1918, the Collectively, of the &L North Carolina line as "Tweetsie."30 (The ET &L WNC was to by as the "Eat &L Wear No Clothes," an poverty.)31 was mostly Lenoir was a for on the "Hack Line" run by to get to the of to for the the day the trip Visitors lay in Lenoir for a day or or f°r the of it the up the mountain.32 The a by This for a or by or also yet less �LAND OF THE BREEZE AND HOME OF THE BRAVE/Page 7 the to to the In the to with constitutions. Two toll had to be on the Turnpike. The was five north of at the end of the a cut off to the Local or off The was by the of the Yadkin to Rock. The year-round, by At the tum-of-the-century, a ^ i ir cost 25 a i was Blowing Rock in the 1880s—from the papers of Dr. J Jethro Rumple p 20 cents, 10 get a through, the 33 rate was $L The trip a day, or be up by an stay at as and Curtis*, at the point. the was It was not for to to the the trip.34 Craig did a to at $2.50 per By 1892, had at the the and the for to and and The industry accounted for a of the not be for out so the if- £0., cut "on the by tcsV«!U t,-nc«r unJ %tcwi«i| the of the it was ox- or and to There, it was in the and with economic in the post-Civil 36 was needed. A to the and was also by the had 16,000 of Linville MIX in He and his in the Linville its be on roads to the world. In the of and ST. work on the Trail (or "Trail of the to Rock, the which would U.S. 22L37 Men for a job as much as to a day for 25 to 75 cents in Mules carried out dirt by by the blast. Drag the bed. The was in just two at the low of one a mile.38 To With the of lines Caldwell County, to of the of Rock's environment. The S.A.L. a publication Platsmouth, Va. to the Air Line the the S.A.L.'s a of in July in 1897. The following a of the the S.A.L's to inform the Travelers over double culvert on the Yonahlossee Road, �Pbge 8 / Chapter I had into the of for Carolina. if was of it. FOE All in is the by is Air Wine-Cold, Crystal Trickling Rocky Glens. Verdure in the of Scenic Air, in to in ing a Leno/r, Linville-United by En- Laurel, J?/ioat Low Drivers Con- for the for the for for the the Time for as of the up as up is to the the to are as out the flee of the to the in There the up by outdoor climbing, a luxuriance of to There the as the on Act in an to as the a of we air The of There the are There of the of is is is to its — �OF THE as AND 9 OF THE Mr. G.W.F. are is an of the as a of the are all in to A is is in to a it is no If the of is in a hurry, the in a The of a to of at at an early hour in the to a of In to 1:30 p.m., will it is the of line they employ of vehicle at for the of the of Their (part is at of 150 bred), all or less the These are the worn, of as in as in his is at very notch of Ifbu a but we a (for for to as as for for like to for as of the for the the last If a by 1 all 'Billy. He is a in ebony—faithful, careful, civil, he is of the by by its if its Never he in on The Lenoir Blowing Rock built in 1847 by a by the Hon. C. a of The is up by is in condition. For Lenoir it the of the soil its quick susceptibility to the of all of A few on, we to a (or of one) It is its conducted by S.F. a of Major Harper of Lenoir. He has a cotton wool factory a grade in its is We of — the hickory, elm. The is in her our path with blossoms. As we to a "Cook's Place," six of Rock, we an of Valley, Bill, a of into the The Cone the of the its Within the limits of Blowing Rock is vision—the St. John's as The of Blowing of a the a of The is 300, which is to or the its for or of which it is apex the up the is the of the is a �Page It is not of the Sky' so an on to its The to our We can is like a one all, no or the is A to a up the the this In for a the of a by the to of A Hotels, was the Town of The to go to the charter: City Is 199, IN THE Sec, 1. In 1889, AN ACT THE OF That the by the of law now That the W.M. 3. That the of a are the Mayor; I.N. Corpening, W.M. to act until There TO of be an OF THE OF in County of the Town of Rock, in to 2. 4. of 1889 DO be it is be be as for of a Dr. are in That be 6. act on per annum. to That all of act for the in for the be in and the of J.B. in of who town thirty to full county previous to by by all be 8. or of That of all 7. no the in the are held All twenty-one in the State twelve months in the county ninety in to of election, be to vote at election. 5. to all the a tax as are of The Code, in for the to the of the to of its of the be day to the AH» �LAND OF THE BREEZE AND HOME OF THE BRAVE / Page 11 its and first to be up but he who as a Clarke. He he the (a Clarke He is to a in 1871. Civil as" in the in a in the for for the of to the the in all to He is to a is, a in it was faith.39 in his or To Of an be he to a was just a bit too a of he $1 costs.40 As a the his but the In an the the County of as the fit to A and which the had also and Its As luck it, Thornton a but was to in the Lenoir News-Topic the life, too. and the as the Uncle Joe Clarke he he let go a the The its did not a to in 1886.41 Under for the The for the any sale of of the two his to fill out his the As to sell his in for a on the 1, of the has a the "wet,11 got as a "dry" in 1892. call for a the he An to a resort.43 his the his to be will be a for his the of of the the by Joe the tax a Trie Is that of 'beer or no beer* — whether or a opened. The upon of it, the an not without it, the the would drive many of the of visitors 77ie boldly no has a Rock will never to anything until it a. The the of a be the of Blowing as a The 1890.44 H.C. 1892, so the of in year. In he W.H. the as a 45 �12/Chapter/ was too again/ for to call a and his to to Joe in was a 6 The had in the on 14, 1896, on L It is to use or in the corporate limits of the town of to a of $3.00. II. It is town or to a fine of for or to or III. It is The the or in any kind of of Rock, to put up on the or to any so to or be or any filth or to conviction, the in or of the be of the as it is be so for IV, That all be in the on the to of the or for be V. That all the of the by of the to as he or be to the to or for in of for or of a in be VI. It shall be unlawful to hitch, ride, or Any be to on so VIII. All Any X. All of the XL That no all shall be all or be at be If or be in for be burned or upon be be or a tax of of 25 cts for for the or $1.00 of of or for of found drunk within $10.00 to $1.00 or be convicted of the be to comply with the IX. Any or be 45 ten fail to or the VII. It Any of 18 for as by the for to run at the by the 10 cts by the the of for be goats, not of the the on the the �LAND OF THE BREEZE AND HOME OF THE BRAVE/Page 13 be for XII. Any lot lot XIII. It XIV. It at or to be or $2.50 all be be of to sell Any be the for to to or of for or so or in or to until he XVL The The It dry or to on in is in law XIII: in 1896, the for the a a for a of 66~4.47 1899 by a a This to be of his to of the 1899, in be the fines and out the the for or so XV. Any of in the The in in "civilizing" the and its at the as for was A of a this the In a the in within the $5.00 conviction, be the manufacturers, the in the In in the county, by only 40-17. In II, IV, VI, VII, VIII, XIV, XV, all to of Rock no of all to contribute 50 1914, so to be of privately. The of a Hog the the for at No to to to the at this in the as or but by 200 to 10.49 and the The was the of his of was the was a for low a In the A few to be be the up, for en all to by but all as a the of hog for to or �Page 14 / I to in the of for to the to was The couldn't to as Joe on H.C. in the by to for the of the The law to of a the 1890s. H.E. Miller of the in "a is if he $150 net profit"51 The of the in "At no in the County the late war has the our so as it is at this Our are for the of a is on and In "It is to a and we say in the of all the are to 52 the sea of " This led to the for 53 for west, few of the in the "Watauga boys" in or The "The of a of our of to in the is to be indeed."54 of at One the of the to a In of 1890,the at a of 700 (50? 193 female).55 Their on a (of to to The by r the as as P °fit» The put could on the the In 1897, the "Our is we in see the we fall people all not What we will to sell for is a to consider"57 the as prices, profit a trip to In a the "The to is at last on 35 to 50 cts per 15 to 50 cts per the of of to is at $5.00, to say of the on fall of 1897, to the "The is at the are not the per load."59 this the of was all the was in the of the but and and and The the in the 1891 "Rich are an in the is no up at any It is the at $75,000 the The to in of this Of the will be the of will a deal"60 the is to it was he In the it as the was the to In any the of a of any might the with the at a law, but by so to of a �OF THE to the The of "It will to OF THE out.61 Such a in one as it is to our last 15 as, a major for of the in 1892, $70.40 cts., and to it will the be $1760. Now, we $53,453 are 75 and real for law At 25 on the of we see the $53,453 to $133.63. Now see we still the the $1,626.37. Who will the so for pay?" On the the of The plight of the be the "The is I the is, it will be injurious to the of in is, it the has no He be to or no stock, for the up, "Let me say in if the in law, let it as the law ask the to up an to the off the sidewalks"62 The of was as as A the of 1889-1892 by "They the of rum pig the to the of the the fair of the [ie, by fat, the of our or the of If are 63 a how much is the of a sty!" The saw It "Weedon his to do the and let of the the are in of to It is a of all or no 64 or no corporation." The which to is by the of While the to his to it a of of law was to the it a to by a in 1900,65 by 66 in 1901. was lax at and the in the the for In the the the : ,i, i-: * : *" "i ™- TTie of a • �16 / Chapter I Downtown Blowing Rock during the first twenty of incorporation a : ; Main as now the of the Village. In v ;m 1923, a fire the of Main Avenue to Morris Street. The of the fire Jim Lentz's Company Store. The fire not yet no be A visitor the would the Main Street in 1905 67 scene. At the north end of at the of Drive just 1 the corner on the Linville Road, the Robbins blacksmith shop, run by Ed Robbins his Ed Robbins a at the Church, at the of the The Church was At the site of Pitts* the Miller Store,68 Where the library now a livery with the Cicero Miller in front of Miller General Store Hotel, one of the by Henkel, Craig Company. The of the The a two-story in the of the property. it on was a row of two-room which a porch. The the Jenkins Realty Company is the last surviving the Hotel Next the Martin House, which still as a home, it to it as a The ran a in Lenoir. At the to livery run at one by Mr. Jim Sudderth. This the Mayview The two houses, of the which was by the the white on the to Colonel Mrs. The Cordons1 by fire, was and can be as Tijuana The Schenck is still It was by Henry Schenck, one of first the War. His son, E Schenck, Sr., in the for sixty in the The of the Cotton Mills, among the Village's continuous residents.69 The Presbyterian Church originally a white on the site the beautiful church The two The no was the of the The Dr. in the This on the lot to it was to an inn, but the has The Church on the Further up the hill A by the of Peoples ran a Carpet is now. to was Mr. the Chestnut Drive the livery for the Hotel on the of the the was the the junction of Main 321, was the for The Hayes Cottage by Emily Prudden. �LAND OF THE BREEZE AND HOME OF THE BRAVE/Page 17 On the the to of the Rock Hotel This for A few still the The South is now. Dr. His ran a the the a Church of a Mr. the on Chestnut. the Nowells* a York, Church m no still Drug but by the by a on the the Dr. Reeves Drug Store in on of by the too the would be in out of the to as could.70 a run by the by Mr. The Church Room, its Sonny's Grill is William the the for ten in 1902. The to the in 1918 by Alice Wood, who up to the public school71 North of the Church Dr. a to Wiley Vannoy, the twoof Thomas Coffey. Where Union the by W.L "Will" and his At the of the fire Lunce his the It the last to the to the Drive Holshousers* the Joe Clarke, Dr. Calvin M. its The Joe the to the with his Just the shop of Coffey. to up set on the TJie original Episcopal Church and Reading Room This 1865 photograph is of the Holshouser and Edmisten families who were pioneers in Blowing Rock. W.L. "Will" Holshouser's General Sta in A of Rock, but did not Village in It only live A less gap found life was to bring a full The a to two (or the the two groups the and the the a up for the of also apt to be as and the to Blowing Rock Bank �Page 18 / Chapter I The of the mountains the of The Cone in 1908 is it to say that he for of occupied by and of the Cone by the the 1890s until his fully in a as as Cone a in the of the word. Appropriately, his as the of Flat Top Manor, the her. did but it c/e to The Hughes Estate any by on Mrs, Cone.72 WW. the to the the Chetola. The two for ten with the the in the late was an was the site of the was a for recreation.73 The was the site of the Cocktail as the War L Alcohol was but was not at the Cones* only at Chetola. by the To add to the air of the not by Mrs. was ill, but by the Mrs. Charleston, who to the household. The no children, their torn in 1979 to at the Grounds.74 The its the of the to a of Their at was to an or two of vacation, while the in the cool for an This the the with the Mary Nelson Carter, the of Dr. Charles Carter, is a in point. In the she the Lend-A-Hand Library a on the Carter which she for four Her in children's of the library's -odd for to the for At Mrs. Carter nutrition.75 Mrs. was in out to the A by a year-round Mrs. to the Christmas of 1893 a for all "The a few the Mt. a combined Christmas at Mt. Church, on Friday Christmas, at which *Santa Glaus* with a hand. Mrs. who we all look upon as one of us, although her is in a of Christmas of everything a toy, to she and out of the for people in community, are such, the things, to 76 the of old young for joyous time." Life was not all and for all an of The was at in late the Lenoir. to 77 the had brought. Three a life for The Watauga Hotel the to 78 79 on July 1, 1884. The on June 17, 1889, and the its in late June of 1891.80 Their not the set, join the Germans, or at 10:30 at the �OF THE Rock Hotel. on at the Hotel the at the Park, a town-until 1927, (at 25 by a two 81 the sides. The The two or on the golf course. Other and by to the A to the the try to with at the or horseback.82 On the in August, 1889, the Chorus with AND OF THE 19 , Mountain flower by of by the A by the to Programme: — Mrs. McKinnon Song Mr. R. Recitation Miss Stowe Song Prof, McLean Piano flute — Miss Harper Uncle Song with Guitar Piano Song Piano Song Song Quartette from Village Mr. Harper Mr. Turner Miss Woodward Gwinn Miss Stowe Mrs. Harper Woodward Miss Clementine83 With such a selection of to choose from, it is little wonder a visitor could as as O'Neal did in 1893. it: "Blowing Rock, the for the gay Terpsichore nightly, who like to in the light toe do so, to the low of'Home Home.1 Or of more nature, can play tennis or croquet on the lawns of velvety tufted or of maturer roll ten-pins or a quiet of whist in the numerous airy of the commodious Green Park hotel, or the Ye by the to this 'tis a Ye who are why die? Come up to this of the Sky."84 A delightfully informative visitor, a Ms. R.GH. in 1896, out the only the tourists point of view: not enough men. on her visit to the Green Park Hotel, "One of the most striking characteristics of the is the vast of femininity There are tall short women, women with just By the I women who the T, the of to the the respectively. Then are women who with a big of �Page 20 / Chapter I under their arms, where most of it stays. In to the are As yet I met only one of the sex the to my I did not to her, I not out of by so. It is are a few I cannot on I this can be would not be in a place." And the "The are in the minority here" she "and are the suit can 'tis true, but they are in to the of the livery horses" this was plenty of fun to be "One to a is a on for Friday. In to it has a the is a of the for a This will a thirty get very on a Pe°ple learn to other up here. Ball-room etiquette is not popular. Often get in a to borrow little of left at collar-buttons, a the use of of a a dinner-tray, one-half the gravy a fellow*s pocket, while the at upon the of the to his right; are out the up the buggy, the bill to be divided — all and for the to one or Finally, "A the We are 4300 feet the sea level, to and The mercury but the notch. up You to morphine, or any of the of The out of the spring is are in the For the the Moody has All are to join in the refrain."85 The of the the for a life The of the Cone The the the of the of the It was an income.86 to the of the did not a in the for the the by the or the life of the In 1880, the of of 340. The 62 62 a was a The Three one thirty-five five six ten size was Not all The one two groups but so the this for of age* The "unknown." Six of the a in for the no Of ten no two the two born" six, it was Dr. W.B. Councill — the For the by to the the slap and it was The of the John was and by five or six All ages and be full was by fire, but the 1900 five to These for Long, and Charley the also giving a in the But — in with as to a in the The of A — �LAND OF THE BREEZE AND HOME OF THE BRAVE/Page 21 off of as Thursday life, The in Sunday the of Rock's size and There 166 a of 805. The size was by the with the in which Of the 166, 101 " of still or but was that. -. \ "" ^r -.i/-u' c: r-'^-""" a "" • a a a "jewelry man " a butcher, a clerks. Diverse for up on Rock's could not the of but was Within a had for to a by The the Village with the of the of her while the of a Joe Clarke warned,, "Far be the day the be a to 'citify' the to a of the of conditions."89 The the of The early village with Cone Manor in background �"~" •ii *i lit "Arrived on the top at last, ive hundreds of mountain all around us, a Me waves in a storm." �LAND OF THE BREEZE AND HOME OF THE BRAVE /Page 23 NOTES 1. For a description of the Cherokee and Catawba tribes, see: Milling, Chapman J. The Red Carolinians. XIII and XIV: "The Nation." For information on excavations in Watauga County, see: Mintz, John et al The Ward Site: Center for Appalachian Studies. 1985. The of N.C.: The in 2. Arthur, John Preston. Western North Carolina: A History. Spartanburg, S.C.: The Reprint Company, 1974 (original 1914). p.62. 3. Bishop Spangenberg's diary is most extensively quoted in: "All About Old Time." The Lenoir News Topic. December 25, 1889. p.L Extrapolations of his probable route are included here, in: Arthur, John Preston. A History of County, North Carolina. S.C.: Southern Historical 1976 of 1915 pp.21-29. 4. Arthur, John Preston, A History of 5. Copy of 6. 1976 of 1915 p.219. County, pp.209-242. of on the Coffey in Community When Wild Sr.'s is of 8. S.C.: by A 7. a p.ll, 1983. 9. Col. be H. Gray, Here Will I with: Gwyn in the Throughout Area." of the file of Hotel, to Mrs. Lucille K. County, 1956. John The Jr. July 2, 1987 10. in 1939, as in The July 1, 1987. July 2, 1987. 11. 12. County, Here p.121. Here Will I Also, journal of 13. Finley of John Christian Here Will I 14. Arthur, A History of County, p. 146. 15. Keith Blalock's 16. Van is in Arthur, A History of Ina W. "The 18. in Ina W. Van Noppen, A.C. Avery's in the in "Old Aug. 28, 1953. 23. Arthur, A History of News-Topic. in N.C.; N.C. 1961. of the 1901. Clark ed. and Job p.33. County. p,218. 21. 22. TTie with the Vol.IV. Carolina". North Carolina Historical Review. Vol. XL, No.2. Spring 1963. p.177. Class of Early Days," The Blowing Rock Story. 20. Arthur, A History of Will I Dwell, pp.136-137. Raid" in North Carolina Historical Review, Vol. XXXVIII No.l. Jan. 1961, p.43. "The 19. "Martin County pp. 160-169 of 17. The Story of Stoneman's is For a see 24. in Rock" Mr. P.O. County, p.218. 26, p.L 25. Arthur, A History of Watauga County, p.500. 26. The of life draws heavily from "Blowing Rock Memories" by written in 1975. Helpful interviews also conducted with the July July 16, July 15, July 2 and 29, July 1, Carrie Leonard Gwyn Harper John Christian 27. A Ina W. 28. of Western North Carolina is in: John W. Van Noppen. Western North Carolina County construction is in "After 65 Ifears, op cit. Gaston Gage, an extensive unpublished the Civil War. 1987 1987 1987 1987 The Consortium July 3, 1972, p.13. 1973. p.253-267. �24 / I 29. Eller, Knoxville: University of Tennessee Press. 1982. p.lQL Miners 30. "Narrow Gauge Railroad Played Part in Developing This Region." The 31. McD. 32. Vardell , July 29, 1933. p.l. Charlotte: the Blue House. 1958. p.36. "Blowing Rock Memories." 33. Interview with John C. Also, 34. July 1, 1987. "Charlie in 52 of Transportation in Area." Gage, op. cit. 35. Lenoir News-Topic June 3, 1892. p.3. 36. Alfred Mordecai letter, The Blowing Rocket, October 25, 1963. p.2. John C. Bernhardt interview July 1, 198?. 37. Dellinger, Clyde J. Tweetsie and the Clinchfield Railroads. Morgan-ton, N.C.: The News Herald Press, 1979, p.2. 38. "History of the Trail", The Interview with Hugh Morton, June 23, 1987 Rocket, July 28, 1939. p.ll. 39. "Blowing in 1889," The Blowing Story, p,67,1983. When Clarke died in 1910, the Democrat reported on October 6, 1910 that the bulk of his church. Probate eventually divided his property relatives. 40. Winston^Salem Journal and Sentinel, February 8, 1970. p.l. A discreet version of the incident is told in his obituary in 41. Whitener, J. Prohibition in North Carolina, 1715-1945. 42. July 11, to the Swedenborgen Democrat October 6, 1910. Hill: The University of p.90. p.3. 43. Lenoir News-Topic July 2, 1890. p.3. 44. July 17, 45. May 7, 1891. p.3. 46. Lenoir p.3. 5, 1893. p.3. " 47. p.3. 7, 48. Democrat October 31, 49. p.3. Democrat May 28, p.l. 50. "Around Town", The Blowing Rock Story, 1983, p.8. 51. For the role of open-range livestock in mountain farming, and Grady McWhiney. "The No. 2. p.147-166. J. Jr. "The Closing p.53-70. 52. "Trip to Rock," T/ie Story p. 19, 53. Democrat. June 29, 54. Democrat. 55. Democrat. February 2, 1899. 56. Democrat. January 9, 1890. 57. Democrat. 58. Democrat September 30, 1987. 18, 20, 1890, May 15, 1890, May 22, 1890. 59. Watauga Democrat. November 11, 1897. 60. 23, Democrat. December 2, 1897. A Range." Journal of The Journal of Southern History, Vol. Vol.XLI �LAND OF THE BREEZE AND HOME OF THE BRAVE /Page 25 59. Democrat. 11, 189?. 60. Democrat, 2, 1897. 7, 1891. 61. 24, 1892. 62. 63. Democrat. 64. 3, 1892. July 5, 65. p.3. 21, 1893. p.3. News-Topic. 3, 1900. 66. 67. 6, 1901. p.L Democrat, 68. by has ar reconstruction. In the we 69. ask the to as a of July 16, 1987. 70. Interview with Mary Kinnard. June 6, 1987, 71. July 16, 1987. 72. From Alice Wood 1918 73. "Old in as Our Community Club It." Tfie Story, at the p.70. 74. Aid. 75. "Old as Our Family Knew It." 76. Reminiscence by Blanche Ward in 1979, in 77. Dr. of July 25, 1987. Community Club at the Library. Democrat. January 11, 1894. p.3. 78. Vardell and Gage. "Blowing Rock Memories." 79. P.O. Ciaxton 80. "Blowing 81. in TTie Completed In July 27, T/ie p.ll, Democrat. June 11, 1891, 82. Article "50 Years Ago in Blowing Rock" by Mrs. 83. Lenoir News Topic. 14, 1889, p.2 84. Lenoir News-Topic. G. Norwell, in The Blowing Rocket. August 4, 1939. p.L 14, 1889. p.3. 85. Democrat. October 26, 1893. p.L 86. Lenoir News-Topic. 87. 19, 1896. p.L Democrat. October 23, p.L Democrat. August 27, 1891. p.L 88. Alfred Mordecai in The Blowing Rocket. 25, 1963 89. Interview with Lena Robbins and Carrie Buxton July 16, 1987. C. July 1, 1987. in �Page 26 / Chapter II �STARTING A NEW CENTURY/Page 27 CHAPTER II Starting a New Century could be up in two by the at the Rock the commitment to be a tourist town. Now to the Village. Unfortunately, town by a fire in the 50s, so are in our of who in during the of 1913 which a of that Joe was in 1889, 1890, 1892, 1894, 1900, 1903, and 1910. has it he was the town's first and only until his in 1910; this is not he is the to the of 1895-98, 1902, and 19044909. was 1 Secretary-Treasurer of the Caldwell &L Turnpike Company in 1901, was in to a run Lenoir to Rock. H.C. Martin mayor in 1891, prominent in Village for a for he the to H.R in 1895 to Lenoir.3 His in Rock continued, however, to the he his the he elected President of the Caldwell &. Watauga Turnpike Company in 1898.4 In the 1900s Martin the Lenoir News-Topic In 1915, however, Martin to he a of the Chamber of Commerce and its in 1927.5 H.W. Weedon did not let his at in the town's As the shows, he a Justice of the for in 6 both 1893 1899. Furthermore, as the owner of the Grand View Hotel, he a of tourism. Dr. CJ. Parlier did not move to until 18957 to 1899,8 but he so he was mayor in 190L9 He was on the of Directors of the and in 1903 1904,10 and helped found the of Blowing Rock in 1907. He, as Joe as Vice-President, future mayor G.M. as an for the These the for transportation but they not L.R C.V Henkel a to the Blowing in 1899, y-: to and to Lenoir, Linville, Cranberry, jlj Elk Park.12 On one in 1901, of their H horses struck by lightning the Green m Park Hotel while pulling a surrey. Fortunately the p 13 unhurt. A to the livery 1 | monopoly was the IJf of the Lenoir-Blowing Rock Turnpike to it to |j automobile traffic. ^i The was a & dirt for ... . ,, , o r ' Sal/ie, George M. and Bettie Sudderth �lumber hauling. would in hub-deep.14 a to visits to return home. The of the in 1910 that situation. This with of rock for the A crusher, on a 25-horsepower as as one of A would the rock, of oil the upper to to the to the rise at a four grade.15 Among the the lovely a for travellers.16 With a day-long now into an afternoon's With by a Veil Falls, jaunt, The at the at up the into on 20, 1908 with Osmond Barringer of Charlotte Carrie a of as the to Store, Aunt Jane Holshouser "Come quick, somethin* comin* nothin1 pushin1 of it nothin1 pullin1 of it!" the trip Lenoir in under two hours without incident, the in the Village Tom Coffey at the Inn. He his only the when he "most of the had off one of our in the climb, as it was to get in less we in to fix the one we had." After of a he cut of in the through tied the the a job 17 all the home. The months much Four Hickory the to be with and of "Hello, Mr. Barringer!" Shuford, the no yet "but the was the 470th car in North Carolina...we 4-7-0 in the strip of which we to the car" Rock was but on to Linville a on a of at to a to a turn-off, so the could pass.18 With the in 1910, to the mountains. Robinson, a visitor, in 1913, "The is the of the country is this fact This has witnessed...in a month more machines than come up during the whole history 19 of the ten up July" Day visits commonplace, irrevocably the of tourism and the Village. The did quick to It the That was the case with and The Turnpike, 20 in 1891 by Cpt. TJ. Coffey, had a seat to the Lenoir road. . John Arthur, commenting on this population "is a pretty constant quantity, as are but few visitors to the town in the all at and unconscious of the fact is on the 22 at all" ^n 1910, the Auto Transfer Company of Boone, proud of a of two ri v : •••i, ' -4 'V^ and Rock.22 The saw fc_ ! B.- VfftV; I ••:,.!? the announcement of a for the North " ^ "\ Wilkesboro-Blowing Rock trip; only hours!23 Winter ;:i;. _ Lenoir to her northern 1 Jj^ ' by car in 1916. One Village resident commented gratefully, " •*^?s^^^ "to get the at 5 o'clock is a luxury we are not to"24 Not long such Tfie oW and new means of locomotion as daily bus to City (July, and �A the use of a truck,26 to to the 24, 1927) to 29 In an E the in April, 1913, a he for and G.M. is of the a n i x 7.11 i iv/ r\ i Wagoning on t/ie Boone Turnpike by the on 26, 1913* "Our he his as an of the the cat has is joy in a in an of The month, for use in an he not an air of the air of this old has yet, all the of the to fro, gay far out the in the of the the the of the we of are the has to stay"28 can ask — he A good It electricity, — all the of a The in is not Mr. Coffey, of John's River a in the of 1897 to put up a It in 29 by the of July the at the Coffey Hotel. the line for as as it during the of its In 1901, the Globe Telephone Company an at the Carolina.30 A in until the of 1916, 31 all the Village the world. be or by As Ethel Holshouser Carrie to the right to a for to at the Hotel.32 the without Bell to in 1926.33 on by the in January, but not July of the Ed's Cafe as the "central" the on Drive be The on July 19, 1927, with Mr. Harry Cooper at the The full day of saw the of 43 the telephones.35 One of at the fire Rockfs only fire system.36 the the in — the Cones, the the — gas.37 On 1, 1912 H. of the a his to energy to the and Three H.C. the to his by an 3,490 pounds.39 he to his his hot and water,40 of did W.L the In 1919, he to to the in 1921 his contract was to years.41 When in 1925, the by the The for the in the to in the a a fire �Page 30 / Chapter II $100,000 water and sewer issue in 1926.42 The system required seven miles of water pipe and twelve thousand feet of sewer pipe. Included in the system were May view Park and Green Park — both of which were annexed in November of 1926.43 The Village Gets A Face Lift of its utility but the so a on Growth was on its the of a to the Dr. J.E. to with up the Village. In the 1912, for Ed man."50 With still a the "privy law" the Mayor on the to go. A of street.45 the in October, 1913, in to to the all the to construct "a the His for twelve-and-a-half per the "Privy Committee,"49 to the "each privy or as in The a on the problem.46 In 1914, a privy so as to all flies "47 In houses.48 the to be out by for the in 1917 D.R Coffey the "as a nuisance."51 Not 1926 so without a permit, of 52 a streets. less led the or thaws.44 Coffey, of the to "improved"" sidewalks. They "to in mouth deep"53 to a $15,000 in 1919, of Village The to in 1928. the Village, a In 1915, H.C. which the to a on it in a He The in 1919,55 by the in 1921.56 One the 57 by the State. North the to in in the of 1924, one "I the try to the in we be for all the he saw his for he in the to rise no county the of in 1926.58 out we Boone Street, todays Sunset Drive, after surfacing with crushed stone in me IyJ(/s (C..W. Moody s rurmture Shop on left) J^ "quaintoCSs" of ^ r W3S to �A as will Coffey be the we in Rock, the the of the job of is far in 1919 by a "Maybe the (of of the county Colonel Tom a the of c boast* of for a glory of the for the is the on What life to in Why, lots of get say it is 60 againf One or if not the No one old it 31 the be at all, and be to be a the the to go Fire! "Blowing could be On the Village is away" Olds of and one could on a Lenoir in 3, 1923, a fire of the the old the its could the Grover's in The the fire for the fire."63 its out in the Company it Chapel or 1923.61 His of John would on the be of the the out just on Street,62 The late the fire. "It was a thing to it a all the old run down, up These not had it not the A construction H.C. on a brick By the six construction in the Village as the on a boom.65 As for Main but it in 1924. This a the to was by the townfs women.66 William Morris, the laid out in the 1870s had a row of Street.67 of now be to the of the The fire of 1923 had also the for a fire in Blowing Rock. Citizens in 1926 a to buy a fire The Community Club $300 and Myra of her at which $1,000. Other to up with the $5,000. ap e rrees a ng The was in ° in — but it was too late to the old Inn, which fell victim to fire on October 29th. this the Volunteer Fire had no of Fire chief J. A. Klutz, and to as his He had a on the day of the To Town 1926,70 H.R authority was of a in 1914. was as Rock's Or a was tax with the which of the 71 in 1929. Other the 1975, A in few his �Page 32 / Chapter II The to be a jack of all tax in 1914, his a tax on with far beyond order. He 72 five of all collected. The was in until 1929. The the to by so he out of his He for All to on the public four a to the 1917 ten in 1896) or pay a fee to found in be to do in of a fine. When D.W. Wooten in 1923, he the not but "1 6 4 1 1 1 watch."73 Police thus put in the for tax in to of "forcing involuntary servitude" the with to live. only for the it was for to only a or 74 two on the job. be a in For a police it be In 1909, Willed: Miller the of Pinky Miller's a Miller him a The Pinky Baldwin and wife Jane at their primitive cabin. (Also pictured are He Ellen and Suzanne Coffey George and Elaine Sudderth.) to by An in 1910 a which in a of five for he in to for a third trial The Court his to be William was innocent.75 The of its to the to be a for distributors, while the In 1926, A. Linney, the United District Attorney in "Most in North Carolina, in my is by the 76 of the people." This fits in the of like who up Prohibition.77 up, but the too to be has the feet of an was $26 a the townfs the in for got his at the the her in the by the with their of The by be Cove it was The The of a for W.H. his our White industry;80 Grover of Mill81 the turn-of-the-century, the is Price Park, the a of a would go for Sr. to his 79 a tree. in in on the the Southern The Lumber Company of the Lost the the 82 Wilkesboro. �A Their The the in 1912 Company 23 1/2 to record!83 The be as The an at North to the It was 33 the by turnW.R. for 190,000 as the the which in this way in A bicycle, one the top of the The is on in the and the and tan are the flume. One is the of In this the of the is 100,000 feet the is a end of 100 and tan and laid on top of it. In this a amount of 50,000 of tan in a day can be the dry. The of water into the the and of bark, the run the top to the taking five or six hours.84 J.G log in repair.85 The on Lenoir. In 1917, the the in an by rail to — the 1916 in the and to to the Grover Robbins, Sr. (on /eft) in his uncle's Shulls Mill out in it was no and its �34 / II : <y,^ —^ -gqp up the via the Turnpike.86 in the too. A mill fire in 1925 cost to in and feet of For all its to of the Village by by lakes.88 was the of The was the left cutting. The lapwas for a In 1926, "The is all this fire of the of the will be for to comef89 The of the industry in a the Dr. "The the Young worn-out T to silk 90 to use lipstick." was an of The "Shulls Mill" was one of the era. "In the 1920s Whiting Company cut the on They the to a Mill, the set. Old has me cut one it When it in the the of the ten high. Around job a They a on a — which is to this day as Whores' Knob."91 Fin long I'm tall, Lord, I'm skinny I'm mean. When the women me You them scream. The on Dam, They think they're so fine, But I'll trie women on Whores* Knob Every doggone time. My old double bit, It's filed and keen, It's the choppin'est axe That's ever been seen. �A My axe I in The on Thinks Fm 35 my Got to the Filled up all the Got to the Or you can't a runnin* a I that log it's I it Till I my pay. a-coming, Coin1 by the Only to get my pay. I won't a WTien it comes pay day. TTie girls at Shulls Mill Got on But the on Wants money all the Goinf to the big fall. Coin' to I can Old Whiting's log Away up on Mountain, Makin9 the big fall. When I my pay Hain't work a-tall Moves to of the control the lumber River. The for the 1900, At H* Cone on the was who will such a would and and Our the value of our They built "The us."92 "that the be and the land" Linney's not For the as the They 93 a M. of an In 1907, Cone fire" to "Bring wealthy Linney no a of a to its the the cities of their They of the South set in bouquets of of colors. the and at to our has in us as the to like us by and all one in had �Page 36 / II their might shadowy air the to the music of the They artificial by the silver moon-beams—and all they might enjoy the the Now to of and to the of the saw mill, as it not the oak the the should for future timber. Col. Linney, do you know how you are the of by your the reserve? Do they they got you down as in of the that ever a of your in on God's earth? Why, if the was the for a years, with his ten of sulphur his the of with all this he could not perpetuate so an the mountain people as of the glory of country for the of generations.94 with of a to the In 1917, the North did a to the top of 95 reserve. Ultimately, the to in 1924 to Carolina, Virginia, on a at the The in as a Civilian the did not the was the the offer.96 The of at for a on the Carolina a by of the but the Camp Globe in 1933. The to 98 the blight. the in the 1920s, in a chestnut. This in the the the the for for the to Chestnut a the a as it The was a of the the for Today, is a In the of the it was as to The was a of to the The was a to the lumber industry alike." in the in a Gwyn of a to The had the the but in the 1920s 30s to it to the as a The by both was to pay taxes,101 Gwyn's to the but not it. Only World II, as his of the of the Linville Corporation, to the beauty,102 to to the a the of the for to Corps "United We Stand" a Yet, in the The o'clock in in the is of of is the of the 1913, to its as follows: Tuesday night the Merfs club in the the at the at the of its a Thursday a the a on Friday and to at 3 is the �STARTING A NEW CENTURY/Page 37 the one on Fridays in our is for six in all, in the Quite a busy Most the chief a for Joe Clarke was the in the a school every of the four of all church,103 for a in the for the to on like to of the of the town. to the the 273 in 1899, the its 458 AF &L AM, by The of of an in the lodge.104 Lodge church. When Clarke in 1910, he was a in Lenoir and his was by T.H. Coffey G.M. Sudderth,105 the in 1916.106 William a he He us a of "Uncle Joe" at his "He no the be, in of or or if the of the he would Uncle Joe1 as he is yet of by the in of the a up the a the to the late was to the for a communication"107 Local in for the at Oxford. They The its on the Village not as an per se, 108 but the of its members. For less in the of Masonry, a Merfs Club by They the Winter of 1913 at the on There would "a of of the in Rock, and yarns, the "109 by the formally the of the or or Topics the of a for to who by the the or Indian. No topic too hot to the suffrage.110 The out the in 1913, the of the "out of courtesy to our Blowing Rock are fair the in of the not one of the fair sex of our of Three for the ladies!"111 The of in was the when a occurrence [sic] for a will go out to town. to a a public in A time"112 with "quite a crowd not to a her, as it is a or a Social conventions Rock's for entertainment or service to the public. The Community Club was one of the the such for women. It's to the of Mary Carter's "Lend-A-Hand Library." The library in October, 1913, its in a on her to the House on Main 113 Street. Mrs. Carter in for the construction of the building.114 was in the her "it was her vision to see the of the in by and the evil one fall the of the street"115 The Mary Carter fell was to Virginia in 1916. Alice Wood a of the the of the House in 1918, in the 1923 fire. These few by all �Page 38 / Chapter H of the by Lend-A-Hand 1928. The in to the in the 13, saw the the five Child Life, 1936, the had six of a the and to the In the last entities. The Community Club did the for with the of the 1930s, no The Community Club in the The Katty Klub room was very Club work.117 An the Club in January.119 The in 1923 was the to and bounty Library,120 of to The the a for the town. The to to buy a for the children. Pupils hot who not at Club The Community Club was involved in to its the did as to aid the its too, and For the Club, the of the A at the of two of groups, worthy of a at the of (on 4, 1925) at her on Street. The living yellow and chrysanthemums. Cards and by Johnson, Lee Crisp, Dorothy Hayes. Coffey was as a of the club, consisting of Jello with cream, and cocoa. A was spent.123 The Club, at its this 21, 1928) Holshouser, carried out a honoring Lincoln The was by the of America the Coffey the and led in This was by the of the Gettysburg by To by Mrs. Cannon; of the Life of Greene; Sketch of the Life of Lincoln' Mrs. Greene; Anecdotes Pertaining to Lincoln' Mrs. I.E. Story; 'Story of Holshouser; 'Lincoln's Favorite Poem* Webb. by Mrs. W.L. of the by and Mary Williams.124 Such Dorothy of the in our did was first had of the is St. the first a the Cone by Not all Village. Box The and who is the a the of role in the of the with youth Community Club and her first but the 1923.125 They, the aid of Mrs. Fire in at in 1915, the Camp.126 127 the Boy in 1914 as well A Tribe of Lone Scouts, in 1915 and on the Boy was in 1916 by on 128 was the of Greene. These but a few of the to into was as the of American life. to be the of a club, of course. in the as for or church, or just for the 1930s, awe by and by of or at Mrs. the in the sing and the clan stay a odd and �A 39 on.129 cows, its to the the set up in the Such c The given a while ago 0uly 1913) by Mexican Joe1 well who, without the of a a big for the for the in air or the for the an the or two in a with wit or with but of to on at the and o'clock, not a out to he to the Union in town!130 It in be to the hilt. The Rock, as People just of July, at the the was a by to the of our citizens, gazing at feet was to be Henry V. 9:30 an of to for of the In 1912, by 4th of July at Rock, North Carolina, Be the Pole', and lots of other f at 12 o clock with the of the AM to 3:00 PM. Fun for and the of July just you are or you will lots of fun, Plenty to see and to eat, 10 o'clock at and the of your life.131 go In and in 1915 the "an to was the Cubs the show"132 The to a sport, both the the for of a to to a 11:30 Aho, the Cubs in 1923, a — Cubs 60 — ML Zion 14.134 The town school, be no The of 12, 1928,135 in fact all the to a the fun,133 of the The The left Mt Zion in the School Licks Town In an exciting ten-inning Saturday, the Blowing Rock school the town by a of 11 to 9. Although both a little out of ball plays, among which a double play by high school Bynum Crisp hit, a home run to left field. The line-ups: Donald Greene, rf; Crisp, c; Clarence Greene, Bolick, 3b; William p; Holshouser, ss; cf; Story, If; Glenn Coffey, IK Ibwn: Mays, cf; 3b; L ss; Drentine, c; Ward, Ib; G. p; Greene, 2b; Ed Pitts, rf; Claud B.K. Jenkins, If. The by innings: High .000 310 140 2-11 Town Ill 020 220 0-9 �at In the of the one to it a was a The in 1904, Linville a in the 1890s. The for a the only was to the J. LR and CV had the and in the By 1913, to the of the Green Hotel 365 the of the Company. ^, In 1915, the Company an •»_. park neighbor Rufus L. Patterson to a on for five construction for 5/9ths of any The Company the if the nine-hole was a it be to a full Seven in 1922, a was to to holes, the on one of six, the are He to Green Par in for to playing The Norwood Golf Course to pay all for the 136 expansion. a in the North The was of it was the which up the the was The cut out off by the of to be out The work to the the be The in, but the the hollows in the not the to be in "down the quickly in tees are a at and At Mules, oxen, horses, wagons, dynamite and plenty of muscle were needed to fashion a golf course from the Appalachian Forest. late The a two feet tall in A full of was the own tees of wet by with to a tee. to the for a to thirty to would to by �A NEW two would 75 a at the 25 tip. While the golf course to the of visitors their the Company a point of it as a public course. Even the Country Club with the in 1950, The Country Club did not buy the until 1973. Since it has with has primarily guests.137 Most dwellers. They 41 Old Goforth Road makes way for the back nine in 1922. in 1900 not in the country on of selfsufficiency. John Walt born in 1882, up the full of tourism had felt. Golfers enjoy a day on the links as a Model T cruises past on the Turnpike. (Green Park Hotel in the background ) Back then we raised nearly everything we had to eat. The whole family would work in the and then would help in harvest. We would dry everything in the sun, it the only way we had to preserve anything. The would be hung up on when they turned dark got very dry, we called them leather breeches. They really good on a cold winter day, cooked with a chunk of pork. 1 remember how good fried apple pies were after you the dried overnight.... I worked in the business many a day for ten hours or more sixty cents. I know we could go to the with a horse and a for ten dollars you could buy everything you needed to out the winter. You got a of coffee, hundred pounds of flour, fifty pounds of salt, twenty-five pounds of sugar....We the syrup from our own trees, we had to eat, not to mention trout from the streams, and wild turkey from the woods.138 Tourism the Southern of life. The or "cottagers" as they The WW and the Cone W. was a of the South Carolina Court. Dr. Mrs. Carter to Blowing Rock for as did of the These the country into the economy of the town in to As early as 1897, Lenoir IW. Thomas that "Blowing was People, walking, driving, on bicycles, or Vendors on hand in numbers with melons, grapes, that the as much as $1,000 a day."139 To the Mary Nelson Carter a North Carolina in 1900, which her criticism for inscnsitivity due to its use of on the of the poor mountaineer.140 Her work actually a of for the which at work. The following account is of a an was at the Elliott art school: "Is that a ghost or a cow?" I to a "T'ain't one," Mrs. Smith. "It's one o'them full of 'em" she added. "A body'd think they could git biggotty.,,,"141 Mrs. Smith reminiscing: "When I young, one o'them to up on the hillside, fellers paintin' picturs. The mountings is plum o'work to do if they tried. on 'em's right Us gals a o'what he �Page 42 / Chapter H posirf for him. But, Lor' as I Ma, I'd a ruther work in the corn. A body plum tired standin' or Them he haddn't no o'me than that dog's got. I let on like I thought for it to hurt a body's feelin's. He a mighty man hisself..." Mrs. her with her while she our at his work. "That over all the mornin"' she "I see him when I up to hunt the cow. That thing you see is his umbrell. I he's the sunll him" she chuckling. "I o'the t'other day what she put powder on her for. She it to her fadinf Mrs. Smith. Then, her sunbonnet and her face on her she "The sun is mighty hot it won't my gownd," she laughing heartily at her own joke. "I got a but I if to to preachin' Sunday school"141 If the of this art the While of The At the There is a the are We your for the you carry home.142 While the was to this a had as a of the to day. When one of in the to in our in culinary to- say, is a with given to of things. to for life. We eat as as as in cosmic for this Rock's of : • William of 1900s, was not l the a ff " 4' " Cycling in the Village - and the a in 1911 to of an poor log : : Hr::;::sp for He ::i as a a in the by ' " jr -" /" J^s "" he the Mid-Summer of change. His of would-be for papers c for the % • / grow, this and ' 1^;yii / the of this town not with the for of their for the and indifference." Certainly, local churches, but they suspicious of In the of 1913, the an event. An drew 2,500 and G.M. the to was "in of our mountain the who in the of write of . . - •• ,., -.with '•-••-"<* " " whites^144 r fc SPHjvV5 ^e - : ! in 1913 for the use of "it is it .;iif -. """ ?: " r " ' the to be derived from the of a berry patch. The hot rip of the thorn line of blood that at the surface, but not overflow, the tingling sensation body for a moment, — for this you willingly the that for hours touch Moreover, you would the so of the feel of the sun, of the and for the rich booty the that a her of the in humor, W. which was in Blowing Rock, she of to that "he family,1 for the this Interesting* up north to 'show' how of North Carolina live!"145 �A it to say, this is still a is by Just as 45 a in to the of of on living, People to to the of the at Christmas), to Churchman until for "Galacking," the plant which was in a pursuit. an in 1902 for two which 146 for the of King VII. to Teddy at the White House.147 H.C. as a at 1924, doing a of 10,000 to dry, Thorton the of his by a root factory in 1909.149 Grover of his in the 1920s the Wildwood Company.150 the as a for on to He 151 to for to states. the of the with in an in the Workshop; a in of W.G The in 1907 with for The Rock by by the Mrs. in 1910. the a on sale for as "a bell for the house, an rustic for the pump, articles"152 It When of 1916 The War concern. Mid-July of 1916 saw the a "To on for to join the The Trout It would not be at the to a For or the of The for the to to hit County. On the the the in by the last be futile, indeed....But all demolished."153 The fell was in and in the Blowing to both Lenoir all communication the them. at the Cone the Flannery Fork. in Conefs lifetime. Fortunately, the at as did the old by Chetola.154 The Turnpike was in a up the to Green Park the in a to The up and was we not this at all. The first ten of this a of this just a bed. The houses, and a church and carried and left the Twice we to us through. Once we were stuck in the middle of a we fording it half an hour we could get help. After out of this we to climb the mountain. all the route, and so badly that there hardly room to get by. To excitement, when five from Green Park a heavy us. �Page 44 / II We got within 1 1/2 the his we out. we in a the as Providence would it, the the at us as if we the dead.155 The The Whiting of the the cut, the investments.158 Those Green Hotel, on felt in the in the county. The old on a to The of of Lumber Company Much of the the the A the by out to a firm shortly not to was at the 157 Nature's anger. World War I, the the the of our community. left and to "fight the Hun." At home, the less as and a of and far the of the For a town, Rock*s contribution The of who Crump, Melvin Cox, Ward, Walter Austin, Niley Cook, Vannoy, Klutz, Clark Brown, Charles Downs, "Mr. the Office." in the unit in to — E of the 113th Artillery.159 Those left the war A Cross at the $101, fifty a admission.160 Cross to overseas.161 The was the site of a war songs.162 In July of 1918, a Dupont, at the Church in a by WW. Stringfellow.163 In a Convention downtown, by throughout the Governor T.W. Bickett.164 victory was was of to the The of the Cross led for aid to the the Armenian-Syrian Fund, the "suffering Serbians" out of the of the Society touched everyone. in Truly, up is the Village to The He to do. The The of the by to it is his "the the use of in Music on on the the of at of the times"165 a of the on this at a to the was not the only one — if go wrong?"167 he "yet and bad horizon, which 'clouds* can be only by the was by the in the of a is on the of the of now-a-days, the unattractive, the of the day by the soft on the day of the of the time," in "boisterous of the town"166 a in 1913 "Our to up the In his and are clouds1 on the the "Sun of Righteousness! "168 The he a "Tend to Your Own Society" at �STARTING A NEW 45 a town be a a tulip.169 By 1915, the was to be to an to the of Many of the town's a which in the county "It is proposed" "to a of the winter, for the of our town to the of for the to up the habit, vulgarity, the little of our town, for the young to for a and will be eliminated.,..to in the Public Library, which is to be the of all work, whether for or at of might be for the of in a our much 170 community" No is of this due to an of First, in December, 1915, for the in all in due to a Shortly the group of Rock in the service. Those two of the 171 which by youthful exuberance. The perception of a still however, the of Mayor D.R Coffey in October, 1916, blew the with $80. "The community is up the robbery," wrote, "the in the of the town, only to our lot who with or lock bar them, no the proverbial of days."172 When the town in 1917, a was in an to children off the out of trouble. Article 15 "That it be for any the age of fifteen to be upon the of the Town of the hour of o'clock P.M. or to be one half hour upon the town" The curfew age two in 1922, but to "all places" which now to at 8 o'clock on 9 o*clock on Saturday, due to the .at Dr. drug were 173 in 1920 in 1922, Sunday entertainment. With in question, the of alcohol consumption once a dominant concern to community. For who intent on Blowing Rock's reputation, in the A in 1922 a at the Church, with an of forty-seven. They to the "great evil" of alcohol They led by prominent W.L. Holshouser President, T.H. Coffey, Vice-President, J.H. Winkler secretary.174 into other channels. County a which other communities never a in Rock. While there a black population, they mostly of summer visitors or cooks, musicians, or with' the hotels. Local blacks could did vote, but the May November elections place off-season, so the political of the black never important. Nevertheless, Ku Klux Klan in county in 1920s. Their major concerns Prohibition of conservative Christian morality. The Democrat favorable to cross-burnings, the for with in up the liquor trade.175 The only a county man, who white, to for to his children to Sunday school.176 At a when a throughout poor, rural south, Blowing Rock revival in full evangelical work, contributions.177 �Page 46 / Chapter II the the the 1920s was the of a the of 1924. Front- page t ; ~ *•* - > ^ '""" - ^B' '-'**" At 2 a.m. Christmas Blowing Rock the their of by JP of in such as they might in the to Thomas Coffey, Lee Robbins, Thomas Coffey Sr., and Jim Sudderth relax The was in of the on Main Street. building, and the car on up the where every in the was to say and and dimensions. Mr. Craig was the due only to the fact he the to The Bank and the and did not the vandals. Each in turn got the of the which left ruin in its The car on out to the Road, no at It discovered when that the the powder of the the town, being a lot of it missing.178 A Christmas, but the will traditionally with the celebration. A A of fire of 1923 only foundations. a the 1930s as a tough her briefly, but she the in her. Even dynamite couldn't to the 30s of unique town. the her of Beauty and commerce mingle on Main Street /n 1933. �STARTING A NEW CENTURY/Page 47 NOTES 1. Democrat, May 16, 1901 2. Watauga Democrat, May 7, 1891 3. Watauga Democrat, November 7, 1895 4. Democrat, June 11, 1896 and May 19, 1898 5. Democrat, July 14, 1927 6. Watauga Democrat, December 17, 1914 7. Democrat, June 27, 1895 8. Democrat, May 25, 1899 9. Watauga Democrat, May 16, 1901 10. Democrat , May 19, 1904 11. Democrat, July 4, 1907 12. Democrat, July 20, 1899 13. Democrat, July 18, 1901 14. Van Noppen, Ina W. and John J. Western North Carolina Since the Civil War. Boone, NC; The Appalachian Consortium 1973, 15. Lenoir News-Topic, April 29, 1910 16. Watauga Democrat, November 30, 1922 17. Barringer, Osmond. "An Automobile Trip to Blowing Rock", in Country Life Magazine, June 1909, 18. Hickory Daily Record, January 12, 1968 19. Watauga Democrat, August 21, 1913 20. Democrat, October 22, 1891 21. Arthur, John Preston. A History of Watauga County. 22. Watauga Democrat, 25, 1910 23. Watauga Democrat , December 13, 1911 24. Watauga Democrat , February 24, 1916 25. Democrat, July 28, 1927 26. Watauga Democrat , October 27, 1927 27. Watauga Democrat, April 10, 1913 28. Democrat, July 24, 1913 29. Watauga Democrat, July 8, 1897 30. Democrat, 22, 1901 31. Democrat, July 19, 1916 32. Interview with Carrie M. Buxton July 16, 1987 33. Town Council minutes, January 9, 1926 34. Democrat, July 21, 1927 35. Democrat, July 28, 1927 36. Watauga Democrat, November 18, 1926 37. Watauga Democrat, April 15, 1915 S.C.: Southern Historical Press. 1976 (Reprint of 1915 edition), p. 157. pp 199-200. �II 38. Democrat, August 8, 1912 39. Democrat , April 15, 1915 40. Democrat, 41. Town Council 22, 1915 October 6, 1919 and October 31, 1921 42. Democrat, 18, 1926 43. Democrat, November 4, 1926 44. Van Noppen op. dr., pp. 110-111 45. Town Council May 26, 1912 and May 24, 1913 46. Town Council Minutes, October 9, 1913 47. Town Council Minutes, February 23, 1914 48. Town Council Minutes, March 16, 1914 49. Town Council Minutes, 25, 1914 50. Town Council Minutes, April 6, 1914 51. Town Ordinances in Minute May (?) 1917 52. Town Council Munutes, June 1, 1926 53. Democrat, February 4, 1915 54. Town Council Minutes, February 1, 1920 and April 9, 1920 55. Democrat, 8, 1919 56. Democrat , November 4, 1926 57. Democrat, January 26, 1972 58. Watauga Democrat, November 4, 1926 59. Democrat, March 6, 1924 60. Charlotte Observer, July 13, 1919 61. Watauga Democrat, September 13, 1923 62. "1923 Fire Almost Destroys Community"Tfie Blowing Rock Story. Page 12. Mrs. Robbins"T/ie 63. "A Visit 64. Democrat, October 18, 1923 65. Democrat, March 20, 1924 66. Democrat, 67. Democrat, April 30, 1916 68. Democrat, 69. Story. Page 29. Democrat, December 16, 1926 11, 1919 and Town Council Minutes, November 17, 1924 24, 1976 70. Watauga Democrat, December 23, 71. Town Council Minutes, May 16, 1929 72. Town Council Minutes, March 30, 1914 73. Town Council Minutes, May 19, 1923 74. Town Council 75. Watauga Democrat, July 8, 1909, September 22, 1910, and September 14, 1911 �STARTING A NEW CENTURY/Page 49 76. Watauga Democrat, September 24, 1926 77. Interview with Wade Brown, July 13, 1987 78. Democrat, July 22, 1926 79. The Blowing Rocket, October 25, 1963 80. Watauga Democrat, December 17, 1914 81. Interview with Lena Robbins July 16, 1987 82. Interview with John Christian Berhardt July 1, 1987 and newspaper accounts. 83. Democrat, February 22, 1912 84. Democrat, September 23, 1909 85. Interview with J.C July 1, 1987 86. Watauga Democrat, January 18, 1917 87. Democrat, August 27, 1925 88. Watauga Democrat, January 8, 1920 89. Democrat, May 20, 1926 90. The Blowing Rocket, October 25, 1963 91. Warner, Anne. Traditional American Folk Songs. Syracuse NY: Syracuse University 92. Democrat, October 24, 1907 93. Democrat, 94. 1984. pp 310-311. Democrat, October 17, 1907 95. Frome, Michael. 96. 18, 1926 in High Places: The Story of the Great Smokey Mountains. Garden City NY: and Company. 1966. p 179. Democrat, November 13, 1924 97. The Charlotte Observer, July 5, 1924 98. The Rocket, June 17, 1933 99. Interview with Hugh Morton June 23, 1987 and Watauga Democrat February 16, 1928 and 100. The 20, 1926 Rocket, July 6, 1933 and September 2, 1933 101. Asheville Citizen, January 31, 1943 102. Hickory Record, June 15, 1972 103. Watauga Democrat, January 23, 1913 104. Democrat, July 13, 1899 105. Watauga Democrat, November 24, 1910 106. Watauga Democrat, January 6, 1916 107. Democrat, June 26, 1916 108. Democrat, March 28, 1912 An excellent Princeton NJ: Princeton University Press. 1984. 109. Democrat, January 16, 1913 110. Democrat, account of Masonry is found in: Dumenil, Lynn. 26, 1903, January 23, 1913, and January 16, 191 111. W^tauga Democrat, January 16, 1913 112. Democrat, February 12, 1914 and American Culture 18804930. �113. Democrat, November 5, 1903 114. Democrat, January 30, 1908 115. Democrat, January 30, 116. Letter from Alice Wood in Community Club Files. 117. The Rocket, July 22, 1933 118. Democrat, September 27, 1928 119. Democrat, January 24, 1929 120. Democrat, 15, 1928 121. Letter in Blowing Rock Community Club files, 1934-35. 122. The Blowing Rocket, July 22, 1933 and Community Club 123. Democrat, 124. Democrat, February 23, 1928 125. The 10, 1925 Rocket, July 22, 1933 126. Watauga Democrat, November 18, 1915 127. "1914 Clean Up," Blowing Rock Story, 1983, page 17. 128. Democrat, June 22, 1916 129. Interview with Lena Robbins July 16, 1987 and The Blowing Rocket July 22, 1933 130. Watauga Democrat, July 17, 1913 131. Democrat, June 13, 1912 132. Democrat, March 4, 1915 133. Watauga Democrat, June 1, 1916 134. Watauga Democrat, May 24, 1923 135. Democrat, May 17, 1928 136. "Blowing Rock Country Club: History of Its Golf Course" by David J. Craig, Jr. September/October 1980. Provided courtesy of Mrs. David J. Craig, Jr. 137. Interview with Gwyn Harper, Jr. July 29, 1987 138. Times Gone By by Robert W. Harman: Privately printed. 1973 (?). 139. Lenoir News-Topic, September 8, 1897 140. Watauga Democrat, January 30, 141. Carter, Mary Nelson. North Carolina Sketches, Chicago: AC. McClurg & Co. 1900. 142. Morley, W. The Carolina Mountains, Boston; The Houghton-Mifflin Company. 1913. 143. Democrat, April 13, 1916 144. 364. Democrat, August 28, 1913 145. Watauga Democrat, November 16, 1911 146. Democrat, May 15, 1902 147. Correspondence in the William 148. Watauga Democrat, August 28, 1924 149. Democrat, May 4, 1909 150. Watauga Democrat, May 6, 1926 collection, courtesy of Manuscripts Department, University of North Carolina at Chapel Hill �STARTING A NEW CENTURY /Page 51 151. Watauga Democrat, March 21, 1912 and William 152. Democrat, July 7, 1910 and July 1, 1915 153. Collection, loc. cit. Democrat, July 19, 1916 154. "Blowing Rock Memories" by Ruth Vardell and Gaston 155. TTie Blowing Rocket, August 8, 1986 157. Watauga Democrat, August 17, 1916 158. Democrat, July 19, 1916 and interview with J.C. Bemhardt July 1, 1987 159. Watauga Democrat, December 23, 1915, July 26, 1917, and March 27, 1919 160. Democrat, August 23, 1917 161. Watauga Democrat, January 10, 1918 162. Democrat, June 20, 1918 163. Democrat, July 18, 1918 164. Watauga Democrat, September 12, 1918 165. Watauga Democrat, July 1, 1915 166. Watauga Democrat, November 11, 1915 167. Democrat, April 3, 1913 168. "1914 Clean-Up," The Blowing Rock Story 1983, 17 (Note: the speech is mistakenly 169. Watauga Democrat, June 5, 1913 170. Democrat , November 18, 1915 171. Watauga Democrat, December 23, 1915 172. Watauga Democrat, October 26, 1916 173. Town Council Minutes: Ordinances of 1917, 30, 1921, April 19, 1922, and May 15, 1922 174 Democrat, December 7, 1922 175. Democrat, June 5, 1924, July 24, 1924, and February 12, 1925 176. Watauga Democrat, September 8, 1927 177. Watauga Democrat, November 25, 1926 178. Watauga Democrat, January 1, 1925 as April 1914) �Page 52 / Chapter 111 �GREAT ESTATES AND PROMINENT PEOPLE/Page 53 CHAPTER III Great Estates and Prominent People Ultimately, the true of any town, and vibrant intriguing Numerous individuals, of contributed to the of this quaint, but vigorous, Rock, with its appeal—its and accomplished of rare individuals, to it an and richness. These and colorful Time and has the of for to the its well-known of the are in this It is, all the in this It is all the are at the of its "No has had an and of vitality, in this Village's the an and its the fair of a be so as and is to the of mountains"1 The a in the 1900s, one of the in North Carolina^Chetola Chetola, of rest"2 the but all this for the of the the Village as we it The as Chetola was in by Lot The Mr. 100 the of North for the of 5 an on the Daniel Trail, the only two on the at the of a a for the coach.5 The of to the County's first Lot the a Greene.6 the Civil War, Len his a of two a a room,7 he his it a house, the in the Village. He a row of the to Dr. Chalmers a first the Village the of 1884, "Mr. Mill was the to in 100 ago. In Len one of the few on the for the the lat lands" This was "Silverlake" it for its The and as Zeb the of the of Mr, so he to out on the to Not did the rest and for it also the only in and the to Church, a of who on the for 18 and ran the mill the late this of �to the of who Chief their com into Mr. Church's not for his services, but would a of he for This of was "tolling" was very to in years.9 During ice for the community. With no ice to At you could buy 100 of ice for 10 cents.10 1892, the their property to William and his Susie.11 The Anniston, to and was in Hyde Park, New York, the son of an priest. Dr. at the Church in Hyde William school with the New Yorkers (two of whom the of Teddy Roosevelt.) William's the of an intellectual who had of in China.12 was one of six Like his he was an 6 feet tall, a of humor.13 Some say he Grant, that he was as a to he was at by his A "born teacher" she William to the Civil War, the New York to Virginia finally in Dr. as of St. John's Church 1869 his in 1894.15 At the age of 17, William to work in a in the he 16 of the Squibby Switch Company, a he for 30 years. In 1882, he Parker, an of Duncan T Parker.17 Miss Parker, in to her It is she charm "18 In 1890, Mrs. at his 19 the of the First National in Anniston, Alabama. Through the Mr. Stringfellow*s to with his tuberculosis Mrs. cooler her husband's health, so she to the known as Silverlake.20 The the property Chetola, for to "haven of rest" the one of the beautiful private in Rock.21 The villa an architectural it the of The a simple four-room home, greatly a structure.22 The eight-bedroom Chateau or five a living library, den/card room, an which an pantry walk-in all the done.23 The oak which on the in the floors.24 ceiling and and a of the of its and the the villa the at bay.25 Chetola was one of the few at the to electricity.26 The an which ran a the was the a was in a or in the kitchen, into the as 1912, the villa / • 1.1 • L L • w • D i u was lighted by acetylene & J but eventually electricity was gas, c . „ , C - ^ H Susie Parker Strmgrellow (right) with her sisters Minnie Parker Hegemeyer o / / ; j fcenterj and FarJcer Noble by the mill.28 �GREAT ESTATES AND PROMINENT PEOPLE/Page 55 Mr. the and had in horticulture The Stringfellow touch can be in a of he a of not to North Carolina.29 He the mill in it with the trout in the The fill the 7-acre into the to the Mississippi.30 The was a with the of r Rock. Swimming the the "~ "" ** " ". . ice was in the ' """ ' ' , '*^H^^- • winter.31 In to the Stringfellow built a house, home, stable.32 The lavishly, for One of Mr. Stringfellow's was Elliott the who had a in Rock.33 It is the of both living in Ferry, Virginia. Mr. Stringfellow's at the Church in Ferry during the Civil War Mr. Daingerfield^s in Ferry at this time.34 her in "during the era, the lanterns,"35 and Chalmers Davidson the of Mrs. Stringfellow,36 While the Rock's to they very in the Rock Church, The Church of the Holy Spirit.37 Mrs. a Sunday of the church.38 no children of her own, she took a in the of a to help children of the area.39 willing to to in need.40 Both Mr. Mrs. for the of County to as the Cross the County fed the "unfortunates" of the 1900s.41 In a School Association, with the the Civic the of the Fire Girls.42 The Stringfellows1 in the of the a of their life In 43 1914, they the Scout Troop, which at Chetola. In 1916, they money to convert a of the of the public a for the youth.44 In 1918, Mr. 45 all five each. the was not by in the in it was An in the in 1916 "...it is to say, of not with the they to ...most of for the uplift of the as a yet to do for us what, we are to do for ourselves"46 As William a for life to the he his of with In 1917, he a to the to "You too the of our the onions, both of which, will in County 47 any in the I of" a �In the 1900s, felt a County was not by or Mr, to the County and in the He was a of the County in 1917 a in in oil to Mr. was a of his The this "I it be a 48 County any oil or else on our trails." As the the he was to be 49 "cured" of tuberculosis. to build a Church in to thank, God for her The for the Church in 1918, Mrs. the of her on 7, 1920 Bright^ a condition which she for years.50 William the of the Church, a to his The rock on the church by The has it to lay the in the of the a which him. At the was the doing as it is "borrowed" a the the say the of the Church is a rock!51 The by W. of the Court, in to Mrs. are on a the "She was an of the a lover of the a of the right, a foe to a of she found it:"52 Upon her left $1000 to the to County citizens,53 The P. Church was on 7, 1921 by J. M. 54 Homer. Thanks to Mrs. will, and to of her the of Rock a church in which to In 1919, due to his sold Chetola to the of North Carolina. The Holts, the for less the in 1923 to Charlottean, L. the of has it Mr. the "Had-er-way" it his Ernestine, who him to the property.55 Ms. Annie in her jRodt, the when by the �AND is a of a art; an as a of to the The he is to its are like a bit of to part.56 57 fair, the a in in 1925, While a so was for sale,57 the Mr. to of its its He a of his to the its Luther truly a He on a in the of the Valley, in 1873, He was the of the son of the late William He was his in of an his in a his He the Wickliffe Rectory School but to to the to with his He as he to say, "My go on get the of a but felt too a young man.1*60 He in County with his the age of 2?, Mr. J. T. Lupton, a in the Coca-Cola girl to to to the Coca-Cola Mr. in for a to for the to in field,62 Luther was a his his the to the south.63 They to to 64 but Mr. Charlotte, North Carolina, in 1895. he say he it was the in the in "I 65 if I did not in this I go to the or to Atlanta," In 1902, J. T, a in $3,000 $500 he had in $1,000 to his In of the he with the he J. T7s Crisman. 67 Virginia, her a store. the city in a Coca-Cola to the and The was but the in a for the the With his he ten for the In 1926, like so she to live his in the �Page 58 / III of the Carolinas "68 As as he was in Mr. lost of the on to him^his He six Luther, and and for and his wife.69 He his to be a of his as well, the Coca-Cola a his son sons-in70 law joined the firm. To the of Charlotte, Mr. his to for the The as Asheville, and Crest. Then one the the Village of Rock. in love the its and its this was he the rest of his summers.71 Thus, in 1926, Luther and his wife the as "Had-er-way" and it Chetola.72 Mr. of the for the sum of $36,000.73 He the to 169 in its In 1928, he the mill, the the old a rock structure.75 the top of the he a his "T" day to and the Village.76 At his the it was to the the in 1935, he built a much of the "Big House" a he and on winter to or to business. The of his in the in wood. He this it his to Mrs. Snyder^s CJietola.77 As his began own families, he built a on the so be to and in the of the Village. The the of Mr. Mrs. Christine, Jr. and Luke. In 1932, he a for his These Mr. and and Caroline Mr. Mrs. Anne, Chris. This was unique; Mr. his dry wit, both exactly the duplex »-• i • *••-< y • "Twinola" The W.B. Garrison house was built in 1938 for the Garrisons Billy, Snyder, Lee. Each in May, the would the Lenoir, with them cooks, on the a for employees.78 was a for and Mr. the first 79 a alley. the on the H. Cone was a the Mr. his the in Chetola to be the in the The to see who could the fish.80 on Mr. the a on the lawn. It was one of the big of the 81 no one to it. Among the of Chetola the huge, flower Only with her of Arbors, ivy, on the of phlox, In of the "Big House" was a bed Iris with in colors.83 be on to as the "Coca-Cola �/ Page 59 in the with of wa also an old and and she a She was not her to a at and an for the Pe°pl^ You of the the she was like the for the family.86 of for its it was a his his Iva, his son for Mr, by the to for the Church his the of to at The in to a to use was or on the Mr. his son for the His to the in the has it was a for the for his of to toss not to be of any was a in the the and the the to in the in a in 1948, to the W.C. of Charlotte, in 195L91 to his 195? at the age he He left to his it in the a a n 1972 it sold.93 As in i i & for the Mr. in 1940.90 He was a but his and his in the the he a to the is 321/Business. He the 50 an an at the It of his to the people of not his help.94 He the to work 95 the on the Estate. At a to for Luther He in the Church. his to the in his by the family.96 As in this the 1900s, of the day to the felt a to for the community.97 In 1946, he of the Rock Community Center. on the a for to go for a It a of worship,98 For the a Center.99 an of the this to the "for the for civic for of distress"100 A and an of the and the its and To this the J.L is to the 14 of As of he by an to the tO of J good F L Luther C J Tate - L i ^ r L/- /IA»»X F /- » Gofer ^ Lloyd r i ^ �Page 60 / Chapter III as the Cross, Boy Scouts, Community Club.103 the of the Rock Country Club, of on He was the Club's president.104 In Charlotte, as of the Chamber of Commerce "during of the of the and was a for the YMCA and Army,105 He was of the and in Charlotte, of the Cannon Airport and Chairman of the Life Company of Charlotte.106 He was a and life of Myers Church, 107 a still in his honor. Early in his Mr. Snyder in local which "bolstered the life of the 108 community rolls" He "this policy has a one, that a community in community"109 His was a not only to his family, but to who him. His and will be It is a to a Daingerfield Of the who found solitude, in the tiny of Rock, the Elliott His in of the in country, the in New "fork the National Gallery in Washington.110 Elliott born in Ferry, Virginia, on March 26, 1859.111 He a of an who to Virginia in the 17th Century, the son of Captain John Elliott Wickham De Daingerfield,112 He a of North Carolina the Civil War his by General E. Lee, to command the in Fayetteville.113 He his in the House, Lafayette visited in 1825.114 Young Elliott his as a one his Archie, a box of watercolors.115 One of his first was at the age of twelve. Entitled "Girl With a Rabbit," the pronounced "quite perceptive" for so young,116 Determined to all he could about art, Elliott with a local with Mrs. William MacKay, a painter, in the Chinese style.117 He that if he to to be a he to Fayetteville. To and instruction, he an for six months in Norfolk, Virginia.118 Elliott a child in the the Civil War up during the Reconstruction Period. He proud of his if he to the on he would to in 119 to view his childhood his objectively. So, at the age of 21, with only a few to his he for New York City.120 In order to support himself, he a job Christmas but found he not for type of employment.121 Within a month, he an to Walter a of the National of Design. Elliott for out and up the Mr. In for his services, Elliott instruction his to every the first class.122 It he boy to instructor.123 was obvious. Within a of in New York, not only did he rise to "instructor" in a very well-known but he sold his first picture, "The a of Wine" for $150.124 In 1884, he left the with Mr. the American this was a point in Elliott's the Mr. tell art connoisseurs who to a him, "There is a young up the me. Go buy a him" The two until Mr. in 1894.125 In 1884, Elliott French, a of French of Wilmington, 126 North Carolina. He his to New York. The winter, he very ill this disease.127 On from his doctor, he to to 128 a could and for $15 a month. The up the in a was and but well it. According to Mr. "I the and �AND has of wonders. It in the in his In 1891, Mr. The like itself!"129 of North Carolina"130 to to he was to his New York to of the "The for the 50 the to the 19th Century. his at 61 of my of West Fifty-fifth the Holbein like the houses.131 He was in the York art This 1891, joy his child. The was not to his his in 1892 a "The Mothers"132 Three in 1895, at the in Mr. fell in of Louisville, Kentucky, the of Grainger.133 "a beauty" a face." To Elliott, her "like a incarnated!1134 one two if it "physical It it instantly"135 was to her in 1896, a "Madonna Child" The for $1,000 to Mr. of Metropolitan 136 Life and was the of his to be in Rock, The was on the of the of TJie Churchman. of the the United As a of the of as a He was to in the "The Child of Mary," "The Holy Family" "The of the Clark in 1902.137 a a to his by the Gospels."138 He for "art is the out of God by which the are the of the spirit."139 day to he in of a in his 140 prayed. In 1902, he a of for the of the in City. 141 his for the of Ann. the 1900s, was with his life. to two Gwendolyn, the felt he he His this period his In 1900, the "Windwood" in on -Drive, the in of Mr. in "High Noon" the "Grape Arbor"143 The by is on St. Mary^s of the Hills Church is by as the Cottage " The very in the at home.144 In Mr. for his of the art at at the this home.145 In 1911, by the Fe to the Canyon.146 For a he his to to this The he to be for to to by rail to see the An in a by the of she "marry an will for two will be a in the the a big red in the The was for Mr. the red the Canyon. With Blind Jenny's 147 was at last fulfilled. As his to He to "What �do friends?" was to do for and his William to a for the Church, which at the was he to on was to a In 1918, the Church he his and it Hills "149 The a which "on the of the the the at If her is in the will be a if in the will be full of want."150 The in the Anna Grainger Daingerfield with daughters Marjorie and Gwendolyn on the of "Windwood". "comes in out of the the of a sun. the a lily of purity. The of the to is fairly with the of The Dawn, one of the her robe. Life light, a miracle of beauty, follow her coming. Rhododendron of color her, while all the of the at her It is truly the of the Hills1 of who the on the day of — the blossom."151 One arm a which the of of to the say that if a of is the neck, the will 40 but if the will be and of sunshine.152 of Mr. are in the the are all to One look at the the is local.153 Mr. was the of "The of the Hills," but no one to its When 154 he got the for picture, "On my knees" In honor of Elliott his gift, Susie P. Stringfellow Memorial Church St. Mary's 155 of the Hills. Today, by the Church to the are by the way in it the of the Blowing Rock area.156 No is in the say he at "Windwood" on Drive; the in his at "Westglow" in 1917. A in as a at "Windwood," to as the unfolded.157 However, "The the for the are nothing of a of the the front of his home." The the is to is "Westglow"158 "The Madonna of the Hills" in 1916, it be the was at 'Windwood' at "Westglow." In 1916, his "Westglow" a the with a of Mountain.159 The ison the The was _ . f, .,, , „_, , _,__ „.„ „. St. Mary, s^rT,The . Damgerneld s masterpiece Madonna Of The Hills in c A Of L for the which Elliott H///S CAurc/i �AND as "never "Westglow" the the of Elliott through five was / Page 63 clouds, or mists"160 was in the a kitchen, parlor.161 When by 162 by the artist. In the hall by the Other in the Governor Winthrop a his home.164 The two-story They by to the of the an DaingerfielcPs for so in of the up the by The and 165 by a architect. "Westglow" its 32-volt light but no of electricity. to and the heat,166 These for the 167 to in of fires. The was in 1917 by and J. Lee for a of $20,00d168 The was a as a On the was a The and his u i /• 1 . r • i /• i i i f i T\ • f« 1 1 to in of the for the family, but "Westglow" a Estate,170 of the was as Rock Show.171 at "Westglow" an and the Village. On the day of the of and in Louisville, in her of the day one of "Some for JVew K»rJc on a of course. No one tea at left the so he our very at us and to the in triumph with a she with a flourish to all of the Nobody accepted"172 "Westglow" under construction to in the 1923 for New York a Rock, a by to see us. Wfe tea Daddy we to in. her long, which During the at the of his to to the in the built The ladies" "there a In an of the in in as and of in the of 174 galleries. "Westglow" was a of the and was a of and cuttings.175 his is the area out for to a He a the of his in of his In the of his "When the out on a cloth. They off the and a and it May."176 In 1924, Mr. for the to the In the of "paintin* Blue."173 a at of its the to as with a French, — was it was his he was so �his in 1932, at the age of 73, The a to the a he the for a as his two Elliott which he recovered.177 He and was at St. Mary's of the Hills.179 by his Gwendolyn. Anna her at his in in is Fayetteville.180 Gwendolyn, the of the children, on 22, 1904. She School in York City in Virginia, her on which, the her her and to the to a in her but she to her to for her her her an life in York and In she her by the New York to by Elliott Daingerfield poses with a group of admiring students. to for the to The Rock,' by of and for the Gwen, as she was to her of all was a vivid, These her humor, to her in in Her in Rock. Every she her Marjorie, a big on the of "Westglow" which was to by a of friends" was she a and at Jay was an "indomitable, for her nerve, 182 humor" She was as an and and as a of the Ouija Board!183 at in York City, the of and the of Art.184 She at University, the of American the of Art, and was for two of the of Sculpture at College.185 She the for her the for "Appassionate," a in An up the idea for this one in New York City, she was by a for was by the It to the the and sins since Jezebel."187 to pay this if she sit as a The and was The was in the Gallery in 1934 and was at the very first Art which was at the in 1935, The art was the of "several the in Rock."188 In 1952, and cast the of Sir the top of the Sir Cup. A of this was by to II Her to the United In for the gift, a �AND / Page 65 The of the annually. The is in at the North Carolina of History.189 In 1954, the to an for the Girl of America. The she was a to her, the girl As of the "girls" (as by did to in art. Art on the of Patronesses.191 The Art was in 1950, "to as a point for the in the to the of the to for as The first of the in and both 192 girls. as for of the to its The in at the time.193 was Art of the of of of W. C of a late for of her was Forsyth.194 and in Charlotte.195 was a to a Ovens, which in In 1939, was a of in the States.196 One of her a Child "The in the of St. of the Church in a gift to the community.197 her was a of the the Pen and and the Art Club.198 She also Fun of Sculpture. In this she an by the / a Marjorie Daingerfield and had one her TAe was in the /ta/ge of North Carolina, a I a for a a very dim wew of my He see 'no to me no way/ / had the two of Mr. and Mrs. Charles Cannon of Concord, full and life size, and I was with a are you to get to York?' 'Well, Hank,' I Til to Charlotte and get two h fifty and a it and it in my car!' He was very the and I did the a with so it like an out of it, he That to get in no car* Hit'll five I big to carry four on the Call in the 'So the and on the juice in all Finally, two car out the my into the it was �let tlie gas run all f me and Ladyf I I 'Well,' I 7 is — it the else in M C. / set sail down the trie / at a to get the Ae was so one to go a-sdckinf my is you got in your Is it a of it in that before, but burning!'199 Of course, / couldn't see out 1117 TAere / in tne car. Finally, he up to that just my but you it, yesf just it H« H. Cone was the of in 185? to Cone in The patriarch, Herman, was a to at the age of 17, finally in to a dry In 1871 Moses1 his to he a his for the it the It was on of the young first the of he to live. in the south, the in the With initiative, his the of in the It was a far cry as "drummers " the on for dish had an to sell The as Cone Mills, a direct by-product of work. Cone a of 36 when he to buy of Rock. to the of the he as a he to a he to an of his one be a of The 3,516 the Cone by his a of 35 the of the was a period, 18934899.200 in Rock Township, the lop Rich 500 of rolling Throughout the rhododendron mountain the the of nearby Mountain. The the Joseph C. Norwood in by the B. Clarke The was as and of to the These included the William A. the B, hands.201 It was in 1899 the a very In the the Cones construction of on this Oxen to 20 the at Lenoir, on the to with the project.202 The Victorian, 20 four floors. A Tiffany the Manor a to the of the Southern at the turn-of-the-century. H. The the �GREAT ESTATES AND PROMINENT PEOPLE/Page 67 to on the and with the Gifford Pinchot, Governor of Three of Whitetail to the Estate.203 Consistent with of on the as as cows. As a matter-of-fact, the so could be This led to the of the "Grade A" in 204 County. The Cone a in the of the Community. The 30 This, to the of 1900, 15-20% of Flat Top Manor Rock Township by the That portion of the which the the orchards. This a by Cone to an for to this on The of 300 locations. Sawmill Orchard, the just of the the of the of the was In a by the Country Club, was By far the was the China (so it was "on the of the world"), just of 221 its the Parkway. All told, an 10,000 on the of twenty At of operation, at for the to the on the While the are no a in the of County.205 Cone a of at Flat Top Manor, the of the Navy Wilson, the of North Carolina, the of the Also, the no of own, the and the ice was a Cone at the age of 51 on 8, 1908. After her Cone the of the to it in a her For 39 Mrs. Cone as a widow-in-mourning, in 1947 at the age of 89.206 Cone A rather of the his other the in 1911, to the of Mrs. Cone the Cone By an on May 30, 1911, Cone, of H. Cone, 3,516 as the H. Cone to the H. Cone in North . Under the of the she was to the for her use as as she at her the of the place.207 As the was to the in with the of the trust. Any conditions would a of the to the of H. Cone. It was further the H. Cone Park was to be as a for the To this, the be $10,000 for on the the of Mrs. Cone in 1947, it not be in the �Page 68 / Chapter III I ^m^'t^,, ^^r*. -^*f * ' •«--*E=«ir .%. --"-f-j%~^' w^t. - .• . _ ' A segment of t/ie beautiful carriage trails on the of the to a It was a be a on The $10,000 would to expenses.208 In to itself of the to the of the 1911 the a the North Carolina Court by which the Rock to be to the of to a of the The the H. Cone as a the of the of May 30, 1911. This on 21, 1949. On 21, 1949, John A. Wrug, of the the the 21st day 209 1949, the H. Cone to the United of America. Julian Price Park. The in to not only the 4,200 of just Rock, but the for whom the is the who a to the people of Rock. as the of Jefferson Life Company, but this was only one of his All Julian Price as a builder, a in the of the South. Price was Richmond, Virginia, on November 25, 1867. He was one of six children, the son of Joseph J. and Hill Price,210 Growing up on a the young to 211 in work. as a Julian was idle. As a he had for he was of Jefferson he by his policy to hire he to be "lazy" In his "A lazy A crook, now, has He and you can get the best of him and get out of him. you can a a is a worker. But a lazy man,^every day you him, you're your away"212 as a and for as a for Tobacco Company, Price an for the Life He 213 of $250 $1,000 to in this company. The for was and he had convincing of its It long, however, he was to and in 1907 he was and manager.214 In 1912, the Life Company, Security Life Annuity of Greensboro, and to one Standard.215 Julian of this new and in 1914 Vice-President. Two he was a held 28, when he and Chairman Board.216 his �AND / Page 69 to As he by twenty-fold.217 In 1930, Jefferson of the Pilot Company.218 was one of his After WWI, he a in the and in 1930 the of the and the Daily A/ews. He was of the Atlantic in 1930 in his death.219 Julian Price an say is to Rock,220 the he saw this of and he a it by the and of Mountains, he a for a which to the the the a with a 300-acre a a hotel221 In 1935, he 1,600 of Manufacturing, a which at one a in Rock. Times not for and Price was to be to sell, he no in the land.222 the River, just the the has an The Fork River, which is now Price Park, is for a of the was to a a of by this river which his It is he 18104817.223 Aldrich (18214905). Ash Pen Knob, at is just one of the Aldrich his and the company's ••*. "i Julian Price The was 299 on the of by the bear.224 Price one is in awe of the of It's to it has not this way. The was for its by the William S. Whiting, the 19124930.225 Whiting to the the was timber, chestnut, hemlock. In the of the late a who a of the the tall was "Beat you It was the of in Carolina. I think Whiting cut thirty feet There six feet We out saw one cut on Fork. We it was a feet to the first limb"226 When Julian Price the it was by the as "unimproved timberland "22? There was virtually of the left. Today, the is to to Julian Price and his the one day to Leroy Wood was an who of the Price He his two of their and Dale, the "Sims Place" (18714951) was a He in his a to his He try the out, it to his He said it was "so he go through hell a-poppin1 and a-crackin?1 Creek, in Price colorful mountaineer.228 At one on the the "white-face" and burley Five of with Julian Price to in the �Page 70 / Chapter III said by to the to Price as a for the the to and Service. try of that of the the a at on the still the on Shulls Mill crops.229 His was 230 in fine cattle" the was the red the and which as a 231 rangers. to one day to his for it was truly "the of his eye"232 He plans to a but his was He his did build a in the of but are not to The still on the corner of and 233 Street. the his hat or Price was in the Village.234 It a to his two to for the and to at His "my the view the of the was in the Not (where the could it"235 As in the rest of the of by the of Julian Price's untimely On his to with two and his he was to the on the of his 300-acre His car to a curve just North Wilkesboro. A was the for the of the Price was instantly. No one else in the car was injured.236 to the of the to it To Ralph Price the to for a It was to the in 1952 to be as a area for all to enjoy.237 It is at the Cone in the the Cone it was Cone, Sr., who Price to Weems, to the the land. construction of the was Price's on the the it in of their of Laurel he to the and he did. he Julian Price a contribution to posterity he vast Anyone has the the Fork Trail, or just driven the Parkway silently Julian Price his for this gift of nature. The Julian Price Park, in the of 1960, as a tribute to this citizen.238 Beautiful Price Lake on the Blue Ridge Parkway J. W. Cannon founded not only Cannon Mills, but the town of Kannapolis, He laid out the built the mill, with 1,200 for his 239 employees. He to Rock in the 1900s built a home on Pinnacle Drive the Green Hotel. This two-story structure, its front view of the Green Park Hotel its view overlooking Grandfather Mountain, Mount Mitchell, Table Rock, Clingman's Dome, Flat Top the Great Smokies, has in the family since.240 Charles Cannon, born in 1892, was the child of J.W. Cannon. He Fishburne Military in �AND Virginia, of 29, he by the Carolina he the in but left to of Cannon "He a up to Chairman in 1962, he 241 20,000 workers...." he was a boy, Cannon his the 1916 His to sell the / Page 71 for his four it 12 in In 1921, at the age 6,700 in North South He the to he "would be again." But the did not Charles Cannon. He his a of his wife, the Ruth Coltrane, William Coltrane, Charles A. Jr., Winslow, Mary Ruth, to only World War II. Charles was not the only child of J.W. Cannon to in The Cannon, with Rock. At one all of J.W/s in Rock, Half, Mr. Mrs. Cannon, in Mayview; the rest built in the This a bit of friendly rivalry, for he in the of town.242 Cannon as a and As TTie "He was in as 'peppery* in action. When he to end a was no his but he be in no doubt his acumen"243 He was as a still living in the 19th Century, 19th Century possible.244 Charlotte Golden, in his l&uVe of Cannon, "He is the last of the of the 20th century. of his in the Cannon Mills, he the of in the William the of Jefferson Yoknopatawpha"245 Although in the 1960s 20,000 in the Cannon Mills, Mr. Charlie, (a to by all of as to Golden: "He who has in the who has has just of at the There is no of Mr. Cannon's with his but the on a tightly of which into the political, religious, 246 life of the community." A. Cannon In the of his (Mrs. "You he it if he was to up the summer!" The to was less the J.W. the trip by On the of the trip, they out of early, the car, the day?s journey. Around noon they the for a picnic lunch. in the the Green Park Hotel, the very at the top of the mountain, they they at the trip was it had in it was not without its trials. Mrs. in not as to the trip up the Lenoir Mountain. her Uncle car would The Cannon would the car and to it try.247 Like all the Cannons took of the air beautiful Mr. Cannon's was He to on the old country which to which in his live TTie home of/.W. Cannon (left) on Pinnacle Drive in the early Was the old Globe �Page 72 III The Cannon of the air of the the for of the Day for the the the but to to A she Rock, They on the by the of the the of the The and or to the a for the Park, just to see all only It was a on of the to up to. Hill, it a "great outing." The on Every Friday, the children Annie to the of Mr. was Concord for the When saw his car the a up the mountain,248 Ruth," as she was by the community, her in for the but it was to in Mr. Cannon to on the so he the which the top of the He to his not to a fire on he to off! Mr. Mrs. Cannon in the the for "Miss Ruth" was a of the Club a in the library. she her on the at the was a few it has now.249 in in for the 250 ribbon. In to the old Charles at the Country Club, he his Mr. Cannorfs charity the Tufts Association, he on the of At the the College, for Children, the in The A. Cannon, Jr. is for his son was in 251 War II. Mrs. a of the Dorothy "during Cannon a at the Mrs. Charles tea a far of honor. One Wilson!*252 it Mrs* in the Cannon Clyde In of and was on the of the Tryon in New of the the at her home.253 For the the was the of the is can still men of the at Mrs. Charles Cannon (left) with Governor Hoey and Ashland Cannon not only in the big Mayview in the other. Although the her to but to "court" with all the_ in one was one of the to go for a says she and all the they �AND to the Mrs. in the to the has the so in for Children. for the it was at to is the in to the for a Mayview Manor.254 she was up, the boy the in of the the Cannon her the call has / Page 73 Craig's This is a a this the in the for the she her got to "It was a but a also to the a full all the trimmings.255 of to A in the began the in 1957* The of was by Elk, On the the One of the $250,000, charm" in is "Greystone Towers" in 1922 for a of 256 was the of Mebane. The "money, in the Village the f20s 30s,257 was a of of the Cotton at Carolina,258 At the in 1934, he was of Commerce,259 was his had a a has it the was to The his to his The was and was in he her to They had one a "Randy."260 Jr. fell in and was a of Rock.261 was a was as a by the at the Gun Club. was of the to big in Alaska.262 Mr. in 1934, she as an the to the for the William the Whitneys, the of the 263 DuPont But was her at "Greystone." to Dorothy the in Rock, "The of the a of as as the in the Myraf264 In 1920, the 42 of on the in as "Pinnacle Crest" Alexander.265 a an who to her a "German-gothic bathrooms "266 The for A a of led to the Its off the the to one "Nough to ole' it?" in the was she was not piece of was in place.267 Once the was the parties.268 in There to be to to to and to On the day the to the of the living to for dancing.269 On the of a by and led a hall �Page 74 / Chapter III 16th Century antiques.270 To the of the hall was a Mrs. entertained drop-in guests. Filled with magnificent, plants, the of the in the It a view of the mountains.271 ceiling, the French "Oreystone" on the walls.274 The and of entertainment.272 a held, and tall inside. Amidst invited the mountain the animal Myra's victims.273 Three the of which of not only for formal dinners, but for family as well The for Sir Kent in England. Myra Mebane often told the twelve-foot a of wood from every country in the world. Italian chairs of the period, of a the banquet an "elaborate, wrought-iron chandelier" A of at of the room. Next to the dining room a butlers the which a big range.275 The on the floor, by a stairway. A balcony overlooking the ballroom the two on the floor. The wing, the contained two Another bedroom, with a view of the courtyard and located the two the The left the bath, Mrs. Mebane's room, which a Randy^s bath, which the bedroom of her French Only the of pure silk were in the bedrooms.276 All of the bathrooms in tile all lavatories.277 The turret, on the third floor, as the poker room. Only men allowed. Robert at very well-known of the era, including J. P. Duke Governor Cameron Morrison. According to Dorothy Summerville, "In money plentiful for a Pe°ple who felt it to be wished " the were so high, a bank vault on the floor beneath the turret. The and also The had a and picture windows 278 which a 360 view of Grandfather and the surrounding mountains. was a coal-fired burner. Electricity the May view plant. The cooks, two housekeepers, two butlers, a chauffeur, quarters the for employees.279 the glamorous, extravagant, alluring, fascinating. Theirs certainly an epicurean to one "they it up lived it up well as as the money out."280 They in of the in Blowing Rock. Myra was not an but she in the horse show on Green Hill. According to Dorothy Summerville, "she had a 'sorrel, of sophisticated, show-horse quality. Her participation to any the show"281 on the course at Green Park. At a time when 50 to 75 cents, he the young $1.00 to $2.00 a round and often a $5 tip!282 �AND / Page 75 The the a of how the of the Rock. He eventually the car to to get It out of his The one of the electric, pianos.283 The old that "he who has but penny has no for a purse" to the Their its toll An in the in 1928 Mr. was in to the Hunter of Suit was Mr, to the He "Greystone*' as one in the to his children.284 to Mrs. "the was a was Myra no a was of her collection."285 Precisely how the was lost is unknown. it was the 286 in 1934, all of Myra's was by piece. She did she to on to an in out her to say this is 287 Julian Price on his first visit to the area. Around 1937, Myra at Greystone. The of allowed limited An in the The this "Let at do your worrying! LuncheonsTeas-Dinners,"288 In 1938, Greystone to the for the given at an of 50 per person.289 In she the of the Blowing Rock Country Club when it in 1941. Mrs, to on to her 1948, it was by a known as The American Corporation.290 The Corporation of Mr. Thomas Shelton, a as The $150,000 on the The coal-fired burner with an the In an to the interior, in green.291 To the folks, Shelton was an He to to in the ice. to his son, he "displayed of the can in a man"292 did not When the he his own life on the of Greystone.293 to The Broyhill the "gateway" to and is as familiar to the of as is Lenoir, Rock, as the city from the a and this philanthropic continuously the Broyhill born on June 1, 1850, at in Wilkes County. In 1876, he a young his junior, Parsons, a of Wilkes County. A she to child, Thomas Hamilton Broyhill, born April 2, 1877. After his birth, and the Knob of Wilkes County to a at the of the Lenoir Wilkesboro. Although children not. Thomas by in 1879, John in 1881, in 1885, in 1886, Isaac in 1889, in 1894, and in During the late 1800s and early 1900s, so was not a but an children to in the or in the of the of work. While their in the mill for the the at on the farm. The contributed to the by the in and All school in a one-room, one-teacher schoolhouse, only a The only s r n the winter months. It in the spring so the P i g planting, for a month or in or again in the season.296 Thomas, as the was the to He was a for In the 1890s, he �Page 3^1"; ~™ " ^' ' ,\ "l If ^"' : ^"^" , L . .' '...--,." . • for the by to the to be up to the market.297 In 1900, he his sawmill, the to all of the United where it to build furniture As for cutting the :.-:;.: .-::: ;j Coffin Company him four : ~ V-ll interest in company.298 This was just : r, " ~~= : to his for the industry. He eventually his own in of the county. When he he and a "\ and 120 of in the Furniture Coffin roy i Company,299 With he the in the company the to the Lenoir Furniture Company. • Mr. T. H, Broyhill, as he was by his the it on the to He out of his the primary of the Tom's in the Broyhill of today.300 For 50 Thomas was a much in Lenoir. He to his the a fortune.301 He his wife, the Powell, children—Otis, Lillie, Ted, and Ethel The as happy, humorous.302 In to the industry, Tom BroyhilPs other was real According to who he to buy, but he didrft like to sell. This reluctance, did not for civic community projects. Broyhill Park, in Lenoir, is of his benevolence.303 it was Tom the family to the furniture industry, it was his brother, Ed, who one of the in North Carolina as well as in the States.304 When Tom stock in the Kent Factory in 1912, he convinced Ed that "a man could reach out from the hill country of Wilkes County find for himself" To his brother, "Tom Broyhill a a of whom respected "305 Ed he too to the in of other opportunities, but first he an education. In 1913, at the age of 21, he left his to the Appalachian Training School in (now University).306 At this the School was a state-run school, a school for Tuition at the was by the of North Carolina, but the to 307 pay a board. The young thirty-five to the school, on with the of five in his pocket.308 He was no his so, in to pay for the tuition, he his own in for a haircut ten for a His as a barber only a few months, but would him. He set up on the lower floor of his dormitory for 309 faculty. This not at he to borrow his Tom, Ed the at jobs, so he to in the fall.310 While as a Ed met a Hartley Hunt. Mr. Hunt he a was of her to Appalachian. Ed he could not go wrong his to such a In the fall of 1914, Hunt at the Training School. Shortly she Ed Broyhill whom, enough, she would eventually marry.311 When she at the Training School, she only 15 old. Her well-rounded included Latin the �AND / Page 77 pi^nOf and voice. to to she in area.312 In 1918, she left to the North Carolina 313 College for Women, the University of North at Greensboro. Ed his In 1917, his and at the he was drafted.314 a at Camp in South for he was to the 20th in D. C. He was he was as While he was at Walter he a which he would say him the — he to type.315 In 1918, Ed the going home, he a in Greensboro, at the North Carolina for Women, to to him.316 In 1919, Ed to for his brother, at the Lenoir Furniture Company. Ed the a paycheck. At the of the Tom a $1,800 for his With he one in his company.317 In 1921, Ed They Allene, and all the and and the community.318 They up in the "typical the tree playing cowboys"319 Ed role in the was of but to author of Ed Broyhilf s biography, Anvil of Adversity ^ "his far the of to the or the filet. It to a in which him can and spiritually."320 J.E. "God us on an Anvil of Adversity for a only to Him. That is the way He us for life."321 By 1923, Ed in of for the all for $150 a month. On the he in to to buy his own company.322 In 1926, he the to go for with Tom, Ed his for $5,000 the Lenoir Chair Company.323 to "in months the Broyhill office, which is with devices, but the ran an of fuss red It a for a a a a an machine"324 the to the the continued to When the to for with scrip, "a for in the of a to pay later" During the 30s, Tom Ed which of the In 1937, Tom to giving the of the to his Ed. His in can be to the of his According to "No Ed BroyhilFs employ did for it. He a for a for his Ed Broyhill as "Thousands of books on to but is as as the Bible."325 Not only did the a role in the of the in North Carolina, a in the of Rock. As as 1928, Tom Broyhill of the Mayview Mr. Broyhill his friend, Mr. Charles Hayworth, to a on the of Park. When Hayworth a bid on the property, Tom Broyhill felt his was in his and "111 In 1930, the to Mr. M. of Volusia County, Florida, as of of the in the was Mr. at the the in 1966. It is to in 1929, the of Mr. Hayworth, a to Grover "that he Mrs. of Point on the (Mayview) if the the it a park" A by Mayor to on for out the but for the was developed.326 Tom on 19, 1955. He had the sole in 1935 and his will English, �Page 78/Chapter III the his death. According to Chuck Ketchie, who conducted an of the "Mrs* R Broyhill the the in her last will—she only that portion which included her as this she to her charity" The of the to University, to her portion.327 In 1952, Ed, in his the Green Hotel According to "his by the in at the Southern Furniture Market the of for buyers " Under Ed*s ownership, the Green Park Hotel completely and its Ed of the at "summer" on Wonderland Trail in Rock, The the which the Linville was to the on top of the world"328 with the 30-minute 329 to Ed at by 8:30 a.m. the week, His two gin to Ed in the of several 330 the one at Rock. As of the Party, Ed Broyhill with in the country. His in his in the future of the nation. He as Wherry, Taft, Carroll Dwight Eisenhower, Richard Nixon, On the Broyhills at in 331 Rock. Carolina, Ed to churches, hospitals, universities, and community At University two buildings are in honor of him his wife, on the ASU of Trustees 1957 to 1965.332 to "most — she is giving of — she to tire; — she is in — she is doing something for someone" Satie loved Rock the perfect for her to pursue interests. According to her Allene, "If was at the Green Hotel who had not Blowing Rock, Mother up the tour."333 — was to be 10 �GREAT ESTATES AND PROMINENT PEOPLE/Page 79 NOTES 1. Chetola Travel Brochure, Compiled and printed by Queen City Printing Company, Charlotte (located at The Blowing Rocket Office). 2. Interviews with George Snyder, eldest son of James Luther Snyder on September 11, Sept. 16 and Oct. 15, 1987. 3. Interview with George Snyder and The Blowing Rocket, June 29, 1984, p.9. 4. Interview with George Snyder, 5. "Chetola — A Haven of Peace Reborn for Many" — an article found in the Appalachian Collection, Appalachian unknown. University, author 6. Arthur, John Preston. History of Watauga County, North Carolina. Richmond: Everett Waddey Co., 1915. 7. Interview with George Snyder. 8. Chalmers Gascon Davidson, "Old Blowing Rock As Our Family Knew It." TTie Blowing Rock Story, 1983, p.70. 9. Interview with Luther Church his Mother, Neola on Sept. 14, 1987, 10. Interview with Fred Mays on August 12, 1987. 11. Interview with George Snyder. 12. Interview with Mrs. Sanford 0ean) Lee on Sept. 10, 1987.(Mrs. Lee is compiling a parish history for St. Mary's of the Hills Episcopal Church.) 13. Ibid. 14. Davidson, op. cit. 15. Interview with Mrs. Lee. 16. Ibid. 17. Gate, Grace, The Model City of The New South: Anniston, Alabama 1872-1900. Huntsville, Alabama: The Strode Publishers, Inc. 18. Davidson, op. cit. 19. Interview with Mrs. Lee. 20. Interview with Mrs. Lee; Arthur, op. cit., 21. Interview with George Snyder Interview with George Snyder. The Blowing Rocket, June 29,1984. 22. Interview with George Snyder and Lee Garrison (Luther Snyder's Grandson) on Sept. 23, 1987. 23. Ibid. 24. The Blowing Rocket, June 29, 1984 and an interview with Luther and Neola Church. 25. Interview with George Snyder. 26. Ibid. 27. Ibid. 28. Interview with George Snyder and Watauga Democrat, April 15, 1915. 29. Interview with George Snyder 30. Ibid. 31. Interview with Fred Mays and by Ruth Vardell and Gaston Gage, "Blowing Rock Memories" 1975. 32. Interview with George Snyder and Lee Garrison. 33. Dorothy Henkel Summerville, "Things I Remember About Blowing Rock" The Blowing Rock Story, 1983, p. 69. 34. Interview with Mrs. Lee. 35. Unpublished memoirs of Marjorie Daingerfield (located in the Blowing Rocket Office). 36. Davidson, op. cit. 37. Interview with Mrs. Lee and Summerville, op. cit. �Page 80 / Chapter III 38. Interview with Mrs, Lee. 39. Ibid. 40. Democrat, Feb. 12, 41. Dec. 20, 1917 and Jan 3, 1918, 42. Nov. 2, 1914, Oct. 14, 1915, and July 1, 1915. 43. Town," The 44. Democrat, April 13, 1916. 45. Democrat, May 28, 1918. 46. Democrat, April 13, 1916. 47. Democrat, 48. Democrat, Nov. 21, 1918 49. Interview Story, 1983, p. 17, 1, 1917. Lee. 12, 1920 50. 51. Ruth Vardell 52. Mrs. Gaston Gage"Blowing Memories" 1975. op. dt, 53. 11, Lee. 54. 55. of Rock*1 (There is a 56. Annie Smith, "Inspirations 57. Interview with of Snyder. 58. JWd 59. TTie 21, 1953 60. TTie 21, 61. "Luther Snyder Prominent Citizen,**The 62. IBM 63. IMi 6f Ibid 21, 1953. 65. The 66. Aug. 21, 1953. 67. TAe 68. Interview Snyder. 69. "Luther 70. Citizen" op. dt,, 1983. p. 18. with Snyder. 71. Ibid. 72. Ibid. 73. Ibid. 74. 75. "Luther Garrison Citizen", op, dt. 1953, pJ5. at Tfie �AND 76. The / Page 81 June 29, 77. 15, 1935 78. The 79. Church. 80. "Luther Citizen", op, cif. 81. Garrison, 82. with 83. with Luther Church. Garrison Snydet and 84. TTie July 18, 1947. 85. The 19, 86. TTie July 27, 1935 87. Church, 88. Neola 89. Luther Church, with Luther Church 90. Garrison. "Chetola the -A of op. eft. for and Lee 91. Church, 92. "Luther Citizen" op. dr, 93. IBM 94. The July 12, 1940. 95. 96. Ifeid 97, Interview with Lee Garrison 98, Interviews with Neola and Luther Church, Garrison, 99. Ibid 100. TTie 101. The 24, 1935 and July 18, 1936. July 31, 1969. 102. TTie Aug. 2, 103. TTie July 31, 1969. 104. TTie July 4, 1941 and Aug. 23, 1940. 105. TTie 106. Aug. 21, 1953 Ibid 107. AM 108. AM 109. Ibid 110. "A 111. 112. Ibid 113. IBM. of p. 1. (This is Exhibition. Charlotte: at TTie of Art, 1971, p. 10. (This office.) be in the �Page 82 / Chapter III 114. 115. John, Roaming the Mountains with John Parris. Raleigh, North op. dr., p. 12. 116. 117. 1955, p, 61. July 29, 1978. op. dr., p. 12. 118. Ibid 119. Ibid. 120. JbM. 121. Jbief. 122. Ibid. 123. Aid 124. on 125. 10, 1987 op.dt., p, 14; p, 14. E,, TJhe N.C., 1948. of Grandfather Mountain» 126. Hobbs, op. dr. 127. with Mrs. op. c/t., p. 10. 128. Interview with Mrs. Lee. 129. Ibid. 130. Elliott Daingerfield, at the UNC Library. 131. to L. Thornton at UNC 6, 1929. the op. cit.j p. 14. 132. Ibid 133. JJbM interview with Mrs. Lee. 134. with Mrs. 135. op. dr., p. 10. 136. Mrs. Hobbs, op. dr., p. 24. 137. Ibid. 138. IBM 139. Ibid. 140. 141. Mrs. op. dr., p, 26 and The Blowing 142. June 28, 1940. Mrs. 143. IBM 144. with Mr, on Oct. 16, 1987. (Wood once by Ruth Vardell and Gaston Gage, 145. He as a for the and 29, 146. 147. p. 50. 148. Interview with Mrs, Lee. 149. 150. Still Mrs. Many" The Story, p, 42. Church Activities 1951.) of Rock" �GREAT ESTATES AND PROMINENT PEOPLE / Page 83 151. op, dr., p. 61. 152. The Still 1983, p. 42. 153. Ibid 154. Interview with Mrs. Lee, 155. Ibid 156. "Famous Many" op, dr. Still 157. Interview with Mrs. Lee. 158. The July 14, 1939, I 159. 160. TAe The Feb. 1, 161. Interview Mr. Wood. 162. Ibid 163. Mrs. 1, 1980. The 164. Mrs. Lee and the July 29, 165. Mrs. Lee and 77ie Feb. 1, 166. with Mr. Wood. 168. Mrs. Lee. Town," The p. 15 and Mr. 169. 8, 1987. on 170. Interview with Mr. Wood. 171. Are 172. The Stoiy, p.15 and Mr. of 173. Ibid 174. Mr. sketch. 175. IMf. 176. 177. 178. of op. dt», p. 50. Oct. 27, 1932. 179. The June 24, 1933. 180. The June 28, 181. Biographical material obtained from Mr. Joseph Dulaney. 182. The 183. The 184. The Rocket^ March 27, 1977. (Reprinted from The Charlotte Observer.) 25, 25, 1977. 185. Ibid 186. The July 14, 1939 and 25, 1977. 187. The July 14, 188. The July 14, 1939 and July 20, Stozy, 1983, p. 69 and Hie July 29,1978. �Page 84 / Chapter III 189. Robin R. Salmon, "Marjorie Daingerfield". This biographical was written to be Gardens. It was provided to the author by Marjorie's nephew, Joseph Dulaney, in a supplement to a sculpture by 190. Ibid 191. The 192. July 20, 1935. The Blowing Rocket, Aug. 18, 1950. 193. The Blowing Rocket, Aug. 8, 1958. 194. The Blowing 195. The Rocket, 196. The Rocket, March 25, 1977 197. Interview with Mrs. Lee. 198. The July 14, 1939 and Mr, Rocket, 25, 1977, 25, 1977. 199. Daingerfield, Marjorie. The Fun and Fundamentals of Sculpture, New York: Charles Scribner's Sons, 1963, pp. 81-83. 200. Buxton, Barry and Deborah. The Denim King: Moses H. Cone's Family, Textile Empire and Mountain Boone: Appalachian Consortium Press, 1989. 201. Buxton, Barry. Historic Resource Study of the Moses H. Cone Estate, Asheville, N.C., National Park Service, 1987. 202. Ibid. 203. Ibid. 204. Ibid. 205. Ibid. 206. Ibid. 207. Ibid. 208. Ibid. 209. Ibid. 210. Greensboro Daily News, October 26, 1946 and "Julian Price: From Railroad Telegrapher to Life Insurance Company Presidency", pp. 4547 of The Jeffersonian^ November 1946. 211. Mary Taylor, "A President is Born" in The Jeffersonian, November, 1946, p. 89. 212. Lou Rogers, pp. 45-47 of The Jeffersonian, Nov. 1946. 213. Author Unknown. "Julian Price - Dynamo 75th Birthday Climax of Productive Life" pp. 90-94 of The Jeffersonian. 214. Greensboro Daily News, October 26, 1946. 215. Ibid. 216. Ibid. 217. Asheville-Citizen Times, October, 27, 1946, pp. 30-31 of The Jeffersonian. 218. Greensboro Daily News, Oct. 26, 1946, pp. 4-6 of The Jeffersonian, 219. Greensboro Daily News, Oct. 26, 1946, pp. 4-6 of The Jeffersonian, 220. "Greensboro Names on the Mountains" Greensboro Daily News. Sunday, September 22, 1974. 221. Insurance Index, Nov. 1946, pp. 36-38 of The Jeffersonian. 222. "Greensboro Names on the Mountains," Greensboro Daily News. Sunday, September 22, 1974. 223. Lord, William G. Blue 224. Ibid. 225. Ibid. Parkway Guide, Eastern Acorn Press, 1982. �GREAT 226. Democrat, Jan 19, 228. Lord, William G. A to the Parkway — Dedication '87, Eastern Acorn Press, 1957, p. 15, 229. Interview with Wood Hayden Pitts. Oct. 28, The 231. Interview with 232. / Page 85 Ibid. 227. 230. AND Lou Wood. pp. 45-47 and "75th 233. Interview with Mr. Climax", p. 90 of TJie Jeffersonian. Mrs. Wood. 234. "Julian Price Instantly 235. "Greensboro In N. C. Auto Accident", p. 38 of The Jeffersonian, November, 1946. on the Mountains," The Greensboro Daily News, Sunday, September 22, 1974. 236. The Greensboro Daily Oct. 26, 1946 and The Insurance Index, 1946, p. 36-38 of The Jeffersonian. 237. "Community Club History Is Given" The Blowing Rock Story, 1983, p. 16, and The Jeffersonian, 238. The Aug., 1960. Aug. 1960. 239. "Charles A, Cannon Dies From Stroke" Democrat, April 8, 1971. 240. with Mrs. 6, 1987. 241. Democrat, 242. Interview with Mrs. 243. "Charles A, Cannon, Textile Owner, Dies in Kannapolis" TTie Charlotte Observer, Saturday, April 3, 1971. 244. Ibid. 8, 1971. 245. New 246. Interview with Mrs. Hayes. 248. Ibid 249. Company, 1962, p. 139-144. Ibid 247. The Ibid 250. "Early Are The 251. Dorothy Henkel Summerville, "Things I 253. Interview with Mrs. 254. Ibid 255. Ibid 256. From a brochure 257. From an p. 66. Interview with Mrs. Hayes. 252. Story, About Old Blowing Rock" in The Blowing Rock Story, 1983, p. 69. the 1963 Tour of Homes by St. Mary's of the Hills, (Located at the Blowing Rocket Office). written by Mrs. Dorothy Henkel Summerville in The Blowing Rocket, July 14, 1979. 258. Democrat, 8, 1934. 259. Democrat, 8, 260. Interview with Mrs. 261. Dorothy 262. The 263. The 264. Dorothy Coleman on October 8, 1987, Summerville in The Blowing Rocket, July 14, 1979. July 4, 1939 and 14, 1979. 14, 1979. The Rocket, July 14, 1979. �Page 86 / Chapter III 265. Mr. on October 27, 1987 and The 266. Davies, May Democrat, April 26, 1928. 1953, p. 145. Taw Jameson, 267. Ibid. 268. Interview with Mr. Hayden Pitts. 269. op. dt.» p 270. Interview with Mrs. 271. Interview with Mrs. in The Dorothy July 14, 1979. 272. 273. in The Rocket^ July 14, 1979. 274. Interview with Mrs. Coleman, Mr. 275. The July 14, 1979. Mrs. in The July 14, 1979. in The July 14, 1979. 276. Interview with Mrs. Coleman. 277. Interview with Mr. Pitts. 278. Mrs. 279. Mr. Pitts. 280. Jb/d 281. in The July 14, 1979, 282. with Mr. Pitts. 283. /bid 284. 26, 1928 285. in The Rocket, July 14, 1979. 286. Ibid. 287. The July 7» 1939 288. The August 21, 1937. 289. The June 24 and July 1, 1938. 290. Mr. 291. /bid 292. June 21, 293. Democrat $ 294. Stevens, Williams, Anvil of Adversity: 295. Ibid., p. 7. 296. /bid, p. 13. 297. /bid, p. 11. 298. p. 65. 299. p. 70. 300. /bid, p. 71. 301. p. 65. 302. p. 66. 21, 1979. of a Furniture Pioneer. p. 6-7. �AND 303. p. 71. 304. p. 142. 305. p. 84. 306. / Page 87 p. 17. 307. Ibid., p. 21. 308. "J.E. Life was Story of One From Humble to TJie 309. Stevens, op. dr., p. 24 310. p. 311. p. 33. 312. p. 313. Ibid.t p. 37. 314. Ibid,, p. 26. 315. p. 316. p. 29. 317. IBM., p. 318. p. 77. 319. p. 135. 320. p. 133. 321. The 322. op. dr., p. 82. 323. Ibid., p. 84. 324. p. 88. Topic, "J. E. Democrat, 325. 326. A 1, 1968. the 28, 1970 11, 1929 PaPer on 327. Chuck 328. op. dr., p. 180. 329. p. 191, 330. p. 174. 331. p. 332. 333. "Broyhills 1, 17, 1973. "Horatio Career of Ed Broyhill" �Page 88 / Chapter IV �HOTELS, INNS AND BOARDING HOUSES/Page 89 CHAPTER IV Hotels, Inns and Boarding Houses Rock's who to as a in 1889, the the the Civil War so in the was the the of the the troop But as we know it Colonel H. Gray, with John the in "tourists" on the era in It was a There no and just to on, on the ground,1 Colonel Gray that during the mid-1800s, to the while the be by the local out to the visitors.2 It was a which has one of our to the town its But has constant, the town's as a One of the to a to was the M. the of Amos in 1874 and for in this venture, his His like on They did If Morris* is the of Mr. did he the for the in 1877, at was as "Fairview."4 The Democrat reported on the WW. of a far cry in the of for He was for the legs of was to for growth of the This delightful summer a has in the of its two It has one of the in to in popular favor. The of this the in to any other part of the mountains and every has the has to the of the at Blowing Rock over of any other in the One has the is not on the a as to coin a word, to and up a worn-out as The air is the and in the of any The late Kerr has no of the section has as a health resort, is a in the he and his there. Major H.F. Schenck, of Cleveland, Dr. of lots and will build Hon. Geo. Davis, of Wilmington, his has the cottage lately built by Mr. Morris. Dr. a is an about the place. He a few a spring on the of Mr. L.W. Estes. All of this and boom would but for the of Mr. J.G. and his �the has The which has the a which has This the of a and the in the is in popularity. up a locality. the a in by an in the of the of to a of These the to the 5 of the the of city living. By 1889, the Village of of 200 in the 600 in the There the and as the and Stuarts!6 That the to "We to Hickory, we the for the we a to Lenoir, on a a At Lenoir we took a up the to Rock, to the top in "Mrs. us on our at the us a The was in the of it was so five in the on one of me five in the on the side."7 By 1891, a of the The on 12th "There has a to and this but are like an and for one more." The on to a in the was incorrect. That as "The Conductor a the at so not any not to go or There was a for as 8 is this year!" in April, the "The at is on the is an is it and it will be richly furnished. There will not be a in the South. It will 60 of which will be with an a of There be in every room."9 was to act like a as one can see in this "Our is on her The are for The is putting in etc., will no be as as with the T/ie in 1917 �Col L.S. as the to The of their is the etc. Mr. R.H. Gray is with his Mr. Arthur as clerk, a all "Mr. W.M. Mrs. are to the fare for are are for The 5^ "~~*t by the by H.C. and Mr. Carpenters who built the Green Park Hotel pose proudly with tools of the trade by Mrs. so can see we are to a "The will in a few Our all full are in this summer."10 When it for in the of 1891, the as a of to by the Company, a of Lenoir led by Civil War the was the on the A by in 1892 had this to say the The Green Park Hotel prior to addition of east wing "To the for a the has a hotel on the top of the It has a to the of its and the no to it in all It is by and has hot is with a mountain spring. Every hall is There is a fine Ball Alleys, Gallery and Court. There are in the building"11 was in to its convention, or we say "round-up?" The of the was the of the at the and all and of the and the of the IN, The war had for by the for the grand the North the South, was J.B. Clarke who, with the R.H. Gray, A.W. and G.N. Folks, but the and would be of a busy still of in the �Page 92 / Chapter IV of at the site of the to an 'you would the war was Many of the set up to the two at the Tents by the all the and it the the of war times.1 It is the day of the but conditions much of the during the war. On August 27, the of the the the Hotel to a the community, all to to the event. Once a the to the the Rock Hotel A led the which by of citizens. for the one of the was Capt. J.W. Todd of Jefferson, who in his a fine 'but he a on the in up the During the the the mud, in or in the At was a at the Hotel the sun the the gloom. Other Judge J. Grey of on to cput with all a to the to a to honor during 1 the war. He 'the North got the victory, but the is due the honor! of the The was a a 18,000 was present.12 of As the up the "Turnpike" the in the as of the to The a in 1907, A the the the to the I a or of The in • * " • of butter, did our the to was The She Bill in her the hill us in. the up. to By 1912 the ' • • • • " * "*• * l of Construction by the of her in was in in saw a had casketsf13 and a new Inn was Green Park Hotel and the by Ed of or inn in the lights.14 The "The has in the of the of to the of the The with the are A of for It was the to is �AND the Church has And of of the a in of a on the the the for the 1914 93 the old by a of the of In a by he spoke of the to 15 the canopy," to the G.M. as as In all the in out, has for the your City can on the fee of our fee at the J?ocJr, he has this it is so for us to an /or up the town, at are on the fey the the 'Sun who, to a man, Cod us, it w/ll/M to the of the to to the I the of my journeys 104 of laurelf a soft the Lenoir to Mr, a bridal I me I felt I was has ended.... to fee so the And yet of our fey in a say of the in 1918.1 left me up in his car—the the a I to Green to to a The The of heavenly me as / room. the out the Fine old the to me fee/ at Mr, in and in his of information, Mrs. not yet and with and witty us feel our was not I had for It was the of Mr. and we Mr. and ML Williams. My I 'Dixie/ Mr. Martin's I a// the the shoemakers*..Mr. on the road/ in all the Cone That first Mr, a surrey and the Cone M> in the Wfe on the roclrs, and just climbed a to the top. Young Mr. Grower was of the the West—all to Mrs. was a figure on the a did the looking for the for her patrons. Shopping at Craig's Smith's she for 'Big Harriet' and 'Dove1 'Fanny1 'Cora1 to into the Pe°P/^ came /ar to enjoy.17 in the by the of of for as a and to in the The town's the Charlotte, Rock's in a 1920 of the Charlotte Observer: Thanks to the highways, Tlie Martm House �Page 94 / Chapter IV Rock has brought within of Charlotte of Charlotte run up to the Rock, to Linville and other cooling in the vicinity to whiff the cool off become invigorated with of ozone. Without doubt one of the in the United has for of visitors, its The of the to the Rock has brought it within of the this it is overrun with visitors. One thing which has always in to Rock of the out by Northern has its of Realizing this fact the Blowing Rock Development Company has just at a stockholders* to fifteen thousand dollars or on the out of a course. Additional funds will be upon other attractions, another is on Blowing Rock will be provided with the various sports which to the of other in to its and cooling This it is undoubtedly henceforth the will in popularity. Many Americans of in to the of when in Western Carolina they could rest upon anywhere on the We have hardly our own until just to the of showered upon us, commissioners of the various mountain counties are of thousands of on so the hundreds of of in the mountain territory. The result is a influx of tourists to the Carolina mountains who formerly out the of the other places in other countries. We are to this at Rock. as one no mountain scenery can be found in the world of the A For a home-like 1915.16 This of pace of the flurry was the in the in Place, which enjoy the Rock. On the Turnpike as "Grand View" "Fairview" in was a Its privacy did not the "Grand View" the porch. Also the two was the its 25th in 1912. It was a few as the Wonderland Annie as the hill the was the Mr. his their a which for the 21 food. When EJ. the in 1945, he the to the "Farm House" the the the facilities.22 In "Blowing the of the is by a "Mrs. (of Chetola) the on the to the is When she it, it was not one a It was to sit at the and tea. She said all of her out at the and say "Oh My" She it "Oh My" and it still by By 1954, the a to at the by These an at the and to be by talent,24 the Inn, in the was the in 1870 as a To the of the add one the an of 14 4 no two or the eyes and wit the and She and her and On one the was a "baby party" 6ft. Jim up in his and a a Other the the and the �INNS AND all They art to of by the for the lovely 95 "homes" in had a of Elliot with a The the mill27 of the by site of Chetola) was In the 1880s no in One in or J.G. Finely his in built the Hotel on Main Street, the current is it a two-story with a of on The of the style as which be at the two out a for the of 1888 was $15 a The as the was of its in the of the Village. to a of as the Children in the of on in all to the of a of the the turn-of-the-century the a Mr. his Col LS. saw to the of guests When the was by fire in the 1900s, it on the foundation.30 the Inn, it by Mr. Tom Coffey for by Mrs. Penley.31 The Inn on a of the of a grove of am with A on the the pl^ 32 opportunity for exercise. The Inn, which Rock*s only hotel, by fire in 1926, at a 33 loss of $20,000. It was only a of the loss was by The fire out on the forty the The Democrat on the the the The building burned so rapidly that it only by fast work with the the furnishings the reached them. Heroic on the of in town resulted in all of the with the of in the windows, the first to the fire the of the Blowing Rock School Principal A.E. Mercer the one teacher, and then, with the pupils, boys and he to the fire, and the boys the building and the the and windows, while the girls carried them of the Post workers in every on the did everything to the fire from Happily, no high wind Tom Coffey, The Watauga Hotel Sr. �Page 96 / Chapter IV blowing, In the of the two-inch of an fire no was for extinguishing the fire. All in was and a line was run the fire in of the to the it. These and for a while they Coals, on the of N.C. Greene, town councilman, the roof, but it was quickly did no As the fire just at noon, the was set, and it was to the with the on it. the two of corn done to a turn, still in the of the but did not thereof.34 TJie Hob-Nob Inn Tom Coffey originally he to the Inn, but the property unused until 1939 it was by the for use as a This is one it not for this fire we our in the heart of the In of 1928, the Hob-Nob Tea Room, one of the places, a year-round the of the Inn. at the site of Cicero Miller's it was by Mrs. W.E Penley, was for of the old Inn.35 forty the fire and the Inn the New Inn was by in 1946. It no one by since no in has "Watauga !m For our was with the of the the Park, and the The of was by Colonel H. Grey and John in 1888.37 the Inn, it did not the of its until the late and 1930s.38 to Dr. the Inn the Rock and was the site. "The Inn was a institution, by Mrs. My and Zeb Vance and Gaston Davidson, their honeymoon as of The Inn 1902 or 1903" The was not the of 1930 of the thirty-six 39 was a and hot and water. The and its at the of 321 and Drive. Mr. Gwyn a "it was a the the Valley"40 It was the late that J. the and the As if that not to he was also of the He in to his in the of 1930 and Mrs. and Mrs. and Jr., had a of the H. Cone. the of the 192? he of the two and at a and A field on the near Coffey's Gap was the gala site. It was with over the and �HOTELS, INNS AND BOARDING HOUSES/Page 97 View of Grandfather Mountain and the cottage of David J. Craig from The Blowing Rock Hotel The Inn ate at to a 1?, 1939, the the On on the of in a K. in the the by the The by the is in in 1927. It in the place. It was it of the In As the the distinctions by in on The turn-of-the-century for the some" 44 of the as a and this era a by "If we ran the its was of it the the as of the the was the Green to was the the a late hour,"40 it of a as and the Park, North Carolina. and the use to of the by the his a to the "Like in to all the the the arrived"43 Gwyn, the the size of Will Craig. of supplies," Willie to the bring in of Gilbert, "I got out a £^•5 C. V. Henkel, Jr., Dorothy Henkel, and David Craig in front of the Green Park Hotel buggy �For a by the A in its a was no for The Park, A on the in of the The of QV. in 1915, cut to the for 46 a per cord. By 1913 the Park was "the to in the It as a of the of Cobb, the Raleigh.47 the for the got to It was a Vickie Sylvia, a at the County 1916 to 1934 as "We all of then," Sylvia. "Hadn't a to people much. The all The 77ie Yadkin Spring with the Green Park Hotel In the background the Carolinas^mostly Charlotte. They in the fall They of for They zip up the then, the to by carry the It a up the in days "48 a the to in the Its up the Turnpike "Things It was on of the old It as as you the up the creek." the toll the 1920s, the in the the Rock" the to it as the Rock-Lenoir" "In the get to two (2:00 P.M.) it be the Hotel." a to use the "A was a ten The was free for guests."49 at the a of in The on the Porch w^r^ a spot,50 In the 70s, the of "They 7 A.M. to 10 RM., a They a a a day" the for "See The of �HOTELS, INNS AND BOARDING HOUSES/Page 99 Green Hill Road "The the Green Park as an old in (he 1920s it It the big say the to the the It was a an They It's all the as an old life at the a of said let us mix the in the at the of the as Jr. For it was the it D. The of era in the by its to the and the "The "so and fell day and of a in on the out the its the L In less "Mayview Park" to as the of in 1917 in a he the the of a the the was of be a to the In 1920, and The a by it was by H.W. In in and of the of the it to the In at the and was the rest of the as a in as to the the of its of The of are �Page High of the a the in the John's Gorge are the to the Tryon the of and to the hill The lies on of the Tryon the in is an a the of the The of Bill sharp as the the of the Cove Cliffs, to on a Mayview Rock, in Park, is forty-five sea It is is the City, by of Johnson City is on the Southern is the for the all At City a is to the and a car to Carolina. This of the is the the The trip Shulls to is by the of six the a of North the of on the to At is of the to Hickory, a is to the is the one by this the all the is a fine a of The is the of the and and the of Bill of the are in It is to the trip to in one a half is of of the of the In the the Glen the to of the range of is a On the Mount the sky are in the of the the Johrfs a bed in dot its of in on the floor From Valley View the are No the of the old one of his the sky, as the in the In the this old of the when with or the of age in the is with of and His are in in the at all of the he the The are in June but are all through the of the on The is and is the red for the is a the They to the the for for the of All the to be For the are a soft of red, the red of old and a in the are as for the of the For the one to on are the and of the air will in to the end of Truly it is all so you to the of the Up and the air is line the you go on on At the of its the is its the the of the an for one a to the to the the of the in a of If the day is the will the her the The an �INNS AND The the in the wild sea a sea of mystical in the 101 a When so the are of the the The A is the up to the very top of the clouds for the the the on the with its Another is by the is the to the Rock. There is an to the very of the but to go by the the the of the is by far the of the "Rock" It is every point the like a the gorge under of to by the of the music of hidden forth the of choirs. On the busy murmurings of one all is and in its day and The and only the with the and the hills the in the last ray of the the night. At lies far the clouds in the it all the and like an in a sea. the of to far out a of and the and The to the as the a the line of the of the of the through May view the the dizzy heights through are for trout, in the The the the lover of all may a rich of joys. In the of in the for with its its the of is an place not only for the but for the and the of spring. In the is in a of the sap in the and a of In the autumn the of late the fall the is in royal and the for a the The be in So has its the on on to a so the The of the in and by the of the to return for the in the of the of the mountains.52 the of in the of which Two bivouac Along the of the "Cottages," by for only the in 191? The to the United to do just two of land was six of the He It was to the to be the of the five of the All so as to not be too cut wild for the to in The on the in of Grandfather The They for as as for to the The five to Golf Club on a �Page 102 / Chapter IV Wonderland Trail under construction and after completion in 1919 for its for could be in the and for The was the the of for the to the He the to He in a on a his to the hoped to of the for caring for go on to has the it "Americans Switzerland." He the In 1923, the tea on the for two it for by of his of is very much at Blowing Rock the coming last are two (and - :':; • -r - - '". .. Hidden Waters" cottage in May view Park Ice Skating on May view Lake in 1922 �HOTELS, INNS AND BOARDING HOUSES/Page 103 by Mr. W.L. Alexander, the has will it for its future has for that now world-famous resort. The North Carolina has the invitation of Mr. to hold its at May view Manor, the by the Mayview Construction Company, of which Mr. is The of the to be upon but it is out it will be in June, the real of arrive. This is not a of the town of Blowing Rock, but in the of the he it is will the of the He to at his for four to five hundred wives, daughters, etc. Through the invitation of Mr, the North Carolina Bar will also hold its at "The Manor" in July, which will be an of for town this of the at The Democrat, in behalf of all our its appreciation of what Mr. Alexander has is for our and much county,53 It was in of on 460 who and of land. He 1923, an The to the fee of five ran a the Johns one Gun Club. The Club 100 Club had the of ten Valley and and a TTie grand Mayview Manor Hotel m HI / . Mayview Manor with the new extended care medical facility in the background �Page 104 / IV two a line of five miles.54 to Hamrick, Jr., who in the Annie Oakley the club in the in TAe in 1924 to Gun of 1924* on the the playground in the of North Carolina last W. L of Mayview and the Mayview Manor, the Company, the at the Hotel of the was by Mr. The Mayview of the of 300 the Green Mr. within the will 61? this Mr. 1600 of land 300 The 317 and the The be In a few be In in the on the the he to deal not one of the will be into one of the the to the to the out of for with a to be in and to be Then, a to an was of the "Not a The his in the life on the a They to. in to be of every a the you you can the the of the in the 30s, in the 50s, he was of and old was to the will invitational Western Union will to Charlotte. Such a communication with the with the rest in to Alexander's is to in America. The Green he a will world.55 it to in "Americas at a His By as a at the Charlotte in the fall of 1925 the Company all of of a suit by the creditors.56 of the of was it lovely but they The was we *the thing.* At you All of out of ice, of They built a pool on the of the are now, to up Mayview"57 just the Hotel, the "Greystone" the Joseph Cannon. by Thomas and C.E. It was Milton His was of to Rock. just a it was a of life. It for tea on the ice, and a It was a era in the life of our �HOTELS, INNS AND BOARDING HOUSES/Page 105 �Page 106 / Chapter IV NOTES 1. "Blowing Completed in 1888," The Blowing Rock Story, p. 11. 2. Ibid 3. Ibid. 4. Picture," The 5. "Blowing ?. "Norwell The in 6. "Trip to Story, 1983. p.35. p.ll. Rock" The in 1983. p. 19. The 8. p. 3. 12, 15, 1891. 9. 18, 1891. 10. 11. ParJc, 12. To 1892, Rock," The 13. Story, 1983. p.15. "Things I 14. July 23, 1912 and 15. 1978. p. 1. July 23, 1912. 16. Up," The 17. "Martin Story, of 18. The Story, 1983. p. 53. Story, 1983. p. 36, Story, 20. "Around Town," The 21. "Music p. 17. Days," The Town" The 19. 9, 1912, p. 79. Rock Story, 1983. p. 63, a Attraction Here" The Story, 1983. p. 55. 22. IbM 23. Vardell, and 24. "Music 25. "Martin "Blowing Farm House Popular Attraction Here," The Was of Days," The p. 33, 26. AM 27. in 28. The Lenoir ISfews, The p. 33. 22, 1886. 29. 30. 4» 1926. 31. 11, 1926. 32. The p. 80. 4, 1926. 33. 34. IBM 35. 36. 27, Town," The Story, 1983. p. 61. Story, 1983. p. 55. �AND 37. "Blowing Rock Hotel Completed in The Blowing Rock Story, 1983. p.ll. 38. Chalmers Gaston Davidson, "Old Blowing Rock As Our Family Knew It" The Blowing Rock Story, 1983. p.70. 39. Democrat, July 31, 1930. 40. Presentation by Gwyn Harper at the Blowing Rock Rotary Clubs 25th Anniversary. 41. Watauga Democrat, August 18, 1927. 42. "Blowing Rock Hotel Completed in 1888," The Story, 1983. p. 11. 43. Ruth, Vardell, and Gaston Gage. "Blowing Rock Memories". 44. Watauga Democrat, September 5, 1963. 45. Ibid, 46. 47. Ledger of C.V Henkel for 19064922. Democrat, July 3, 1913. 48. Charlotte Observer, July 28, 1978. 49. Watauga Democrat, September 5, 1963. 50. Greensboro Daily News, May 2, 1976. 51. Charlotte Observer, July 28, 1978. 52. Hutchinson, Crete. In Cloudland: Mayview ParJc, Blowing Rock, North Carolina, Press of Judd and Detweiler, Inc., Washington. 1920. 53. Watauga Democrat, February 1, 1923. 54. Watauga Democrat, August 2, 1923. 55. Charlotte Observer, August 18,1924. 56. Watauga Democrat, December 3, 1925. 57. Dorothy Henkel Summerville, "Things I Remember" 1978. p. 1. 107 �Page 108/Chapter V �"BOOK LEARNING" IN BLOWING ROCK/Page 109 CHAPTER V 'Book Learning" In Blowing Rock he is to see his has a the the 1850s. The to and the of in "the the This for the and this is of the Our in the fact that was not and a has one of had a a of "book learning" to the has in the It was a of In the of "one of the Town the In the 1850s, as North in a log cabin. The the of the Civil War, of the The of pre-Civil in the and They by as the of 1839, of the or $40 per per In 1841, the law was for By 1850 the the war in 1865, few in the the was in it was not the was the and the 1891 or 1892 the of TTie a the He the in the south "2 the this was for its it in the of the is one of The and the little as $1.50 per for for the of The Literary the one-third, a of $60 per to the county to by the 5 was $12 to $15. in The of the 1870s to the at this a 1871.6 was in to way: One day rfie Shull's Mill roadt we a of the by curiosity we The /ost 77ie and rfie TAe was a fair-faced girl, 17 or 18 was her her she College. She to so — and that the of her happily may her and her? on It was to one so and as if the had to the the as her the tfie on old, it was not Her at her life It and be �Page V The to was Mrs. Councill of the of liracy Councill. The in the was in the old Top Church. 7 in the 1870s, this was the Cool School It was not the and County its first in the This was the Top School, the is The and One of the at Flat Top was B. on to in Boone.8 Teachers University.) the County in 1873, are not on the The of the County do that J.W, as in At $17 a and $15. to the and for The was the children." to the poll and The $2 a day for his the of the the by the not in but an a in site of the was Cloud in the The the the a was the This in the as Jr. saw the for out "hillbillies" in They in as "otherness" "our was These the which in the of a of the This in the north, "otherness" saw the the of as to the as Miss Emily Prudden by 11 and need" she was not Institute: Rock, she she in the of the an or TTiere was no in tftis "Yes" "Well, let the with at one To The first hymnbook, to hour,10 She as / of the and as John the of an for in the was one "keenly in her fAe /# say, "X>u four it and I'll do all the rest" So I had fuel — and a I furnished all was all the the At p.m. all be the work went to the school room, and the was fall, all in the to at home?— raking up the the to �111 IN Emily a (who) a to the a in for There she County, North this sort of to a A she left her Carolina, she a the of a for It was in County she the In the of poor, four /ove/7, no schools, no churches, no li/e, one up the would I would pen, and sit in the up the to sit % my As / her it to the church. With for a school Only one had the age her A Christian, she had an the with a On the she to the as far as County to a to "trusting in the in which she the sAut out a// li/e little for and bacon..., the as& L.would thinkJ'They must a school."11 she and to "she in to this who in to school, her for the for the LorcTs work, she Lord Jesus"12 and a its to She also While a school for Camp. The curriculum of the Rs, with a all in the for and as and also of the at Skyland.13 It the of Miss Emily to a to be of its continuance, it to the of others. In 1890, in Rock, Prudden the to the Movement.14 on to in Carolina, at Elk In the last thirty of her life, a of — an her life-long to work. Under the of the Movement, Skyland what Emily Schooling much the the curriculum, by training domestic responsibilities. churches in the north with the American Missionary Movement would collect and to the This clothing, arriving at Skyland, was for at a or given to of Blowing Rock.15 Another the north at Skyland was Ruth Mitchell of Acworth, New of the who at Skyland, Her on December 14, 1896, the community. She was in Mount Cemetery at the age of twenty-six. In 1892, Jackson, at Skyland, a in and the she there. Her the letter newsworthy and it with the of the the Guide. This account of Miss Jackson's struck the fancy of the Guide's he it in its entirety. the follow: �Page 112/Chapter V I you are of the I am in a school No; it is work the so low as the so in public schools, it is his or her to "boss" or the it is to be as free and as we are We are the who do the "fcossin11 the to us for and we are to as by who us, but are "Northerners" or "Yankees" to who do not There is only one Union in the county hef life living, he is so I was a North and Southt but one it out in a The are so The is a and two or a four within miles. This is a a or more in the on account of the cool but in the winter the school is the only live our are the only for We 80 pupils enrolled, about thirty in this an We a but we $200 to us this for the The live on They use but little flour, of corn and salt to the Their $2 per fat and on I I OA, are so get As one girl the "I was a off to to go home" Girls will the but it is to and see in a We it is our living loving them ought Miss D— is doing them a. grand work in to and You the live in at no no all the in one as to This has very the of the The are to to try, but are so "unthoughted" as And of all, no and no be for a (sic). There is for the but for the TAey, or of them, are and It is not for a to or wives. The hoe all do the a the milky etc, and and to a so one can wives. Oh, Mrs M—, we do so much on in young people. It me to of my do, for we are so. I do the am in it, but we to see "reckon^ "tote/1 etc.16 A was in in It was the in Topic, 80 at the in the 1892, at the the for of this hit the 35 of a of in the to she was In a she to the she to to to the the the e to the be was of it to his to the Of the the to the e to P °pl forgive, the in in her in 1910, in 1912, the two on a at the of the 17 was the to the the in of of the to the the or �113 IN a at Skyland18 The of on the the end of an era in of The by at a of it — the of very To her was the Lend-A-Hand Library" and The as an Mrs, was the the On she her She in left her of the not of the on her on in the late in the of for the community*19 in to in for and Dr. for as a the Dr. to the the for the to to In 1905, for the O God, be done!" her The on the a she so this in 1907. in 1908 to on a of "North One of the to was a for It was at was his to Mrs. turned, to see it her, yet she felt the was her her whole life, by not to be any at the turn-of-the-century, off the life, low Pe°ple frO1^ the to the in the is influence."21 in at Top by on to as a to a and in He left in he for the for to the of the the of in she her in her life was "Thy Will, her well, her last in in the of in he of in in was the "Mission of but the to this on the last day of the this to the she her. Tenderly, her feet the Valley of the — did not — she to be left Then, with the which she Vent the of on the it Globe for to in the first an the "Mothers* for in her and It was in for a and the in the As Flat the was in one (18894904) in by the in 1897. The was at Flat.23 in the �Page 114/Chapter V Cool Springs.24 US. 321 and the had a of 1928. Village, Silver was to as the the was was It Cool It was Top site. one of the In the the of the It to it and and as It five and of Spring, just off the to It is in the was a it a and is This was the a no It as a the as the "Old School" 1900 1918.27 It was in 28 Rock. This was it was to a new in 1927, 1913. to on It was a to in of his log the the in 1910, the Hollow School having no Wfe balL.mosdy we was we "follow the fox!' What do, one of us would get up in the the rest of us Now we else.29 Cool Spring School just before consolidation with Blowing Rock Sandy Flat School Blackberry School �"BOOK LEARNING" IN BLOWING ROCK/Page 115 Aho School students in 1913 Brown children up the Middle River in the the is, to Chetola. There they would off and to in the Village,30 In the 1900s, still had to to In bad on horse-back. Since large, or on one 31 would in a or if a big on a sled. Lunch in a big bucket or Usually lunch for in the to of jelly, as well as "fritters" and and in a jar was a 32 luhck was or out to in the crops. If a frost the whole to at to or cut Children, too, helped with with hog killing.33 On had to be and cut. The also to be the This two at In to less and old school had to A and driving the home, as as all the The a far cry what are to penny-pencils, and of the on the The cut the built the Very only of a of Water was in a a and the or All a at the no or cards.35 so dearly, a put on them. Pennycut in the to �Page 116/Chapter V Appalachian Training School cut to the top, a was loss.36 The by the County in Morris1 Histories.37 By 1900, to on the of an In 30 2 by B. B. the County of In 1901 Mr. by the County of to a County in the the was to two All to this to the By 1903, had for his was to for In 1903, to was to be a bid to be the site. H. an $1,500 and a Cone or the was as the site, it was his Mr. Cone, had Flat his wife had a for area was as the site for a the of the and and the The is in the of in For the County of for a tax to to the tax rate and also to the a new the was in and Flat, and the In to the the of a bus was to up in the Flat area.40 two the was to to was Court for one if in of $1,000, also if of a of a to to 1928, The in the old This �117 IN While the of the the of the county, the in the this County of in the the of was to be as a By 1930, the for a had and in two the old to 134 the Coal was was not All and for dry and day.42 oil to the was to do this for the county. Six "Store-bought" the These a in the for a of ink.44 The of the of Dr. 1936 1938, Elk. its "Gone With the Wind," was just one of of the School to it 201,000 was in the "Greene Cottage," School, was at the of the in the by the county of The led to a County, which was as "the 1937, a to of In an and County and which the it a of the to the is of of the in the of of Clifford in 1937 of a the rest County. of the of to Rock" D.R the in the his out on the met A the of in for CBS. by of of to the her of In the oil, but in 1939 year.43 had to in the of 1937; JVo a best B. Driscoll, editor-in-chief of the was the fire the to for but was left to for the Book-of-the-Month in in was but The of the in the Park Post; the It was also in the 1930s for get the In 1921 had youth no One and This the of Public he "visited the character,"41 The of an in to the to which the the a of the was was felt and the 1920s, the he felt of the of As in Coffey has of of of the of by and was signed by in his and by the by them." the in the rest of of the County and County. of �Page V "Taxation Coffey feel "caused the of the not of the are by We officials" in the us the fact we will A the and is to the The one as the of the "Only one is to in our The five are of Cove Creek are of Boone." she had on to the of but not in "They a ear to our run the to suit Caldwell County to the of their to the north. The Lenoir News-Topic "a was out a of County go to for a the on of the It is the will be to out the of Caldwell, in the her of the of County." As previously, for the in the community. and the and County. Mrs. H. Cone, of Top was one of the of the She for a of she of County, the of a fire to be by by the county. The Cone of the groves in the only by At the Cone was the in County. In of (1937), the a D.R Coffey. The are the "I love to get tlie 95 per of our tne 100 for tAe County, oor county (// we fee to call it that), but as a effort, so it in return for one-fifth of the county we driven to it and or no so far as we can see, no in tne of our section. It but let me ask if it is not on the tax money justly to We are not county at with but I of our 95 per feel that the county government are a little (sic.) or two" \l "We \¥ of the county who see the './" _._ .-„ — = • " - • r ' f "^*=^, injustice are in with us, they Jcnow too on tne fee WJien in tne county n/s / tnis for J?ocJc, a to note tnat many of us Jo not it. Wfe ne a ..___. : ! : ; ; great hinderance to our development or "™ ; j:3 :s_: :- "..^""' " " Ji " Oh, fes, we a Blowing ScJiooJ prior to the WPA expansion of 1937 �"BOOK LEARNING" IN BLOWING ROCK/Page 119 which a for this a tax for the all in the We no in the of our in of or in the • I North our We you to see for of the the of some the for such as a playground!* of we i-r* -M or the in County. No bill in the the of the one to to 1937, and Mr. Miller's on the of the gymnasium of Blowing Rock School. of to did not the of the of A 1937 to 1940, Deal, a Fork, Whiting, to the (WPA), of at The It was a to the 73 to 3; at it the 50s. county was the a Fork, Aho, in May, added.45 Cool for of the rest of the county. of the suffered.46 In 1948 the pupilRock 269 to 9. fell This the hour in our community's to the for a countywide In the 1950s, I la well was for the the School was the in a and lack and control, was by to be a "fire and to for not It was the of two Dr. Jr. and W. Guy corrected.47 Davant was to the County of in an the of concern and in The W.H. Walker, who as of the of for 19 had in and 1951. the of to support �Page 120/Chapter V Blowing Rock School's Rhythm Band of a The a of County the "a of the of of the of They the County was Dr. Charles Davant, Jr. of and W.H. Jr. of Cracis, in 1955 of to the him." The On July 7, 1955, the a of and a Dr. WJG. a at the of the first of the was the a and The of and County the to the in of fire and the of the of W. Guy be the as and Thus for a of and the and the But of in of a the for the of and the to see accreditation. Uncertified to to college in the to and all of did so.49 was at Rock High from 1952 to 1959, Davant, and the rest in a he to to 50 the job it was "a challenge," Not had the lost in a benefit game (hack ™, left to right): Grover Sr. Jack Sharp, H.P. Holshouser, Sr., Robert Hardin, H.P. Holshouscrjr., Wilson, (front row): unidentified, Hayes, Bill Williamson, J.P. Lyons. k WaS als of ° in debt ^^ One °f the StOrie's administration W3S close �"BOOK LEARNING" IN BLOWING ROCK/Page 121 Blowing Rock Elementary School the and and in the black by It was the the Through FIA of Dr. Anne one Forsyth, to not felt for an For a a and the for in the in the 50s, and to the and of all in on to In 1957 a the as was the the in the School which had the and It but also 60s, two of of our choice,52 and a The has on In 1957, the Union was the in Act of 1958. Our on was by the of the in the Rock}s The County era. The 1, 1958, One was also the to of to be to the still of by was the a for That was the the by this and the and a and by �Page 122/Chapter V the yet all and the to the for all the in Watauga.53 the of 1961, the of all the the of a to for Under the Cove Creek School The was by on 9, 1962, and a in the of $1,630,000 by the on 17, 1963. The was to be in on a forty site $40,000. was in for the 54 of the 1965 year. The 133,000 of at a of $11.90 per the 1H I Blowing in the county to all of the the in High School in the 1950s five a facilities.55 Only the the A sad day—the demolition of Blowing Rock High School The was a the in and not only for was to and a of con- an for a of for its Chairman, Dr. Charles for Guy In had dramatically for youth. a of But but for in a In in to the to and A of and art for the was But for all its in and to gone, but our had to and left a in the and civic life of this was adding to Not be to rival, There the rest of the Now the had lost the of it. These The was and all of the not be to the �123 IN for the at the of the the 60s of for was in and loss as a and The are case in for and our of was a by loss was not or of of community" is like and to loss and the of an life in the That has as an is a the 50s. by are and the of in the and by a to a and and the OF at the is a a and David Greene to the the of �Page 124/Chapter V NOTES L Gratis Williams, "The Southern Mountaineer in Fact and Fiction," Appalachian Journal, Vol.3, No.l (1975), p.27. 2. "History of the Schools in Blowing Rock" unpublished paper, by S. Greene. 1963. 3. Ibid 4. Arthur, A History of 5. J. 1915. North Carolina t of of the County, A Centennial, Boone, N.C., 1949. 6. Ibid 7. Lanier, Ruby J., 8. Emily Educator, Durham, NC: "Autobiography" in TJie 1974, p.12. Story, 1983, p.75. 9. IBM. 10. AM 11. "Memoirs of Russell" in TJie Blowing Story, 1983, p. 43. 12. Prudden, op. cit., p.76 13. IBM 14. Bill of 15. 16. 17. 18. 19. E.G. of Cora County, in The 2, 1913. (In papers of Story, 1983, p. 78. News-Topic, March 2, 1892 op. eft,, p.76 op, eft, p.ll. TTie Was 1983, p.14. 20. Ibid 21. "Minutes of Watauga County 22. "Minutes" qp.dt., of Education" 1903, July 1904, April to as "*Minutes"). 1901, 23. Greene, op.c/t., July 27, 1987. 24. Ibid 25. AM 26. AM. 27. Ibid 28. 29. 30. 31. 32. IBM 33. Ibid 34. AM 35. Ibid 36. /bid 37. Aid of Public in by (In the County of Education). �IN 125 38. Ibid. 39. 40. TJie H. Cone's Textile Empire Mountain p.42. 41. "Minutes" op.cit.» July, 1955, Dr. Jr. 12, 1987. 42. Corbitt, optcit., p.43, 43. Ibid 44. IBM 45. "Minutes", op.cir.» 1955-58 and Guy Davant, 46. Ibid, 24, 1987. 47. 48. Ibid. 49. 50. Ibid 51. Corbitt, pp, 41-57, 6, 1987. 52. 53. 54. Ibid. 55. Ibid 3, 1966. 19, 1987. 1989. �Page 126/Chapter VI �OUR RELIGIOUS HERITAGE / Page 127 CHAPTER VI Our Religious Heritage it is to of the of a community's life as the of an or the of a church, is not the in Rock, Our can be to a a of the The with the in the 1790s. On to the the in County, North by War Ed Sullivan. He was the Sullivan fully of his own He with on his trip up the his He was ill did not to be in the in an grave, in in 1794, A was for a tree and the he on his journey, "EES 1794," was in soil on 27th.1 While Sullivanfs is not the which was at has of the Church on The first and can still be we do the of the to Yet our is and the rest of of the in our While our has much of the rest of the the as we a to the was the in the the Catholic Church or no to The in as but fell the was too to a it was too for Calvinism, its in the While the still a for of doctrine, the has The circuit or a for his he the of the He a his he a of folk he the was not to be the in Other still still in life it. did not a until the Revolution, but the on the They, too, log the and elk and like To all the the the in or the let his 3 the pulpit. The of for T/ie rombstone Of Ed Sullivan �Page 128 / VI the was on in the a and at a the to a to by on. and a as no To a for a few to be the to The or by the to the of on a and to the "cottager" was is a by the to be as the M. of life in can be The of the of one in The was in in Ingle, had by his to 4 a Mission," The as a of in her to "who in 15 in County.* The in the as the Crucis in the by to the The was by a C. on to the It if the to tell not the by a led to a in The — the the the the — to the all The of all The the the If a a an Mrs. T.H. Coffey the for at a has left the of the "old" "new" in her of life in in the A "Bina" her an on to A He Of course I o* fern in all to the o to on the the an to in to to nis A/5 The of she in the to in, to foe it "I a for fill Tairit 1 the in. ids too fur lie to to up one of the a the o1 fills her in on the There it He or a foig tall: to it TTiey 'em as on fern on got got lor a a or on as Mr. for, fem and rile the lest it He to tell in it rfie if That this it. and a to �OLR 'You see in the It all of the 'Wfell, she the was in. so 'em as the the you a fcig fern / to on the floor all the Me a fee/I — — J you a They to /ay It me /ee/ ../She on a veil as she had on/ T'other too, at, But / up a little, to set, on the They They pretty/ 'Two was fey the all the out the It last All the I if 'fej was the 'a a was a in / I 'Why not I Don't you the 'Wfell, as no fcut the of 'But at the cf/cf they/1 / Wot 'fcut as as A all It out her 'It to on fern her as o' in But of fem in on the a/1 all for hut for fern a to her o1 to in right, to the she 'He as people of was to 19024917, be He to "uplift" the in a for the He he as the of of to the of In 1915, he "our rare do not go to in in the Why is it? too to the gay or not —I which?"11 But saw just as the He 1916, "It is a fact the are by all 30 30 to an the of uplift* an The 60 on an of the 300 of not at all, or at all"12 to the his ^"* "^ of the He he !: to by per (to 18) he left.13 His of be as a on the the • - and not as a on his to a which The in was % • The Reverend William Savage in front of The Randall Memorial Workshop �Page VI on a — the life. His "Since of our "So the by in the on a 1913, big like the down"14 are the by the J.M. the in the in late work, the the its of for the to is — at the in the in to of the Church a a is by if a of The to the hill country" in the of if the to the did not. Such for 15 for still at 1928. Ed in 19144915, was a in 1920 on to as 1921-23.17 When a was in 1922 to the it was as an of a by the Church.18 When the War II, the W.C of the Church was as to the Church League.19 The Church the as be of the of the The to a on as the in of The of has a in the of this has the of in the the 1950s to in are an of the of of the but the of on church 16 life for Rock's of the Villagers the rest as 1900, community, including a town workers. family. the War II 21 in the the Civil on a and 1960s, a has to saw a the did not or Church in last in By the 1930s, pattern. The Blowing Rock Negro Community Center and Church (today the First Independent Baptist Church) The could to of the the late or in in the in the in the locally.22 In of 23 at 1919, it was and also in of well in 1919, "Some of sing." at the Church in �OUR late 131 had the by By the 1940s, this was no by of Life was still the Theatre "colored in the balcony.25 as at the Country Club, but not to as had on the with the at the to cut and a to the Lenoir on a 26 for purpose. A club, the Tin Top, but also It was in to an for A was in to a lot for a The of for the Colored Church Project was of of the Mrs. E Cannon, Julius Cone, Grover C. Sr., C.G. J. Luther Ovens, CH. the was to the The "It is the will seat 150 and will be in a shop, It is will be on in the church"27 The Community Church, on was on 6, 1949. the Village's with an The used for on Thursday or the off. 1960, Eugene S. was to at the Church by to the on the He this until 1980. By the to less ten and it was to the church. two the to use in the Church there.28 The Church in of a can be to the of the Mrs. M. of also J. Martin, a the Rev. Dr. Jethro of the Church in A in 1882, sufficiently by 1885 the Concord W.M. Morris, the for the the Church was On July 26, Dr. the The Church was by in use, it be on the new Church in 1905 and in 1912. The the was in the was in for the new and the be the in and by a of 1906, and that he was on the it Construction was with it a that the for his Dr. for the he �Page 132 / Chapter VI „ ,1 Rumple Cottage in of it He of the it as to the of the rock, if the it be On for he he it the of an In the spirit of the was in the the the of of the a part. Dr. during the Church, his a the on it to the by the of Dr. the Church1 in 1940, in his of a Dr. L to in 1901 so he enjoy the and his He a the to the Cone on the He for the his Gwyn Jr., "I'm the Dr. He an of of He to so the so the in on is tied to the Elk Mr. a in for as the by the for the was by Mr, the 1930s,. the to for TTie Reverend Dr. Jethro Rumple in at to the The on the of 50s. He the up one �OUR RELIGIOUS HERITAGE / Page 133 Participants in the 1946 Grandfather Home Day Festivities (left to right): Anne Bryan, Rev. Dr. Walter Keys, Dr. W.T. Tare, Stuart Ross, Jean Wilson and Mac Morgan. The three children were orphans from Grandfather Home. "Burning The Note" ceremonies at Rumple Memorial of the highlights of the These in as much as $10,000 at a time, up to one-third of the Grandfather Home for Children's A was built in 1931 in of a to Rock, The G. Buchanon the Village's full-time living in the with his until 1938, The Rev, Walter Keys, Supervisor for the in the the 1920s from 1940-48, in the home-front war He on the monthly to all Rock in Mr, Keys' the Church for of Lay had strong, the Church to Annie (Mrs. Joseph) Cannon was a during time. She not only aid the but highly as a teacher. The with the of on the of the community, the Church with A Committee was in 1962 to the the The Church's in 1987 saw it to the to its to the of the mountains.30 �Page 134/Chapter VI Charitable, to a truly less she - These are her life to Through her Good only the to she a of on 9, 1887, to Dr. Myra, she arts the Cannon. to a the Club in will all Lot Ludlow, a civil up in Winston-Salem,32 in his a to her One spring on a she the 32 of her in young, Cannon. the son of J.W. Cannon, a and one Textile Industry. The of our when Joseph Cannon built a in in 1927. They the "Miramichi" happy a for family,33 Shortly Annie Ludlow Cannon built, which to in the in the of the Cannon the the of The a of for the no or malls.34 On the at with in the on the porch. In a by H.E. to was to the It was "Hymn to Miramichif35 When the Mrs. the will be by to the of life in the 1930s, she in the Community Club. she Mr. of 37 for are in honor. She her and to she be as the life the of Christ. It was at the Church of in 1917 Mrs. Cannon the Good Club, which on for This to be a of she the had on her 38 as a her to the of Rock. gift for she as a the 39 Child Fellowship. one of her this was justly was she her "I the very 40 you the Spirit." the use of "Scene-a-felts," a by felt on a as a She an for aid in the for a kit. When in the a few so she sat in a of oil the of the she to She of was the of the As she a the �OUR she a felt on the as the a was The a in awe by an to the the 135 with the sky At the end of the the them, did not her to or to the Good Club. She her to Sky for children, the Colony for the 42 Colony for women. In she and was to in County to a her felt to Christ his to all in she a Storf to in and Counties.43 She also at and At the age of 75, 60 of she the Club. But she did not up her how to use the "pupils" on the 44 which she begun. Mrs. for was very She of the with and "Miramichi" was on a the John's so she the As one she in the at She was an her 70s. in the of "community" and the Show. In the of "She was not only an in the life of Rock, but she was a in civic moral which was in the community." Cannon was to in Rock. was by and gift was the she set for all with she in in her on 10, 1965. In 1970, the at Church was in her Mrs, Cannon on "Silver Slippers" for a parade in 1942 The master teacher at work with her "Scene-a-felts" �Page W of the first of for the led a of Ed for the led the first of the fifty The the for up the Holy of the 18, 1933. T.H. the use of the for a in 1947. to the of the of the was Mr. R.H. of the on and the was in 1948. of St. Church in in the new in its the Churches by the it as a a it was to the of St. in The of the has a of for to to far churches.45 The in the 1930s Church on \ "X. in 1976. is the to is in a of to use the for The by the Christian Their to the so at the of the the the church building at the of but a a Mr. the for the and a was in June, 1955, The as a of to but has was in 1967, and by the An of all are and the These was In 1954, The for �OUR RELIGIOUS HERITAGE /Page 137 The as a H. Cone to of Flat Church by for the of his its Mr. was the one by When a one Cone and was and the for his was by the county. Mr. Cone the The t the town of in the 1920s. It had an forty When the was Mrs. Cone to it to be as a church. She and the Ed the Church for in June, 1928. The or of the Cone Cone to the Service, but the a of for of the Flat area.46 Church of God The of the country's the was the has to Church of God is a Church of God, one of the in the a in the old to church, for a church from God, in and of the Spirit the Church. The a of of the Church has in the life in of was of the in in community.47 by They as a At that time, the to the Church of God. The Church of God believes in the as the in full and the Lord's in The in 1948, for The by of of the in of the Pitts, a for and of the has for the to �Page VI The : The its to i Church in as the of the The a of worship for Methodist Church has a history to the turn-of-the-century. In 1900, a plot of to the Church South for the of a sanctuary. The built siding, twenty-four benches. It by a of circuit-riding until 1932, when it to The for it to the Christian in the An was to the Church as a in 1947, but only In 1948, Dr. H.E. of Duke University to as a until he in 1964. not has an in the Villagers life One the was for his The residents.48 50t/i Anniversary Pageant of the Blowing Rock Methodist Church at Yonahlossee Theatre, August 27, 1950 St. of the The first Church in was a a bell 1890. It was a of a fund by the of St. Church in Lenoir. Originally the Church of the Holy Spirit, the was to St. Mary's of the in 1918. County at the in Valle Crucis, and the as "a of a mission." This in 1902 with the of the Rev. Although for the Valle Crucis he much of and to live in Rock.49 �OUR RELIGIOUS HERITAGE / Page 139 ; During tenure, 19024917, the was He the public library with the aid of Mary Nelson Carter. He a of in Southern Churchman for the inauguration of Theodore Roosevelt, He sell the to northern and the 50 Craft Center as a local shop. The current Church was at the was from County.51 It was by a contribution WW. the who Chetola Lula was a that he the in for his the of the Titanic.52 The of the church was laid in 1918, and the in 1921. In 1920, Stringfellow's wife A the church to the of God the memory of Parker in the of the church. Shortly Elliott his 'Madonna of the Hills1 to the Church. In honor of the painting, the Church is known as St. Maryfs of the Hills. The.painting the Clark Prize, for the by the National of Design in New York. Services held only during the until 1951, the Rev. Thomas the year-round had in year-round, but his throughout County.) The continuous of the led to a milestone in 1964. That year, St. Mary^s the of a to that of a church, contributions of its own to the for The which can be justifiably of the support it has the Village for a century, can in over a century 53 of for church organization. The First 1903, in the Church was on July 11, Public School with Mrs. Greene, Mrs. Mrs. Mr. Mrs. Mrs. Mr. J.M. Mrs. Lentz, Mr. and Mrs. J.E. Mrs John and Mr. J.A. The first was J.W. Thomas of Lenoir, a long-time visitor.54. The church house was in 1905 on. �Page VI the It the the to which A lot in 1923 in in 1924 paid.55 This a the by These chilly In the to This be up to of a yet Church The with the a big was to It was the and on was in in the on the for be In the off to if a the in 1968, led on Drive, was and the 360, Chapel, 160, the 200. A for the Church was on July 10, 1983, the of all on the property.57 The Church has an role in Rock's history. A was in 1913, the Church an in for the Ed was a of the at Flat.59 60 D.R Coffey, was of the Church for twenty-five years. was the in the to in the Village. It was not only one of the to but the for of the War IL In 1948, a of with the up of lay The by Jewish Dr. Lazaron.61 These civic up the which First Church has the While the has to as a of has the of Rock, to in 62 the Village. the as "the church," ML was It was by in of the the fourth first but was not in July, 1886. The Church was by the John the in December, 1882. On visit, at the of In April of the The Rev. Mr. his to and the aid J.G the The Jacob Klutz �OUR 141 S. L Jacob the of the for of the of it be J. S. L. of the at the on A. and 1921, when it Sr. the late Dr. in the 1940s.65 The felt the old an it to the the to the late a In for $16,500 A. Sr, to a of the it to the in of 58 A. the in his 3, the In 1953, the the at the "Little was 10,500 the Church," 6,241 has a as a in 2,22? Blowing Rock Assembly Grounds �Page 142 / Chapter VI NOTES 1. "Brief History of the Story's" unpublished research by T.E. Story 2. Kephart, Horace. Our Southern Highlanders^ 3. Arthur, John Preston. A History of Company, 1913, p.268. County, North Carolina, Everett Waddey Co., 1915, p.98. 4. Lenoir News-Topic, May 14, 1884 and Banks, J. Peeler. A History of the Southern Synod of the Churcht 1968, pp. 307-309. 5. Saunders, Donald. For His Cause A Little House, Appalachian Consortium Press, 1988. 6. "Skyland Institute" The Blowing Rock Story, 1983, pp.74-76. 7» Democrat, February 27, 1913 May 3, 1923. 8. Democrat, November 20, 1913. 9. AC. Co., 1900. p.122. 10. Aid. 11. 26, 1915. 12. 13, 1916. 13. 26, 13, 1913. 14. 15. Daily Observer, January 25, 1913, 16, 1928. 16. 17. Democrat, May 27, 1920 Town Council 7, 1922, 18. 19. The January 13, 1949. 20. Valuable Albrecht. 21. on county churches may be found in: County, North Carolina: A Survey of Its Rural Churches Collection, ASU, N,C. Culture in in the County*1 by in for the Technical 22. Ibid, p.6. 23. 17, 1919, Democrat, 24. "Negro Life in 25. County" op, cit,, p.31. 26. Interview with Coffey, 23, 27. The 27, 28. to E Gwyn 29. 30. For a 31. 9, 1982 12, 1985. May 24, of the of Mrs. Mary Morris, October 8, 1987 Church see The op. dr., Democrat, March 18, 1965. 32. 33. H.E. Colorful Past" The 34. Ibid. 35. ibid 36. 18, 1965. Rocket$ Aug. 3, 1951. of North Carolina: 1942. p.6. �OUR RELIGIOUS HERITAGE / Page 143 37. "Mrs. Cannotfs Work 38. H.E. op, cit, Mrs. 39. 40. "Mrs. Story, 1983. The Cannon Tells of Teaching." The Blowing Rocket^ Aug. 1963. 77ie 41. "Mrs. 1983, p.28. 42. IBM 43. AM 44. The June 25, 1948 and Aug. 28, 45. The 7, 1964 and interview with Mrs. C.B. King, July 31, 1987. 46. For a Mountain at the by the 47. Manuscript church by 48. The and Pitts, July 1987, see The Denim King: 1989. The H. Cone's Family, 14, 1964. 11, 49. Leno/r News-Topic, Nov.27, 50. Arthur, op. c/t. 51. Carolyn of the of the Church, June 3, 1988. 52. Interview with Lula Gragg, June 6, 1987. 53. The Jan. 31, 54. The Dec. 27 1963. 55. The July 8, 56. July 16, 1987. 57. The July 8, 58. The Dec. 27, 1963 and June 14, 1928. 59. "Know Your Churches and Clergy", G. Carleton 60. The July 16, 1948 and Church. 14, 1959. Dec, 27, 1963. 61. The - County" The Blowing Rock Story, 1983. p.41. 62. "Baptist First in 63. Historic 64. "Baptist of the in Church in North Carolina, Publication County," The 67. Aid of the Church in the United 1908. Story, 1983. p.41. 27, 1963. 65. The 66. 1948, J, /I of the of the Church, Published by the Southern Synod, 1968. �Page 144 / Chapter VII "l\w �HEALING THE SICK/Page 145 CHAPTER VII Healing the Sick In the at of the the in the of the of 1900 did not a in the "granny women" a in the of the of the of the was or due to in no But These the has the a of saw a saw fit to do it. The of the to the of the town, the But is one of has our community to a far to of Carolina. The of of year-round and it a In one in a the on to a staff Only is to in the or so too is him, the fact Dr. Charles Carter with the Clerk of Court in in He his University in New York the Civil War, in Philadelphia.2 Dr. Carter's the in town, the "Mission Lend-a-Hand Library." He not only to the but he the to the he He to his of to for He in the as as the body his as a of God. The in was Dr. C. was born in County the of Dr. to in the 1890s practiced running a He Councill, and had two and 1899, Dr. ill with was by to Lenoir for The road tO tOO much for his Condition, a in in the of is in North in our has and the Dr. and Mrs. Carter's Home in 1896 his Columbia �Page 146 / Chapter VII Dr. Parlier John Council! at the the a gift in In a to the in on a was a Dr. for he was in his a teacher from Skyland Institute Drug Store in the early 1900s is The Dr. still J. his for his just Dr« on to ran and in the in the He was the in 1901. He as an of the of For was a in was to the to In 1914, to his and Dr. the good of not to "Granny** of Ed as a to the for on she was the last of the women" in her Dr. a the old, of the to the age of Dr. a of his ill was a But the of Dr. E. to the in 1914. just the of of the for was in the He at the but the he for him. There the he not While his be his on County be his of his age and he was to by to see He all, to to he a and had a He his This is not one the was and he had in was a waiting to in had a a a and the The was out to the the Windows no a The the very to use the lots and of the for In of in of the saw the to and he the His few in his a A his �THE to he to of to the of the to his for of civic to to his figures as Governor Thomas of Blowing on the of "Health Sanitation," his "disciples" the of The old the of the 147 the Dr. He and the on to the He to with the the I as of he as the who is sick. A is told of an old to "puny," lemon, much to the The could be by not was to in the but the did as was scurvy, had the to eat with Vitamin C in them. Dr. Brooks a for public the of of public plants, the He his in to his the of an he was by as a of Daniel him the of "Webster Brooks." He in his cat, Dolly his in 1921. in of Brooks* his of medicine in Rock in 1915, "the in County,"6 Dr. was not only the of he was a an In a "Bird he the for to One can see the he his role as cup as For the last ten the town of Blowing Rock has a by the civic of the women's clubs of this locality. So far the town is a sanctuary by mention only. It has not the of our inhabitants. It has not official It has no It has not by Tom, Dick and Harry love and air We no the lusty call of the White, The of the owl has The is The of a young rabbit is and the of the wood thrush at is rapidly It is time to act now! A and wildlife sanctuary a of for and to a of beauty and a civilized society, as as a or The good at work). on to the which of Nancy of the Pine Trail. The for to the council Dr. was also a and His as in "Dew Drops" which he wrote at his on Globe out for on the to at the a on the and the the �vn Dew drops— Exquisite, Nature's With a In the still Of a fairy dawn. What a As their On of the And the p/nc, Greeting a a The Ancf the a When It is Of the The And the by our the the Silently let me And the Mirrored by the J Ere the sun Drinks fern up. In It his a of his the Hill RockJs Mrs. hit it off to in the town.7 a the in the our physicians. It a the the of of Dr. It Pennsylvania, was the College in the only of World War I, she she Carolina. in the 1930s, ill of the last of on to of the a in of Mrs. her of 1930, in of a of of in the too for as the Dr. Charles Carter. as a two It was the the a for "flu" With so physician Mary Cabell Warfield, to Chadbourne in 1928. fell in the the in the trying "to see if the in an I she to day. or by the at in the but as a in of the to call a a visit to the of the of Missions.8 the A was to try all only as a last to �THE The 149 Clinic Dr. Mary Warfield with one of the many babies she delivered contact a physician, which not an in Prior to Dr. Warfielcf $ ' no to be in the her arrival, she was the only within an to ten radius.9 in Dr. the of 1931 One of her was to a clinic, which she quickly It was on the end of the Church,10 Dr. no pay for in the clinic. She The clinic was for "its purpose" to Dr. Warfield, was to "ward off of the of of the people," felt this pro was of her duty as a Dr. did, a fee for she felt for for they This fee was in or not cash.11 Dr. was a who as and yet she a of humor. She had a a her and sat in the seat of her car.12 Her dog had a to her Mary on the to for Rockfs sick. One of her the once by Dr. as he the on A truly Dr. Warfield's to her Christmas, 1930. oF himself would to up. On 22, at Dr. dutifully to Camp to a Arriving in town, she was this one late in the 23rd. the had she had a call to go to Coffey's Gap, 18 of lay on the this case 2 a.m., she a hot and set out for to find the on her car She got to on Christmas Day, two for her sick That was 14 seventy-two of care. Such was the life of a country the of In to the free clinic, one day 15 in Camp. This clinic was by the Church. As if all this not she a of free clinics to and if One of the of was in April, 1928, in the School, two as a was an Twenty had that day, by Dr. and �Page 150 a VII of Six she the on the an Six of Dr. the of a clinic for of the ago the gifts not to Clink its This was the of of but of and The clinic is a tiny for has to on occasion—but it is free of and full of A gift of a it for we are for our gift, a big porch for use this As of you the was a gift of Ms. in of her The was in of by a of her Now we are old. In that we had 70 210 bed a of conditions, one the of 3? The are the of and the her has the in life, to say of her Three to the fact the was on top of the of 23 it. One was a hurry call — a was of she was to us. The The gift of a It has set our in six at rest in a per day As this is as to The a of The the at the the to of the for the six is less the as of our can is free of as we are trip gift of a is of the The we fees has us a of we be a for to the we (1) An two for the a gift the (2) An of $2 a for Will we put us in not on. This has of of for to Mary MJD. Clinic 6, of the for the OF THE L ill is (a) a (b) That the is (c) the (d) to by he or she— to for for the �THE 151 2. (a) The of the (b) Any the clinic a in of the No will be in the an to the for the his full he the 3. be a of the (a) (b) be on is for be (c) the The Clinic by the she is at of the is to be she by this is to for a the Clinic^s the Clinic As a is in the in the at the as The a to the of in of The the for Dr. on of the 30th to to her in By 1940, A Clinic's and Theater. A in was to was for in for the Phillips, of the by the of the Clinic. The Ovens, J. at the a by to the Clinic at the out by A Mrs. Charles in of the effort.19 in of at the to the the shop, the the in of for the David Ovens, the the for to the of the "Rose Marie."20 the 1940 the Clinic had as a of Cordon, a of the of the in 1938. He all to the of his as a In 1943, David Ovens for the Clinic he on the 22 of and on the Special Committee. These at the Club. for at to at in the It for Ovens his to the for the "Pineacres." All of the the Country Club to the Clinic.23 An in He the of in fund-raising for the Clinic: "We Mr. the but just out he just he He the he in his he the has the fact to we the the one has Mr. The is and Mr. to this he and to the he the as at in a in the for the at a of of the the on of of the Community Concert in or Canada.25 to as Dr. by to be of of the of �w_ -r-hJi*^ + The Wallingford Clinic Dr. Charles Davant, Jr. to an to in the 40s to the months, to her in the of 1946, she was in her the rest of her life. Grover Sr., a South so his could the he by to his These though, the manner" in a But by 1948, she was to Tryon. Just a the community's for a Carolinian who had a in was in Lenoir, Dr. Charles Davant, Jr., in Lenoir. Initially, he saw only on for the to Charles a of Davant's In January 1949, the Clinic was to on While this clinic was it was still to the community's The Club to the much of the to the Clinic. Utilizing the the Club a and darkroom.26 The four and two —a the Clinic on Street. And it was without one of aid. The little community, with its of began to to he it "I in the clinic the Church" "One I saw or calls. Things just sort of and and and I the and told [his that I was to to practice"27 He to in 1948, and the has the of his and ever In 1950 Dr. was Director of a he to the In 1951, in a plea for community for a new The As everyone in the community knows, the or force the is Dr. Charles Davant, Without his friendship, in his patients, and his skill in and surgery, the be just another town Ever his in Rock ago, he has constantly to the of the building and to the best in equipment. Rock is proud of "Doctor Charlie" "Give a doctor a to and he can practice a modern, to provide care for its winter and and the of outlying communities such as Globe, Camp, Blackberry Valley, and Gragg" he over a "Coke," Dr. Charlie a "time out" to "My was a country �THE in S.C., and my was a in Jeb I cut my on doctors, of in the Fve in But I a to my our is my or the Another worry is the an of a fire, in the the ill and lost so you can why a do a fire facility in our building" Now of labor, for our children, Doctor Charlie is us to build a and so all get the and what he to do the work we a vote of confidence for Dr. Davant. The to the Wallingford By 1951, the of Clinic to to TJie "urgent" The That was an a — an of to of fire. If you've of not the and We has our he can do an A the ill and job, Let's to the is as only a a a for a Cone for the to a a of a to who by. What the The of The and a in 1951, in which had $10,000 the will of Mrs. but a only to find of Rockfs the Civil War, widely to 153 23rd, 1951, on the to For is for a. 1 a on/7 r° the few I felt our hospital it will $70,000 to feui'W a the $10,000 left to the fey the late Mrs. to tAis project But to the of the Under the circumstances, I am willing to to the hospital o/$30,000 at the the gift is on one condition, you on my to a f/ft as you me you an $30,000 other sources the project. This including the 15th of February 1952. With for a. you not Cone. I am to its a value as a pledge be or up to I am MTE Cone, a to the of Ovens, J. Anthony Panuch, the $30,000 Three Committee, the of Cone, J. A. Cannon, Vance, By the fall of 1951, the for the was a 28 hospital on the built on Chestnut Drive, and in of 1952, the of �vn a It it a a an to for the on a far of of The the of the the in on in the at the of to the of the its H. J.A. H.R the as of The of the in an editorial: the Rock, in the in 1936. a community the of the in is in We are an outgrowth of the its of less of Clinic, on its in job in a The for less the of The was not in Thus the the of Dr. Dr. in the has its A young Anne Cannon tne Ribbon at the 19-12 Blowing Rock Horse Show BLOWING ROCK HOSPITAL Tne �HEALING THE SICK/Page 155 A Hospital Benefit Fashion Show at is as out of the to The Clinic of of the to of the for in It is to the of Dr. the Clinic as a last but it is the it is to its for Manor or a of the to go to in for The in the In Clinic the per Philanthropy the Clinic at the its �Page VII a in the further the when the only for was as a the of in of or It or old age. in 1968, a on to the was by the Commission on an a A individual of 1968 the Dr. Davant Care-Center a so to the Rock's An for in the ill for for Clinic of to The a as chronic and which Therapy as in It of our T/ie Dr. Charles Davant, Jr. Extended Care Center an to �HEALING THE SICK/Page 157 NOTES 1. Van Noppen, Ina W, John J. Western North Carolina Since the Civil War, Boone: Appalachian Consortium Press, 1977, pp. 103-106. 2. Watauga Democrat, November 7, 1889. 3. Information about Dr. 4. from his grandniece, Mrs. John M. Lewis of Dunn, N.C, Democrat, May 25, 1899. 5. "Granny Robbins Beloved Early Lady" The Blowing Rock Story, 1983, p. 47 6. Alfred Mordecai, "James Edwin Brooks, M.D.," Part II, North Carolina Medical Journal, June, 1958, pp. 238-242. 7. "Mary Campbell Warfield was doctor of 1930-46," The Story. 1983, p. 21. 8. The Blowing Rocket, July 6, 1979. 9. Ibid, and telephone interview with Mrs. Carrie Buxton, March 27, 1988. 10. Ibid. 11. The July 6, 1979. 12. Telephone interview with Mrs. Carrie Buxton, March 27, 1988. 13. The Rocket, July 6, 1979. 14. Ibid. 15. Democrat, May 30, 1928. 16. The Blowing Rocket, July 6, 1979. 17. "Report of the 18. "Drive for Clinic Clinic", January 6, 1936, by Mary Cabell M.D. Today." The Blowing Rocket, August 30, 1940. 19. Ibid. 20. Ibid. 21. The Rocket, August 15, 22. Tlie Charlotte Observer, August 8, 1948. 23. Saunders, Don. For His Cause A Little House, Boone: Appalachian Consortium Press, 1988. 24. The Blowing Rocket, August 7, 1953. 25. The Rocket, August 19, 1955, 26. "From a Tiny, Four Bed Clinic," The Blowing Rocket, July 6, 1979. 27. Interview with Dr. Charles Davant, Jr., November 17, 1987. 28. "From a Tiny Four Clinic," op. cit. �Page 158 / Chapter VIII �BECOMING A SEASONAL MECCA /Page 159 CHAPTER VIII Becoming A Seasonal Mecca the a the rest end to the for an and the the the Grover C. He of a par for as 19284934, and again from the World War, a of the of That As for the to In April of 1930, for the the of a in to of the The at the The was one of the In 1932 the for a Cloudland Cafe) These by visitors. to on the Grover C. Robbins, Sr.t at The Blowing Rock a The to all Unfortunately, its led to a an an The of the it to the its County.1 to to but the to for Tourists visited by the busload �Page 160/Chapter VIII Early visitors to a litter-covered "Rock The Blowing Rock's view is one of the most beautiful m the entire Blue Ridge chain a in 1933.3 A court Three which is a to Bernhardt. Grover and CR J,M. Dr. as the the free to limit in the and Still by the and the the and and a to the Rock,4 the of Ford, was the to feel Grover touch. A Chamber of Commerce was in 1934, with Mayor as its C.S. was with GE. GX and Dr. GR also as the first The link and was in the of citizens.5 But was not just to and the for visitors. He on the in of He to Hill to and to in the The Boy into in and put on as "good for all long.7 Tourism was laid the and Grover It was for the that he did. The had 338 in 1920 to 503 in 1930. the in The its 1931, for the first in an to the with AC. its of of As with the at the end of the century, acts of the in 1928 and 1933 of off by who The as and its in in 1904. It quickly, but 6, 1933 as part of to the Its was it was on 17, the first County to be to reopen.9 �A 161 of Two crucial in by B.B. Dougherty to (to Rock. The was the of President D. of the Parkway. The Blue Parkway a child of the It Smoky to for the 469 mile its Harry E of Virginia, a very of North Carolina, Tennessee, Virginia on October 7, 1933, urging the to be of the WESTERN UNION Received lit ^ C F B ' 9 1 166 G O V T SN W A S H I N G T O N DC 7 HON J O B EHR!NGHAUS= 30CT 7 PM 2 3f ( """""" JUST HAD A TALK W I T H THE P R E S I D E N T W I T H RESPECT TO THE CONSTRUCTION OUT OF FEDERAL FUNDS Of A SCENIC H I G H W A Y C O N N E C T I N G THE S H E N A N D O A K AND GREAT SMOKY M O U N T A I N PARKS STOP PLAN in 1933, to to the the Great It is the to the of the to to inclusion. G O V E R N O R OF N O R T H C A R O L 1 N A R A L E I G H NCAR=" I S TO F I N A N C E FRO!,! F E D E R A L WORKS PROGRAM W I T H O U T O B L I G A T I O N ON THE PART OF THE STATES was the in and FATtONS AM MWJESTED TO MVttt THE COMPACT •? Thh b • faB-rm* Telegram or OMe- The EXCEPT AS TO M A I N T E N A N C E OF ROAD STOP THIS* M A I N T E N A N C E CAN BE R E A D I L Y G I V E N BY THE STATES BY REASON OF THE L A R G E A M O U N T OF I N C R E A S E D G A S O L I N E T A X D E R I V E D FROM T H E T O U R I S T S ATTRACTED TO TH!S ROAD STOP THE PRESIDENT SUGGESTA A S?,flALL TOLL SO AS E and the for "millions" of to to the via "the in the world" of the of the at the of the by of on July 21, 1934. They had no idea of the the on the or would be of the Not all one David Ovens, had this to say the in his If This Be TO M A K E T H I S A SELF L I Q U I D A T I N G E N T E R P R I S E STOP T E N T A T I V E SURVEY I N D I C A T E S A D I S T A N C E OF FOUR H U N D R E D M I L E S TOTAL COST S I X T E E N M I L L I O N DOLLARS STOP HUNDRED SEVENTY F I V E M I L E S I N VIRGINIA HUNDRED FORTY M I L E S I N N O R T H C A R O L I N A A N D N I N E T Y F I V E M I L E S IN T E N N E S S E E STOP T H I S ROAD WILL BE THE GREATEST SCENIC ROAD IN THE WORLD AND W I L L ATTRACT M I L L I O N S OF TOURISTS STOP 1 ASK YOUR COOPERATION I N THE PROJECT AND IF YOU APPROVE WOULD A P P R E C I A T E A TELEGRAM TO SECRETARY ICKES= HARRY F BYRD. I had which we are all without it and The the through the Cone to the We to do are few on the is and They are it this in Rock. As I I go out to see the are The isn't much, but the to be terrific. Since we are our to of it, we could get it. �A His of was a the the *30s, '40s and '50s. He J.B. Ivey in of the in the to his in the was a in 1951, to the and the in was for his of strong and wit, all of are 11 He fun at the of for he as He had a few to say his is a fine It has a of and the the rich prices and The be to fill the a like that." he had the of any but he his He the of in 1910, the to to the Club. He was one and of the for at the In in his into of its the He also the to Post card depicting the simple charm of the Village But to K. and his and "the At and the to his and the in for the in the Ovens Hospital a the and the and a in in the the Elk. and like to for for in a old city of Club, ErouP' He is a the also for the the for the the Concert to the and of the on the of to and the its all of A Church Church Day in The of the the to in was of the to to by ': :r . .. : . -. - . ^t*. *• -~;»:.-"-~<±±..-' '• 7'w^ -* ---'^^ox • "Pineacres," — The David Ovens home on Goforth Road and Wonderland Drive Tufts, in the to as a of 1897, the tO In the �BECOMING A SEASONAL MECCA /Page 163 in Rock He the of the the to of life in he the in 1914 to for no or to for David Ovens (seated) with Anne Bryan, Rev. Walter Keys, and participants in the Grandfather Home Day festivities at Ancf Set Aglow A a of income. of the "Early in the the in The was by on Dr. was a by of the The to to the of the The to the by the of to The Ovens. In 1939, of the at the as an the of Thus of the on the for the in her Tufts, as as Dr. I. in the "the world" to The and the the In 1948, for his the of the of by you the fact the by in the was a of for was a in of to "the of the the an the Day "We the of you as in for its Community, as a in We to the children." to in for the trip to of at the end a and in For the to was the last in one of the of the day the for was for in the for 12 his in 1957, the Their "David gift for his It in He a day of to in and the was the the for as a out of the it in to to It and of the a rare �vm for the the of a of wit as of It a wry merriment," the in the not the as of he as a for A in in all of its his of *the good life* with a to just the in He of of of civic for life still led a They TTie of The AX life and Jr. was the The Cannons at rivaled old sion" a The as the "in" with for the for Village the luxury While activities, fox-hunting of this led by TJie O./ Coffey and Rob Bradshaw in an impromptu game of checkers as Omer Coffey and Thomas Coffey look on We at in of the in 1932 as a only the of the was C.V. and Mary Cannon was the the top of the Ulric Their "interimstourists. Green Park life. Cottagers, of in for the a by the Hotel, Lloyd a but colorful life. As wryly "Fox-hunting at Rock is of out the or up a Our and has its The Blowing at on the just while the run to this of the (with of fire on a with the of the the the which the of the now off; the of who the fox is for; all the hours you know it the are Grandfather"10 The of the the Horse Show with its Here, the of air and the be The Charity Show, which in 1923, the Lloyd Tate, the Show's for the on Hill In the was a with Clement, Jones, Colonel Gray, who as judges at the to to of so the in ribbons. In 1928 the Show was to its The "a has (sic.) on the old May view course. Prizes will be in are the the day had a ner the turn-of-the-century. The 8, 1897 us �BECOMING A SEASONAL MECCA /Page 165 : -*'' "* &** Pictured with Lloyd Tate (center) are the 1949 Association Officers, (left to right): D.M. Bower, Mrs. Joseph F. Cannon, Mrs. W.B. Shu ford, and Charles G. Beck John Walt Gragg, long-time volunteer for the Horse Show "Junebug" Tate promotes the 1941 Horse Show in his own inimitable style �vm of Topic "The at Ifou to the thought the Park:" to in it! It the of the the on the it of gayety. One would so left on the Mountain, but when you collect the all the all to one of still a Green Park's for the of the tournament which was to in the gay up down, of the The sat at the Mr. L.L. of as the on the gay and to the gay The was a at having laid the was We of our the be the winners, but inquiring the we "ruled out" Their in this line as by the less There or who a of up a line the for "rules and and the in fine was by Craig, Deal, Taylor, Councills, The victory was by Mr. R. Craig, who at the Tournament ball at the last as of and Wheatley of Georgia. We of Charlotte, Thurman of Smith of as of honor by Messrs. Deal, Chatham Councill, the I could how pretty a bicycle might be at the c After the was the and T Craig just for fun.* They all with and the victors in the real out" Throughout TJie the on Show, the life in 1938 to the this There is, of course, life of a sort if you're not particular the circle in which you move. This is not but the truth. But it's so everybody United College students, rich the You won't be so go you Out Mayview~way the is $1.25 per and the at twenty-five a with at a thin Over at the Green Casino the is 50 per couple on every when it at 80 cents. follow the as The by far the on the no tell you, has a with a script of 75 Then you can any to by in an electric The and the at 1:30 but you can eat all Youll see of College over way.11 But was one to into the Furthermore, D.R Coffey the the of still lead to In of 1934, of on of the construction, was of the to the left out of the The of Prohibition was still a his On a had to A into a the led by he �A M.S. of of the vat of a in good by, to for to a he his as few felt the as a for had in the up While felt it the 167 so to DP. of a DP. and and was in to to its to the all of In the Village, as the as by the of to a in 1935 a for the his it or the no to or to his are all the to He has no He up to the nor to the You get and he to his He has his and and is in no He no on An to is on a of The of a not the of the so do the a to the of the get It is not a to but to An to the in to his in but of is and or the of in use of of the North was a to up as the to of the by the to a on the of was to In 1938, The a the On the one On the people.19 a of the in the not His it is the it the the one of who the on felt to be the in to in the she The it. He the of On of the of his as the old a the of the of the a being in 80 and to to got on her one the not to of she and he the the of *96 no of her in to be all D. of in a up for the �Page 168 / Chapter VIII �A All hotels Rock, the two hours of the show, a crowd of outside, held back by and by one big the whole bloomin' had 169 the It was the thing in a coon's age.20 The Democrat's account of the "Same Old Story" the of Rock Twenty the of "primitive mountaineer" by Rock could had its star if the of a girl the film young Mary Johnson of Rock hitch-hiked to of fortune. Just in she got lonely she her her. the account of the journey on 11, 1934: Mary Johnson, 14, did not get into the hitch-hiking the but she hospitality for a coat, and Her father, a carpenter, was out of a job her is so with $L50 brother, David, 12, Rock, N.C. in to aunt, lives on the of San Francisco. David was left behind in El to a and the at and hitch-hiked s c l though Fd get in the films, so I to Paramount,' she But that So I 'Oh, they are swell,' Mary, 'and I they will find our aunt.? She concern for her brother, but 'David's he will be all A Grover to the mayor's in 1939 the town could that, "The the months. Over 200 of the United countries. The North Carolina first with 72 D.C. New York 5 each"21 the in the Village's couldn't on 13, 1940, hit County any but had to be An at Shulls Mill completely and a of New River Power Light at Middle Fork put out of Rock's sole of a on Mayview Lake, and it only light a of the at a The was to water for the The the calmly, floors, out while for the to pass.22 One victim of the to be reincarnated was Tweetsie Railroad. The small 1881, in had was to She the by she and her Johnson, She left to Columbia.' of 3,000 all its 14, 11, A for the ,*, . + ^--. in : , t •/^w; „ i r. was to was In �¥1/1 all of to to Small on the to than a "wave down" the by a of the was the an out of the City, the of the Cranberry Coal and in 1929, left to be the work and who, in The &L the for to the line in the of 1940. County the to the of the rail line to the the 19394940 "150 500 tins 4,000 3,000 900 690 and 1,500 4,775 of 3,800 of 75 cars of 450 of 510 of brick and tile, 200 550 180 200 gas, a asphalt"23 they a on the but the in the a the line was as a The LC.C. as the county's 13, 1940 was the last run for for years.24 The the but it in the of the Country Club. In 1939, a for the had a of By the to six of to the Golf Course. The Country Club was the of J. L Cannon - Vice-President; EG. Sr. - Vice G. C.V. Jr. be the Club's first In she, her Bill Brown, and a the Club's Mr. the first at in June, 1940, and the was the Mr. A.G. of the construction, which was in 182 at a cost of $40,000. The was in and and At the a of one end of the to the On the was the a two-story of a with of a The for for The It was Country Club Board of Directors (left to right, front row): Frank C. Brown, C. V. Henkel, Jr., Luther Snyder, unknown, Barney Garrison, David Ovens, (top): unknown, F.G. Harper, James Harris, Charles G. Beck, Anthony Panuch J. Luther Snyder �BECOMING A SEASONAL MECCA /Page 171 iljl at of the of a to add depth. The The seat the the six one full people. This up the was to the The was a in the end oak was was to the the to to as the pro. The Country Club its on July 4, 1941 with an and for It an for the in Rock's crown. The thirty-three see the Club a visit Mrs. on 1, 1947. A fire the on 21, 1974, of on in the of guests.25 A to the Club was by an to the TTie in 1941: With the of the Club to the a of and fun we a With the Club cool on the watching the on the and you will envy their you wouldn't your on the for a you will be a friend.... You if you and of you will is an incidental thing you'll at the how this mountain is the of the the sun slip the mountain on its way to the other world you'll a car a of young will in with of laughter, go racing down the to the for a and to eat drink going to for dinner. Then soft the Club you'll the of people people to and war and all the And then you'll it's to slip out of the you are in on to and things. Youll get up and to your car and won't think the Club you and and you'll you to the world. There on the of the Club you found a certain of life in in in that that from You the Club hour to you and you are happy.26 for If to as a resort, the Country Club by the a 25% in growth was 1940 to 1941, The Chamber to come.27 Grover �Page 172 / VIII a throughout Florida the in 1940 1941. His to the of as a tourist as the for he was so at it as in the mountains.28 The Chamber of Commerce the of "Blowing Rock, North Air-Conditioned in the Highlands" of the of in 1935 when C.B. a 321 Chetola and it for homes.29 With in the and the trip north. a M. to as Chapman was of the with a of who 30 at the at Rock. In 1944 in 1946, the of the of Commerce was W. a real a Lloyd was a 31 his in Florida. as as real by out-ofThe the Inn, two of the Villagers by Fort in 1945.32 The 1940, the Village's of the which did World War I, twenty-five By to 655. The population, the Village be the of the to Guadalcanal. the as well. Many left to the work force. like Sue Coffey, of the war in for use in air overseas.33 For the war Harbor. In 1940, the Rock Church county's Cross for the relief of civilian war The May view 34 and its and for a Red Cross charity dance. In the of 1941, a for was with Dr. Cabell Warfield as Chairman, Mrs. Hal as as Treasurer,35 The Green Park-Norwood Golf Course a in conjunction with the Country Club for the War Relief Society. our entry the in the of 1941, gas 7 p.m. to 7 a.m. to fuel37 In 1942, Blowing Rock to the Tires and a of the When to wreck the town's economy, so Walter Keys, of Church, a to Washington to ask for help. A of Interior had Rock, to the ration of fuel to was as an A miles-per-hour limit was however, and was still for use. Forty-two with driving throughout 40 the in 1942 of as a result. When for lubrication ran a of and would act as a substitute. On a it to a visitor's car it could be seen.41 The at one per was one per person old or older) 42 five weeks. to their to the was a for both for The Democrat "The up so much of the are the of the stuff up. Where formerly 44 for 75 a the (1942) $1 to $1.50" the was a two-month ban on the production of in January and of 1943. that quickly and the use wax This too unpopular, though, and was shortly lifted.45 �A to and in for the While the Those who did to the Coffey a Cross program.46 metal47 Clyde Dula at of in 1942.48 a had volunteer and of for So for be Lt. and son of Dr. and the first County to die in in July, 1943, a in his the U.S.S. on 7, A by Grover Jr., he was on of of 173 to fuel to get to / was luclcf, / was with the pin out it me down I was the to get over the other, and every and I is like and if I ever get at all to it. The of it is not the and lying in with to don't The of it is the a hit you it and it without and a up I don't is a who wouldn't was a on Iwo who had in the for or a leg to get out of it. I how much a To you will me. The off but all 1 got to be I will tell you as All fear it is just to be if he but a the war 42 and in the Mrs. Thomas paper, in Grill a A.P. He was by 1944.50 Iwo the for I was hit I was the Nip's was a up. This is I am alive.... all it as I feel any on the going and you get up in you and to in it I gladly a an one.51 the of and the 256 was in 1946, as its first In 1952, 256 was a on a of just of the Park, the of a the construction of a With this was and on 20, 1959, the first was in its new home.52 This was as a of one of the last acts of Grover as The on which Tom Coffey's Inn was the for a as of the Chamber of Commerce, for the of the by the On April 3, 1945, a was on a for the of the The was 141 in of the 51 On 18, 1945, the for the Inn to the Village of Rock. New could be for the of the importantly, the bulk of the in the was for and A was was of Cannon, Mrs. W.K. Grover W.B. Castle, and EW. The a to a for the for a courts, and The was to be a to all in the World War II. Grover would go on to as in 1945, 1947, 1948 Of his acts the Village he so the be his memorial.53 �VIII As the a the in outlook. While the For good or for the test on the not was so The with John Goodwin, in and the to its 175 of to was a or set to on July 13, 1949. It was by L of R and G Company, the community's J.R. of the set, only one but it a one. There to the the in Charlotte July 15, 1949. by Charlotte Square dancing at The Legion Hall the of to in the away.52 in the Village, Unlike the set, John Goodwin Guild its Virginia at the of Grover Robbins. Goodwin over 100 old "drafts" he his and Goodwin Guild was truly a which they an of Rock's a • rp r I 7;: o• lit • O F F I C E S ILOWIN6 MCI. I.C John Goodwin (center with is pictured with fellow officers of The Blowing Rock Chamber of Commerce (left to right): Bob Hardin, Howard Barnwell, Mrs. H.F. Custer, Luther H. Smith, and Eli Mattar John Goodwin �A As as 175 a tourist a of the the Village. A.R of Greensboro, of Activities of the his was the Campus the of of North Carolina of Two people Dr. In 1921, Dr. as Children's Camp Philadelphia tutor. It was while at this a in the Blue which would embody their learning.53 of 1922. It was by The in the Winkler, the of a of W.L. Farm. The was five on Pine as North Mill Winkler of on the Shulls to a to sell the to who courts, stables.54 Local a cut the property. The hired to build the was just to in a the to the Camp Yonahlossee girls on The Blowing Rock be in the south. They in the late 1930s was for of the 55 camps. the of The of the to an "opportunity to get the of to a not the to and at the and ideals."56 to be of to Camp the of 7 17. the "bunked" in age A "Big Sister" the the The of the North but also Carolina, Virginia, and DC. In the by bus or and up at the or it was not to see of at the Chief of of the his to "Camp Y" as did CBS One Roger Mudd*s put on the list the to All of the of the — all "roughing it" in no in bunks.57 was in in the much-of cows, "insured the of to" who 58 to the camp " in the to the The to corn, This was one the got the years.59 When the first Dr. the of March, April, and for the The to 100 a of 40. it was the to a to be to an in the the of the "a of the and will on the in the of A her council, The Camp Pow Wow body), for the will a of life the of and school" By 1938, in its "an �Page 176 / Chapter VIII of 150 a educational and at the character"62 A a in 1951, The the a stunts, archery, fire building, to the craft, arts diving"61 The for in 24 their hiking, music, and at the fun of wholesome in "With for Rock was the Camp Cherokee. by Mr. Mrs. Cone, Camp Cherokee was a which only After the Hodgkins financial difficulty in 1941, Wade Brown the on which Camp Cherokee Brown, of the best-known of the of a Country Town Lawyer, of the in 1944 to a woman, Vera Lachmann. Dr. Lachmann was born in Germany in 1904, the of a of German-Jewish She a Ph.D. the University in 1931. to be a she her at the Odenwaldschule, a in which on the of international understanding, tolerance, the In 1933, she a for the of had the public by the Nazis. With the of which led to World War II, Dr. Lachmann's school During Hitlers of terror, to in She fled her Germany in 1939 and would to see her to America in was at College, but she at College, Bryn Mawr, Yale, the of York City. her at in New York 63 New Hampshire. It was Mrs. Clemens of Chapel Hill Lachmann the in the of North Carolina. In 1943, she a the in as like to say, "she was hooked" One of cool and an which would an all-consuming she would a for in the T.E. for a few in Mrs. 16 for an infirmary, an cabin, a cabin, a cabin, a room, a unit, a three-room hall, a three-room building The Castle.' " Other physical with flush water, a two-car an plant, a 60 system. Camp Y a well-rounded activity which "Daily devotions, fire inspirational programs, Counselors at Camp Yonahlossee for for �A was _born. It was a trip as Director of Camp in the the as her life in was the in his 177 a journey German to and a of accomplishment is would turn out to be as turbulent of 1944. It was in of Thomas "Old Catawba" the for looi Angel. During the the Camp all of supply, In a to a Vera "My top is my a my and But of us to or has any of to buy in or of We no We it up For are very few the of a is a real difficulty"65 the the the to city up the hill a was The the to the of Catawba." They helpful to a to "Fred is the up the The are us a we do ours. Through the and Mr, the of Commerce is me an list. I off two is properly"66 to Dr. is'a at and and /I its was an in the The was so two Carolina of the At children of but to the Camp. many ^ came in and the first five the of was The to to Ira his on the Camp was Ira was at Fork his in This a on the on the as They by the as and and a of to the "Their had a the One of the to "You get to but was a to all I the of their the of and They of corn, in the children. Their of was like and as as had life. Their and their life are to the at the at the Show. This was an The a in primarily for the of in the the "the they off to Coca-Cola, the of spectators " was by as in to the There "all of of the a of so on" was one in all of the it to Greek the of the to one "Few in it to But did not it, or if so did not the on account."68 the and was it was not In 1951, on a to the Camp. An in The the for its on to "color will be no bar to to the camp "69 to was her to the and her to live in the and her The of �Page 178/Chapter VIII as a for to use the in the was Camp to Courtney, of St. Mary's of the Church at the was of policy, and the by of an Invasion,1 Dr. Lachmann campers on a hike up Grandfather Mountain Miller luck, A in an on to the was to use the on of one in 1948. The left the He of a as "normal" was left With the off Flannery of 3,500 When the Camp in 1964, the "town the Campus policy them," In did not policy as an of in the community.71 Catawba for with "Catawba intentions"70 its physically to Rock, was Camp Sky Ranch, was the of Jack B. Sharp, a bus was It was he was in the this he he to of a for for to go the they the He his a friend, Marvin Culbreth. Culbreth, an of polio, first-hand such a was The two 72 to the reality. of North Carolina Culbreth 145 the H. Cone of Rock. With an an of 70 the site "perfect" for project.73 TTie the Camp: "The can be their fills the air with are in the for the who is a fisherman" Although the Camp WWII, when a of building the the construction the Camp was Three a and hall, the of 1948. Construction Camp was by the North Carolina of Health it "A-l" All the which it for the who When it it was the only for in the southeast.74 the Camp Sky Ranch a of the Camp*s noble purpose, in it support. Word the Camp the by of background, all — "from the girl who sent by a family, to the multi-millionaire's who has in the for years."75 In with our community's tradition of the Club and the Rock Club to for the Camp or to Over the all of the country Camp Sky Ranch. The the to 230 in the '60s.76 Initially, the was solely for boys, but it Charlotte both of �A co-educational. The in of the all has "to the activities" These There Mountain. picnics, camping.77 a church, but in a the of Mrs. Joseph Cannon her in honor of Mrs. Cannon, of her the Cone blackberry Camp Sky the the at the 78 of the camp. In 1964, the the to For 200 179 is a its the B. Sharp, of Jack's by to the In The music, Rock, for However, 79 son. the to the to Mountain. as "Carolina's Top Scenic Attraction," the in 1785 Michaux, to North by the Government to collect His him to Florida, the the of the to North Carolina. On 30, 1794, he in his "climbed to the of the of all North my the La Hymn cried, cLong live the French Long live liberty!1 "80 Michaux being the in North America, but say it is of the 140 With its of it is one of the peaks of the whole chain. the its who the of a 81 in the rock formations. It was as a in the 1930s. In 1935, an old was in the was to the of the There the Company a To pay for the of the the a toll82 Prior to this was to but of Dr. Vance, Dr. R. A. Dunn, Dr. C. G. all the by the of the mountain.83 In 1936, the Linville Company a at the end of the toll 84 sandwiches. At time, the mountain by Hugh MacRae, of a Wilmington family and of the Linville Company. was an MIT to the North in of an in the of When he saw the its for he to his for to 16,000 He the for a of its worth, paying 25 to 50 an the of Linville to Linville he built the Trail (Trail of the US 221. It to the 16 at a of $14,000.85 It for as a toll and When Mr. Agnes the was to son-in-law, W. On 19, 1921, the a Hugh, his grandfather.86 The Hugh Morton his in Linville hiking, of all the had to UNC-Chapel Hill, he as a a for his in trying to 87 a battle. In 1952, the to the Linville all No it No is, �his on set a which was to a Yet all he has in the is his of the foot In his "1 feel like Fm its and it's in my care for the being/*88 The did as was to the to the as This was the on top of the was for a lot, but this one did not the view.89 The which was the lot by a a 100 states.90 Morton a to get to the His was to a 218-foot The in at a in It was in 1952. At the it was to be the east of the Tar and all the William B. for as the the to the Mr. and his the first to The was to the and ice in the It can up to 3 40 are to at one The a one are not to on the 12.7% of the 30% of the will not of 10,000 to the By the '60s 10,000 in a weekend.92 A was to the in the f60s if he two for He Winston Church, was to Zoo to out a By Church a on a by at the Zoo. The to the go. The was has Ten to the the of a of "The Show" was on top of for the CBS Arthur's to a "The and The the cub was to be in the as this was the cub run as as she was Well, do the you — the the cub out the his as he to "shoo" her away.93 The as is history. After her TV. to the on for a to in Linville. She a she was to the if she to at she to be With the the a for 400 her 21st Mildred has a of each she of to the Mountain. While she has to she is in she will and for cubs. A and "ham" she has with she meets.94 �BECOMING A SEASONAL MECCA /Page 181 the for These "three of of visitors." In the These is on the Joe as the on the the to be "the is the "The as "The It as a In the of by on "they of of the is he to the to the "as the in June. There is no of In 1965, was the the list of to up to at was 32 "this was the in and far of 57,500 for the game in an at the the the and on the in the of the he of peace"100 The in July, is It was in as a the of by two a for the The at a in to for a the the 102 weather. the They the of the be on the deer,95 in_the United States" They of by are the has its very pool. in settings.96 the but it is also for the of Clans" of Mountain " the known reunion to John Parris, who has much to There on the ground, the They a Joe L. Hartley, the of to the Today the singing in all the land"97 Throughout the the for this Johnny the at the "to to to do to GREATsiwc �the America" When an in the in this was in to Five the first Grandfather 40,000 recent.103 Today, the and the Grandfather of "not only the in the the world." The a bit of is such but in to of the world, all of the in the on Thursday for the ceremony. On Friday, the an Concert, the Ceilidh, and a Country the of is in piping, Sunday, the with a by the of and Tartans.104 The and the Lynn to was this the Universities.107 of is one of the big area is In (the North Carolina in the state),105 A as an Officer of the in go a of the in the in the year.108 In has a 4,100-acre and of its and the the to the of the of the J. Mr. of the in July, has has the was by said that he of the the to the area and is also a bobcat.109 of to on also and and to the �A 183 the the "Tweetsie" by the of August, 1940, which and North to in as People she the a of sad she the of In July of 1950, the ET WNC the cowboy, the to her. His was to her a star in westerns.110 Grover Jr., son of of had the and Johnson City as a child. He was the and was to it in the of North Carolina, His plan...to her so by. He the a the journeys.111 In 1955 Autry to sell him his on a Period of Autry This set the for 20, 1956. M. 20th as "Tweetsie Day" and the to via Southern In Hickory, of the as at the of Journey" and "Casey Jones." TV. the be so in the train, was he too, The in Hickory for a and was at the and The and "Tweetsie Railway" was on cab in the eye of Frank Coffey, and the of the The old she had remembered.113 May 23, 1957 was the day to up the to The up the Lenoir was but Grover was not He a to the in T McLeod, of the The coal and 40-foot cars the use of 60 the to as the of her trip.114 When the the up to the on 400 midway Rock, real The was too too It was to , - • . ; -"^v^ to up . '"iJVf^. the hill, but did at " . - $=?.^:. last home.115 SSLlT' SS) ? an run on her Vs| jjon June 30, 1957. her first run was not announced, more 1000 as thirty lucky passengers rode the train on the track.116 "The as for one in her the boiler her power." Her for the ": - . " "^rS^T^ " ~'v-'y rS." % :j; «" ' . ' _ ^.v '" : r-'":;""::: :::y:':': ^=-"^"' " ;,: . If 11 :%i, . iiiS ?; .^^ffw^I^L"^? " ' : -., ' .; V .:f - : __ , *_ : • i, �vm trip was her the the It a at the at in the of the an at to air. At the of an old to a the a a an In jail, a to in the West" in of as she the of the was of the by the the 71,000 as one The giant of the as a the in is five As to the by has to to a visionary, a Tweetsie, Jr. at Mayview Lake of to off the a the in the the to for its of in of since.119 of the In the In to the top of a to see was 321. The on all and a of life still of the the For up by all as a few a 225-foot to an 250,000 to for an At the a top of the in has e e P °pl » It has our — an It C. Jr. �BECOMING A SEASONAL MECCA /Page 185 Let's Hit The Slopes! The of 1962 for we It Ski the of was we by the it Ski a This Bill He ski for the — the It This a rare as a — to for was He piece of a a ski in the he but the was for his of Bill to for the of in a The and not all of it it the up the to (a of the to but They the of the Jr., and Harry a Rock.124 Once the The of a ski fun at the of it Folly" to see for snow. The Tbar lift was by Ski Lift of York, at a of $30,000 the of its The lift was to 800 an to the top a the "T" on This lift by the chairlift The a on a at a of and a of big compressors" Artificial a of air in in The a of ski he and slope, and a 250-foot lot, was for its the 121 Rock. he He to a ski in the a lot of to the As of this to the ski it was a ski 126 of its of a for to he year-round. of the on he Thalheimer it be. He as a to the the on skis!123 the a Thomases,"122 Ski Lodge, he of on by an in the the slopes,"125 place. It a of ski a Tbar lift, a to �the would call the up all The at tell on the to the ski was it hit the for by and a 500 The was by H. M. Chestnut An was the of the in its was up to the site on the of The a staff of forty. the Tony 129 an in snow. The Ski on 3, 1962. the was 130 of an of construction. On the to the Those at the all of the all the Over one day and it was 15,000 the the 19624963 a to "The of skiing to a use of ice is to is not as as on it appear"132 to ski at the Ski "a of a to a 70-year-old man"133 the ski all the it in New shops up ski to for of the or the for residents,134 Thalheimer's to to the They a the to at any In 1963, the to a the Bill Thalheimer with Betty Simpson, "Miss Southern Ski Queen" �A on its The the ASU the in the to a in in its ski to A of the ski "got us out of the red" to the years.136 he at Ski and Ski was in be With the of the Ski this Jr. his this to be a he 137 Harry Mountain. though the Ski a in of the of the to visit the the Ski in 1968.138 for this was the the real As a result, the Ski was for $160,000, and the of the was to 140 Mountain. Ski has 8 and two and is for the ski school in the The Ski "has for for 100 for the Navy the for the Olympics"141 in the Ski as the in North Carolina, Bill in the of the forever.142 "Service with a smile" a 187 curriculum,135 its and At Hound his on to Ski The The for has the �Page 188 / Chapter VIII NOTES 1. Democrat, April 10 and 24, 1930 2. Democrat, June 13, 1931 3. TTie RocJcet, July 27, 1933 4. Watauga Democrat, October 31, 1935 5. The Rocket, July 7, 1934 6. Democrat, February 15 &. 24, 1934 7. Democrat, April 28, 1938 8. Democrat, June 7, 1928 and May 4, 1933 9. Democrat, 3, 1931 and July 27, 1987. 23, 1933 10. TTie Blowing Rocket, July 2, 1938 11. The July 8, 1938 12. Watauga Democrat, June 7, November 1, 29, 1934 13. Watauga Democrat, July 23, 1936 17. 18. TTie Democrat, October 3, 1946 RocJcet, August 24, 1938 19. Democrat, August 11 & 18, 1938 20. Democrat, August 25, 1938 21. Democrat, May 28, 1939 22. Democrat, August 16, 1940 and December 18, 1964 23. Watauga Democrat, December 5, 1940 24. Democrat, 10/1940, 5, 1940, 6, 1941, July 17, 1941 25. Country Club history courtesy of Mr. Claude Armfield, Mr. Wilton Evans, 26. The July 28, 1941 27. Watauga Democrat, September 4, 1941 28. 29. The Democrat, 15, February 27, 1941 Rocket, June 22, 1935 30. Trie Blowing Rocket, August 29, 1942 31. Democrat, June 29, 1944 and February 14, 1946 32. Democrat, July 12, 1945 33. Interview with Sue Coffey, February 7, 1988 34. Democrat, June 6, 1940 35. Democrat, July 17, 1941 36. Watauga Democrat, June 12, 1941 37. Democrat, 7, 1941 38. Democrat, May 14, 1942 and June 4, 1942 39. Democrat, June 25, 1942 40. Watauga Democrat, January 28, 1943 the Country Club, �BECOMING A SEASONAL MECCA /Page 189 41. with Ray Hicks, December 5, 1987 12, 1942 and 42. 43. 44. Coffey, 29, 1942 7, Democrat, 5, 1942 45. 11, 1943 46. 19, 1942 47. 23, 1942 48. July 16, 1942 49. Democrat, 11, 1943 50. July 8, 1943 and 51. May 24, 1945 52. Town," The 53. "Camp 54. 6, 1944 of Democrat, 55. Interview to of the County," 30, 1922 and July 7, 1938. Jim 56. of 1, 1988. 30, 1922 1, 57. 58. Democrat. July 7, 1938, 30, 1922 59. Interview with Jim and Elaine Jones, March 1, 1988 60. July 7, 1938. 61. 62. "Camp it TJie 63. Miller, Charles. A Assemblyt Newmarket, 6, 1951. 1973. p. 12-14 64. Ibid, p.7 65. Ibid, p.16 66. ib/d p.17. 67. ibid p.22. 68. ibid p.22. 69. ibid p.147. 70. ibid 71. IbM. R125. 72. "Jack Sharp 19, Camp Sky Ranch", The to 73. TAe Its of Man's in History", The 18, 1974 July 13, 1951 of Place Crippled Children Might Play", 76. The Charlotte Observer, January 20, 1948 and 77. is for Democrat, The Charlotte Observert 20, 1948. 20, 74. "Camp Sky Ranch 75. "Sky , 1983, p.42. "Camp TJie 18, 1974 15, 1955. in �BECOMING A SEASONAL MECCA/Page 190 IB. "Sky of Play", January 15, of and The July 13, 18, 1974. 79. 80. TTie July 4, 81. Hugh on November 10, 1987. 82. The 3, 1935. 83. Tlie 24, 84. T/ie July 18, 85. Interview with Mr. Morton; The Charlotte Observer, Sunday, Sept.21, 1980 86. Journal, 87. Journal, 88. with Mr. Morton, 89. Interview Journal, 27, 1954. 27, June 27, 1954 and TJie Charlotte Observer, The Lenoir News-Topic, 21, 29, 1982. Mr. Morton. 3, 1977. 90. 91. Mnston-Salem Journal, 3, 1953. 92. 93. with Mr. Morton and The Charlotte Observer, Sunday, Sept. 21, 1980. 94. Democrat April 30, 1970 Daily News, 6, 1971. 95. April 30, 1980. 96. 97. Parris, John, for the 50th 98. of "Singing on the Mountain", Daily Newst June 26, 1976, June 26, 99. Daily News, June 23, 1974 100. 101. Oct. 3, 1979. Citizen-Times, Journal, June 25, for the 1961 in the Collection) interview with Mr. Morton. in the Collection) with Mr. Morton. 102. Interview with Hugh Morton. 103. for the 1961 104. June 26, 105. Johnson City Chronicle, July 14, 1977. 106. July 11, 1982. 107. the in the Collection) Trie Johnson City Chronicle^ July 13, 1975. 108. Interview with Hugh Morton. 109. Journal Constitution, June 13, 1959. 110. "Old Timer's Day at 111. Interview with Harry Spencer "Grover is a Wheeling, City Press-Chronicle, Thursday, June 12, 1980. on January 14, 1988: Mountaineer**, Winston-Salem Journal, 112. "Homecoming Celebration is a Planned for Tweetsie" TJie 113. Scheer, Julian 114. Aid. Trie House, 1958, is for 30, 1965. 17, 1956: p.45. 17, 1956: 21, TJie Julian and Elizabeth Story, 1983, �A 191 115. Ibid. 116. Democrat, July 4, 1957. 117. 3, 1957. 118. Democrat, 119. 3, 1957. July 17, 30 Years", 77ie Charlotte Observer, 120. 121. Interview with Mrs, Joan Thalheimer, 122. June 8, 14, 1988. 8, 1964, 123. Interview with Mrs. Joan Thalheimer, 124. Thursday, 125. "Ski South.,Then 14, 1988. 14, 1961. Now," 126. Tri-County p. 10 N.C. Dec. 13, 127. Charlotte News, Tuesday, Dec. 4, 1962 and Tri-County News, Dec. 13, 128. Mincey Record, Burnsville, N.C. Dec. 13, 1962 and Asheville Citizen-Times, Sunday, 129. Asheville Citizen-Times, October 31, 1962 the Interview with Joan Thalheimer. 130. "Shopper's Circle", Belmont Banner, Nov. 30, 1963 Winston-Salem Journal and Sentinel, 131. Charlotte News, Tuesday, December 4, 1962. 132. 26, 1964. 133. Asheville Citizen-Times, 19, 1964. 134. Sentinel, Journal 135. The S.C., 29, 1963. 25, 1964. 136. Winston-Salem Journal and Sentinel, 137. 29, 1963. The 138. ""Ski South..Then Now" Activities, p.10 139. Tne 140. 1987 5, 1968 and for 12, 1968. Ski 141. AM. 142. Tne Blowing Rockett Thursday, 4, 5, Mrs. Thalheimer. 29, 1963. �This page intentionally left blank �����������������A VILLAGE TAPESTRY / Page 209 BLOWING ROCK LANDMARKS �Page 210/A VILLAGE TAPESTRY BLOWING ROCK LANDMARKS— �A VILLAGE TAPESTRY / Page 211 Primary 500 FEET Trails cartographic services �Page 212/A VILLAGE TAPESTRY BLOWING ROCK LANDMARKS 1. Blowing Rock Hotel — Built by Colonel Robert H. Gray and John 2. W.L. Holshouser's General Store — Opened in 1893 3. The 4. The — in the as the in the 1940s spot for more than half a century 1800s by Dr. — on the foundation as the Watauga Hotel after it was detroyed by fire in the early 1900s cottages is present site of Jenkins Realty.) 5. H.C. Miller's — 6. 7. First in — in early 1900s, in 1870, Village's at the of the site of Hayden Pitts Service Station structures Church — Constructed in 1924 on the site as the original 1905 structure. County Pine Newtiques is 8. Wallingford Clinic — Town's second medical facility, opened in the late 1930s, 9. Methodist Church — Built in 1900 with chestnut bark siding 10. Church of the Holy Spirit Room — First 11. Craig's Grocery — Town's oldest grocery Church library, by fire in 1923 to Will Craig 12. Rock School — Closed in 1964 when county high schools consolidated (torn down in the early '70s) 13. Memorial Presbyterian Church — Original structure built in 1886 14. Chetola — Property first owned by Len Estes, contained boarding house and Snyders mill, of the 15. Sunshine Inn —-Early home of Burns family and well-known restaurant dating back to the early 1940s 16. Garden Inn — Built in the early 1900s by the Washbums 17. Dr. Charles Davant, Jr. Home — Blowing Rock's eminent physician long-time of the County of Education consecrated in 1921 (contains Elliott Daingerfield's "Madonna 18. "Edgewood" — The first Blowing Rock home of Elliott 19. "Windwood" — Second Blowing Rock 20. Dr. Warfield's Clinic — of Elliott Daingerfield facility in Rock 21. St. Mary's of the Hills — This Susie P. Stringfellow memorial of the Hills"). 22. Old 23. 24. 25. School — Located Mayview Lake, Rock Ice House — This early rock structure Company). — 19Q.Q to 1918 served as the town's first gas station (currently home of the in 1904 -• Shop — Affectionately known as "Coman's," for decades the local gathering place for the town's young 26. Goodwin Family Weavers and Showroom 27. Grover C. Robbins, Sr. Home 28. Mayview Lake — Formerly Watauga Lake, to be Broyhill in of the 29. Berryman's Drug Store and Soda Shop 30. Holshouser Home — W.L, Holshouser 31. — One of the of town's first merchants. residences in Blowing Rock 32. First Town Hall and Chamber of Commerce — Constructed in the early 1900s (currently Vagabond Gift Shop) 33. Yonahlossee Theatre — Site of premiere for Paramont Studio's "Spawn of the North" �A VILLAGE TAPESTRY / Page 213 34. Dr. Mary Warfield home 35. Ed Robbins Blacksmith Shop 36. "Bootblacks—Father Gryder's Shoe Shop 37. Joe Clarke's Homesite — First civic leader 38. "Lerada" — Colonel and Mrs. Ogden Edwards Home (built in early 1900s) 39. Blowing Rock Exchange — Managed for years by Miss Lena Reeves, this early craft store featured handmade bedspreads and homemade cookies and candy. 40. Original Blowing Rock Post Office 41. Town Hall, Fire Station and Jail — Managed for decades by Nettie Greene, the town clerk 42. Moody Furniture — Three generations of hand-crafted furniture, established by A.C. Moody 43. Schenck Cottage — Confederate Major Henry Franklin Schenck was one of the town's first cottagers. 44. Green Park Hotel — Opened in 1891 by a syndicate of Lenoir businessmen led by George Washington Finley Harper 45. Green Park — Norwood Golf course — Built in 1915 and expanded to eighteen holes in 1922 under the guidance of designer Donald Ross (became part of Blowing Rock Country Club in 1971) 46. Skyland Inn — Located at the site of today's Farm House — closed in 1914 47. Skyland Institute — Opened in 1887 by Miss Emily Prudden 48. The Blowing Rock'— Owned by the Bernhardt family of Lenoir, developed into tourist attraction by Grover C. Robbins, Sr. 49. Mount Bethel Reformed Church — Town's first church, built in 1882 50. Hughes Estate — This 58 acre estate of the prominent Charlestonians became the Blowing Rock .Assembly Grounds in 1946. 51. "Pineacres" — Summer home of David Ovens 52. Green Park Stables — Built in 1924, run by Jinny and Ozelle Moss (The swallow's return.there every summer to nest). . - 53. Green Hill — Site of first organized Blowing Rock Horse Show, named in honor of the town's first family 54. Ed Sullivan Grave — c. 1794, town's earliest known grave site 55. Appalachian Motel — Town's first motel, built by Grover Robbins, Sr. in 1951 56. Buxton Road — Charlottean GX Buxton built summer cottages there shortly after the tum-of-the-century. 57. "The Bark" — Popular night spot for decades (today Big Dollar Grocery) 58. Blowing Rock home of J.W. Cannon 59. D.P. Coffey's Grocery —- Served the needs of the Green Park area for many years 60. J.C. Ford's Cloudland Cafe — This early diner predated Grover Robbins' development of the Blowing Rock. 61. "Dawn Hill" - C.V. Henkel Home 62. "Tin Top" — Black Social Club 63. Major Harper Home — Constructed before the turn-of-the-century and later destroyed by fire after being struck by lightning 64. Alex Shuford Cottage — Built in the late 1920s, this home is among the best remaining examples of the use of chestnut bark siding 65.' Church of God - Built in 1920 66. Church of the Epiphany — Built in 1948 67. "Oh My!" — The tea room/gazebo of Mrs. Nan Cannon Stringfellow 68. Mayview Manor — Built by Walter Alexander in early 1920s and subsequently owned by Thomas Broyhill (closed in the fall of 1966) �Page 214/A VILLAGE TAPESTRY 69. Lloyd M. Tate Memorial Horse Show Grounds — Former location of Mayview Golf Course 70. Moses H. Cone — The "Denim King's" mountain estate, consisting of 3,516 acres, was acquired between 1893 House built in 71. Tweetsie Railroad — Part of the old Eastern Tennessee 72. "Westglow" — Elliott Western North Carolina Line which ran third Blowing 73. Julian Price Memorial Park — 4,200 1899 (Manor Johnson City, Tennesse in 1917 of forest, on the Ridge 74. Camp Yonahlossee — Camp for young girls established by Dr. and Mrs. A.P. Kephart in 1922 75. Camp — Vera Lachmann's 76. for young boys — camp for the physically handicapped in 1948. 77. Sandy Flat School — by Cone in 1904, the 78. Possum Hollow School — This one-room log cabin school 79. Silver'Lake School — Located near where US. 321 Church in 1928 in the 1900s. the Blue Ridge 80. "Greystone" — Home of Robert Myra Mebane, constructed in 1922 81. "Miramichi" — Annie Cannon, constructed in 1927 of Joseph 82. "Far Horizons" — of Cannon Forsyth, 83. Blowing Rock Negro Community Center of the town's Church — 84. Mayview Park Golf Course — Nine holes running in 1948 to First Independent Baptist Church) to 85. Lloyd Tate Stables — "Mr. Horse Show" managed this popular gathering 86. Glen Burney philanthropists of the town's — Donated to the town by Miss Emily Prudden 87. Mayview Gun Rod- Club — Built in 1917 and once managed by the famed wild west cowgirl, Annie Oakley 88. J.E. ' 89. Christian Science Church — in 1955 90. Cameron Morrison Home — Former North Carolina Governor �A An In Its 215 of An in 1927) Work By 1 in the the to to when the a the in a To of in of North the to in the of the by the contact with the of the Indian Rock, is of In the of at her of a grandeur. It is truly wild, peaceful, to the of in a country fall to on the sea. the the old of Italy. the pine the air the the in the is the of The of an the to one of the in all the is to the grandeur,; Did it not the Indian to in a in a beautiful? It is the early Indian, gone from this land, the of in the of the was a rock, thoughtfully the of the a Indian a of to He an of an Indian. Climbing to the tip of the in full of the of an the of old Grandfather, he the of the in a voice It a be for his spirit has gone to a land, but the rock today is as firm as theof the in of his the the and North Carolina, the in his The the of all tribes, the the A of the an beautiful so the in of the he far the to a top (Blowing Rock) left her with her to his a into the wilderness below. The him a cliff, in an in his direction. By by he her a of his Ere the the lovers, day by day the and in while the the fire the day a the saw a sky in the which he to be a of he to the but the cried "No, no!" In he the of the the The to back, but he her not. Then she to the to the to her While she to the Spirit, a of her to to in a has a the the of God's country; a' �216/A "Wauhonhasee" Just at dawn of southern history When North a And the red in From valley To the of The to The country and river by far Traveled undaunted and alone Through valley a Ere to on Nolachucky, Holston, Watauga a But the to his glory? in That the Choctaws, The Creeks, Cherokees Chicasaws to A divine, Tis four-score since their banishment From this land^a of There's a An Indian Who in of Wauhonhasee, of on high, the lofty sky. Wauhonhasee and her mother-squaw Were of the the Of the white man of So he to the "Land of the Sky" left her the sigh, The wildcat slumbering in his lair, The and of the air. But the of Nature, . Her her pleasuref The O'er Wauhonhasee As nefer so happy the gay doe �A VILLAGE TAPESTRY / Page 217 Down the narrows where the streams flow. Then to pause in silent admiration Of God's wonderful creation. And the strong and proud In his home above the clouds. Upon a blissful day in July 'Neath a blue ethereal sky, Wauhonhasee wandered to a craggy rock Far above the pines and hemlock, To view the fair land beneath her When lo! an Indian traveler, Decorated in the brightest wing Sat smoking by a babbling spring. Her eyes sparkled, her heart fluttered, And in her joy she softly muttered With the passing Appalachian breeze Murmuring through the forest trees. Then she lost him cmid the spreading pine Where rhododendron and laurel twine. Up with her bow—a marksmanship rare^ And sent an arrow into the air. Long she waited, waited in vain To see the brave from Indian plain; Long she lingered, lingered in hope, High up on the mountain slope. Then shadows grew dim, dark and gray To warn her of the passing of day. Quickly she bounded through fern and moss Back to mother-squaw stern and cross. In her happiness Wauhonhasee forgot The who heeded her not; So while gathering wildflowers to deck Her braided hair and graceful neck, The Indian brave appeared upon the scene Creeping softly behind the evergreen; There he waited for the charm of night. Waited to pour out his heart's delight. Alas! she scampered away with Fluttering in the balmy breeze To her restful, comforting wigwam And the incense of balsam. Snug and warm she lay in Utopian dream 'Neath her doe-skin fit for a queen While her mother-squaw peacefully lay Dreaming of the plains far away. �Page 218/A Out of the night ?neath a silvery moon Mid the fragrant lily bloom, The sighing winds and mournful pines Come a strange song—something divine. Wauhonhasee quickly to her feet, Listened to the melody low and sweet; Surely it was a message borne On the wings of early morn. Mid dancing, lowering shadows falling, The dove and whippoorwill calling, A willowy, youthful Indian stealing Near the wigwam with friendly feeling. Proudly he in plaintive song Of the Cherokees and warriors strong; His roving far from home and tribe In search of a lovely bride. Wauhonhasee's heart bounded in glee When she called to the Cherokee To partake of her cheerful wigwam, And a blanket comfortably warm. He told her of the brave Creeks in war Of the tribes wandering 'neath a star Toward a land of sorrow and unrest— A land they call "The Far West." Wauhonhasee grew sad and tearful, Her spirit meek and sorrowful. Had her chieftain father left her? Had he gone from her forever? Must she live alone on mountain, Ne'er to return to Indian plain? Must she become the Cherokee's bridge And leave her Chicasaw tribe? Long she waited and watched in vain For the chieftain to come again. Was he lost to his Wauhonhasee, Gone from the plains of Tennessee? With the Cherokee lingering near Driving away all sorrow and fear, Wauhonhasee's spirit back to laughter Clinging to her bold comforter. Then the Cherokee's ardent wooing His sweet and gentle cooing With the wind and distant thunder And a spirit to forever wander, �A VILLAGE TAPESTRY / Page 219 They bounded gayly o'er rock and rill Never weary and never still. Then to craggy cliff—a lovely sightWhere the wind blows day and night. Ere long they saw a flaming red sky That brightened the mountains high. "It is a warning from the Cherokees. I must go—I must go, Wauhonhasee!" Cried the lover desperately. In fear of poor Wauhonhasee He leaped from the cliff down the abyss. Down mid the winds' perpetual hiss. Wauhonhasee cried out in her grief To the Great Spirit for relief. "O wind! blow him back to my heart" She cried and she moaned in the dark. She prayed the night long, prayed faithfully, Ne'er ceasing until dawn beamed brightly And the mist had cleared, the sun did glow Down in that dismal abyss below. Wauhonhasee fell upon bended knee Calling to her noble Cherokee, The Indian spirit of other years To heed her sorrow and her tears. Quick as a flash up come the brave From the deep and unfathomed cave. Then they turned to worship the sun For the blessing they had won. Through wildwood and o'er foaming brook, Through loamy dell and shady nook, Wauhonhasee and her lover roamed that day Then back to the wigwam tired of play. Just when the gray of dawn appeared And before the mist had cleared, A raven moaned and moaned for the dead. Tis a warning the Indians dread. In the gray haze of Indian summer And the flowers gone in number, The maple and dogwood in Autum hue And the mountains in dreary blue, The chieftain of the conquered Chicasaws Wandered back to his child and squaw. In company with Wauhonhasee. �Page 220/A The a as a quick to the on in an Wauhonhasee There to mourn .her Down the silvery current She her lover calling. as the sun a to down in So the the her he her to his Twas a to the at Then down the mountain the Ne'er to wander back The The End �A (Individual/Family) A Abernethy, John Miles, 5 Aldrich, Harrison, 69 Alexander, Mrs. Walter L. (Ernestine), 56, 57, 173 Alexander, Walter L., 29, 56, 57S 73, 99, 101404 Allison, Mrs. WC, 65 Anderson, Tom, 9 Angell, W. Guy, 119423 Arthur, John Preston, 28 Austin, Fred, 44 Autrey, Gene, 183 B Bahney, Major, 3 Baldwin, Pinky, 32 Baldwin, William, 32 Barringer, Osmond, 28 Battle, Mr. Turner, 19 Beard, Ms. Bryce, 150 Beatty, Annie, 94 Beck, Charles G, 131, 170 Beck, Mrs. Charles G, 151 Benefield, Jane, 139 Benefield, Letcher, 44 Bernhardt Family, 159, 160 • Bernhardt, J.M., 160 Berryman, Dr. C.H., 131, 160 Besner, Joseph, 97 Beyers, Bertha, 147 Beyers, Nancy, 147 Bickett, Gov. Thomas W, 44, 147 Bingham, Mr. R., 19 Bisanar, Caroline, 58 Bisanar, Katherine, 58 Bisanar, Mr. &. Mrs. Norman, 58 Blackmer, Sidney, 164 Blackwell, E.J., 94 g, George, 171 g, Renee, 151 Blalock, Keith, 3 Blalock, Mrs. Keith (Malinda), 3 Bolick Family, 2, 177 Bolick, Clarissa, 147 Bolick, Lawrence, 39 Bolick, Mr. and Mrs. Ira, 177 Bolick, Stewart, 39 Bellinger, Martha J., 141 Bellinger, S., 141 Bomie, Annie Smith, 56 Boogher, Elsie 38, 43, 55 Boogher, Ethel, 38, 43, 55 Boone, Jesse, 69 Bowman, Eugene S., 131 Boyd, J.R., 174 Boyd, John, 3 Boyden, Donald J., 96, 164 Boyden, Lucille K., 97, 151 Brady, Mrs., 91 Brkkell, Hershel 117 Brooks, Dr. James E., 30, 146447 Broughton, Governor, 72 Brown, Bill, 170 Brown, Clark, 44 Brown, Kent, 114 Brown, Mr. and Mrs. Jefferson, 66, 139 Brown, Wade, 32, 176 Broyhill, Ethel, 76 Btoyhill, Gordon, 75 Broyhill, Isaac, 75 Broyhill, Isaac Jefferson, 75 Broyhill, James, 77 Broyhill, James (Ed), 75-78 Broyhill, John, 75, 184 Broyhill, Lillie, 76 Broyhill, Mary, 75 Broyhill, Mrs. Isaac (Margaret Parsons), 75 Broyhill, Mrs. James Edgar (Satie), 76-78 Broyhill, Mrs. Thomas (Mae Powell), 76, 78 Broyhill, Myrtle, 75 Broyhill, Otis, 76 Broyhill, Paul, 77 Broyhill, Ted, 76 Broyhill, Thomas Hamilton, 75-77, 104, 136 Broyhill, William, 75 Bryant Family, 109 Buchanon, Rev. G. Sexton, 133 Buckley, William, 73 Buist, Mrs., 18 Bunce, Betsy, 151 Burns, Ethel Holshouser, 29, 38 Busky, Mrs. Leonard, 151 Buxton, Carrie Miller, 28-29 Bynum, Judge J. Grey, 92 Byrd, Sen. Harry E, 161 Cannon, Charles A., 70-72, 151, 153 Cannon, J.W., 70-71, 134 Cannon, Joseph Franklin, 71, 104, 134 Cannon, Jr., Charles A., 71 Cannon, Martin L., 170 Cannon, Mary, 164 Cannon, Mary Ruth, 71 Cannon, Mariam Winslow (See Hayes, Mrs. Robert) Cannon, Mrs. Charles A. (Ruth Coltrane), 71-72 Cannon, Mrs. Joseph F. (Annie Ludlow), 71, 131, 133435, 173, 179 Cannon, Mrs. Stuart, '38 Cannon, William Contrane, 71 Carter Family, 41, 113 Carter, Dr. Charles, 10, 18, 41, 113, 145, 148 Carter, Mrs. Charles (Mary Nelson), 18, 37, 41, 113, 128, 139, 145 Cash, Johnny, 181 Castle, W.B., 173 Chadbourne, Mrs. Gertrude, 148 Chapman, Milton M., 77, 104, 172 Chatham, Mr., 166 Church Family, 59 Church, Ben, 59 Church, Iva, 59 Church, James Luther, 59 Church, Luther, 53-54 Church, Mrs. Ben (Neola), 59 Church, Winston, 180 Ciapp, Rev. J.C., 140 Clarke, Joseph B., 3-4, 1042, 1445, 17, 21, 27, 37, 66, 91 Clement, Hayden, 164 Cobb, Major, 98 Coffey, Family, 2 Coffey Family, Reuben, 2 Coffey, Austin, 3 Coffey, DP., 30, 45, 117418,440, 166467 Coffey, Filmore, 11 Coffey, Frank, 183-184 Coffey, Glenn, 39 Coffey, Helen, 38 Coffey, Lawrence, 29 Coffey, Lum, 167 Coffey, Mabel, 38 Coffey, Mrs. D.P., 167 Coffey, Mrs. T.R, 128 Coffey, Mrs. Thomas, 173 221 Coffey, Rhonda L., 174 Coffey, Sue,' 172 Coffey, T.J., 28 Coffey, Thomas H., 29, 37, 45 Coffey, Tom, 28, 31, 95-96, 159, 173 Cone Family, 18, 29 Cone, Ceasar, 66 Cone, Herman, 66, 151, 153 Cone, Laura, 153 Cone, Moses, H, 18, 35, 41, 66-67, 70, 96, 116, 137 Cone, Mrs. Herman (Helen Guggenheimer), 66 Cone,.Mrs. Julius, 131 Cone, Mrs. Moses H., (Bertha Lindau), 18, 41, 43, 66-67, 116, 118, 137, 153, 176 Cone, Sr., Benjamin, 70 Cook, Niley, 44 Coolidge, Calvin, 99 Cooper, Harry, 29 Cordon, Norman, 151 Corpening, I.N., 10, 91 Councill, Dr. W.B., 20 Councill, James, 110 Councill, Mr., 166 Councill, Mrs. Ben (Blanche Hagaman), 110 Councill, Tracy, 110 Courtney, Rev. Ward, 178 Cox, Melvin, 44 Craig, David J., 40 Craig, Robert 166 Craig, T, 166 Craig, Will, 97 Crisp, Annie Lee, 38 Crisp, Bynum, 39 Crump, Hermon, 44 Culbreth, Marvin, 178 D Daingerfield Family, 29 Daingerfield, Archie, 60 Daingerfield, Capt. John E.P., 60 Daingerfield, Elliott, 16, 41-42, 55, 60-66, 74, 95, 139 Daingerfield, Gwendolyn, 61, 63-64 Daingerfield, Marjorie, 55, 61, 63-65 Daingerfield, Mathilda Wickham, DeBraa, 60 Daingerfield, Mrs. Elliott (Anna), 61-64 Daingerfield, Mrs. Elliott (Roberta) 60-61 Daniels, Josephus, 67, 96 Daniels, Jr., Mrs. Josephus, 96 Daniels, Judge &. Mrs. Frank, 96 Daniels, Mrs. Josephus, 96 Davant, Jr., Dr. Charles, 119423, 152455 Davant, Jr., Mrs. Charles (Harriet), 152 Davidson, Dr. Chalmers, 53, 55, 96 Davidson, Mrs. Zeb Vance (Kate Gaston), 96 Davidson, Zeb Vance, 96 Davis, Agnes, 163 Davis, Elsie, 163 Davis, George, 89 Deal, Mr., 166 DeLouche, Benjamin, 163 Dougherty, Blanford Barnard, 110, 113, 116, 161 Doughton, Rep. Robert (Farmer Bob), 70, 78 Dowdey, Clifford, 117 Downs, Charles, 44 Drentine, Howard, 39 Driscoll, Charles B., 117 Dugger, Shepherd M., 35 Duke, J.P., 74 Dula, Clyde, 173 Dunn, Rev. Dr. R.A., 179 DuPont Family, 73 DuPont Major, 44 �Page 222/A Graver, Dr. Gwinn, Miss, 19 Gwyn, Hugh, 97 Gwyn, Rufus, 36 J.A., 139 Edmisten, Mrs. John, 139 Ross, 44 Edmondson Family, 16 Edwards, Col. Ogden, 16, 41 Mrs. Ogden, 16, 18 Dwight, 78 Elrod, Ronald, 184 Family, 2, 53, 54 L.W. "Len" 4, 53, 89 Estes, Lot, 2, 53 Mrs. Lot (Chancy Greene), 53 Faulkner, William, 71 Felix, Douglas, 172 Fenner, Anna Baker, 151 J.G., 89, 91, 95 Firestone, Raymond, 73 61 G.N., 91 Ford, Forsyth, Mrs. Anne Cannon, 65, 121, 153 30, 57 Fox, Jr., John, -110 French, Judge Robert Strange, 60 French, May 63 151 94, 97 Gage, Judge George W., 41, 56 Galloway, Family, Gaston, 98 Garrison, Billy, 58 Garrison, Lee, 58 Garrison, 58 W.B., 58 Gilbert, Annie, 72 Golden, Harry, 71 Goldwater, Barry, 78 Goodin, Gail, 151 Goodwin, John, 174 Gore, R.H., 136 Gortner, Mrs. W.A. 77 Cover, Gertrude, 163 Gragg, John Walt, 41 Gragg, Lula, 139 W.R., 33 Graham, Billy, 181 Kaye, 61 Granville, Earl, 1 Gray, Col R, 89, 91, 96, 164 Green, Stanley, 98 2, 53, 98, 109, 127, 177 Greene, Amos, 2, 4, 89 Annie, 38 Greene, Benjamin, 2, 53 Greene, Chancy, 2 Greene, Clarence, 39 Greene, Claud, 39 Greene, David, 123 Greene, Donald, 39 Greene, 2 Greene, Emma, 139 2 Greene, Joseph, 2 Greene, Mr. and Mrs. J.E., 139 Greene, Mrs. 38 Greene, N.C., 96 Greene, Paul, 38 Greene, Richard, 127 Greene, Robert, 31 Greene, Spencer, 39 Gregg, Mrs. 167 Osgood, 117 H Hall, John 20 Hamrick, Jr., Rush, 104 Earl, 99 Paul, 137 Harper, G.WE, 9 Harper, George Washington Finley, 91, 97 Harper, 2 Harper, James C., 2, 9 Harper, Jr., Gwyn, 96, 132 9, 92 Harper, Miss, 19 Harper, Mr., 19 Harper, Mrs., 19 Harper, S.F., 9 Harper, Sr., EG., 170 Harris, 153 Joe, 181 Hayes, Family, 2 38 H.C, 29-31, 43 Hayes, J. Lee, 63 Mrs, Cannon), 71-73 Hayes, Sheriff, 12 Hayworth, E., 77, 104 9, 166 C.V., 27, 40, 98 Jr., C.V., 170 LR, 27, 40 Henley Family, 109 Hewie, Governor Clyde, 72 Hill, 150 Hill, Mrs. James, 148 Hodges, Gov. Luther M., 183, 184 J.M., 139 139 Hodgkins, Mr. Mrs. T.E., 176 Hollars, 75 Hollo way, Mr., 44 Holshouser Family, 5 Holshouser, Holshouser, Holshouser, Holshouser, Holshouser, 141 Howard P., 27, 29, 31, 154 James, 141 Jane, 28 Lunce, 17 Malcolm, 44 Mrs. W.L., 38 Holshouser, W.L "Will", 17, 39, 45 Holt Family, 56 Ed, 92 Hoover, Herbert, 99 Bob, 181 Horner, J.M., 56 Horton, Ralph, 136 Family, 18 Hunt, 76 Hutchison, Crete, 99 Hyler, Rev. 140 I Icenhour, Louise, 38 Ickes, 161, 172 Ildefonse, Father, 136 Ingle, Mary A., 141 Ingle, Rev. John, 128, 140 Ingle, Thorton, 11, 43 Inness, George, 60 2 Ivey, J.B., 162 J 111412 Jenkins, B.K., 39 Jenkins, L.L., 166 Johnson, Carrie R, 154 Johnson, David, 169 Johnson, Lillian, 38 Johnson, Mary, 169 Johnson, May, 169 Jones, Chris, 58 Jones, Frank, 164 Jones, Freta Anne, 58 Jones, Mr. and Mrs. Hubert, 58 58 ' K ST., 7 Kent, Sir Edward, 74 Kenworthy, Dr., 89 Dr. and Mrs. AJP., 173, 175476 Kephart, Horace, 127 Lt. Wm. Perry, 173 Ken-, 89 Mrs. W.K., 173 Keys, Rev. K., 133, 162, King, John, 89, 96 King, Mrs. John, 90 Kipp, Fred, Kirk, Col. George, 3 Klutz, Jacob, Paul, 31, 44 Krasovic, Tony, 186 Lachmann, Dr. Vera, 176478 Lamour, Dorothy, 167 186 Lazaron, Dr. Morris, 138, 140 Lee, General Robert E., 60 Lenoir, William A., 66 Lentz, G., 39 Lentz, John, 114 Lentz, Mary L., 141 Lentz, Mrs. Exie, 139 Lentz, Mrs. S.R., 141 Lentz, 39 Linney, Frank A,, 32 Linney, Romulus Zacharia, 35-36 Long, 20 Ludlow, Dr. Jacob Lot, 134 Ludlow, Myra, 134 Lupton, J.T., 57 M J., 182 MacKay, Mrs. William, 60 MacRae Family, 36 Donald, 7 MacRae, Hugh, 7, 36, 179, 181 Martin Family, 4 H.C, 11, 1445, 27, 93-94 Martin, Maye B., 66 Mrs. H.C. 91, Mrs. Hal, 172 Martin, William J,, 131 120 Joseph, 163 Mays, Fred, 39 McDonald, 181 120 McKinnon, Mrs., 19 McLean, Professor, 19 T. 183 Mebane, Jr., Mrs. Robert (Frances), 73 Mebane, Jr., S., 73 Mrs. S. 31, 73-75, 170 Mebane, Randy, 73 • �A Mrs. S. 31, 73-75, 170 Randy, 73 Mebane, Robert Sloane, 73*75 A.E., 95 Michaux, Andre, 179 Mildred the Bear, Miller Family, 2, 5 Miller, Charles, 177478 : H.E, 14 32 111 99, 117 Moak, CA, 172 Moody, A.C., 160 Moore, Governor, 72 Dr. 34, Morley, W., 42 4 Morris, 167 Morris, M., 4, 10, 31, 89, 91, 131 Morrison, Govenor Cameron, 74, 104, 147 Morton, Hugh, 36, 179481 Morton, Julian W., 179 Mrs. Julian W. 179, 181 163 175 Murfree, Mary Noailles, 110 N Neal, Margaret Tufts, 163 Newnham, Fred, 43 Nixon, Richard, 78 Norwell, Etta Gregorie, 90 Norwood, Joseph C., 66 O O'Neal, Marie Jean, 19 Oakley, Annie, 73, 104 Olds, Fred, 31 65, 73, 131432, 151453, J.A., 31 Panuch, J. Anthony, 151, 153 Parker, Duncan T, 54 A.W., 91 Dr. Calvin J., 17, 27, 146, 149 • John, 181 150 Patterson, Rufus L., 40 Rev. J.M., 130 Pearson, Maury, 163 Pekon, H.W., 99 Walter, 44 Fred, 173 Mrs. W.R, Mrs. Artie, 139 Dr., 149 Pfister, Mr., 61 Phillips, Bishop Henry, 151, 153 Phillips, M.S., 167 Pinchot, Gifford, 67 Pitts, Ed, 39 Pitts, Mrs. 137 Pitts, Rev. 137 Pope, Charley, 20 Presswood, Ivfc, 93 Prevette, C.S., 160 Price, Joseph, J., 68 Price, Julian, 68-70, 75 70 Mrs, J. 68 70 31 Proffitt, Frank, 34 Prudden, Emily C, 16, 110412, 123,' 128 Q Queen Elizabeth II, 64 E Ms., 19 Raft, George, 167 Rainey, Jack, 173 Randall, W.C., 43 Ransom, Esther, 137 Ransom, Senator Matt, 4 78 Dr. C, Lena, 43, 145, 172 Reeves, Mrs. Letcher C Council!), 145 Reeves, Ruth, 145 Reid, Rebecca, 91 Ed, 16, 30, 130, 137, 140, 146 GX, 160 43 Jr., 185, 187 C, 173, 187 Robbins, Lloyd, 172, 186 Robbins, Mrs. Ed (Sophronia "Granny"), 146, 154 Sr., Grover C, 30, 32, 43, 77, 93, 131, 152, 169, 171, 173474 Robbins, Sr., Mrs. Grover (Lena Miller), 31, 38 Jr., AX, 164 Robinson, 28 Rockefeller, John D., 167 Jr., John D, 99 Rollins, Maj. WW1, 3 Roosevelt, Eleanor, 99 Roosevelt, Franklin, 160-161 Theodore, 54, 139 Ross, L, 39 Dr. 141 Rumple, Miss, 19 Rumple, Rev. Dr. Jethro, 16, 89, 170 Walter, 60 Rev. 17, 37, 42-45, Bob, 175 Schenck, Maj. Henry Franklin, 16, 89 Schenck, Sr., John E, 4, 16 Seitz, Rev. Thomas, 139 Sharp, Jack R, 178479 Shelton, Thomas, 75 WW. 4, 89 Sr., Abel A., 141 Sr., Mr. and Mrs. L., 141 Shuford, 28 Simmeril, Bill, 92 Sims, Hamp, 69 Smith, Arthur, 180 Smith, 166 Smith, Captain Harvey, 53 Smith, Ed, 136 Smith, 180 Snyder, Christine, 58 Snyder, Elizabeth 58 Snyder, George, 58 Snyder, George William, 57 Snyder, 58 131, 170 Snyder, Jr., 58 Snyder, Luke, 58 Snyder, Luther, 58 Snyder, Martha Woodward, 57 Snyder, Mr, &. Mrs. George, 58 » Mrs. L. (Alfreta), 57-59 * Mrs. L. (Mrs. WC. 59 58 Snyder, Virginia, 58 Sommer, Prof. Mrs. Clemens, 176 Span, Fred, 177 223 Spangenberg, August Gottlieb, 1 Spence, Professor H.E., 134435, 138 Steele, Robert, 76 Stevenson, Governor Adelai, 72 Mrs. Broyhill, 77-78 Mrs. M., 91, 128, 131 Stoneman, Gen. George, 3 Storie Family, 2 Storie, James, 120 Story, Grayson, 39 Story, Mrs. I.E., 38. Stowe, 19 18, 29, 41-42, 54-55 Dr. 54-55 Stringfellow, Mrs. Green), 54 Stringfellow, Mrs. Hemphill, 96 Stringfellow, Mrs. Wm. (Nan Cannon), 94 Stringfellow, Mrs. Wm. (Susie Parker), 18, 38, 43, 54-56, 139 W, 4,18, 44, 54-57, 62, 64, 139 Herbert, 94 Stuart, Jeb, 153 Bull, 69 M., 17, 27, 34, 37, 42, 44, 93, 169 Sudderth, Jim, 16 Sullivan, Ed, 127 Dorothy Henkel, 72-75, 92, 104 Lloyd, 104 11 •Sylvia, Vickie, T Taft, Bob, 78 Tate, Lloyd, 93, 164 Taylor, Mr., 166 167 Claude, 44 Teague, Hal, 167 league, Mrs., 38 Teague, Russell, 44 Tester, G.E., 160 Bill, LW, 41 J.W., 110, 139 Thomason, 140-141 Thurman, Miss, 166 Todd, Captain J.W., 92 Trexler, D.F., 141 Trexler, Mary, 141 Tufts, Rev. 132, 162 U Ulric, Lenore, 164 Umstead, R, 180 Vance, Governor Zeb, 53 132, Vance, Rev. Dr. L, 132, 147, 163, 179 132 Vannoy, Letcher, 44 Vardell Family, 73 Vardell, Rev. Dr. Charles G, 163, 179 Ruth, 94, 97 W Miss, 19 138 Mrs. W.H., Hank, 39 44 Dr. Mary Jesse, 141 Mr., 93 138 154, 172 �Page 224/A Watts, Mr., 93 Weaver, A.G.-, 170 Webb, Pearle, 38 Webster, Frank W, 172473 Weedon Family, 4 Weedon, H.W, 11, 15, 27, 32 Weems, Sam, 70 Westmoreland, Gen., 175 Wheatley, Miss, 166 Wherry, Ken, 78 Whitener, Dr. W.G., 120 Whiting, William S., 69 Whitney, Jock, 73 Wiliams, Col. L.S., 91, 95 Williams, Gratis, 109 Williams, Jim, 94 Williams, Mary Louise, 38 Williams, Mr., 93 Williams, Taylor, 97 Williams, Willie, 97 Wilson, Mrs. Woodrow, 72, 171 Winkler, J.A., 154 Winkler, J.H., 45 Winkler, W.L., 175 Wolfe, Thomas, 177 Wood, Alice, 17, 37, 93 Wood, Dale, 69 Wood, Harold, 69 Wood, Leroy, 69 Wood, Mrs. Leroy (Rosie), 69 Woodward, Miss, 19 Wooten, D.W, 32 Wrag, John A., 68 (Subject) Accreditation, 121 Aho School, 119 Allied Church League, 130 American Legion Building, 173 American Legion Post 256, 173 Annexation, 117419 Appalachian Forest Reserve, 35-36 Appalachian High School, 122 Appalachian Motel, Map #55 Appalachian Ski Mountain, 187 Appalachian State Teacher's College, 110 Appalachian State University, 76, 78, 110, 161, 186 Appalachian Training School, 76, 116 Apple Orchards, Cone Estate, 67 Ash Bear Pen Knob, 69 Auto Transfer Co., 28 Automobiles, 28-29 B Baby Clinic, 149450 Bank Closings, 160 Bank of Blowing Rock, 27, 146, 160 Banner Elk Presbyterian Church, 132 Baptist Church, 16, 37, 45 Baptists, 127428 Bark, The, 166, Map #57 Barked Inn, The, 172 Battery E, 113th Field Artillery, 44 Beaver Dam, 34-35 Beech Mountain, 187 Bellview Cottage, 91 Bernhardt Business Interests, 7 Berriman's Drug Store Map #29 Bethel High School, 122 Betterment Society, 92 Bird Sanctuaries, 147 Black Churches, 130431 Black Community, 59, 72, 130431 Black Population, 20, 45 Black Teachers, 110, 116 Blowing Rock Art Association, 65 Blowing Rock Art Show, 64-65 Blowing Rock Assembly Grounds, 18, 140-141 Blowing Rock Bank, 17, 30, Map #24 Blowing Rock Boy Scouts, 55 Blowing Rock Charity Horse Show, 19, 38, 59, 63, 72, 97, 104, 135, 165466 Blowing Rock Civic Improvement league, 55 Blowing Rock Clinic, 150452 Blowing Rock Colored Church Project, 131 Blowing Rock Comm &L Sch Library, 38 Blowing Rock Community Carnival, 59 Blowing Rock Community Center, 59-60 Blowing Rock Country Club, 41, 60, 67, 72, 75, 151, 170472 Blowing Rock Development Co., 40, 93-94, 104 Blowing Rock Elementary School, 121, 123 Blowing Rock Episcopal Church, 55, 128 Blowing Rock Exchange, 43, 55 Map #39 Blowing Rock Flower Show, 59 Blowing Rock Garden Club, 178 Blowing Rock Golf Course, 78, 94 Blowing Rock High School, 117, 120422, Map #12 Blowing Rock Hospital, 152 Blowing Rock Hotel, 3, 7, 10, 1649, 89-92, 94-97, 164, 166, Map #1 Blowing Rock Hotel Livery Stables, 16 Blowing Rock Ice House, Map #23 Blowing Rock Masonic Lodge 458, 36-37 Blowing Rock Medical Clinic, 155456, 162, 187 Blowing Rock Methodist Church, 59, 138 Blowing Rock Negro Community Church, 131, Map #83 Blowing Rock Park, 173 Blowing Rock Rotary Club, 152, 178 Blowing Rock School, 114, 119, 149 Blowing Rock School Betterment Assn., 55 Blowing Rock School of English, 117 Blowing Rock Ski Corporation, 187 Blowing Rock Ski Lodge, 185-187 Blowing Rock Ski Slopes, 185-187 Blowing Rock Village School District, 114, 116 Blowing Rock, The, 9, 100401, 159460, Map #48 Blue Ridge, 36 Blue Ridge Parkway, 70, 161462, 171 Boarding Houses, 94-96 Bond Issues, 29-30, 173 Bond Referendum, 122 Boone Fork Institute, 38 Boone Fork River, 69 Boone Fork School, 119 Boone Fork Trail, 70 Boone-Blowing Rock Turnpike, 28, 30 Bootblacks (Gryder's Shoe Shop) Map #36 Boxwood Motel, 38 Boy Scouts, 38, 60, 160, 173 Boyden House, 2 Brady Boarding House 90, 44-95 Bridal Veil Falls, 28 Broyhill Business Interests, 7 Broyhill Chapel, 140 Broyhill Home (J.E.) Map #88 Building Codes, 30 Bundles for Britain, 172 Bus Service, 28-29 Buxton Road, Map #56 Caldwell &L Watauga Turnpike, 27 Calvinism, 127 Camp Catawba, 177-178, Map #75 Camp Cherokee, 176 Camp Fire Girls, 38 Camp Life, 175-179 Camp Sky Ranch, 135, 178479, Map #76 Camp Yonahlossee, 173, 175477, Map #74 Camp-Meeting, 127 Campfire Girls, 55 Cannon Home fl.W), Map #58 Cannon Memorial Hospital, Chas. A., 72 Cannon Mills, 70-71 Cannon Textile Industry, 134 Carolina &. Northwestern Railroad, 9, 183 Carolina Mountains, 42 Carolina Theatre, 167 Carter Memorial Library, Mary Nelson, 37 Cathcart's Cottage, 9 Catholic Community, 136 Catholics, 127 Census, 3, 11, 13, 20-21, 160, 172 Chamber of Commerce, 27, 60, 160, 171473, 177 Chamber of Commerce Office, First, Map #32 Charlotte Festival Singers, 163 Chateau Cloud Condominiums, 110 Chestnut Blight, 36 Chestnut Restaurant, 186 Chestnut Siding, 4 Chetola, 2, 4, 5, 18, 43, 53-60, 115, 139, Map #14 Child Evangelism Fellowship, 134 Children's Education, 18 China Orchard, Cone Estate, 67 Christian Science Church, 136, Map #89 Christian Science Community, 436 Christian Science Reading Room, 136 Christian Scientists, 138 Church of God, 137, Map #65 Church of the Epiphany, 136, Map #66 Church of the Holy Spirit, 55, 138, Map #10 Church, First, 140 Cicero Miller's Store, 96 Circuit-Riding Preachers, 128 Civic Groups and Clubs, 36-38 Civil Rights Movement, 130-131 Civil War, 3, 11, 89, 109 Civilian Conservation Corps., 36 Clark Prize, 139 Clarke Home Site 0oseph), Map #37 Clarke Property, Joseph, 17 Cleveland Cotton Mills, 16 Cloudland Cafe (J.C Ford), 159, Map #60 Coca-Cola, 57-59 Coffey Hotel, 29 Coffey's Barber Shop (Henry), 17 Coffey's Grocery (D.P.), Map #59 Coffey's Mercantile Company, 17 Committee to Save Grandfather, 36 Community Club, 31, 37-38, 59-60, 72, 134 Cone Estate, Moses H., 18, 20, 38, 43, 58, 66-68, 70, 93, 118, 132, 137, 161,. 178, Map #70 Cone Hill, 9 Cone Lake, 2 Cone Memorial Hospital, Moses H., 67-68 Cone Memorial Park, Moses H., 67-68 Confederate Veterans Association, 91 Consolidation of Schools, 121-123 Cook's Place, 9 Cool Springs School, 110, 114, 119. Cordon's Home, 16 Cottagers, 4, 5, 1648, 38,41, 93, 164, 167, 169470, 174 Cotton Mill, 2 Council's Store, 2 County Teachers' Institute, 116 Cove Creek High School, 122 Craig's Grocery Store, 17, 46, 73,92-93, 146, Map #11 Cranberry Coal &L Iron Co., 170 Cranberry Iron Mines, 6 Curtis' Boarding House, 7 �A D Art School, 41-42 Daniel Boone Trail, 53 . ,. ; Davant Home (Dr. Charles, Jr.), Map #17 Hill (C.V. Map f 61 First, 12? . . . - ; . -.• Debating Society, 36-37 145 Early Education, 109-113 East Tenn. & No. Car. RR, 6, 100, 170, 183 Echo Park, 136 Ed's Cafe, 29 Edgar Tufts Memorial Association, 72-73 61, Map #18 Education System, Public, 113417 Electricity, 29, 92 Environmental habitat, 181 Episcopal Church, 17 Episcopal Church and Room, 17, 31, 36 Episcopal Church, New, 56 Episcopal Mission, 139 Episcopalians, 128 House, 18, 54, 94-95 Extended Care Center, Dr. C. Davant, 156 Fairview Hotel, 89, 90, 94 Family, First, 127 Far Horizons, (Anne Cnnon Forsyth), Map #82 House, 94 Farm House Singers, 136 Farmer's Alliance, 14 Farmers, 1345, 20 Fencing, 14-15 Film Premiere, 167468 Fire in the 50's, 27 Fire of 1923, 16, 31, 37 Fire (Old), Map #41 Fire Warden, 118 First Church, 130, 139440, Map #7 First Independent Baptist Church, 131 First Union Bank, 17 Flat Top Church, 110 Flat Top Manor House, 18, 66-67, 118 Flat Top Mountain, 66 Flat Top School, 110, 113 Flood of 1916, 29, 33, 43-44, 71 of 1940, 169, 183 Food Suplies, 5 Forest Fires, 34 Forest Preservation, 35-36 Forestry Laws, 35 Fort Rollins, 3 Fourth of July, 39 Fox Hunting, 164 Franciscan Fathers, 136 Freewill Church, 137 French-Swiss Ski College, 187 Furniture Industry, 7 Gathering of the Scottish Clans, 181-182 Giant Lumber Co., 32-33 Glen Falls, 100, Map #86 Globe 113 Globe Lumber Co., 32 Globe Telephone Co., 29 Golf, 78, 170 Bible Goodwin Guild Weavers, 174, Map #26 Grace Colony, 135 27, 94 Day, 151, 162463 Grandfather Home for Children, 72-73, 132-134, 162 3, 42, 70, 101, Grandfather Orphange, 162463 Grandin Lumber Company, 20,' 32-33, 44 Library, 1647, 37-38, 45 Library, First, 113, 145 First 128, 139 Linville Improvement Company, 6, 36, 179 Linville Land, Mfg., &. Mining Co., 6 Linville 180 Linville Railroad, 6 Literary Fund, 109 Livestock, 2, 13, 15 Local Tirade Routes, 2 Lone Scouts, 38 Lonesome Pine Trail, 72, 147 Lost Cove, 32 Lumber Camps, 32 Industry, 6-7, 20, 32-36, 44 Lutheran Church, 149 Lynn Nisbet Awards, 182 Great Smoky Mountains, 36 Great Smoky Mountain Nat'l Park, 161 Green Cottage, 117 Hill, Map #53 Park, 71-72, 91, 93, 127 Green Park ^Norwood Golf Course, 101, 170, 173, Map #45 Casino, 166 Green Park Company, 91 Green Park Hotel, 2, 7, 10, 1849, 27, 29, 40, 43-44, 64, 70-72, 78, 104, 117, 130, 151, Map #44 Park 19, Map #52 Green Park, Town of, 11, 19, 30, 43 Greerfs Store, 46 Property, Amos, 4 Greystone Towers (The Mebanes), 73-75, Map #80 Gurney Ridge trail, 72 Gypsies, 38 H Hack Line, 6 M Madonna of the Hills, 62, 139 Magic Mountain, 184 Mail, 28 1647, 30-31 Martin Cottage, 94 Martin Drug Store, 31 4, 16, 27, 117, Map #6 Masonic Lodge, 36-37 Masons, 37 Mayor, First, 11 Course, 104, 164 Gun and Rod Club, 73, 103, 114, Map #87 Mayview Lake, 77, Map #28 Mayview Plant, 169 31, 36, 70, 72-74, 77, 96, 136, 151, 162, 164, 172, Map #68 Mayview Park, 16, 29-30, 56, 63, 71-73, 134, Mayview Golf Course, Rock, 100 Mayview Water Works, 29 Medical Care After 1950, • General Store, 17 Harper Business Interests, 7 Harper Home (Major), 2-3, #63 4, 16, 89 General Store, 31, 92 Hayes House, 16, Map #31 : Laws, 147 Colony, 135 and Co., 6-7, 9, 16 Hetola, 58 182 Hob-Nob Tea Room, 96 Hog Wild, 2 13 Care 146-147 Care Between 1930-1950, 148-152 Men's Club, 3 6 - 3 7 - 1748, 28-29, 31, 46, Map . #2 Holshouser Home (W.L), Map #30 Horse Show Grounds, Lloyd M. late, 18, 141, Map #50 Hymn to Miramichi, 134 I Ice House, 5, 54 Incorporation, 10 Indians, 1, 59 164 J ' "'• J.L. Snyder Trophy, 59 Jail Map #41 Jefferson Standard Life Ins. Co., 68-70 Jenkins Realty Company, 16 John's River Gorge-, 101, 135 K Katty Klub, 38. Ku Klux 45 Law Enforcement League, 45, 130 72 Lenoir Chair Company, 77 Lenoir Furniture Company, 77 Lenoir-Blowing Rock Turnpike, 2, 6-7, 27, 30, 32, 34, 43, 98 Lentz Company Store, 16 Lentz School, 114 Lerada (Col. & Mrs. Ogden Edwards), #38 225 ' 20-21 Church, 16, 136, 138, -149, Map #9 Methodist Episcopal Church South, 138 . Metropolitan 132, 163 Fork School, 119 Mildred the Bear (See Individual/Family Index) General 16, &L Annie Cannon), 134-135, Map #81 Mission House, 113 Mission House & Reading Room, 37, 42 18, 37» 113, 145 Missionary Movement, 110413 Montaldo's, 151 Moody Furniture, Map #42 Moore House, 91 Morality, 44-46 Moravians, 1 Morris, House, 89 School 128 Morris, W.M., Store-House, 10 Morrison Home (Cameron), #90 18, 36, 113, Mount Cemetery, 111 Mount German Church, 2, 18, 127, 141, Map #49 Mount School, 18 Mountain Farms, 13 Moving Pictures, 39, 117, 167 • . ' Mulberry Valley, 9 . �Page 226/A N Park 36, 68, 70, 101, 137 Crafts, 43 Natives, 41-43, 164, 167 Nelson's 7 New River Power & Light, 169 New Inn, 96 Nickajack Trail, 1 North Carolina Sketches, 41, 113 North 175 Nowelfs Boarding House, 17 o Odd Fellows' Lodge, 36 Oh My! 94, Map #67 Old School, 114, Map #22 Ordinances, Town, 1143, 15, 30-32, 45 Outhouses, 5, 30 & Commission, 173 Peoples* Cabinet Shop, 16 31 Pineacres (David Ovens), 151, Map #51 Crest, 73 Pioneer 2 Pioneer Life, 2 Pitts' 16 Police, 31-32 Hollow School, 114, Map #78 Post 31 Post Office, Original, Map #40 Era, 89 Presbyterian Mission Church, 131 Presbyterians, 127-128 32, Map #73 Privy Inspection Committee, 30 1143, 32, 45, 130, 166 127 Pupil-Teacher Ratios, 119 R R&G Co., 174 Rabey's Drug Store, 17 Garden Inn, Map #16 6-9, 27, 170 Randall Memorial Building, 36-37 Memorial Craft Center, 139 Memorial Workshop, 43 Red Cross, 44, 55, 60, 173 17, 45-46, Map #3 House, 2, 17, 31, 146, Map #3 1900, 127429 Religious Life, 127-141 128, 130 Revolutionary War, 2 Rhododendron, Inn, 96 Rich Mountain, 66 Ritter Lumber Company, 6, 32 1-2, 6-7, 9, 27-32, 56, 92-94, 98, 100, 161, 172 (Ed), 16, Map #35 Robbins Home (Grover, C, St.), Map #27 184 Rumple Memorial Presbyterian Church, 16, 18, 44, 130434, 150451, 462463, 172, Map #13 S.A.L. 7 Sandy Flat School, 44, 113,- 116, Map #77 Flat Church, 137, 140 30, 93, Sawmill Orchard, Cone Estate, 67 Schenck House (Maj. Henry Franklin), 16, Map #43 Scholarships, 121 29, 116 School Law of 1839, 109 109 Seaboard Air Line, 7 System, 30 Shenandoah Park, 161 Shuford Building, 141 Map #64 Mill, 32, 33-35 Mill Plant, 169 30 Silver Lake, 4-5, 53-54 Lake 114, 116, Map #79 Sims Creek, 69 Place, 69 69 Singing on the Mountain, 181 Sir Cup, 64 House, 19 Inn, 172, Map #46 Skyland Institute, 11, 13, 16, 94, 110413, 123, 128, 130, 137, Map #47 Skyland School, 18 Slavery, 3 Smallpox Scare, 45 Smith's Store, 93 Life, 17-20, 38-39, 58-59, 63-64, 72-74, 166, 170471 Sonny's Grill, 17 Nat'l. Park, 36 Southern Bell, 29 Southern Railway, 33, 100 • Camp, 38 Spencer Home, 17 39 Spring Houses, 5 St. John's Valley, 9 St. Mary's of the Church, 61-62, 64-65, 138439, 178, Map #21 of Education, 120 Laws, 1445 Rock, 180 Storie's Carpet Shop, 16 Storie's Soda Shop, Map #25 43, 55 Stuart Boarding House, 90, 94 Subscription-Based Schools, 109 • Sullivan Grave (Ed), Map #54 Summer Home, First, 2 4-5, 38, 41, 164 Summerville (James Harper), 1 Sunday School, First, 113, 128 Inn, #15 Superintendent of Public Welfare, 117 Superintendent of Schools, 110, 116, 119420 P. Church, 56, 62 Suspension Bridge, Grandfather, 180 11 Tate Map #85 Tax Collection, 31-32 Taxation Without Representation, 117-119 Telephones, 29 Television, 174 Day Rally, 167 The Offering, 65 Third N. Carolina Mounted Infantry, 3 Tijuana Fats 16 Tin Top, 131, Map #62 • Toll 7 Tourism, 93, 159460, 167, 173 Tourist Economy, 13-14, 28 Tourist Information Center, 159 Tourists, First, 89 Cabin, 147 Town Hall Map #32 Town Hall (Old), Map #41 31-32 Town Park, 96 Trail of the Bear, 179 Transportation, 6-7 Trout Lake Dam, 43 Club, 38 Tweetsie Palace, 184 6, 169470, 183484, Map #71 Twinola, 58 U US 221, 7 Utilities, 29 V Valle Crucis Mission, 138 Valle Crucis Mission School, 128 Valley View Trail, 100 Vannoy 17 Visitors, Firs, Volunteer Fire Deprtment, 16, 31 W 1 153, Map #8 Ward House, 91 (Dr. Mary), Map #34 154, Map #20 Academy, 110, 113, 116, 161 116417, 119422 Watauga County Home, 55 Democratic Executive Comm,, 120 Watauga Gap, 3 Grill, 173 High 122 Hotel, 7, 10, 16, 18, 61, 95, 146, Map #4 Inn, 31, 92, 146, 159, 173, Map #4 Inn 95-96 Watauga Masonic Lodge 273, 37 Mission, 128, 140 & 5, 90, 92, 101 • Watts' Shoe Shop, 16 Weedon Home, 16 94 Weedon-Clarke Dispute, 15 5 Western North Carolina Railroad, 6 Westglow (Elliott Daingerfield), 62-64, Map #73 Co., 6, 20, 44 Whiting School, 119 34 Wildwood Nursery Company, 43 Daingerfield), 61-62," Map #19 Winters, 1 Women's Christian Temperance Union, 13 Women's Society, 140 Women's Suffrage, 37 Hotel, 94Trail, 100 Works Progress Administration, 117, 119 War I, 44-45 World War II, 114, 119, 172473 Yonahlossee Theatre, 131, 136, 151, Map #33 Trail, 7, 20, 30, 179 �ABOUT THE AUTHOR BARRY BUXTON has been a teacher; researcher, publisher, editor, and community leader with extensive international experience. He received his Ph.D. from the University of Nebraska. Currently Dr. Buxton serves as the president of Lees-McRae College. Prior to his tenure at Lees-McRae, he served as the Vice President of Special Projects at the Savannah College of Art and Design. Dr. Buxton has also served as president of various science and history museums in North Carolina, Texas, and Georgia. During the 19805, he served as Executive Director of the sixteen-member Appalachian Consortium Press. � Dublin Core The Dublin Core metadata element set is common to all Omeka records, including items, files, and collections. For more information see, http://dublincore.org/documents/dces/. Title A name given to the resource Appalachian Consortium Press Publications Description An account of the resource This collection contains digitized monographs and collections from the Appalachian Consortium Press. Creator An entity primarily responsible for making the resource Appalachian Consortium Press Publisher An entity responsible for making the resource available Appalachian Consortium Press Date Issued Date of formal issuance (e.g., publication) of the resource. June 1, 2017 Contributor An entity responsible for making contributions to the resource <a title="Digital Scholarship and Initiatives" href="http://library.appstate.edu/services/digital-scholarship-and-initiatives" target="_blank">Digital Scholarship and Initiatives</a> Publication Digital Publisher Digital Republication Appalachian State University Dublin Core The Dublin Core metadata element set is common to all Omeka records, including items, files, and collections. For more information see, http://dublincore.org/documents/dces/. Title A name given to the resource A Village Tapestry: The History of Blowing Rock Subject The topic of the resource Blowing Rock (N.C.)--History Creator An entity primarily responsible for making the resource Buxton, Barry M. Language A language of the resource English Description An account of the resource This work is an interesting look at the history of Blowing Rock, North Carolina, a popular historic and tourist attraction, from its earliest settlers in the 1700s to the 1960s. The book includes images and a section titled "A Photographic Tapestry" with photographs of Blowing Rock by Jerry W. Burns. It also covers the history of great estates, prominent people, the education system, and religious heritage. <br /><br /><a title="Epub" href="https://drive.google.com/file/d/1poibWSW5X1r6y9yyhpR7cqvEUub67IC3/view?usp=sharing" target="_blank">Download EPub</a><br /><br /><a title="UNC Press Link" href="https://www.uncpress.org/book/9781469641324/a-village-tapestry" target="_blank">UNC Press Print on Demand</a> Publisher An entity responsible for making the resource available Appalachian Consortium Press Date A point or period of time associated with an event in the lifecycle of the resource 1989 Format The file format, physical medium, or dimensions of the resource PDF E-books Type The nature or genre of the resource Text Rights Information about rights held in and over the resource <a href="https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by/4.0/deed" target="_blank">https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by/4.0/deed</a> Coverage The spatial or temporal topic of the resource, the spatial applicability of the resource, or the jurisdiction under which the resource is relevant Blowing Rock (N.C.) Source A related resource from which the described resource is derived <a title="UA 76 Appalachian Consortium records" href="https://appstate-speccoll.lyrasistechnology.org/repositories/2/resources/9" target="_blank" rel="noreferrer noopener"> UA 76 Appalachian Consortium records </a> Is Part Of A related resource in which the described resource is physically or logically included. <a title="Appalachian Consortium Press Publications" href="https://omeka.library.appstate.edu/collections/show/82" target="_blank"> Appalachian Consortium Press Publications</a> Temporal Coverage Temporal characteristics of the resource. 1980s Amerindian Blowing Rock history illustrated Moravian https://omeka-test.library.appstate.edu/files/original/8ef19b8ab7dd05f2893c2d6a33771b51.pdf 192321684f6b38c2d92f02c6839e2d71 PDF Text Text �CABIN A Mountain Adventure Regional Focus Series �Appalachian Consortium Press Boone, North Carolina �CABIN A Mountain Adventure by Barbara G. Hallowell Illustrations by Aline Hansens �The Appalachian Consortium was a non-profit educational organization composed of institutions and agencies located in Southern Appalachia. From 1973 to 2004, its members published pioneering works in Appalachian studies documenting the history and cultural heritage of the region. The Appalachian Consortium Press was the first publisher devoted solely to the region and many of the works it published remain seminal in the field to this day. With funding from the Andrew W. Mellon Foundation and the National Endowment for the Humanities through the Humanities Open Book Program, Appalachian State University has published new paperback and open access digital editions of works from the Appalachian Consortium Press. www.collections.library.appstate.edu/appconsortiumbooks This work is licensed under a Creative Commons BY-NC-ND license. To view a copy of the license, visit http://creativecommons.org/licenses. Original copyright © 1986 by the Appalachian Consortium Press. ISBN (pbk.: alk. Paper): 978-1-4696-3656-6 ISBN (ebook): 978-1-4696-3658-0 Distributed by the University of North Carolina Press www.uncpress.org �To John, Anne, and Charlesuprooted and transplanted, they flourished, and to Tom, a very special partner With the exception of the Hallowell family members and George, Della, Oscar, Green Berry, Henry, and George, Jr., all names of people have been changed. Place names are real. �This page intentionally left blank �Acknowledgements Writing a book is a solitary task. During uncountable hours the writer pores through files and books, journals and letters, tapes and papers. Through more hours he imagines and creates-or sits and stares into space unproductively. From the information pile he selects pieces and sets them into place within that grand puzzle, the story. But writing a book also involves people, lots of people, who influence it by contributing information, advice, support, and criticism-or perhaps just a willing ear. To the many people involved with this book, I owe much appreciation. For their willingness to tell about family life and early times at the Nelson farm, I thank Gertrude Lowe, Rachel Huggins and Gladys and Hubert McCarson. For his encouragement of my writing about the farm and cabin and for his expert information about the mountain dialect and people, I want to thank Dr. Cratis Williams of Appalachian State University and Appalachian Consortium. The pleasure of this and presenting him a copy of the printed book has been denied me, however. His death has taken from us one of the most informed persons on Southern Appalachian mountain people and culture. For their helpful suggestions about the manuscript, I thank my mother, Ruth Gawthrop, and my sister, Nancy Wilson; cousins Jean George and Betty Girdler; friends Helen Fish and Dr. Hal Smith; editors Mead Parce and Rick Gunter; authors Wilma Dykeman and Elliott Wigginton. For her graciousness, perseverence, and talents in planning and creating the illustrations and for her editorial advice, I thank Aline Hansens, and for his interest and support, Dr. Elton Hansens. �For consistently cheerful and careful service in copy work, I thank Sinclair Office Supply of Hendersonville. For giving time and ideas and hard labor often beyond the call of duty, I thank our children, John, Anne, and Charles Hallowell. And most important of all, for making the cabin project possible and for his considerate and patient support of the book through its growing pains and evolution, I thank my husband, Tom. What a team! �Contents 1. "Where?" . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 1 2. The Hunt . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 13 3. Cleanup. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 37 4. Decisions . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 59 5. "'Bout Three Months". . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 83 6. "Take 'Er All Down" ........................ 121 7. "Put 'Er Up Agin" .......................... 145 8. Born Again . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 173 9. "Chimley" ................................ 195 10. Closing The Gaps . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 215 11. Weekend . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 231 Footnotes . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 253 �This page intentionally left blank �Introduction The North Carolina Mountains-Boone, Sugar Mountain, Banner Elk, Blowing Rock-this was the whole new Appalachian world opening before our eyes when in 1980 my husband and I decided to leave hot Sarasota, Florida, summers for the cool of the mountains which we had heard so much about. At first we mostly enjoyed the change of climate and the breathtaking scenery of this Blue Ridge Mountain area. As the misty summers and glowing autumns passed, we explored the countryside and came to know people whose roots were here. We were enchanted with the beauty all around us and delighted with these friendly, softspoken natives and their natural dry wit. Our new summer home gained depth and meaning, and added a new dimension to our lives. We began to appreciate and collect paintings and crafts by local artists. Feeding the birds became a rewarding daily routine. We found many familiar New England feathered friends and made acquaintance with hummingbirds, Carolina wrens, redbreasted nut hatches, towhees, and others. We were fortunate to become associated with the Appalachian Consortium which offered a deeper understanding of the culture and heritage of the area. When, as a member of the Appalachian Consortium Publications Committee I read Barbara Hallowell's "Cabin: A Mountain Adventure", a strong sense of recognition of my experience discovering Appalachia made me want to share her story with you. Her tale of the experiences as an outsider and her family from New Jersey and Pennsylvania moving into the Hendersonville, North Carolina, region is delightfully told. In the process of buying a piece of mountain, where they tore down and rebuilt an old log cabin, they learned much about mountain living, speech, and mores, thereby gaining a true understanding of Appalachia. Their encounters with the natural environment add flavor to her story. The book captures many of the same impressions and feelings shared by others moving to this region. I hope you will enjoy it as much as I did. Joan H. Dobbins Board of Advisors Appalachian Consortium ��Chapter 1 "Where?" South 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 A Piece of Mountain 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 1 2 9 �South A screech owl's wavering call, plaintive, comfortably familiar, floated through the open window from the night woods. I smiled as I lay abed-how fortunate we are to live where owls call at night! At times we could hear the purrs and chatters of raccoons as they crept on dark trees or fingered tidbits in the stream. Maybe right now a 'possum was scuffling through our yard or a cottontail nibbling spring sprouts. Certainly, the ubiquitous shrews were scurrying about in feverish search for prey to satisfy voracious appetites. Night or day, wildlife used our premises; life was busy out there. I rested, content and grateful, and slipped quickly into deep sleep, peacefully ignorant of a piece of news that within the hour would shake my steady world. A jarring rumble jolted me wide awake, and I froze, listening acutely. "Did you hear that?" I whispered intensely toward Tom, but he was not beside me. Men's voices sounded. Suddenly I laughed out loud and relaxed in relief. Of course! That was just the garage door sliding up on its tracks beneath the bedroom, just Tom and the boys returning from the city. Thoughts of their big event flickered in my dull, sleepy mind. Our teenage sons, home from school on spring vacation, had picked up two neighbor boys and driven to meet Tom after work. All had made the hour-long trip into New York for a double-header basketball game at Madison Square Garden, an exciting event for the four youngsters, a refreshing change from intense job responsibilities for Tom. Now Tom climbed the stairs to our room. "Hi," I mumbled drowsily. "Have fun?" "Yep. Both good games. Close. Overtime for both." "Nice." I dozed off while he readied for bed. Suddenly I was aware that he was sitting on the edge of the bed beside me. I glanced up into glaring light. He still had his glasses on. "What's up?" I queried, perplexed, curious. "Well, you've always said you'd go willingly wherever we might be sent." 2 �Instantly sitting wide awake, I shouted a suspense-laden, "Where?" The prospect of a company transfer for Tom had loomed throughout the nineteen years of our marriage, but as each year passed, the likelihood diminished until we had dismissed the possibility. But suddenly, this was it! Only one out of four or five possible locations was attractive to us, and an eternity passed before he answered quietly, "North Carolina." "Great! Terrific!" I collapsed onto the pillow and listened as Tom described his new job at the company's North Carolina plant. We basked in the glow of this fine prospect. "When did you learn of this?" "Today, but we can't tell anyone, even the children, till it's announced at the plant next week." "You had to sit through all that long evening and not talk about it?" "Yep." ''And both games overtime!" We sat in turmoil and silence as a flood of questions, excitement, misgivings, delight, and dismay engulfed us. "Tom! What about Europe?" "What do you think?" For years we had dreamed of a family trip to Europe, delaying until our three children, John, Anne, and Charlie, had sufficient history and language in school to provide solid background for a worthwhile venture. The great plan was completely arranged for July-itinerary decided, passports on hand, special clothing purchased, and luggage set. Enthusiasm and air castles flourished in all of us. "When do you report for work in North Carolina?" "April first." One week away. "And we'll have to buy a house there and sell this one and move after school is over in June and ....Tom, we can't possibly go to Europe!" "That's what I concluded." "Oh, the kids'll be crushed-by everything-except your job, of course." 3 �"I know." We sat on, gloomily mulling the prospect of their leaving here. This was home-they had never lived anywhere else. They loved it here where their roots ran deep. Our quiet, New Jersey village was true hometown. Our U-shaped street of solid homes abounded with playmates and bordered a farm. The children had learned how corn grows and when strawberries ripen, watched spring plowings and summer-fall harvests, and witnessed the results of drought and deluge on a farmer's crops. The moods of the woods and life of the pond were everyday experience. With winter came neighborhood ice hockey and sledding, with summer came swim teams and shelling at the ocean beach only four miles away. The house welcomed a clutter of beach combings and defunct hornet's nests, baseball gear and roller skates. Snakes and turtles, injured birds and baby raccoons, infant cottontails and developing toads, even creeping creatures from mantids to monarch larvae, found care and eventual release from our home. How could our young folks leave all this? Through morning's earliest hours we struggled and groped in the jungle of new and changed plans, always trying to convince each other that a move after seventeen years in a house and neighborhood we loved would not be too major. The day came when the news was announced, and the shock was massive. Each family member fought a deep personal battle, the hurt intensified by the crumbled dream of a family trip to Europe. But as overburdened weeks sped by and Tom flew in on occasional weekends, bringing information about the area he was learning to know and enjoy, unexpected excitement for the changes ahead began to build. Though dear things in home and neighborhood became dearer, the challenges of North Carolina grew acceptable, then even attractive. Our family of five began to look forward to the move. A family conference set up requirements for the house Tom was hunting. "Let's get a big, oldtime farmhouse, Dad," one of the boys declared. 4 �"Yeah! All rambly with lots of rooms but nothing fancy," someone added. Visions of the simple but wonderfully spacious old stone or clapboard farmhouses we had known throughout eastern Pennsylvania and Maryland influenced our dreams. "Can we have a pasture and stable for a horse?" Anne, at sixteen, was determined to realize her dream of owning a horse, and we concurred. "And a stream?" "Gotta be a yard space for playing soccer." "Let's have it on a hill where we can look off and see stars without a lot of trees to look through-no glaring street lights." "Let's have a mountain view." "Yes!" Tom glanced at me quickly as we noted the enthusiasm in this unanimous endorsement of his idea. Because our new hometown, Hendersonville, lay amid the Blue Ridge Mountains, a mountain property with a view and hill and rhododendron in masses seemed natural-even imperative. For years in the crowded northeast our outdoors-loving family had journeyed to places close and distant, but always we hiked or explored in national or state or county parks or on private land. Do not pick. Do not feed. Do not walk on. Do not take. Do not go beyond this point. Do not-do not-do not. All agreed, since we had to move, we would like a place where we would be free to take a rock, pluck a flower, build a pond, pasture a horse, eat the berries, set up a blind, dig a fern, bush-whack off the paths, and enjoy any time or season. Tom discovered quickly that most "oldtime farmhouses" in the mountains were log cabins of modest proportions, many of which had crumbled long ago or been torn down or modernized beyond recognition. No realtor greeted him with a rambling house overlooking a fine view of mountains. I flew to Hendersonville two weekends to investigate what Tom had found, knowing that a decision had to be made on the second trip, but disappointed with what we found. Our choice was nineteen years old, a spacious but modern house on four acres. It lay in a hollow, bordered by a stream, enhanced by a small meadow, a horse shed, and neighbors within loud calling distance. More than a hundred white pines surrounded 5 �the house, and every window framed a pleasing outlook into them. The place was undeniably lovely and would serve our needs well, so we pushed aside our disappointment that it lacked the flavor of the mountains and concentrated on these positive features. After describing it to the children with lukewarm effect, Tom assuaged us all with a spur of the moment thought, adding rather carelessly, "Maybe after we get settled, we can hunt a little piece of mountain, a few acres close to home. We could even all pitch in and build a shack on it for overnights." The children pounced on this wild proposition with unexpected fervor, "Neat-o!" and, "Hey, really? That's a great idea!" and, "Let's start hunting!" but in the turmoil of our final days in New Jersey, it had to be shoved into temporary storage. Sale of the house, farewell parties, and a festive garage sale preceded that day of confused emotions when hard-muscled movers packed our possessions into a massive van. Then on July 17, 1971, a station wagon load of tearful Hallowells, plus Happy, our mostly-beagle, two hens, four guinea pigs, and assorted plants and baggage, bid a dramatic farewell to a crowd of equally tearful neighbors and headed south. South! Whoever thought we would be turning away from the northeast? From early colonial times our heritage lay deep and intertwined in the rolling hills of southeast Pennsylvania, Maryland, and New Jersey, holding us more strongly than we cared to admit. Most relatives still lived in these home states, but we were leaving, heading toward a state which seemed like a foreign country. The prospect of living in a state which included one of our favorite places, the Outer Banks and Cape Hatteras, delighted us at first, until we discovered North Carolina's size; we would live almost as far from Hatteras in North Carolina as we had in New Jersey. Hendersonville lay in the western mountains on a map line south from Detroit, Michigan. Nearly 650 miles later eager faces filled every window of our car as we rode down busy Main Street in Hendersonville. A typical variety of small town stores passed by slowly, and in front of them people sat in relaxed and sociable comfort on green park benches under maple shade. 6 �"Looks like a restful town," someone commented. " 'Tis," answered Tom, "especially this time of year. Summer people come here from Florida and Georgia and South Carolina and the Piedmont of North Carolina to enjoy cooler weather-and of course, scenery and mountain crafts. They say it's been a big summer tourist town since way back in the 1800s. I understand it really boomed in the '20s, lots of hotels and boarding houses and ... :'. "What's that?" Suddenly, set back in its square, an imposing, columned building stood grandly beside us. A gold domelike structure with a statue topped it. "That's the courthouse;' Tom explained. "Hendersonville was founded as the Henderson County seat. I think it was in 1841 when they started building the town, and it's been the hub of the county ever since. People I've talked to are really enthusiastic about living here. 'Lots going on,' they say. The state summer theatre is in Flat Rock, just a couple miles away, and there's a new symphony and continuing education classes and ....". He paused. "And there's a terrific library," I put in, having explored it during a house-hunting trip, "and art groups and hiking clubs. Apparently the affluent summer people from Charleston who settled in Flat Rock in the early 1800s started a tradition of high culture around here that's still going full tilt!" Tom continued the run of information. "And I checked with the Chamber of Commerce and learned there are over 100 churches in the county and only 50,000 people." "Three golf courses, too, and games at the high school." "I read that Henderson County is one of the biggest apple growing counties in the whole country;' Anne added. "Hope they make good cider." Already we had passed the brief business district and returned to scattered houses and countryside. Only two and a half miles from town we turned into a gravel lane and drove under low pine boughs to our house, where four car doors swung open simultaneously and the Hallowells and Happy spilled out. John, Anne, and Charlie rushed into the empty house. Tom and I followed 7 �hastily, eager to see their response. Pleased faces revealed obvious delight for them and relief for us. The furniture arrived and we settled in, now official residents of western North Carolina. The roar of our beloved ocean was hundreds of miles away, but the splash of rocky mountain streams cascading through rhododendron thickets awaited us. 8 �A Piece of Mountain The family from New Jersey gradually learned the ways of the people in their new home territory. We had moved to a town where unhurrying store clerks serve with natural courtesy and call, "Hurry back!" as we depart. We had moved to a county where someone walking along a rural road waves as we pass, and we wave back, feeling good, each sharing that point in the road at the moment with a gesture of friendly greeting. We learned that here a pond is called a lake, a small valley is a holler, a sheltered dip in the hills is a cove, and a stream is a branch. If the branch has strong and steady flow, it is bold, and hundreds of branches rush over rounded rocks and boulders between the hills. For some of the local folks tires are tars---='Them tars you got there is mighty wore!' And oil is ole---='Git yer ole man to up that tank." Here people he'p you when you need help. Rhododendron is called laurel, and laurel is called ivy, and both are often hacked down as weeds, for they grow in persistant, impenetrable thickets. Anne and Charlie were astonished and pleased to find that if they left a sweater or book lying somewhere at high school by mistake, they would find it when they returned to hunt it. We found that hot summer days, never as humid as we had known, are followed by fresh, cool evenings. One can even sit out on screenless porches without being consumed alive by mosquitoes. The dirt road, paved into history in the areas we had known, is a routine fact of mountain living. Hundreds of dirt road miles, lined by forests, ferns, and flowers instead of sterile roadside strips, wind and rewind up and down the hills. The color of our car changed to dusty beige as we explored them. The mountains grew in fascination and charm as we roamed their coves and slopes and summits, and pressure built for releasing from storage Tom's wild idea about "our piece of mountain." We talked often of what it should be. "Top priority is a good view and big expanse of sky;' I noted, "and it should be sunny and protected, not facing north winds." 9 �"Dad, it'll be mostly for Mom and you 'cause we'll be off at college and jobs, so it should be mostly what you folks want." John, at seventeen, was far more foresighted than his parents, who kept visualizing a place especially for our young people, ignoring the passage of time. "Yes, but we want you three to enjoy it when you come home. What would you like?" we persisted. ''A motor cycle course!" John responded instantly, indulging his dream of owning a cycle, "and a place to practice target shooting with Grandpa's rifle." "A place close enough to ride my horse to," added Anne, for already she had negotiated to purchase her equine dream. "Gotta have a little pond for Mom, for frogs to jump in, you know." Fourteen year old Charlie loved to tease me about my soft heart for wild creatures. "Wouldn't it be neat to find one of those old Appalachian mountain cabins we've seen!" Anne had succumbed to the charm of log houses. "Hold on! We're not looking for a house!" Tom insisted we be realistic. "This has to be easy on the pocketbook, folks. We're just after a bit of acreage with a view, and there's lots of it around here plenty cheap right now, but put a house on it ...." A significant silence followed his unfinished statement. "I just want to wander around the place with time to watch and photograph things without interruptions and 'Do not touch' signs." "Me, too. But really, I won't be around very much." "Me, either:' "Dad'll want it for bird watching." "I don't want to hear any motors." "What about John's motorcycle?" "Now, how are we going to explain to any realtor that we want a quiet outdoor lab for bird watching and nature photography combined with a rifle range and a motor cycle course near a pond where frogs'll jump in?" No one laughed, each too intent on an imaginary picture of the property. 10 �"Imagine hiking on our own mountain land!" "It better be west of town so it's near home and still close to the big mountains on the Blue Ridge Parkway." "We'd better make a list." The list evolved quickly and lay conspicuously on a table for many days so all could live with it to be sure it was complete and right. It finally stated eight features: 1. View of mountains 2. Woods 3. Open Fields 4. Stream or pond 5. 10-20 acres, depending on price 6. South or west exposure, i.e. land dropping off in that direction 7. West of town, but within a half hour drive of town 8. A small shack or shelter or good site for one I typed multiple copies of this list, prefacing it with a statement that we realized finding all of these features would be difficult, post-scripting with, "The ideal place would be a small mountain cabin that can be put into useable condition, located in a clearing facing south or west with mountain and woods behind and a view in front." Mid-October beamed with sunshine and goldenrod. Three months of mountain living lay behind us, and the family was eager to indulge more heavily. The hunt was on. 11 �This page intentionally left blank �Chapter 2 The Hunt Realtors . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 14 39.6 Acres ............................... 15 Getting Acquainted ........................ 21 Walking the Boundaries .................... 30 Title .................................... 32 Anticipation . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 34 13 �Realtors They laughed-all six of them, without exception. On a blustery October day I made the rounds of six realty offices to present each with the list of requirements for our mountain property. Each realtor perused the list with solemn interest, then laughed. Each looked at me directly and commented essentially, "You must realize, Mrs. Hallowell, that nearly everyone hunting acreage in this area wants a mountain view with stream and woods and ...." Apparently we were hunting a needle in the haystack, and other buyers were lined up at the realtors hunting with us. To top it, we wanted our land with a view to be cheap and close to town. Though the laughs were polite, their prevalence and similarity unsettled us, but naivete encouraged stubborn hope, and we felt deep satisfaction that action on our dream had started. Through the ensuing weeks I traveled countless winding miles with various realtors as they showed properties which in realty terms sounded exciting, but the "fine, extensive woods" of one was a long, straight row of pines in a hedgerow between two cornfields, and the "panoramic view" of another was sliced by a huge power line, complete with looming steel towers. On a tract with "a magnificent view, natural beauty, carefully preserved," a major portion of the land lay at a 45° angle or greater. One tract of over one hundred acres covered a small mountaintop. Its 360° view, and 5-acre lake set in mature woods nearly tempted us to overindulge, but common sense rallied and won. Another site of special beauty and potential lay at the end of nearly ten disheartening miles of dirt road with multiple hairpin turns. Each realtor struggled diligently and diplomatically to convince me we were hunting an impossible combination of features and must compromise. "Yes, I understand, but we have a feeling, we know that a special place lies tucked away somewhere near here, undiscovered." The more discouraging the hunt, the more determined we became to find exactly the right site. The more we explored the forested hills and coves, the more we fell in love with them, convinced that this hunt was destined to succeed. 14 �39.6 Acres What made me look at the classified ads on acreage one midNovember morning? Days had passed without a thought for them. I just happened to look, and a simple three-line ad caught my interest: "39.6 acre old farm, half cleared, half woodland, 2 streams, springs," more acreage than we wanted, but if it were inexpensive.... I drew a red circle around it and called the listed realtor who replied, "That's the place I called you about last week." I remembered his call; I had been busy with house guests. "Let's go see it. Now," I suggested. In a jeep we jostled and lurched along one of the unpaved roads that snake through the forested hills west of town. The realtor remarked rather apologetically that the small house on the property was "pretty run down. Some old folks are living in it. Land's been in her family for generations, but they don't own it now." They would be attached to that land, I thought, but influenced by his lack of enthusiasm for the house, I concentrated on assessing terrain and heard only bits of his talking. ".. .lost ownership... business problems of some sort .. .fellow that owns it lets them live there ...wants to unload the place ... pretty neglected ...." As we turned into a quiet, overgrown lane, the realtor assured me we were only five or six miles from town, though it seemed at least twenty. We crept along banks patched with evergreen leaves of galax, arbutus, and partridge berry amid dried remnants of ferns, and bounced over several rocks protruding in the lane. The ceiling of intertwined oak, tulip tree, and sourwood twigs stopped suddenly, and ahead in a clearing, partly hidden behind two stately hemlocks, stood the house. "Like I said, it needs repair," the realtor muttered quickly in the understatement of the year. I studied the dilapidated, ugly structure in unabashed silence. The jeep stopped behind two junk cars abandoned in the lane. Several more, minus wheels, rested beyond them near a sagging corn crib. We stepped between two of the head-high boxwoods which bordered the front yard, and a strong whiff of their pungent 15 �scent swept me back to the magnificent boxwoods at Longwood Gardens in southeastern Pennsylvania near my childhood hometown. I grew up associating boxwoods with wealth and elegance. How did a humble mountain home have such handsome shrubs? As we climbed several worn stone steps and passed a strip of mostly-weeds garden, the front door stood open, held by an unshaven old man in a crumply felt hat. He welcomed us with a toothless grin, for we were expected-the house had a telephone and the realtor had called ahead. Oscar Huggins asked us in. "This here's Deller," he muttered as his frail but lively-eyed wife appeared from a back room. Della greeted us with a bright smile and promptly plunged into non-stop conversation about the house as the realtor tried simultaneously to explain that I was looking for mountain acreage. I noticed the water in the back room kept running and wondered why no one shut if off. I had been raised to consider a drippy spigot as intolerable and wasteful, and this was not merely dripping but splashing noisily. Della nearly burst with impatience to show us her house, but the realtor allowed only a glance at its several downstairs rooms before urging me outside. The property was far more likely to encourage a sale than the forlorn house. Della was visibly disappointed. Sickly with angina, she stood framed in the doorway, a study of wistful watching as Oscar followed us into the yard. Gray sky intensified the dreary, monochromatic tones of late autumn countryside, though a few persistent yellow sprigs of tulip tree broke the somber scene. Several acres of open fields, some terraced, extended out to the south and down to the west. Beyond these were woods, and through the trees, mountains. Oscar looked off to them. "Used to see them mountains yonder just fine. Warn't no trees growed up then. Hit was all clear, all farmed." He drawled his words slowly, avoiding elaboration. "None of these woods were here?" I asked, needing affirmation. "Nope. All fields. Corn and tater fields and the like-and orchards." I gaped at the endless woods surrounding the few open acres, 16 �trying to absorb this startling fact and picture the scene as it may have looked back then. "How long ago was that?" "Mebbe thirty-forty years, I reckon, since Deller's daddy died 'bout '39. That'n over 'ere was in 'maters, and this'n here was fer cows. Over yonder was sometimes corn, sometimes hay. Hit was a fine place ... a fine place," he added to himself, appearing lost in memories for a moment. In the silence I heard water running. "Is there a stream in the meadow down there?" "Shor is! A good branch down 'ere, a bold'n, and another'n back down over 'ere," and he swung an arm in the opposite direction. We sauntered to the south side of the house. I found myself so drawn to the derelict house that concentrating on property was difficult. The colorful variety of worn asphalt shingles had obviously protected it a long time-greens covered the south gable, tans the house wall, and out back reds and a few blues showed on a little addition, the kitchen. Around back several shingles had been torn from the main house wall, and a few dangled. The wall beneath showed clearly, and my heart jumped. Logs! Beautiful, squared, hand-hewn logs! I tried to appear calm and asked casually, "Are these the original logs?" "Sure are!" "How old are they?" "Mebee seventy-eighty years. You'll hafta ask Deller. She'd know. Her daddy, George Nelson, built it." "What wood are they?" "They's oak and yeller poplar, and some's chestnut. Cut right here on this land, they were." "Is this stuff between the logs mud?" "Sure is!" An honest-to-goodness old Appalachian mountain cabin for sale! I studied the house with new eyes, trying to picture it without the multi-colored shingles and tarpaper roof. Roof! "What's under those sheets of roofing?" I ventured, holding my breath. 17 �"Nuthin';' Oscar answered. He paused, then added, "The old shingles was took off a couple years ago. They were chestnut. George Nelson made 'em here hisself. Man that owns the place now thought they might catch far and put that on," pointing. "Where are they now?" Ignorant of the mountain ways, my mind found them stacked neatly somewhere, hoarded as irreplaceable chestnut wood which should be treasured. "Oh, we needed farwood. Burned real good, they did." We passed the leaning corncrib and started up the slope behind the house, stepping over a metal, U-shaped trough, rainspout-like, on the ground. Water coursed through it. "What's this?" I asked. "Hit's bringing' water from the branch?" "Where to?" He looked a touch impatient with this ignorant outsider so full of questions, but we were easily thirty feet from the house. Suddenly he grinned and volunteered, "I'll show you." Trampling through mint, which scented our progress, we followed the trough to where its water spilled through a piece of wire screen into a pail. From a hole in the pail's bottom, a hose carried water downhill to a hole in the kitchen wall. "Gravity feed;' stated the realtor, guessing correctly that I had not encountered this type arrangement before. I was bursting to ask more about the primitive but effective water system, but the men were pushing into a tangle of honeysuckle, blackberry, grape, and field weeds. Young sumac, locust, and dogwood trees poked through it, clues that perhaps a dozen years had passed since this slope had been cultivated. Uphill was older forest. "This here was orchard;' said Oscar, indicating the younger area, and looking uphill, he continued, "and thay 1 was a tater field futher up." "Is the entire acreage woods- except for the fields we see?" "Yep. Only 'bout eight-ten acres is fields now." We pushed up into the tangle far enough to be able to look over the house top when we turned toward the west, and I caught my breath at the scene spread before us. A series of close, soft- 18 ��sloping wooded hills framed a generous wedge of layered mountains extending to perhaps twenty miles away. To the south, other mountains rose above the nearby forest. By climbing a few feet further up the hill we gazed on a nearly 180° unobstructed view of mountains and absorbed the beauty in silence. Oscar probably saw it as a daily fact in a lifetime of local living. The realtor probably saw it as a prime selling point, a solid case for dollars. I saw it fresh, as a newcomer unused to mountains in everyday living. The list I had presented to the realtors flashed brightly in mind-view, woods, fields, stream, slope toward south or west, reasonable number of acres, west of town but near town, maybe a small shack or cabin-and the price was very reasonable. With mounting excitment I thought of all those laughing realtors and felt deliciously smug. I had found the needle in the haystack! 20 �Getting Acquainted Only fifteen minutes! Tom, Anne, and I drove the mountain road from our house to the old farm in only fifteen minutes, only five miles from door to door, wonderfully, unexpectedly convenient. Concern for Tom's and Anne's response checked my enthusiasm for seeing the farm a second time. Bright sun beamed on us as we stepped from the car - things were working in our favor. Tom promptly looked across the fields, well beyond the conspicuous foreground of junk cars, and I watched in suspense, but his face revealed no hint of his impression, and he said nothing. Anne took one look at the dilapidated house and glanced at me; her face told all. She, too, could envision it without tarpaper roof and asphalt siding; she had fallen in love with it already. Della and Oscar invited us in eagerly, and as we stood rather awkwardly in the middle of the living room, she immersed us in history. "It's always been called 'the Nelson farm' here. Granddaddy-that's Green Berry Nelson-we called him Papnobody's sure just where he come from-he bought a lot of land here first after the Civil War and built him a log house near the branch way down in the holler at the foot of this mountain. Raised him five children, and later his son, Tom, he had a sawmill there and helped him build a big fine eleven-room house across the road-with a porch on three sides. I can show you right where it stood. It burned down." I was relieved when she paused a moment. "Then when Pap's land was divided up, m'daddy, George Nelson he was, got this farm here. His sister got a cow, which was s'posed to be equal. Shows how important cows was then. Daddy built a small log house down in the meadow there. I 'member seein' it down there 'tween the chicken house and the branch. And he grubbed this whole farm from the woods, grubbed it with a mattock, he did. And when Daddy's family c'menced gettin' too much for his small house down there, he built this'n and made a log barn, too. There was more land then out there where the barn was; most of it's washed away now, like in that flood of '16. M'daddy shaped all these logs with his broadaxe, 21 �he did. He was good with wood." "How many people lived here?" I felt triumphant to work in a question. "There was eight of us young-uns." I looked about me. This modest house had been home for George Nelson with his big, busy family. This land was their inheritance and their key to survival, their whole life, their piece of mountain. "Yes, I was horned here and been livin' here all my years. They'll carry me outa here feet first, they will." We felt like intruders, pushing in on a heritage to which we did not belong. Yet, the place was for sale; someone would buy it. We would look it over, at least, and already ideas on how to save some of that heritage were stirring in my mind. Though Della's busy mind whirled in the past, a time brimful with happy memories which poured out freely, angina, indigestion, and poverty dominated her present life. The straggly effect of her wasted frame and senility distressed me, but neither could hide her delicate features or those lively blue eyes, still beautiful. Surely in her youth they were highly admired! Della had lived hard and happily on this isolated farm, a rugged, capable, independent woman, but now, dependent and occasionally confused, she clung to my hands with her own frail pair. The blue eyes danced as she described the house and premises as they had been, with laughter bubbling as she recounted childhood experiences. Did reveling in the farm's past alleviate her distress over its littered, overgrown condition? Suddenly she sprang into the present, intensely eager to show and tell us every detail of the house. An enclosed stairway to the loft divided the 16x30 foot log house into two rooms downstairs. The larger was the living room with three windows stretched across its north end, the right one smaller and plainer than the other two. "Used to be a big, high, rock fireplace and chimley where the two big winders are. That little'n was the only winder in this room. M'daddy used to set there by it and make shoes for us. He made shoes for all of us for years, till you could buy the store-bought kind." A TV set now stood beside it. "We got rid of the chimley 22 �'cause it was fallin' away from the house, and chimleys was old fashion. We wanted something more modren, and we needed more winders 'cause it was so dark in here." To the left of the windows stood a small, black, wood stove, its pipe angling to the wall and into a small brick chimney. "Is this the only heat?" Tom asked. "Oh, no!" Oscar answered. 'Got a good cookin' stove back in the kitchen, too. 'Sail we need." A treasured piano stood primly upright against the stairwall. On top the faces of various relatives-or kin, as Della called them -beamed from an array of tinted photographs, an antique clock ticking steadily beside them. Several worn pieces of massive but comfortable sectional sofa and assorted chairs encouraged relaxation. Walls were white plasterboard, the ceiling pale green painted tongue-and-groove boards. The effect of all was neat, clean, and humble, and love for the old place radiated. "Here's the bedroom." She urged us to the smaller of the two log rooms, where we poked heads in but did not enter, for a dresser, a homemade bed, and a closet of plywood and corrugated cardboard monopolized the floor space. As we backed from the doorway. Della opened a small, handmade door beside us under the stairs. The backside of stair treads and risers formed the ceiling for a cosy closet. Light from a low watt bulb barely revealed jarwide shelves lining the walls and lower risers, each neatly arranged with jams and jellies and home-canned foods. Della named them proudly and lifted several precious jelly jars for us to hold to the light and admire. "Ain't they clear!" she beamed. Suddenly, she insited we take one, and it would have been unkind and rude to have refused her generous gesture. "Do you want to go upstairs?" Della asked. "Yes!" the three of us responded simultaneously, all now completely caught up in her tour and curious to explore further. "You'll hafta go up yourselves," she directed. "I cain't do stairs 'cause m' chest gets to hurtin':' I led the way. Just enough light crept down from the loft's two windows to reveal soft curves of water on the stair treds. Oh, the number of feet that must have traversed on this narrow passage 23 �through its years of serving the big family! At the top my feet froze in place. "Is it safe to walk around up here?" I called back. Della laughed. "Why, sure!" Tom had already pushed by me gently and passed the thin partition that set off a north loft room from a south one. He walked gingerly out onto the sagging floor. Anne passed by me, too, but hesitated to put the weight of two people on the section of floor where Tom stood, his head bowed with the low ceiling. She turned left into the south room, stepping over and around a variety of boxes, old furniture, jars, and clutter, to look out the window. A view of side yard, junk cars, and meadow and woods held her attention for long moments, but she said nothing. I stepped very softly from my top stair safety zone onto the loft floor, unconsciously assuming that the more lightly I stepped, the less I would weigh, and avoided the center where the sag was ominous. All said little, feeding the illusion that quieter meant lighter, then retreated downstairs where Della waited with a flood of conversation dammed up, while, Oscar stood by, grinning, his crumply hat still on. We were swept through a doorway out of the main log house into the back room, the kitchen. A great, round pedestal table, clothed and inviting, dominated the room. Behind, solidly established against the north wall, stood the woodburning cookstove, radiating steady, cozy warmth. The opposite corner, where a white porcelain sink was snuggled against the wall, answered my previous day's perplexity about the dripping spigot. The two holes on the sink's upright back were not equipped in the customary fashion. Cloths neatly stuffed the hole where a hot water spigot might have been, while a small pipe with a single, old fashioned faucet or bibb projected from the cold water hole. From it water splashed steadily into the sink, trickled through a perforated drain, and disappeared into a pipe through the floor. We could hear it splattering onto the ground outdoors. Now I knew! Branch water flowed through the troughs and the screen on the bucket I had seen the day before and into the kitchen sink and out again in a steady stream. No wonder Della 24 �had not turned her water spigot off! Now I knew, too, that these elderly folks were living with no supply of hot water, nor had they ever had one. "That's all the rooms there is," stated Della, disappointed to arrive at the end of her tour. Oscar muttered a few words into her ear. "Oh, yes!" She sparkled again. "I forgot the room on the porch. Did you see it yet?" "No, and we'd like to." A bed and stacks of stored items left no room for entry and little room for comment, but we noted the space enclosed a bit less than half the front porch. We stood with these old folks on their porch, subdued by their humble living, perplexed by the decision on hand, and fascinated by this experience. Our decision would influence them tremendously, too. Della bubbled on about the past, but we were so engrossed in the present that we barely listened. Tom and Anne had yet to look over the land, our most important concern, and all this history, though interesting, was superfluous and meaningless unless we bought the farm. Again we left Della behind in the doorway, Oscar guiding us to expolore the open land. Only five buildings still existed on it: a board chicken house nearly lost in young ailanthus trees, a tiny log coop only several feet square, the leaning corn crib, and two privies. One, long abandoned, crumbled north of the house. The other, just beyond the corn crib, comprised the current facilities. Someone in a flash of humor had splashed OPEN in blue paint across its weathered door. Oscar shuffled past these buildings and led us down a narrow path to the meadow. Dried November weeds snapped as we walked by. Several goldfinches, disturbed while eating seeds from plumes of shoulder-high goldenrod, swooped up and off, scolding us. Seed burrs accumulated on our pantlegs and sleeves, and a crow flew low across the hollow, cawing a warning to field and woodland that intruders were on the way. White-throated sparrows chipped in the shrubs. Various tires, car parts, and rusted tin roofing lined the way. 25 �At the lowest point a foot-wide stream crossed our path, running briskly through the weeds. Oscar stepped over it routinely and started up toward the far field, but our trio stopped like school boys at a puddle. Our guide, sensing he was not being followed, turned, then took several steps back toward us. "This ever dry up?" wondered Tom aloud. "Nope. Always flows good." "Where's it from?" "Up yonder a piece," and Oscar pointed into woodland oblivion. "Water to the house comes off this branch futher up." "It's O.K. to drink then?':_a stupid question of mine. Of course it was! He had just said so, but somehow one needs extra verification in unfamiliar circumstances. "Sure is!" For those who had lived in the polluted northeast where drinking from a stream was unthinkable, the delight of this pure meadow water tempted overwhelmingly, even on a cool, November day. We scooped with our hands and drank icy, absolutely delicious water. Oscar watched us intently, wrapped in thought. Just beyond the stream lay four terraced fields bordered by dense hedgerows. At the end of the second one, a perfectly flat stretch of perhaps half an acre, we walked under a giant pear tree. The ground beneath it lay blanketed with hundreds of pears in various stages of decay, a crop unharvested this year. In the largest field, perhaps two acres, corn stubble and weeds jutted from ridged and furrowed ground. The reddish soil looked exhausted. At either end of the cornfield several aged apple trees struggled above sprigs of young locust and dogwood. Holes pocked their gnarled limbs, providing potential nesting cavities for downy woodpeckers or chickadees or titmice. We returned along the edge of this old orchard, recrossed the stream, and immediately turned down into the field that dropped westward below the house. Along the stream a dense stand of sun-loving alder stopped suddenly at the woods, where shadeloving rhododendron took over. Each thrived above a ground cover of old tires and jars and tin cans. The water splashed out of sight through the rhododendron noisily, obviously cascading 26 �over rocks in this primary stage of its long course from mountain to sea. Half a car blocked our path along the woods-field edge, and hundreds of seedling trees, the vanguard of an invading forest, jutted in the grasses. We pushed through them and circled back up to the house and on up the hill immediately behind it, where Tom and Anne had their first look at the full mountain scene, viewed in admiring silence. We three exchanged quick glances of approval. Conversation was subdued during much of this rambling, each person preoccupied with his own busy considerations, each studying the farm from a different point of view, seeking independent judgement. Della and Oscar politely went indoors a short while as we put to use a "settin' bench" on the front porch to discuss our opinions. "M'daddy made that bench from a big huge limb that broke off the beech tree in the holler in a storm," Della threw in before disappearing. "We need to know more details," Tom stated, concisely summing our opinions, so he called the realtor. "Is there the wildest possibility it might suit you to come out here right now?" "Why, sure!" Things continued to work our way, and while we waited for him, Della and Oscar joined us on the porch. "Fine old wisteria vine," Tom noted. The dense vine twisted around the south porch post (was post supporting vine or vine supporting post?) and engulfed the adjacent porch fence and railing in a tangle of stems. "M'daddy planted that there. He did love growin' thingshad a green thumb that wouldn't quit. Ever type of fruit that'd grow here he had growing: strawberries and raspberries and currants and grapes and peaches and plums. Had some limbertwigs and a winter banana, too." "Winter banana?" "Oh, a kind of apple, whitish with reddish on one side. You never cooked as good a apple in your life! Thay was an apple tree he called Shockleys below the boxwoods where he put a swing on. In the fall of the year he had big barrels in the barn loft and would put a layer of straw and a layer of apples and a layer of 27 �straw and a layer of apples in the barrels, and in the spring you could still go to the barrels and get good apples." "Did you ever spray the apple trees?" I was thinking of the massive spraying apple growers use now. "Never knowed what a spray was. Never sprayed anything. Fruits were good, too. Now we have to spray for everything." Along the porch railing wide boards had been nailed on top so flower pots could sit upon them. Browned remnants of summer flowers jutted from the pots. Conversation limped as Tom and I tried to be pleasantly sociable while swirling with real estate concerns. "That's a nice dogwood," Anne observed. Admiration for trees seemed a likely subject of common interest. "Must be really old." " 'Tis. That tree was just a sprout when Daddy built this house. He said he was careful of it 'cause it was dogwood. Wait'll you see it in the springtime; all the blossoms you wouldn't believe!" All sat quietly, gazing off over the land. Della continued wistfully, "Once you could see clear out to everywhere from this porch." Oscar's earlier claim was substantiated. "We could set here and watch sunsets and sky and see the mountains all acrost there clear to Brevard. Now it's so growed up it's nuthin' but trees. Used to be everything here was trimmed and mowed. Why, this was a showplace. You could've walked around it in nylons, it was so neat. If you could see the place through my eyes, you'd know thay was good livin' here. When Daddy was livin', this was the Garden of Eden. Oh! the bloomin' there was-life everywhere! Used to be a big huge chestnut spreadin' right here over the house, but it took a blight like tomaters do." She chattered on, hungry to inform, and if we bought the farm, our appetite to learn would be as insatiable, but not yet. The realtor's arrival brought relief. "We want to investigate what's in those woods, what the land is like in there," Tom explained, "and what the view is like further up the hill," so for over an hour we tramped the irregular wooded land, the men checking contours, distances, outlooks, and business aspects, while I puffed along, falling further and further behind, eyes to the ground as I searched for plants that would 28 �indicate the type woods this might be at the height of its growing season. Anne shuttled between us. The blanket of autumn leaves revealed the tree species, but it hid most small plants. On steep slopes, however, the leaf layer was thin. Here patches of arbutus and rattlesnake plantain, dried stalks of Jack-in-the-pulpit, shriveled fern fronds, and decaying paired leaves of pink lady slippers were like dessert heaped generously onto the other features of the property. The discovery of a bank of maidenhair fern was pure icing, even though they were only dried, crumbling stalks. In spring the ferns would grace the bank with flowing green tresses, and best of all, where maidenhair grows, many forest wildflowers grow. Despite strenuous efforts, we covered only a fraction of the wooded land, but the message it shouted to Anne and me was overwhelming: this is it! Tom remained calm, as usual, his opinion an enigma, but before we left, he made arrangements to return the next day to try walking the boundaries with Oscar, a decidedly positive sign. 29 �Walking the Boundaries Walking the boundaries of this rugged, nearly 40-acre tract was a big undertaking, but Tom felt compelled to see and understand the nature of the entire property. Charlie joined him, the exploration party guided by Oscar, who must have had some misgivings about the venture. They puffed up hills and clung to saplings to keep from slipping down hills, and Tom wondered what comprised an acreland measured on the level or up and down hill. They hunted elusive clues of property boundaries in dense woods-a fence post, a strand of barbed wire, a notched tree, or a difference in tree size, for the forests on adjacent properties were older. Tom learned that the property included four small parallel downhill ridges, each with a stream or wet area in its valley. Occasional tiny waterfalls, inches high, spilled over rocks in the stream beds. Some areas were open oak forest, others impenetrable thickets of laurel and rhododendron. Old chestnut stumps jutted here and there, remnants of the magnificent chestnut forests which thrived in the Appalachians before the blight struck early in this century. The roots of a few still lived and energetically sent up shoots that in this season were only leafless sticks. Tom marvelled that these well-forested hills had been cultivated only thirty-five years ago, but in this region of plentiful rainfall and long growing season, a forest can engulf abandoned fields quickly, erasing traces of cultivation. He noticed, too, that the acreage included a number of locations that afforded beautiful views of nearby hills with mountain ranges spreading behind. Oscar tired quickly, Charlie lost interest and patience with the repeated searches for non-existant boundary traces, and Tom realized that further pursuit was not only impossible but unnecessary. Later Tom and Charlie strode into our home kitchen. Charlie grabbed several slices of raisin bread and a tall glass of milk and disappeared instantly to watch a TV football game. Tom sat down opposite Anne and me (John was away, a college freshman in Ohio) at the kitchen table and said nothing, fully aware that we were bursting to hear what had happened. 30 �"Did you walk the boundaries, all the way?" I ventured. "No." "How come?'' My enthusiasm drooped. "Kept getting lost. He didn't know where the lines ran." "Didn't know the lines!" I exclaimed in disbelief. "He's lived there over thirty years!" How little I understood at that time! "He hadn't been up in most of those parts for years, and it's all changed-fences gone, forest grown, completely different from how he remembered it. We got into jungles of laurel we couldn't push through, and the poor old fellow just wasn't up to hiking up and down those hills. He got awfully tired, so we decided to stop. I'd seen enough anyway." What did that mean? We waited for him to continue, but he didn't, stretching his little game of suspense. "Do you think the place is O.K. for us?" Anne asked rather faintly, almost afraid of his answer. "Let's make an offer on it," he replied, eyes twinkling, and we all beamed at each other. 31 �Title A swirl of visits to realtor to lawyer to banker to realtor, a series of phone calls, and a deluge of desk work busily occupied Monday of Thanksgiving week, a week Tom had taken for vacation. He made an offer on the farm, and that evening received a phone call-the offer was rejected. On Tuesday we made a second offer, but heard only silence. On Wednesday our family piled into the station wagon to join relatives in Maryland for the Thanksgiving holiday, but amid happy festivities hung the uncertainty of our real estate venture. We did not dwell on it; neither could we shake it. Nine long days passed before Tom answered the telephone's ring and heard our realtor's voice. "They've accepted your offer!" We spun in astonishment-the unexpected had happened! Deep down, almost unconsciously, each had prepared to lose the farm. Suddenly we were free to act, to plan, and our balloon of dreams swelled until it bulged magnificently. Within days it collapsed, utterly flat. What had seemed so easy, so straight-forward and even romantic, became tangled and uncertain. A tiny but vital detail in clearing the title needed resolution but was trapped in family complexities, jammed against the proverbial stone wall. We sagged with disappointment. The possibility existed that the title could never be cleared properly. When things looked especially dismal, we went to the farm to convince ourselves against it, to agree that it was not worth all the hassle and legal mess and prolonged wait, but the mellowed logs, the layered mountains, the steady stream, and the sloping forest had all cast their spell. We fell in love with the place more than before. Anne's delight in riding her horse to it and talking with the old folks was no discouragement. Next we tried to avoid the farm, hoping to diminish interest, and even investigated other properties, renewing the hunt. Places with finer streams and grander views and richer woods lured us, but our hearts were lost to the Nelson farm. Weeks passed, four, five, six, each plagued with discouragement and impatience. Anyone peering in on one of our innumer- 32 �able conferences with the realtor would have seen the three of us sitting there bleakly, shaking our heads, saying little, for there was little to say. We talked long hours with family members involved with the title problem. All meant well and wanted to do the right thing, but not everyone understood how to go about it. Gradually, through the gentle power of good will, mutual trust, and fairness, the obstructing stone wall was dismantled stone by stone, and with the simple writing of one small signature on the proper line, the three and a half month ordeal ended suddenly. Three and a half months by realty standards is not long. "Why, some of those mountain properties take years to clear," stated a realtor friend. "Property lines on many were never fully defined, or perhaps they extended from the big chestnut at the corner of Zeb Joiner's cow pasture to Buford Ertan's fenceline. The chestnut tree died three generations ago, and the fenceline rotted away in the forest." But three and a half months for us seemed interminable. On that important evening when all parties involved with the property closing were poised to converge on the lawyer's office, eager for the grand moment of signing the property over to us, the lawyer's secretary called. "Mr. Murl had to go to bed unexpectedly with flu." Several days later we met at his office and accomplished the property turnover in routine moments. The event seemed anticlimatic-no fanfare, no festivity, no flags. Tom and I did not know how to feel-jubilant, relieved, apprehensive, overwhelmed? We knew that even though our signatures filled the owner's blank on the deed, we would always sense the presence of George Nelson, cabin builder, who grubbed this farm from forest and raised his family there. Their history would not be lost. We knew, too, that now we owned a tired, littered, dilapidated farm, complete with six and a half junk cars and a rotting log house with an elderly couple living in it. 33 �Anticipation "Oh, Mrs. Hallywell, I'd dearly love to do that!" Della burst out with this enthsusiastic exclamation in response to a suggestion I had just made-would she be interested in taping some of her extensive knowledge about the history of the old house and the way of life on the farm in past years? Now that the farm was officially ours, we were eager to collect as much information about it as possible. "Why, any time you want to start you just come out here, and I can tell you all sorts of.... Oh! the flowers and bulbs there was and two big cherry trees, those big dark sweet cherries, you know... called 'em black hearts. Used to be cherry trees all over this mountain, Daddy's and other people's trees, clear to the top where it's woods with houses all around in Laurel Park now. Oh, you don't know how good it mal<es me feel to haveyo~ J)'~~ple so interested in this place! Thay was a duckpond down in the holler, and sometimes the ducks'd walk up in the branch and get into the spring. We'd know it 'cause the water'd get all muddied up. And the chickens'd sneak into the orchards in spring time and come back with little bids and ...." "Wait a minute, Mrs. Huggins!" I had to interrupt. "I'm tremendously interested in hearing all these things, but let's wait until I have the tape recorder here. I can't possibly remember all you're telling me." "Oh, yes." Her animated face fell. I understood her disappointment. Suddenly she laughed heartily, "One time when I was just a little'n a big turkey chased me in from the barn, and you wouldn't believe it now how I could run! I flew! You know, that big pear tree over yonder's loaded with little pears that makes the best p'serves you'll ever eat. They's so good .... ," and she drifted into silence with a bright smile on her pretty, slender face. Was she recalling the taste of pear preserves on hot biscuits or corn bread? "You just come here any time, and I'll enjoy talkin' to you s'much! Why, people'd come in here to buy apples and cider and ... and 'long about late March we'd collect a mess o' creesies that growed in the fields all around. When you don't have greens to eat through winter, those creesies tastes mighty good. We'd boil 34 �'em and throw out the water and boil 'em again with fatback. That's eatin'! Cooked poke leaves the same way, just those first little shoots you get in spring. Older leaves aren't good. Used to pickle those big old poke stalks. You peel off some of the outside and cook 'em till they're tender and put 'em in vinegar like you do any other kind of pickles. And we'd fill a ten quart bucket with branch lettuce 2 and use it for salads and cookin' greens both, and then ...." "Mrs. Huggins, I'll be terribly busy at home for a couple of weeks helping the three children get ready for their summer activities. John'll be mountaineering counselor at a camp in Weaverville, and Anne is going to Wyoming for six weeks at an ecology school, and Charlie will spend a month in Wyoming, too, hiking and camping in the Wind River wilderness there. In a couple of weeks-there's just no way I can do it before then-yes, after the first week in June, they'll all be off, and I'll come here often. I'm really looking forward to it!" "Oh! so'm I! It'll be so nice! I just can't wait!" Each glowed in anticipation of the fun ahead. On May 31, several days later, shortly after breakfast, the telephone rang. It was Della's niece. "I thought you'd want to know that Aunt Deller died. She was found in bed this morning-dead." 35 �This page intentionally left blank �Chapter 3 Cleanup Unpleasant Realizations Vandals Traces Relief Map The First Advisors Down to the Logs 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 042 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0. 044 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 • 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 37 38 48 50 56 �Unpleasant Realizations Another jolt struck within weeks. Oscar and the family members he would live with in a nearby town collected what they wanted from the house and loaded it onto a small dump truck. When they were about to leave, an extensive assortment of leftovers, even large pieces of sectional sofa, still lay scattered about the house, prompting Tom to inquire gently, "Mr. Huggins, how can we help you with the rest of these things here, and what about all those things you have in the chicken house and corn crib and around the yard? And the old cars?" Oscar studied his feet and hunched his shoulders, looked up, then down, obviously avoiding an answer. At length he muttered, "Oh, we'll clean it up sometime," escaped into the truck, and left the farm. We sympathized. Severing the ties of years so abruptly was difficult, but when weeks passed and repeated efforts to have him remove his possessions and junk failed, in no way could we avoid the unpleasant conclusion that we had purchased not only land and a rotting house but also mountains of junk. The romantic dream of a picturesque log cabin nestled on a wooded mountainside darkened dismally in the looming cloud of a massive and inevitably disagreeable cleanup job. In a major ebb of enthusiasm and the flurry of summer commitments, we neglected the house through the hot months, then lazily extended the procrastination through autumn. Though we tramped the fields and woods in the happiness of constant discovery, becoming familiar with the contours and pathways and plants and fencelines, we bogged down in apprehension and uncertainty when we studied the bedraggled house. Should we try to rescue the logs from their rotting foundations, or should we just let nature overwhelm the structure? Only one way could this be answered-strip the house to its bare logs, inside and out, and then seek advice from people who know about log cabins. On a crisp, bright December 26th, the massive cleanup began. The spirit of an archaeological dig caught hold as our vacationing family arrived at the cabin with a burst of determination and energy. This job might even be fun! Who knows what treasures we might 38 �uncover! "Here he comes!" I called to my three menfolk who were already rummaging noisily within the house. "Just listen!" The old dump truck clattered and clanked as it struggled on the stony dirt road from the hollow at the bottom of the mountain. We stood on the front porch, looking toward the noisy evidence that Vern McCoy and his ancient blue dump truck were arriving as scheduled. All grinned as we waited, enjoying the prospect of working with this delightful man who would lend a hand for the day and haul away the debris. Vern McCoy could devise or fix nearly anything and had often done odd jobs for us at home. Now he would see the cabin for the first time and offer an opinion, which was important. After all, he grew up in these mountains and understood log houses. Sounds of the truck stopped for several moments. We knew Vern was making the sharp turn into our narrow lane and winding along the far side of the hill. Suddenly the clatter and clank resumed as he rounded the bend. He pulled up in front of us, leaned from the cab, beaming, his blue eyes twinkling. "Howdy! Nice day, hain't it!" The truck door screeched open. Vern pushed back his faithful western hat with its side brims rolled, letting loose a haphazard tuft of gray-brown curls, and lowered his tall frame to the ground. Then, suddenly frowning, he walked to the house and stood before it as we watched anxiously. "Hit's a sorry lookin' place, hain't it?" he drawled, candidly expressing his first impression, and with slow, lengthy strides, he proceeded around to the south side, then to the back. In silence he studied the rotten foundation logs, ignoring the solid, strong logs which lay exposed above. "Hmmmmmmmm." We waited his assessment tensely. "They's mighty tarred logs." "Tarred?" I questioned, puzzled, wondering where he found tar on them. "Yep, plumb wore out." "Oh!" I was still not used to the mountain dialect. McCoy stalled a bit, clearing his throat, appearing to study 39 �the structure more carefully. He stooped down, then straightened and looked directly at Tom, stating, "If'n hit was mine, I'd set a match to it." A bleak silence followed this blunt suggestion. Finally, as if simply to break it, Tom commented flatly, "Well, that's interesting." We chewed on this first morsel of official advice as we attacked the interior wall coverings in the log section of the house, so charmed by the candor of his opinion that we ignored its implications. Plaster wallboard covered layers of brown wrapping paper over a spread of flattened cardboard cartons, each layer nailed solidly to underlying logs. Beneath the cartons stretched three layers of varied wallpapers carefully hiding simple, old-fashioned whitewash. Clouds of plaster dust and house dust hung as we tugged and ripped, breathing through bright bandanas tied over noses and mouths. Divided labor evolved automatically as the stronger men did the pulling while Anne and I gathered debris into rapidly growing piles and tried to sweep what seemed like thousands of nails and loose litter from under foot. We collected old cans and household leftovers and pieces of floor coverings for the piles, too. Standing to rest a moment, I pondered the designs on the wallpapers and recalled how thrilled I was as a child when my bedroom was repapered. It suddenly became a beautiful, absolutely new room. Surely the children in this house bubbled with excitement when the stark whitewash was first covered with decorative paper! How the family must have glowed with pleasure as each successive layer surrounded their living space with fresh decor! The cartons? The wrapping paper? Perhaps those later layers told of sterner times. Certainly they were to insulate-inevitably cold must have worked its way inside to chill the family. Now the coverings lay broken and torn and mixed in dusty piles. We carried debris, bit by bit, to the truck, and the first load was piled high when Vern McCoy set off with it for the county dump. Then we collected a second heaping truckload. McCoy waved cheerfully from the cab and yelled, "Be seein' ya," as he 40 �headed out the lane with this final load of the day. Beyond our sight, did he shake his head in bewilderment of those crazy outsiders? Did he mutter to himself, "They gits a farm but don't want to farm none and wastes time messin" 'round with a sorry old place that ain't worth nuthin'." "Two towering truckloads! Whew!" Charlie explained when the noise had subsided. "Never thought there'd be that much stuff!" No one dared mention that the job was barely started. The interior was only partially stripped, the exterior had yet to be done, and then came the corn crib, chicken house, old cars, junk lying all over the premises .... The enormity of our task began to loom unpleasantly. Six people had each worked four and a half hours, worked hard and steadily, yet it was a mere sampling. 41 �Vandals Something looked strange. A visiting friend had asked to see the farm, and as we drove up to the house, I knew instantly that something was wrong. The loft windows were missing. The front door window gaped with jagged edges. I turned the car around hastily and departed. Someone had caused damage, and two lone women were not about to investigate. Three days passed before Tom and I were free to return, and we found a mess. In the porch bedroom wallboards had been ripped off and ceiling boards pulled down. In the main bedroom more ceiling boards dangled, and the window was pushed out from within. In the loft the dozens of stored jars were a mass of jagged fragments-the vandals had not missed one. Peering out the vacant windows, we saw broken chairs in the yard below, thrown through closed windows, carrying away sash as well as pane, scattering broken glass in the grass. Linoleum was ripped from the kitchen floor. We were completely perplexed and hurt as we surveyed the ugly scene. What was the purpose of this action? Throwing chairs through closed windows or breaking jars might be classified as sick or perverted "fun," but pulling down ceilings would require tools and work. Why such effort? Was someone hunting something? The county sheriff offered only a listening ear and the suggestion that we post the place. Post it! We wanted the farm to be a friendly place, welcoming anyone as long as they respected the land and its wildlife and buildings, not a forbidden place surrounded by a series of NO TRESPASSING signs. But two metal posts now stand at the entrance of our inviting, peaceful lane, with a metal cable extending between them, an ugly, unfriendly cable. A padlock secures it and must be locked for each visit. A NO TRESPASSING sign greets the visitor instead of a WELCOME sign. We nailed more signs to the house, attached a padlock to hold the front door shut, and nailed boards and plastic to cover the gaping windows, making the cabin interior dark and gloomy. We resent those locks. They go against all the farm stands 42 �for-simple, trusting, honest living, quietly remote from pressures. We were idealistic and naive to think that remoteness means escape from the malicious destroyer who finds fun at his brother's expense. As I spent hours meticulously picking fragments of glass from the lawn grass, my mind searched repeatedly for a motive for the vandalism. What kind of tragic, lonely, confused personality would reap satisfaction from the act? We felt pity rather than anger, but the event was unsettling. 43 �Traces John and Charlie, as chief squirters, charged off eagerly with cans of white spray paint, Tom and I followed as chief hunters, though actually all four of us would be looking for traces. Starting from the dirt road at one property corner, we plunged into dense woods and immediately up a steep hill, pulling ourselves along by grasping small trunks and shrubs. "Fellows, are you marking anything yet?" I called ahead as I struggled. "No. Too busy climbing." "Here's a fence post!" yelled Charlie. "Got wire on it, too." "Great! Squirt the nearest tree-and the post, too." We were determined to mark the farm boundaries, covering a section at a time over a period of weeks. Boundary trees would be squirted generously with white blotches, making the perimeter obvious, and henceforth in our wanderings we would know when we passed from our land onto a neighbor's. Surveyors had passed through several years previously and splashed some trees with red, but though careful hunting located an occasional trace, most red paint had faded away. Also, fence lines once bordered the farm. Now occasional posts still jutted in the woods, but most lay toppled and rotting beneath dense layers of leaves. Finding posts encouraged the troops-they pushed on eagerly to meet the challenge of the next trace, but sometimes only by pulling long strands of barbed wire from beneath heavy mats of leaf mold could we enjoy the victory of the next post. Then the fence line disappeared. As when Oscar Huggins had been guiding, the boundary's only trace was the difference in tree sizes above and below it on the hills. "Here's a red mark!" The welcome find made direction certain again, renewing enthusiasm. For nearly two hours we progressed, foot by foot, until we floundered in a tangle of rhododendron. The dense, rigid branches slapped us with dark, leathery leaves, while setting each foot onto the ground involved a series of calculated decisions. "What's the point of going on through this stuff?" leader John called back. 44 ��"Can you see anything ahead?" Tom yelled above the leaf clatter. "All I see is this dumb rhododendron," returned a disgusted John. "How could surveyors have surveyed through this?" Charlie asked. "They didn't. They'd've hacked it down, and we'd be seeing traces of where they went through." "Then we must be off the boundary." "Well, that's for sure!" "Now I understand why some mountain people don't feel as warmly toward rhododendron as imports like us do." "Yeah, they hack it out, and Aunt Nancy said in Michigan before Christmas the stores were charging $10 a bunch for it." "Wow! There's a lot of $10s hangin' around here!" "How about this! Lost on our own land!" I exclaimed, trying to boost adventure as I sensed our project deteriorating. "We're not lost, the boundary is," stated Charlie in disgust. Enthusiasm had plummeted, with even Tom annoyed how easily we had lost the line. "We've had enough of this for today. Let's go get something to eat." Instant, unanimous agreement! We retraced our steps toward more open woods and headed in the direction of the house, passing long strips of terraces with topsides forested by saplings and sloping sides colored by evergreen Christmas fern. "Think of all the work making these terraces," I exclaimed, "and they had only horses or oxen and a drag scoop to do it, too! No one shared my enthusiasm for traces of George Nelson's hard work, so I strugged to keep quiet as we passed numerous small rockpiles humped throughout the woods, more evidence of his efforts to make farmland from forest. "Here's the turtle shell! We're nearly there. What's for lunch?" A landmark familiar from previous wanderings stood before us- a locust fencepost with the white, bony shell of a box turtle hooked over its top. Had one of the Nelsons put it there? How long ago? Why? The past kept intriguing as the boundaries kept eluding. 46 �Suddenly I recalled my disblief and impatience when Tom and Charlie attempted to walk the boundaries with Oscar and reported he could not find them -on land he had lived on for over thirty years. It had seemed to me downright incompetent, but now I understood. 47 �Relief Map "Got any more sugar?" Tom asked. He was home from work, recuperating from a virus infection, and was emptying my sugar cannister into a bowl. "Sure, I'll get it for you." Then curiosity prompted a question. "What's it for?" "I'm making a map." "Sugar? For a map? "Yep. I'll show you." The dining room table was laden with glue and tape, scissors and Scout knife, cartons and slide projector, felt markers and cans of spray paint, a heaping miscellany of equipment all contributing to the production of a map, a relief map. "But how? What about the sugar?" Tom enlightened me with a full accounting of the procedure. Some weeks ago a close-up color slide photograph he had taken of a topography map of the mountain where our farm lies had served as the germ for an idea. Several days of being sick in bed had incubated the plan for the homemade map. Now came the hatching. Today he had projected the slide onto a sturdy piece of cardboard from a carton and traced the contour lines. More layers of cardboard were cut, each representing one level of elevation and conforming to the contours. Glued in place with oneinch separators between levels, they formed a stairstep hill, complete with little valleys and ridges. "I need something piled over the hills to fill in between the layers of cardboard," Tom continued. "Sand or plaster of Paris would be too heavy, and I hit on sugar. If I pile a lot of it on and shape it to the hill properly, then I can spray it with plastic spray a number of times, making a hard surface layer. Then I'll paint that layer several times to strengthen it. By then, I can dump out the supporting sugar from underneath, leaving just the contoured surface. Light weight, too. Then I'll paint on green woods and brown fields and blue streams and mark the cabin and outbuildings in black." I stood there amazed at his ingenuity, and several days later we admired the finished product that had turned out precisely as 48 �planned. Tape around the rough edges gave a finishing touch to this unique creation. Now we had a bird's eye view of our farm property. 49 �The First Advisors An archaeologist finding this collection 300 years hence would cheer with jubilation, but we were far less enthused by the assortment as we waved another heaping load of discards out the lane and listened to its clattery ride down the road. "Load number three gone!" We beamed with relief. Tom, our boys, Vern McCoy, and I had just spent four hours piling junk from the corn crib, chicken house, and adjacent areas onto the loyal blue dumptruck. We worked against time and cold on a gloomy, raw day, but ever since I have regretted not taking time to list even part of the incredible variety, all of it beyond use. I recall a few items: chick feeder, golf club, door, mop, tin roofing, burlap bags of jersey loopers, plow blade, cosmetic jars, car bumper, soggy fertilizer, cans of rusty nails, bleach jugs, car chain, rake, shoes, spark plugs, window sash weights, coconut halves, shotgun parts, car fender, kerosene stove chimneys, license plates, jack, cooking pots, and the inevitable wire coathangers. Having neither strength to cope with trash nor money to hire someone else to do it, the old folks, Oscar and Della, had resorted to the only course they found possible, stashing their junk in the most convenient locations on their premises. Cleanup on the farm was progressing well, and Tom and I made frequent use of the land for hiking, bird watching, botanizing, photography, and wonderful loafing. Charlie and Anne and John, when home, shared some of these activities and added horseback riding and target shooting. But permeating all the fun was that persistent, nagging question about the house. Somehow we just could not accept McCoy's advice to "set a match to it;' but finding that special someone who would not only know log houses but have a feel for them continued surprisingly difficult. Most local log homes are gone, torn down as old fashioned or obsolete, used for firewood or to construct farm outbuildings, even overwhelmed by nature in the forest. Today only a lone stone chimney, a few overgrown boxwoods, or persistent periwinkle or daffodils or fruit trees mark the site of many once-flourishing homesteads. Some log houses were incorporated into barns or homes, their walls covered with siding that conceals any identity. 50 �With the houses went the people who intimately knew their construction details. Many leads took us around the county to "old timers who might know," delightful folks with whom we had hours of talk about past ways. "Why, sure, when I was a young'un, we lived in a log house over yonder, up Big Hungry way. Had a big old wood stove that kept the place right cozy and got our drinkin' water from the branch there, gravtee feed, y'know. M'daddy worked us a right good livin' there off that land. We was a happy lot." But when questions about log construction details or who might help us arose, heads shook, brows furrowed, and glances were exchanged. Either they did not know or they did not want to get involved. Whenever we read or heard of a nearby reconstructed log house, we visited its owner to discuss the procedure and learn who did the work. "Did the work ourselves," we heard repeatedly. "Couldn't find anyone to help." "But how did you know what to do?" "Didn't. Just tried something, and if it worked, fine; if it didn't, tried something else." Procedure boiled down to trial and error, no one making any effort to belittle the task. We noted that most had created strictly modern homes built from old logs. How we wanted the experience of doing most of the work ourselves, too! But Tom was deeply involved in the planning and implementation of major construction for his department at work. As I would be shuffling penciled drawings of humble cabin plans, he would be covering our dining room table with great sheets of complex drawings for a multimillion dollar building. His time for cabin work would be minimal. We needed help. The hunt for old logs to replace our several rotten ones also led us into the far reaches of the county, but the right shape and size remained elusive. In remote hills we discovered several abandoned houses with tantalizing, perfect logs and knocked bravely at doors of nearest homes to track down possible owners. "Some feller in Miami has owned that there land and old house for years. Don't never come up this way that I ever knowed of' The houses 51 �would undoubtedly rot away, forgotten and useless, taking history with them. One owner, delighted with our attention to his cabin, explained, "M'granddaddy built that little house, and m'daddy was borned in it, so we're akeepin' it to fix up some day." The tiny house with its precious logs was an heirloom, like a chest or bed. As we looked and asked and listened, gradually developing a deeper knowledge and understanding of log houses, we realized more than ever that George Nelson's carefully arranged rectangle of logs was an architectural endangered species. Its kind was being killed off, and the surviving individuals must be protected and pampered at any cost. To save the cabin became a cause, not only just to save the Nelson homestead, but to save a true Southern Appalachian log house. We jotted down names of several builders who might give it a look, maybe even help, and one mild winter day our first advisor rode to the farm with us. As we turned in the lane, he exclaimed. "Why, this here's the old Nelson farm! I've been here aplenty. I didn't know you was talkin' about this place. Why, m'granddaddy raised thirteen kids on that hill over yonder. I been all over these hills," and he flung his arm in a grand sweep that would have surpassed 360° had it not been restricted by the car. His enthusiasm collapsed when he saw the house. "Now, that's a pity. This used to be a fine house, a fine place." After he had walked around it, shaking his head from time to time, he stated, "No, I wouldn't want this job at all. Wouldn't know where to start in a job like this'n. No tellin' what you'd git into. Takin' it apart's worse'n puttin' it up new. I 'predates your askin' me, and I sure wish I could he'p you, but I just cain't afford a job like this'n." We understood and enjoyed hearing tales about his early days in the area, but had to cross him off our short list of potential builders. The season had progressed into February before a somewhat drab, almost gloomy builder contemplated our problem house in solemn, studied silence. Bluebirds called soft messages in the large maple above the chicken house, and a titmouse lustily declared his territory at the edge of the woods. Daffodil spears with yellowing 52 �buds decorated the front yard banks. While Tom talked with this uninspired man, we sauntered around the yard, and my thoughts meandered to the happy anticipation of watching spring spread its beauty over our lovely fields. Soon that delicate green of new.... "These foundation logs must be replaced; they're rotten." I was jolted back to the builder as he suddenly announced this recommendation as if proclaiming some bold and revolutionary idea. "I recommend jacking up the entire structure and replacing all the foundation logs. The roof must be renewed and the back porch reconstructed." The last statement almost caused us to burst into laughter. The kitchen stoop, which barely merited the title "porch," appeared as if a well-placed kick would collapse it permanently. "Yes," responded Tom politely, waiting for more imaginative, less obvious advice, but none came. "Do you have equipment for jacking?" "No, I don't." "Can you suggest someone?" "Reve Thomas used to do jacking, but he's given it up now. Got to be too much for him. Can't say I know of anyone offhand!' "Do you know where we could get some replacement logs?" "No, can't say I do." Concluding that this man would not be caught dead tackling this job and thoroughly unimpressed with his sensitivity or imagination, Tom let him off the hook by asking, "Do you know of anyone who might consider undertaking this job?" "Nooooo, I really don't." After an appropriate exchange of small talk, he escaped us and must have heaved as big a sign of relief as ours as he drove out the lane. A mountain born realtor friend with a love for old cabins expressed interest in looking at ours and boosted our spirits with his hearty, "This place is great! By all means, restore it!" We clung to these optimistic words which gave a powerful shove to our dragging momentum. The serviceberry trees were lacy with blossoms, and field sparrows called from beyond the hollow when an old timer joined us 53 �at the farm. He had come recommended with reservations. "I wouldn't ask him to build a fine house, but for the rustic kind of job you'll want, I wouldn't be surprised if he's your man. He doesn't work much now, so might have the time and probably be glad to do it at his own pace. He'd know as much as anyone around here these days." Hopes rocketed. As the wiry little man approached, he turned his head and squirted a brown jet of tobacco juice into the nearby violets. "Howdo. I'm Cate Owens. Purty day, hain't it? Nice place you got here, really nice. Understand yer wantin' to do up the house. Gonna live here?" "We just want to fix it up enough so we can enjoy it on weekends and vacations." "Vacations, hunh?" His eyes had a fleeting twinkle. "The only vacation I'll ever git is when m'toes is stuck up, and then I won't know nuthin' about it." He burst into contagious laughter at this bit of wit which obviously had been used before with good results. We joined him heartily, charmed immediately by his friendly simplicity and wonderful mountain talk. As we stressed our desire for a simple, basic cabin, our hopes that he could help us build faded quickly, for he seemed frail and unwell. "I know what you wants. Youens wants an old timey house. I built one fer a man back when I was a young-un, the beautifullest little log house hit was, over there in Avery County near that town ...that town ... blamed if I can recollect hit's name. I guiss I could figger how we done it. But I'll tell you one thing fer sure 'bout this house of yournses. Hain't looked it over too careful yit, but I'm atellin' you you'll hafta take 'er all down and fix 'er underneath and then put 'er all up agin. Hit'll shor take vision, lots o' vision;' and he paused, savoring this fine word as well as his own picture of the new house, and we shared the moment envisioning our own. "Wish I could he'p you on it-hit'll make a fine house," he continued after he looked it over, "but I'm agittin no accounter all the time. Had a fool accident with m'mule a few months back. Was hitchin' him up, and he spooked and drugged me a ways 54 �and wrenched m'back, and I hain't done no good since. I was fixin' to quit workin', but a man's gotta eat. Cain't do nuthin' heavy, though; just git all tarred out. I come here hopin' I could he'p, but hit's a heavy-type job. If I took holdt of one of them logs and c'menced movin' it, Lord he'p me, I'd be worser'n I can tell you." He lingered an hour or more, and no one could have decided which of us had more fun. We wallowed in frustration and disappointment that Cate Owens was disabled, for we liked him. This was our man, a fellow in tune with our project. Then one day, amid April's burst of glory, while cherry trees were snowing the ground with fallen petals and dogwoods whitened hedgerows, while oaks blossomed and pink lady slippers budded on graceful stalks, Tom led Jimmy Payne and his crew of wrecker trucks from Hendersonville to the farm. Wonder of wonders, they hauled away the six and a half junk cars, and the cluttered scene was transformed! 55 �Down to the Logs "And what did you do down there in North Carolina?" I could picture the interested mother in Ohio, welcoming home her college-age daughter who had visited us a few days. "Well, we kicked a rotten porch off a broken-down mountain cabin and yanked plasterboard from inside walls." John had taken his guest to the farm to see the log house and hike a while and must have remembered our proclaimed policy of "little by little," that accomplishing even one small task on each visit would all add up to progress. The young folks kicked away the rotten supports and ripped off the crumbling boards of the tiny kitchen stoop. Inspired by this to grander things, the workers delved into stripping more plasterboard from the living room walls. They arrived home dusty and weary and smiling broadly from their accomplishments. "It was really great fun!" exclaimed our guest. Sometimes for only minutes, sometimes for concentrated spurts of an hour or two, the interior wall stripping continued. The plasterboard crumbled rather than coming loose in handy sections, the nails holding the layers beneath it refused to budge, the wallpaper clung. Anne blossomed with special talent for dislodging nails with hammer and nail bar. I specialized in the tedious task of scraping chunks of whitewash from the logs-with putty knife, chisel, nail file, screw driver, fingernails, wire brush, or whatever tool seemed likely to dislodge the hard white layer from its particular groove or crack. One day when sourwoods blossomed and blackberries ripened and a scarlet tanager called on and on from the top of the tall honey locust, dusty figures with bandanas over their noses moved about in the dark and dusty interior of the old log house. The happy realization that today was the final day of this choking, miserable job urged us on. Piles of wall debris lay humped on the cabin floor for the last time, and back and forth, back and forth McCoy, Tom, Charlie, and I plodded, each methodically playing his laborious turn in this too-familiar game of fill-the-old-blue dump-truck. Sweeping the entire floor served as the winning play. The dust settled. We stood wearily in the empty room, study- 56 �ing the effects of our labors. The exposed logs were handsome, and Tom fingered several of the broadaxe marks on them. Unconsciously, I copied his movement on another log, then suddenly exclaimed, "It's beautiful!" The men all nodded, smiling agreeably. 57 �This page intentionally left blank �Chapter 4 Decisions The Kitchen ............................. 60 More Misgivings, More Advisors .............. 64 Corncrib ................................ 69 Tires ................................... 71 Zeb Collins .............................. 75 The Drawings ............................ 77 Builder ................................. 79 59 �The Kitchen The cabin? What cabin? This summarized our unexpectedly indifferent attitude toward the old log house throughout the second summer of our ownership. Though the pressure to act grew more acute, action became the victim of our involvement with family jobs and everyday living. Anne was in Norway, living in Bergen with a Norwegian family. Charlie started as dishwasher at a pancake house and advanced to flipping pancakes and cooking steaks. His schedule kept him busy well into the night. John worked shifts at the plant where Tom worked, a different shift each week, and even when on day shift, his hours differed from Tom's. Work demanded unusual portions of Tom's time, while my life seemed centered around meals at any time of day and growing and preserving vegetables and fruits. The three men were coming and going at constantly changing hours, one sometimes appearing for breakfast as another finished dinner. In one phase Charlie arrived home from work, hopped from the car, and left the motor running; John climbed in and drove off to work. The cabin endured low priority, but occasional jobs sneaked into the tight schedule-like the kitchen. Dismantling the "kitchen room," as the Nelson family called it, happened in reverse of plans, quite backward, or actually, inside out. What a tremendous blessing this was! Tom, John, and I approached its exterior one warm morning. Field sparrows called from many directions, and the indigo bunting sang interminably from his perch on top the hemlock. The beautifully weathered clapboards glowed mellow-gray in soft morning light. We would remove and store them carefully, saving them for something special. John gently urged a chest-high board away from the wall, using a claw hammer and a small nail bar. As we watched in motionless suspense, the old wood stubbornly resisted John's steady pressure. Suddenly it splintered grandly in a shattering crack that sent all stumbling back in surprise. One board was destroyed, and a second snapped quickly though pried even more meticulously. 60 �"Too much overlap at this level," John concluded, "and they're awfully brittle. We'll have to start on the top ones and work down." "I'll get the ladder from the car," Tom volunteered, then paused, "Did anyone put it in?" Silence. "Did we all forget?" Silence. "Well, there goes that project!" Each annoyed with self and others for such forgetfulness, we ambled inside the kitchen to assess its interior and perhaps use our efforts there. Plasterboard walls loomed. "No! I can't face that horrible, dusty stuff again!" I lamented, knowing that eventually I would have to, but winning unanimous support for my sentiments. Fortunately, delay was easy, for a variety of window and door moldings and cupboards overlapped the wallboard and required attention first. The satisfying screeches of nails pulling from wood accompanied straining muscles. Quick results were pleasing, but by early afternoon all delaying tactics had been exhausted. The plasterboard came next. I cannot say we attacked it with courage; it was with resigned, dogged acceptance. Since the struggle required concentration, conversation lagged. Then Tom remarked, "Have either of you registered on what's beneath this stuff?" We looked. "Oh, no!" "Yccch!" exclaimed John. A solid wall of strong boards was deep-nailed into the studs. Our ride home after the day's hard work was subdued, partly from fatique, more from the discovery of those boards. As we bounced along in silence, I shoved aside all thoughts of the formidable effort that would go into removing them and mused instead on things a Nelson family member had told recently about that old kitchen. "They added that kitchen room to the log house around 19 and 28 or 30. One of George Nelson's sons had a little house near the lane entrance for a while. When it got tore down, its wood was used for that new kitchen room. They built a little porch off the log house so when you went to the kitchen, you stepped out- 61 �doors to the porch first, but they found they didn't like that much, 'specially in winter, so they closed in the porch and made it part of the kitchen. That's why the floor's the way it is-them big, wide boards agoin' one way bein' the kitchen, the little one goin' the other way being that little old porch. Then they added that tiny little extry porch, the one John and his girl knocked off." So all those kitchen clapboards and the fine floor boards and the uprights with the boards so well-nailed into them had served first in another house! "In my earlist recollection, back in the early 1900s, the big fireplace was the cookin' place. They used big iron cookin' pots. The fire never went out from fall till spring. They always did what they called 'bedded the fire down' for the night, and next morning they just knocked the ashes off and fanned the coals with an old turkey wing to make the fire start burnin' real quick. And the hearth rock-oh, it was as wide as a table-it'd get so hot! Little bare feet sure warmed up on that!" As I listened, I could almost feel that good heat on cold feet. "There was a bed near the hearth, but when they added the kitchen out back, they'd didn't put a bed in there. I know'd a lady said she wouldn't have a kitchen 'thout a bed in it. "The kitchen was moved around 'cordin' to what the family needed and 'pendin' on what time of year it was. What's bedroom now was kitchen for a while, and the room on the front porch was kitchen once. When the weather was good, the family ate on the porch. Before settlin' down, someone had to get a fly brush-that's a twig with leaves on it for swattin' flies with. In later years somebody made a little piece of screenin' wire 'tached to a stick for hittin' flies-called it a fly flap. "You know, they didn't get a icebox here till after World War II, and they had to get the ice in Hendersonville and carry it all the way back. Then 'bout in the '60s, they got a little 'lectric 'frigerator for Della and Oscar. Before all that we canned just about everything we knew to can and pickled and dried things and made p'serves. It sure was busy around here! And you know that big hole in the bank across from where the log barn was-we called it the tunnel-that's where we stored 'taters and turnips. Heeled 62 �cabbages in way out in the field." As we neared home, my thoughts jumped from the kitchen to a gnawing sensation of rebellion. Why had we wasted a magnificent summer day knocking apart somebody's old worn out kitchen? We should be picnicking by a mountain stream or hiking in high places or exploring Cherokee country in the Smokies. Would we ever be building rather than tearing down and cleaning up? Should we continue this time-consuming folly? When family effort several days later had the kitchen walls stripped to the wooden boards, Tom noted, "This old room's in really good shape; the walls are sound and sturdy. Let's let it stand a while." "We could make it into a guest house!" quipped someone. "I love its lines. It's really quite cute." I had grown attached to it. "I like it, too;' agreed Tom. "Let's keep it." So the old kitchen lived on, the importance of its future role never suspected. How could we ever have managed the big job ahead without it? How grateful we became for the irresponsible trio who had left the ladder at home one day! 63 �More Misgivings, More Advisors Tom perched on the broad arm of an upholstered chair, leaning against the east living room wall, while I stretched masking tape across the solid wall of logs to the west. "Oughta be lower," he advised. I moved the tape. "Hows that?" "O.K., I guess, but it's hard to decide window size when I'm seeing the view under these circumstances. Sit here and see what you think." We were playing with the idea of a front living room window. If the house were restored, two of the three north windows would be replaced by a stone fireplace. We would need more light; and any new window should be on the front, toward the western view, meaning the porch room would have to go, for it stood behind the front wall where our hypothetical window was outlined in tape. All we could do was stare at the logs and envision the view. "What are we doing?" Tom looked at me quickly, perplexed. I elaborated, "What are you and I doing here in this dilapidated house? Tom, you know it would be an awful undertaking to restore this thing, much as we'd like to." "Sure would. What'll we do with the house then, forget it?" "We could just relax and enjoy the property like we set out to do originally and ignore all this house mess. Let it rot! After all, it's the land we wanted. This thing just tagged along." We mulled this a moment before I went on, "Of course, if we're out here alot, we will need a shelter of some sort." "Building something new would be a lot less work." "But these logs are so beautiful!" Every bit of common sense shouted and blared that we were crazy, yet the feeling persisted that we should heave common sense to the winds and pursue this adventure, this whim, this intriguing possibility, this tired, proud old cabin that had capitivated us with its living history and exciting potential. Neither of us expressed further opinion or stated a conclusion. We returned to the tapes on the log wall. 64 �And we lined up more advisors. Queen Anne's lace bobbed in mid-summer finery, and bluebirds were feeding their third nestful of young on the morning a man well-acquainted with old cabins arrived. I had met him at a National Historic Site where he was curator of a restored collection of Appalachian log houses, and as he guided me around, I told him about our cabin. "I want to see it;' he had announced with immediate interest, implying that we would be doing him the favor. Confessing his "affliction" of a soft heart for old log houses, he was eager to encourge saving as many as possible. His trained eye studying our house noted features no other advisor had pointed out. Thirty foot logs were exceptionally long. Rounding of exposed rafter tips was an unusual and fine touch. He lifted slightly the low end of a vertical board which covered the corners and looked at us, smiling broadly. "Beautiful! Double lock notching, perfectly fit! This house was built by a real craftsman who cared. Don't dare let anyone talk you out of restoring it. Look at those logs- except for a few, bad spots on the lower ones, they're great! It should restore beautifully." Transfused with new determination, we called an architect. Preposterous! An architect for a worn out log cabin! But his firm had reconstructed a lovely old cabin in an adjacent county, so I had tracked him down for advice. Many weeks later, stylishly clad and all business, architect Homer Dock arrived at the cabin and immediately looked unsettled, even a bit shocked, by the condition of house and premises. His prosperous firm was not accustomed to dealing with structures of this caliber. He inspected the house conscientously, however, unavoidably intrigued, pointing out several defects which others had either not noticed or ignored. "Several of these rafters are in two sections, nailed together by a third. Unsafe, completely unsafe. The entire roof support structure as well as the roof must be replaced. In fact;' and his arms made an all-encompassing sweep of the house, "you'll have to reconstruct everything. The only useable part of this thing is the logs, and they're probably rotten on the ends- 65 �most are. Cut the ends off, use shortened logs, and design and build a whole new cabin. And by all means, build it further up the hill where the view is better." A bleak silence followed. Our determined, one-track desire to restore the cabin to its authentic, original form faltered. Dock grabbed his opportunity. "If you'll come down to my office and present me with a list of the features you want in a cabin, I'll draw some plans for you to consider." "Then would you do the building?" "Well, ah, I'd have to know more details first. This, ah, this isn't the kind of job we customarily do, you understand. The cabin you saw was a special favor for a longtime friend. Any builder could use our plans, of course." "We understand;' Tom said with more profound meaning than the architect might have caught. Our house was a hot potato; he-and no one else-would risk touching it. Should we give up after all and resign ourselves to attempting a slow, spare time restoration alone, fumbling through, taking years? The experience would be tremendously rewarding. But our three young folks were seldom home to help now. With John and Anne both off for college soon and Charlie off to prep school, Tom and I realized with a touch of sadness that time had evaporated our dream of the farm as a family place, always ready for regular family use. Though the three students would be home occasionally and help generously, mostly there would be only two of us. John had been right when he predicted that our piece of mountain would be mostly for Tom and me. The undertaking alone was overwhelming. The temptation to see what ideas the architect might produce led us to his office where a plan evolved quickly: 1) Take the house apart-discard rotten parts, save useful ones. 2) Rebuild up the hill -the view is much better. For these we would have to: 3) Survey the hill-the new house must fit it properly. 4) Compile data on dimensions of useable materials. 5) List requirements for the new house. 66 �From our data the architect would make sketches of several possible plans for us to consider. What fun! We offered him some rough sketches how we thought the cabin should look, but he rejected these bluntly, without a glance, explaining that he wanted to tackle the plan fresh and uninfluenced. Uneasiness crept over us, but curiosity lured us on. "Shades of the pioneers!" I exclaimed several days later as, feeling thoroughly inadequate for the job, I approached the impenetrable tangle on the hill behind the old house with pruning sheers and a spindly saw. Stronger Tom had the larger tools. How challenged pioneers must have felt as they approached virgin forests with cross-cut saw and axe! Before we could survey, we must clear away the dense growth of young trees, shrubs, and vines. Dogwood, sassafras, locust, maple-I named them as I snipped and sawed them from their roots. Sumac, holly, tulip tree. It hurt to cut off lovely little trees. Blackberry, poison ivy, honeysuckle, greenbriar-this pesky foursome was expendable. What a variety of plants had invaded this old orchard where only one of the original apple trees clung to life, twisted with age, but gamely supporting several live twigs among its brittle dead branches. For several hours Tom and I yanked and cut, dragged and piled, and took breaks frequently to relax beneath the two white pines which towered uphill from the site. The warm needles beneath were dry and pungent as we gazed to the mountains and watched hawks wheeling high above. During one break I thought aloud, "I wonder about George Nelson-when he worked on this hill-picking apples maybedid he stop for quiet moments, too, looking over to those same mountains for refreshment?" No response was necessary, and Tom offered none. We sensed George and daughter Della watching us and saying, "Take good care of this land we loved. Appreciate its beauty and use it well." I had laughed at the prospect of our surveying a building site, for we had neither tools nor experience, but I had underestimated Tom's ingenuity. From three afternoons' work on the hill, with 67 �Anne's invaluable help during a weekend home from college, we held before us an impressive array of numbers and lines on paper and admired a veritable forest of numbered stake across the hill. Hiring someone else to do the job would have been far quicker and easier, but now we glowed with a sense of great accomplishment. Primitively but adequately, we had surveyed a hill, all by ourselves! In compiling data for the architect we took special pains to emphasize our desire for a structure resembling the original log house, the house as George Nelson had built it, using the same dimensions, and the same early door and window locations. Simplicity and authenticity were top priority, to be pushed aside only for minimal electrical items-a few lights, a tiny stove, a small refrigerator, and several heating elements-and for a modest kitchen sink and tiny bathroom. Certainly these modern comforts could be included without compromising the spirit and atmosphere of an old cabin. We reviewed the data repeatedly, convinced they were organized, concise, and easy to interpret, and delighted to have all the precise data and air-castled requirements for our dream cabin on that one, wonderful, little sheet of paper. One blue-skied day in November my visiting sister and I, radiating with the importance and excitement of our mission, carried the precious sheet to the architect. He laid it aside unceremoniously, not even glancing at it, pointed out that there would be delays on the drawings due to business pressures and the complexities of the upcoming December holidays, and proposed a local tour with him to look at several buildings he had designed and built using hand hewn logs. The buildings were unique and clever, several even quite handsome, impressing us, as he had hoped, with his talents. As we journeyed homeward later, however, each confided uneasiness-buildings of old logs, yes, but everywhere the effect of newness, even with contemporary touches, nowhere the comfortable, weathered effect we loved and hoped to keep, nowhere the aura of the Appalachian mountain cabin. The picture disturbed us. 68 �Corncrib We had no intention of taking it down this day. Tom, John, and I had snatched an hour of the dark December afternoon to run to the farm to investigate how we might dismantle the corncrib. It leaned precariously, utterly beyond repair. "A good kick ought to do it," John joked. "That old thing's probably tougher than you'd suspect," mused practical Tom. "Well, the slats have to go first. Let's see how easily they come off." John yanked one vigorously with his claw hammer and nearly fell backward as it let go instantly. Recovering, he knocked off a series of slats in quick succession, scarcely giving me time to shout, "Save the slats! Don't break them! Save the door, too. We can use them for something." "Great for kindling," laughed John, his handsome face alight as he teased me. "No, seriously," I countered, hastily collecting slats as they fell, "they'll make great picture frames." I fingered the weathered gray of one. "They'll make a heap of frames-all pictures, no wall." "But they can be used for lots of things like, well, like-they're beautiful old wood, and I know we can use them for something. We'll save them, so be careful." Tom had joined John knocking slats off but offered no support for either side of the banter. The flurry of activity soon had the corncrib standing bare of slats. Only upright corner logs separated roof from floor. John feinted an axe blow to one, a gesture which asked Tom, "Shall I go ahead?" "We weren't going to take this thing down today;' Tom said, grinning, and John understood the indirect affirmative. A solid blow to the first upright caused a mere tremble. John, obviously enjoying the prospect of the effects of more blows, worked vigorously. Suddenly the whole crib gave a few inches, and the uprights cracked at the base. After another mighty blow, he cheered, "Down she goes!" The old crib collapsed sideways, settling flat with a clatter of tin roof and a wonderful whoosh of air. 69 �The foe had been conquered, and the victor raised his axe in triumph. Maybe we hadn't intended to take it down this day, but we couldn't help it! 70 �Tires Fog hid the distant mountains. "Are they really out there?" someone queried, half serious. The western scene was a gray-white blank. We felt surprised that we had emphasized the mountains so much as "the view," for this day when they seemed nonexistant, a fine view persisted. By hiding the distant view, the fog cleverly emphasized the close. The near hills lay soft and filmy in a misty mantle of gray twigs. The two hemlocks loomed darkly beside the house, mysterious and protective. Behind them twig fingers on the tall honey locust reached upward into murky oblivion. A nuthatch coursed jerkily along its branches, investigating bark crannies for tidbits. A crow flapped over the cabin, swooped toward the hollow, and vanished into nebulous woods beyond. The fields lay silvery, harboring seeds and roots that would surge with growth when longer, warmer days returned. Many days will come when the mountains stand invisible, but we on our hill need have no concern for this. The close view pleases us equally. "Well, time's up for contemplating views and foggy trees," Charlie stated with a laugh. "Let's tackle tires." Where the stream drops into alders before sliding over rocks into the seclusion of :rhododendron, old tires lined its banks and bed. Most were bogged down, heavy with mud and water, but we had concluded their removal should be reasonably easy; after all, they numbered only about a dozen. But each tire pulled with puffing effort revealed another one or two beneath it, buried beneath years of fallen leaves and muck and silt. Each stubbornly refused to leave its resting place without forcing John or Charlie to struggle his utmost. Many ringed alders or rhododendrons ten to fifteen feet tall, and cutting the tires to free them was impossible with our simple tools, so the boys cut the shrubs-the shrubs were expendable. But the thicket was dense, and we were growing more and more impressed by the difficulty of the struggle and the mushrooming size of the tire pile. Gloves became soggy and cold, breath puffed visibly in the raw air, and few kindly feelings warmed our hearts as we thought 71 ��about the person who had placed those tires. Why did he go to the effort of hauling all those tires down there? Or did he stand on the hilltop with the tire poised for the downhill run and let 'er roll? We warmed to the picture of rolling dozens of tires down the hill. Maybe a couple of boys did it, maybe a boisterous gathering of happy men and boys. What fun! We could almost hear their laughter. But again, why? To dispose of them in a waste place? To prevent erosion? No one in the present family knew. Beauty certainly rated no consideration. Utility had undoubtedly been the motive, for the tires were arranged in the stream bed and on the banks methodically. Perhaps they broke the force of water plummeting down the narrow stream bed during summer cloudbursts. Perhaps the person who laid them felt as strongly about his motive as we did about ours to remove them, so we tried to understand him as we labored. The heap by the stream accumulated to thirty-six tires, bedecked with a motley collection of rusty car parts, collapsing cans, and broken jars. Though my suggestion a week later that we head for the cabin to carry tires up hill to the lane met with groans and drop-dead looks from our three visiting children, once on the scene they proved again the delightful cleverness of youth in making fun out of a dull job. As brilliant sun bathed the winter day in spring-like warmth and winter garments were peeled, each porter vied to outdo the others in devising the quickest or most ridiculous or ingenious method for carrying tires. Grunts, puffs, and laughter floated over the hill as the family of five worked and bantered. Engrossed in techniques and friendly competition, we were surprised to discover almost too quickly that the tire pile had disappeared from the hollow and reappeared by the lane. The many-hands-lighten-labor principle had worked magnificently, and while momentum soared, all descended on the flattened corn crib roof, prying and ripping the metal sheets from a pole framework, then knocking the poles apart with an axe. Another all-family effort a week later filled Vern McCoy's dump truck, and we waved him off gaily as he departed with the 73 �thirty-six tires, rattling sections of rusty corncrib roof, and another inevitable, incredible assortment of junk. "There goes load number four!" 74 �Zeb Collins "There it is! That's the kind of cabin we want!" I exclaimed, rushing the evening paper to Tom to show him a sturdy, plain log cabin on the front page. An accompanying article described the paintstaking restoration accomplished by Zeb Collins and the authentic antique furnishings his wife, Lora, and he had collected for it. Here at last was someone who would undertand what we wanted and maybe know someone who could help us reconstruct. I was jubilant. I called him next day, and he sounded delighted by the prospect of showing us his cabin and talking about ours, but due to work hours, Tom and he had no coincident time off for over a week. "What about now?" he asked. The importance of seeing his cabin brought my instant reply. "Great!" John was home and could accompany me, and Tom could see it another time. We drove the six miles to Zeb's house and for a wonderful hour listened and looked and questioned as Lora and he showed us around the 200 year old family cabin. They described its restoration, early furnishings, and use as a family museum. As we sauntered from the cabin back to the house, I exclaimed, "If only we could find someone to help us build who has your feel for it!" "I know your man," Zeb Collins stated quietly. "Wants to make a cabin for himself some day. He's never worked on one, but he's interested in them and knows building. He's working on a house now, but just may be able to fit yours in. Name's Candler, Joe B. Candler. Everybody calls him JB. Four days later Tom and I rode down the cabin lane, making quiet tracks in fresh snow, followed by a pale blue pickup truck with its tracks tracing ours. JB and his wife, Eula, were in the truck, coming to look over the cabin to consider doing the reconstruction job. An artist had been at work in the lane, fashioning a scene of white, gray, and black with accents of tan, subdued but delicately beautiful. Crystal by crystal the painter had applied an outline of snow white to every twig and blade, creating one of nature's 75 �annual masterpieces that never ceases to thrill. Despite its beauty, the day was raw. Cold penetrated our boots, and we shifted from one foot to the other as we studied our problem house. Even the view looked cold, a classic study in gray intensities, each mountain layer less gray than the one before it until the farthest blended with the sky. The white-gray of a snow squall moved cross the peaks, progressively obliterating the peak ahead as it revealed another behind. Tom told of the advisors we had had and of the information sent to the architect. JB expressed interest in seeing Homer Dock's proposals before making any decisions. He spoke in a deep, soft voice, asked few questions, made few suggestions, smiled a kindly smile, and was thoroughly calm and non-committal. After poking about the cabin, inside and out, inspecting it rather superficially, we thought, he seemed to have completed the purpose of his visit. Before departing he stated simply, "I'll think on it. Let me know when you get the architect's drawings." Standing rather dumbly, not knowing whether to be pleased or disappointed, Tom and I watched the tail of the pickup truck until it disappeared. JB certainly showed no enthusiasm, but neither did he turn down the job as had the other builders. We dangled. What next? Wait. 76 �The Drawings "The drawings are ready," Homer Dock stated casually over the telephone, never dreaming how eagerly I welcomed his words. Christmas had come and gone, the log house nearly forgotten in the swirl of events with family and friends. This news dropped us back suddenly into the bubbling pot of planning. Excited and tense with anticipation, Tom, Anne, and I drove to the architect's office. These would be just preliminary sketches, of course, proposing several possible plans, but we would have the fun of studying them while the family was still home on vacation. The timing was perfect! Together we could choose one and add touches to suit all whims. In no time Dock would have the revised, final drawings ready. At last we could proceed, once we lined up a builder. If JB did not accept the job, Dock's company might even provide a builder. At the office we sat down as directed at a great, wide tableI felt as if a roast pig were about to be brought in. All were dumbfounded when Dock spread before us not the small rough sketches of several plans we expected but huge sheets with completed drawings of a single plan. We glanced at them, then at each other, stunned and speechless, then quickly studied the sheets again, almost blindly, awkwardly masking our perplexed disappointment. The building we saw was not what we expected or wanted, and here it lay before us grandly, essentially in a final state. The little log house shown was attractive, but not an Appalachian mountain cabin. Colonial touchs, modern deck, bi-level front porch, and a flagstone patio are not features of mountain cabins. The window and door arrangement was completely revised. How could our careful verbal and written specifications be interpreted into this? Dock was obviously wary of the old cabin as we saw it and determined to direct us into a modern vacation house design. Our conventional ideas were not his cup of tea, so he had poured ours out and served his own brand. Groping for words, we expressed surprise at the finished plan and limply repeated that we would have to study the drawings carefully at home, then call him. There was nothing else to say. All parties sensed the let-down. 77 �We escaped the unpleasant situation hastily and settled into the car with discouraged sighs. Over and over during that long ride home we shook our heads in bewildered disbelief. He had drawn a final plan without showing preliminary ones and seemed perplexed when we did not greet with enthusiasm his imaginative, resort-style cottage. The next morning, still shaken and subdued by events, we visited Zeb Collins' cabin, yearning for assurance that this type cabin was right. How effectively that little house, so plain and utterly charming, captured our hearts and dispensed the dose of inspiration and determination we needed! Then, much to our surprise, the more Tom and I studied the architect's plans the more excited we became. We scribbled off our own sketches on piles of scratch sheets, constantly referring to his drawings for help, finding them absolutely invaluable for providing us with ideas. We called Dock to report the plans "very interesting and helpful," even paid the bill cheerfully, for all was not lost, and let the association end there. Further explanation or discussion would have accomplished nothing and profited no one. Dock was obviously not in tune with us. The happy fact was that the apparent fiasco had reversed into a huge success. After providing us with excellent details for basic construction and easily adaptable scale drawings, the architect's work revealed precisely the features we did not want. It guided us beautifully to the right course by suggesting the opposite. We laughed and marveled how completely we disagreed with his design. The unexpected twist was so wonderfully and ridiculously backwards, so utterly absurd and successful, that we had far more fun planning than had everything proceeded traditionally. A rainy afternoon several days later found Tom busy with several cartons, glue, tape, and a Scout knife. Cleverly he created a cardboard model of the envisioned cabin. There it stood in three dimensions, to be seen and studied from all angles. We felt like children playing with a toy house and knew we were on the right trail at last. The cabin project had had to develop through those many months of infancy, growing pains, and adolescence. It was mature. Now all we needed was a builder willing to tackle it. 78 �Builder "Oh, no!" I wailed. "How could we have forgotten it?" "I sure don't know, but we did. Guess we had too much on our minds." We were riding to the cabin, almost there, and Tom paused to collect his thoughts, glancing at his watch. "JB's due at 11:00. That's any minute. You drop me off at the lane, and I'll walk in and be there to meet him and get started on business. You won't miss much. He may be late." I pressed the car hard on the twisty road and chose a different route home, hoping to avoid the deep, muddy ruts we had encountered on Finley Cove Road. Recent rains had made the mountain roads nearly impassable. How could we both have forgotten our most important prop? Here we were, poised to plunge into details with a builder-not any builder, but one that might even say, "Yes!" All those hours of studying plans, all those drawings, all those walks back and forth across the hill behind the house to contemplate exact site possibilities, all that work led to this critical day when we would present our concrete plan to JB and hope he would find the prospect totally irresistable. For this all-important presentation Tom had made the cardboard model, and where was it? At home! Each had assumed the other had set it in the back of the station wagon. Now JB and Tom would be talking together, the gettingdown-to-business talk we had dreamed of, and where was I? On a stupid old road with sleazy, muddy ruts just as bad and slow as those on Finley Cove. No, the road isn't stupid, I fretted; we are. I stewed all the way home and all the way back, arriving in a breathless flurry to find JB and Tom calm, smiling, and just getting started. I had missed nothing; everything was beautifully under control. I felt rather foolish. Tom, in his patient way, laid our proposals before JB, who, in his patient way, pondered them, said, "Ya, unh-hunh;' anumber of times, and added little. He drove off two hours later with the architect's grand, printed sheets and our primitive, penciled drawings, having stated, "I'll study 'em." A week later he spent another two hours with us at the cabin, 79 �all trying to ignore the chilling January wind sweeping in from the meadow. The old porch thermometer registered 30°F; inside the house it was cosier, 48°F. Business took only part of the time. JB simply liked to stand around and chat, and gradually we began to know and like this man. He was a comfortable person, gentle and pleasant. JB departed saying he had enough information now to make estimates of cost and time. "Call me, say, Tuesday-Wednesday night. I think I can figure it out by then." He still had not indicated whether he would do the job. Tom was out at meetings both evenings, so the call fell to me, and with a mighty effort of will power, I managed to delay until Wednesday night. Impatiently I dialed and hoped he would answer so his response would not be delayed a moment longer than necessary. "Hello." It was Eula. "Is JB there, please?" Suppose he were out! "Just a minute." At last! Now we would learn the facts, know where we stood. In only a moment I would know if we had a builder. "Hello." "Hello, JB. This is Barbara Hallowell. We're wondering if you have those estimate figures yet." I tried to sound casual. Of course, the figures had to precede the vital question. "Nope. Haven't had time to work on 'em yet. How 'bout I call you when I do?" "Well, yes, that'll be O.K." What else could I say? "We'll wait for you to call us." Then I added lightly, "Hope to hear from you soon." I wondered if he realized even one tiny bit the depth of my disappointment. Ten days passed without his call. One evening I announced to Tom, "I can't stand this any longer. I'm going to call JB." This time JB did have the figures and did state in words, in full, meaningful, beautiful words, "I'd like to try that job." He suggested Tom and I discuss the figures and if we still definitely wanted him to call back soon. Our discussion lasted fully five seconds. 80 �The estimate was within bounds, help was urgent, experience in log cabin construction no longer a requisite. After an appropriate delay of a few minutes, we called back, and JB sounded delighted. He estimated the job should take " 'bout three months." Assuming work could start in a couple weeks, when he finished another job, say about mid-February, that would carry us to mid-May. In the glory of springtime the reconstructed cabin on our piece of mountain would be ready for use! After we hung up, I yelled, "We're in business, on our way!" And we basked in blissful ignorance of the extent of our undertaking. 81 �This page intentionally left blank �Chapter 5 "'Bout Three Months" Two Pines ............................... 84 The Site ................................ 95 Water .................................. 101 Three Weeks and Weather ................. 109 Price of a Bathroom ...................... 112 People ................................. 114 83 �Two Pines Late in the '30s winged seeds had slipped from between the scales of ripened cones on a mature white pine on the Nelson farm. A wisp of late summer breeze caught them and swirled them away from their parent tree, scattering them widely. Dozens sifted in among weeds and grasses at the edge of the newly-abandoned orchard, but in time only two of the tiny pines that sprouted there survived the intense competition with other plants. Tom and I were destined to control the fate of these two. Through many growing seasons the two pines flourished, and by the time we were negotiating to buy the farm, the orchard trees were only memories in the minds of a few people and the two pines stood nearly seventy feet tall. "They're big, all right," Oscar agreed as we stood admiring the fine trees several months before we bought the farm, "but they ain't but about thirty-thirty five years old, 'cause that's when we stopped usin' that orchard." "You won't cut them big pines if you buy this place, will you now?" begged Della, and with complete confidence I assured her we considered them two of the finest trees on the farm. No, indeed-we would not destroy them. I felt less confident about Oscar's saw and axe. He was aging, unwell, and needed firewood for heat and cooking. Those pines, so handy to the house, would provide a wealth of wood. With no grounds for authority, not being the owner, but with considerably serious intent behind the jest, I joked lightly, "Now watch that those trees don't see the inside of your stove!" Looking back, I feel embarrassed. Oscar said nothing, but what must he have thought of us "city folks?" From our point of view, we were by no means city folks, Tom having been raised on a farm, I in a small town in farm country, and our married years had been spent adjacent to a farm, but our knowledge of country ways must have looked skimpy to Oscar. Any mountain man knows that white pine makes poor firewood-burns too fast and "resins up yer chimley," and too, cutting one of those trees was a far greater task than one old man could undertake. Our ignorance must have caused some head shaking and wry chuckles. 84 �Who could have convinced me then that two years later, on a blustry raw day in February, I would be standing on that hill behind the house arranging with a lumberman to cut down the two pines? Tom and I had fought the decision, struggling to find a way out, but no matter how we planned, any cut in the hill for a cabin site would sever half the pines' roots. A strong gust could topple the trees, and below would lie the cabin. With three brief words we sealed the fate of the pines. "They must go." The trees were marked for the guillotine, and a vision of Madame Defarge knitting their symbols into her handwork as the axe would fall flashed through my mind. Arlie Corn and I trudged up the hill toward the pines in a cold drizzle. Only eighty-three years old, he outpaced me, and when I stood beneath the trees puffing, his breathing had barely accelerated. "Gonna be a right smart job gettin' 'quipment up here," he stated after silent assessment of the situation. "Not much profit in it fer just two trees, and one of 'em's crookedy." He gave these gloomy comments time to stir in my mind before adding, "We'll hafta cut 'em in ten-foot lengths and roll 'em clean down the hill to the ioadin' truck." It'll be clean, all right, I thought. Logs that size would crush everything in their path, but the job had to be done. Days later on a frigid morning when tightly-rolled rhododendron leaves dangled from their twigs like thin pencils, I stood between the two pines and scanned the vast expanse of sky. Not even a wisp of cloud patched its perfection. The blue-shadowed cove still rested, hoary with frost crystals. Snuggled in the protection of shrubby thickets, birds roosted, feathers fluffed to insulate bodies and cover perching feet. Here spreads the epitome of a wintry morning, I mused, yet when the sun rises above the hill in a couple of hours, its heat will warm us to jacket-peeling, and the rhododendron leaves will unroll and spread to catch the warmth. What a lovely climate here! No man-made sound broke the spell, only the tumbling stream sounds in the meadow and the waking twits of sparrows in a tangle of forsythia. The sudden, penetrating, raucous call of 85 �a pileated woodpecker startled life and echoed across the cove. Stand proudly above this lovely scene, pines, for this is your last day as trees. You must be subdued by man and forced to rest a while, but in time you will return to this hill to serve again in a different way. A massive flatbed truck crept in the lane. Old Arlie Corn and a middle-aged co-worker named Coy McCartle alighted, waved greetings, and climbed the hill. Soon their ear-shattering chain saw obliterated all other sounds as it gnawed into the base of the larger pine. I looked down uneasily at two fine dogwoods, one at least twenty-five years old, and hoped the men, as requested, could drop the pine between them. The saw chewed deeper, spewing millions of woody fragments. The great tree leaned slightly off vertical; no stopping now. Wedges were set into the gaping basal incision, and metal mallet head met metal wedge repeatedly, forcefully, with a sound so brilliant and penetrating it made my ears ring. The branch tips high above shivered with each meeting of metals while the wedges dug deeper into the wound. A powerful crack sounded; the clanking stopped as the men stepped back hastily. The huge tree began its descent, slowly, then gathering momentum as its center of gravity shifted. With splintering cracks, the leading limbs plunged into the ground and snapped. The thud of the massive bole followed. The tree shuddered and lay silent. A glance at one of the dogwood trees showed half of it missing, sheared by a large branch. The men apologized awkwardly, and I accepted and understood, but with a growing sense of defeat. One after another the things we wanted to save were being destroyed. The chain saws whirred again, lopping branches off the prostrate form. The executioners had sliced down the giant; now they stripped its clothes. Soon the trunk lay naked, circular wounds whorled on its circumference. While the saw sectioned the long pine pole into ten-foot pieces, I examined the stump which stood clean and exposed in a circle of yellow sawdust. Engulfed in the spicy scent of oozing pine resin and bruised needles, I counted 86 �rings to determine the tree's age-thirty-five years! Felling and trimming the tree had been no novelty to me, but then McCartle pulled from the truck two tools I had never seen before. "What're those called?" I asked, curious. "That'n's a cant hook and this'n's a peavey," he explained. "They's old time loggin' tools just as good now as ever." With them the men pried and shifted a mammoth log ninety degrees with apparent ease and control. Within seconds it charged fiercely down the hill with awesome power, halting obediently, as if by remote control, against several smaller, preset stop logs. I was tremendously impressed. A second huge log was maneuvered deftly into position and sent plummeting, behaving perfectly. The men beamed shyly as I commended their skilltoo soon. The third log struck a slight bump as it charged off and deviated direct-line toward a lovely dogwood. A projecting ground stub mercifully saved the tree by forcing the log to a different course, straight for the kitchen end of the house. Horror for the dogwood swung to greater horror for the kitchen. The three of us waited helplessly for the disastrous crash, but several old mimosa logs, stacked as if predestined in exact optimum location behind the house, heroically shifted the missile from its destructive line. Its force waned on a gentler slope, where it settled innocently near its fellow logs. The wild run had taken only seconds, but the loggers were subdued considerably as they tackled number four. When all the pine sections had rolled, the loggers guided each up a ramp onto the truckbed, into its proper position in the load, even lifting some on top of others. The mighty trunk of the first pine lay chained and controlled on the truck, while its bushy limbs sprawled cross the hillside, an awkward jumble of giant jackstraws. Lunchtime seemed a blessed break from the noise and stress of the morning. As we pulled out bulging lunch bags and basked in the sun, McCartle initiated the conversation. "I knew this place a long time ago when Uncle George Nelson farmed it and had it fixed up real nice." "Aaaach!" exclaimed Corn, spitting out a mouthful of 87 �coffee. "That dangblasted coffee's strong enough to float an iron wedge!" McCartle ignored him. "Yea, Uncle George had a water system from way back up on the branch-chestnut poles he'd scooped out-had 'em set all along the way to git water down here near the house. Wonder if it's still aworkin'." So the original line had been hollowed chestnut poles! "The chestnut must've rotted eventually," I surmised out loud, " 'cause it was replaced with tin gutters and metal roofing strips and in some places, just dirt ditches. No one tends the water line now, so crayfish holes have let the water out." Corn joined in. "Used to be you could see everywhere and beyond from here," and we chatted on until the men sauntered off to the second pine tree, their afternoon victim. Several of its smaller logs completed a full load on the truck, but not before Corn grimaced in pain when a log slipped and pinched his hand. "Is it bleeding?" I asked with immediate concern, ready to dash for the first aid kit. "Naw," McCartle laughed, "he's too tough to bleed," and I almost believed him. "Guess we'll be leavin' now." "You'll be back to load the rest in a little while?" "Nope. Be back tomorrow mornin'. We're done out." I certainly understood their being "done out;' but had hoped fervently that the job could be completed this day. The next did not suit to come all the way out just to open the cable lock, but I would have to make it suit. A plague on that cable! That evening Tom and I surveyed the scene of execution. Oddly, there was not the vacancy on the hill we expectedyounger pines behind the big ones stood exposed now. But the straggly heaps of brush sprawled conspicuously, impressive especially because the bulldozer operator was due any day now to level the site for the cabin. That brush had to be moved soon. Daylight-Savings Time which had been instituted due to a major energy crisis, gave us welcome light to work. We struggled to disentangle the branches, trudged down the hill, up the hill, down the hill, up the hill, each up accompanied by puffs, each down by resisting, resin-sticky, awkward limbs which we heaped 88 �onto a rapidly-growing pile. An hour of steady work created a mountain, yet the hill appeared as covered with branches as before. "Maybe we'd better let the bulldozer shove them down the hill," I suggested. Tom must have been mulling the same thought, for he was ready with an unexpectedly quick answer. "No! Think what that machine grinding up and down here would do to this ground. No, thanks! We'll manage. It'll be good exercise for us." We turned to watch the sun slip behind the mountain horizon and welcomed dusk, for weariness overwhelmed us even though behind the fatigue glowed quiet excitement. Next morning the sun still hid behind trees at my back as I drove toward the cabin. My mind stirred busily with anticipation of the log loading job ahead and was totally unprepared for stunning spectacle. The low mountains ahead at Jones Gap, where I would pass over a mountain, rested peacefully in deep, gray blue. Leftover night darkened the sky behind them where a bright fingernail moon persisted. Suddenly the uppermost hilltops glowed rosy lavender, and then, as if stage lights had been switched on, the sun rose from behind a hill and bathed the entire rangetop in a wild, orange light, almost frightening in its intensity. Dazzled, I braked and stopped midroad to feast on this grandeur, this superb display of color. Its astonishing brilliance against night's waning shadows verged on the supernatural. But within seconds a dark cloud slid over the sun and stopped the show abruptly. The hills lapsed into grayblue, and I sat quietly, alone on the road, savoring the moments I had been privileged to witness. Then I proceeded on my humble errand. Dawn does not need to be a spectacular splash of startling color to be magnificent. It can be the murky, gradual lightening of a spring day drenched in rain, when tree trunks stand soaking black against a yellow-green film of miniature new leaves. It can be the eerie, early light of fogbound summer mornings, when ears must detect what eyes cannot. It can be a blue world of crystals on a winter meadow. Magnificence comes with taking time to 89 �fully experience dawn, but habitually we forget to glance its way and miss its repeated shows. Dawn is persistently, sadly unwelcome, its beauty spoiled by association with jangling alarm clocks, sleepy groans, gulped cups of coffee, and pressures to be alert and productive. Priority goes to the morning paper or TV news. My reveries halted abruptly at the cabin lane's cable. Corn and McCartle were waiting, and within half an hour they had loaded the remaining logs of the second pine. "When can you saw the logs?" I asked. "Oooh, may next day or two or three," spokesman McCartle replied. "Does the lumber come back here for drying?" "Yep." "How long must it dry before we can use it?" I was full of questions. "Maybe two-three months. 'Pends on weather." "Three months! The cabin is supposed to be finished by then! That lumber is supposed to be used in it!" We looked at each other for an intense moment-then burst out laughing. "Well, it better be a dry spring!" I exclaimed. "Now, how do we stack it for drying?" Old Corn suddenly stepped toward me. "You gotta put you a board up here like 'is 'tween two trees and put yer boards 'gainst it on end sorta. One goes this side and one goes that'n, back and forth like. Hit's easy." He looked at me eagerly, seeking assurance that now I had the full picture. Fortunately, he was unaware that I was so entranced by his presentation that I completely failed to grasp his description. The soft, gentle, almost sing-song inflection and the strange pronunciation of his delightful mountain dialect had received my full concentration. He apparently interpreted my non-committal, "Ummmm," as understanding, for the men climbed briskly into the truck, and the second pine traveled to the sawmill. That evening before dinner Tom and I plodded up and down the hill again, dragging limbs, each one tugged from a snarled mass with difficulty. Occasional glances exchanged in passing were hard 90 �to assess. What was the other party thinking: this exercise feels great, or what on earth are we doing now? The enthusiasm felt the previous night did not settle with us this second night of limb hauling. Weariness had intensified, and the mass of branches on the hillside seemed endless. Two weeks later, while staring blankly at the kitchen wall as I stirred some cooking for dinner, I was startled by the telephone's ring. "We're deliverin' the lumber now. Be there in 'bout twenty minutes." Not, "Does it suit?" Not, "Can someone be there to let us in?" Just matter-of-factly, "We're deliverin'," as if I had endless time and no commitments. I was learning fast. For many a mountain workman, time is a nebulous thing. Much rural mountain living only a generation ago followed the pattern of former generations with the selfsustaining farm unit uninfluenced by the rapid scheduling and clock watching of contemporary living. An oblivious attitude carries on from this quite naturally. Do the job when you feel ready to do it, regardless of clocks and the plans of others. I heard one old fellow berating the outsiders one day, "These folks come in here and git theirselves all busied up and 'spect you to 'rive at such and such a time and pitch a fit if you don't. What's all their hurrin' up for? If the job don't git done today, more days is acomin'. Hit'll git done. The days ain't gonna run away." Most situations have two sides, and it enriches one to understand the other. The casual pace, the nonchalance in a long wait, the unperturbed approach were refreshing to my clock-oriented, impatient self. I saw values in these that forced me to question some of my own and began to understand more fully a statement I had heard about the mountain family-that we not be too quick to teach before we have taken time to learn from them. I flew to put on heavy work clothes, for the temperature was in the teens, and scribbled a hasty note to Tom, who was due home from work in half an hour, expecting dinner. "Off to cabin to receive lumber. Dinner later. XXX, B." Only McCartle was on hand when I arrived. He tried to drive the heavy truck up the hill toward the new cabin site, but though 91 �the upper ground surface was frozen, the truck's wheels sank through into soft mud. He had to retreat to the turnaround by the hemlocks. The only choice was to unload the lumber there. I watched his unloading pace briefly while freezing nearby in the increasing darkness and realized quickly that the job would take far longer than the time for me to become an iceblock, so I plunged in to help. The boards were heavy with sticky resin and awkwardly long. Some were frozen together, many coated with ice crystals. A half hour passed. We exchanged few words, for the work was hard, the wind biting cold, and darkness nearly complete. Both wanted the job accomplished as quickly as possible. After the last board clunked onto the pile, McCartle generously explained more clearly how to build a rack for drying the lumber; then each hurried for the warmth of our respective homes and dinners. Retrospect is strange. I look back upon that inopportune, bitterly cold, miserable job as one of the most memorable and rewarding experiences in the cabin reconstruction, and I wonder why. Something about being forced from my cosy kitchen, my comfortable homemaking, into weather I would ordinarily avoid, at a time most unsuitable, for a job about which I knew nothing, was deliciously different. The hard outdoor work exhilarated, and I arrived home rosy-cheeked, hungry, and brimming with satisfaction. I had unloaded fresh lumber on a mountainside in frosty darkness, and it felt incredibly good. Tom grasped instantly my description of McCartle's directions for the lumber rack. All we needed were two sturdy trees about ten or twelve feet apart with a strong board fastened between them about five or six feet up. The two hemlocks stood as perfect candidates with the lumber conveniently beside them, but nearly thirty feet separated the trees. No other trees of sufficient strength grew nearby, and we certainly had no intention of carrying the lumber to another site. Tom noted solid locust fence posts surrounding an adjacent garden area and soon had tall uprights securely lashed to two of them. A strong board was nailed between them. Now all we had 92 ��to do was lift the new boards on end and lean each against the cross board. Tom set one against the crossboard from his side, and I set one from mine, alternating to give air space between the boards. It went easily at first, and we chatted gaily, but with each lift we became more impressed by the job we had tackled. As I had discovered when unloading the boards, fresh lumber is heavy, and repeatedly bending down, lifting, and maneuvering into position these ten-foot lengths soon caused various anti-work symptoms which increased in geometric proportion. We worked slowly, carefully, huffing, straining, but when the job was barely half done, we were all done. In a carefree mood, remembering, "The days ain't gonna run away," we postponed further stacking to another day. Several days later, with energies restored and enthusiasm heightened by a balmy touch of spring, we completed the stacking in an almost festive mood, and in a silly moment called the board-laden rack our "tepee," for its triangular form resembled one. The name stuck. Tom wedged, braced, and propped the laboring structure, and the "city folks" were immodestly proud of their efforts. Far more satisfying was our sentimental pleasure in knowing that the two great pines had returned to their hill. They were resting now, mere rough boards, but seasoning, preparing for their important future role, and for a while they stood forgotten as other jobs set the stage for their next act. 94 �The Site A passerby, glancing our way, might have thought we had just created some masterpiece, for JB and I stood bathed in smiles, gazing at our project with unabashed pride. The object of our admiration seemed plain and undramatic-a few simple stakes and some string-but our smiles resulted from their significance. On this summer-like February afternoon JB had made the stakes with his hand axe while I had wandered, seeking signs of spring-budding daffodils, blossoming alders, honey bees on red maple blossoms, clover leaves growing in the yard. Then he was ready with the tools-a steel measuring tape, a carpenter's level, and some string. JB hammered a stake in and from it measured various distances and hammered in other stakes. Between them we strung lines. Since each line had to be absolutely level, he directed me to hold the carpenter's level mid-string, so he could raise or lower the line according to my instructions. The little bubble wobbled to the left or right of the level marker on this useful tool as a song sparrow burst with spring melody or a whiff of sun on pine needles touched by nose or a movement in the shrubs caught my eye. A rabbit? Thoroughly distracted, I kept forgetting whether the bubble's position indicated to lift or lower the line, and admitting an acute dose of spring fever, traded jobs with a laughing JB. Thanks to his concentration, the job was completed quickly. So we admired our stakes and string with full knowledge that within the confines of that small boundary the ground on the hill would be leveled soon by a bulldozer, and on that little shelf would rise the reconstructed cabin. Physically the accomplishment was minor. Psychologically a mountain had been scaled, a sea crossed, a hundred miles walked. The tidy, organized plan for the bulldozer was set clearly in mind. How simple it would be, just a, b, c, d! a. The bulldozer would come in the lane, follow it to the end, and push on up hill to the new site, automatically extending the lane. b. The operator would level the site, carefully, of course. 95 �c. The newly cut uphill bank would be contoured and smoothed, the loose earth on it set for seeding. d. Seeding would be done immediately so grass would be well along even before actual reconstruction began. But I had not yet met Broadus Rutherford Leedom. In mid-February Broadus roared into the lane atop his great yellow monster. My first impression of him was bulk-solid bulk, broad, thick, muscular bulk, topped with a round face, a huge grin with a bellowing laugh behind it, and dark, stringy hair to his shoulders. He was the cartoonist's caricature of the heavy equipment operator. He stopped at the turnaround by the hemlocks, jumped down, and greeted JB and me cheerily with a booming voice raised above the monster's engine noise. My mind constricted to one thought-why doesn't he turn off that dreadful engine? With my small voice inaudible above the roar, I stood mute. JB indicated the job was not here but up on the hill and gestured to proceed up the lane, but Broadus had already leapt to the machine and obviously favored short cuts. Like a charging bull elephant, he attacked the turnaround bank between the hemlocks and scooped off the top of the rise with a huge bucket. 3 Whether this was from necessity or for dramatic effect, I was too disheartened to care, for he had just scooped, buried, and squashed the gooseneck plants I had treasured from the old garden. The tender shoots had not yet pushed above the ground, so he did not know they were there, but why scoop at all? He galloped up the hill over hollies and dogwood - we had not had a chance to tell him we wanted to do as little damage as possible to the hill's vegetation-and made a split second assessment of the few remaining pine limbs. These must go! Before I was even halfway up the hill, with JB running not too far ahead, he had pushed the limbs of pine brush over to the wood's edge, shoving them onto sumac and dogwood, and made several passes that effectively mashed much of the area Tom and I had labored so hard to keep natural. Tears of frustration and disappointment welled, but there was no time to let them spill. I gestured frantically for him to stop and urged him to turn 96 �the motor low enough so I could be heard. "Please try to help us save the small trees and bushes on the rest of the hill," I plead, smiling rather bleakly, feeling like a mouse asking help from a behemoth. Broadus Rutherford L. was not preservation minded. He nodded and grinned and plunged the bucket into the bank. The entire hill trembled. A ridiculous picture of the earthworms and toads and grubs and hibernating creatures on the hill, shaken in their torpor, popped into mind. For two hours the shuddering noise and gouging machine ruled the hill while JB and I collected rocks exposed by the digging. They would be useful later. Summerlike sun beamed down on us, and I yearned to be rid of the overwhelming din and confusion, to hear sounds of spring. From apparent chaos a level site evolved, with the back bank properly angled. The scene looked terribly raw, but I sought consolation in the knowledge that nature heals quickly here. I heard Broadus yell to me, "Where'll I get some dirt?" "Dirt?" "Yeah, for the yard. Ain't enough dirt here for any yard around the house. Where d'ya want me to git it?" My mind leaped frantically from one place to another. What bump could we do without? I did not want him to dig anywhere. The worn out cornfield soil might be expendable, but it was too far away, and the lovely path to it through the meadow and across the stream would be ruined by the machine's repeated passage. Broadus, JB, and I conferred hastily and agreed that the bank behind the corncrib debris would be best. A tangle of honeysucke covered it, and lowering the bank several feet would produce no great trauma. Part of that bank became our yard, and the lane was extended to the new site in the process. A glorious sensation of relief swept the hill when the last sound of the giant machine faded down the road. Had those cardinals and titmice been singing all day? JB and I plodded around in the soft, bare earth, idly collecting a few rocks, assessing the scene. Exhaustion from noise, yelling, rock hauling, climbing, and torn emotions overwhelmed me, and I flopped onto the dirt and sat staring at the back bank. 97 �Suddenly I burst into laughter and surprised myself as much as JB, who looked at me completely startled. "I just thought of something funny," I explained. "I expected this bank to be all lovely and smooth when Broadus left, all perfect for seeding. We would just scatter the grass seed, rake it into the soft, loose earth on the bank, and in a week the bank would be covered by a green film. But look at it!" and we both laughed heartily. A shambles of broken roots jutted crazy-angled from along the bank. The layer of pulverized soil I had envisioned was in reality glaring red clay so compacted where the bucket had scooped against it that it shone. "No hope for raking that soil!" I exclaimed. JB nodded hearty agreement. "Might as well forget about it till most of the building's done." I thought his suggestion excellent. On a late February morning Vern McCoy screwed up his face, looked at Charlie and me, and scratched his head as he considered the job I had requested. "Ain't much room there, but I kin try." "I know it looks almost impossible, but just give it your best." The big ailanthus tree stood along the stepping stones from lane to house. Straggly and unattractive, it was shoving its limbs into the hemlock, overwhelming the ancient dogwood, and outdoing itself in producing progeny. Young ailanthus trees by the hundreds grew about the premises, persistent as weeds, smelly when cut, and shooting up huge suckers if lopped off at ground level. They seemed determined to dominate the hill, and our battle against them must begin by eliminating the parent trees. Felling timber was routine for McCoy, and he had already cut down the male tree, but this female tree could fall in only one narrow passageway. The trunk must angle snuggly between two boxwoods only four or five feet apart, and the spread of limbs must pass perfectly between the power line and a fine honey locust. McCoy plunged in with an air of confidence. He set two large logs on end by the tree's trunk, laid several old boards across these, and set an empty gasoline drum from his dump truck on top the boards. Defying gravity and all the rules of safety, he balanced precariously atop the drum and, reaching out with his chain saw, 98 �lopped side limbs off the tree. Spurred by the success of this feat, he removed the drum grandly, hopped onto the boards again, steadied himself, and reaching as high as possible, let the whirring saw teeth dig into the ailanthus trunk. Why so high, I wondered, but the noise made asking impossible. He stopped sawing several times to study the narrow corridor destined to receive the fallen tree. A remark I had heard a logger say about another logger's ability to fell a tree popped into mind. "Why, he can drop a tree and drive a stake with it!" To miss the obstacles, McCoy's job would have to be nearly as precise. He sawed on as we stood in tense anticipation of the crititical fall. "Timberrr!" yelled Charlie when the sharp crack of breaking wood resounded and the tree began its arc. We watched in fascination and dread. Perhaps the most surprised of all after the crash was McCoy. Perhaps his air of confidence had been cover for cold apprehension, but whatever his secret pre-fall sentiments, his post-fall emotions were displayed in full glory, his face shining with pride and delight. The tree had fallen perfectly, whether by luck or skill no one cared. McCoy sponged up the praise showered on him, reveling in success, grinning boyishly, explaining the strategy of the high cut in glowing terms, then suddenly, as if embarrassed by such open expression of his pride, he became all business, busily severing limbs from the trunk. His audience hauled them to a pile in the meadow. Charlie displayed minimal enthusiasm or muscle power for this monotonous job with its down and up hill hauls, but when the trunk had been cut into two-foot logs and required splitting before stacking, his interest suddenly mushroomed. Use of the mallet and wedge was new to him and required skill, so he was eager to give it a try. The older man's eyes sparkled as he handed Charlie the mallet and offered bits of practical advice. The axe arced, chips flew, wood split, and the woodpile grew as McCoy supervised and Charlie learned, each enriched, each proud of the final stacked pile. By mid-afternoon McCoy and Charlie had gone, and I 99 �sprawled blissfully on the pine-needled slope above the new cabin site, letting the sun's warmth relax weary muscles. Hammer sounds came from below as JB set the batter stakes. JB had explained batter stakes to me patiently, along with other terms he used which were everyday language for builders. "They're stakes that go at the corners where the cabin will stand, three at each corner. We'll stretch lines between 'em and then know where to dig for the footings." "Footings?" We laughed as my vocabulary expanded further. "We'll dig a trench along the lines and pour concrete into it. That concrete base is called the footings. Some people call 'em footers. Anyway, the cabin's foundation blocks will sit on them." The old house was resting on foundation walls of handsome brown stones George Nelson had labored to collect from adjacent fields. We had expected to rebuild this same wall, but JB and Tom decided there should be a small, cement block basement to house the water tanks. I balked vigorously at a plan which strayed so radically from structural authenticity, but the men convinced me we could face the blocks later with field stones. The visual effect would be similar. The sound of JB's mallet planking onto the batter stakes was fine music, rhythmic and significant of progress, but the sharp crack of splitting wood abruptly terminated his tune. I sat up and looked down the hill where he stood with a stick in his hand, and a stump of a handle. On the ground lay the mallet head with the other piece of handle still attached. "Had only one more corner to do," he stated calmly, "Guess I'll be makin' a new handle tonight." Quietly, patiently, JB projected the finishing job into tomorrow, while I fought impatience with the unfinished state of today. "Only one more corner." To me, it was like hearing only seven notes of a scale. 100 �Water Olie Brown called at 7:30a.m. "We're comin' to do your well today." "Wonderful! It suits perfectly. When will you arrive?" "Should be about nine-ten-eleven o'clock." Will I ever learn not to ask that question? If workmen say they are coming, they will arrive when they arrive. Designation of a certain time is meaningless. Charlie and I had scarcely greeted JB and Jedd Crawford, a kind-faced black man who would help dig trenches for the footings, when vibrations under foot signaled the arrival of heavy equipment in the lane. The noise rumbled slowly, ominously down the narrow, curving pass, preceding an enormous well rig which crawled into view, a mass of mechanical complexity ridiculously incongruous in this humble setting. Such elaborate equipment to supply a little stream of water to a simple log house! How George Nelson would have laughed at this to-do! Why bother with a well at all? Beautiful water flowed steadily through every season from the dependable old source up the mountain. Reestablishing the unique waterline to the house would be easy and far more appropriate. Constantly running water in the kitchen was in character with the house. But the source lay several hundred feet beyond our property line where we would have no control over it if that acreage were to be developed, nor could we patrol regularly to plug crayfish holes in the earthen section of the line. Our water supply must be more dependable-a well and a pump. The rig crept past the old house. Several weathered young men hopped out, barely touching the ground before they automatically strode forward ahead of the rig, assessing possibilities for maneuvering it to the proposed well site. I studied the route ahead, too, a young world of wild cherry saplings and stray peach, holly, sassafras, and sumac which had grown happily beyond range of the bulldozer but now lay directly in the path of the well rig. Here goes more of the fragile hill, I sighed. The machine struggled upward, maneuvered onto the slope immediately behind the house, and promptly sank into soft ground, 101 �its bulk leaning downhill precariously, appearing as if a touch of breeze or a workman's hand against its side would surely topple it. Visions of its mass wedged against the house rose ominously, but the four workmen stood by unperturbed, joking casually. Apparently this was routine. Suddenly great hydraulic "legs" emerged from the lower side of the machine, settled gently on the soil, and effortlessly pushed the rig to its proper angle. The men filled the deep tire ruts quickly with mimosa logs and dirt, and the machine crawled on toward the well site a few more feet and stopped. "Is something wrong?" I asked a man standing beside me. "Gatta turn around." "Turn around? The whole rig?" Incredible! How could it possibly reverse its position in such a small space at such a drastic angle on such soft ground? But with tremendous skill and guidance the reversal was gradually, meticulously accomplished, with the rig positioned with its back end into the edge of the woods. Drilling began at 11:00 a.m., two hours after arrival. With four men attending it plus JB, Jedd, and Charlie digging trenches, this would be a day of major accomplishment. Charlie studied how old Jedd dug into packed clay soil, slowly lifted and heaved a shovelful out to the side, and dug again. Every few minutes the shoveler rested briefly, leaning on his tool, perspiration beaded beneath his neatly trimmed gray hair. To the watchful young man who would share his job for the morning, Jedd's attitude and effort seemed half-hearted. Charlie picked up his shovel and plunged into the job with gusto, like an energetic worker should dig-sharp, decisive cuts into the soil, hefty swings of dirt, with continued, intent, vigorous effort, and by late morning the hare and the tortoise fable had been reenacted. Charlie Hare was exhausted; Jedd Tortoise dug and rested steadily, well into the afternoon. A teenager had learned a lesson in pacing work, and the steady, experienced, skilled teacher had not even spoken a word above the din of the well driller. The drill bit into soil for a while, then struck solid granite. Hour after hour the monotonous rumbling-grinding shook the world of 102 �worm and mole and dominated all thought. If birds sang, they sang inaudibly. If people talked, they shouted forcefully. The scrape of digging shovels, ordinarily a satisfying, earthy sound, went unheard. I wandered to the rig occasionally to see that welcome flow of water spurting out, but saw only pulverized gray granite. "How far?" I yelled. "One twenty-five." One hundred twenty-five feet at six dollars a foot! Uneasiness about the cost mounted. What folly is this? The old gravity feed water system seemed more and more logical. At 3:30p.m. dark clouds which had menaced all afternoon suddenly dropped a deluge of rain and hail, everyone on the hill welcoming a forced end to this hard work day. Next morning deep grinding sounds reached my ears even before my car rounded the bend near the house-10:00 a.m. and still drilling. "No, ma'am, no water yet." The lone young attendant gave me the answer I knew he must when I greeted him with, ''Any water yet?" "How many feet?" I yelled. "Bit under 200." This was mighty precious granite dust we were accumulating. I stood close, cupped my hands, and shouted toward his ear, separating each word distinctly, "Suppose we get granite on and on. Then what?" "Try another place." "And pay again?" "Yes, ma'am. Dug 400 feet yonder a piece, and the man said to dig another'n, so we dug 400 feet again. Never got no water, so he tapped in on a neighbor's well." Shaken by this unanticipated possibility, I escaped up the back hill to trim shrubs from a neglected trail. Hard pulling and sawing and tough pruning can be excellent therapy for stressful thoughts. As I worked up the trail, trimming began to dominate as drilling for water drifted off into background noise way below, but escape was not complete. Prospects of no water tangled with thoughts 103 �of pruning and snipping. I stopped a while to rest, studying that familiar mountain view which changed its moods so constantly. Foreground hills signaled early spring with delicate pastels, while winter grays still subdued high mountains towering above. What an incredible scene of life spread before me, all poised for the burst of a growing season! What myraids of creatures prepared for that burst, ready to consume and pollinate and hide in the plant world! The grinding drill pulling gray dust from the earth faded into insignificance as a pileated woodpecker's exciting staccato sounded above its dull, constant noise. The wild call and the fresh scene soothed my stressful mood, and thoughts of lunch sent me down hill to the car, where I rolled the windows tight to create a haven from the noise. A tap on the window startled me, and I rolled it down quickly. The rig attendant announced quietly, but with twinkling eyes, "We have water." "Wonderful!" My enthusiasm must have seemed exaggerated as lunch, reading, noise, everything was forgotten. Water was king! "Three gallons a minute at 220 feet," he added, but I had no concern for statistics or whether this was a lot or a little. We hurried up the hill-1 felt the water might get away if I did not rush to see it immediately-and admired that beautiful liquid spilling out. We let it splash over our hands and beamed at each other, this stranger and I, sharing mutual delight over success. As if by magic, another workman arrived in a pickup truck, apparently notified of the success by radio, and for several hours I watched the incredible rig lift, turn, and lower twenty-five foot sections of casing and shaft pipes into the ground, one after another, a totally mechanized procedure. By late afternoon the job was finished. One workman hopped aboard the cab, waved goodbye, and started the engine. The wheels of the versatile machine turned to carry it away from the hill, but made no progress, spinning helplessly in the mud. The driver promptly jumped from the cab and casually assured me, "This often happens; our wreckler'll be by and pull 'er out easily," and both men rode off in the pickup. 104 �The quiet they left behind seemed exaggerated, the sounds interrupting it magnified. A cow mooed impatiently at the farm below the hollow. A gray squirrel scolded in the woods. I paused to listen to the whistle in the wings of a passing pair of doves and soft twitterings of a bluebird. All the clamor and stress of the day suddenly seemed long ago, the peace surrounding me prompting ridiculous questions: was that monster really here? Did all this day of grinding really happen? Am I really here digging a well in North Carolina? But over by the forest edge a well cap jutted. When Tom heard about the well digging at dinner and later witnessed the results of it, he summarized our feelings concisely, "Guess George Nelson really had the right idea." Actually George had been blessed with two sources of water. His descendants delighted in telling us about them. "If you went past the corn crib a little ways, there was the spout-that's what we called it-that was old timey terms. He'd taken a chestnut log and hewed it out, a kinda wood trough, that's what the spout was. The water that come off the branch futher up and through those wood pipes, 'stead of goin' to the house like it was doin' when you bought the place, it came out at the spout." "I've noticed a kinda ditch in the upper bank out there," I commented, "in all that mess of honeysuckle." "That's it! that's the place! That's where the water come through. They kept a big wooden tub under the spout, and we let the cows get a drink before we put 'em in the barn for the night. 'Course, the water cleaned out 'cause there was always new water pourin' in. Got all our water for washin' clothes and ourselves and for the house there at that spout. Carried it in a wood bucket which was heavier 'n the water! George Nelson, he said, 'Carryin' water's good for you; makes you strong.' "That little line comin' into the kitchen sink wasn't 'stablished till years after George Nelson died in 19 and 39, not till Oscar and Deller was gettin' old and couldn't carry water, probably 'bout in the early '60s. "But our drinkin' water we mostly carried from the spring, least in summertime we did. The spring-you know, that's down 105 �on the path that leads to the mailbox out on the road-that spring water's so cold and good it's just perfect. It trinkles right outa the bank there. "We kept milk and butter at the spring-didn't have a icebox. Went down to the spring each mornin'. Why, that was one of my greatest delights when I was a child. I just loved goin' down that path-it was s'peaceful. After we milked and strained the milk, we took it down to get cold in the spring, and at dinnertime we had to go down again to get the milk, and if there was any left over, we had to take it back, and then at suppertime we had to do the same thing, and then take back more when we milked at night." "Not quite like opening the refrigerator to take out milk and butter, was it!" I exclaimed. "And on days we churned, it'd take two or three trips to bring the cream to the house and then carry all that buttermilk and butter down again. You start up that hill with both hands full, and you'll feel it's steep!" The path to the spring drops sharply below the lane now, its entrance obscured by overhanging plum trees. Beside it an ancient post, gray-green with lichens, hides in a tangle of honeysuckle. All around green spikes of iris leaves tell of past flower beds. They grow in deep shade now, never blooming, for the 150 feet of path to the spring is dense woods. The path leads to a mossy, secluded glen, maybe only fifteen or twenty feet across, a private place in the woods where a steep bank curls protectively around a wet area and a dense canopy of rhododendron and laurel holds the glen in constant shade. Liverworts thrive on the wet rocks. An ancient pipe, encrusted with rust wrapped in moss, juts from a rocky hole midway up the bank. When we first saw the pipe, it was clogged with silt. Tom lifted it-it was about one foot long with a one-inch bore- knocked out the debris, and peered back into the deep hole in the bank. A steady trickle of clear, icy water flowed from it and seeped down into mosses and leaves. When the pipe was set back in place, water promptly coursed through it and spilled conveniently away from the bank. I 106 �stepped gently onto the accumulation of unknown years of forest leaves wet and sodden with decomposition, and leaned forward carefully, extending my tongue to capture some liquid refreshment. "Ohhh, have some!" Tom did. "But it's not much of a spring," he commented, having expected, as had I, a stronger flow, bubbling and busy. "Wonder if it used to flow better." We found out one summer evening later when we walked the path with one of George Nelson's granddaughters. She was bursting with memories as she wandered the once-familiar premises. The clear call of a woodthrush drifted to us as we approached the path to the spring. "Oh! the plum trees are still here!" she exclaimed. "We used to get the best plums from them. There was plum trees all along this lane and a gate here at the path." "Might this old fence post be part of it?" Tom asked. "Sure is! Oh, this sure brings back memories! But this woods was all pasture, all open to the sky. Why, look at this! I don't know where I am!" We scuffled through noisy leaves so said little. "Didn't cows get into the spring?" I questioned in a lull. "If this was all open pasture ...." "Oh, my no! The spring was closed off to cows. They got their water down the branch futher. Why, there's some old fence postses there in the woods!" She stepped toward the spring, hesitantly, looking at it intently, trying to recognize an old friend in strange surroundings. She almost whispered, "I'd come down here with Granddaddy, and we'd get a drink with a gourd dipper. He grew gourds, you know, and when they'd get ripe, he'd cut a hole 'bout a third as big as the gourd and scoop out the seeds and dry the gourd. The dipper was always right there," and she pointed. "Did the water ever flow any faster than this?" Tom asked. "Flowed 'bout like now-it wasn't a very bold spring-but underneath all them leaves is a rock like a big bowl, and you'd just take the bucket and scoop up the water outa the pool." A niece added, "There's nuthin' Uncle George or his daddy 107 �did to scoop that rock, neither. They said they found it that way, that Indians scooped it outa the soft rock-hit's kinda gravellylike. You dig down to it sometime, and you'll see. A hayin' fork'd get them leaves outa there fine. Milk and butter kept real cool asettin' in that pool, but he kept his watermelons up at the spout. The melon'd lay there abubblin', and in a summer evening he'd take one and lay it on the porch and sink a knife in it. You could hear it apoppin' s'nice! "Hit was good livin' then." 108 �Three Weeks and Weather What a magnificent day, sunny, warm, with a touch of breeze, absolutely perfect for drying mud, and drying mud was the goal of the day, top priority, number one, first and foremost! The trenches for the footings had to be dry before cement could be poured into them, and torrential rains had filled them, so while JB, Jedd, and Charlie redug them, I bailed. A gallon plastic bleach jug, cut open at the top, made an easy near-gallon bailer. I sat on muddy banks in muddy clothes, balmed by sun, scooping, dumping, scooping, dumping, pondering muddy water, lost in thought. An interesting occupation, this. Wonder what some of my friends are doing now. Not bailing ditches! Shovels scraped and voices jumbled with them in a steady, comfortable sound. Scoop and dump, scoop and dump. The water level lowered, and eventually aching arms and back could relax, letting evaporation finish the job. I was hot, dirty, and intensely weary, but spring covered the hill, and the mud was drying. Happiness pervaded every part of me. That evening Tom and a man from the cement company studied the hill to determine how a cement truck might maneuver to the site. The prospect of the ponderous vehicle struggling up our hill to spit a small portion of its load into our modest trenches seemed ridiculous, but such is the modern way. A little plug-in mixer and wheelbarrow would have been far more appropriate equipment. Weather reports glowed with sunny predictions, so, anticipating a hill dry and solid enough to bear the truck's burdensome weight, the cement man confidently promised, "We'll be here day after tomorrow." "Day after tomorrow" arrived with snow, the first snow of the entire winter, coming when March and early spring colored the land. The mere one and a half inches of miserable, slushy stuff would founder a cement truck attempting our hill; the delivery was cancelled. Days of deluges followed, and one mid-afternoon when rain clouds began dispersing with startling speed, vacationing Anne and I dashed to the cabin to bail, arriving as the sun emerged from 109 �the last overhead clouds into blue-blue sky. It sparkled onto a soaked, dripping, misty spring world of new leaves and blossoms. White clumps of serviceberry glistened on tips of the big tree near the privy. Clouds over the distant mountains heaped upon each other in soft mounds of dark and pale gray and near white, flowing in constant change. The same mountains, the same trees, the same familiar scene spread before us completely new, caught in a mood we had not yet experienced, a fantasyland of glittering, flashing droplets. We bailed trenches until muscles ached, then abandoned the remaining sog to sun power and breeze as we escaped to the woods. Round-leaved violets dotted a brown bank with yellow, and clumps of fragrant arbutus flowers snuggled against last year's evergreen leaves. Shortia dangled white bells from rosy stems, thriving where we had planted it last year. Bloodroot buds pushed through hugging folds of lobed leaves before unfurling pristine petals. At an opening in the honeysuckle thicket where we had seen him often before, the big king snake basked. He eyed us with fear and distrust, but we liked having him around. Jobs at the farm included these fringe benefits, easing bailing woes and sore muscles. Two weeks passed, then a third, each with showers, sog, and laborious bailing. Then one day, without fanfare, carrying its nuisance delivery to a small job out Jones Gap way, a cement truck journeyed to the cabin site, dumped its prescribed load, and departed. JB was the only witness. Several days later a crew of five men swarmed over the site, and when they departed, the foundations were in place. A friend asked brightly, "How is the cabin building going?" Obviously she had visions of a charming log structure nearing completion and asked the question as casually as, "How do you do?" A detailed response was not expected. I controlled an impulse to reply, "Just great!" followed by a lengthy dissertation on the fun of drilling granite, squashing dogwoods, hauling rocks, dragging pine brush, bailing trenches, and regretting ugly cement block foundation walls. 110 �"We're progressing well, thanks, though a bit slower than expected-this unusually wet weather, you know. But little by little ... !' and I faded out with a smile, genuinely appreciating her interest, but avoiding details. Who would understand? We would continue to grope for words to express the impact and nature of our struggles, but would never discover any that were fully satisfactory. 111 �Price of a Bathroom Too often the refinements of a high standard of living are sadly incompatable with the environment. George Nelson dug a pit, built a wooden privy over it, and thus completed the household's "facilities." The only destruction to the environment was the pit and the tree cut for lumber. Modern living, however, calls for more convenient and comfortable equipment. We wanted a tiny bathroom, and a bathroom requires a septic system, and a septic system stirs the environment far more than we ever suspected. The county health department sent a man to inspect the proposed location for the system relative to the well, this inspection required to get a permit, the permit required to have the system installed. The installation company sent a man to estimate costs and time. As a summery sun beamed, I battled spring fever and struggled to grasp meaning from his wordy and totally boring dissertation on the merits or demerits of various tank locations. "Which of those places would you like the tank?" Suddenly aware that he was looking directly at me, awaiting my decision, I escaped with a flash of inspiration, "Well, I'll just have to discuss all this with my husband this evening and call you about it in the morning." "O.K. Now, about the laterals ...." A puff of air stirred yellow arcs of forsythia as a towhee, clinging precariously to one, called his ardent, "Drink-your-tea!" A chickadee poked its head through the entrance hole of the bluebird box and was dive-bombed by the blue tenant which was already busy with housekeeping there. "... and they'll extend about a hundred feet out that way. It seems the only place, and ...." Of course it's the only place, I thought. That's the last undamaged section of the slope, just the place for laterals. "The trench'll be from three-four to maybe six or eight feet deep." "How wide?" I was all attention now. "Several feet." 112 �"That's a lot of dirt!" It would all be dumped onto the lovely vegetation growing there now. "It'll take three loads of gravel for the laterals, and the loader'll need about twenty-five to thirty feet to move around in along the ditch." I'll tie red flags to all the little trees I want spared; maybe a few will survive. How can such apparently simple jobs explode into such complexity? When we agreed, "Let's have a tiny bathroom," it sounded so easy and innocent and non-destructive. Now we were discussing hundreds of feet of massacre. We had been unaware of the many rules and requirements which protect the citizen while wrecking the loveliness surrounding him. I thought back to the 1930s when our small town in Pennsylvania installed a sewer system. Day after day men dug the pipelines by hand until only the blades of their shovels tossing dirt from deep ditches indicated their presence. Terra cotta pipes were laid by hand and dirt shoveled over them, bladeful by bladeful. The work was hard, the pace slow, but the work room required was minimal, the destruction to surroundings almost negligible. Forty years later progress demanded faster, more efficient techniques, and mechanical marvels whizzed through the job in hours, destroying a twenty to thirty foot swath on each side of the ditch. Such is progress. We were eager to get this inevitable massacre behind us soon while the season for recovery was optimum, but Tom and JB had to decide reluctantly that more house construction must be accomplished before the installation. The flowers, shrubs, and young trees in the path of the tank and laterals surged with spring growth and beauty, unaware of the price they would pay for our bathroom. 113 �People "Guess we've reached the stage where we need the post put in;' JB stated. "The post?" I was perplexed. "The 'lectrical post." "We already have one-in front of the old house. There's a big transformer on it." The big telegraph pole stood out conspicuously. He laughed, "No, I mean the pole an electric contractor puts up at a construction site, the service pole. It's the hookup for power tools. You'll have to check with the power company first, then contact an electric contractor to do the job." "Oh." JB was eternally patient with my lack of know-how concerning construction. After all, I had never built a house or been a contractor before. Learning by doing works fast. A prompt visit to both companies enlightened me as we conversed in terms of connections and pole and meters. At the promised time next day, the service post was installed routinely during a hesitant sprinkle, and as we drove out the lane, the clouds unloaded a deluge. I wallowed in success-at least one job at this farm had occurred on time, quickly, smoothly, precisely as planned. "We're all set to charge ahead now," I bubbled to Tom, but first an inspector from the power company had to check the pole and state his approval for hookup. Then a crew from the power company came to execute the hookup. I fully expected the inspector to return to check the hookup or the mayor to visit to admire the pole, but apparently we had reached the end of this series: builder tells owner about pole owner visits power company owner visits electric contractor electric contractor sets pole power company inspects pole power company connects pole to power source. JB could plug in his power saw now. I pictured George Nelson, broadaxe in hand, chuckling at our modern "conven- 114 �. , 1ences. One night I startled Tom with an exclamation, "Impossible! The house is barely started!" I showed him a scrap of paper, and we looked at each other in disbelief of the number thereon, but there it was in exact figures and a list of names, an inescapable, absolute fact. The complexities of acquiring the electrical post had stirred my curiosity: How many people had been involved in the cabin project so far, people who had actually come to the site? We had felt strongly that we wanted as few workers as possible to come in to the farm, yet when I studied the journal I was keeping, tallied the list of advisors, loggers, junk car movers, well diggers, foundation layers, inspectors, and others, the grand total astonished me-thirty-seven. With family and JB added, forty-three people had been involved with this simple project, yet the old log house still stood, while the cabin of our dreams jutted bleakly from a ravaged hillside, a cold, gray wall of foundation blocks. Two of the long three months estimated for reconstruction had hurried by already, and as we battled delays, no one could have convinced us that the multiple irritations and frustrations which plagued our plans would turn out to be blessings. Delays that pulled weeks into months presented us with time to digest and evaluate each experience before plunging ahead, giving meaning and understanding to our work. We realized gradually that our project was evolving into far more than a simple reconstruction job with its array of local workmen. It was drawing us into the lives and history of a mountain family which had lived and loved it here. Several Nelson family members heaped us with generous portions of information about life in and around the old log house. I indulged in uncountable hours with these new friends, questioning, listening, and taping their tales, then transcribing and piecing together the fragments of history. Each part of the house, each tree and shrub and hump and terrace came alive as people became associated with it. "One of Della's sisters-oh, she's long gone now-planted them two spruce-pines there, what you call hemlocks. She was 115 �always plantin' things like that lilac bush and all them irises." Another sister exclaimed with delight, "Why, that's Mama's chicken house door!" She fingered tenderly a little wooden door about lxl 1/z feet, heavily weathered and worn, which I had found lying in deep grass in a field. "After the chickens was in for the night, she'd slip that little door down so nothing could get in or out. To think you found it!" "See that big mimosa tree spreadin' over the garden? Now Deller, she loved that tree when it's all leafied out in the teensiest little leaves-like ferns, they are-and when it's all tassled with its fluffy pink flowers. The hummingbirds can't keep away. They zoom around the flowers just s' busy, atwitterin' and squabblin' and their wings ahummin'. Oh, she did like to watch 'em!" I thought of Della, no longer here to stand beneath the mimosa's delicate, active canopy. She was no botanist, no ornithologist, but flowers and birds and Della were close associates. She understood. "Daddy called that little field where the big pear tree is 'my flaf-said it was the only flat land on the whole farm." George Nelson, cabin builder, farmer, husband, father, and grandfather changed from a name to a personality. "Oh, how he loved this place! He was standin' in the orchard one day, on the hill way back up the mountain a piece, and there wasn't a thing in the world 'tween him and the North Pole. He had a friend standin' with him, and the friend said, 'George, you got you a mighty purty piece of land here,' and George, he said right back, 'I figger I got me a piece of Paradise.' He liked it that much. "He was a real industrious person; always got up early, too," she went on. "They always said, 'The sun never caught him in bed.' He'd shell corn near the crib 'cause the ducks spent the night under it, then shake the chickens outa the trees to get some of corn before the ducks got it all." "Did he grow much corn?" I asked. "Just enough to get 40-50 bushels. That'd do him. Wasn't that much land here to grow more 'cause he had a great big vegetable garden, but mostly what he grew was fruit, and when 116 �the A & P store first come to Hendersonville, he grew onions for that. Oh, he worked hard, but we never had very much money 'cause there was so many of us. We was poor but we didn't know it, and we was happy." A profound silence followed the impact of these last words. They struck hard and have recurred over and over. "The farm was self-sustaining, wasn't it?" I continued. "Oh, yes. We had everything we needed___:cept he'd get coffee and sugar and flour in town. Carried 'em back here on his back, of course. Each year he carried hundreds of dollars worth of fruit and eggs and butter on his back, up across J~~­ tain, all the way into Hendersonville, followin' that old trail right the branch. "He made a carryin' basket outa white oak splits-could put nine quarts of strawberries in the bottom, then set in a little frame and put nine more quarts in, and he'd sell 'em to the summer people he met along the way. Didn't get more'n 10¢ or 15¢ a quart, and it was a lot of work." She laughed. "When radio first come in to the country folks, Mrs. Jenkins up over the mountain, she had a radio in her guest house, one of them tourist homes for summer people. Why, Hendersonville had over a hundred boardin' houses and hotels and roomin' places back before the Depression. Farm people was kept busy sellin' 'em fresh fruits and vegetables. Well, after strawberry time he'd take some paper and make little cups and put plums and grapes and things in 'em and put 'em all in that big basket and carry 'em up the mountain to Mrs. Jenkins' door and set down his basket, and the men and women guests would run to get their pocketbooks to buy the little goodies and eat them right then. "One of the ladies knowed he played the violin and teased him. 'Mr. Nelson, I think I heard you playing your violin on the radio last night.' He didn't understand about radio, that it had to go through a studio, and after that he'd go out in the yard here and try to play his loudest and best. 'Somebody might be listenin' to me,' he said." A niece told more. "He was good with his hands, you know. ilp 117 �When it come to workin' with wood, he could make 'most anything. He was like they say about people then, 'If a man couldn't make somethin', he did without it.' He made chairs and bottomed 'em with oak splits and made a cider mill and even made that violin he played, too. Took him two years. Made it from maple wood, bendin' the wood only just a little at a time, then soakin' it some more, and pullin' some wars tight around it to bend it some more. When he had all the handwork-that fancy work like violins have-finished and got strings on it, he took it to a man that was s'posedly an expert on violins, and this man played it and told him he'd never played one that was any truer to tone. He used to set on the porch and-play it and sing songs-had a good tenor voice. And a whoop! At the houses with summer people he'd show the ladies what strong lungs he had by lettin' out one of his war whoops. They was amazed! He had an awful loud voice for somebody's bein' so small." "Oh, he was little?" I asked, surprised."I've heard so much about his strength and farming skills I've built him up to be a strapping, tall fellow." "Oh, my no! He wasn't much more'n five-two or three. But strong! And broad! And his eyes, they were the bluest, just piercing blue. They was the first thing people noticed about him, and he had curly hair, I'm told, but when I knew him he was bald headed and had a big beard and moustache. And could he imitate birds!" "There sure are lots of birds around here," I noted. "Always has been." She chuckled a moment. "I was just thinkin'. He sometimes wore his shoes on the wrong feet. Wore rubber shoes from Sears Roebuck after we got store bought shoes, and wore 'em a while one way, then backwards. People'd tell him he had 'em on wrong, but that's the way he saw it. Guess he was weann em even. "He'd often set on the porch in summertime aflickin' flies with a swatter he'd made outa a piece of flexible white oak, oak like you'd seat a chair with. On the end of it he 'tached a piece of leather, and he could set there without his glasses on and see the ends of your hair, and he could just flap the end of that leather 0 ' ' 118 �and catch flies every time, and then he'd git the broom, the brush broom-I've still got the old brush broom-and sweep the flies off the porch. And he'd get the Bible out. They didn't each have one of them little Bibles like now. They had one big family Bible. He'd read from it, and I'd set on the floor and put my head against his bony knee, bless his heart. I just wish he could be livin' now so I could do somethin' for him." Contact with townsfolk and summer people encouraged country folk like the Nelsons to be more progressive in their ways than the mountain people of more isolated areas, as in the nearby Great Smoky Mountains, Yl~t much of their everyday living continued remarkably pioneer-like. The taste of earlier times on the Nelson farm served as a tantalizing appetizer for a feast of learning about the southern Appalachian mountain people. I indulged heavily, reading books, attending lectures and special folk events, asking questions. History became an absorbing, wonderful benefit of the delays which had exasperated us. Tom and I felt growing understanding, and with understanding comes appreciation. The mountain culture was no longer a curiosity, something almost foreign. It was real experience with real people, and we liked them. 119 �This page intentionally left blank �Chapter 6 "Take 'Er All Down" Something's Different ..................... 122 Illness ................................. 124 Starting at the Top ....................... 130 Instead of a Privy ........................ 135 The Week the Logs Were Moved ............ 140 121 �Something's Different One lives with scenes framed by the windows of home. Eyes become so familiar with a neighborhood that the slightest change is perceived instantly. A limb is missing from the willow tree; it must have fallen in the storm last night. Mr. Hubb's bedroom curtain is still closed; I hope the old man isn't sick. Frank finally dug his garden; he must be pleased. But change at the cabin caught me by surprise. Charlie, Anne, and I went to the farm to clear invading locust trees from a small field. We parked in front of the house routinely, and as the young folks opened the car trunk to get our tools, I happened to glance at the house. I was startled-something was different, yet everything seemed tidily intact. I was astonished that it took several moments to determine the change, and then I tested Anne and Charlie. "Do you see anything different about the house?" "Hey!" exclaimed Charlie instantly. "The porch bedroom's gone! Looks great, doesn't it!" "Sure does!" agreed Anne. "Those logs showing all the way across the front look really neat. We oughta keep it that way." "We'll have to if we put windows on the front." I wondered why the change had not struck me instantly, then was intrigued to realize that I had pictured the house without that room so often that already it was familiar. Anne continued, "Mom, that missing room is important. You must note the date in your journal-March 24. The official dismantling has begun." "Heavens! We've been taking this old place apart for months! What about all that stuff we stripped off the inside walls and all that asphalt siding?" Removing the five colors of asphalt siding had been a recent, occasional job, a half hour here, an hour there, a tedious labor, for the shingles crumbled and nails snapped, their heads collapsed in a hammer claw. Heaps more scrap had gone off in McCoy's old truck. "But those were all things on the house," Anne persisted. "They don't count. The porch bedroom was part of the basic struc122 �ture, so it's important. We're starting to 'take 'er all down,' like that man said." "That's right!" stated Charlie with a tone of finality. "That's right!" I echoed agreeably, and all laughed in pleased recognition of the big step. "With the logs showing and that room off it looks just like a postcard cabin now,'' Anne pointed out. "But wouldn't you think they'd have wanted even one window on the front? It's so stark!" "When this place was built, windows were a luxury. Conserving heat meant survival. Lots of log houses had only one little window by the fireplace." "Must've been awfully dark inside." "Say! JB'll be taking the logs down one of these days soon. We'd better collect some chunks of mud chinking before it's destroyed." "I'm going to get that floor board where the porch room was," Anne stated, "the one with the hole in it that Mrs. Huggins' sister said they pushed the dust through when they swept the room. Wonder if they plugged the hole in winter. Brrr! It sure must've been cold in there!" "Well, you folks collect your souvenirs. I'm going out to chop locust trees,'' commented Charlie, who spurned our sentimentality. I collected several small pieces of mud chinking in a quart jar and wrapped two larger chunks in newspaper, placing all in the old kitchen, which was excelling more each day in its new role as a storeroom. With that incredible screech of old nails being pulled from an aged wooden bedding, Anne retrieved the floor board with its dust hole and added it carefully to the stored treasure. Chunks of dried mud and a worn floor board with a holecertainly of no value in themselves, but each was a relic of cabin life, so each was important. 123 �Illness "Well, let's see. A few more things have been done." "But what?" I was bursting to know. Sick in bed with flu, I had not been to the farm for several days. Tom had just returned from there, and fully aware how eagerly I awaited his report, was teasing me. "The living room has several changes, and the stairway...." "But what? Tell me!" Both of us laughed, and he began. "Well, Jedd and JB took down the living room ceiling, which must have been one filthy job. JB said you couldn't tell him from Jedd! Must've been a quarter inch layer of dust over that whole ceiling. The partitions around the stairway, including the little jelly closet underneath, are gone, so the stairs are standing out in the middle of one large room now. The front porch floor that was under the bedroom there is off and ..." "I'm sure glad Anne salvaged that board with the dust hole when she did." "... and the little red brick chimney from the living room stove is down." He paused, thinking. "Oh, yes. JB and I had a business conference lying on our backs under the cabin floor." "What on earth were you .... ?" "Yes, we were on earth." "Come on! Why did you confer under the cabin? Let's have it!" "Well, JB made an important discovery there." "Under the cabin?" I envisioned some antique tool or artifact that might be of interest. We were always alert for a special find. "Yep;' said Tom casually, "thirteen hand hewn chestnut logs:' "Logs? You mean under-the-floor logs? Floor beams?" "Yep, thirteen beautiful beams, just the kind we've looked for all over the county, and they're in great shape." "Tremendous!" "JB suggests we put new 2xlO's under the floor of the new cabin and use some of these old logs for ceiling beams, like most old cabins have. The others can replace the several rotten logs." "It'll look terrific! What a find!" My mind whirled with superlatives. 124 �"Guess that covers the changes. Think I'll go out to work in the yard a bit while it's still light. O.K.?" "O.K." Feeling too indisposed to read, I lay with eyes closed and pictured the changes. So history had claimed the jelly closet! Now only its ceiling remained, the back of the stairway, with the attached narrow shelves which had held untold numbers of jelly jars. Two and a half years had passed since Della had introduced us to that closet and given us jelly from it. On subsequent visits I took her a pumpkin pie and cookies, and each time she bubbled with appreciation and delight, dashing straight to the little closet, insisting I choose a goody to take home. Anything I did for her was reciprocated in generous measure. That was Della's way. With the little brick chimney from the living room wood stove gone, the round hole in the north wall must be gaping to the trees and sky. The family in the log house never knew the ease of modern heating. They chopped wood, not a load of wood delivered to their door, but wood they hauled in from the woods where they felled the trees. I wonder who is more fortunate and free, the man who plods into the woods with his axe, chops down a tree, cuts, hauls, splits, and stacks the wood and carries it to the indoor wood stove as needed, or the man who hears the oil burner click on and off, pays the oil bills by mail, and for exercise must jog? The latter seems freer-freer to go to this meeting and that sports club and this program and that conference. He zips from one thing to another in his car, eye on his watch, and though his activities may be optional and satisfying, has he not exchanged one set of chores for another? Which man has the freedom each seeks? Perhaps the freedom lies in his attitude. Tom said the ceiling was down now, too. One of George Nelson's daughters had talked of it as we sat in the living room one afternoon. "I 'member well when m'daddy ceiled this room, back about.. .. well, let's see .... it was about '37 or '38. He cut some trees here and gave 'em to the sawmill to saw the lumber that ceiled this room and that bedroom. Then he did the whole overhead with paint." All the 2x6 beams were exposed, with the loft floor showing 125 �above them as originally. One could now stand beneath and look up through cracks between the boards to the roof. I had heard about those cracks. "Yes, we had to sweep upstairs before sweepin' downstairs 'cause trash fell through, and I can remember m' daddy sayin', 'Now don't go up there and make a mess, you young'uns, 'cause it'll fall through down here,' or, 'Children, be careful up there!' "I can't remember about takin' our shoes up there. In my earliest recollection we'd take our clothes off down by the fire and in winter we heated an iron or rock, a big, beautiful, smooth rock, and put it in bed. Everybody'd have their own iron or rock by the fire to get warm. You'd wrap it up and put it at your feet. It wasn't ceiled up there, just the bare shingles of the roof, but we had quilts and featherbeds. Featherbeds and quilts was big back then-and warm! "I remember one time we was sleepin' up there in the loft with my uncle-it was a houseful here, but there was always room for one more. It was cold up there, and sometime during the night it blowed the shingles kinda to one side and snow filtered in on top of us, and the next morning when we got up, m' uncle was aknockin' the snow off! "Another time we had a real cold night, and we had a great big old cat, a boy cat he was, and a big one. Cats was not allowed in the house at night. That's the last thing to do, you know-put the cat out. But somebody run out, and the old cat run in, and he run upstairs, and of course, there's so much stuff we couldn't find no cat. And Daddy's already gone to bed downstairs, and the old cat got right over top of Daddy's bed and let water come down. Daddy jumped outa bed-1 never will forget that-and came stormin' upstairs, and we were dyin' laughin', and he had a broom or somethin', and that was one cat sure went outdoors fast! "Daddy'd get up first and start the fire in the morning, and everybody'd come down to dress where they'd left their clothes piled around. 'Course, they didn't do that in summertime- had nails to hang 'em on, but we didn't have much clothes anyway. Didn't need 'em." How many years of dust had slipped between those loft floors 126 �and settled in the room below! After the living room ceiling was nailed on to stop the sifting, how many more had collected silently in the dark above it! The dust and lint of accumulated years were particles of history in a family's life, and today they spilled down on Jedd and JB and on to the floor, and they will be swept away. I recalled another tale about the loft's floor cracks. "On a sunny day each springtime they took everything out of this living room and bedroom and set it outdoors and got upstairs and poured boilin' water all over everything and washed what walls there was up there and the floor, all with that boilin' water. It come down through the loft floor-that was before there was ceilin', of course. ''And out there under the spout where the water come in from the branch, that tub they kept under the spout would get full of white sand, washed down silt stuff. They'd take that sand and put it on the floor and put lime on the floor, too, and scrub those old floors with a shuck broom. Ever see a shuck broom? Daddy took a block of wood and bored holes in it and stuck dry corn shucks in the tiny holes and put a handle on it. They would take that broom and make these old floor boards as white as they could be, scrubbin' with that sand and lime. "All the bed things was washed, and everything in the house was scrubbed. We think we have a hard time house cleanin' now. If I had to do all they did, mine'd just have to go! ''And they whitewashed the walls after it was all cleaned, all over the inside walls and the front porch wall, too. They got white lime and put salt in it-that was to make it stick-and poured hot water on it, and it would boil 'n steam up. They'd make it in an old ten quart bucket and buy brushes, something like big paint brushes with a long handle. Then they'd whitewash the overhead and the walls-and talk about a place smellin' good-and clean!" "Didn't the whitewash splatter all over the floor?" I asked. "Didn't matter. The lime would clean the floor, too, and it would wash off. Takin' all the furniture out, that's the best way to clean. "Can you image taking everything out of our houses these days and putting it in the yard so we could clean? If anything would 127 �prove how materialistic we are, that would!" She laughed at the thought. "They done all that cleanin' both spring and fall, but the whitewashin' was only in the spring. And there wasn't much problem washin' winders. There was only one by the chimley and one in the bedroom-and them two little ones upstairs." Reviewing all these thoughts about changes at the cabin and how people lived there helped pass time while I lay abed sick. One thought especially fascinated me: while I grew up in the mid-1920s and early 1930s in southeastern Pennsylvania, we considered innerspring mattresses, electric washing machines, radios in polished wood cabinets, telephones, porcelain bathroom fixtures, gas stoves, automobiles to haul us everywhere, and a ninemonth school year normal, expected necessities of everyday living. Meanwhile many of my contemporaries in the southern Appalachians took for granted straw and feather ticks, cornshuck brooms, black iron wash pots, privies, kerosene lamps, hearth and woodstove cooking, horse and mule-drawn wagons, and a three to six month school year. When Depression days brought work crews of the WPA and CCC to build roads into the hills, this cultural gap began to close, though in some remote places pioneer-type living continued into World War II. We had read of this astonishing situation, but talking with people my own age, some even considerably younger, who had lived this way routinely hit with tremendous impact. With time on my hands, I began to play more seriously with an idea that had occurred one day at the cabin when I was engrossed in some menial, non-thinking chore. The idea evolved into a plan, then a resolution. The way of life in our old log house was special-it was history-and it should be recorded. Already I was jotting down our experiences with the cabin in a detailed journal. I would expand this, including not only details of the day-to-day pleasures and trials of building, but word sketches of the people who helped us and notes on investigations into the history, customs, and dialect of the southern Appalachian mountain folk. Permeating all this would be family tales of old times at the cabin and the impact of the outdoor world which was 128 �continually presenting dramas and displays that enriched our experiences, diverting our attention in wonderful ways and keeping our spirits in a balanced state. I would add personal thoughts and recollections prompted by events at the cabin and try to explain, if possible, the meaning of the whole experience. Some day, I resolved, I would write a book about these things, and though the book may never travel beyond my desk, it must be done. 129 �Starting at the Top Start with the roof? Who ever heard of learning how a log house was put together by starting at the top? But that was precisely what we were about to do, piece by piece. Direct experience would be our teacher. The basic log structure stood exposed and vulnerable, basking in the brilliance of a perfect spring day. Stripped of its camouflage of modernization, with even its porch gone, it stood dignified and handsomely plain, a bit stark and aged, but vital and ready to proceed. "Look at it! Just look at it!" I exulted to Tom who had taken me to see the cabin for the first time since I had been housed with flu. "It's just as I'd pictured it, a beautiful pioneer house!" Astride its roof peak, starting to tug and rip his way down through the layers, sat JB. Chunks and strips and bits of tarpaper roofing and their associated hundreds of nails sailed through the air as JB yanked them loose and flung them to the ground. Then he struggled with stubborn slabs that had lain across the rafters as laths and handed them down carefully to his helper, Taylor Green. I gathered the scattered disarray of roofing into piles. Between slabs Taylor joined me crawling in the grass, collecting nails, nails, and nails. The next day JB handed down the oak rafters to Taylor, who stacked each type material in its special pile for eventual reuse. "Look at them nails!" Taylor exclaimed when he saw the huge near-spikes that had held the rafters in place. "No nails like 'em's used in buildin' houses these days! And they's hammered into oak! Must've used a sledge hammer to sink 'em." "Sure must've," agreed JB. Stripped of rafters, the old log house suddenly resembled a box, a plain, ordinary wooden crate, thoroughly lacking in charm and devoid of identity. It revealed, as if xrayed, how George Nelson had put it together, its construction plan remarkably simple, making modern house plans seem like mazes of complexity. But unlike today, preparation of materials had constituted a major part of the builder's work, requiring a tremendous effort of time and labor. Knowing the ways of wood, George probably chose autumn 130 �or early winter to cut oak, chestnut, and yellow poplar for logs. Farm chores were fewer then, and tree sap was down, assuring logs that would season with less warping. Saying that he squared or hewed these logs is like saying casually, "He scaled a high mountain." It explains none of the skill and ignores the toil. A log to be hewn was fastened firmly so it could not shift position. With felling axe, George scored its sides-chopped deep vertical cuts about three to five inches apart. The more evenly spaced these were, the more expert his job. With his broadaxe, a tool equipped with a heavier, wider head than the felling axe, he hacked diagonally down across the logs, chipping off the chunks of wood between his vertical cuts, taking great care that the side became smooth and square with few axe marks showing. Then he set the logs aside to season. "He drug rocks from all over the land here with a couple of oxens pullin' a drag," his niece described the next step, "and he stacked the rocks to make a wall to set the logs on." When the wood was seasoned for many months, George, undoubtedly with help, maneuvered two thirty-foot logs, the sills, onto the front and back foundation walls, then fit cross logs between them at each end, notching the ends to fit. Probably, like earlier house builders, George had no carpenter's level guiding him to set parts straight or level. If a log pleased his eye, he was satisfied. Next he set the thirteen strong, chestnut floor beams, the sleepers, into notches in the sills. A less fortunate cabin builder would have pegged or nailed a floor of his own hand-split oak lengths, the puncheons, to the beams but George used his brother Tom's nearby mill to saw oak floor boards one inch thick and four to six inches wide. As he added logs to make walls, each corner was fit painstakingly to the log below, shaped with skilled precision into doublelock notches. The quality of the corners a builder constructed was a mark of his skill. George Nelson must have smiled with pleasure as he hauled logs to the mill for sawing into ceiling beams and rafters. Though his home was based on the time-proven plan of the earliest 131 �pioneer cabins, his house would have up-to-date touches. The ceiling beams slipped into notches he had cut in the topmost wall logs. Two more thirty-foot lengths, the plates, were set above the beams, securing them, and he drove in extra stout nails to hold the rafters to these plates. As an elegant flourish, George rounded the rafter ends where they would project at the eaves. Most log house builders hand split laths and spaced them widely across the rafters, but George had mill-cut slabs available and used them generously. Unable to call a building supply company to ask for delivery of so-many squares of wood shingles, he had rived his own from a chestnut trunk cut into two-foot lengths. These he split into two-inch thick boards, called bolts. With a bolt firmly supported on end, he held against it a froe blade and struck this with a wooden mallet, driving the blade into the wood. Skillful twists and prying movements forced the board to split, creating a shingle. Each bolt provided three or four shingles. With this fine supply, he started at the bottom edge of the porch roof, nailing shingles to the slab laths in overlapping rows, hour after hour, across the porch roof, and at a 45° angle, up to the roof peak, where he let the top shingles extend four to six inches above the peak on one side to discourage rains from seeping into the top seam. Eventually the happy moment arrived when the last shingle's nail received its last hammer blow. George must have stood on the peak to overlook his new roof with a warm and wonderful glow of relief. His new house was nearing completion; his dream a reality. The tedious job of chinking spaces between the logs with red clay, dug and hauled from his fields, closed the house, and a central front door with a back door directly opposite, each hand-made of solid oak, secured it. A final job, whitewashing, made the house interior fresh and bright, completely ready for its family, but a modern family would have spurned it as unfinished, unusable, requiring an expenditure of innumerable more work hours selecting and installing carpeting, bathroom fixtures, drapery rods, cabinets, tiles, countertops, lighting fixtures, appliances, and the countless inclusions of a modern 132 �home. Yet the Nelson family's thrill when moving from their tiny house by the branch to their fine new log house must have equaled or even surpassed a modern family's emotions when moving into a new home loaded with its surfeit of conveniences. Between these two life styles, one basic and frugal, the other pampered with convenience and waste, lies an optimum crying for more universal acceptance. At last we understood fully why old timers could or would not give us helpful advice on how to restore or reconstruct a log house. No mountain man who knew the techniques involved could look at us newcomers, ignorant as we were, and hope to explain or advise on all the skills and pitfalls, no matter how articulate he may be. The crate-like cabin was poised for relocation, but one cannot lift a variety of logs from position, set them in a haphazard pile, and put together a house from them. Each log is an individual, compatible only with its proper neighbors, fitting only one certain place, with corners custom cut to match the log below it, so each log required a label to indicate its exact position, its address in the structure. I had often read of this procedure and on several reconstructed cabins had noted numbers on the logs, one even done in Roman numerals, but nowhere had I read an explanation of a recommended numbering system. Tom laughed when I mentioned this, for he had planned his system long ago. The logs on the front would be marked F, the back B, the North end N, the south end S. Following each letter would be the log's number from the cabin base. Hence the thirty-foot logs Fl and Bl would be the first ones placed on the new foundations, followed by end logs Nl and Sl. Next came F2 and 82 and so on. Square cloth labels were stapled to all log ends, totaling eight sets, each set a different color cloth to speed locating the proper log. Tom affixed them and wrote the numbers with indelible felttip markers as I drew diagrams as a double check. The crate looked truly festive with its colorful tags, though it occurred to me that it seemed costumed for its own wake. Then a more positive thought hit-it's decorated for rebirth! 133 ��Instead of a Privy "We'll be there tomorrow afternoon," chirped a cheery voice on the telephone. Soil and weather conditions continued perfect for installing a septic system, but on "tomorrow afternoon" no workmen arrived. "We're sorry," a disinterested voice explained later. "The backhoe broke down." There it was again, that "broken down" answer I had heard numerous times before as we battled delays. A truck broke down, a front-end loader broke down, a this-or-that broke down, and now the back hoe. Do heavy machines break so often, or has "breakdown" become a convenient way of saying, "We won't get around to your job today," or perhaps even, "We said we'd come to make you feel better but really didn't expect to make it?" Either of these two statements spoken to a customer could precipitate an argument, but the "broken down" pronouncement baffles him. What can he do but accept it? The voice continued, "We'll be there tomorrow afternoon." Next day, after a busy morning at the cabin, I briefed JB on some details to tell the workmen if they arrived, and set off to keep a brief appointment. Returning about 3:00 I found a loaded gravel truck hulked in the road by the lane entrance. A dark green pickup truck blocked the lane. "Hello!" I greeted the gravel truck driver. "You just arriving?" "Nope. Been here a while. Tuk a load in a whiles back, but cain't git in with this'n. Lane's blocked." "Whose pickup?" "Don' know." "It doesn't belong to any of your crew." "Nope. Ain't none of 'em here yit. Jus' me." "Did someone just park it there and go off?" "Reckon so." He seemed completely unperturbed, content to sit it out, impressing me once again with a mountain man's unruffled attitude toward the pressure of time. He had no idea when-or even ifsomeone would move the truck, so he would just sit there, patient and unfretting, until something happened. 135 �I was totally exasperated by the circumstances. "That thing has to be moved. It's open. Let's release the brake and push it out onto the roadside. Much to my surprise, we accomplished this easily, enjoying speculation on how the driver would react when he found his vehicle relocated and allowing gravel load number two to be delivered. The co-conspirator of the pickup move waved a friendly farewell and set off for the third and last load but never returned. I learned later that the truck had broken down. I sat on the foundation wall with the great mound of gravel for company, but no workmen. It was 3:30. Not one to sit it out, I wandered down to where JB was working on the old house. "Look what I found inside the steps," JB said, pointing to a jumble of large rocks which had been the two sets of stairs to the front porch. In a hollowed area lay a clutch of black snake eggs, just the shells, for the young had hatched. "There were a couple of big fellows and some lizards in the steps too," he added. "Skinks? With blue lines on them? "Yep. Found something else, too-over there," and he pointed to a scrap of paper lying on a board. A smiling baby greeted me when I looked at the scrap, a snapshot of one of the children who had grown up in the house. Suddenly I heard the excited cries of baby birds, very close, and when I entered the kitchen, a Carolina wren zoomed from over the kitchen doorway. Tucked on the ledge over the door was a scraggly, rambly nest, green with mosses worked into it. "JB, did you know there's a wren's nest in the kitchen?" I called. "I've been hearin' little birds but didn't think they were inside the house. Those wrens'll build in the craziest places." "They must've incubated their eggs amid all this awful demolition, all the banging and clatter and confusion, and yet there's never been any complaint. That's incredible!" "Not like them, is it? I sure hope the little fellows fledge before the logs have to be moved." Another sound diverted us, the noisy arrival of the backhoe. Digging, dumping, backing, pushing, lifting, squashing, the backhoe did its duty, making a great hole for the septic tank and the 136 �hundred foot ditch for the drainage pipes or laterals. Pipes were laid and gravel pushed in, and all the blossoming dogwoods and vegetation for twenty-five feet on one side of the ditch were mashed and remashed and ground into the red clay subsoil which now replaced the topsoil. Several of my little red markers on the trees peeped through churned mud. Since gravel load number three had not arrived, the job had to be continued next day, a Saturday. Tom would be on hand. We arrived early next morning and were pleasantly surprised to have the load delivered promptly. Now only the soil needed to be put back, as much as the trench would hold, the rest spread around. "Dozer'll be by on Monday," the man said. "But what if it rains before then?" I pictured the mess this loose earth washing all around would make. No answer. "Will they bring a little bulldozer?" "We'll try. We have a little'n with a blade that angles. Takes less space to move around." The man in his gravel truck clattered out the lane as we stood dumbly, contemplating piles of dirt. Suddenly the spirited, lusty song of the Carolina wren resounded from inside the old kitchen, and we burst into relaxing, diverting laughter. Such sunny enthusiasm was unavoidably contagious, and our gloom melted quickly in its warmth. Beautiful weather held, but Monday morning a voice reported that all the bulldozers were involved in a more critical job. The message was repeated Tuesday with the addition, "We'll be there tomorrow after 11:00." While JB removed door and window frames and I stacked them, our ears were alert for sounds of the approaching 'dozer. At 11:20 we heard the machine arrive at the lane and left our work to receive it-and waited-and waited. Not a sound more. We wondered -dare I say it?-if it had broken down. Then we concluded the men must be eating lunch, and the beer cans and litter discovered along the lane later verified this. Soon a roaring motor came charging toward us, and two men, riding a veritable behemoth, jumped from their high seat. 137 �"Where's the little bulldozer?" I yelled above the roar after greetings. "Ain't workin' today." "Does this one have a blade that angles?" "No, it don't." I felt beaten. Thunder boomed as a formidable mass of black clouds surged in the northwest. The driver took great care to crush as little as possible, maneuvering with skill and measured haste, but by the time he left the hill was essentially a complete expanse of "disturbed environment." Only a few edge trees remained below the woods. JB left early that afternoon, leaving me alone with the ravaged hill. The thunder rumbled ominously closer, and clouds hung dark and low. In the uneasy stillness all I could see were the mounds of soil piled high around the trunks of those remaining edge trees. The soil was loose now, easy to move, but rain would pack it, the trees suffocating under its bulk. No decision was required for only one choice existed-pull the earth away. I tried a shovel, then a hoe, but both were too slow and taxing. Only one technique seemed to work-the human bulldozer. On my knees I reached forward and embraced a large mound of earth, then "walked" backward, still on my knees, pulling it with me. This, too, was slow, but effective, and I labored until I felt like jelly. Hard showers pelted the nearby valley while great booms echoed among the hills, but not a drop fell on the farm. I glowed with gratitude. En route to the car to go home, I passed the cratelike house and noted the thirteen exposed floor beams, each laden with a thick coating of dust and dirt. If rain fell and the ensuing mud packed and dried on the logs, cleaning them would be a major chore. A broom handle lay nearby, and from its action end protruded about half the expected number of straws, these worn nearly to the stitching. Not optimistic about the effectiveness of such a tool, I tried a hoe first, but it snagged on hew marks and nails. The broom, if it may be labeled that, was put to work. Clouds of dust billowed upward, and I spluttered and blinked and escaped quickly to consider a better approach. Holding 138 �my breath and sweeping a few quick moments at one end of the house, I then beam-hopped to the far end to sweep there while the first dust dissipated, then hopped back again, and so on. As I bounded from beam to beam on one trip, I laughed out loud at the thought of what my family and friends would think of this ridiculous sight, but the job was done. After dinner, Tom and I pulled on rain gear, for a slight sprinkle had begun, and returned to the hill to become earth movers. He tested various techniques, as I had, and agreed the human bulldozer approach required the least effort for most accomplishment. We worked in silence, each deep in musclestraining concentration. Rain increased insidiously until eventully we were trying to move mud and gave up. Rain washed our muddy gear and splattered the raw earth as we watched it in almost morbid fascination. Certainly our dreams for the cabin project had never included a scene like this! But the septic system was in! "A privy would have been a lot simpler," muttered Tom. "Not on a cold winter night!" 139 �The Week the Logs Were Moved The big operation was scheduled for a day in early May. Tom took several days of precious vacation time to be in on it. Broadus Leedom was coming with his front end loader to lift the logs from the old house and carry them up the hill. Cooperating fully, the baby wrens had flown from their kitchen nest. We awoke early, breakfasted early, and received a phone call early. Tom answered, "Hello... good morning!" Aside he whispered, "It's JB." "Yes ...yes ... uh, oh ...yes ...yes ... all right...O.K .... Thanks. Bye." I was nearly exploding with curiosity. "What's happening?" "What's not happening? Leedom called JB and says his machine's broken down. JB won't be at the cabin either-nothing he can do till the logs get moved. They'll come tomorrow!' When the telephone rang early next morning, we suspected its message. The machine was still indisposed. A third morning we prepared for the great event. No calls came until we were stepping into the car. I felt like yanking the telephone from the wall, venting frustration on the innocent instrument. The machine was repaired, but Broadus could not arrive until afternoon, precisely when we expected to join camera club friends for a two and a half day outing. Since we were to put on part of an evening program and a full day photography workshop, we had no choice but to go. Postponing the log moving was unthinkable-it might be weeks before the happy combination of good weather and Leedom's machine coincided-so we brushed aside our deep disappointment and departed. In the next two nights sleep overtook us as white water rushed over a bouldered streambed outside our cottage window and spring peepers by the hundreds peeped musical notes in an adjacent pond. Before yielding to oblivion the first night, I managed to mutter, "We'll need a pond at the farm some day just to encourage peepers." "Mmmmmmm." "Might have to catch some somewhere to get a population started." "Mmmmmmm." 140 �"They're a wonderful sound." No response. Returning from the outing, we stopped to see if anything had happened to the old house. A strange, vast vacancy existed in its place. We approached the site quietly, feeling as if we should talk in subdued voices of respect, stepping carefully, lightly, to hold the impression. The kitchen stood alone, the side where it had been attached to the house gaping forlornly to the elements. George Nelson's neatly piled foundation wall lay sprawled in tumbled rock heaps. Raw earth, churned by the heavy machine's caterpillar treads, replaced the lovely yard of lush clover and grass. Along half the root spread of the fine old dogwood, the ground was compacted six or eight inches. Not a trace showed of the lovely wisteria vine I had laid carefully on the ground after its supporting porch was removed. I had hoped to reestablish it at the corner of the new cabin. We sighed, looking over that small, vacant site, thinking of all the living that had gone on there, a rural, mountain way of life, now whisked away. We accepted the inevitability of the massacre, but felt sad. The new site reversed our feelings for it boasted happy signs of progress. Logs B1 and F1 were already in place on the foundation walls, the other logs neatly stacked with their colorful labels easy to see. Later, JB told an amazing tale about B1, which was rotted over halfway through in the central ten feet of its thirty-foot chestnut length. JB and Broadus fully expected it to collapse in two when lifted in the middle, but it held. It underwent the precarious journey up the hill on the front end loader in full form, like a rugged old man unwilling to admit infirmity. It would undergo the indignity of surgery later on to replace its decayed portions, but for now, it rested proud. "Well, we've 'taken 'er all down,' " I quoted as we walked to the car at dusk, "thanks to JB and Broadus and the children and Taylor and us and ...." "Now all we have to do is 'put er up agin,' " quoted Tom. "Listen!" 141 ��"Hey!" "Peepers! We already have spring peepers!" 143 �This page intentionally left blank �Chapter 7 "Put 'Er All Up Agin" The Logs Go Up Good Figure . Blacksmith . Beating the Heat ..... Garden .. "She's Up!" .... 0 0 0 0 • 0 0 ••••••••••••• 0 0 ••••••• •• o 0 ••••••• 0 • 0 0 ••••• 0 • 0 0 ••••••• •••••••• •••••••••••••• 0 •••• ••••••• 0 0 0 0 0 0 •• •• 0 •• 0 •• •••• 0 •• •••••••••••• •••••••••• 145 0 0 0 •• 0 • 0 0 •• ••• 0 •• 146 150 159 166 169 170 �The Logs Go Up A modern mountain man worked-played?-like an overgrown boy with a set of giant Lincoln logs. He worked alone in deep concentration, picturing, calculating, planning, then heaving, shifting, placing. JB was engrossed in setting wall logs, reading their labels, identifying their positions, and figuring the mechanics of raising each into place. The mid-May day was hot, above 80°, and still, very still. I have always claimed that even on the stillest day one can find motion, the slightest wiggle of a blade or leaf-any nature photographer can support this- but on this day the outdoor world stood immobile. Heat blanketed the hill and hollow, though not oppressive or humid. We did not yearn to collapse into a chair, lemonade in hand. Quiet activity even in direct sun was tolerable. I sat in the grass, denailing and stacking chestnut shingles. When the kitchen room had been added to the old log house, its roof had overlapped a small portion of the main roof, covering the original shingles, and there they were hiding when all the exposed shingles were ripped off and replaced with tarpaper, forgotten until JB removed the roof and discovered them. Each shingle in hand seemed like a treasure, a value created by the magic of scarcity. Little, if any, American chestnut large enough to make shingles now grows, and until science conquers the blight which strikes the species just as it seems to be maturing well, none will. Music-to-work-by entertained me, but heat had subdued the birds to background music-no performance of jubilant, dawntype grand chorus, but single calls-a chip here, a warning note there, a fragment of song on the hill, a brief flurry of chatter by the stream. Each call identified its caller as a voice identifies a friend. A low-key suspense game developed: what bird would be next? Had I heard it yet that afternoon? The mechanical job of nail-pulling and stacking carried on tediously, but my mind jumped happily from shrub to treetop to thicket to sky as callers revealed themselves. A hummingbird's twitter fell from high in the locust, a petite call quite appropriately dimensioned to the bird, unlike the asser- 146 �tive, amplified volume produced by the diminuitive Carolina wren. Comfortable towhee sounds, close to the ground, accompanied scufflings in dry leaves, where the hidden hunter kicked about for tidbits. Irrepressible indigo bunting calls from the top sprig of one tall hemlock blended with soft notes of a bluebird from the other hemlock. I paused to glance up and rejoiced in a wonderful sight of blue against blue-a spot of brilliant blue on each hemlock tip against an expanse of heavenly blue. Crow.. .field sparrow...yellow-throat. A cuckoo! The strange, hollow-block rhythms identified the first cuckoo of the season. Catbird ... thrasher... titmouse. No wonder birds are so loved! Their sounds are companionship and entertainment and news all combined in a beautifully varied vocabulary of musical expression. A sudden buzz close to my face pulled attention to a whirring, irridescent, living jewel of red and green. I was eye-to-eye with a male ruby-throat. What a brilliant moment! The wee hummer hovered only inches away and twittered amicably. Was he reporting to me, about me, or muttering to himself? In a movement scarcely perceptible, he vanished from me and casually sipped nectar nearby, whirring from flower to flower in an iris patch, then from blossom to blossom in a cream and gold tangle of honeysuckle. Delighted with an excuse for a leg stretch and diversion and proceeding slowly, stealthily, I approached the honeysuckle mantle which blanketed an abandoned vegetable garden with dark foliage and sweet fragrance. The hummingbird continued to feed. As in countless times since childhood, I pinched off one of the tubular blossoms and, holding the tube carefully in one hand just behind the backward flare of petals, pulled the tiny, green flower base, the ovary, away from the tube with the thumb and forefinger of the other hand. The attached, threadlike pistil slid from among the stamens and disappeared back into the tube, its enlarged tip, the stigma, collecting nectar behind it. A precious droplet of sweetness soon emerged from the tube's torn end. Gently, carefully, I touched the nectar to the tip of my tongue 147 �and for a tiny moment savored this miniature dessert. Perhaps it was cherished more for its unique method of acquisition than for the wonder of its flavor, but as always, it elicited a demand for more. Other flowers yielded their droplets and soon, scattered on the ground below lay the remains of dozens I had tapped. Thousands more adorned the vine, my moments of indulgence inconsequential to the supply. As I feasted, the hummingbird zoomed back to the iris, disappeared a few moments, then reappeared to share honeysuckle nectar. Here I stood, where only 150 or so years ago virgin forests had stood, where for several generations a family's vegetable garden had grown, where on this perfect day in May I sipped honeysuckle nectar with a ruby-throat. The simplicity and depth of the moment both humbled and awed. JB called, "How 'bout comin' up here a minute?" I had been hearing a hand saw biting through wood occasionally, then a hand axe at times, and another sound that was probably a hammer striking a chisel, and I knew that JB was working on corners. Those points where log ends overlie each other are complex, a major challenge even to the George Nelsons familiar with such things. What must JB have been thinking as he formed new corners on the replacement logs? This quiet, likeable man had a twinkle in his eye. "There's the first log corner I've ever cut and fit," he announced, "and I think it's pretty good." "It's great!" I exclaimed, as delighted with his workmanship as he. "Old George couldn't have done better!" As JB basked in modest pride and eagerness to share his feelings, I heaped genuine praise upon the signficant corner, admiring its impeccable fit and excellent proportions. The challenge had been critical for JB and relief spread across his face. Motivated by success, he labored steadily through the workdays of the next two weeks, determined to set the logs well, proving to himself that he could. When the walls reached ceiling height, he slipped seven chestnut ceiling beams into notches cut in the front and back wall logs. While a small crane attached to JB's tractor lifted the top thirty-foot logs into place, locking the 148 �seven beams into position, we wondered how George Nelson had accomplished this major lifting task. The giant crate stood again, solid and strong, relocated, repaired, but not yet a house. JB sawed holes for two front windows, like two eyes to go with its long nose, the doorway. Cutting through those fine, solid logs seemed cruelly wrong. Even as JB's saw bit deeply, the gnawing conflict between cutting front windows and authenticity persisted, relentless. But was the cabin to be a museum or a family place to enjoy? The splendor of our surroundings demanded attention from indoors as well as out. Two hard-muscled young men, John and Charlie, home for a few days and stripped to the waist for suntanning, helped their builder-supervisor use a winch to pull straight the slightly bowed top logs. The men drilled holes through these into the logs immediately beneath and sank twelve-inch sections of one-inch iron pipe into the holes, giving each log three iron pegs plus the original chestnut pegs at the corners. "Those logs'll never bow now!" exclaimed one of the boys, puffing from the strenuous work. JB chuckled. "Wonder what George'd say if he could see us peggin' his house with iron pipes!" 149 �Good Figure Tom and I arrived at the cabin mid-morning on a cool Saturday, stepped from the car into the lush world, drop-laden from the night's rains, and caught our breaths in exhilaration. What freshness everywhere! The mountains seemed a stone's throw away, the meadow sparkled, brisk air invigorated, even the bird calls seemed more enthusiastic than ever-or was it just that we were? Euphoria can magnify one's sensitivities aurally as well as visually. From his regular, almost monotonous perch on the hemlock tip the indigo bunting's calls spilled out in wispy bits, while over near the pear tree a bobwhite repeated its name. The reed-like song of a wood thrush floated from the woods behind the cabin like an auditory analogy to the day's visual beauty. Tom stated bluntly, "Seventeen." "Did you say, 'Seventeen?' " "Seventeen." "Seventeen what?" "Seconds." "What seventeen seconds?" "Between the indigo bunting's calls. Count and see." I did. "Sixteen. I'm probably counting slower." "This bunting averages seventeen for me. They'll sing on and on and on at regularly-timed intervals." "Mmmmmm." My response seemed listless for I was preoccupied with this detail of information, thinking how trivial and unimportant it was, yet how delightfully interesting. One can count and predict exactly when the bird will next lift its head and open its beak and voice the flurry of notes that identify it as the indigo bunting. "Eighteen." Tom was counting again. "Seventeen." So was I. "Let's go look at the cabin," I stated. "You'll be surprised." Work had kept Tom from visiting the farm for over a week. By framing in the new back room and setting rafters, JB and Clint Dotson, a fellow carpenter JB had asked to help for a few weeks, had transformed the crate into a house again, and we 150 �beamed happily as we agreed that it made a lovely figure, then debated lightly whether it now was a new old house or an old new house. Either way, prospects for happy times in it suddenly became far more real, and we wandered around it admiringly. Then I showed Tom the snake. JB had greeted me the day before with, "Clint just killed one of your pets." Since kill and snakes so often go together, my heart sank. Had he killed the fine king snake we enjoyed seeing? JB and Clint knew how well we liked it. "It's !yin' over there by the woodpile," JB added. Its color and pattern blended with the reddish soil so perfectly that for moments I looked directly at it and failed to see it, an unsettling fact, for my "pet" was a two-foot copperhead. It had been lying harmlessly beneath a board, probably tense with fright from the stirring activity nearby, and when Clint lifted the board, the snake coiled in fear. Clint grabbed a smaller board and smashed its head. "Took five years off me, it did. Didn't have a gray hair on my head till I seen that snake," he teased. I had felt secure while working and walking among the piles of stored materials all about the hill because constantly, unconsciously, my eyes checked for copperheads. Yet there lay one right before me, with colors which had just tricked me, as they were intended to do. My steady sense of security faltered. But how stupid! Della had reported that in all the years the farm family lived here, only once was anyone bitten, and that a careless tot. "It was the only snake bite I ever heard tell of here. One of my sisters was out by the washpot with her brother Henry, and they saw this snake, and it runned and was gittin' away and hid. Henry was huntin' for it, and Momma called my sister to come back into the house, but she didn't come. Then she saw it and poked her foot out toward it and shouted 'There it is!' The snake bit her on the foot. Well, she didn't say nuthin' about the bite till in the night she woke up vomitin'. I s'pose Mamma or Daddy got up and one or the other of 'em asked, 'Did that snake bite you?' And she said, 'Yes.' She hadn't told 'em 'cause she was 'fraid of gettin' a whippin' for not comin' in when Mamma called. I guess 151 �they got a doctor the next day and did whatever they did back then. Course, we had cats and dogs and cows and geese, and animals like that'll chase snakes off." In the three years we had lived in the mountains, only once did we hear of a bite and its consequences were minor. A lone copperhead by the cabin was interesting, yes, but not alarming. I photographed the snake in a "natural" pose, its bashed head mostly hidden in grass. A close-up of its handsome brown and tan skin design was easy to get, but I wondered if I would ever be so close to a wild copperhead again. After careful examination of the dead snake, Tom tossed it into the woods where it would serve as food supply for myriads of tiny organisms, the decomposers. Their silent activity would reduce it to a mere skeleton, and eventually even that would be decomposed into soil minerals. Nature's efficient recycling program would make full use of what appeared to be quite useless. Our plan for the day was to organize the accumulated conglomeration heaped in the "guest house," which served as an invaluable storeroom. Who first labeled the old kitchen with this name no one recalls, but it stuck, and the appealing lines and weathered boards of the old room continued to charm us, placing the "guest house" high in our affection. "Where shall I put this?" someone would ask. "Oh, just stick it in the 'guest house' for a while." It bailed us out of awkward storage situations repeatedly. As we poked around in it, I flipped a chunk of scrap wood into the big tin trash can. A bird darted out almost into my face, and I recoiled with a startled splutter. Only one local species would be hiding in a trash can, that noisy, nervy, appealing Carolina wren, possibly the pair which had nested earlier only a few feet away on the kitchen ledge. Deep in the can, in a discarded metal box half full of rusty nails, lay a nest of pine needles, moss, jersey loopers, and paper scraps. Like pockets of pants hanging on a clothesline, hanging flowerbaskets on a porch, rake tops propped against garage walls, and country mailboxes, a box of rusty nails in a trash can seemed to the wrens absolutely ideal for raising young. Their nest harbored five newly hatched wrens. 152 �As we worked, the parent wrens grew more and more indignant with our presence, scolding us with agitated spurts of fourletter wren words to make absolutely clear that our proximity was intolerable. Our presence was not preventing parental duties, however, for occasionally the birds disappeared silently, sneaked to the trash can with morsels of food for the nestful of noisy, gaping mouths, then reestablished themselves on a conspicuous perch to resume their tirade. Eventually their upset, belligerent attitude began to wear, making us feel uncomfortably guilty that we had so blatantly invaded their premises and pursued our selfish interests at the expense of their domestic tranquility. We escaped the harassment of this vituperative duo by retreating beneath the big maple by the chicken house for lunch. Proped awkwardly against the maple trunk, Tom munched tuna sandwiches and commented, looking up toward the cabin, "Some day soon we're going to settle for lunch in comfortable rocking chairs on that cabin's porch." One day the Carolina wren poked a cutworm into a gaping mouth in its trash can nest and flew off to a grapevine twig by the big hemlock. In a furious instant a miniature jet plane divebombed the startled wren, attacking fiercely, nearly toppling it from its perch. An immediate second swoop discouraged even the plucky wren, which retreated hastily into the dense vine. The attacker hung mid-air on whirring wings, as if to assess the result of its belligerent tactics. Suddenly it zoomed to a perch on the hemlock, arranged its wings several times, poked a feather with its long beak, fluffed vigorously, and rested only seconds before jetting into the woods. JB and Clint, sitting on the porch edge while munching lunch sandwiches, watched the brief drama. "Hummer, wasn't it?" "Yep. Scrappy little feller." "Must have a nest in there." After eating, the men approached the hemlock cautiously and searched gently among head-high branches. Branch after branch revealed nothing but massed twiglets with tiny needles. Then there it was, a nest from a fairy tale, miniature and lichen-green, bound 153 �snuggly to its branch by cobwebs. The men lowered the limb slowly until the nest was at nose level. Two pairs of beady black eyes stared from atop bundles of pinfeathers, two needle-like beaks pointed upward, and two gentle giants stared back at the young hummingbirds, entranced. They smiled, charmed by their discovery, and let the limb lift gradually to its normal position. When I arrived next morning, they were bursting to tell of their discovery, and mid-morning, when the sun had risen from behind the hill, JB with stepladder and I with camera and closeup lens approached the nest. JB set the ladder firmly and steadied it as I climbed. If ever a sense of wonder can awaken in a person, the sight of a ruby-throat's nest should arouse it. A jewel of construction, coated with gray-green foliose lichens and lined with fluffy down from seed parachutes, it is held together with threads of spider and caterpillar silk. A soda pop bottle top can cap its inch-wide cavity before it is stretched by the growing young. One can go a lifetime without seeing a ruby-throated hummingbird's nest, yet we were blessed with the added attraction of two young. Those two pairs of shiny eyes, wondering right back at my peering hulk beside them, and the wee bodies, pinfeathered and pulsing with life and growth, stirred in me an almost overwhelming awe. I was lost to them for a moment, then snapped pictures hastily and left. A week later the young were fully feathered, stretching the elastic nest to capacity, but several more days passed before the nest was empty, a drama ended, but with photographs to revive its delight. Cabin changes came rapidly in the following weeks. Porches added cosiness and charm to the structure's appearance, one on front, facing west for sunsets, one off the back room, facing south for winter sunning, but for weeks the new porches served no useful function, being floorless. One day I weeded the basement, entertained by the thought: how often does one have to weed one's basement? Many seeds and old roots persisted in the soil floor. Locust and sassafras sprigs 154 �shot up. Long strands of blackberry and smilax, so pale green from the semidarkness that they appeared white, reached for the frail light that sneaked through from the open rafters high above. Seedlings of ragweed and grasses sprouted and grew, spindly and surprisingly determined, but soon the light that encouraged their growth would be gone. The roofing job was imminent, making weeding and basement a unique, one-time job. The Fourth of July arrived. Floods of childhood memories engulfed me for a while-of big family reunions at an old family homestead near Carlisle, Pennsylvania, uncles, aunts, hosts of cousins, fishing for minnies with home-made pin hooks, climbing trees, swimming in the creek, daring to swing over the water on the long rope which hung from a huge sycamore limb, dropping into the water with a magnificent splash, seining for crayfish, hunting snail egg masses under rocks, feasting on the pooled food supplies of four families, fireworks at night. The Fourth was anticipated for months beforehand and was indeed glorious. When our children were small, no cousins or relatives lived close enough for reunions, but our holidays always found us with friends at the nearby beach on the New Jersey coast and at neighborhood picnics. This Fourth of July the children were away for the summer, John studying and traveling in Austria, Anne working in additional credits at summer college, and Charlie living with a family in Switzerland. Our dream for their frequent use of our piece of mountain continued to fade as these young people, grown and caught up with education and travel interests, spent fewer and fewer prolonged periods at home. This was a natural course in their developing lives, important, expected, and encouraged. Perhaps our unfulfilled dream of the cabin as a family place should have caused deep disappointment. Not at all, for our pleasure with the interests and objectives and enthusiasm of these three young adults overshadowed any feelings of disappointment. We simply redirected our considerations from family times to times for friends or just ourselves. JB and Clint had requested use of the holiday to start nailing on the sheathing, those slats across the rafters to which shingles 155 �would be applied. Several showers had already sprinkled our Fourth briefly, but drying was quick, allowing Tom to scythe tall weeds around the old plum trees so I could gather a pailful of orange-red fruits, sampling some freely as I worked, later making them into jam, which had such a cheery color it just had to taste extra good. As we were about to leave mid-afternoon, Broadus Leedom breezed in and announced he would be coming tomorrow to move the old foundation stones and finish the grading. "Whar you wantin' them rocks set at?" he asked. "North end of the house, where the chimney will be built with them." "Up the hill there? No problem; no problem 'tall. I can have 'em up there for you in no time." Tom arranged another vacation day, and next morning we were at the cabin before 8:00. The ground was dry, perfect for heavy equipment, and spirits and anticipation rode high. But no Leedom, not all morning. At noon we returned home to call him. "You thought I'd be there after all that rain last night?" "But it didn't rain a drop! It's absolutely perfect out there." The unpredictability of rains in the mountains had fouled our plans. Summer showers can deluge one slope of a mountain while its opposite goes dry. We assumed Broadus knew it was dry; he assumed we knew it was wet. An early phone check should have been made. That night two inches of rain fell, and the following morning, with the soggiest ground we had had in weeks, Broadus appeared with a whole crew. We could hardly turn them away, though we knew the ground damage would be severe. The machine lunged into the scattered piles of old foundation rocks, scooping them noisily into its huge bucket while soft ground squashed and compacted beneath the grinding treads. Load after load rode up the hill, creating an unwanted highway. The massive rocks of the original chimney foundation challenged even the bucket loader, but Broadus, guided by the extra men, maneuvered them skillfully, one great rock per load, and charged up the slippery highway. 156 �By the time the last bucketful departed, the old house site was a desolate morass of deep, muddy ruts, which later the machine attempted to level so we could seed the earth promptly, but each pass only aggravated the ruts. All agreed to stop the massacre and proceed with the second major job, the final grading around the new house, that important job Tom had taken another vacation day to oversee. As if on signal, the skies dropped a deluge, cancelling all work. "You must be having loads of fun working on that cabin!" exclaimed a friend that evening. Early morning several days later, Broadus called to say, "We're movin' the machine out there this mornin' to do your gradin'." Tom would miss the grading job he wanted especially to oversee. In three and a half hours of intense, noisy work, man and machine recontoured the lane for better drainage, filled and graded around the foundations, made a few sweeps at the old site to level the worst ruts, and departed, all quickly and efficiently accomplished. Amid the scooping, shoving turmoil of grading, an unexpected movement caught my eye. I bent down and gently lifted a truly beautiful creature, a tiny king snake no more than just hatched. The striking white chain designs stretching the length of its jet black body contrasted far more handsomely than the duller markings on an adult king snake. This wee fellow was a gem. Were there others like him, pushed around helplessly, possibly covered or crushed in the soil? The bucketloader with its next heaping load was already rumbling toward me, and I was to direct the operator exactly where I wanted it dumped. In the pressure of haste and noise, I searched frantically for something to contain the baby snake until the grading was done, partly for its own sake, partly because I wanted to photograph it, but no box or can or jar lay about, and I had no pocket. I dashed the few feet to the edge of the woods and hastily released my captive, hoping fright would cause it to hide in safety until the machine was gone. How I have regretted that pressured decision! I have photographed the salamanders and toads, lizards and snakes of the farm, creatures easily seen 157 �again, but that newly-hatched king snake, released in confused haste, stands high on my list of lost photographic opportunities. The sun bore down so mercilessly that I didn't know whether to laugh or cry. My emotions should have been rejoicing to have the grading job finished, but I felt miserable, completely wilted and grubby from noise and decisions and tromping up and down hill on loose soil. One all-encompassing thought dominated-get to the meadow stream, that cool, bubbling stream. I plodded and hurried-the weary can do them simultaneously-down to that mecca of refreshment and charged into the few inches of tumbling water with shoes, socks, slacks, and all. A blissful chill penetrated my feet and ankles, bringing a wonderful shiver to my whole frame and an unexpected wave of happiness to my spirit. A chance glance up the hill added a delightful surprise to the sudden euphoria. With grading done, the cabin had become part of the hill, not just a bump sitting up there, but a natural feature, as if it had grown there; it belonged. Another happy thought struck-just think! No more yellow monsters on our hill! 158 �Blacksmith "Just get yourse'f over here, and we'll talk about it. Draw me a sorta picture-like, what you want, and I reckon I can make it for you." "Would it suit to come right now?" I asked hopefully. "Reckon it'd be all right. Sure! C'mon here now. I'm just asettin' here, not fixin' to do nuthin' " Jubilant, I grabbed the pattern I had already made and dashed to the car. This trip was my next hope in a series of so far futile efforts to find a crane for the cabin fireplace. Time was running out, for the crane had to be installed as the fireplace stones were laid, and the chimney-fireplace job was imminent. Months of contact with numerous antique stores had produced nothing. "We don't get a crane very often, lady. You see, they're built into the fireplace and stay with a house. We get them only when a house is torn down or a fireplace ripped out." The dealers had shown me several, but for ugly, miserable corroded old things that must have spent years exposed to weather, they had asked between $45 and $65. No thanks. We were eager for a crane, but would not enjoy that kind. Hearing my laments of failure, JB said, "There used to be an old blacksmith lived on Turley Falls Road. Murphey's the name. If he's still working, maybe he could make you one." Why not? The crane did not have to be an antique, just appropriately old style, and if a mountain blacksmith made it, what did it matter when it was made? Delighted with this new tangent, but disappointed to find no Murphey of that address listed in the telephone directory, I talked Tom into a ride to Turley Falls Road to look for Murpheys on mailboxes. None. We rang a doorbell and asked information. "Nope, no Murpheys livin' in these parts. Must've moved or died." Our hopes died, too. Next day JB said, "I was thinkin' about that blacksmith. His name wasn't Murphey at all. It was Wills, Troy Wills." Now I was on my way to see him, following his directions to a narrow lane. "Hit'll be kinda jouncy, but a car can git through. Just keep agoin' till you come to a gate. That's the startin' of my 159 �place. I'll know you're comin' 'cause the dogs'll yipe." I jounced all right, and bounced and lurched, too, and classified our jiggly road to the cabin as a superhighway in comparison. Weeds and limbs tickled and swiped the car from both sides. Tense uncertainty crept over me. What am I getting into? I crawled on, dodging gullies, wondering if this road led to anywhere, when suddenly there stood the gate, a welcome sight. Apprehension turned into adventure. I squeezed the car between gateposts and whoosh! an explosion in front of the car sent my brake foot to the floor. A huge covey of quail had burst from the lane and scattered to shrubby cover. At that moment two enormous red setters came tearing toward the car, racing each other in keen competition, bounding, and barking, but with tails wagging vigorously. Their noise and formidable size could not hide their obvious delight in welcoming a guest. They escorted me with yelping fanfare to a house, where I stopped the car and waited, both dogs propping their forefeet on the window ledge, eager faces only inches away through smeared glass. Troy Wills' entrance on the scene was announced by the banging of the screen door behind him and a lusty pair of "shut ups" to the dogs, which promptly gave him a you-spoiled-it-all look but obeyed with tails still wagging. He hobbled down the porch stairs of his neat and attractively modest home, and even before greeting me he gave each dog a pat on the head. One could see they were solid friends. Then he approached the car, a broad smile on his face, and I stepped out. "Sorry 'bout them noisy dogs. They gets all stewed up when a car comes in. We can go right over to my shop-over there," and he pointed to a small barn. We walked through high, wet grasses, cool with dew, toward the barn that housed his smithy. A handsome walnut tree arched protectively over the weathered building, and adjacent stretched a meticulous, thriving vegetable garden. I paused to enjoy the scene-a calendar picture of the good old days-but the blacksmith plodded on ahead. The barn door behaved as old barn doors should, screeching and creaking grandly as we entered the cool interior. Forge, 160 �anvil, and assorted trade tools stood at one end, and a delightful array of farm relics filled the other. This gentle man, old beyond his years, simple in his needs and obviously content, glowed with enthusiasm for blacksmithing. "I was borned and raised in a blacksmith shop. Never did nuthin' else for forty years till I tuk up brick-makin', but I got too old for that and retired. Now I just do a bit of smithin' now and then, things like youenses wants, just for fun." We talked at length about his shop and smithing experiences and examined leisurely a veritable museum of farm relics. "Oh!" I exclaimed, delighted with a find. "What's this thing? We found one under the cabin-thought it was a fire poker, but it seems too long." He laughed, an easy, patient laugh. "Why, that thing's a bar for lockin' up a tail gate on a wagon." "I'd never have guessed that one! That's fun to know. I guess we'll be using ours for a fire poker anyway." The crane pattern I showed him brought suprising response. "Why, I got one almost 'zackly like that in my old cabin on the hill up yonder. Wanna see it?" Time was tight on this morning of many errands. If we walked all the way up to that cabin .... He walked so slowly, too. "Gettin' weak in m'hind parts." But here was a man who understood old cabins and old ways, who was eager to talk. Errands could wait. "I'd love to see it!" In the tiny cabin's fireplace hung a crane remarkably similar to my pattern, and by studying its details we were able to decide several small details concerning mine. Beneath the crane stood a trivet-like device, a spiral of iron on three legs with a wooden handle. "That's an interesting thing," I commented. "Is it old?" "Sure is! After you take the arn cookin' pot from hangin' on the pot hook here on the crane-over the far, you see-you set it on this thing. Then you can fill the plates from here and not get burnded." Time was forgotten, and as we meandered back to the car, he was as eager for a listening ear as Della had been, and I was 161 �eager to learn. Suddenly I realized something. "Mr. Wills, I've been having such a good time talking with you that I never even asked how much you'll charge to make the crane. Maybe it'll be more than I want to put into it." "Well, now, it does take a lot of work to git the 'quipment all heated up and workin', and the arn costses more these days than it used. I ain't very fast no more neither, as you can see." He shifted his feet a while, studying them and the ground. My hopes sagged as I thought of those antique shops with their battered old corroded cranes for $65. This crane would be in perfect condition. "Well, I really hate to ask so much, but I'd hafta ask about eight-ten dollars." I stood dumb, then guilt snuffed the initial joy of this pleasant surprise. That was not enough for his labors, so I objected, but he loved his work and was excited by the idea of making a crane for an old log house and stuck with his price, one not hard for me to accept. "You phone me in a few days;' he called as I was leaving, and when I did, he announced, "Yep, hit's ready. Hope you like it!" It was perfect, and when I asked the price, he stated rather apologetically, "I'll hafta charge you $10. I said hit'd be eight-ten dollars, but the arn costed more than I figgered it would." His interest in this seemed incidental, however. Something else was on his mind. "Got sumpin to show you." He went behind the shop door and emerged with an iron trivet like the one by his cabin's fireplace. "Made this'n like the other. Thought mebbe you'd like it." His eyes twinkled, his face radiated delight in his surprise. "I'd love to have it! It's just great! You made it when you made the crane?" "Yep." He beamed. "How good of you! What are you asking for it?" Of course, I would pay him for it. Once again I waited as he shifted about and studied his feet. "I'll hafta ask you $3 for it. See the handle? That's half a handle from an old fashioned lawn mower." He chuckled with satisfaction, then suddenly asked, "Got any far dogs?" "Far dogs?" My reading had covered many things used in 162 �old houses, but this term was new. "Them things you set the logs on for the far." "Oh! Fire dogs!" "Yeah!" "Andirons." "That's it." "No, I don't have any, and I've looked for them in antique shops while looking for the crane, but no luck. Could you make me some?" "You figger out what you want and git it drawed up, and mebbe I might could make 'em for you. I'd like to do that." "Great! Oh, there's something else I need even sooner, some old style door hinges. Maybe you could make them, too." "Jus' draw 'em up." We parted, both feeling the warmth of common interest and a common project, each anticipating the next meeting. A few weeks later I took him a pattern for hinges, designed from ones on an old cabin door pictured in a book. He would make three sets, one for the front door, which JB would construct new out of rough boards, and one for the back door, for which we would use the former front door. The third set would be spare. Soon we would have doors to open and close! "Them's old timey hinges, all right. I've made lots like 'em. I can make 'em for you jus' fine," he stated confidently as he studied the pattern. Within weeks the doors were ready to set, and I was sitting with Mr. Wills and his wife in their modest living room, lending an eager ear as he chatted on and on about old time smithing and the prices of the times. The topic was prompted by his dismay in having to pay $6 for the iron for the hinges. "Hit's a downright sin, downright disheartnin' to pay such prices today. Awful!" He shook his head repeatedly to emphasize the point. Once again I found myself so fascinated by how he was expressing himself that I had difficulty following the meaning. The words and pronunciations of the mountain dialect, still strange to my ears after three years here, were made all the more delightful 163 ��by its inflections, then enhanced yet further by the charm of the person using it. Time should have stopped so we could talk on and on. Once again we walked past the sunny vegetable garden and felt the shade of the high walnut limbs and entered the smithy, where he fingered, then handed me one of the hinges as if it were a fine masterpiece of art. He was pleased with it and conspicuously eager to have me pleased. Fortunately, I was. When I took him a plan for some primitive "far dogs" several weeks later, he shut-upped the noisy dogs as usual but failed to pat them, appearing listless, weary, and discouraged. "I'm sorry, but I just cain't be makin' 'em for a while. Weather's too hot for smithin'. Heat gets me bad." The project was postponed. I will jump ahead here in the cabin's story to round out that of the blacksmith. In the cool of autumn I called to pursue the fire dog job and heard someone say, "Oh, he's not doin' smithin' no more. Been feelin' awful poorly lately." Distressed that the old man was failing and disappointed that our joint project would never be completed, I poked the fire dog plans into my file, and many months passed by, and many more, until one day I had the idea to talk with Troy Wills again, this time to record on tape some of his tales. I called and heard, "Oh, honey, he's been gone for nearly a year now." 165 �Beating the Heat Crossing the meadow stream on a venture to photograph whatever special subject nature might have set out for me this day, I stepped onto the soft bank and sprawled flat, tripped by something hard in the oozy mud. I groped to locate the stumbling block and laughing, lifted a muddy box turtle. A scientist may say that a turtle's facial expression is constant, not subject to his change of moods, but I suggest that his look can be subject to interpretation by a human's whim, and most certainly I felt myself to be the object of an angry glare of indigntion and annoyance. How could I so clumsily disturb his far wiser use of a beastly hot afternoon than mine, his retreat from the sun's heat into a cool haven of mud? As I lowered the turtle gently toward the ground, his legs flailed vigorously and barely missed a beat as they touched soft mud, working the turtle downward into the dark hideaway until only a small oval of topshell was visible. The cool mud at the meadow stream crossing was a favorite haunt for these land turtles when summer's heat drove their body temperature upward. We rarely crossed without automatically pausing to turtle hunt and rarely failed to find at least one wallowing comfortably. Nearby, staring yellow eyes of a big female watched me closely. Only her hind feet hid in the mud; she had just arrived. Beside her a muddy hump revealed the presence of a third turtle, and I yelled to Tom, "There are three turtles here today." "Look again;' he called back, unimpressed. Having crossed here a short time earlier, he had played his own game of Find-the-Turtle. My eyes swept the few feet of open area at the crossing repeatedly, but could find no more, yet Tom's keen eyes must have spotted another. "Keep looking," he called, teasing and encouraging simultaneously. Suddenly in a little side pool, deep among some water weeds several inches below the water's surface, I spotted the unmistakable yellow and black pattern of the head and snout of number four. 166 �"I see him! Four! That's a record!" I stooped to photograph these dour characters, which responded to my close movement by withdrawing their heads. The picture in my camera viewer looked thoroughly unacceptable without heads, so I waited, trying to keep absolutely still. Did you ever try to outwait a turtle? Did you ever try to outwait a turtle in early afternoon of a hot, breezeless day, with grasses and insects tickling your aching, stooping legs and perspiration causing your glasses to slip off gradually? The turtles remained calm and infinitely patient in their pleasant mud bath while I itched and dripped in merciless sun, but the lure of a good picture can be surprisingly strong motivation. I persevered, miserable but determined. The turtles also persevered, immobile and even more determined, and gradually they won the battle. The loser, excessively vigorous with annoyance, splashed face and arms to cool off, and then, in a totally ineffective but satisfying gesture, splashed all four turtles, too, even the one under the water. So there!-and headed off into the cornfield to pursue less exasperating quarry. The following day a sigh of relief fully expressed my sentiments as I looked over the completed job and propped my tools against the house. For over two hours I had labored with mattock and hoe and rake to regrade a small area of south yard compacted by machines and feet. Now it lay properly contoured, its soil loose and receptive for grass seeds, and I set off eagerly for the stream to wash for lunch. A blackberry sprig reaching into the path snagged my bare arm, causing a quick check to note if thorns had broken the skin. No, just superficial scratches, but I was amused to note the caked dirt on my hands and forearms and the dust on my pants and shoes. How wonderfully grubby! Though hot, muscle weary, and thoroughly dirty, I felt completely good, that satisfying contentment and well-being which follows hard physical effort and the accomplishment of a difficult job. I checked my watch. About now some of my friends, 167 �manicured and stylishly coiffed, were dressing for the luncheon and fashion show at the Country Club. I had planned to go, too, and would have enjoyed it thoroughly, but a work day called. The sun bore down, and the sweet scent of grasses hung invisibly in the hollow. A wren uttered three chips of annoyance as I approached the stream, but stayed hidden in the multiflora tangle. As I braced for that first icy splash on hot skin, a few inches of mud suddenly shifted position. A finger poked into the mud struck a hard surface, one of our turtle friends again. I washed in this stream we share with these creatures and moved upstream several feet to take a long drink from cupped hands. The pungent scent of mint drifted up. Several sprigs lay crushed by my shoe, broken from plants when my footing shifted. I nibbled a fresh leaf and wished that everyone in the world could have even a moment of feeling so at peace. Thinking lunch, I plodded back up the hill and at the cabin took my sandwich bag from its shady storage behind a log. JB and Clint were still engrossed in sheathing work on the roof, so I sat on the rim of the porch, legs dangling, and began unfastening the cleat plastic bag. What were those dark green things in the bag? Nothing dark green had been put in the sandwich of sliced meat and cheese and garden lettuce. Garden lettuce! An unpleasant thought occurred. Might there be a little visitor enclosed in my lettuce? Might those dark green objects be his droppings? The lettuce leaves had been washed well, but my sandwich obviously included an unexpected ingredient. I examined its contents thoroughly and found my uninvited guest, a smooth, green caterpillar, innocently camouflaged in a fold of leaf. Now what? I was hungry and this was the only food on hand. To go home and return involved ten miles of travel. The solution was simple-selective trimmings of lettuce and bread were dropped to the ground and strong positive thinking about any subject but green caterpillars accompanied my indulgence in the sandwich. And if anyone is finicky about garden lettuce being inspected with great care, my house is a good place to come now! 168 �Garden The site of the old cabin became a garden, not a garden carefully planted with a fancy variety of seeds and cultivated by the whims of a gardener, but a garden planted and respectfully given its freedom by nature. The bare soil, covered by the log house for so many years, had suddenly been exposed to sun and rain. A bulldozer had stirred the soil, and human muscle power had raked it smooth. Now nature's determined efforts to cover it with green grew more conspicious each day. Hundreds, thousands of tiny seedlings spread their specifically-shaped new leaves in a green film over the redbrown soil. Chickweeds, speedwells, grasses, and smartweed; lambs quarters and pigweed, purslane and galinsoga; oxalis, plantain, and cranes-bill. Later they would be joined by others, all on this small plot, each tiny plant struggling for room and light, each making its way with roots, stem, and leaves so it could flower and produce seeds to assure more of its kind. What a concentration of growth! What a carpet of competition! Amid this green a sprig of a different sort projected, thicker, larger-leaved than its tiny neighbors and adding rapidly to its growth each day. Surely such a surge of growth must come from an already established root system. With sudden excitement I suspected what it was, and a careful check of its compound leaves and exact location confirmed my suspicion. Wisteria! The old wisteria vine which had draped over the whole south end of the porch and then been scraped away by the bulldozer had survived! It's new shoots were already shading hundreds of tiny weed seedlings and depriving them of light. The vine was becoming master of its site again and would someday be moved to climb the porch corner of the new cabin. I had found an old friend, so pounded in a big stake beside it to mark the place. 169 �She's Up! "Put 'er all up agin ... put 'er all up agin ... put 'er..." the words ran through my mind like an endless tape as Tom and I bounced along the familiar road to the cabin. We rode in silence, each busy in thought. Then I thought out loud. "She really is up!" "Who's up?" "The cabin! We were advised to 'put 'er all up agin.' Well, she's up!" "Oh." Tom pondered this long moments before adding quietly, "Now all we have to do is finish the roof, close in the back room, cover the gables, put down the floor, set the windows, hang the doors, do the chinking ..." "... and build the chimney and fireplace." "That's all." He sounded as if weighed down by Atlas' globe. "That's all," I echoed limply, climbing into gloom with him. "And we still have plumbing and electric fixtures ... Do you think we'll ever be finished?" "Maybe." My excitement had been effectively dampened by this listing of tasks still pending. Nearly four months had passed since the footings were poured, and the road ahead curved endlessly. We arrived at the lane and crept quietly along its hardpacked bed, leaving behind the rest of the world. Shafts of sunlight dappled the earth before the wheels of our little VW Beetle. Sprays of bright orange butterfly weed bordered the lane edge where a large break in the leafy canopy let through a mass of light. Suddenly, ahead on its hilly clearing, the cabin stood above us on the left, basking cheerfully and showing off its full height and shapeliness, proclaiming that our hill country cabin was no longer just a dream. Like a child that cries lustily one moment and bursts into hearty laughter the next, our gloom burst into happy, positive thinking. We climbed the hill to this unique little house that had us in its grip. It needed us, and we needed it, and despite the struggles, it was a harJ 1)y union. We busied about with excitement, for a new plywood subfloor 170 �allowed us to wander about the house with no thought of where to put each foot, assessing, enjoying, and working with no need to beam-hop above the basement abyss. But a wee pang persisted-what a pity that the hopping talents we had developed so beautifully through many weeks of practical experience were obsolete now! Initially I had rebelled at the mere thought of plywood in a mountain cabin. No, indeed. I fought a constant battle to keep the house as near to its original form and plan as possible, but once again the men convinced me that a modern construction feature would be useful and easily hidden. Subflooring would assure a much warmer house, and floor boards would cover it completely. At lunch time we were eager to rest. I was so conditioned to sitting on a board or ledge or rock or hump of earth that I was startled when Tom appeared from the car with two folding aluminum chairs. With a grand flourish, he set them on the subfloor before the gaping hole of the living room window and quickly arranged between them two saw horses with a board across, an instant table. Suddenly we were not merely having lunch, we were dining-with a view! No gourmet cuisine in the most elegant of restaurants could have surpassed our enjoyment of peanut butter sandwiches that day. 171 �This page intentionally left blank �Chapter 8 Born Again "Gitlin' Warred" .......................... 174 Pole and Power .......................... 179 Shingling ............................... 181 New Boards, Old Boards .................. 186 Big Little Jobs ........................... 191 173 �Gittin' Warred When I arrived at the farm early, well before the long-awaited electricians were due, JB and Clint were eager to tell what they had seen. "Know that yelpin' we heared yesterday?" A touch of excitement raised Clint's voice. "Sure do! Sounded like a pup." "Yeah! And 'member I pointed out hit sure was a fox pup 'cause the yippin' was just wunst each time." "Yes." "Well, you hadn't no more'n left yesterday when me and JB here heared somethin' in the woods up back of the house, and we saw a half grown fox jump and catch somethin', most likely a mouse, right over yonder by that stack of brush." ''A fox! Great! Hey! That's really exciting! I'll bring some scraps tomorrow to set out up there, and maybe he'll return." "Mighty fine little pup, that. Well, if there's going to be any work gittin' done around here .... ," but Clint's statement needed no final words. All had jobs to accomplish before the electricians arrived. Tom and I had spent long hours determining the electrical needs of our cabin, working to keep the job simple and inexpensive with minimal wiring and only a few inconspicuous outlets. Our penciled diagrams had awaited talks with the electric contractor, and we felt cheery optimism that this might be one job not complicated by the eccentricities of a log house with no standard parts and few squared angles or level lines. Square, level, and even were encountered so seldom that they had become memorable. One day Clint measured the distance from floor to top log in two locations eight or ten feet apart. He looked astonished, glanced up with a twinkle, scratched his head, and exclaimed, "That'll never do! They're the same, 'zackly the same. Somethin's wrong!" The first electric contractor to consider the job had listened to our plans with interest and patience, studying the diagrams carefully. Then he outlined gently the local safety regulations for wiring in new houses, rules painfully incongruous with those plans. 174 �"But this is an old log cabin," I protested, "not a modern new house." "I'm afraid it would be classified a new house, and there must be electrical outlets every twelve feet around the room." He calculated well over double the number we wanted. "Electricity in the kitchen must be on two circuits to divide the load of appliances." "But we're having only a tiny stove and refrigerator and no other appliances. No way can we use all those outlets. The kitchen is just these few feet of wall space in the big room. Two circuits for this? I understood and appreciated the need for standard safety rules, but disappointment encouraged me to protest in a battle that was lost before it began. Comply-or no electricity. "We'll be writing up an estimate and scheduling the job as soon as possible," the electrician stated rather half-heartedly, sounding as if he dreaded the job. "When might that be?" "Oh, in about three weeks." "Three weeks! We can't wait that long!" So I repeated the entire procedure two days later with a second contractor, who confirmed the power company's rules, which I wished desperately would just go away. Suddenly he began penning figures on the palm of his hand, deeply involved with calculating and writing. Then he strode toward me and, with a disarming smile and an outstretched palm, presented me with an estimate for the job, which he could start within a week. He won the job instantly-this man belonged with our project. The figures were transcribed promptly to a contract sheet, the dotted line signed, and the contractor, delighted with the cabin and with my interest in his palm-written estimate, posed his hand happily for a photograph. Two electricians arrived on schedule, one being our palm writer, who stated cheerfully, a broad smile lighting his sincere face, "Mornin! Come to do yer rough warrin'." "Excuse me?" I asked gently, not having the remotest idea what he meant. 175 �"Gonna do yer rough warrin' today. Hit's a hot'n, ain't it!" "Oh, yes," I answered quickly, hoping I sounded more enlightened than I felt. Suddenly lights flashed in my head. "Warrin'." Wiring! Of course! And I glowed with pleasure that we would have around another workman speaking the colorful mountain dialect I had grown to love. Thus began a series of events with electrically-oriented personnel that had this unelectrically-oriented housewife often frantically or prayerfully or hopefully deciding startling things, usually spur-of-the-moment. No telephone line tied me to Tom's office to seek his opinions and wise counsel, and though I often ran to JB for help, mostly I was on my own, for better or for worse. "Where you want the control panel?" or, "Think the meter box'd be best aside the chimley place?'' or, "How high shall I set them receptycles?" Answers emerged from my head somehow, after I asked a few questions myself, like, "What's a control panel?" I learned that outlets and "receptycles" were synonymous. The electricians proceeded with what looked like a bewildering task, and the whirring, penetrating sound of the electric drill joined the banging of hammers and screech of power saws as JB and Clint continued the roofing job. All morning the drill ate its way through old logs, making passages for wires, and the driller puffed and labored and dripped perspiration, angling the drill holes in each log because it was impossible to make them vertical. On into the afternoon the bit whined and gnawed through time-hardened oak and chestnut and yellow poplar, spitting out swirls of fan-shaped borings. Haphazard piles of these accumulated on the floor, and the workmen's feet scuffled through them. The colorings attracted me-the chestnut borings a rich, reddish brown, the oak a soft gray-beige, the poplar a light sandy-beige. I collected a few that had escaped the scufflings. The whorls were giant-size replicas of the shavings from those little hand pencil sharpeners universally used a couple of generations ago, available at two for a nickel or "free" with a box of pencils. You held the tiny sharpener in one hand, poked a pencil point in the hole, turned either box or pencil, and a curly wafer of wood, 176 �edged with a fine line of color from the pencil paint, emerged from a slot in the side of the sharpener. Fascinating! As a child I watched my father sharpening pencils at his desk. His chair pushed back and turned toward me so I could see better, he turned the pencil slowly, carefully, to get a long strip of wood, the longer, the more fun. I would try it, but my strip would crumble. The special touch of experience was required. I noticed when he sharpened pencils for himself, he deftly used a small pen knife. Many years later we gave Dad a wall pencil sharpener for his birthday. It was quicker, easier, but far less interesting and required no skill. Now they have even electrified these so no one need expend the effort to turn the little handle. How utterly boring! With childlike fascination for the strange shapes of log borings but adult appreciation for their sculptured designs and blended colors, I photographed them closeup and wondered-what is the history of these particular logs? They grew on the farm here for perhaps fifty or sixty years before George Nelson felled them in the late 1800s, so their seedlings were pre-Civil War. Surely the seeds which produced them came from virgin trees in the great hardwood forest that once blanketed these mountains. The drilling was finished, and into those holes the "simple" wiring of too many outlets, switches, fixtures, and heating units disappeared, then reappeared to bridge the gaps between the logs. They poked up from the floor and down from the ceiling, and I was prompted to exclaim, "This house looks strung with black spaghetti!" adding, in admiration of the electriciary.s' skill, "I marvel how you ever figure out which wire goes to what!" Our cheery electrician responded, "Waaaal, later on, if you flip a switch and the commode flushes, you'll know we done somethin' wrong." Clint, who had just walked in, doubled up with laughter and added his spontaneous gem, "We won't hafta nail this house t'gither. Hit's warred!" The chief electrician was enormously pleased. The drilling had been a great physical effort and the day's work anything but routine, but he had thoroughly enjoyed it. As he prepared to leave, his eyes swept the room with an all-encompassing look, and he 177 �stated grandly, "I don't care what anybody says, I done it!" What a wonderful statement of accomplishment! It captured the whole spirit of our work and applied to nearly any job we did. Each task presented its atypical, unfamiliar challenge. Each worker started with a touch of apprehension, strange to the techniques required, uncertain of the outcome, and because of this uncertainty, jobs could not be planned ahead. Two sentences found later in an editorial pertinent to restoring old houses might have calmed our frequent frustrations and apprehensions. "Working on an old house to turn it into a place to live is more a matter of experiment and observation than restoration to a set of rules. Most of us find it difficult to visualize a total rebuilding ... job in advance of the actual work." 4 But when each job was completed, a surge of genuine pride swept in. "That job was a tough'n, but I figgered it out. I done it!" When the electrician arrived for the second day's work, he exclaimed in greeting, "I was adrillin' them tough old oak logs all night long in my sleep. Now, where do you want them receptycles in the loft?" We climbed a ladder to this upper domain and beamhopped to a wide board which lay in the middle as an island for standing. I explained that an overhead light and a single outlet at each end of the loft would be adequate and hoped the county electrical inspector, when he came to check the rough wiring, would agree. He didn't. Several days later when the inspector arrived, his delight in the log house nearly eclipsed his duty to inspect. He was bursting with questions, but ultimately turned to business and did it well, heeding my request to be strict on the workmanshipwe wanted the wiring to be absolutely safe. However, he confirmed that the loft, if wired at all, must have the required receptacles every twelve feet, even though four of them would be at the angle of the roof-floor junction, useless, costly, mere dust collectors. The workmen could do this wiring when they returned to install the electric fixtures. But anyway, we were mostly warred! 178 �Pole and Power My advice on telegraph poles had never been sought before, and I almost laughed aloud at my preposterous position, surrounded by serious linesmen looking at me intently, awaiting my mighty decision. We were considering the location for a new telegraph pole, the old one being badly worn and poorly situated. I felt utterly ridiculous, then played with a touch of private whimsy. "Put it there," said the all-powerful Queen to her subjects, and they did, setting it firm and straight by the lane behind the big hemlocks. "You want the electric line from the pole to the house underground?" someone asked. "Oh, yes, please. We don't want wires across that lovely view." "Where'Il we put it?" Where? It had never occurred to us that anyone but the linesmen would decide this. They would point to the best place, and there it would go, automatically. But again they all looked to me for the decision. After full consultation with her surrounding advisors, the Queen said, "Put it there;' and they did, a neat, narrow ditch only inches wide, directly from the pole to the house. It was all too easy. Several days later a deluge washed out the fill of the entire electric line. The mud swooshed merrily down the narrow gully and settled smoothly on the lowest spot, the lane. By chance, only hours before, a new truckload of gravel had been spread on the lane where it now lay under mud. The power company men returned, complete with a yellow monster sporting a five foot blade to fill a ditch several inches wide. "Need it to collect dirt;' they explained. It shoved in soil garnished with day lilies and goosenecks while JB and I tossed in broken bricks, stones, and junk, anything to block the flow of wash in case of another deluge. As a final touch, the machine operator ran his treads directly on the ditch for its entire length, packing it. Late that afternoon I called the telephone company to report we were ready to have the underground telephone line installed. As I whiled away minutes on HOLD, I reviewed my call to this office several weeks previously, I had asked, "Would it be possible 179 �to put the electric and telephone lines in the same ditch to minimize digging and save time!" It seemed an efficient and logical plan. "Oh, no," a voice responded with certainty. "We prefer a separate ditch. Then if trouble arises in either line, the other is not likely to be damaged during repair. Call us after your electric line is in." Well, I was being prompt. I heard a voice and stated my request for the telephone line. What I heard next produced a sudden burst of laughter directly into the startled man's ear. He had just asked, "When will your electric line be going in? It would be a good idea to use that ditch for the telephone line, too." 180 �Shingling A romantic but determined dream persisted. A grizzled old timer would select special logs from trees felled months ago on the farm. In the yard beside the picturesque cabin he would work diligently and happily at an easy, steady pace. Striking his froe with a mallet, he would rive a generous supply of oak shingles for the roof. Surrounded by a mounting pile, he would pause every so often to hold a finished piece for inspection, fingering its grain, assessing its dimensions, priding himself on his skill and high standards. Then he'd toss it lightly onto the pile or reject it loosely at his feet. The dream died only when repeated efforts to locate a man with proper skills and time had failed miserably-and it died hard. Instead, a shiny truck from a local lumber company delivered squares of cedar shingles-mass-produced, foreign, fait accompli-tightly bound with metal strips. With obvious disinterest in his chore, the deliveryman stacked the squares beside the house and departed. I almost resented those squares-they were too easy, too tidy, too ordinary. They lacked any personal touch and care and feeling. They were cold. Yet the roofing job is indelibly associated with heat. JB and Clint spent long hours at a 45° angle under baking sun. Clint called down one day, "JB here's a good Methodist, and I'm an old Presbyterian, but right now we're soaked enough to be Baptists!" Heat slowed efficiency, heat drove us to the meadow stream frequently, but never seemed to undermine the pleasant disposition of both men. Heat inspired Clint to surprise us one day. After a break for lunch, he rummaged in the back of his pickup truck camper and emerged triumphantly with an ice-cold watermelon held high. He loved little touches to break the routine, and no one objected. While the two men worked on the roof, I enjoyed listening to their conversation, not intentionally eavesdropping, but unavoidably within range as I worked below. I could picture JB's gentle smile and weathered face, so consistently calm, as he bantered with the irrepressible chatter of Clint, whose blue eyes twinkled with humor and mischief. A railroadman's hat seemed 181 ��grown to Clint's head, and when he removed it one time to wipe his brow more thoroughly, revealing a head of thick hair beneath, I was astonished at the difference. He had a beautiful, somewhat crooked smile that leapt into existence at the slightest chance, and his bubbly wit and collection of worn jokes exercised it regularly. When I needled him one day for a dreadful pun he had just made, he responded, "But if I didn't have a whole wit, I'd be a half wit." Later he called down from the roof, knowing I was right below, "You know, if they crossed a lightnin' bug with a bee, they'd git a bug that'd work night and day. I would hear the men chuckling up there, and the hammers would pound some more, and once, when they paused a moment, hammering sounds resounded from a nearby tree as if in echo-a pileated woodpecker beating on a dead tree trunk. One day as I arrived Clint hastily set down a saw horse he was carrying, muttering, "Used to ride horses; now I just carry 'em," and turned to find something in his truck. "Brought you a play-purty today." Fortunately, I had heard the term "play-pretty" used locally and had written a mountain man who is an authority on the dialect and asked for further explanation. He replied that "play-pretty" is a catch-all term for little objects with which children play, little boxes, pieces of ribbon, pretty bottles, bits of colored paper, cardboard cutouts, and objects from the kitchen which Mother can spare. He explained that they are sometimes kept in "play houses" which could be stalls in the barn, chimney corners outside the house, rock out-crops close to the house, areas around tree roots, mossy spots, and the like. "Little tads often strewed their playpurties around over the floor till a body couldn't hardly walk fer 'em." Clint brought quite a toy, a metal detector! He was forever optimistic that we would find some ancient tool or artifact as we stirred on the hill. While trying it out, he asked, "Hear them old senators talkin' on TV last night?" The Watergate hearings were in full swing. "You can tell they's old loggers, them senators, all right-talk for fifteen minutes and don't say nuthin." Only junk car parts responded to his sophisticated gadget. 183 �Several days later when JB lifted a pack of shingles from the pile, tiny green fragments fluttered from between it and the next pack. Close examination revealed hornet-like cells, constructed from leaf fragments, and within the cells were cream-colored larvae. "Leaf cutter bees!" I exclaimed, excited. I had read how the female bee cuts a circular piece of leaf, generally of blackberry or rose, pokes it into a hole or burrow or niche she has selected to serve as an end for her cell, and then cuts oblong pieces- how does she know to change the shape?-to line the sides of the cell. She makes a paste of pollen and nectar, lays an egg on a supply of it in the cell, and cuts a second circular piece to plug the entrance. She constructs and supplies a number of cells similarly, then goes on her way. The hatched larvae feed on the paste, having just the proper amount to ensure full development. Now the carpenters and I were witnessing this in real life. Clint noticed a dead bee on the ground and poked it with his foot, stating, "That'ns done dead." A bee flew in with an oblong piece of leaf, found her cells damaged and exposed, and buzzed and darted about in agitated confusion. Unable to cope with the dilemma, she flew off as another zoomed in and continued making a leafy cell as if nothing had happened. When a bottom pack of shingles was lifted, several, shiny black salamanders wiggled away, frantically seeking cover. One was extra large, so I grabbed the opportunity to photograph it, then collected a smaller one to take home for identification, eager to attach a name to this creature on our hill. The guidebook showed row upon row of salamanders of incredibly varying colors and features, some spectacular. Only one plain little fellow, Jordan's salamander, seemed similar to my reluctant captive in a margarine cup, yet the description stated that the animal should have a gray underside. My creature was entirely black. Determination led me into the fine print of subspecies and into success. My somber black salamander suddenly had a common name, the highlands salamander, and a scientific name, Plethodon jordani melaventris, a species endemic to only a small range here in western North Carolina. Some salamanders are limited to even smaller ranges, like one side of a mountain- 184 �nowhere else in the world! Fishermen lift rocks and logs and boards to find various salamanders for fish bait, calling them "lizards", and probably consider them worthless otherwise, but to me the shiny black, living creature in my hand was exciting. It taught a new name and gave a glimpse into the complexity and wonder of the world of speciation. Later I released the captive near a damp log. Unharmed, it wiggled beneath with frantic haste, ready to resume its unobtrusive ways. Three special sounds of the outdoors became permanently associated with those summer weeks when sheathing and shingling dominated. Foremost was the indigo bunting, clinging daily to its flimsy sprig on top the shaggy hemlock, spilling out its intermittent bits of musical miscellany. From early morning until dusk, in midday heat or as thunderheads loomed and rolled, during utter stillness or against blustery puffs, the faithful, determined bunting sang his message and won the affection of our cabin crew. From field level, unseen amid dense grass and weeds, another small bird species imprinted its frequent calls in our summer minds. Seeming similarly unperturbed by midday heat, field sparrows sent friendly messages of three musical dashes followed by a blur of dots, calling and answering each other from many directions. Swooping over the cove with exciting speed or lazily riding thermals above the hills, broadwinged hawks supported our endeavors daily with their frequent company and wild but exhilarating screams from above, adding a third sound. Roofing, heat, buntings, field sparrows, broadwings-they intertwine in memory, bound together by coincidence. My camera was poised, waiting for the final moments. The last shingle of the last row of shingles had been hammered to the roof. That top row projected nearly a foot beyond the roof peak and was about to be trimmed to the traditional and practical four or five-inch extension to keep out rain and snow. An old timer would have trimmed the shingles of his last row individually before nailing, but JB now applied his power saw along the row. The tips dropped rapidly, sliding down the roof; I snapped quick pictures, and the roof was finished. 185 �New Boards, Old Boards It happened so fast! In only hours the back room which had been wide open to the backwoods was closed in. The rough pine boards which covered it now had seasoned gradually through spring and summer. Tom and I carried them one by one up the hill, and JB and Clint fit the random-width lengths to the back room, securing them with three-inch battens nailed over the seams. The two large pines, felled and milled in February, served again on their hill, strong and ready for more years. We should have been excited by this conspicuous progress, but unexpected disappointment struck. We had grown to love and take for granted the back room's fresh, ever-changing view into green leaves and twigs and spent many idle moments watching towhees rustling and kicking leaves in the forest litter, fence lizards scampering through the piles of wood scraps, saplings growing, and colors changing from spring to summer. We had noted the struggles of cinquefoil, cassia, sorrel, and various grasses to clothe the raw back bank. I was setting out daily food scraps on the big pine stump where the men had seen the young fox, hoping it might be enticed to return so I could catch a glimpse, and throughout each day glanced from the open room to the stump dozens of times, each time expectant, but the food lay untouched. Each night it disappeared, and as if to say, "Thank you;' in its animal way, the diner left a dropping in its place. We suspected an opossum. Suddenly a serious mistake in our room plan glared blankly at us. Though the closed in room was cosy and cheery, with light flooding in from the large south window opening, a windowless back wall, practical on paper but sternly opaque, denied us the world of sight and action behind the house. Only a window could salvage the disaster, and heartily agreeing, JB sawed one immediately, a hasty rectangular hole which ever since has framed a constantly changing series of natural paintings and designs, landscapes, portraits, and dramas, depending on the seasons and ones angle of view. Several days later early morning mists hung in the hollow, and hilltops poked above them like dark islands in a white sea 186 �while JB and I loaded the oak floorboards from the old living room onto his pickup truck and hauled them up the hill. The boards were gray and grooved with age and wear, but solid. Not enough had survived the dismantling to cover the living room floor again, but they were perfect for the porches, and JB and I labored diligently through long, absorbing hours to trim, set, and nail them in place. Two boards received special attention. One Anne had rescued because of its hole through which the Nelson children had pushed sweepings from the floor, a tiny human tie with the past. The other I had set aside later. It, too, had a hole, but a black plastic lid with the word JOY from a detergent bottle plugged the opening perfectly. The newly laid porch floor included both, one with a story to tell, the other displaying a touch of whimsical humor. Each time I see JOY in the floor, I cannot suppress a private inner smile. JOY is always an encouraging word to notice unexpectedly. At lunch time, with silly but delightful ceremony and flare, I set the two battered aluminum chairs onto the porch floor, feeling acutely familiar with each board that supported them, and as JB and I ate and surveyed the scene in relaxed comfort, we were kings of the mountain. A porch to sit on opens wide new angles of view, provides a milieu for sociability, and extends a home's living space. As someone had said, ''A porch sees a heap o' livin'." Our enthusiasm for this expanded vantage and new dimension bubbled, but then each confided a sense of disappointment that neither Eula nor Tom could be on hand to share this impressive milestone in the cabin's growth. When Anne arrived home from summer college, she became an eager helper, joining me in a struggle with another set of boards. "They're just not right," I lamented. "We need some wider ones," Anne suggested. "I'll call Virgil Greer tonight and see if he has any at his sawmill." We stood in the living room, peering at the ceiling. After several days of hard work laying long, rough pine ceiling boards above the chestnut beams, we were disappointed with the effect. "Just a couple of lengths of wider boards will do the trick," 187 �Anne repeated to reconvince us. "If the sawmill has some, we could zip down to get them tomorrow." That evening I called Virgil Greer and heard, "Now, we ain't gonna be sawin' tomorrow, but I think thay's a few big'ns settin' 'ere somewhars. Round about late mornin' you come on down and take a look." My first trip to his sawmill had been three years ago when I was hunting slab posts for an electric fence around our two-acre home pasture. Still fresh from New Jersey and new to the mountains, I had charged off as on a routine errand. Taking turns as directed, I eventually entered an inconspicuous dirt road. Shrubs squeaked against both sides of the car, and mudholes, ruts, and puddles of unknown depth unsettled my driving confidence. An abandoned house surrounded by junk cars and trash hardly encouraged my spirits, and nothing but vegetation followed. I had left the hard-surfaced road with its occasional traffic only a mile or two back, but it seemed a hundred miles away now, and forward was the only direction to go. Was this really the road to the sawmill? Where on earth was it taking me? Lurching on at less than ten miles per hour, I sensed a growing fear that was only partially alleviated when I rounded a bend and pulled into a sunlit clearing, complete with sawmill. The several men manning it stopped all activity and stared at me unabashedly, like cattle in a field that stare openly and long as you approach. Sometimes one cow will suddenly swing away and collide with others, and all will shift position, retreating a few steps, then simultaneously turn front again to stare from a more comfortable distance. Sometimes an individual either brave or unusually curious will step forward, possibly followed by one or two more, all with snuffling noses and intent eyes. I stepped from the car, bravely, I thought. Like the cattle, the men shifted position, all looking. Then one ambled forward, tall, lanky, smudged, unsmiling. I was about to flee to my car when he greeted me with a gentle voice, "Mornin', ma'm. You the lady wantin' them fence slabs?" "Yes, I'm the one." His face broke into a lovely smile that transcended his scruffy appearance and obliterated any anxieties. 188 �Two other men approached quietly, and Virgil Greer mumbled their names to me, and each man muttered, "Ma'm," and I shook their resin-stained hands because it gave us something to do with the moment. After they loaded the posts into my station wagon, I lingered several minutes to chat with these interesting people. A cultural gap stretched widely between us, but their friendliness was disarming, their manner the epitome of courtesy, if not refinement, and I journeyed home feeling delightfully adventuresome and rural, pleased with the contact with more mountain people. Now Anne and I squeezed and lurched along that same little road, this time in comfortably familiar territory, for I had visited the mill several times for materials in the past two years. Greer was not at the mill as expected-no one was there. We searched to be sure, called, then felt uneasy in that lonely location, so hopped back into the car, locked the doors, and waited-and waited. Even before we heard the sound of an approaching vehicle, we could feel the ground vibrations. Would it be Greer? A red truck laden with huge logs heaved into view as we strained to identify the driver. The cab door swung open, long legs stepped out, and slow-walking Greer, overalled and smiling, now a friend, was striding our way. We met him halfway, looked over the boards he had available-fourteen-inch beauties-and purchased enough for two full lengths of the main cabin and one length of the back room, jamming them into the station wagon. In the loft again we spent more hours puzzling with and fitting boards and peering through cracks between them to spot the shadowy shape of the handhewn beams below. Nails hammered through the boards must hit the beams, and several times we relaxed our cramped and strained weariness by playing with the corny pun, "Hey! I'm getting off beam!" Hours later, with hammer arms aching, Anne and I stood once again in the living room, peering at the ceiling, but this time we liked what we saw. The temperature read 80° at 9:00 a.m. as Charlie set up the Ski! saw on the back porch and I dumped nearby our collected 189 �tools, measuring devices, and nails. The temperature rose steadily with the sun's arc in the summer sky. "This shouldn't be too much of a job," I stated lightly, trying to inspire enthusiasm. We were ready to install the old loft flooring into the back bedroom. "Just cut, lay in place, and nail. It should go quickly." The first board delivered a strong message-it did not fit evenly against the wall but bowed. "Let's try another." The second fit perfectly, so we ignored the message of the first, unaware that the second's fit was a major exception. From there the project deteriorated with discouraging rapidity. Not only were the boards universally bowed, they varied in thickness and ranged from five to sixteen inches wide. Enthusiasm for matching both width and thickness melted rapidly in the oppressive heat. We looked at each other in dripping misery, each hoping the other would say, "Let's stop," both knowing the job had to be done. Doggedly we worked out a method for laying the boards which made progress possible. While one person knelt, poised with hammer and nail, the other forced the warped board into place with block and crowbar. When effort and straightening reached maximum, the crowbar manipulator gasped, "Now!" and the hammer plunged. The nail was supposed to penetrate the wood in several quick blows and occasionally did, allowing crowbar-holding muscles to relax until the next nail. But as was so evident with the front porch floor boards, old wood and new wood accept nails with differing willingness, and the nails were squared flooring nails with blunt tips. Too often the hammer bounced, flipping the nail into space, the tool striking the board with a denting blow. Sometimes it connected with a human digit, creating spectacular sound effects. In a restrained and polite understatement, the day was not a good one. We snarled and growled in angry frustration, but after bending and standing for the last painful time, had to confess that a glimmer of gratification shone within -we had conquered those stubborn, tough, mean, bent, lopsided, horrible old boards, and the bedroom flooring actually looked great! 190 �Big Little Jobs Compared to fitting flooring, setting the stairs was a breeze. The old stairway had divided the log house in two, but we had decided long ago to have one large room. "The Botanical Club could come here for field trips and use the big room for refreshments or slides or a meeting, too," I had suggested. "So could the Camera Club. A big room would be perfect for programs!' "Or the Garden Club. The ladies'd love it here." ''And the kids could have a bunch of friends here better if it's one large room." "So could we, and maybe the Sunday School class could meet here some spring Sunday." "Not exactly the little shack we originally pictured for our piece of mountain, is it?'' Tom had tossed in. "But isn't it great! I love it! Oh, I wish George Nelson and Della could see it. I know they'd be pleased. It's kindof as if the house were born again." The stairs were relegated to the back wall, JB and Tom setting them into position on a pleasantly cool and cloudy day in August. Quiet fitting, adjusting, measuring, and discussing filled the morning, and by midday the stairs were fastened along the log wall and across the top. No one charged up them yet, however, for a vertical support post for the outside edge was imperative. I rummaged around near the old cabin site, seeking the proper log for this from the piles of materials stored there. To say I stumbled upon it would be no figure of speech, for I literally tripped over a log covered by ivy under the hemlocks and sprawled flat. Without even getting up, I stripped back the summer's growth of ivy vines for a good look-hand hewn, straight, solid, the perfect log. Where had such a fine log been in the old house? The men hauled it up the hill, fastened it in place, and nailed the stairway firmly to it. JB rubbed the beam with an admiring touch and commented, as if fully aware of my question, "This beam supported the porch bedroom in the old house." We promptly paraded up the solidly established stairs as if to assure 191 �ourselves they were really there, that they would really take us to the loft, and all turned and grinned at each other at the top. Tom and JB battled the large, front, double window much of the next day. Their job appeared straight forward enough in the beginning, but neither man suspected the contrariness of a properly squared, inflexible, cumbersome window versus an irregular, inflexible, immoveable log wall. When varied and repeated assaults failed to install the cantankerous thing properly straight, a brilliant, end-of-the-day rationalization developed. Since almost everything else was crooked, what did it matter if the window was, too? One workman had stated, "Hain't nuthin' 'bout a log house gonna be plumb nohow." So the window sits deceptively plumb-like, letting in light and mountains and sunsets and occasional bumblebees, innocent of the crooked but inconspicuous evidence of its victory over two very determined, patient men. What do the cabin's porch posts have to do with an event in New Jersey? Lots! The old wooden borough hall, vintage early 1900s, formerly the school in our New Jersey town, was scheduled for demolition. En route to the grocery store one day for a quick shopping, I noticed several trucks, a bulldozer, and a bucket loader beside the venerable building and concluded casually, "Guess they're going to start the job today." Had I known what was about to happen, I would have moved no further, for the show must have been truly spectacular. Upon emerging from the store minutes later, I gasped in disbelief. An expansive vista gaped where the borough hall had stood, where I had just seen it standing. The machines had pushed, and the three-story structure had collapsed without a struggle. A bucket loader was loading huge trucks with the tangled, impersonal mass of lumber and plaster, all to be hauled to the dump. Were there no dignitaries on hand to witness the significant event and pay respects to the final moments of the old building which had served the community so actively through several 192 �generations? It seemed so ignominous-and wasteful, so terribly wasteful. Tons of still-useful materials were broken and mashed and hauled away as useless junk. Demolition by a different technique is practised commonly in Hendersonville, where buildings are dismantled board by board, brick by brick, pipe by pipe, door by door, with all stacked into organized piles and sold for reuse. One Saturday Tom and I poked among some of them, seeking six rough 4x4s to replace our temporary porch posts. We found exactly what we needed and hauled them to the cabin to be set in place, and at times, when I lean against them, daydreaming lazily, I think of that fine old borough hall decomposing wastefully in a dump. Gratitude for our recycled porch posts and for every piece of material that we have been able to put into service again runs deep. Fog blanketed the farm one morning, creeping into every niche, and when I stepped from the car shortly before 8:00 a.m., gooseflesh arose on my arms. Slipping into a sweater felt good. I looked off to the invisible hollow, a world without detail, an almost mystical scene with mere suggestions of trees. Shuffling noises inside the cabin distracted me, and I almost resented JB's being on hand already, breaking my morning mood, but reluctantly I turned from the misty scene of gray and white and stepped inside to greet him. My job for the morning was cleanup, yet another of countless cleanups I had accomplished in an effort to free workmen for more skilled, productive tasks. Once again assorted scrap from the recent rash of activity lay scattered about the house. The chaos looked overwhelming, but little by little, in only a few sustained hours, I organized piles of like materials and stored or discarded others. Steady, quiet scooping followed by gentle sweeping cleared away the remaining floor covering of sawdust and tracked-in soil. That evening I reported wearily to Tom, "I swept the cabin today." Had anyone overheard that statement, they might have wondered why such a menial, routine job was even mentioned, but Tom and I rejoiced in its full significance. "Hey, great!" he exclaimed. "One of these days we're going 193 �to be staying out there! There might even be an end to this building!" "I can't wait for some of the Nelsons to see it all finished." Impatience ruled our thoughts. 194 �Chapter 9 "Chimley" Secrets of the Rockpile .................... 196 Chimley Week ........................... 198 Locked ................................. 211 195 �Secrets of the Rockpile For seven weeks the pile of mixed rocks and soil brought up hill by the bucket loader had rested essentially undisturbed, quietly harboring secrets, waiting for the chimney builders to arrive. An occasional rock was tossed upon it, settling as it landed or clattering down the side until it stopped against lower rocks. Occasionally a rock was removed for a special purpose. Mostly the pile was forgotten as summer sun baked the rocks and summer rain poured upon them, washing away loose dirt, creating crannies, exposing new surfaces. Seven weeks is a long stretch in the year's prime time of growth and reproduction, and nature had incorporated the idle rockpile into the natural habitat of the hill. Fence lizards sneaked from its dark crannies to bask on sunwarmed stones, lying motionless and patient, moving only to snatch a passing insect or disappear instantly if disturbed. A Carolina wren regularly explored the pile's secret nooks, seizing tiny insects and spiders which resided within, and a song sparrow used the topmost rock as a pedestal for singing. Dragonflies and other insects considered the rockpile a landing strip for rest between flights, while Daddy-long-legs tip-toed in and out on spindly appendages. Some people call these spidery creatures harvestmen, a name I find difficult, for each has eight wonderfully long, slender legs and superb agility in maneuvering them, a talent which should be advertised. A shifted rock might expose the hiding place of a startled toad. Instinctively the toad would freeze, depending on superb camouflage to obscure its presence. A wide assortment of creeping beings from microbes to beetles, slugs to springtails, sowbugs to centipedes and earthworms used the rockpile as home, but home was endangered. Time was running out for nature's secret community in the rockpile. The arrival of the chimney builders was imminent. JB walked by the rockpile one day after a heavy rain. He had passed it countless times before, but this time he stopped suddenly, for something caught his eye. Examining a rain-washed rock, he fingered its irregular surface, tracing strange grooves. Were they 196 �natural or man-made? He stooped for a better lighting angle and with unexpected excitement discerned two unmistakable numbers: one and eight. Might the grooves following these be more numbers? He studied the rock from yet another angle, and the numbers nine and seven leapt out. 1897! Might this be a cabin date? Who chipped them into the rock? Why? "Do you know anything about a rock with a date carved on it?" I casually asked Della's sister a few days later as we sat on the front porch, she reminiscing, I recording on tapes. "Oh, yes! Did you find one?" Eager excitement raised her voice, and she rushed on. "I heard Daddy talk about it many times, about how he put a date on a rock. 'When I'm gone,' he said, 'somebody will find out some day when I built this house.' I bet you found that rock, didn't you?" "We sure did! Or rather, JB did. Where'd your father put the rock?" "He said he put it in the wall under the house somewheres." We practically ran to the rockpile where she, too, made out the date 1897. "That's just right!" she exclaimed jubilantly. "It was built when George, Jr., was crawlin', and he was horned in the year before that. Oh, isn't this excitin'.'' She listened with glowing intensity as I recounted how JB had noticed the rock after rains had washed it, how amid the hundreds of rocks, dumped completely at random, load after load, it had rested with its date side out, as if set up to be noticed. "It seems almost providential to find it," I noted quietly. She responded reverently, "You was meant to find it." 197 �Chimley Week The other end of the telephone wire rang and rang. I was about to hang up when a man's voice suddenly mumbled, "Yup?" "Is this Mr. Vallie King?" "Reckon so." "I hear you make good stone chimneys." His smile almost flowed through the wire. "Why, I've made dozens of rock chimleys in my time. M'chimleys draws real good, they do. You needin' one?" I explained our chimney and fireplace requirements and from his response concluded two things: 1) he had no teeth, and 2) this chimney project might prove far more interesting than anticipated. "How long might it take to make a chimney and fireplace?" I asked. "Oh, mebbe four-five-six days, mebbe more, 'pendin' on weather. How fur's yournses place?" "Just five miles on the far side of town from you." He lived about a half hour from town. "That's purty far fer goin' back and forth. Mebbe I might could stay there." "Oh, but there's no place to stay. The house isn't even closed in yet, and there's no water in it and ...." "Got a branch nearby?" "Yes." "Then I could camp." Somehow I had never pictured our construction personnel camping on the premises. My baffled silence must have been interpreted as acquiescence. "Hit'll take some weeks afore I kin git up that way to look it over." Intrigued by this developing situation, I blurted, "I look forward to meeting you." "When you see me you'll want yer sunglasses!" he laughed and hung up, business accomplished. Several weeks later a wiry, little man of indeterminate age stood looking at the gaping hole in the north wall of our log house. A week's gray stubble covered his weathered face, and a fleeting 198 �smile confirmed my suspicion about an absence of teeth. "You gotta git youenses a good drawin' chimley now. Hit'll smoke y'out like bees if'n hit ain't made right. Y'all'd pitch a fit! Reckon I kin make it for you fine. M'chimleys allus works good." "And we want it good. When can you start?" On August 20 King and a young helper appeared, and I burned with curiosity to know if they had camping gear stowed within the old pickup truck, but I had learned not to ask too many questions. Things would evolve in their own way, in their own time. For nearly an hour the pair alternately strolled around or squatted on haunches, conversing in low tones. Any real action involved the struggle to inspire a small, battered, obviously reluctant cement mixer to stir together their concoction of mortar, sand, and cement, conveniently called "mud." Only a generation or two before, their counterparts had used real mud, smooth, red, mountain clay, to hold together chimney and wall and fireplace stones. The carryover of this simple, useful term seemed natural and inevitable and in the next few days delighted me each time I heard the men's oft-repeated, "Gotta mix me s'more mud." Understanding and accepting and by now almost enjoying the mountain people's unconcern for time, I felt more interested than impatient with the lack of productive activity, but almost yelled a cheer of celebration when the two figures arose from a final squat and deliberately stepped toward the waiting rockpile. Work on the chimney had begun officially. With silent strength the younger man lifted rocks from the pile and handed them down to kneeling King who, after solemn study of each space, set them in place. Occasionally a heavy mallet, swung confidently by the helper, broke large rocks into smaller ones. A stone hammer, skillfully wielded by King onto the proper spot on rocks, shaped them to fit together properly. Devoid of hurry, with sure, measured movements, the team placed rock by rock, and the chimney base became a reality, then rock upon rock, and the chimney was no longer an air castle or a picture from a book or news clipping or postcard drawn from my file on log house chimneys. Assisted by skilled hands, it was growing before my eyes, forming gradually in stone and mortar. 199 �I sensed George Nelson smiling as he saw a rock chimney rising again against the log walls he had so painstakingly hewn with his broad axe. History was repeating, in a way, and as I hoed to loosen more hardpacked yard soil for seeding, the solid rings of mallet and hammer on stone and the wet scrapings of trowel and mud entwined in mind with words spoken to me by former dwellers in the cabin, telling me about its fireplace and chimley. By now, I was unconsciously calling it a chimley, too. "Yes, that fireplace was all field rock, and big! It'd take fivesix-foot logs easy. I've seen George Nelson bring in backlogs so big he couldn't carry 'em. He'd roll 'em acrost that old wood floor. And it went futher back in than most fireplaces." Someone added, "And the hearthstone was his pride and joy, just as white as white, and it went all the way across, one solid rock. He said several people told him when he found that rock back on the mountain that he'd never be able to get it to the house, but he did. I've heard tell 'bout him and his son, Will, and some others skiddin' that stone down the mountain. They put a roller log under the front end of the rock and rolled it a piece and put another roller under it and rolled some more. That's called skiddin'. Then they rolled it into the house with crowbars. "I don't now how thick it was, but you'd scrub it, and it'd be so perfect white and as smooth as can be. Wear smoothed it down some more. It nearly broke my heart when they took that old chimley down. Guess the hearthstone could've broke up when they did that. Guess we'll never know what become of it 'cause those that'd know are gone. Deller woulda knowed. Maybe they got rid of it with the old chimley rocks. The rocks was all taken away, you know, all but those big base ones you found. I've played at the base of that old chimley many times. He proudly dragged them big rocks in with a yoke of oxens." "What was the mantel like?" I asked. "Oh, they had a hand-hewn log for a mantlepiece-called it a fireboard-maybe four-five inches thick, and it was high. Thay was a mantel clock up there, and when I was little and wanted to see, I had to stand way back and look up. Never did know why the mantel was so high. George, he had his own notions 'bout 200 �how he wanted things, and I didn't dare touch anything up there. He used to keep camphorated ice up there, and at night he'd sit and rub that camphor on his poor old rough hands. All that was forbidden was on that mantel. I think it was his secret hiding place. You gotta have some place to put things outa reach." King appeared in the doorway. "Gotta pick you out some rocks fer the hearth," he announced. We had decided that three large stones would be required to fill the space that George Nelson's single white stone had occupied. The hearth would be prominent, so the stones must be selected with care, an easy task, for beside the tumbled rockpile sprawled two square rocks, from the old chimney base, perfect in size and shape. JB and the insulation work crew diverted me from choosing a third stone. The men stomped in, laden with huge rolls of pink fluff which ultimately padded the loft, above and underfoot, until it seemed like some clouded, soundless dreamland. "To walk on pink clouds" is to be filled with joy, but little joy flowed among the workers as they stapled and stepped among pink clouds in that miserably hot, stuffy loft. Returning to Vollie King, I was astonished by his progress. The men had rolled and maneuvered the two huge stones into position, and King had set them beautifully. But to my dismay, three small stones lay where the third large one was planned. Had King been impatient that I was delayed so long, or had he chosen to avoid the struggle of a third huge rock? Painfully weary from a long day of hoeing-digging-raking-seeding, I desperately wanted to avoid an unpleasant confrontation at a late hour, so chose the easy route-commended the large stones, ignored the small, and procrastinated. Tomorrow morning would be soon enough. The mortar would not harden that quickly, and I needed to lean on Tom's opinion for support. The men packed work equipment as I watched for signs of camping equipment with amused interest. They rummaged in the depths of the truck, muttering words unintelligible to me, as I envisioned bedrolls or blankets popping into sight within seconds. But suddenly they heaved into the cab. The engine struggled, then hummed, hands waved, voices called, "Bye, see you," and off 201 �they went. In the August dusk towhees and cardinals called and chipped from shrubby seclusion while Tom studied the chimney and hearth work and expressed his opinion-chimney looking great and the two large hearthstones perfect, but the three small ones must go. Next morning, sweatered against an early chill that warned of autumn, JB and I clambered over the rockpile, tugging, struggling to find a third hearth rock. The outermost, rainwashed layers now lay structured into the chimney base and early chimney. With our fingers gloved for protection against abrasions and pinches, we strained to loosen lower rocks which lay solidly in the dirt which had been dumped with them, making sizes difficult to assess. Repeated efforts had uncovered only rocks with odd shapes or grossly uneven surfaces. "Got to be one here somewhere;' I mutterd as I pulled on a rock which refused to budge, then abandoned it to join JB in unwedging his, determined that his promising rock should be right. Impatience and the stone's availability drove us to agree that this was it, though the surface was decidedly rough. King arrived with an enlarged crew. Two helpers quietly set to work on the chimney while he came inside to continue the fireplace. He was openly disgruntled to learn of our dissatisfaction with the three small stones and grumbled about the third rock's rough surface. "Should be smooth," he mutterd repeatedly as all struggled to move the rock into the house and hearth. "Should be smooth," he continued as he laid it. "Should be smooth," he persisted as I expressed delight with the completed hearth. I think he shared my opinion but worked hard to cover it. I praised the work generously, trying to smooth his ruffled feathers, but King had arrived grumpy that morning and apparently wished to remain grumpy, so grumpy he stayed, all day. Through the next several days the chimney rose slowly and solidly, right out of my dreams. King's two helpers teamed well. Occasionally chimney construction stopped while a new batch of mud was stirred in the balky mixer, and always the men squatted beside it on haunches, chatting, joking quietly. They were a 202 �happy team. But indoors King battled the fireplace stone as his work progressed toward disaster. Though insisting that he wanted to make it as I wanted it, he brushed aside any diplomatic suggestions as impossible and sulked in grumpiness. "Oh, it was a handsome thing!" These words describing the original fireplace rushed into mind. "Why, just everything centered around that fireplace in wintertime. The churn was set there, too, and they kept aturnin' it for the cream to turn. They put potatoes in the ashes. You've never eaten Arsh potatoes till you have 'em baked that way, and they'd put coals out on the hearth and put this little Dutch oven thing on there and grease it with a little meat skin and set the cornbread in there in two patties, and they'd put the lid on-the lid was kinda scooped out-and put coals up on that and coals around it, and that's cornbread! "We'd set there beside the fire and listen to 'em read outa the agriculture journals- The Progressive Farmer and Southern Agriculture-and the Bible, which was mostly the only readin' we got. Didn't have no other books. We didn't have much, you know." The words rang in my mind again, recalling the earlier statement. "We didn't have much, but we didn't know it, and we were happy." What food for thought in our materialistic times! Commercialism bombards us, exhorts us to buy more, more, more, brainwashing us that more means happier, but happiness runs deeper than things. Perhaps some of my mountain friends, though less educated, less traveled, less experienced in worldly things, are far wiser and more mature than many "fortunate" people coddled with goods and easy living. And here was I, thoroughly upset over the arrangement of rocks in a fireplace. It suddenly seemed so unimportant. But the fireplace had been a focus of activity and, renewed, it would once again become central, dominating the most important part of the house. We wanted to enjoy its appearance as well as its light and heat, and the way it was growing was ugly. "It looks dreadful!" I lamented to JB. "I want to tear it all down and start over!" and that is what happened. Tom, Anne, and I went to the cabin that evening, and none 203 �liked the fireplace. Their support boosted my sagging spirits. Next morning, a Saturday, Tom called King, who stated unexpectedly, "I don't like the dang blasted thing neither!" and suggested we come to his place to see some local stonework he had done and talk it over. We drove a half hour, turned onto a dirt road beside a cascading stream, then onto a one-lane road beside a tumbling tributary. On arrival Tom meeting King for the first time, greeted the little man with, "Well, you must be Mr. King." "Waaal, I don't rightly know. Everybody calls me Pap." He bubbled with high spirits and directed us to follow him along the branch. "C'mon and see some of the purtiest rocks I ever seen." "Any fish in this stream?" Tom asked as we walked along. "Shore is! Good fishin' all 'long 'ere." "You fish much?" "Used to fish a lot, but they got them seasons now and cuss me fer poachin' trouts outa my own branch 'ere. Why, one day me and my friend was afishin' up yonder in the branch, and the warden, he come by and saw three nice fish I had alyin' on m' jacket. We c'menced talkin' 'bout the best ways to ketch them things, and he axed me how I done it. 'C'mon futher up, and I'll show you,' I says, and we walked a ways, and then I c'menced fishin', ashowin' him. We was atalkin' along, and he watched me bring in eight nice trouts, atellin' him just how to do it. Then he up and fines me fer takin' too many. Law said ten, but eight'n three, that makes eleven. Boy! was I mad! Dag blame feller was just waitin' fer me to do that. I don't have nuthin' to do with wardens no more." We looked over a variety of stonework techniques in some nearby houses, "rockwork" he called it, and in no time the plan evolved that he would revise parts of the fireplace "first thing Monday morning." Smiles and good will prevailed. Tom took a vacation day to be on hand for the grand revision. With Charlie, we arrived at the cabin before 8:00 a.m., full steam ahead. JB was delighted to hear of the plan, admitting he disliked the stonework, too. All worked lightly at odd jobs, ears 204 �alert for car sounds. Eight thirty rolled by and 9:00 and 9:30, and still no King and crew. Deeply disappointed, we talked of plunging into bigger tasks for the day. Tom toyed with the idea of going to his office, but toward 10:30 the lovely sound of approaching vehicles stopped us to watch in suspense, and it was King who waved greetings. He studied the fireplace a hasty moment from across the room and stated bluntly, "Hit's no good, no good atall," then suddenly strode to the fireplace and ripped rocks off forcefully, dropping them with their partially-dried mortar to the floor in thudding heaps. In moments all the stone he had laid so laborously piled at his feet. We stood stunned by the speed and vigor and completeness of his demolition. "Well, there it is, men," I stated gaily to break the ensuing silence. "Grit your teeth and go to it!" "Cain't," replied King. ''Ain't got mine today. Left 'em home." Positive spirits filled the house, and the fireplace was rebuilt in a day, still not quite as I had dreamed of it, but an acceptable alternate. About halfway up the right side George Nelson's 1897 stone was set conspicuously, perpetuating his message that those who followed would know when he built his log house. King set the iron crane inside the right front edge of the fireplace. "Hit's gotta set at the edge here. Put futher in, you cain't swing it all out and around, and you cain't put no wood on neither, 'thout hittin' the thing. If you got any bad things to say, they'll come out then!" Days before, Anne, with her knack for denailing that none of us matched, had struggled for hours to clean one of the remaining chestnut beams. Now JB and Tom carried it in and set it atop the fireplace as a mantlepiece, a fireboard. Broad smiles revealed universal approval, King exclaiming with genuine pleasure, "Hit's shore old timey, hain't it!" Everyone was engrossed in various jobs when King lit his paper lunch bag in the fireplace. Smoke rose through the flue for the first time, and as it emerged unexpectedly into the snorting faces of the team working on the chimney top, my attention was 205 ��caught by the commotion up there. Standing outdoors, seeing the smoke, I felt as if this were the first chimney ever to spew forth smoke. Cabin pictures I had collected through many years that showed smoke curling lazily from stone chimneys paraded in mind, and now I watched that whispy blue curl rising from the real stone chimney of our own log cabin. To King, the smoke was routine verification that his chimney worked. To the men on top, it was eye-stinging annoyance. To me, it signified the warmth of habitation; the house was coming alive. The last rock was laid atop the chimney. I dashed to get a picture of the important event and befuddled by haste, overexposed the shot badly, but the tremendous relief and pleasure in having the chimney job completed remains vividly, thoroughly memorable, even if no fine pictorial souvenir exists. Chimley Week was over. Not all of that week, however, was devoted to the chimney. JB was engrossed in paneling. Paneling? In a log cabin? Earlier I would have abhorred the idea, rejected it absolutely, but many months of search for old, weathered boards to serve as interior wall for the back bedroom and bathroom had produced nothing. Abandoned sheds and barns with beautiful wood teased us as we rode the countryside, but they were unavailable or required removing and hauling the boards ourselves, which we could not do. Resigned to paneling, Anne and I reluctantly drove to Greenville, S.C., where a large supply of samples could be viewed in a warehouse. Nearly instant success smiled warmly, for leaning against a wall in the first room stood a panel that resembled grayed, weathered boards with incredible likeness. Now when people ask, "Where did you find all those lovely old boards?" we reply casually, "Oh, in a warehouse in Greenville." They look perplexed, probably picturing our tearing down an old warehouse, until we explain that it is paneling. Most reach out to touch it to be sure we are not teasing. A fine, flat rock, just the sort needed for facing the foundation walls, lay in my path as I wandered the woods one afternoon while the chimney men worked. I lifted it and jumped in surprise, though which was more startled, I do not know, the tiny ringneck 207 �snake that had been spending a quiet day beneath the rock or the giant who lifted the rock. The snake froze in its coiled position and stared at me intently, helpless but defensive. Most snakes, with their lidless eyes, stare with a fierce and angry look-it's the only expression they have-but the face of the little ringneck is gentle, almost friendly, and surely innocent. Perhaps I am prejudiced by the ringneck's utter harmlessness, its diminuitive size, its secretive ways-or perhaps by a reminiscence of a magical moment in childhood. Then, too, I had lifted a rock in a mountain woods and was thrilled to discover a tiny ringneck for the first time. I had set the stone aside and stooped to study this sleek little creature with the golden ring around its neck. We studied one another in fascination, and then, in a frantic move, it fled into nearby leaves on the forest floor. Suddenly there was magic in lifting forest stones, each being a private game of suspense. Not until this day near the cabin did I find another ringneck, but the delight of its discovery was diminished slightly by the need to make a decision. Should I collect this fine rock, or should it be replaced gently to provide the snake with shelter? I replaced it. Collecting it another day when the snake had gone would be easy. Strangely, it was only several days later that I heard the chimney men's voices raised in excitement and saw one raise his arms high above his head. His muscles bulged, hardened by years of rock handling, and his massive hands grasped a large rock. He flung it to the ground vigorously. "You got 'im!" exclaimed the helper in triumph, but the rock was lifted high a second time and slammed to the ground. I rushed up the hill from the old site where I had been hunting a board and panted, "What are you killing?" "That there snake," the big man announced with pride and satisfaction, confident that he would receive my praise. I looked at the crushed creature. "But that's just a little ringneck snake! It couldn't possibly hurt you. It's completely harmless. What good does it do to kill it?" "Only good snake's a dead'n;' the man shot back, and the other 208 �laughed in agreement. Here were men brought up in rattlesnake-copperhead country, taught since boyhood that all snakes are bad, absolutely sure they were right. How could I, an outsider, in a few excited moments, hope to penetrate the solid shield of a lifetime conviction? I expressed disappointment, even sadness, and requested that if another snake of any kind were found, they call me, please. One more harmless wild creature had succumbed to man's misunderstanding and ignorance. Within days, a prime opportunity arose. The floor boards of the corncrib, solid, wide, and well-preserved, had rested in a stack beside the old crib foundations for eight months. Anticipating that some would be useful soon, Anne and I were carrying a few to the new site. As one board was raised, a large snake beneath it reared back, coiled ominously, eyes glistening. We knew instantly it was neither of our two local poisonous snakes, the copperhead or timber rattler, so set the board aside and quietly approached the fine creature. Utterly motionless except for the flicking tongue which tested the air, sensing us, it was a textbook picture of a kingsnake, creamy white chain markings contrasting beautifully with the gleaming dark scales around them. Kingsnakes are usually friendly, so I slowly, gently lifted the big fellow, who seemed unperturbed by the maneuver, and carried it up to the house. JB started in surprise, but then, ever calm, helped me measure it at slightly over four feet. Exact straight line measurement was impossible due to the strong body muscles. The snake is an aggressive constrictor when feeding, and these strong muscles held it in curving position. I carried it out to show the chimney men, hoping that actions with both the ringneck and kingsnake would speak more strongly than words. The men stood like unsmiling statues, astonished as I approached with the large snake wrapped around my arms and hands. They remained stiffly, solemnly attentive as I mentioned briefly how gentle and useful kingsnakes are, not only for controlling rodents but for eating other snakes, even young copperheads, being immune to the poison. We studied the 209 �handsome marking, the flicking tongue, the lidless eyes, no one saying much, and then I walked away. Anne took the snake and let it slip silently beneath the remaining corn crib boards, back to its rightful habitat and useful ways. What would have been the use, the sense, in killing it? Did the men mutter afterward, "Crazy woman!" or did some tiny bit of understanding of snakes, those dreadfully maligned creatures, seep through? One afternoon, after all the workmen had left, a strong hissing sound approached rapidly from high in the wooded hill behind the cabin. Alarmed and perplexed, I dashed from my reading chair on the front porch and peered around the corner toward the magnifying noise. Almost instantly I was engulfed in a deluge of mammoth raindrops that splattered leaves and drenched air and earth with noise and water, but lasted only a few wild seconds. Wondering, amazed, I glanced at the blue sky above, but the true wonder was yet to be seen. The dense curtain of drops, perhaps only fifteen or twenty feet in depth, swept downhill and across the meadow below. In a magnificent display, it caught the sun's rays and transformed into a flowing veil of diamonds that glitterd above the green for a few wonderful seconds, then passed into oblivion in the far woods. Squinting toward the sun, I leaned against the porch post, listening to the soft splats of drippings from leaves and roof, pondering this brief but spectacular moment of storm. What strange conditions had produced this once-in-a-lifetime phenomenon? Only one whisp of cloud hung overhead. Was I the only one to witness the sparkling curtain? How could I hope to describe its beauty to others? Simultaneously alarming and entrancing, it had arrived and departed in a few breath's time. 210 �Locked Little did I suspect that JB would have a surprise waiting for me on that chilly, mid-September day, but I missed seeing it immediately. Goldenrod caught my attention instead as flower heads peeked over my VW Beetle where I parked below the cabin. Each strong, green stalk had climaxed its summer efforts with a brilliant display of gold, but nature has a wonderful way of topping even her best. Dozens of monarch butterflies, driven by their amazing seasonal urge to fly southward to Mexico, fluttered over the flowers, feeding on nectar in the florets. I paused to watch a monarch at close range-surely this orange and black beauty is far too frail for so strenuous a trip. It probed for nectar intently with its long, strawlike proboscis, trying this floret and that amid the available masses, lingering only quick seconds before moving on. Suddenly it sailed upward and zig-zagged in a seemingly aimless fashion, but the net direction was south. Several more floated from the air and settled effortlessly on the flower head. Engrossed in butterflies, I'd not yet glanced at the cabin, but when I did, JB's surprise jumped out to greet me-a closed front door! Customarily one does not consider a closed door a greeting, but where there has been no door and one has been anticipating having a door and has helped plan it, select boards for it, and design hinges for it, the installation is significant, an event to be noticed. Enhancing the effect, smoke lifted from the chimney in vertical blue wisps against the motionless, autumn-touched woods behind. I took a moment to grasp and savor it all. Inside JB had built a small fire to warm cold hands and had settled beside it for lunch. At first thought, a fire seemed ridiculous-the cabin interior was still only a partially-sheltered extension of the outdoors, equipped with efficient, between-the-logs, full-time air conditioning, but surprisingly, the fire overcame this with a cosy touch. On summer days I had studied those door openings and thought, what a shame we must block off the outdoors! Today's fall chill changed my attitude-covered doorways are just right. Late September had come, and as if to signal and celebrate 211 �the end of the summer segment of cabin work, Tom and I were set for vacation. We would visit John at college in Ohio, then journey northward to visit relatives in Michigan. While Tom had an extra-busy last day at his job and I hastily wound up many small cleaning tasks at the cabin, JB put locks onto cabin doors and windows. Suddenly our chores were finished. JB and I locked the doors and windows and walked to our cars. Each unexpectedly stopped and turned to look back, as if needing to be convinced of this novel situation-the cabin was actually locked! It seemed downright unfriendly and coldly impersonal, but in fact its locked status was a kindness to us. All had worked hard and needed a change and rest. A peculiar, even absurd feeling persisted though - how can the cabin possibly get along without us? After I had tended the final touch, locking the lane cable, and waved goodbye to JB and started home to meet Tom, I toyed with a question several people had asked recently, "What do you do out there at your cabin?" How should I answer-haul rocks, identify salamanders, admire twigs against the sky, stand in the rain, denail boards, drink from the stream, learn about old wood, listen for owls, watch storms, think about people who lived in the cabin? Perhaps I should answer less specifically-we listen and hear, seek and discover, sense excitement and peace, see beauty and drama; we revel in the satisfaction of learning and hard work. Putting muscles as well as heart into a project deepens its impact. We come alive. Many people would find it boring here; it is not for everyone. Some people come alive on the golf course, relishing the friendly competition and fellowship and exercise. The delight of the TV ball game enthusiast who watches game after game, the enthusiasm of the bridge player who recounts a memorable hand play by play, the optimism of the hunter who sits within the cramped dark quarters of a duck blind, the emotion of the dancer in a music-filled dance hall-all mean something special to the participant. Oddly, being a golfer, hunter, French horn player, bottle collector, or exotic vegetable gardener requires no explanation, 212 �but a nature lover-what does a nature lover do? Perhaps what perplexes is the simplicity of it. People work diligently to fill their leisure with complexities, with stimulation requiring extra equipment or extra effort to get to distant places. Skiers load themselves with expensive gear and ride miles to the slopes. Fishermen lighten their wallets in sporting goods stores while music lovers acquire sophisticated recording and amplification equipment. Campers stock an appalling array of material goods to make camping seem less like camping. Photographers are addicted to adding new devices to expand their camera's potential. Tom and I are not innocent of these indulgences. Nature lovers need only themselves and the outdoors, which is free and accessible. They need only look out the window or walk out the door. Travel to far places is an extension, not a necessity. Even teeming cities have birds and insects, clouds and shadows, weed flowers in pavement cracks and shrubs in vacant lots. Taking oneself outdoors does not make a naturalist, however; intangible "equipment" is required -curiosity, patience, alert sensesand these, too, are free. How beautifully the cabin's surroundings permit exercise of these intangibles! As the car took me home, jiggling and bouncing along that familiar road, thoughts jumped to months, the months since we started the cabin project. I counted them out loud-eight-eight incredible months of growth and change in the cabin itself, in the living things around it, but most impressively, in ourselves. Yet, after all this, the cabin was still a mere shell, still not ready for us to test the feel of living in it. How could this project possibly drag on so endlessly? How much longer would we have to wait? 213 �This page intentionally left blank �Chapter 10 Closing the Gaps .216 .224 .227 Chinking Plumbin' Light ... 215 �Chinking "What's that?" I said as much in exclamation as question. "A road?" Tom hoped he was wrong, for a road is too permanent. A raw scar curled around the low mountain near Etowah, several miles away, and when Tom studied it through binoculars, our fears were confirmed. While we had been away on vacation, a roadway had been gouged on the mountain, opening it for development. Our pristine view, previously unmarred by man's touch, except when the Blue Ridge Parkway twenty miles away was viewed through binoculars, was permanently changed. I resented this encroachment, then looked at our own hill, scarified by a homesite and gouged by a lane, and thought of Priscilla who admonished John Alden, "Speak for thyself, John." We are all in this process of "progress" together; few are innocent. October was in full swing, treating us to a cloudless autumn day. Leaves from the walnut tree were gone, exposing green globes on its twigs, and young tree's first crop of nuts. Smilax leaves, previously inconspicuous among grasses and weeds, flamboyantly advertised their presence with flashy red. Dogwoods, maples, and Virginia creeper had joined the crimson bandwagon. But October created panic. With cold weather's imminence looming, the cabin stood frightfully unprepared for winter. Chinking became urgent. Never dreaming we would be pressured by winter's approach, we had anticipated chinking as a leisurely job, tedious, but enjoyable enough. We would use clay from the fields, chinking the old way, as George Nelson had done, pressing the soft clay between the logs at a relaxed pace. But prospects for using clay collapsed beneath the pressure of time and practicality. Collecting clay from the fields would involve endless digging in the hard, heavy stuff, loading it into buckets and hauling these up to the cabin for unknown dozens of time-consuming trips. Vollie King, our chimley man, had recommended a speedy substitute. "You just mix four parts sand to one part cement and one part mortar." "How much water do we mix with it?" Tom inquired. 216 �"Oh, till it gits to feelin' right." "But how will we know?" "Oh, you'll know!" Our literature on old log houses and the various old timers we questioned had equally sparse and foggy advice on how to apply chinking material. "You just kinda hafta work it out on yer own." If a friend or two or three stood by, they would exchange glances, hunch shoulders, hands in pockets, and nod, "Yeah." Naively, we interpreted this as making light of the job, but, in retrospect, conclude they were either politely reluctant to squelch our enthusiasm with the facts or smugly delighted with the prospect of these neophytes tackling such a job, a cat-playing-with-mouse tactic. This summarized the technical and professional advice we acquired about chinking, except for one other bit we had read: stuff wire lath in the interlog spaces so the chinking mixture will adhere to it. Even though we had expected to use the old method of laying wood strips in the larger interlog spaces for this purpose and had stacked George Nelson's old hand-axed strips neatly for reuse, again we were forced away from authenticity in favor of speeding and easing labor. The wire lath would be covered by mud anyway, we rationalized. On the first morning of the vacation week we had allotted for chinking, JB poked and nailed wire lath between some logs, then left on other business. Tom and I stood in the side yard, looked at the suddenly gigantic form of the cabin, looked at the several small bags of mortar and cement beside the sand pile, and looked at each other. "Gotta mix me some mud," announced Tom, and vye laughed and pushed the wheelbarrow to the sand pile. "Whafll we use for a measure?" Both paused to consider what container might be around. "Would the pan do?" "Sure!" "The pan" was an old friend. First found on the old back porch amid a clutter of flower pots, it had contained a tin can planted 217 �with a leafy pineapple top. Who knows in what varied ways it had been used before that, for it was already battered and worn. It served as a nail container as we pried the corn crib floor boards from their log base, and someone had pressed it into service for helping bail rain-filled foundation trenches until it was replaced by the bleach jug. During the warmth of spring and heat of summer, before the water supply became available at the cabin, it was our tray for carrying cupfuls of water from the meadow stream to thirsty workers momentarily too involved to walk that far and was used as a dipper to fill a bucket or jug when a larger amount of water was needed. It held old nails again when the loft flooring was denailed and new nails as those boards were relaid in the bedroom. Its handy size was perfect for holding grass seed as I sowed bare spots and for fertilizer later. Set outdoors, it carried out the function of a rain gauge, and a concoction of sawdust and white glue mixed in it was poked into holes carved into new boards by carpenter bees. We had grown attached to this indispensible item among our crude supplies. Now Tom measured dry ingredients into the wheelbarrow with it, and I measured water from a new spigot by the back step with a mayonnaise jar salvaged from the woods. A hoe mixed all together; the first batch of mud was ready. Gradually, the advice, "You kinda hafta work it out on yer own;' was understood. No one can say, "Do it this way;' for each chink is an individual, presenting its own peculiarities. It may gape four inches at one location, reduce to an inch at another, and stretch paper thin at still another. As the space varied, so did the technique for filling it, and Tom's and my techniques varied, too. Tom found a tiny dust pan and scooped mud from the supply bucket hanging on his tall ladder, plopping it onto the back surface of the pan. He held this close to the chink and poked blobs into the space with a small, blunt piece of wood. A few feet away I scooped mud from the supply bucket on my step ladder onto a small piece of roofing shingle. With this held at chink level, my other hand, rubber-gloved against the abrasive, limey material which irritated my skin, pushed the chinking into place and pressed it. Hopefully it held until another blob could be added. Little by 218 �little the spaces filled. Both of us agreed that a scrap of shingle was the best tool for scraping the outer surface of the filled chink so its angle would prevent rain from gathering on the edge. The day worn on, the work slow and tedious, giving the mind plenty of time to roam. "Wonder how George Nelson did this." My thought popped out in words, expected no comment, received none. In the silence the thought expanded. Wonder where he dug the mud he used. Was mud easier to work with than this gritty stuff? I hope so! Did he chink alone? Maybe his kin helped-he had plenty around. Wonder what he thought as the hours passed by. He must have felt deeply his responsibility to have this house extra airtight and strong for his family. Tom broke the thought. "We belong to the National Mud Dauber's Union!' We laughed and talked of the mud dauber wasps we had watched during an hour in spring. They held us spellbound while they plastered mud against an old log with incredible architectural skill, creating strange rows of tubular cells resembling organ pipes. Even more fascinating was learning that they stuff each cell with eight or ten spiders which have been paralyzed by stings, and in each cell the female deposits an egg. Later the hatched larva feeds on the living spiders, pupates, and emerges through a hole in the mud cell. Now we, too, daubed mud. All the next day, with JB working with us, we seemed almost on non-speaking terms, each thoroughly engrossed in his own world of work and thought. As I scooped once, the gritting sound in the pail coincided with a clear call from the forsythia bush. I paused and listened. The call repeated. "The white-throats are back!" I exclaimed. "Great!" The return of the white-throated sparrows from their season of nesting in the north always heralded mid-autumn, a time of spectacular color and crisp, invigorating air, and this year it also warned us to hurry on with the job, for winter would follow soon. Our ears caught the lovely, clear notes repeatedly, an annual delight for all bird lovers. While I had a turn at mixing mud in the wheelbarrow, words from over forty years ago popped into mind, "We stir the drys 219 �with the wets, a little at a time, just like this, a little bit and stir, then another little bit and stir." Auntie Martin pronounced these patient directions as she stirred dry ingredients into wet for a cake and explained each move to the child who watched. The same words directed the same individual, now grown, as she mixed water into cement, mortar, and sand. I could hear the sound of the wooden mixing spoon against the sides of her cavernous earthenware bowl as I hoed to mix the mud. Auntie Martin was an ageless, gentle lady with gray hair, generous girth, and an all-encompassing flower-print apron. To this day I do not know her first name-she was Auntie Martin to everyone and emanated love for children in a quiet, patient way by giving us time, letting us participate, and listening to our questions and chatter and responding to them. She held court in the kitchen of her spacious home across the street from my childhood home, talking to neighbor children who came regularly to watch her make cookies or cakes or pies, stirring or rolling as she described what and why. She let us enter her dark, gingersmelling pantry where a yellow box of sugar lumps awaited on a high shelf. Having to stand on tiptoes and stretch to grasp with fingertips the precious "sugar plums," as we called them, added an exciting element of challenge to the treat. When a cake was set into the oven depths of her woodburning cookstove, we ran to a familar drawer to get teaspoons and scraped batter from the sides of the mixing bowl, licking the spoons with noises of obvious pleasure. If a few bits of pie dough were left over, we were allowed to sprinkle cinnamon-sugar on them and roll them jelly-roll fashion. Cut into small sections and set on a special small pan in the oven, they were ready to eat in minutesbut what long minutes! "Stir the drys with the wets, a little at a time, a little bit and stir." The mud was mixing gradually, mixing well, as I followed Auntie Martin's cake directions. Day after day we stuck with the chinking, almost obsessively, but when Tom's vacation week had vanished, the job remained less than half finished. 220 �Relaxing a few moments in the log room during a break, Tom started to halve an apple. "Found this under that old apple tree Nelsons called Shockleys, that gnarly old half-dead tree down by the honey locust. Most of the apples lying around are swarming with yellow jackets, feasting away, but this one looked pretty good." He trimmed a half and handed it to me. One taste of its tangy autumn flavor brought an enthusiastic response. "I'm sure going to beat the yellow jackets to these next fall! This is how an apple should taste! I ought to try drying some like they used to here." "How was that?" "They put four stakes in the ground and put poles across them and set a big piece of tin roofing on there and laid the apples on the tin. They said if the sun got really hot, it'd take only two days to dry the apples, bushels of them, and then they'd pack 'em in cloth flour bags to keep the bugs out." "Wouldn't flies get all over them while they're drying?" "That bothered me, too. I asked about it. Della's sister said, 'Honey, that's the only way you can dry them!' But they had more trouble with yellow jackets and bees. They'd have to wait till dark to bring the apples in.' " "We're closing the gaps now," Tom remarked unexpectedly. He'd been studying the chinking as I'd talked. "First these interlog spaces, next the gaps between the rough wiring and the electrical fixtures, then the gaps between the rough plumbing and the plumbing fixtures.'' "But I almost hate to close it all in;' I lamented. Earlier when those roofless bare logs were open to the sky and we stood inside, a circling hawk or drifting cloud seemed part of the house. Then roofing blocked out the sky, but outdoor sights and sounds still seemed part of the house through the holes for doors and windows and the interlog spaces. Next each door and window took away more direct contact with the outdoors, but the spaces still made the cabin like a giant blind. We could peer between the logs to keep abreast of things. "Now we're blocking our last direct contact. It has to be, of course, but I'm torn.'' "Just think," Tom added, "When we've finished pokin' mud 221 ��in the outside chinks, the whole inside has to be done. Wonder how many weeks it's going to take?" "Think this place'll ever be ready for us to live here a few days?" Gloom silenced us a moment, until Tom's, "Back to the chinking!" startled me out of deep thought. "I'm going to the stream for a drink first." As I walked through the grass, waves of grasshoppers and crickets-large, small, brown, green, long-horned, short-horned, so many kinds-flowed before my footsteps, tiny bodies all leaping one direction -away, their chitinous body parts clicking and snapping. Untold thousands populate this small field, and there are thousands more in the next field and the next. I have often noted the din of crickets and grasshoppers constantly for mile after countryside mile. Numbers in the insect world are beyond comprehension. A lone monarch butterfly, a straggler from the spectacular parade which migrated through in late September, headed directly toward me as I stood beside goldenrods with fluffy seed heads. I reached up to touch it as it passed, but it skillfully dodged my brash interference and proceeded southward. From above me, on a monster stalk, a massive dried inflorescence of Joe-Pye-weed peered down. I am five feet four inches tall, but where my nose reached on the stalk was less than half way to the top. I was dwarfed by a weed! Thirst quenched, I turned back to the cabin and paused to consider it a moment. How tidy and humble it looked! Set against sourwood and sumac reds, it made a classic postcard picture. It even appeared finished-but I knew better. The chips of whitethroats, reminders of approaching winter, urged me to hurry, hurry along with that endless chinking. Get back to your work. The pressure was not welcome. 223 �Plumb in' "Where's the dishwasher goin'?" "It's standing right here," I answered, pointing to myself. "What room you puttin' the washer'n dryer in?" "We aren't having any." This exchange had occurred back in mid-July when a plumber came to assess the nature of the job we would undertake. "Havin' a garbage disposal?" he continued, by now anticipating my answer. Tom, JB, and I burst into laughter-the thought had never even occurred. Even at home we composted our garbage. The plumber looked perplexed, but only for a moment. Suddenly his blue eyes twinkled. He had gotten the message, laughed heartily, and fell under the spell of the cabin. In late July, fully enjoying the project, he installed the "rough plumbing," pipes but not fixtures, including the outdoor spigot by the back steps. The sudden presense of this simple source of water may seem insignificant, but it revolutionized life for those of us who worked at the cabin regularly. A choice now existed between a meadow stream and a gray spigot. Through the seasons we had occasionally carried water from the stream, but usually something soul satisfying had encouraged walks to the meadow. Quenched thirst and cooled skin were an obvious reward, but a feeling all found hard to put into words made the break from work and the walk in solitude, with the vast sky above and beyond, with field and forest surrounding, worth every step of the long path. Now we could go to the back step, turn a knob on a pipe there, and watch delicious water pour out, pure, cold, clear. Nice, yes; convenient yes; but aesthetic? I would like to say that aesthetics won more often than convenience, but human nature led us to the latter regularly. One day the hole for the south bedroom window, which gaped like a giant mouth, swallowed the bulky fiberglass showerstall JB shoved through. He maneuvered the stall into place in a corner of the bedroom and framed a tiny bathroom to include it. A privy would have seemed quaintly appropriate "facilities" for an old log house, requiring no water supply, no septic system 224 �with its lengthy laterals, no space in the house, and no concern for stuck flush tank handles, but even such rosy assets could not obscure its negative aspects. The abandoned privy on the farm was faltering under a tangled burden of honeysuckle vine, though even it was not the original structure. I calculated the first one was set up in the late 1920s. A Nelson had said, "For a long time we didn't even have a johnny house. We just used the woods. I was a big girl before we had one. But though prudent use of the woods was nothing new, we eagerly anticipated more modern facilities. I ventured to a plumbing supply store to purchase a kitchen sink, shower fixtures, a lavatory sink, and a toilet-or commode, as it is discreetly termed in contemporary plumbing circles and polite society. Ever since, I have held in great admiration the patience of the kind man who waited on me. The variety of features available for each of these apparently simple fixtures bewildered me. By the time I departed, my head was spinning from all the minute but essential decisions, but I journeyed home proudly with four neatly-boxed purchases stowed in the back of the station wagon. Out of corn crib floor boards, JB built a bathroom washstand and a kitchen counter, setting a sink in each, and during a busy day of chinking in October, our cheery plumber returned, grinning and eager to continue work on this project he found so entertaining. He labored diligently to install the fixtures, and in his final victorious moment, water pressure leaped, water shot from the spigots, rose in the commode, and sprayed from the shower head. Versailles had nothing on us! Our plumber glowed, his mission completed and hugely successful. Perhaps his most memorable contribution to the cabin was not in the plumbing line, however. It was a simple remark. "I've done lots of chinkin' in my time, with real mud, too, and I can tell you that's a mighty fine job yer doin'. Looks good, it does. But hit's sure slow workin', hain't it?" Confidence soared, morale zoomed, motivation leaped to new highs. On with the job! The bathroom facilities stood ready for use. Found atop the 225 �commode lid, awaiting the first user, was found a sign in Tom's unmistakable hand. "Welcome to the premiere performance!" 226 �Light "We need a front porch light," Tom announced. "Moonlight'll do." "Not if it's raining or the moon's not up. I'm serious. When we have guests, we'll need a light." "O.K., but what do you get for an old cabin? Not one of those colonial lamps you see everywhere. There's nothing authentic 'cause they didn't have porch lights. I suppose we could get an old lantern of some sort, though." "Maybe an old railway lantern." I poked in junk and antique shops, intrigued with the variety of lanterns but horrified by their prices, and then one day, contributing its wornness to a jumbled clutter of odds and ends, there it was, a most miserable contraption. Its dark green paint was chipping off, its metal oil box was filled with dirty plaster. Raised letters on its grimy glass stated proudly, "Southern Railway." Someone had attempted to electrify it with a socket in the plaster and a wire through a hole in the side. The socket was broken, the wire worn, the entire lantern a near-disaster, just what I was looking for! I gave a few dollars for the thing, took it home, and proudly showed it to Tom, quoting, "You gotta have vision!" Tom responded with his best what-have-you-done-now look, and I elaborated quickly, "It's really a fine lantern. It just needs some work, and well, some TLC. And it was cheap." Steel wool, a paring knife, and muscle power removed the remaining paint. Then for weeks the lantern sat around the cabin, pushed aside dozens of times to be out of the way for various jobs, but ever-present so that in occasional spare moments I could chisel more plaster from its oil box with a screw driver and hammer. Soaking had had no effect. Eventually the last chips fell, new wire was threaded through the hole, and a new socket for the bulb attached to this. Rather than use plaster to reset the socket, I searched for another means of support, something malleable, easy to fit into the oil box, something that would harden well, but what? Mud! Why not mud, real mud, the red clay all around us? 227 �Our pan-of-many-uses took on a new role as it held clay stirred with water. Little by little the clay became more workable until several handfuls were smooth and remarkably malleable. I poked the mud into the lamp base, adjusted the socket upright in it, propped it with wood blocks and a rock, and pencilled a large sign: PLEASE DO NOT TOUCH OR BUMP! Intrigued with the texture of the clay, I mixed more and tried some chinking with it and immediately learned something it would have been beneficial not to know-it was easy, incredibly easy, far easier than using our cement-mortar-sand recipe. And so quick! I wrestled with regrets until Tom reviewed again what a tremendous job digging, hauling, and preparing clay would have been, work far outweighing the advantages of clay. "We did the right thing;' he assured me, but that picture of our cabin chinked with real mud persists. The electrician connected the lantern to the house wiring and hung it on a branch of dogwood Tom had nailed beside the front door. Two assistant electricians watched closely, smiling with absorbed fascination, modern technicians unfamiliar with lamp sockets set in mud. It amused me that we "outsiders" were getting more and more experienced in making do with what materials were on hand. Later the electrician scratched his head and studied the log wall bases, then stated, "Waaal, we'll need four eight'ns and two four'ns. O.K.?" "Excuse me?" "Figger an eight'n'll go under the big winder and another eight'n'll go in the back room and two eight'ns upstairs." I felt no more enlightened. "An eight what?" " 'Lectric heatin' unit. You see, the eight'n'll just fit..." "Oh!" Apparently the electrician was reviewing the size heating units he would bring for installation. This fellow and his crew had filled the log house with delightful banter as they installed our new light fixtures. Now, with gear packed, the assistants stood quietly on the front porch as we settled on unit sizes. When we saunterd out to join them, a relaxed silence accompanied our inevitable scan of the view. 228 �"Mighty fine place you got here;' one said. "Sure is!" agreed the other. "I'd sure like to have a place like this." "Me, too." "Thank you!" I watched them drive off, waving. A crow flapped silently against the sky. "Mighty fine place you got here;' I repeated aloud to no one. The newly installed electric heating units looked great, not conspicuously modern as we had feared. Their beige gray matched the logs, their width and length were surprisingly logproportioned. Though fully exposed, they hid, neatly camouflaged. The log house was a catalyst for reminiscence. Whether people came to deliver materials or to work, invariably they browsed, openly curious, genuinely interested, soon indulging happily in memories. Two teen-agers delivered our little stove and refrigerator, and one nearly had to be dragged away by the other. "I 'member visitin' my grandmother. She cooked with a crane-thing a lot like that'n. Didn't have no stove nor nuthin'. Wouldn't have knowed how to use one nohow. This is a place like I dream about!' A delivery man unloaded some materials in the side yard, started to climb back into his truck, then hesitated, looked at me a long moment, and asked shyly, "Would y'all mind if I took a look around yer log house? I growed up in one alot like this. Somebody tored it down and used it fer farwood." The expression of genuine delight enveloping his face as he explored caused us to glow, too. "Hit shor brings back memories!" The inspector who had enjoyed the cabin so genuinely in July when he checked the rough wiring returned to inspect the latest electrical work and was so taken with the cabin again that I was downright relieved when he found two receptacles not acting correctly. He was paying attention to electricity after all. The surprising fact was not that people were interested, but that so many had had direct experience with log cabin living. Experiences were being described to us first hand. The electricians breezed in one day to correct the defective receptacles, and the power company rumbled in to connect us to their main power lines. Suddenly a flick of the switch did it all229 �water pump, light, heat, stove, and refrigerator, plus a lantern on the front porch to light the way for visitors. We were nearly ready! 230 �."-.. ____ ~· ~-~~--- - Chapter 11 Weekend Firsts .................................. 232 Frills .................................. 236 The First Day ........................... 239 The Second Day ......................... 243 The Third Day .......................... 248 Dusk .................................. 252 231 �Firsts Exciting? Can vacuuming a floor be exciting? Of course! Such a significant vacuuming as the first in the new cabin whipped up a mood of gay festivity that made all jobs seem wonderful, absolutely # 1! The noisy machine rolled busily back and forth across the cabin floor, sucking up the final minute debris and dust in seconds, transforming the log room from workshop to living quarters. The room stood barren, lacking even the simplest furnishing, but it gleamed with readiness for celebration. Set up those old folding chairs! Whisk out the lunch from the oak-split picnic basket! Let the celebration start! Guests arrived, our first official guests, not ones merely stopping by to check on progress, but invited friends, come to the cabin to hike the woods and fields and share some lunch and a few November hours with us. Their bubbling enthusiasm and barrage of questions kept conversation flowing pleasantly and steadily, until, as we relaxed on the porch after our hikes, someone asked, "When will the cabin be finished?" Conversation stopped dead. "Finished?" I repeated, stalling for time. "Finished?" Tom echoed. Each hoped for some brilliant answer from the other, for we had often wondered if such an elusive condition as finished would ever happen. We began to laugh. "It'll be years before we're really finished, I suppose," said Tom. "Just facing the foundation blocks with rocks will be a tremendous job." The questioner compounded the query with, "Do you really want it to be finished? Isn't half the fun in working on it?" I had a ready answer for this one. "No! I sure want it finished, once and for all, so we can use it and enjoy the other activities out here more often;' and fortunately, though our limping answers merely grazed the surface of this simple but penetrating question, the subject was not pursued. As we basked in unseasonable heat that late November afternoon, winter seemed years away, but within weeks Christmas came and went, and winter's raw cold took hold. Tom and I puttered 232 �all one January day at odd jobs while sleet tinkled on the cedar roof and clattered daintily down its angled shingles onto our carpet of tender new grass. By evening the chilling but gentle storm had abated, and I glanced fleetingly at a rose and orange sunset while fluttering about the several feet of kitchen as if preparing a feast for a king. Another first was making cabin history, the first dinner cooked in the new cabin. The humble, one-pot concoction of rice, onions, ground beef, and peas in thick tomato sauce remains significant not because of its recipe but its timing. Relaxed in comfortable rockers, we dined by lively hearthfire and the glow of a single candle, unwittingly setting a precedent. Ever since, only fire and one candle have provided light for indoor dinners. The aroma of wood smoke blended freely and naturally with the cabin's unique scent of old logs and new boards. Comfortably fed, we set our dishes aside, snuffed the candle, and studied the fire. Its coals mesmerized us with their ripplings. A tiny spurt of flame suddenly burst and flared noisily for a brief moment from a small stick. Some unseen fragment had ignited and vigorously released its energy and been consumed. "Look at that nail!' Tom pointed. Glowing red hot, the straight lines of its manmade form seemed oddly out of place among the irregular lines of the coals. "Wonder where it was in the old house," I mused. "In one of those white boards inside the kitchen." "Wonder who hammered it in. He probably felt good as he sank that nail and firmed yet another board to that strong kitchen wall." "Interesting how some materials here get reused and others get junked or burned. Some pieces are versatile, some serve only once and are gone." "Kinda like some people!' "The nail's fading." The coals had dimmed, too. Tom's face was barely discernible in the darkness, but his presence was very real as we shared a few thoughts about a nail. Suddenly he leaned forward toward the fire, studied his watch intently, and jumped to his feet. "Let's go out back. The time's 233 �perfect." Though we had often stayed at the cabin into sunset and dusk, this was our first experience in full night. A cold stillness overhung the invisible acres, a black emptiness canopied with star dots, but a faint glow began to silhouette trees on the hill behind and brightened rapidly. Within minutes a magnificent orange moon beamed behind the silhouettes as forms and humps emerged across the acreage until the scene was bathed in light as if in early dawn. We chatted in low voices, hesitant to interfere with the eerie beauty, agreeing that to fully understand any place, one should experience it outdoors during both of those superb periods of transition, nightfall and dawn. "Say! Do you know what anniversary we've nearly reached?" Tom asked suddenly. "Something to do with the cabin?" "Yep." "Important?" "Yep." I projected back a year. "Oh! JB, I'll bet. We took him on to help us in late January, didn't we?" "Right!" "Nearly a year ago!" What a blessing he had been! Patient, thoughtful, dependable, and interested, he had grown quietly and steadily with the cabin as we had. Now he came only occasionally to do some small jobs. "We sure were naive to think only JB and just a few others would be helping us. Tom, I forgot to tell you the other day that I totaled the number of people we have had here, either actually working or delivering or inspecting. You'll be astonished. It's seventy-nine!" "Wow!" The list of firsts enlarged. A paintless broom handle found under the old house became the shower curtain rod, and with a spare plastic curtain attached, confined spray from the first shower in the cabin, a hot shower! It wasn't the first shower on the premises, however. We had 234 �been told, "Henry-he was one of George's sons-made hisself a shower to wash off in after a day in the fields. It was a tall tablefour posts with a high tub on top made outa a barrel. He made a little spout leadin' from the water line from the branch to fill the barrel tub with water in the mornin'. The sun, it heated the water up durin' the heat of the day. "He fixed burlap bags on the sides to be private, and he'd get some soap and a towel and go in from the back side. The barrel had a plug in it, and he'd pull a string to let the water out, whishhhhh! and plug the stopper back in to stop it. "If somebody else come along for a shower, he got cold water. Wintertime, the family used a big wash tub in the house. After a person bathed, he added a kettle of hot water for the next." Our plain little showerstall seemed sheer elegance in comparison. For the first time, too, we put to use five nail kegs and a broad sheet of plywood, for this was our first overnight. A nail keg supported each corner of the plywood. Keg #5 propped the center to prevent it from sagging. Atop the plywood stretched an old queen-size mattress from home. No bed in the most opulent of suites could have felt more comfortable than this improvised composite of unlikely parts. When the complete darkness of a country night enveloped our room, we slipped into weary oblivion in absolute luxury. 235 �Frills My armload of assorted corncrib slats seemed determined to collapse into an unmanageable jumble as I trudged up the hill on the first of many trips from crib to porch. Each awkward load clattered onto the front porch floor as aching arms experienced sudden relief. The weathered gray slats, retrieved from over a year of storage, became frames of a different sort than predicted, frames cut and carefully fit to form handsome casings around each window. Frills, little and big, were bringing hominess to the otherwise bare cabin. Hours with a sewing machine produced red calico cushions for four old mountain-style rocking chairs. More calico and unbleached muslin became tab curtains. Unable to find properly straight twigs for curtain rods, we substituted dowels "weathered" with stain. Each rod holder had to be cut individually to fit the particular log behind it, a tedious job John and Charlie, home from summer adventures in Europe, accomplished with surprisingly few grumbles. Nails hammered half-way into wall logs served for hanging toothbrushes, hand mirror, towels, clothing, fly swatter, broom, apron, and various tools. A branched twig, nailed to the bathroom wall, held a shower cap, and a stouter branched twig held the roll of bathroom tissue. With saw and pen knife, I cut and whittled sticks from seasoned dogwood branches into pegs. Tom found a weathered board, bored holes in it, and poked the pegs in, creating a coat rack to nail to the wall. A primitive art print, thumb tacked onto the tiny chicken house door I'd found in the field, added a decorative touch for the wall above the stove. Tom nailed a wide, unused end of plywood subflooring to a spare sawhorse and flung a home-woven type cloth over it, giving us a table, and on the mantel I set an antique earthenware jar with sprays of field flowers, adding later a hand-woven basket and an old wooden candlestick. In town Charlie and I rummaged through the storeyard for used building materials and drove home jubilantly with our purchase, a flight of stairs, squeezed into the station wagon. For several 236 �weeks it weathered in the side yard before its badly worn carpeting of yellow-green~'bilious green" we named the hue-was ripped off. On a bright day when moving cloud-shadows patched the mountains with lights and darks like shifting camouflage fabric designs, JB sawed the stairway in half. Tom and Charlie helped set one half against the front porch opposite the front door, the other half at the porch's south end. Each stair base rested on a huge stone from the old chimney base. Suddenly the faithful little wood scrap ladder which had supported the footsteps of hundreds of human trips to and from the porch was obsolete and unwanted. After sturdy, dependable service, it was shoved aside abruptly. I carried it to the woodpile, placing it neatly on top, thinking about the innumerable other creatures which had found it a convenient, direct path to the porch-ants and mice, beetles and lizards, slugs and daddy-long-legs. We would revel in the ease and luxury of stairs now, but next summer they would have to navigate a far more challenging course. Early one morning, en route to a lumber pile to locate some special boards for another frill, I tapped my toes on the fragile ice covering a lane puddle, enjoying the hollow sound, then the glassy tinkle of thin ice fragments. Moments later, while sorting boards, I glanced back at the puddle. Two song sparrows were bathing vigorously in its icy water, splashing merrily in obvious comfort and harmony, fluttering and rotating in a veritable deluge of droplets and ice particles. Suddenly an inconspicuous something went wrong. One lunged fiercely at the other, driving it away viciously, then resumed the splattery bath with all nonchalance and innocence before slipping furtively into a boxwood. Only a few days later, February daffodils yellowed the bank near the old house site as I loaded into the station wagon the boards I had selected that morning. Three had been the vertical strips which covered log ends on the old cabin. Several had been flooring in the corn crib. I delivered them to a cabinet shop accompanied by scale drawings of cupboards and drawers to be set beneath the kitchen counter. The cupboard would resemble an old fashioned dry sink, the drawers a simple chest. 237 �When this kitchen frill of jumbo-sized bulk and importance was snugged into place, housekeeping was instantly revolutionized. Suddenly we had places for utensils and dishes, napkins and pans, stored foods and cleaning equipment. The time had arrived for dinner company, and who could be more appropriate as our first dinner guests than two couples who had played tremendously vital roles in the cabin project-JB, our steadfast builder, and Eula, whom I knew more by telephone than by direct acquaintance, and Zeb Collins, who suggested JB to help us, and Lora. The Collins' old cabin had charmed and inspired us when we desperately needed a boost. We ate by fire and candlelight and chatted on and on, three diverse couples brought together by an old log house. Now the long-anticipated climax to our building efforts seemed imminent-not just one-day visits or quick overnights, but real, settled-in, cabin living through several consecutive days. How we dreamed of it! But incredibly, another whole season was to pass before we could experience it. 238 �The First Day Early spring had slipped into early summer, and not until late May did the long weekend we had awaited for endless months begin. In the fields and along the edges, yellow patches of mustard and ragwort had come and gone, replaced by white patches of daisies and honeysuckle. The varied pastels of early tree foliage had blended into monochromatic deep green. On a hot afternoon, while storms rumbled and clouds hung low, we emptied our loaded car and settled happily into the cheerful, refreshing cabin, interested then and ever since how pleasantly cool it remains even on the hottest days. A totally new and unexpected feeling accompanied this arrival. We sensed that we had driven hundreds, even thousands, of miles and were settling into some fine vacation resort, blissfully remote from the tugs and pulls of home. Surely home was greater than five short miles away, in another region even, another state, another country. A holiday mood engulfed and exhilarated us, and we fluttered around with almost childlike excitement. We had come to the cabin to play, not work. The little refrigerator bulged with food, and cartons with books and camera equipment awaited our leisurely attention. Our only regret was that John, Anne, and Charlie could not be here to share this event. John and Anne were winding up another year in college, and Charlie was completing a pre-college study term in France. Bustling about, Tom and I suddenly collided on the front porch, nursed our bumps amid laughter, and inevitably looked toward the mountains. Showers were crossing the distant ridges and deluging nearby valleys, and the hills were thriving in the wet and warmth of the growing season. "Look how the hill is greening!" We reveled in the spreading lushness on the once-bare hill. Areas of bad erosion were yielding to control, welcome reward for laborious hours. "We'd better put a railing on this porch soon before someone not used to it here falls off," I suggested, but in delightfully irresponsible holiday lethargy, we avoided both discussion and decision on it. Instead, Tom went in for a nap, weary from heavy responsi239 �bilities with the building project at work. I spotted an orange-red object at the old cabin site, slipped my camera strap over my shoulder, and sauntered down to investigate and wander a while. A brilliant single poppy shone amid the weeds, surrounded by gray-green buds which promised more poppies within days. The old house had been whisked away, but its garden flowers seemed determined to carry on. Cream colored violets had pushed up amid the piles of old rafters and roofing slab as if to say, "We're still here!" and a handsome yellow iris bloomed beside the old kitchen door. The wisteria vine reached out with long streamers, and if its several straggly blossom clusters could have spoken, they might have said, "We had a bit of a setback last year, but give us time." Sweet Williams blossomed, pink yarrow budded, and garden daisies flourished. The lush weed garden, thriving where the old cabin had stood, needed mowing; it was growing too well! At dinnertime, in an otherwise cloudless sky, one massive cloud hovered over the distant mountains, gold-edged from the sun dropping behind it. The farthest range glowed while the closest lay in deep evening shadow. Gradations of shadow intensity on intervening ranges set each layer apart from others with startling clarity. On clear days the mountains seem so close we can reach out and pluck a tree, but the layers of ridges blend together as one. On hazy days the mountains seem a hundred miles away, blurred, barely real, yet, as on clear days, a unified mass. But when the far ridges glow in the last sun and the close ones are nearly into night, the layers contrast, each set apart distinctly, with depths magnified. The beauty is stark and rare, creating this mountain mood we love most. Dinner on the front porch at dusk was now routine, and always after eating, we "set a spell." No better "settin' cheer" exists than an old wooden rocker, and we rocked gently, absorbed in the serenity of the summer evening. The comfortable, rhythmic creak-squeak, creak-squeak of Tom's rocker moving to and fro over a slightly loose floor board contributed the only close sound for long moments. At length I commented, "I was just thinking that it's been three 240 �years since we bought this property and we still don't know its exact boundaries. Think we ever will?" "Nope." "It's kinda nice not to know, isn't it," I expressed it as a statement, not a question, and though it could have led to a stimulating exchange, we lapsed into relaxed silence again. Then I broke it, "When I sit here like this with all that beauty and peace out there, I wish the whole world could share the experience. What if everyone everywhere could concentrate on integrity and generousity and love and beauty!" A cardinal's chip notes distracted us from this idealistic remark, and within moments we were absorbed in our first game of "Who's Last?" The only equipment required was ears, listening ears to determine which bird sang last before darkness silenced the songbirds. Wood thrushes, jays, cardinals, field sparrows, titmice, towhees-these and many others kept our ears busy. Buzzing carpenter bees distracted us as they poked about under the rafters. One by one the voices dropped out, and at near-dark, only occasional sounds came our way: several scolding notes of a wren, a single series from a scarlet tanager, short call notes of a cardinal, and half-hearted twitterings from an indigo bunting. The bees disappeared, their noise replaced by a cricket's intermittent chirpings by the stairs. Then silence. A catbird scolded with several "meows". Silence. More cardinal chips. Suddenly a song sparrow rose straight from the forsythia bush into the air for fifteen or twenty feet, emitting a flurry of garbled notes, and as suddenly, plummeted into the depths of the shrub again and was silent. The first peeper called, and another, progressively joined by others until a chorus entertained us. Lightning bugs began to flicker as a toad trilled. The rich afterglow which had silhouetted foreground branches faded to purple gray. Day was slipping into night, but the scene before us was not going to sleep. Only the diurnal parts of it were, for the world of night was awakening. I murmured to Tom, "Wouldn't the call of an owl make this evening truly complete!" "Mmmmmm," he agreed, and as if on direct cue, so perfectly timed that we still talk of it, a faint, wavering call floated across 241 �the hollow and up to the porch. Our heads turned to that direction. The call repeated, closer, and we looked at each other and grinned, faces barely visible. Then closer, plaintive, mysterious, the call of the little screech owl. An answering call drifted from the woods upstream. "The evening exceeds completeness!" I whispered quickly. Our breaths in tight control so very sound of night could be fully experienced, we shared in the exchange of owl messages for nearly five minutes. Then silence again. Even the peepers had stopped. Neither of us stirred, hoping the calls would resume. Three penetrating notes of a late peeper close by pierced the stillness, but that was all. The expanse of night sparkled with stars, and we rocked on, peacefully engrossed in the depths of a country night. A chilling breeze stirred and sent us indoors to read. From back of the sawhorse table a nibbling sound distracted me. A look under the tablecloth edge revealed the bottom of a length of wall paneling we had stored there temporarily. A flashlight from above, however, spotlit a lone white-footed mouse, which paused in his munchings and looked up as if to say, "I'm busy. Leave me alone." I took a yardstick and tried to nudge him gently from behind the paneling, but he simply hopped aboard, and as I lifted the stick, he sat jauntily on the opposite end, appearing less surprised than we. He even washed his face and ears casually and groomed his flanks, then looked directly at us, awaiting the next move with open curiosity. Tom carried him to the front porch and let him scurry off into night, but the next day, when we found our kitchen cake of soap gnawed by tiny teeth and surrounded by tell-tale droppings, we wondered if our same little friend had simply turned around and hurried back in. 242 �The Second Day The hearty, rollicking call of a Carolina wren, only feet away on the side porch, woke us suddenly and enthusiastically for our second day, allowing breakfast before sun-up on the front porch, where we joined the waking world when all was dewy and vocal and eager. The natural alarm clock seemed highly appropriate, for this was a day without clocks, with the hours ignored and cabin folks free to eat or play or work or nap purely on wish and whim. We discovered quickly that a day without a timepiece reveals with startling speed and clarity how incredibly directed and influenced we are by the hour and minute, caught in the grip of two tiny mechanical hands positioned on a numbered face. Without time, one initially feels frustrated, astonished at how often reference to a non-existent watch is made, then unsettled, even awkward. As the day progresses, however, and accommodation to the absence of a timepiece develops, feelings change to being favorably impressed, then downright delighted. "These folks who are carefree about time have a good thing going," Tom observed. The day also passed without radio or TV, so we carried on pleasantly ignorant not only of news but of weather expectations, building respect for old timers whose alert observations and sensory signals often resulted in skilled predictions. Balmy spring sun alternated with warm, frequent showers as we reveled in the ease and charm of cabin living, and watching from the porch as the showers played up and over hills and in and around valleys filled a generous portion of the lazy day. Occasionally a shower would head directly toward us, with mountain layers disappearing one by one as it approached. Finally only the closest hump would be visible, and then the rain would splatter on leaves in the hollow with a soft shhhh sound, then splatter us. One shower struck with exceptional vigor and gusts, and we hastened indoors, temporarily caged. Rain poured down in sheets, a wonderful deluge, its noise on the roof filling the room. Without gutters, the roof edges dropped waterfalls to the ground, making the scene seem even more drenched. "Remember, the weather always looks worse ..." 243 �"...from inside the window!" I finished Tom's quote of a saying our family frequently tosses when someone complains about the weather. Then an idea hit each almost simultaneously, "Let's go out!" What an exhilarating sensation to stand within a deluge, water pelting, the sound all-encompassing! Surely one should feel soaked, but inside the rain gear all stays dry. We stood still in the side yard to adjust to the feel and sound, then squished across the grass to investigate how our seemingly endless struggles with erosion control were holding up. Rushing water urged us along, pointing out how most of the grounded rain was flowing exactly as we hoped. The heaps of grass clippings I had rescued from an astonished man and stuffed into spots of bad wash were controlling flow especially well. Only recently I drove past his small, grassy field and noticed that he had mowed it and raked the clippings into tidy piles. To my horror, he was setting fire to a pile. Burning! Burning that wonderful hay which could do such marvels in holding soil on our eroding banks! Several charred piles smoldered nearby. I braked my car abruptly in the middle of the infrequently traveled road, stepped out, and called, "Are you planning to burn all those piles?" "Why, yes," the man answered, his face openly revealing his astonishment in having a strange woman stop to ask such a question. "May I have them, please?" "Have them? Well, ah, well-well, yes!" I yanked the back seat of the station wagon to its flat position, filled the entire back section to the roof with sweet-smelling hay, jamming it in tightly, gave a brief explanation of my intent and profuse thanks, and drove away from my wondering new acquintance. Had I been driving home from the fur shop with a new mink stole, I would have been far less pleased. In the lower lane a fine mud puddle invited us to wade, and we indulged without hesitation, but warm, muddy puddles require bare feet, and suddenly I sensed my age when I found myself too lazy to take boots off. In younger years, wearing boots in a summer 244 �puddle would have been unthinkable-my parents delighted in letting us children dash out barefoot after showers to splash in puddles still warm from sun-heated ground. Such moments remained so precious in memory that Tom and I made sure our children grew up with full knowledge of mud puddles, of squishing warm mud between the toes, that delicious sensation, that undeniably superb summer fun. The rains slackened, the mountains reappeared, and a noisy pileated woodpecker flew from the meadow locust tree to an old fence post, where it hammered and ripped, sending wood bits flying. In the evening another storm passed through boisterously with daylight flashes and window-rattling booms, leaving behind a still and sodden landscape. As we sat on the porch afterward, topping the day with blueberry pie and milk, only the occasional splat of a falling drop broke the silence. Complete blackness enveloped the fields and hollow and woods beyond. In the warmth one could almost feel the tremendous surge of plant growth that was taking place out there. The sky flickered, then flashed brilliantly, but no sound followed. The lightning's thunderous boom was startling ears many miles from here, so far away that even its spreading rumblings could not be detected by us. Another tremendous flash lit half the sky dome, silhouetting trees, advertising natural might, but though each ensuing second brimmed with anticipation of sound, again none came. Only one very tiny light made any change in the expectant scene, the light of a lone firefly. Then, for long moments, nothing. At least, it seemed nothing, but there was beauty in knowing that out there in the quiet, wet depths night creatures were busily carrying out their routine activities. Four-footed animals-mice, flying squirrels, opposums, and their associates-were foraging and stalking, perhaps shaking droplets from their fur and paws. The world of decomposers, so vital in nature's massive recycling of materials, was proceeding with its incessant breakdown of fallen leaves and twigs and spent blossoms, of droppings and leftovers and creatures that had finished their life span. Night insects which 245 ��had retreated from the deluge were venturing forth again, but the firefly was the only visible one. Almost instantly after the next spectacular sky flash, the firefly flashed again like a speck of miniature lightning. It seems ridiculous to consider a follow-up boom after a firefly's light, but so conspicuous was this one tiny light in the vast valley of darkness that the ridiculous seemed possible. The magnificent and the miniature, so contrasting in proportion and physics and reception, yet each pierced that valley with light of brilliant similarity. The firefly stopped. The lightning diminished to nothing. Any anticipation of more light continued unfulfilled, and the unseen world of night proceeded as usual. 247 �The Third Day The third day started lazily as we lolled in bed, idly studying knot designs and wood grains in the ceiling boards overhead. It progressed more solidly after dawn with chipped beef and gravy on corn muffins, accented with the fragrance of honeysuckle which wafted across the porch. As we relaxed after breakfast, I wrote in my journal: We are a million miles from anywhere. There is no tennis court or golf course or swimming pool at this resort, no game table or TV or Hi-Fi, no movie house or bar or partying, yet the sensation of even a moment of boredom is utterly inconceivable. I doubt if the words bored or boredom even exist in the vocabulary of those who delight in nature. Our surroundings constantly entertain and surprise and teach. As a recent visitor was departing, she exclaimed, "You surely are blessed to have this place!" It struck me that the blessing is not the possession but the gift of being able to appreciate the wonder of our surroundings. A decision about the front porch railing came easily in our fresh and rested state, and as I set off for the woods to plant some young ferns I had propagated from spores, Tom was already at work on it, firmly established on a derelict crate on the porch and rounding the sharp edges of a long 2x6 with an antique drawing knife. This wide board and others like it would lie across posts from the old cabin and constitute our railing. How often we have praised this decision· for a wide-top railing, this shelf of many uses-from photographing katydids to drying clothes, from holding dinner plates to propping feet, from supporting books to preventing falls from the porch. Late morning, huffing and puffing, we dragged from the car an old black washpot I had found on the cluttered porch of an antique shop, heaved it into place beside the hearth, and promptly dashed to the woodpile for firewood to stuff in it. In less than an hour a visitor was admiring it. In the middle of a sentence, Della's sister suddenly spotted the washpot and clapped her hands in delighted surprise. "Why, we had a iron pot just like that out here! Out near the spout, it was. Mamma made lard in it and lye soap, too. Didn't have 'lectric washer here till after 248 �World War II." She was bursting with talk. "When we wanted to do the washin', we'd go to the woodpile and get baskets of chips from choppin' wood and go to the woods and get brush, too. Never used stove wood to put around the washpot. We'd fill that old black pot with water from the spout and start the fire under it-it was settin' up on rocks-and the water'd start aboilin'." "You dumped the clothes right into the pot?" I asked eagerly. "Oh, my, no! Daddy took one of those big sixty gallon barrels-he was great for collectin' barrels-and cut it in two-it had a top at both ends-and made two tubs outa it. Across from the washpot was a big apple tree with a wash bench he'd made up against it. He'd split a long wide log and made four holes in it and put four legs on it. The barrel tubs was set up on that, and we did the battlin' on it, too. "The way we washed, when I tell you, you won't wonder at my back's bein' outa joint. We filled the barrel tubs with cold water, put the clothes in that and renshed 'em out and then put 'em in hot water. We had lye soap and a rub board-a scrub board-and scrubbed the clothes on that. Then we put 'em in the big washpot and boiled 'em. Then we renshed 'em a number of times in the tubs or sometimes stood in the branch water flowin' from the spout to rensh 'em. Those was white, clean clothes! We put 'em all out on the bushes to dry." "What about the battlin'?" asked Tom. "We batted just the dirty field clothes. Daddy carved a battlin' stick for us to bat the clothes with. We'd wet and soap the clothes and then put 'em on the battlin' block-that's one end of the wash bench-and battle 'em, hit em with the battlin' stick, you know, and then boil 'em. We batted 'em several times. I don't see how those clothes lasted. They would fade everytime we washed 'em." She paused, and Tom and I looked at our black washpot with greater understanding. Then she added, "Now we just throw 'em into a machine and put in some store-bought detergent and push a button." 249 �We shook our heads in quiet amazement and admiration for the fortitude which enabled families to live routinely in a way we would find intolerable now. I continued the subject. "And nowadays people are concerned whether the laundered clothes are properly soft and anti-static and whether the traffic pattern in laundry and kitchen is efficient and whether the appliances are color-coordinated." "Makes you think, don't it?" she responded quietly. "Really, even though things like doin' the washin' was hard, livin' was so much simpler then in many ways, and people was happy, maybe even happier." "Affluence doesn't always beget happiness, does it?" "It's so complicated now, and most people's still wantin' more stuff. 'Course, havin' 'lectricity and piped water like you have here now, that's nice, but simple livin' is good. My husband says he'd rather have a place like this than the finest house in the world. My own little house is more to me than a castle in England. You know, we all love our homes. Now Della, she loved it here! Oh! I brought somethin' special for you." She hesitated, and we sensed a touch of poignancy for her in the moment. She reached into a paper bag and slowly withdrew two wooden paddles, one surface of each covered with fine wire projections. "These are Grandma's cards. She used 'em for cardin' wool, like this," and she stroked imaginary wool as if pulling its tangled fibers into strands for spinning yarn. "Mama always kept these on the fireboard there." She stopped; we waited. "I think they belong there;' she continued quietly, but with firm conviction. "They should go right back where Mama kept 'em in her own house." I set the pair of cards upright on the mantelpiece as all watched intently. She brushed aside our ensuing thanks and instead thanked us for returning them to their historic location, adding, "We all feel s' good about the way you've saved our old house and fixed it all up s' nice. It's like I've dreamed of its bein'. You've sure given a lot to the place!" We pondered her statement long after she left. "You've sure given a lot':_yes, time far beyond expectation, effort to the point 250 �of exhaustion, and inevitably, money; but hasn't the cabin given us even more-knowledge far beyond expectation, satisfaction to the point of warm contentment, and inevitably, perhaps most important of all, understanding and friendship? 251 �Dusk Deep red, the sun slipped behind the mountains, signaling the end of our long weekend. That fiery ball of energy would continue to shine across towns and forests and fields and cities to the west, but on our piece of mountain, it was gone. Dusk was closing in. Tom and I rocked on the porch, reluctant to leave our haven during the fullness and beauty of a country evening. Two jet trails stretched across the vast sky, bright stripes above the darkening land. Each was preceded by a glint of light which sparkled and disappeared erratically but steadily added length to a glowing tail. Within each glint sat people in the sky, people headed toward a distant destination, each for a special reason. Were any of them looking down on the final stages of daylight from up there, wondering if someone below was watching, too? A cow at the farm below the hollow bellowed repeatedly, impatiently, and a song sparrow chipped briefly. The fluttering silhouette of a bat crossed the sky. A bullfrog croaked deeply at a neighbor's pond at the base of the mountain. As sky glow faded from subtle peach to thin tan to blue black, tree silhouettes faded. Then that magical sound of dusk called across the woodland and hollow, first hesitantly, then insistently-the screech owl again. On the wooden porch of a modest log cabin snugged on the side of a mountain in western North Carolina, two shadowed forms sat on and on. "Wish the youngsters could be here now," I murmured. "Wouldn't it be great!" "I was just thinking-this cabin's story stretches into the past with one family, and into the future with another, but our time with it is really just beginning." "And remember what one of the workmen said? 'Abuildin' a cabin ain't easy, but hit shore pleasures one t' have it!' " 252 �Footnotes 1. Thay is from an Old English word tha, which means there. Some authorities spell the word t-h-e-y, others prefer t-h-a-y. "Thay was a big ol' robin arunnin' on the grass." 2. Creesies (creasies) -winter cress, Barbarea verna and Barbarea vulgaris Poke-pokeweed, Phytolacca americana Branch lettuce-mountain saxifrage, Saxifraga micranthidifolia 3. Technically, the machine was a front end or bucket loader. 4. Miner, Robert G. in Early American Life editorial, Aprill976. 253 �Advisors 40, 50, 52-54, 65-66, 75-76 Andirons 162-163, Alder 26, 71, 95 Apples 27, 34, 67, 221 Architect 65-68, 77-78 Auntie Martin 220 Authenticity 66, 68, 217 Back room, new 150, 186, 190, 207 Bathroom 112, 224-225 Battling stick 249 Bed 235 Bedroom, porch 25, 122 Bees 184, 218, 241 Bird call games 146, 150, 241 Blacksmith 152-164 Bluebird 52, 65, 105, 112, 147 Board with hole 123, 187 Board with JOY 187 Books 203 Borough hall 192 Boundaries 30-31, 44, 241 Boxwoods 15, 50, 98 Branch lettuce 35 Breakdowns 135, 138, 140 Brush, dragging 88, 91, 96 Bulldozer 96-97, 137, 156-157, 169, 179 Bunting, indigo 60, 147, 150, 185, 241 Butterfly, monarch 211, 222 Cabin, building old 130-132 Cabin, dismantling old 122-125, 130, 140-141 Cabin, in its grip 64, 170 Cabin, model of 78-79 Cabin, use by family 9-10, 66, 155 Cabin, use generally 191, 212 Cable 42 Candler, Eula 75, 80, 187, 238 Candler, JB, getting 75-76, 79-81 Cards, wool 250 Cat 126 Ceiling 124-126, 187, 189 Chestnut 18, 28, 30, 87, 105, 124, 13~132, 149 Chestnut shingles 18, 131-132, 146 Chicken house 25, 116, 236 Chimney, brick 23, 124-125 Chimney, new 196, 198-206 Chimney, old 22-23 Chinking 123, 132, 217-223 Chinking techniques 217-219 Cleaning, spring 6 7, 127-128 Clearing site 6 7, 97 Clock, without 243 Closing gaps 221 Collins, Lora 240 Collins, Zeb 75, 78, 240 Corn, Arlie 85-88 Corn crib 18, 25, 50, 69, 73, 210, 225, 236-237 Corners 131, 148 Crane, fireplace 159, 161-162, 205 Crate 130, 133, 149-150 Crawford, Jedd 101-102, 109, 124, 127 �Date stone 191-197, 205 Dawn 89 Delays 115 Dock, Homer 65-68, 77 Dogwood 28, 86, 87, 96, 98, 141 Doors 163, 211-212 Dotson, Clint 150-151, 153, 155, 168, 174, 176-177, 181-184, 186 Drawings, architect's 77-78 Dusk 252 Electrical needs 68, 174-177 Electrical work 114-115, 174-178, 227-229, 248 Featherbed 126 Ferns 29, 46, 250 Fire dogs 162-163 Fireboard 200-201, 205 Fireplace, new 203-205 Fireplace, old 200-203 Fishing 204 Floors 131, 138, 170, 187, 190 Foundations 100, 110, 131, 141, 156 Fox 172, 186 Froe 132, 181 Furnishings 236 Garden, natural 169, 240 Goldenrod 25, 211 Grading 157, 167 Grasshoppers 223 Greer, Virgil 187-188 Guest house 63, 152 Guests 232, 238 Hawk, broadwinged 185 Hearthstones 62, 200-202 Heating 23, 125, 228-229 Hemlocks, two 15, 71, 92, 96, 115, 147, 150, 153, 179, 185, 191 Hendersonville 5-7, 117 Hinges 163 Honeysuckle 67, 97, 105-106, 110, 147-148, 225, 239, 248 Huggins, Della 16-17, 21-25, 27, 34-35, 50, 62, 67, 84, 105, 116, 125, 151, 161, 191, 200, 250 Huggins, Oscar 16-21, 23-27, 38, 4 7' 50, 62, 84, 105 Hummingbirds 116, 146-148, 153-154 JB, See Candler, JB Jelly closet 23, 124-125 Junk 15, 38, 40 Junk cars 15, 33, 55 Kitchen, new 68, 175, 237-238 Kitchen, old 24, 60-63 King, Vollie 198-199, 201-206 Labeling logs 133 Lantern 227-228 Leedom, Broadus R. 96, 140, 156-157 Lightning 245-246 Lightning bug 241, 245-246 Lizard, fence 186, 196 Loft 24, 125-127 Log houses 5, 51-52, 75, 131-132 Log moving 140-141 �Logs, hand-hewn 21, 51, 57, 64-65, 124, 130-133, 146-149, 176-177 Logs reset 141, 146, 148-149 Lumber rack 90, 92-93 Lumber unloading 91-92 Lunch, first in cabin 171 Lunch, caterpillar in 168 Map, relief 48 Mantel 200, 205 Martin, Auntie 220 Materialism 128, 203, 250 McCartle, Coy 86-88, 90-92 McCoy, Vern 39-40, 50, 72, 98-99 Mighty fine place 229 Mimosa 87, 116 Misgivings 63-64 Mud 199, 216, 220 Mud daubers 219 Nature lovers 214, 248 Nelson, George 17-18, 21-22, 33, 52, 67-68, 87-88, 100-101, 105, 107, 112, 114, 116-119, 125-126, 130-133, 141, 148-149, 177, 191, 197, 200, 205, 216-217, 219, 249 Nelson, Green Berry 21 Nelson family 33, 40, 115, 119, 133, 194 Opossum 2, 186 Owl, screech 2, 241-242, 250 Oxen 131, 200 Paneling 206 Pear tree 34, 116 Peepers, spring 140-141, 241-242 Pegging logs 149 Pennsylvania 5-6, 113, 128 People in project 115, 234 Piece of mountain 6, 9, 66, 81, 155, 191, 252 Pines, two 84-94, 186 Plans, cabin 10, 66, 77-78 Play pretty 183 Plumbing 224-225 Plum trees 106-107 Poor but happy 117, 203 Porch bedroom 25, 64, 122, 191 Porch, back 53, 56, 154 Porch, new front 154, 187, 193 Porch, old front 25, 124, 130 Porch posts 192-193 Privy 25, 112, 139, 224-225 Puddles, mud 244-245 Purchase 31-33 Put 'er up 54, 141, 170 Rafters 65, 130-132, 150 Rain 210, 243-245 Realtors 14-15 Refrigeration 62, 68, 106, 175, 229 Requirements for NC house 4-5 Rhododendron 28, 30, 44-46, 71, 85, 106 Rockpile 196-197 Rock moving 156-15 7 Roofing, see Shingling Roof, old 17-18, 130, 132, 146 �Salamanders 184 Sawmill 188-189 Septic system 112-113, 135-139 Serviceberry 53, 110 Shavings 176-177 Sheathing 155, 168, 176 Shingles, making 132, 181 Shingling 132, 181-182, 185 Shower 224-225, 234-235 Shortia 110 Siding, asphalt 17, 122 Simplicity 213, 250 Site, new 95-98 Snakes 110, 136, 151-152, 157, 206-210 Sparrow, field 53, 60, 185 Sparrow, song 95, 237, 241, 252 Sparrow, white throat 25, 219, 223 Spout 105, 127 Spring 105-108 Stairs 22-23, 124, 191-192 Stairs, porch 136, 236-237 Stream, meadow 17, 26, 71, 85, 158, 166, 168, 181, 223 Stripping walls 40, 56 Surveying 66-68 Take 'er down 54, 123, 141 Telephone line 179-180 Tires 26, 71-74 Title problems 32-33 Toads 97, 196, 241 Tour of house 22-24 Trenches 101-102, 109-110 Turkey chase 34 Turtle, box 46, 166-167 Understanding 4 7, 91, 101, 115, 119, 133, 199, 209, 218, 229, 243 Vandals 42 View 18, 71, 76, 104, 110, 150, 228, 239-240, 252 Violin 117-118 Washing 246-250 Water supply 18, 24, 88, 101-108 Well 101-104 Wets and drys 219-220 Whitewash 40, 56, 127-128, 132 Wills, Troy 159-165 Windows 23, 64, 123, 128, 149, 170-171, 186 Wisteria 27, 141, 169 Woodpecker, pileated 85, 104, 182, 245 Wren, Carolina 136-137, 140, 152-153, 168, 196, 241, 243 �about the author barbara hallowell was born on Oct. 13, 1924, in Kennett Square, Pennsylvania. She attended Swarthmore College from 1942 until 1946, receiving a Bachelor of Science in Biology. Hallowell went on to teach biology at a number of private schools in southeastern Pennsylvania until the birth of her children. Speaking of her many achievements, Hallowell has stated, “I am most proud of my children and their accomplishments.” Her eagerness to share her experiences led to the writing of Cabin, A Mountain Adventure, as well as, Fern Finder: A Guide to Native Ferns of Central and Northeastern United States and Eastern Canada with her daughter, Anne Reich. She traveled widely with her husband Alban “Tom” Hallowell, most notably, making multiple trips to the arctic. The husband and wife team produced a very popular natural history and adventure travel lecture series based on their travels. Hallowell resides in Kennett Square, Pennsylvania. �APPALACHIAN CONSORTIUM PRESS Boone, North Carolina The Appalachian Consortium Press is a division of the Appalachian Consortium Incorporated, specializing in the publication of carefully produced books of particular interest to Southern Appalachia. The Press is controlled by the Publications Committee and the Board of Directors, the members of which are appointed by the Chief Administrative Officers of the member institutions and agencies of the corporation. Appalachian State University Copyright © 1986 by the Appalachian Consortium, Inc. all rights reserved. � Dublin Core The Dublin Core metadata element set is common to all Omeka records, including items, files, and collections. For more information see, http://dublincore.org/documents/dces/. Title A name given to the resource Appalachian Consortium Press Publications Description An account of the resource This collection contains digitized monographs and collections from the Appalachian Consortium Press. Creator An entity primarily responsible for making the resource Appalachian Consortium Press Publisher An entity responsible for making the resource available Appalachian Consortium Press Date Issued Date of formal issuance (e.g., publication) of the resource. June 1, 2017 Contributor An entity responsible for making contributions to the resource <a title="Digital Scholarship and Initiatives" href="http://library.appstate.edu/services/digital-scholarship-and-initiatives" target="_blank">Digital Scholarship and Initiatives</a> Publication Digital Publisher Digital Republication Appalachian State University Dublin Core The Dublin Core metadata element set is common to all Omeka records, including items, files, and collections. For more information see, http://dublincore.org/documents/dces/. Title A name given to the resource Cabin: A Mountain Adventure Description An account of the resource This is the story of the Hallowell family's years in Western North Carolina as related by Barbara Hallowell. She and her family were northeasterners from New Jersey and Pennsylvania and experienced life as an "outsider" when they moved to Hendersonville, North Carolina in the Southern Appalachian region in the early 1970s. Illustrations are by Aline Hansens.<br /><br /><a href="https://drive.google.com/open?id=1XicLsRq18TOQGQjTwVBCzvSVoY8Bdwdz" target="_blank" rel="noopener">Download EPub<br /></a><br /><a title="UNC Press Link" href="https://www.uncpress.org/book/9781469636566/cabin/" target="_blank" rel="noopener">UNC Press Print on Demand</a> Creator An entity primarily responsible for making the resource Hallowell, Barbara G. Publisher An entity responsible for making the resource available Appalachia Consortium Press Subject The topic of the resource Mountain life--Appalachian Region, Southern Appalachian Region, Southern--Social life and customs Hallowell, Barbara G., 1924- North Carolina--Biography Date A point or period of time associated with an event in the lifecycle of the resource 1986 Language A language of the resource English Coverage The spatial or temporal topic of the resource, the spatial applicability of the resource, or the jurisdiction under which the resource is relevant ||||osm Hendersonville (N.C.) Format The file format, physical medium, or dimensions of the resource PDF Biographies E-books Type The nature or genre of the resource Text Rights Information about rights held in and over the resource <a href="https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by/4.0/deed" target="_blank" rel="noopener">https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by/4.0/deed</a> Spatial Coverage Spatial characteristics of the resource. https://www.geonames.org/4470592/hendersonville.html Source A related resource from which the described resource is derived <a title="UA 76 Appalachian Consortium records" href="https://appstate-speccoll.lyrasistechnology.org/repositories/2/resources/9" target="_blank" rel="noreferrer noopener"> UA 76 Appalachian Consortium records </a> Is Part Of A related resource in which the described resource is physically or logically included. <a title="Appalachian Consortium Press Publications" href="https://omeka.library.appstate.edu/collections/show/82" target="_blank" rel="noopener"> Appalachian Consortium Press Publications</a> Temporal Coverage Temporal characteristics of the resource. 1980s Appalachia autobiography idyllic outsiders rural https://omeka-test.library.appstate.edu/files/original/239979279c083ded8628e153d05f1a22.pdf be3caaa4f89f22fb07c65bbcb0234a4d PDF Text Text �Preface We here at the Appalachian Consortium are pleased to publish Reading, Writing, Region in conjunction with our Southern Highlands Institutes for Educators (SHIE). These Institutes, funded in-part by the National Endowment for the Humanities, are intended to acquaint regional elementary and secondary teachers with the history and culture of the Appalachian region and to provide ideas for incorporating these studies into their regular school curriculum. SHIE is a significant development in the continuing evolution of the Appalachian Consortium because it represents our commitment to young students of the region. We believe that all of the students in our service area should know about the unique Appalachian heritage and the events and individuals which make this history come to life. We recognize* however* that to reach our students we must first do everything within our power to assist area teachers. Only through their individual interest, commitment and hard work can we meet this objective* Our first priority is assisting public school teachers in understanding our heritage and in developing curriculum and methods for integrating regional studies into their classes* To begin meeting this need we have assembled perhaps the finest group of Appalachian Scholars to work on a single project in the history of the Consortium* Jim Wayne Miller's manuscript is an important ingredient in this program because it synthesizes a plethora of materials and resources which are available to the teacher. It also updates Dr* Miller's previous Guide which was first published in 1978. The Southern Highlands Institutes and this manuscript are but two examples of the Consortium's commitment to regional studies in the public schools* Currently underway are curriculum projects, conferences, new publications, and plans for future institutes. We hope that teachers will turn to the Consortium to assist with questions about Appalachia and become part of our regional studies network* $ Barry M. Buxton Executive Director Southern highlands Institute for ^Educators �The Appalachian Consortium was a non-profit educational organization composed of institutions and agencies located in Southern Appalachia. From 1973 to 2004, its members published pioneering works in Appalachian studies documenting the history and cultural heritage of the region. The Appalachian Consortium Press was the first publisher devoted solely to the region and many of the works it published remain seminal in the field to this day. With funding from the Andrew W. Mellon Foundation and the National Endowment for the Humanities through the Humanities Open Book Program, Appalachian State University has published new paperback and open access digital editions of works from the Appalachian Consortium Press. www.collections.library.appstate.edu/appconsortiumbooks This work is licensed under a Creative Commons BY-NC-ND license. To view a copy of the license, visit http://creativecommons.org/licenses. Original copyright © 1984 by the Appalachian Consortium Press. ISBN (ebook): 978-1-4696-4130-0 Distributed by the University of North Carolina Press www.uncpress.org �READING, WRITING, REGION: A CHECKLIST, PURCHASE GUIDE AND DIRECTORY FOR SCHOOL AND COMMUNITY LIBRARIES IN APPALACHIA Back around the turn of the century when he was trying to gather information about the Southern Highlands, Horace Kephart discovered, to his dismay, that very little had been written about the area we now know as Appalachia. Kephart could not find a single up-to-date magazine article describing the land and people* Had he been seeking information about exotic places such as Timbuktu or Tenerife, Kephart said, he could have found it in abundance. But no library in America could provide him with a guide to the Southern Highlands, the "rooftop of America." That situation soon changed, and Kephart had a hand in changing it by publishing, in 1913, Our Southern Highlanders. In 1921 John C* Campbell appended a considerable bibliography to his The Southern Highlander and His Homeland. Campbell's complaint* unlike Kephart's, was not of a lack of information concerning Appalachia, but of myths and misinformation. More things were known about the Southern Highlands that were not true, Campbell wrote, than of any other part of the country. Understanding Appalachia is still impeded by myth, stereotype, and misinformation. In recent years Harry Caudill has credibly maintained that the Appalachian mountain range is "the least understood and most maligned part of America/' But certainly if Kephart were seeking information about Appalachia today in any of the better libraries of the country, his complaint would more likely be of a bewildering abundance of materials, rather than of a lack of them. Berea College historian Dr. Richard Drake has published "A Bibliography of Appalachian Bibliographies" which lists 57 bibliographies compiled since 1911. If Kephart were writing today he could draw on the following resources: the Weatherford-Hammond Mountain Collection at Berea College; The Southern Mountains: A Bibliography and Guide to Studies; Louise Boger's The Southern Mountaineer in Literature; Robert Munn's Appalachian Bibliography; The Council of the Southern Mountains' Bibliography of the Appalachian South; West Virginia University's Appalachian Outlook, a quarterly up-date to Munn's Appalachian Bibliography; the Bibliography of Southern Appalachia^ edited by Charlotte T. Ross, published and distributed by the Appalachian Consortium Press. Our proper concern today cannot be with a lack of information about Appalachia. Books, journals, anthologies, tapes, and films concerning every aspect of life in the region are available. The need now is to concentrate on making known, throughout the Appalachian region, the existence and availability of all these materials. For when one visits the high school, municipal and county libraries of Appalachiat one is struck by the discrepancy between the abundance of available materials on Appalachia and the materials actually available in the libraries* In too many of our high school and community libraries, Kephart might still find more information about Timbuktu than about Appalachia. We may justifiably complain that the rest of the country misunderstands Appalachia. But if we compare the Appalachian collections of our high school, city and county libraries with those of similar libraries outside our region, we may be forced to admit that the rest of the country knows more about us than we know about ourselves* 1 �Most of the writing about Appalachia is not readily available to Appalachian people* A story about flatboating on the Tennessee River in the 19th century suggests one of the reasons why this is so: flatboatmen taking a valuable cargo of products down the river by night watched lights along the riverbank to determine their progress downriver. They passed by a house where a great fire burned; they could see people dancing and hear fiddle music. Soon they passed another house, again with a great fire burning, people dancing, and fiddles playing. It must be a holiday, the flatboatmen thought; or maybe some great victory was the cause of all this celebration* but after they had passed seven or eight houses, all with fires burning, and people dancing to—always the same—fiddle music, the flatboatmen realized they were caught in the notorious Boiling Pot, a swift eddy in the river near Chattanooga* Instead of going steadily downriver, they were going around and around in the dark, coming always past the same house on the bank, where a fire burned and people were dancing to fiddle music. —Much of the writing about Appalachia "circulates" like the flatboat and its cargo: while it seems to be progressing toward a destination* it is actually going around and around, in academic circles, repeatedly passing people but never touching their shores. This Checklist, Purchase Guide and Directory is intended to be used by librarians and teachers to help bring writing about Appalachia out of the academic Boiling Pot, to dock on shores where it will be available to greater numbers of people. Fortunately, we can cite notable successes resulting from this effort to make material concerned with Appalachia available to Appalachian people* With the aid of an ESEA Title II grant, Mrs. Elaine Duty, librarian at the John S. Battle High School in Washington County, Virginia, created a Southern Appalachian Collection of over 500 titles in the categories of general works, philosophy, religion, social sciences, linguistics, pure sciences, applied sciences, arts and recreation, literature, history, fiction, and references works. In addition to bookst the collection includes journals (such as Appalachian Journal, Foxfire, Mountain Life & Work), maps, pamphlets, sheet music, paintings and pictures, dozens of disc and cassette recordings, slides, films and filmstrips. The collection is housed in a separate part of the library and identified as the Southern Appalachian Collection* A shelf list, with annual supplements, is available. The collection is made known to the community through an attractive brochure which states that the collection may be used not only by the school's students but also by all persons interested in the study of the Southern Appalachian heritage. Many people in the immediate community and from the surrounding area use the collection. Middle schools and high schools in West Virginia have been the beneficiaries of cooperation between the West Virginia Department of Education and Morris Harvey College (now the University of Charleston). The Appalachian Center at Morris Harvey College, working with the State Department of Education, developed and distributed educational materials relating to Appalachia. The Center prepared, as an aid to teachers and librarians, purchase guides, lists and catalogs of books and audio-visual materials which could be acquired by libraries to support curricular offerings in Appalachian history, culture, literature, and the arts. Every school and community library in the Appalachian region should have—and can have—an Appalachian collection like the one at the John S. Battle High School. That collection, and the cooperation of Morris Harvey College with the West Virginia Department of Education, stand as examples to 2 �us—examples of ways in which we can undertake the important task of introducing regional materials into every school and community library in Appalachia. Throughout the region more and more schools have introduced new courses dealing with various aspects of Appalachian history and culture, or are developing units emphasizing Appalachia for already existing courses. Increasingly, adults in the region are continuing their educations, formally and informally. They are drawing on the resources of local schools and of municipal and county libraries as they pursue interests in genealogy, local and regional history, politics, economics, arts and crafts* Thus it is important that our libraries have adequate resources for interests and activities of the people they serve. Some teachers and administrators have reservations about the use of local and regional history and literature in curricular offerings* Might not these materials imply a relaxation of standards, a narrowing of interest, an abandonment of the pursuit of excellence? The intent is just the opposite. Why, after all, do students excel? When Bill Moyers interviewed Kentucky novelist, poet and teacher Robert Penn Warren on Bill Moyers'Journal, Warren reported on the findings of a man who had directed the national Merit Scholarship Program and who had attempted to discover why students excel. He thought he might learn the answer by determining what Merit Scholars have in common. But he found, according to Warren, that Merit Scholars are a diverse group; that about the only thing they have in common is "an old grandfather, a teacher, someone who has made them feel valuable and valued/' Moyers asked then how one could create this sense of the valuable, unique self. Warren responded: "By helping people to understand who they are and how they got to be the way they are." Here Warren suggests, in essence, a curriculum which uses the humanities as a means of inspecting our lives, and not as an adornment or ornament It is a curriculum which necessarily involves history and literature—local, regional, national and world history and literature—and thus is in no way narrow. To understand oneself, as R. G. ColJingwood in The Idea of History explains, means knowing first, what it is to be human; secondly, what it is to be the kind of human being you are; and thirdly, what it is to be the kind of person you are and nobody else is. To the degree that people are different in one place, or at one time, and to the degree that forces and circumstances have operated to make them different, a curriculum can take locality and circumstance into account. The curriculum not only should do this, it must if it is to help students toward an understanding not only of man in the abstract, but of man as a social creature and as a unique individual. Paying attention not only to what is taught, but also to where something is taught, and to whom, is one way a school and a teacher can make students feel "valuable and valued/' Through no fault of their own teachers and administrators have not been well-equipped to take locality into account in the schools. Teachers have had neither the materials nor the training required, though many have demonstrated admirable resourcefulness and ingenuity in the face of difficult obstacles. In most teacher training programs, according to Jacob Getzels of the University of Chicago, "little differentiation has been made between prospective teachers for one locality and those for another. The distinctions in training and placement have all been made vertically, that is, between those who will teach in one age grade or another, and not horizontally, that is, between those who will teach the same grade but in different localities/' This Checklist, Purchase Guide and Directory identifies materials and 3 �resources for teachers, librarians and administrators interested in a horizontal approach to schooling; that is, in paying attention not only to what is taught, but to where it is taught and to whom. The materials and resources identified here can help bring a much-needed concreteness and realism to the teaching of American history and culture. The general editor of the Rivers of America Series, Constance Lindsay Skinner, maintains that the average American knows less and cares less about his country, its past and present in all the different regions, than any other nation* This is because, she says, "few have displayed to him the colors and textures of the original stuff of American life/' We should be concerned with teaching the history and culture of our different regions not for the past's sake, but for the sake of the present and future. A concrete view of the American land and people helps create individual self• understanding and self-esteem, as well as collective stability. Such a view counters the rootless uniformity of popular culture with the realization of rooted diversity* The cultural geographer Raymond Gastil points out that the more we know about our immediate place, its history and heritage, the more we tend to care about that place and what happens to it* The establishment and improvement of Appalachian collections in the school and community libraries of the region can make a significant contribution to what Harry Caudill sees as a needed "cultural upheaval." Appalachian collections in use throughout the region can help bring about what Charles O. Jackson calls a "social redefinition of the region/' By contributing to a heightened awareness of Appalachia as an American region with a distinctive history and heritage, Appalachian collections can be of practical value to people in the region. Many Appalachian communities, when they lost their schools through consolidation, lost also a valuable sense of identity. There is no way back to the intimate sense of bounded community that may once have existed when the school was, in effect, a community center. Not only school consolidations but improved roads and the introduction of other improved means of communication, together with other economic and social changes, mitigate against such a return. But as the historian George Brown Tindall points out in his book The Ethnic Southerners, people don't always lose their identity as a result of change; sometimes they find it. And it is possible for people in Appalachia to discover an enlarged identity and sense of community through increased familiarity with their region's past and present. Appalachians can come to an understanding that people in western North Carolina, in east Tennessee and north Georgia, in east Kentucky and West Virginia—that is, people throughout the Appalachian region—share a past, a present, and a future with common problems and possibilities* As a result of greater familiarity with their region's history and culture young people can come to see Appalachia not as a place to escape from but as a place with an interesting past, a challenging present and an exciting future. Appalachian collections, properly used in curricular offerings, can help young people see in Appalachia a place, as Wendell Berry puts it in a poem, "whose possibilities I am one of/' In the remaining years of the twentieth century, nothing educators can do is likely to be more important than helping Appalachian people—from grade school through the university—know more about the history, culture, economics and politics of their region* Educators convinced of the need for an Appalachian collection, or of the need to improve current holdings, nevertheless appreciate guidance in determining the value of what is already on their library shelves and in deciding 4 �what should be added to make their collections adequate. This Checklist, Purchase Guide and Directory is a response to that felt need* The items in the Checklist and Purchase Guide have been suggested by knowledgeable people from many academic disciplines* The Directory of Appalachian centers, programs, newsletters, publications and activities affords access to the resources of a network of individuals and groups concerned with the Appalachian region. Neither the list nor the directory is exhaustive. The Checklist and Purchase Guide should be considered the nucleus of a good Appalachian collection. Emphasis is upon what is essential and available, but the list contains both old and new titles, since many of the older works have been recently re-issued. Some suggestions for using the Checklist: 1) Inventory your library's holdings and determine how many titles your library already has that belong to an Appalachian collection. (You may discover titles not on the list which nevertheless should be a part of your Appalachian collection.) 2) Assign priorities to those items that you don't have in your library. Begin systematically to acquire them* You may want to form an Appalachian Studies Committee or Appalachian Heritage Committee of teachers and interested community members for this purpose* 3) Highlight the collection. House it in a separate part of the library. Prepare a master list to which supplements may be added as the collection grows* 4) Publicize the collection. Let the whole school and the whole community know of its existence* 5) Don't slight audio-visual materials. After all, much of what is unique and valuable in the Appalachian heritage of song, story, dance, art, and crafts is truly audio-visual, appealing directly to the eye and ear. Many aspects of Appalachian traditions are best preserved on film, slides, disc records, cassette and video tapes. Oral history tapes should be a part of your collection. 6) Keep your Appalachian collection growing, Acquire one of the more inclusive bibliographies, such as the Appalachian Bibliography or the Bibliography of Southern Appalachia. Subscribe to a bibliographical up-date such as Appalachian Outlook, and to some of the journals containing reviews of new publications (Appalachian Notes, Appalachian Journal). Write to the university and regional presses and ask to be placed on their mailing lists. 7) Make the Appalachian collection the center of school and community events throughout the year* The showing of a newly acquired film, for instance, might serve as the occasion for an afternoon or evening program* Appalachian writers, poets, historians, and scholars might give readings or lectures in the part of the library where the Appalachian collection is shelved. Different clubs and organizations in the community might be invited to hold one of their meetings in the school or community library, where they might become acquainted with the Appalachian collection and its usefulness for their activities and interests. 8} Use the Appalachian collection as a resource for community projects. Every Appalachian state has a federally-funded arts council or commission, as well as a state-based humanities council. These agencies make grants to local groups and organizations for many kinds of projects. An Appalachian collection in the local school or community library could be an important resource for carrying out many projects, and might be an advantage when applying for various kinds of grants. 5 �9) Make your own contributions to the Checklist, Purchase Guide and Directory* As you work with the collection you will become aware of books, films, organizations and publications that should become a part of your holdings and resource directory. —Jim Wayne Miller 6 �I. Bibliographies, Materials and Resource Lists. "A Bibliography of Appalachian Bibliographies/' by Richard Drake, Appalachian Notes (see Journals), 2:3; 3:3; 3:4. American Folklore Films and Videotapes: An Index. Fill Ferris and Judy Peiser, eds, Memphis, Tennessee: Center for Southern Folklore, 1976. Contains many items relating to Appalachia. Appalachian Bibliography 1980, Morgantown: West Virginia University Library. $45*00 "A computer-based listing of 8205 entries with a detailed subject index." Appalachian Books and Media for Public and College Libraries. Compiled by George E. Bennett Morgantown: West Virginia University Library, 1975* Appalbrochure, Whitesburg, Kentucky: Appalshop, n.d. A list of films, videotapes and other materials available from Appalshop. Appalachian Atlas: A Portrait of the Southern Mountains. For information regarding the Atlas, write to the Department of Political Science, Radford University, Radford, Virginia 24142. Appalachian Issues & Resources. Southern Appalachian Ministry in Higher Education, 1975. 1538 Highland Avenue, Knoxville, Tennessee 37916. Appalachian Film List Compiled by Laura Schuster and Sharyn McCrumb, The most comprehensive listing to date of both documentaries and Hollywood features* Vol. ll t No. 4, Summer, 1984, Appalachian Journal Appalachian Journal, Vol. 5, No* 1 (Autumn 1977). 132 Sanford Hall, Appalachian State University, Boone, North Carolina 28608* Special issue of the Journal, "A Guide to Appalachian Studies." Contains valuable lists of journals, organizations, schools, resource people involved in the study of Appalachia, aa well as up-to-date and definitive essays on the state of scholarship in a number of disciplines. Appalachia/Kentuckiana Bibliograpkyt 1974. Southeastern Kentucky Regional Library Cooperative, Jackson, Kentucky 41339* Supplement to 2nd ed.f 1976. Appalachian Outlook. West Virginia University Library, Morgantown, West Virginia. Bibliography of periodical literature on Appalachia. $3.00 per year, Appalachian Women: An Annotated Bibliography. Sidney Saylor Farr, ed. Lexington, Kentucky: University Press of Kentucky, 198 L "A Selective Bibliography for Appalachian Studies," by Steve Fisher. Appalachian Journal Vol. 9, Nos. 2-3 (Winter-Spring, 1982), pp. 209-242, "Designed to aid those teaching Appalachian courses with a social science, political economy, and grassroots perspective*" 7 �Bibliography of Southern Appalachia. Charlotte T. Ross, ed. Appalachian Consortium Press, 1976* University Hallt Appalachian State University* Boone, North Carolina 28608, or University of Tennessee Press, Communications Building, Knoxville, Tennessee 37916. Contains 13,000 entries relating to Appalachia, arranged alphabetically according to author and subject. Bibliography on Urban Appalachians. Virginia Watkins, ed* Urban Appalachian Council, 1974. 1015 Vine Street, Room 514, Cincinnati, Ohio 45202. Catalog/Bibliography of the Appalachian South. Council of the Southern Mountains, Drawer N, Clintwood, Virginia 24228. "Filmography of Southern Appalachia," by Robert J. Higgs in Bibliography of Southern Appalachia, Charlotte T* Ross, ed. (See above). Twelve-page listing of 16 mm films and videotapes with a list of film distributors. Focus: Teaching English Language Arts. VoL X, No. 2, Winter 1984, Focus on Appalachian Studies. Published by the Southeastern Ohio Council of Teachers of English. James E, Davis and Hazel K. Davis, eds. Department of English Language and Literature, Ellis Hall, Ohio University, Athens, Ohio 45701. Subscriptions, $7*50 per year. For single numbers, inquire. Foxfire Calendar, Each month has an accompanying project appropriate for that time of the year, with photos, diagrams, directions. $6.95. For a list of the Foxfire magazines, books and records, write to: Foxfire Fund, Inc., Rabun Gap, Georgia 30568. Handbook of Appalachian Materials. William Plumley et ai, Charleston, West Virginia: West Virginia Department of Education, 1971. Like a Weaving: References and Resources on Black Appalachians. VoL 7 of Black Diamonds* Magazine of the Black Culture of Appalachia* P. 0* Box 135, Princeton, West Virginia 24740. $5.00, Literary Map of Southern Appalachia. Compiled by Parks Laniert Jr. and Grace Toney Edwards. Department of English, Radford University, Radford, Virginia 24142-5917. 26" x 38" $5.00 postpaid Nancy Roberts Southern Book Collection. Books and AV Materials Catalog for Schools, Libraries, Individuals* 3600 Chevington Road, Charlotte, North Carolina 28226. Telephone: (704) 364-4608. Free catalog. "New Books and Records," by George Brosi. Appalachian Journal, Vol. 8, No. 4, Summer, 1981, pp. 308-313. The ABC's of Appalachia. For information regarding this book and the accompanying manual Beyond the ABC's of Appalachia, for parents and teachers, contact: Dr. Melinda Wagner, Appalachian Studies Program Radford University, Radford, Virginia 24142. Telephone <703) 731-5159* 8 �Virginia Genealogy. A Guide to Resources in the University of Virginia Library, Compiled by the Reference Department, University of Virginia Library. Charlottesville, Virginia: University of Virginia Press, 1983. $4.95 paper. Appalachian Literature and Music: A Comprehensive Catalog. George Brosi, ed* Berea, Kentucky; Appalachian Book and Record Shop, 1981. West Virginia History: A Bibliography and Guide to Research. Harold M. Forbes. Morgantown: West Virginia University Press, 1983. $9.00. Choosing Books for Appalachian Children. Judy Martin, ed, An annotated Bibliography. Berea, Kentucky: Berea College Draper Service Center, 1982. Strip Mining: An Annotated Bibliography. Robert F* Munn. Morgantown: West Virginia University Press, 1973. $4.00. An Encyclopedia of East Tennessee. Jim Stokely and Jeff D. Johnson, eds. Oak Ridge, Tennessee: Children's Museum of Oak Ridge, 1981. $19.95. An Appalachian Studies Teacher's Manual Jim Stokely, ed. Primary through Graduate School Oak Ridge, Tennessee: Children's Museum of Oak Ridge, 1981* $11.50 postpaid* Urban Appalachian Readings & Resources. Maureen R* Sullivan. Cincinnati, Ohio: Urban Appalachian Council, 1980. OTHER SOURCES OF INSTRUCTIONAL MATERIALS A Directory of American Poets and Fiction Writers, 1983-84 edition. New York: Poets & Writers, Inc., 1983* $14.95. Name and addresses, by state, of 5,533 contemporary poets and fiction writers* Appalachian poets and writers easily identified and located by state. Aside from the films, records and tapes available from Appalshop, Inc., many of the Appalachian Centers and colleges and universities with Appalachian Studies programs have videotapes, audiotapes and other materials. For details, inquire at the various centers. The National Public Radio Cassette Catalog is an excellent source of materials (many of them specifically Appalachian)* For a free catalog write to National Public Radio, Cassette Publishing, 2025 M* Street, N.W., Washington, B.C. To order by telephone, call toll free 800-253-0808. IL Standard Works, Surveys: Appalachian History, Culture, Politics. Alderson, William T., and Robert M. McBride, eds. Landmarks of Tennessee History. Knoxville: University of Tennessee Press, 1965. The Appalachian Land Ownership Task Force. Who Owns Appalachian Landownership and its Impact. With an introduction by Charles C. Geisler. Lexington, Kentucky: University Press of Kentucky, 1983. 9 �"Appalachian Resource Survey," Appalachian Notes, 1:3; 1:4; 2:1. Armbrister, Trevor. The Yablonski Murders and their Solutions, Saturday Review/Button, 1975. Arnow, Harrietts Simpson. Seedtime on the Cumberland. Lexington: University Press of Kentucky, 1983. Cloth $28,00; $13*00 paper* Arnow, Harriette Simpson. Flowering of the Cumberland. Lexington: University Press of Kentucky, 1984. Cloth $28.00; $13.00 paper. Axelrod, Jim, ed, Growin1 Up Country. Clintwood, Virginia: Council of the Southern Mountains* 1973. Barnes, Peter, ed. The People's Land: A Reader on Land Reform in the United States. Rodale Press, 1975* Batteau, Allen, ed. Appalachia and America. Autonomy and Regional Dependence. Lexington, Kentucky: University Press of Kentucky, 1983* Beaver, Patricia D., and Burton L. Purrington. Cultural Adaptation to Mountain Environments. Athens: University of Georgia Press, 1984* Cloth $16.00; $7.50 paper. Blackmun, Ora. Western North Carolina: Its Mountains and People to 1880. Boone, North Carolina: Appalachian Consortium Press, 1976. Ely, Carol. Letters From the Country. New York: Harper & Row, 1981. Breckinridge, Mary. Wide Neighborhoods: A Story of the Frontier Nursing Service. Lexington: University Press of Kentucky, 1981. Cloth $28.00; $10,00 paper. Bruce, Dickson D., Jr. And They All Sang Hallelujah: Plain-Folk Camp-Meeting Religion, 1800-1845. Knoxville: University of Tennessee Press, 1974. Bryant, P. Carlene, We're All Kin: A Cultural Study of a Mountain Neighborhood. KnoxviDe: University of Tennessee Press, 1981. Camblos, Ruth, and Virginia Winger, eds. 'Round the Mountains. 1975* Distributed by Appalachian Consortium Press. Campbell, John C. The Southern Highlander and His Homeland 1921; re-issued, University Press of Kentucky, 1969. Caruso, John A. Appalachian Frontier. Bobbs-Merrill, 1959. Cash, W. J. The Mind of the South. Alfred A, Knopf, 1941, Caudill, Harry. Night Comes to the Cumberlands. Little, Brown, 1962. 10 �> My Land is Dying. E. P. Dutton. 1971. A Darkness at Dawn. Univ. Press of Kentucky, 1976. The Watches of the Night Little, Brown, 1976. . Theirs be the Power: The Moguls of Eastern Kentucky, Urbana, Illinois: University of Illinois Press, 1983. $13.95. Clark, Thomas D, Agrarian Kentucky. Lexington: University Press of Kentucky, 1977. $6,95. Clavel* Pierre. Opposition Planning in Wales and Appalachia* Philadelphia: Temple University Press, 1983* Coles, Robert Migrants, Sharecroppers, Mountaineers. Little, Brown, 1971* Corbin, David A. Life, Work, and Rebellion in the Coal Fields. Champaign, Illinois: University of Illinois Press, 1981. $24*95* Coulter, E. Merton. William G. Brownhw: Fighting Parson of the Southern Highlands. University of Tennessee Press, 1971* Cowan, Paul* The Tribes of America: Journalistic Discoveries of Our People and Their Cultures. New York: Doubleday, 1979. Creekmore, Betsey Beeler. Knoxville, 3rd ed* University of Tennessee Press, 1976* Crockett, David A Narrative of the Life of David Crockett of the State of Tennessee. Facsimile edition. University of Tennessee Press, 1973. Davis, Bernard. The Impact of Federal Regulations on the Small Coal Mine in Appalachia. Morehead, Ky.: Appalachian Development Center, 1981. Dawidziak, Mark. The Barter Theatre Story: Love Made Visible. Boone, North Carolina: Appalachian Consortium Press, 1982. Day, John F. Bloody Ground. Lexington: University Press of Kentucky, 1981* Cloth $28*00; $9.00 paper. Derthick, Martha* Between State and Nation: Regional Organizations of the United States. Brookings Institute, 1974* Dixon, Max. The Wataugans, Appalachian Consortium Press, 1976. Dotterweich, Douglas. Property Tax Effort in Eastern Kentucky Counties: Implications for Financing Public Services. Morehead, Kentucky: Appalachian Development Center, 1982* 11 �Dunbar, Tony. Our Land Too. Pantheon Books, 1971. Against the Grain: Southern Radicals and Prophets, 2929-1959, Charlottesville: University of Virginia Press, 1983. $16.95. Dykeman, Wilma, and James Stokely. The Border States. Time-Life Books, 1968. Dykeman, Wilma. The French Broad. University of Tennessee Press, 1965. . Prophet of Plenty: The First Ninety Years of W. A Weatherford Knoxville: University of Tennessee Press, 1966. Tennessee: a Bicentennial History. The States of the Nation Series, New York: Norton, 1975. Egerton, John. Visions of Utopia: Nashoba, Rugby, Ruskin, and the "New Communities " in Tennessee's Past KnoxviUe; University of Tennessee Press, 1977, Cloth $8,50; $3.50 paper. , Generations. An American Family. Lexington: University Press of Kentucky, 1983. $19.50. Eighmy, John Lee. Churches in Cultural Captivity: A History of the Social Attitudes of Southern Baptists. University of Tennessee Press, 1972. Eller, Ronald D. Miners, Millhands, and Mountaineers: Industrialization of the Appalachian South, 1880-1930. Knoxville: University of Tennessee Press, 1982, Winner of the W. D. Weatherford Award, Erikson, Kai* Everything in Its Path: The Destruction of Community in the Buffalo Creek Flood. Simon & Schuster, 1977. Ewald, Wendyt ed. Appalachian A Self-Portrait Lexington, Kentucky: Gnomon Press, 1979. $8.95. Parr, Sidney Saylor. More Than Moonshine: Appalachian Recipes and Recollections. Pittsburgh: University of Pittsburgh Press, 1983. Cloth $14.95; $6*95 paper. Fetterman, John, Stinking Creek. E, P. Button, 1967. Finley, Joseph. The Corrupt Kingdom: The Rise and Fall of the United Mine Workers. Simon & Schuster, 1973, Fisher, Steve, ed. A Landless People in a Rural Region: A Reader on Land Ownership and Property Taxation in Appalachia* New Market, Tennessee: The Highlander Center, 1979. 12 �Flynt, J. Wayne, Dixie's Forgotten People. Bloomington: Indiana University Press, 1979. Folmsbee, Stanley J., Robert E. Corlew, and Enoch L. Mitchell. Tennessee: A Short History, University of Tennessee Press, 1972. Ford, Thomas, ed. The Southern Appalachian Region: A Survey, University of Kentucky Press, 1962. French Laurence, and Jim Hornbuckle. The Cherokee Perspective. Boone, N, C.: Appalachian Consortium Press, 1981. Ftench, Warren, ed. The South and Film. Jackson, Mississippi: University Press of Mississippi, 1981. $12.50. Garland, Jim* Welcome the Traveler Home. Jim Garland's Story of the Kentucky Mountains. Edited by Julia A, Ardrey, Lexington, Kentucky: University Press of Kentucky, 1983. Gaventa, John* Power and Powerlessness. Quiescence and Rebellion in an Appalachian Valley. Urbana, Illinois: University of Illinois Press, 1980. Cloth $19.95; $7.95 paper. Gazaway, Rena. The Longest Mile. Doubleday, 1969. Gerlach, Russel L. Immigrants in the Ozarks: A Study in Ethnic Geography. Columbia, Missouri: University of Missouri Press, 1976. $18.00* Govan, Gilbert E,, and James W. Livingood. The Chattanooga Country, 1540-1976: Front Tomahawks to TV A. University of Tennessee Press, 1977. Green, Archie. Only a Miner, Studies in Recorded Coal-Mining Songs, Champaign, Illinois: University of Illinois Press, 1972. $20*00. Guihan, Edward, ed. Redemption Denied: An Appalachian Reader. Washington, D.C.: Appalachian Documentation, 1976. Hall, Robert L., and Carol B, Stack, eds. Holding on to the Land and the Lord: Kinship, Ritual, Land Tenure, and Social Policy in the Rural South. Athens: The University of Georgia Press, 1982. Hargrove, Erwin C., and Paul K. Conkin. TV A: Fifty Year of Grass-Roots Bureaucracy, Champaign, Illinois: University of Illinois Press, 1984. $26.95. Hevener, John W. Which Side Are You On? The Harlan County Coal Miners, 1931-39. Champaign, Illinois: University of Illinois Press, 1978. $17.50. Co-winner of the W. D. Weatherford Award. 13 �High* Ellesa Clay. Past Titan Rock. Journeys into an Appalachian Valley, Lexington: University Press of Kentucky, 1984. $16,00. Winner of the 1983 Appalachian Award. Hoffman, Edwin D. Fighting Mountaineers: The Struggle for Justice in the Appalachians. Boston: Houghton Mifflin Co., 1979. Howell, Benita. A Survey of Folklife Along the Big South Fork of the Cumberland River, Knoxville: Department of Anthropology, University of Tennessee, 1981. Howell, Joseph* Hard Living on Clay Street. Double day r 1973, Humet Brit. Death and the Mines: Rebellion and Murder in the United Mine Workers. Grossman Pub., 1971. Humphrey, Stephen* "That D—d Brownlow." Boone, North Carolina. Appalachian Consortium Press, 1978. lannone, Bon. "School Ain't No Way..." Parsons, West Virginia: McClain Printing Co., 1972. Johnson, James P, The Politics of Soft Coal The Bituminous Industry from World War I Through the New Deal Champaign, Illinois: University of Illinois Press, 1979, $16.50. Jolley, Harley E. The Blue Ridge Parkway. University of Tennessee Press, 1974, Jones, Loyal. "The Surveys of the Appalachian Region," American Heritage (see Journals) 4:2, Spring 1976. . Minstrel of the Appalachians. The Story ofBascom Lamar Lunsford. Boone: Appalachian Consortium Press, 1983. $10.50. Jones, Maldwyn Allen. American Immigration. Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1960. Kahn, Kathy. Hillbilly Women. Doubleday, 1973. Kaplan, Berton, Blue Ridge. Morgantown: Appalachian Center, West Virginia University, 1971. Kephart, Horace. Our Southern Highlanders. 1922; re-issued, University of Tennessee Press, 1976. Kingt Stephen Clark. Wheelwright, Kentucky: Community in Transition. Lexington: University Press of Kentucky, 1982. Lantz, Herman. People of Coaltown. Columbia University Press, 1958* 14 �Ledford, Lily May. Coon Creek Girl Berea, Kentucky: Berea College Appalachian Center, 1980. Levitan, Sam, and Joyce Zickler, Too Little But Not Too Late. Lexington, Massachusetts: Lexington Books, 1976. Lewis, Helen, Linda Johnson and Donald Askins, eds. Colonialism in Modern America: The Appalachian Case. Appalachian Consortium Press, 1978. Lewis, Thomas M,N., and Madeline Kneberg. Hiwassee Island: An Archaeological Account of Four Tennessee Indian Peoples. Knoxville: University of Tennessee, 1970. Cloth $28.50; $14*95 paper* Leyburn, James G, The Scotch-Irish. Chapel Hill: University of North Carolina Press, 1962, Lofaro, Michael A. The Life and Adventures of Daniel Boone, Lexington: University Press of Kentucky, 1978, $6.95. Lord, Sharon B., and Carolyn Patton-Crowder.^ppatac/waw Women: A Learning/Teaching Guide. Newton Massachusetts: Education Development Center, 1979. McAteer, J. David* Coal Mine Health and Safety: The Case of West Virginia. Praeger Pub., 1973. McDonald, Michael, and John Muldowny. TV A and the Dispossessed: The Resettlement of Population in the Norris Dam Area. Knoxville: University of Tennessee Press, 1982. $28.50* McDonald, Michael, and William Bruce Wheeler* Knoxville, Tennessee: Continuity and Change in an Appalachian City. Knoxvifle: University of Tennessee Press, 1983. $14.95. McKinney, Gordon B, Southern Mountain Republicans, 1865-1900: Politics and the Appalachian Community. Chapel Hill: The University of North Carolina Press, 1978* Martin, Charles E. Holly bush- Folk Building and Social Change in an Appalachian Community. Knoxville: University of Tennessee Press, 1984. $14.50. Matthews, E, M. Neighbor and Kin: Life in a Tennessee Ridge Community. Nashville: Vanderbilt University Press, 1965. Maurer, B. B., ed. Mountain Heritage. West Virginia Arts and Crafts Fair, 1974; revised. 1975, Mielke, David N., ed. Teaching Mountain Children: Towards A Foundation of Understanding. Appalachian Consortium Press, 1978. 15 �Miles, Emma Bell. The Spirit of the Mountains, 1905; re-issued, University of Tennessee Press, 1975. Montell, William Lynwood. The Saga ofCoe Ridge: A Study in Oral History. University of Tennessee Press, 1970. Moore, Arthur K. The Frontier Mind. University Press of Kentucky, 1957; reissued by McGraw-Hill Paperbacks, 1963* Morgan, Richard, Tom Riesenberg, and Michael Troutman. Taking Charge: A New Look at Public Power. Environmental Action Foundation, 1976, Morland, Kenneth J* ed. The Not So Solid South: Anthropological Studies in a Regional Subculture. Athens: University of Georgia Press, 1971. $7,00 paper* Moulton, Gary E* John Ross, Cherokee Chief, Athens: University of Georgia Press, 1978. $17.00* Nathans* Sydney, General editor. The Way We Lived in North Carolina. Chapel Hill; University of North Carolina Press, 1983. A series consisting of five volumes spanning the pre-1770 period through 1970. "Each volume examines the social history of an erat weaving interpretation around dozens of historic sites and the lives of the ordinary people who lived and worked nearby/' Each volume: Cloth $11.95; $6*95 paper. Murray, Kenneth. Down to Earth—People of Appalachia. Appalachian Consortium Press, 1974* Nugent, Tom. Death at Buffalo Creek. W. W. Norton, 1973. Page, Linda Garland, and Eliot Wigginton, eds* AuntArie:A Foxfire Portrait. New York: E* P. Dutton, Inc., 1983* Parlow, Anita. The Land Development Rag. Southern Appalachian Ministry in Higher Education, 1538 Highland Avenue, Knoxville, Tennessee 37916. Parris, John* Roaming the Mountains. Asheville, North Carolina: Citizen-Times Publishing Co., 1981* Rpt. of the 1955 book. Pearsall, Marion. Little Smoky Ridge: The Natural History of a Southern Appalachian Neighborhood. University of Alabama Press, 1959* Peck, Elizabeth S. Berea's First 125 Years: 185&1980. With a final chapter by Emily Ann Smith* Lexington: University Press of Kentucky, 1982. $17.50* Peircet Neil* The Border South States People, Politics and Power in Five States of the Border South. W. W, Norton, 1975* Perry, Huey, "They'll Cut Off Your Project": A Mingo County Chronicle. Praeger Publishers, 1972. 16 �Peterson, Bill, Coaltown Revisited Henry Regnery., 1972. Philliber, William W., and Clyde B. McCoy, The Invisible Minority: Urban Appalachians, Lexington: University Press of Kentucky, 1981. $18.00. Photiadis, John D., and Harry SchwarzweUer, eds. Change in Rural Appahchia: Implications for Action Programs. University of Pennsylvania Presst 1971. Plunket, H. Dudley, and Mary J. Bowman. Elites and Change in the Kentucky Mountains. University Press of Kentucky, 1973. Raulston, J. Leonard, and James W. Livingood* Sequatckie: A Story of the Southern Cumberlands. University of Tennessee Press, 1974, Raymond, Richard D. The Myth of the Appalachian Brain Drain. Morgantown: West Virginia University Press, 1972, $3.00. Reed, John Shelton. The Enduring South. Chapel Hill: University of North Carolina Press, 1975. $6*00 paper. , and Daniel Joseph Singal, eds. Regionalism and the South: Selected Papers of Rupert Vance. Chapel Hill: University of North Carolina Press, 1982, . One South: An Ethnic Approach to Regional Cultures. Baton Rouge: Louisiana State University press, 1982. $22.50* Southerners: The Social Psychology of Sectionalism. Chapel Hill: University of North Carolina Press, 1983* $5,95 paper. Rice, Otis K, The Allegheny Frontier. University Press of Kentucky, 1970. , The Hat fields and the McCoys. Lexington: University Press of Kentucky, 1978. $12,00 Riddel* Frank S* Appalachian Its People, Heritage, Problems. Dubuque, Iowa: Kendall/Hunt Publishing Co., 1974, Ringer, John R, The Eastern BandofCherokees, 1819-1900. KnoxviUe; University of Tennessee Press, 1984. Cloth $24.95; $12.50 paper. Ryan, William. Blaming the Victim. Vintage Books, 1971. Scalf, Henry P. Kentucky's Last Frontier. Pikeville, Kentucky: Pikeville College Press, 1972, Schenck, Carl Alwin. The Birth of Forestry in America. Appalachian Consortium Press, 1974, Shackelford, Laurel, and Bill Weinberg, eds. Our Appalachian An Oral History, Hill and Wang, 1977. 17 �Schwarzweller, Harry K., James S. Brown, and J. J. Mangalam. Mountain Families in Transition: A Case Study of Appalachian Migration. Pennsylvania State University Press, 1971. Shapiro, Henry. Appalachia On Our Mind. Chapel Hill: University of North Carolina Press, 1978, $26*00* Slone, Verna Mae* What My Heart Wants to Tell Washington, D. C.: New Republic Books, 1979. Smith, Sam B*> ed* and comp. Tennessee History: A Bibliography. University of Tennessee Press, 1974. Sprague, Stuart Seely, ed* Essays in Eastern Kentucky History. Morehead, Kentucky: Morehead State University Foundation, Inc. 1984* $5.00. The Southern Appalachian Heritage. Color illustrations and text. Appalachian Consortium Press, 1974 (out of print). Stephenson, John* Shiloh: A Mountain Community. University of Kentucky Press, 1968. Ford—A Village in the West Highlands of Scotland. A Case Study of Repopulation and Social Change in a Small Community. Lexington: University Press of Kentucky, 1984* $18*00* Stern, Gerald M. The Buffalo Creek Disaster: The Story of the Survivors' Unprecedented Lawsuit Random House, 1976. Stuart, Jesse. God's Qddling. New York: McGraw-Hill, I960. The Thread That Runs So True, New York: Scribner's, 1958. My World. Lexington: University Press of Kentucky, 1975* $6.95. Surface, William. The Hollow. Coward-McCann, 1971* Toward 1984: The Future of Appalachia. Southern Appalachian Regional Conference Proceedings. Appalachian Consortium Press, 1975. Urban Migrants. Entire issue of Peoples' Appalachia (July 1972). Van Noppen, Ina and John* Western North Carolina Since the Civil War. Appalachian Consortium Press, 1973. Walls, David S., and John Stephenson. Appalachia in the Sixties. University Press of Kentucky, 1972. Warren, Harold. "A Right Good People." Appalachian Consortium Press, 1974, 18 �Watkins, Floyd C.t and Charles Hubert Watkins. Yesterday in the Hills. Athens: University of Georgia Presst 1982. $6,95 paper. Weller, Jack E. Yesterday's People. University Press of Kentucky, 1965. WeUman, Manly Wade. The Kingdom of Madison. Chapel Hill: University of North Carolina Press, 1973. Whisnant, David E. Modernizing the Mountaineer. Boone, N. C,: Appalachian Consortium Press, 1980. . All That 1$ Native and Fine: The Policies of Culture in an American Region, Chapel Hill: University of North Carolina Press, 1983. $24.00. Whitson, Mont. Appalachian Business Heritage: The Surviving Craftsman Fulfilling the American Dream. Morehead, Kentucky: Bureau of University and Regional Services, 1982. Williams, Gratis. William H. Vaughan: A Better Man Than I Ever Wanted to Be. Morehead, Kentucky: Appalachian Development Center, 1984. $3.00. Williams, C. Fred, and 3. Charles Bolton, Carl H* Moneyhon and LeRoy T. Williams. A Documentary History of Arkansas, Payetteville, Arkansas: University of Arkansas Press, 1983. Williams, John Alexander. West Virginia and the Captains of Industry. Morgantown: West Virginia University Press, 1976. $11.00. Woodmason. Charles* Carolina Backcountry on the Eve of the Revolution. Chapel Hilt University of North Carolina Press, 1953* Cloth, $22.50; $6.95 paper. Woolley, Brian and Ford Reid. We Be Here When the Morning Comes. University Press of Kentucky, 1975. You Can't Put It Back: A West Virginia Guide to Strip Mine Opposition. Mountain Community Union, 1976. Young, Chester Raymond, ed. Westward into Kentucky: The Narrative of Daniel Trabue, Lexington: University Press of Kentucky, 1981, $20.00. Ill* Language and Literature* 1. Primary Sources: Prose, Agee, James* A Death in the Family. Obolensky, 1957; reprint, Grosset and Duniap, 1964. Novel set in Knoxville and the surrounding area. 19 �Arnow, Harriette. The Dollmaker. Macmillan, 1954. Novel about Appalachians who migrate north. Hunter's Horn. New York: Macmillan Co*, 1949. Barker, Garry. Fire on the Mountain. Berea, Kentucky: Kentucky Imprints, 1983. Berry, Wendell. The Memory of Old Jack. New York: Harcourt Brace Jovanovich, Inc. 1974. Burke, Lee. To the Bright and Shining Sun. New York: Scribnerjs, 1970* Cain, James M, The Butterfly. New York: Vintage Books, 1983. Rpt. of the 1946 novel. Caudill, Harry* The Senator from Slaughter County. Little, Brown, 1973. Provides insights into the politics of coal. Chappell, Fred Moments of Light Los Angeles: The New South Company, 1980. $12.95. Crabtree, Lou V. Sweet Hollow. Baton Rouge: Louisiana State University Press, 1984. Cloth $14*95; $8.95 paper, Driskell, Leon V. Passing Through. A Fiction. Chapel Hill, N. C,: Algonquin Books, 1983* Dykeman, Wilma. The Tatt Woman. New York; Holt, Rinehard and Winston, 1962; rpt. Wakestone Books, 1982. $10.95 paper. The Far Family. Holt, Rinehart and Winston, 1966. Return the Innocent Earth. Holt, Rinehart and Winston, 1973. Ehlet John. The Land Breakers. Harper & Row, 1964. Lion on the Hearth. Harper & Row, 1961. The Road. New York: Harper & Row, 1967. , The Journey of August King. New York: Harper & Row, 1971, Time of Drums. Harper & Row, 1970. The Winter People, New York: Harper & Row, 1982, The novels of Dykeman and Ehle are rewarding considered individually. Taken together, they present a panorama of life in the Appalachian region since the Civil War* Fox, John, Jr. The Little Shepherd of Kingdom Come, New York: Grosset & Dunlap, 1931. 20 �, The Trail of the Lonesome Pine. Lexington: University Press of Kentucky, 1984, Cloth $20.00; $10.00 paper. Green, Lewis W. The High-Pitched Laugh of a Painted Lady. Winston-Salem: John F. Blair. Harris, George Washingtoa SutLovingood's Yams. Ed M. Thomas Inge* new Haven. Connecticut: College and University Press, 1966, Haun, Mildred. The Hawk's Done Gone. Vanderbilt University Press, 1968. Short stories from Appalaehia, Henson, Mike* Ransack. A Novel Cambridge, Massachusetts: West End Press* 1980. Leeper, Robert B. The Brindle Mule. Stones and Poems of the Brushy Mountains. Boone: The Appalachian Consortium Press, 1984. Cloth $11.95; $7*95 paper. McCarthy, Cormac. The Orchard Keeper. New York: Random Houset 1965; Rpt Ecco Press, 1982* . Suttree. New York: Random House, 1979. McClanahan, Ed. The Natural Man. New York: Farrar, Straus and Giroux, 1983. $11.50* Miller, Heather Ross. The Love Offerings of Jeremiah Coonrod Kirk. Davidson, N. C.: Briarpatch Press, 1983. Murfree, Mary Noailles ("Charles Egbert Craddock"). In the Tennessee Mountains. University of Tennessee Press, 1970. Norman, Gurney, Divine Right's Trip: A Folktale. Dial Press, 1972. Kinfolks. Lexington, Kentucky: Gnomon Press, 1977. Pancake, Breece D'J, The Stories of Breece D'J Pancake. Boston: Atlantic/Little, Brown, 1983, Ritchie, Jean. Celebration of Life: Jean Ritchie, Her Songs, Her Poems, Big Three/Robbing Pub. Co., 1971* This book, as well as others by Jean Ritchie, including The Singing Family of the Cumberland and The Dulcimer Book, is available from Folklife Productions, 7A Locust Avenue, Port Washington, NY 11050. Roberts, Elizabeth Madox. The Great Meadow. Viking Press, 1930. A novel set in the frontier period. 21 �The Time of Man. Lexington: University Press of Kentucky, 1982. Cloth $23.00; $9*00 paper* A novel about sharecroppers in Appalachian Kentucky. Settle, Mary Lee. The Beulah Quintet. New York; Ballantine Books, 1981. Includes: 0 Beulah Land, 1956; Know Nothing, 1960; Fight Night on a Sweet Saturday, 1964 (re-issued in 1982 as The Killing Ground); Prisons, 1973; The Scapegoat, 1980. Novels set in West Virginia, Smith, Barbara. Six Miles Out. Charleston, West Virginia: Mountain State Press, 1981. $4,50. Smith, Lee, Cakewalk. New York: Putnam Pub. Group, 1981, $12.95. , Black Mountain Breakdown, New York: Ballantine, 1982. $2.95 paper. Oral History. A Novel New York: G. P. Putnam's Sons, 1983. $14.95. Still, James. River of Earth. New York: Viking Press, 1940; rpt, Lexington, Kentucky: University Press of Kentucky, 1978, $4.95 paper. . Pattern of a Man. Lexington, Kentucky: Gnomon Press (Box 1796), 1976. Jack and the Wonder Beans. New York: G, P. Putnam's Sons, 1977. Sporty Creek. New York: G. P. Putnam's Sons, 1977. $5.95. The Run For the Elbertas. Lexington, Kentucky: University Press of Kentucky, 1980. $5,50 paper. Stuart, Jesse. Taps for Private Tussie. E. P. Button, 1943. Comic novel. Trees of Heaven. E. P. Dutton, 1940, A Jesse Stuart Harvest Dell Publishers, 1965. Heado'W'Hollow. With a Foreword by Robert Penn Warren. Rpt. Lexington: University Press of Kentucky, 1979* Men of the Mountains. With a Forword by H. Edward Richardson. Rpt, Lexington: University Press of Kentucky, 1979. The Thread That Runs So True. New York: Charles Scribner's Sons, 1958, Rpt. of the 1949 book. Clearing in the Sky & Other Stones. Lexington: University Press of Kentucky, 1984. Cloth $20.00; $9.00 paper. 22 �The Kingdom Within, A Spiritual Autobiography, New York: McGrawHill Book Company, 1979. $8.95. . Lost Sandstones and Lonely Shies and Other Essays. Danbury, Connecticut: Archer Editions Press, 1979. Trees of Heaven. Lexington: University Press of Kentucky, 1980* $9*00 paper. . /// Were Seventeen Again. D anbury, Connecticut: Archer Editions Press, 1980. $12.50. The Best-Loved Short Stories of Jesse Stuart. Selected and with commentary by H. Edward Richardson, with an introduction by Robert Penn Warren. New York: McGraw-Hill Book Company, 1982. Welch, Jack. Life At An Early Age, Charleston, West Virginia: Mountain State Press, 1981, $5.00. West, John Foster. Time Was. Random House, 1965; re-issued, Boone, North Carolina: Folkways Press (Drawer 1834), 1977. Appalachian Dawn. Durham, North Carolina; Moore Publishing Co,, 1973. Wolfe, Thomas. Look Homeward, Angel Scribner's, 1929. You Can't Go Home Again. New York: Harper & Row. Perennial Library Edition, 1973. 2, Some Secondary Sources. Americans Speaking, Record with accompanying Handbook. Urbana, Illinois; National Council of Teachers of English. Young Americans from different parts of the country reading the same text, then speaking informally. Handbook aids in identifying the distinctive features of thek spoken English. Bleustein, Gene. Folklore and American Literary Theory. University of Massachusetts Press, 1972. Clarket Mary Washington. Jesse Stuart's Kentucky. McGraw-Hill, 1968* Fink, Paul M. Bits of Mountain Speech. Appalachian Consortium Press, 1974. Foster, Ruel, ed. Appalachian Literature: Critical Essays. Charleston, West Virginia: MHC Publications, Morris Harvey College, 1976. LeMaster, J. R. and Mary Washington Clarke, eds. Jesse Stuart: Essays on His Work. Lexington: University Press of Kentucky, 1977. 23 �Madden, David Remembering James Agee, Louisiana State University Press, 1974. Ohlin, Peter H. Agee. Obolensky, 1966. Richardson, H* Edward Jesse. A Biography of Jesse Stuart. New York: McGraw-Hill, 1984. Spurlock, John H, He Sings For Us: A Sociolinguistic Analysis of the Appalachian Subculture and of Jesse Stuart as a Major American Author. Lanham, Maryland: The University Press of America, Inc., 1980. Williams, Gratis D* The Southern Mountaineer in Fact and Fiction. VoL 3, Appalacian Journal (see Journals). Wolfram, Walt and Donna Christian. Appalachian Speech. Center for Applied Linguistics, 1611 N. Kent Street, Arlington, Virginia 22209. Young, Thomas Daniel. Tennessee Writers, Knoxville: University of Tennessee Press, 1981. Cloth $8.50; $3.50 paper. 3. Primary Sources: Poetry. Amburgey, Gail, Pauletta Hansel and Mary Joan Coleman. We're Alright But We Ain't Special Beckley, West Virginia: Mountain Union Books (107 Earwood Street), 1976. Anderson* Maggie. Years That Answer. Poems, New York: Harper & Row* 1980. Awiakta, Marilou Bonham Thompson* Abiding Appalachia—Where Mountain and Atom Meet. Memphis, Tennessee: St* Luke's Press, 1983, $6,95, Baber, Robert. Assorted Life Savers & Poems from the Mountains. Beckley, West Virginia: Troy Baber, 1976* Baxter, Delmar. Clean Fire. Appalachian Writers' Association Chapbook Series. Number Two* Johnson City, Tennessee: Appalachian Writers* Association, 1982. Beecher, John. Collected Poems. Beckley, West Virginia: Mountain Union Books, n.d. Berryt Wendell. Openings. Harcourt, Brace & World, 1968. . Farming: A Handbook. Harcourt Brace Jovanovich, 1970* The Country of Marriage. Harcourt Brace Jovanovich, 1973. Horses. Monterey, Kentucky: Larkspur Press, 1975* 24 �. To What Listens. Crete, Nebraska: The Best Cellar Press (118 South Boswell Avenue), 1975* Byer, Kathryn Stripling. Search Party. With drawings by Joyce Sills* Brooklyn, New York and Cullowhee, North Carolina: Amicae Pi-ess, 1979. Alma. With drawings by Sharyn Jayne Hyatt* Waynesville* North Carolina: Phoenix Press, 1983* Chaffin, Lillie D* 8th Day, 13th Moon. Pikeville, Kentucky; Pikeville College Press, 1974* _. Appalachian History and Other Poems. Bloomfield, New Jersey: Vega Publishing, 1980. Chappell, Fred The World Between the Eyes. University of Louisiana Press, 1971* MidquesL Baton Rouge: Louisiana State University Press, 1981* A tetralogy consisting of River, Blood fire, Wind Mountain, and Earths leep, four books of poems comprising a single long poem which the author calls "something like a verse novel*1' Cuelho, Art, ed. Step Around the Mountain, Big Timber, Montana: Seven Buffaloes Pressf 1983* $4.35 postpaid Contemporary writing from Southern Appalachia. Deagon, Ann. Women and Children First. Emory, Virginia: Iron Mountain Press, 1971. Poetics South. Winston-Salem, North Carolina: John F. Blair, Publisher, 1974. $4.95. Depta, Victor. The Creek. Athens: Ohio University Ptess, 1973. . The House. New York: New Rivers Press, 1978. Dressier, Muriel Miller* Appalachia, My Land, Charleston, West Virginia: MHC Publications, Morris Harvey College, 1973. rev*, exp. ed, 1977. Field, Edward* ed A Geography of Poets, New York: Bantam, 1979, Fisher, Elizabeth. This World Does Not Belong to the Old Ladies. Emory, Virginia: Iron Mountain Press (Box 28), 1976* Goode, James B. Poets of Darkness. Jackson, Mississippi: University Press of Mississippi, 1981. $7.95* Greene, Jonathan. Idyls, Emory, Virginia: Iron Mountain Press, 1983. 25 �Hague, Richard Ripening. Columbus: Ohio State University Press, 1984, $12.50. Howard, Lee. The Last Unmined Vein. Washington, D.C.: Anemone Press, 1980. Howard, Quentin R. Tell Me No Sad Tales. Pikeville, Kentucky: Wind Press, 1976. Hulme, Francis Pledger. Mountain Measure: A Southern Appalachian Verse Notebook. Photographs by Robert Amberg. Appalachian Consortium Press, 1975. Second printing 1984. $5.95. Johnson, Don. The Importance of Visible Scars. Green Harbor, Massachusetts: Wampeter Press, 1984. Jones, Rodney* Going Ahead, Looking Back. Knoxville, Tennessee: Southbound Books, 1978. . The Story They Told Us of Light. Baton Rouge: Louisiana State University Press, 1981. Kessler, Clyde. Shooting Creek. Blacksburg, Virginia: PWR Publishing, 1982, Lanier, Jr., and Rita Quillen. Appalachian Writers' Association Chapbook Series. Number One. Johnson City, Tennessee: Appalachian Writers' Association, 1982. Appalachian Georgics. Christiansburg, Virginia: Christiansburg Printing Co., 1983. Laska, P. J. D. C Images and Other Poems. Beckley, West Virginia: Mountain Union Books, 1975. . Songs and Dances. Prince, West Virginia: The Unrealist Press, 1977. . Wages and Dreams. Pipestem, West Virginia: Mountain Freedom Press, 1980. Lyon, George Ella. Mountain. Hartford, Connecticut: Andrew Mountain Press, 1983. $1.75. McNeill, Louise (Pease) Paradox HilL Morgantown: West Virginia University Library, 1972. , Gauley Mountain. Harcourt Brace, 1939; reissued by McClain Printers, Parsons, West Virginia. Marion, Jeff Daniel Out in the Country, Back Home. Winston-Salem, North Carolina: The Jackpine Press, 1976. 26 �Watering Places. Knoxville, Tennessee: Puddingstone Press (Box 8800 University Station), 1976. Almanac. Jefferson City, Tennessee: The Small Farm Press (P. (X Box 563), 1976, Tight Lines. Emory, Virginia: Iron Mountain Press, 1981. Miller, Jim Wayne, Dialogue With a Dead Man, Athens: University of Georgia Press. 1974; rpt. Green River Press, 1978, The Mountains Have Come Closer, Boone, North Carolina: Appalachian Consortium Press, 1980. Morgan, Robert Red Owl W. W. Norton, 1972. Zirconia Poems. Northwood Narrows, N. H.: Lillabulero Press, 1969. * Land Diving. Louisiana State University Press, 1976. , Groundwork. Lexington, Kentucky: Gnomon, 1979* Trunk & Thicket Fort Collins, Colorado: L'Epervier Press, 1978, * Bronze Age. Emory Virginia: Iron Mountain Press, 1981. Reece, Byron Herbert, Ballad of the Bones. New York: E, P. Button, 1936. Roberts, Elizabeth Madox. Song in the Meadow. Viking Press, 1940* Scarbrough, George* New and Selected Poems, Binghamton, New York: Iris Press (27 Chestnut Street), 1977. Sellers, Bettie. Morning of the Red-Tailed Hawk, University Center, Michigan: . Green River Press, 1981. Sholl, Betsy. Appalachian Winter. Cambridge, Massachusetts: Alice James Books. 1978. Sinclair, Bennie Lee* Little Chicago Suite. Winston-Salem, North Carolina: The Drummer Press, 1971. The Arrowhead Scholar. Cleveland, South Carolina: Wildernesse Books. 1978* $3.50. Smith, R. T* Rural Route, Syracuse, New York: Tamarack, 1981. $5*00 paper. Smith, Stephen H. The Bushnell Hamp Poems. University Center, Michigan: Green River Press, 1980. 27 �Snyder, Bob ("Billy Greenhorn"). We'll See Who's a Peasant. Beckley, West Virginia: Mountain Union Books, 1977. Stallard, Bernard. Appalachian Summer, Daniels, Inc., Pub*, 1967; 1975. , The Witch of Cumberland Gap, Raceland, Kentucky: Cump ton's Printing & Publishing Company, 1981. Steele, Paul Curry. Anse On Island Creek and Other Poems. Charleston, West Virginia: Mountain State Press, 1981. $6*00. Still, James. Hounds on the Mountain, Viking Press, 1937. Stuart, Jesse. Man with a Bull-Tongue Plow. Duttoru 1959. Stuart, Jesse, and Wanda Hicks. The Seasons of Jesse Stuart An Autobiography in Poetry, Danbury, Connecticut: Archer Editions Press, 1976. Thomas, Rudy. Tornado & Other Poems. Boulder Creek, California: Triton Press, 1976. . The Ground of Memory. Murray, Kentucky: Lorrah & Hitchcock* Inc., 1978. West, Don. O Mountaineers. Huntington, West Virginia: Appalachian Press, 1974. In a Land of Plenty. A Don West Reader, Minneapolis, Minnesota: West End Press, 1982. $5.00. Wheelert Billy Edd, Songs of a Woods Colt Anderson, South Carolina: Droke House, 1969. Williams, Jonathan. Blues and Roots/Rue and Bluets: A Garland for the Appalachians, New York: Grossman, 1971. An Ear in Bartram's Tree. New Directions, 1972. IV. Music, Arts, and Crafts. Aivey, R. Gerald. Dulcimer Maker: The Craft of Homer Ledford* Lexington: University Press of Kentucky, 1983. $20.00. Burrison, John A. Brothers in Clay: The Story of Georgia Folk Pottery. Athens: University of Georgia Press, 1983. $35.00. Counts, Charles. Common Clay. Anderson, South Carolina: Droke House (116 West Orr Street), 1971. Appalachian potters and pottery. Text and photographs. 28 �Eaton, Allen. Handicrafts of the Southern Highlands. 1937; re-issued by Dover Books, 1973. Gainer, Patrick W. Folk Songs from the West Virginia Hills, Seneca Books, 1975, Gaynes, David. Artisans/Appafachia/USA. 1977, $6.95. Appalachian Consortium Press, Herman Bob, and the Blue Ridge Descendants. Music of the Blue Ridge. Appalachian Consortium Press (LP record)* An album of old-time mountain music. Horwitz, Elinor. Mountain People, Mountain Crafts. J. B. Lippincott, 1974. Irwin, John Rice. Musical Instruments of the Southern Appalachian Mountains, Norris, Tennessee: Schiffer Publishing, 1979. Guns and Gunmaking Tools of Southern Appalachia, Norris, Tennessee: Schiffer Publishing, 1980. TheArnwine Cabin. Norris, Tennessee: Museum of Appalachia, 1981. Baskets and Basket Makers in Southern Appalachia, Norris, Tennessee: Schiffer Publishing, 1982. . A People and Their Quilts. Norris, Tennessee: Schiffer Publishing, 1983, Leftwich, Rodney L. Arts and Crafts of the Cherokee. 1970. Distributed by the Appalachian Consortium Press. Ritchie, Jean. The Ritchie Family of Kentucky. LP album, interviews, documentary recordings. This record, as well as eight others by Jean Ritchie, is available from Folkways Records, 701 Seventh Avenue, New York, New York 10036. Sharp, Cecil and Dorothy Karpeles. Eighty English Folk Songs from the Southern Appalachians, MIT Press. 1968. Smith, L. Allen. A Catalogue of Pre-Revival Appalachian Dulcimers. Columbia, Missouri: University of Missouri Press, 1984. $25,00, Titon, Jeff Todd. Powerhouse for God: Sacred Speech, Chant, and Song in an Appalachian Baptist Church. Chapel Hill: University of North Carolina Press, 1983. $20.00. Two 12" LP recordings; 24-page illustrated book, Tribe, Ivan M. Mountain Jamboree: A History of Country Music in West Virginia. Lexington: University Press of Kentucky, 1984, 29 �A Virginia Sampler: 18tht 19tht and 20th Century Folk Art. Ferrum College and the Roanoke Fine Arts Center, 1976* WiHett, Henry, and Joey Brackner. The Traditional Pottery of Alabama. Knoxville: University of Tennessee Press, 1984. $7.95 paper Wolfe, Charles K. Kentucky Country: Folk and Country Music of Kentucky. Lexington: University Press of Kentucky, 1982, $16*00* V. Folklore. Bluestein, Gene. The Voice of the Folk. University of Massachusetts Press, 1972. Clarke, Kenneth. Uncle Bud Long: The Birth of a Kentucky Folk Legend. University Press of Kentucky, 1973* Clarke, Kenneth, and Mary Washington Clarke. The Harvest and the Reapers: Oral Traditions of Kentucky. University Press of Kentucky, 1974. Clarke, Kenneth, and Ira Kohn, Kentucky's Age of Wood University Press of Kentuckyt 1976* Glassie, Henry. Pattern in the Material Folk Culture of the Eastern United States. University of Pennsylvania Press, 1968* Folk Housing in Middle Virginia: A Structural Analysis of Historic Artifacts. University of Tennessee Press, 1976* Guthrie, Charles S. Riddles from the Cumberland Valley. Bowling Green, Kentucky: Kentucky Folklore Society (Box U-169, Western Kentucky University), 1973* Hall, Joseph S. Sayings from Old Smoky. Asheville, North Carolina: The Cataloochee Press, 1972. Justus, May. Complete Peddler's Pack. University of Tennessee Press, 1967* Mathes, C. Hodge* Tall Tales from Old Smoky. Kingsport, Tennessee: Southern Pubs., 1952; Appalachian Consortium Press, 1975* Montell, William Lynwood. Ghosts Along the Cumberland: Deathlore in the Kentucky Foothills. University of Tennessee Press, 1975. $16.50. _, and Michael Lynn Morse. Kentucky Folk Architecture. University Press of Kentucky, 1976* 30 �Don't Go Up Kettle Creek: Verbal Legacy of the Upper Cumberland. Knoxville: University of Tennessee Press, 1983* $16.50. Roberts, Leonard Sang Branch Settlers: Folksongs and Tales of a Kentucky Mountain Family. University of Texas Press, 1974. Rosenberg, Bruce. The Art of the American Folk Preacher. Oxford Press, 1970, Smalley, Ruth, ed. The Good Life Almanac. Appalachian Consortium Press, 1975. Still, James* Way Down Yonder on Troublesome Creek: Appalachian Riddles and Rustles. G. P. Putman's Sons, 1974, Wigginton, Eliot, ed. The Foxfire books, Doubleday & Co,, 1972 ff. VI* Appalachian Flora and Fauna* Huheey* James E M and Arthur Stupka. Amphibians and Reptiles of the Great Smoky Mountains National Park. University of Tennessee Press, 1967, Justice, William. Wild Flowers of North Carolina. Chapel Hill: University of North Carolina Press, 1968. Linzey, Alicia V, and Donald W. Linzey. Mammals of the Great Smoky Mountains National Park. University of Tennessee Press, 1972. Shanks, Royal E, and Aaron J. Sharp* Summer Key to Tennessee Trees. University of Tennessee Press, 1963, Strausbaugh, P, D,, and Earl L. Core, Flora of West Virginia. Morgantown: West Virginia University Press, 1977. $13.25, Stupka, Arthur. Notes on the Birds of Great Smoky Mountains National Park. University of Tennessee Press, 1963, Thornborough, Laura, The Great Smoky Mountains. Revised edition. Knoxville: University of Tennessee Press, 1962. Cloth $18.50; $9*95 paper, Trees, Shrubs, and Woody Vines of Great Smoky Mountains National Park, University of Tennessee Press, 1964. VII. Anthologies and Texts. Allen, Barbara, and Lynwood Montell, From Memory to History: Using Oral Sources in Local Historical Research. Nashville, Tennessee: The American Association for State and Local History, 1981. 31 �Anderson, Lorena, Majorie Warner, and Barbara Yeager, eds. The Wooden Tower. An Anthology of Appalachian Literature. West Virginia Department of Education in association with MHC Publications, Morris Harvey College, Charleston, West Virginia, 1975. Teacher's Manual for The Wooden Tower. 1976* Askins, Donald and David Morris, eds. New Ground. Anthology of Contemporary Appalachian Fiction and Poetry, Co-published by Southern Appalachian Writer's Co-operative (P. O* Box 147, Jenkins, Kentucky) and Mountain Review (R 0, Box 660, Whitesburg, Kentucky), 1977* Baber, Bob Henry, ed. Strokes. Contemporary Appalachian Poetry. Richwood, West Virginia: Southern Appalachian Writers' Cooperative, 1980. Burton, Linda, ed Stones from Tennessee. Knoxville: University of Tennessee Press, 1983. Cloth $27.95; $12.95 paper* Carawan, Guy and Candie. Voices From the Mountains. Life and Struggle in the Appalachian South. Knopf, 1975; rpt. Champaign, Illinois: University of Illinois Press, 1982. $13,95. Cuelho, Art, ed Harvest From the Hills. Contemporary Poetry and Prose from Southern Appalachia. Big Timber, Montana: Seven Buff aloes Press, 1984. $5.00. Drake, Richard An Appalachian Reader. 2 vols. Berea, Kentucky, 1970. An introductory text for Appalachian Studies programs. Ergood, Bruce, and Bruce E. Kuhre. Appalachia: Social Context Past and Present. Dubuque* Iowa: Kendall/Hunt Publishing Co., 1976. 2nd ed., 1983* Greene, Jonathan, ed. Kentucky Renaissance. Anthology of Contemporary Writing. Lexington, Kentucky: Gnomon Press (P. 0. Box 1796). Haddix, Cecille, ed. Who Speaks for Appalachia? Prose, Poetry and Songs from the Mountain Heritage. New York: Washington Square Presst 1975. Higgs, Robert J,, and Ambrose N. Manning, eds. Voices from the Hills. Selected Readings of Southern Appalachia. Frederick Ungar Publishing Co,, in cooperation with Appalachian Consortium Presst 1975* Hoopes, James* Oral History: An Introduction for Students. Chapel Hill: University of North Carolina Press, 1979* Cloth $15.00; $5.00 paper. Janeczko, Paul B,, ed. Don't Forget to Fly. Scarsdalet New York: Bradbury Press, 1981* Anthology of poems. A best book of the year for children, according to the School Library Journal. The American Library Association chose this anthology as a Best Book of the Year for young adults. 32 �Miller, Jim Wayne, ed. / Have a Place, Pippa Passes, Kentucky: Appalachian Learning Laboratory, Alice Lloyd College, 1981. $6*00. Anthology of Appalachian literature, history and culture for secondary schools. Owen, Guy and Mary C* Williams, eds. New Southern Poets. Chapel Hill: University of North Carolina Press, 1974. , eds. Southern Poetry/The Seventies, Raleigh: Southern Poetry Review Press (Department of English, North Carolina State University), 1977. Contemporary Poetry of North Carolina. Winston-Salem, North Carolina: John F. Blair, Publisher, 1977. Contemporary Southern Poetry. Baton Rouge: Louisiana State University Press, 1979. Pennington, Joy, ed. Selected Kentucky Literature. Danbury, Connecticut: Archer Editions Press, 1980* $8*95 paper. Plumley, William, ed. Poems from the Hills. Charleston, West Virginia: MHC Publications, 1971. , and Shirley Campbell. From the Hills. Charleston, West Virginia: MHC Publications, 1974* , Marge Warner, and Lorena Anderson, eds. Things Appalachian. Charleston, West Virginia: MHC Publications, 1976. Anthology of Appalachian history, culture, and the arts for use in secondary schools and Appalachian Studies programs. P Things Appalachian: A Handbook. MHC Publications in cooperation with the West Virginia Department of Education, Charleston, West Virginia, 1977. Valuable select bibliography and purchase guide, Smith, Stephen E., ed. New North Carolina Poetry; The Eighties. University Center, Michigan: Green River Press, 1982. Soupbean, An Anthology of Contemporary Appalachian Literature. Beckley, West Virginia: Mountain Union Books, 1977. Sprague, Stuart Seely. Introductory Geneotogy: A Workbook Approach. Morehead, Kentucky: Center for the Study of History, Morehead State University, 1983. $7.00. Stone, Nancy, and Robert Waters Grey, eds* White Trash, An Anthology of Contemporary Southern Poets. 2nd ed. Los Angeles: The New South Company, 1983, $7,95. 33 �Stuart, Jesse* Land of the Honey-Colored Wind, Jesse Stuart's Kentucky. A Resource Book, Selected and Edited by Jerry A. Herndon, Morehead, Kentucky: The Jesse Stuart Foundation, Inc., 1981. Yeager, Barbara, ed. Stories from the Hills. Charleston, West Virginia: MHC Publications, 1970* VIII. JOURNALS, MAGAZINES, NEWSPAPERS Appalachia. Appalachian Regional Commission, 1666 Connecticut Avenue, N.W., Washington, D.C. 20235. Appalachian Advance. Appalachian Educational Laboratory, Inc., Box 1348t Charleston, West Virginia 25325* Appalachian Advocate. Urban Appalachian Council, 1015 Vine Street, Room 514, Cincinnati, Ohio 45202. Appalachian Heritage. Box 623, Hindman, Kentucky 41822. Appalachian Journal, A Regional Studies Review. 132 Sanford Hall, Appalachian State University, Boone, NC 28608* Appalachian Notes. 225 Culpepper, Lexington, Kentucky 40502. The Arts Journal 324 Charlotte Street, Asheville, North Carolina 28801, 704-255-7888. Black Diamonds, Magazine of the Black Culture of Appalachia, Ed Cabbell, Editor, P. O, Box 135, Princeton, West Virginia 24740. Books. Sunday feature edited by Sallie Bingham. Louisville CourierJournal, 525 West Broadway, Louisville, Kentucky 40202. Cold Mountain Review. English Department, Appalachian State University, Boone, North Carolina 28608. Corn Creek Revue. Young Harris College, Young Harris, Georgia. Foxfire. Rabun Gap, Georgia 30568* Green River Review. SVSC Box 56T University Center, Michigan 48710. GoldenseaL Ken Sullivan, Editor, Department of Culture & History, Cultural Centre, Capitol Complex, Charleston, West Virginia 25305. Grab-frNickeL Barbara Smith, Editor, Box 2158, Alderson-Broaddus College, Philippi, West Virginia 26416, 34 �Hemlocks & Balsams. Allen Speer, Editor, Lees-McRae College, P. O. Box 128, Banner Elk, North Carolina 28604. Highlander Reports. Highlander Research and Education Center, Box 370, Rt 3, New Market, Tennessee 37820. Highland Heritage. Emory & Henry College, Emory, Virginia 24327* Katallagete: Be Reconciled Committee of Southern Churchmen. Box 936, College Station, Berea College, Berea, Kentucky 40404. Katuah. Bioregional Journal of the Southern Appalachians, Box 873, Cullowhee, North Carolina 28723, Kentucky Folklore Record. Box U-169, Western Kentucky University, Bowling Green, Kentucky 42101. Laurel Leaves. Appalachian Consortium Press, University Hall, Appalachian State University, Boone, North Carolina 28608. Laurel Review, Mark DeFoe, ed. Department of English, West Virginia Wesleyan College, Buckhannon, West Virginia 26201. Mountain Call Box 611, Kermit, West Virginia 25674. Mountain Eagle. TomGish, Editor, Tunnel Hill, Whitesburg, Kentucky 41858. Mountain Life & Work. The Magazine of the Appalachian South. Council of the Southern Mountains, Drawer N f Clintwood, Virginia 24228. Mountain Spirit. 332 Crab Orchard Road, Lancaster, Kentucky 40446. North Carolina Folklore Journal. Department of English, Appalachian State University, Boone, North Carolina 28608. SAM Newsletter. Southern Appalachian Ministry in Higher Education, 1538 Highland Avenue, Knoxville, Tennessee 37916. Southern Exposure. P. 0- Box 531, Durham, North Carolina 27702. (10th Anniversary Special Edition Encyclopedia of Southern Life & Change, $5.00). Tennessee Folklore Society Bulletin. Middle Tennessee State University, Mur~ freesboro, Tennessee 37132. Troublesome Creek Times. Ron Daley, Editor, P. O. Box 457, Hindman, Kentucky 41822. United Mine Workers Journal. 900 15th Street, N.W., Washington, D.C. 20005. West Virginia Hillbilly. Richwood, West Virginia 26261. 35 �Wildwood. P. O, Box 1237, Dublin, Virginia 24084, Wind/Literary Journal Box 809K, Pikeville, Kentucky 41501. Quentin Howard, Editor. IX. APPALACHIAN CENTERS/APPALACHIAN STUDIES PROGRAMS Appalachian Center, Berea College, Berea, Kentucky 40404, Loyal Jones, Director, 606-986-9341. Appalachian Center, East Tennessee State University, Johnson City, Tennessee 37614. Appalachian Center, University of Kentucky, 641 South Limestone, Lexington, Kentucky 40506, 606-257-4852. Appalachian Development Center, Morehead State University, Morehead, Kentucky 40351. Appalachian South Folklife Center, P. Q. Box C, Pipestem, West Virginia 25979, 304-466-0626. Appalachian Studies Program, Box 5917, Radford University, Radford, Virginia 24142. Appalachian Studies Program, Center For Programs in the Humanities, 106 Williams Hall, Virginia Tech, Blacksburg, Virginia 24061, 703-961-6551. Buckhorn Children's Center, Buckhorn, Kentucky 41721, 606-398-7245. Center for Appalachian Studies, Appalachian State University, Boone, North Carolina 28608* Highlander Center, Rt. 3, Box 370, New Market, Tennessee 37820, 615-933-3443. Hinton Rural Life Center, P, O. Box 27, Hayesville, North Carolina 28904. The John C. Campbell Folk School, Brasstown, North Carolina 28902. Mountain Heritage Center, Western Carolina University, Cullowhee, North Carolina 28723. Regional Folklife Center, Children's Museum of Oak Ridge, P. O* Box 3066, Oak Ridge, Tennessee 37830. Rose Center, Morristown, Tennessee 37814* Write to the various centers, schools and programs listed here for information about available materials and about scheduled activities. 36 �X. BOOKSELLERS/BOOKSTORES Accent on Books, Inc., 854 Merrimon Avenue, Asheville, North Carolina 28804, 704-252-6255. Berea College Bookstore, Berea, Kentucky 40404 George Brosi, 123 Walnut Street, Berea, Kentucky 40403, 606-986-3262. Specializing in Appalachian books* CSM Appalachian Bookstore, c/o Council of the Southern Mountains, P. O. Box 1188, Clintwood, Virginia 24228. Sloan's Book Shop, 289 North Main Street, Waynesvffle, North Carolina 28786. XI. EXHIBITS More Than Land or Sky: Art from Appalachia. (For information regarding the exhibit and a tour schedule write to Barbara Shissler Nosanow, Curator of Education, National Museum of American Art, Smithsonian Institution, Eighth and G Streets, Washiugton, D.C. 20560.) Appalachian Writers Exhibit (For information regarding the exhibit write to Professor Irene Moser, D, Hiden Ramsey Library, University of North Carolina at Asheville, Box 8467, Asheville, North Carolina 28814, Telephone 704-258-6546.) GALLERIES Huntington Galleries, Park Hills, Huntington, West Virginia 25701, XIL FESTIVALS, CELEBRATIONS, SEMINARS, SYMPOSIA Write or call for dates and details. Appalachian Celebration, Appalachian Development Center, Morehead State University, Morehead, Kentucky 40351. Appalachian Festival, Museum of Appalachia, Norris,Tennessee 37828. Augusta Heritage Arts Workshop and Festival* For information regarding various workshops in dance, music, crafts and folklore, write to Margo Blevin, Director, Augusta Heritage Arts Workshop, Davis & Elkins College, Elkins, West Virginia 26241. Telephone: 304-636-1903. The Celebration of Traditional Music, Appalachian Center, Berea College, Berea, Kentucky 40404* 37 �Gingerbread Festival, Knott County, Kentucky. For information write: Mike Mulling, Director, Hindman Settlement School, Hindman, Kentucky 41822. John Henry Folk Festival. Ed Cabbell, Director, P. O. Box 135, Princeton, West Virginia 24740. New River Symposium. For information regarding the annual symposium write to the United States Department of the Interior, National Park Service, New River Gorge National River, P, O. Drawer V, Oak Hill, West Virginia 25901, See various newsletters for information about these and other festivals, fairs and celebrations. XIII* INSTITUTES/WORKSHOPS Appalachian Studies Institute, Appalachian Center, Appalachian State University, Boone, North Carolina 28608. Appalachian Center, Berea College, Berea, Kentucky 40404, Summer Workshop* Appalachian Development Center, Morehead State University, Morehead, Kentucky 40351, Appalachian Celebration. Appalachian Center, East Tennessee State University, Johnson City, Tennessee 37614, Writers Workshop* Highland Summer Conference, English Department, Radford University, Radford, Virginia 24142-5917, Hindman Settlement School, Hindman, Kentucky 41822, Appalachian Writers Workshop. Pine Mountain Settlement School, Bledsoe, Kentucky 40810. For information about programs and activities, write or call James Urquhart, Director. Telephone: 606-558-4361* Southern Highlands Institute for Educators* A series of two-week institutes on four different campuses in Southern Appalachia {East Tennessee State University; Western Carolina University; Virginia Polytechnic Institute; Appalachian State University), June-July, 1984, For information write: Southern Highlands Institute for Educators, Appalachian Consortium, Inc., University Hall, Appalachian State University, Boone, North Carolina 28608; or call Doris Jenkins, Project Coordinator: 1-704-262-2064. James R. Stokely Institute for Liberal Arts Education, 218 Ayres Hall, College of Liberal Arts, University of Tennessee, KnoxvOle, Tennessee 37996-1325,615-974-4481. Summer institutes for teachers and rising high school seniors* 38 �Jesse Stuart Symposium, c/o Jesse Stuart Foundation, Inc., Appalachian Development Center, Morehead State University, Morehead, Kentucky 40351. Or contact: Dr. H. E, Richardson, Department of English, Department of English, 315 Bingham Humanities Building, Belknap Campus, University of Louisville, Louisville, Kentucky 40292. Writer's Workshop, Lee Penningtont Director, Carter Caves State Resort Park, Olive Hill, Kentucky 41164, 606-286-4411, Annually in June, XIV. JOURNALS, MAGAZINES Appalachian Journal. Appalachian State University, Boone, North Carolina 28608. Appalachian Notes. Erasmus Press, 225 Culpepper, Lexington, Kentucky 40502. Appalachian Heritage. Box 623, Hindman, Kentucky 41822. The Arts Journal 324 Charlotte Street, Ashevillet North Carolina 28801, 704-255-7888. Black Diamonds. Magazine of the Black Culture of Appalachia. Ed Cabbell, Editor, P, O. Box 135, Princeton, West Virginia 24740. Cold Mountain Review. English Department, Appalachian State University, Boone, North Carolina 28608. Corn Creek Revue, Young Harris College, Young Harris, Georgia. Books, Sunday feature edited by Sallie Bingham, Louisville Courier-Journal, 525 West Broadway, Louisville, Kentucky 40202* Goldenseal Ken Sullivan, Editor. Department of Culture & History, Cultural Centre, Capitol Complex, Charleston, West Virginia 25305. Grab-a-Nickel Barbara Smith, Editor* Box 2158, Alderson-Broaddus College, Philippi, West Virginia 26416. Hemlocks & Balsams. Allen Speer, Editor* Lees-McRae College, P. O. Box 128, Banner Elk, North Carolina 28604. Katuah. Bioregional Journal of the Southern Appalachians, Box 873, Cullowhee, North Carolina 28723. Laurel Review. Mark DeFoe, Ed* Department of English, West Virginia Wesleyan College, Buckhannon, West Virginia 26201. 39 �Sojourner. William Turner, Ed* Appalachian Center, 641 Limestone, University of Kentucky, Lexington, Kentucky 40506. Southern Exposure. P. 0* Box 531, Durham, North Carolina 27702. (10th Anniversary Special Edition Encyclopedia of Southern Life & Change, $5.00.) Troublesome Creek Times. Ron Daley, Editor. P. O, Box 457, Hindman, Kentucky 41822, Whitesburg Mountain Eagle. Tom Gish, Editor. Tennel Hill, Whitesburg, Kentucky 41858. Wildwood. P. O. Box 1237. Dublin, Virginia 24084. Wind/Literary Journal Quentin Howard, Editor. Box 809K, Pikeville, Kentucky 4150L XV. MUSEUMS Abraham Lincoln Museum, Lincoln Memorial University, Harragut, Tennessee 37752. Berea College Appalachian Museum, Berea, Kentucky 40404. Cherokee Museum, Cherokee, North Carolina 28719* Children's Museum of Oak Ridge, P. O. Box 3066, Oak Ridge, Tennessee 37830, 615-482-1075. Museum of Appalachia, Box 359, Morris, Tennessee 37828. John Rice Irwin, Director* Oglebay Institute, Oglebay Park, Wheeling, West Virginia 26003. Mansion Museum includes museum of coal mining. XVI. NEWSLETTERS Appalachian Center Newsletter. The Appalachian Center, 641 South Limestone, University of Kentucky, Lexington, Kentucky 40506-0331t 606-257-485 L Appalachian Consortium Newsletter. University Hall, Appalachian State University, Boone, North Carolina 28608. Appalink. Newsletter of the Appalachian Studies Conference. Institute for Appalachian Affairs, East Tennessee State University, Johnson City, Tennessee 37614. Appalachian Studies News. Virginia Tech Humanities Program, 106 Williams Hall, Virginia Tech, Blacksburg, Virginia 24061. 40 �Appalachian Writers Workshop Newsletter* Hindman Settlement School, Hindman, Kentucky 41822, 606-785-5475. Archives of Appalachia Newsletter. Box 22450A, The Sherrod Library, East Tennessee State University, Johnson City, Tennessee 37614. Center Newsletter Appalachian Center, Berea College, Berea, Kentucky 40404. Southern Appalachian Writers Cooperative Newsletter. P. 0. Box 758, Mountain Home, Tennessee 37684. West Virginia Writers Newsletter. 300 Maryland Avenue, Beckley, West Virginia 25801. XVII. ORGANIZATIONS The Appalachian Consortium. University Hall, Appalachian State University, Boone, North Carolina 28608. Member institutions of the Appalachian Consortium include: Appalachian State University; Blue Ridge Parkway; East Tennessee State University; Ferrum College; First TennesseeVirginia Development District; Lees-McRae College; Mars Hill College; United States Forest Service; University of North Carolina— Asheville; Warren Wilson College; Western Carolina University; Western North Carolina Historical Association, Affiliate members are: Council on Appalachian Women Inc., North Carolina Division of Archives and History and the Mountain Regional Library, Young Harris, Georgia. Appalachian Council for the Arts. ETSU Box 19180A, Johnson City, Tennessee 37614-0002, 615-929-5348. Appalachian Institute* R <X Box 298, Livingston, Kentucky 40445, 606-453-3115. An association of local and regional public interest and citizen groups, the Appalachian Institute includes: Appalachia—Science in the Public Interest, Livingston, Kentucky; Rural Cumberland Resources, Crossville, Tennessee; Kentucky New Farm Coalition, Pleasureville, Kentucky; Long Branch Environmental Education Center, Leicester, North Carolina; Mountain Women's Exchange, Jellico, Tennessee; Mountain Stream Monitors, Elkins, West Virginia; Coalition of American Electric Consumers, Abingdon, Virginia* The Institute maintains a Speakers Bureau. Appalachian Literary Guild. P. O. Box 1237, Dublin, Virginia 24084. Appals hop, Inc. P. O. Box 743, 306 Madison Street, Whitesburg, Kentucky 41858, 606-633-5708* Appalshopp Inc. consists of Appalshop Films, June Appal Recordings, Headwaters Television, the Mountain Photography Workshop, and Roadside Theater. For bookings and touring schedule of Roadside Theater's South of the Mountain, Brother Jack, Red Fox Second Hangin* and Mountain Tales contact Donna Porterfield or Jeff Hawkins at Whitesburg, or Box 771, Norton, Virginia 24273, 703-679-5281. Appalachian Studies Conference. For information contact Loyal Jones, Director, Appalachian Center, Berea College, Berea, Kentucky 40404. 41 �Appalachian Writers Association* Box 19210A, East Tennessee State University, Johnson City, Tennessee 37614-0002. Blue Ridge Quitters1 Guild. For information about seminars, exhibitions, write or call the Carroll Reece Museum, P. O. Box 22, 3000A, East Tennessee State University, Johnson City, Tennessee 37614; Telephone 615-929-4392 or 929-4283. Council of Southern Mountains. Drawer N, Clintwood, Virginia 24228, 703-926-4495. Danish-American Exchange. CPO 287, Berea College, Berea, Kentucky 40404, Eastern Kentucky Social Club, c/o William Turner, Department of Sociology, University of Kentucky, Lexington, Kentucky 40506* Folk School Association of America. P. O. Box 287, Berea College, Berea, Kentucky 40404. Foxfire Fund, Inc. P. 0. Box B, Rabun Gap, Georgia 30568. Jesse Stuart Foundation, Inc. Appalachian Development Center, Morehead State University, Morehead, Kentucky 40351. John Henry Memorial Foundation. Ed Cabbell, Director, P. O. Box 135, Princeton, West Virginia 24740. Kentucky Youth Research Center. 427 Versailles Road, P, O. Box 713, Frankfort, Kentucky 40601, 502-695-5660. Promotes educational, health and social services. Southern Appalachian Writers Cooperative. P. O. Box 758, Mountain Home, Tennessee 37684* Southern Mountain Research Collective. Department of Political Science, Emory & Henry College, Emory, Virginia 24327. Urban Appalachian Council, 2115 West Eighth Street, Cincinnati, Ohio 45204, 513-251-8626* Western North Carolina Tomorrow. P. O. Box 222, Cullowhee, North Carolina 28723, 704-227-7492. West Virginia Writers, Inc. 300 Maryland Avenue, Beckley, West Virginia 25801. XVIII. SPECIAL COLLECTIONS Archives of Appalachia. The Sherrod Library, East Tennessee State University, Johnson City, Tennessee 37614. 42 �Atlanta Regional Branch* The National Archives, East Point, Georgia 30344, 404-763-7477. A list of records for research in Appalachian Studies available upon request. King Library. University of Kentucky, Special Collections and Archives, Lexington, Kentucky 40506. Mountain Regional Library. Young Harris, Georgia 30582. Helen Kimsey, Director* The Southern Appalachian Collection. John S* Battle High School, Route 5T Bristol, Virginia 24201. The Weatherford-Hammond Mountain Collection. Hutchins Library, Berea College, Berea Kentucky 40404. (This extensive collection contains the recently microfilmed records of the settlement institutions of Appalachia— Pine Mountain Settlement School, Hindman Settlement School, Redbird Settlement School, etc.—The Hutchins Library will also make available lists of Mountain Fiction and Mountain Poetry, compiled by Mr. A. H. Perrin, from the Mountain Collection.) XIX. UNIVERSITY, REGIONAL AND SMALL PRESSES Use this list to order many of the books found in the Checklist and Purchase Guide. Algonquin Books. P. O. Box 2225, Chapel Hill, North Carolina 27515-2225, 919-933-2113. Alice James Books. 138 Mount Auburn Street, Cambridge, Massachusetts 02138. Amicae Press* 104 Bay Ridge Avenue, Brooklyn, New York 11220. American Association for State and Local History. 1400 Eighth Avenue, South, Nashville, Tennessee 37203. Andrew Mountain Press. P. O. Box 14353, Hartford, Connecticut 06114. Anemone Press. Box 441, Howard University, Washington, D. C. 20059. Appalachian Consortium Press. University Hall, Appalachian State University, Boone, North Carolina 28608* Appalachian Learning Laboratory* Alice Lloyd College, Pippa Passes, Kentucky 41844. Archer Editions Press. P. O. Box 562t Danbury, Connecticut 06810. Bradbury Press. 2 Overfull Road, Scarsdale, New York 10583. 43 �Briarpatch Press. Box 2482-A, Davidson, North Carolina 28036* Celo Press. Route 5, Burnsville, North Carolina 28714, Bcco Press. 1 West 30th Street, New York, New York 10001. Folkways Press. Rt. 4, Box 379C, Boone, North Carolina 28607. Gnomon Press. Box 106, Frankfort, Kentucky 40602. Green River Press. P, O, Box 56T University Center, Michigan 48710. Indiana University Press. Tenth & Morton Streets, Bloomington, Indiana 47405. Iron Mountain Press. Robert Denham, Director. P. O, Box D, Emory, Virginia 24327. John F* Blair, Publisher, 1406 Plaza Drive, SWt Winston-Salem, North Carolina 27103. Kendall/Hunt Publishing Co., 2460 Kerper Blvd.t Dubuque, Iowa 52001. The King Library Press. King Library, University of Kentucky, Lexington, Kentucky 40506. Lorrah & Hitchcock, Publishers, Inc., Murray, Kentucky 42071. Louisiana State University Press. Baton Rouge, Louisiana 70803* Mountain Freedom Press, c/o Appalachian South Folklife Center, Pipestem, West Virginia 25979. Mountain State Press. The University of Charleston, 2300 MacCorkle Avenue, SE, Charleston, West Virginia 25304-1099. Museum of Appalachia Press* Box 359, Norris, Tennessee 37828. New Rivers Press. C. W. Truesdale, Publisher, P. 0. Box 578, Cathedral Station, New York, New York 10025. The New South Company, P, O. Box 24918, Los Angeles, California 90024-0918. Ohio State University Press* 175 Mount Hall, 1050 Carmack Road, Columbus, Ohio 43210-1002. Phoenix Press* P. O. Box 489, Cullowhee, North Carolina 28723* Poets & Writers, Inc. 201 West 54 Street, New York, New York 10019, 212-757-1766. 44 �Schiffer Publishing. P. 0. Box 359, Norris, Tennessee 37828. Saint Andrews Press. Saint Andrews College, Laurinburg, North Carolina 28352. Seven Buffaloes Press. P. O. Box 249, Big Timber, Montana 59011. St. Luke's Press. Mid-Memphis Towers, Suite 401,1407 Union Avenue, Memphis, Tennessee 38104. Tamarack. 909 Westcott Street, Sycacuse, New York 13210. Temple University Press. Broad & Oxford Streets, Philadelphia, Pennsylvania 19122. The University of Alabama Press. Box 2877, University, Alabama 35486, University of Arkansas Press. Mdlroy House, 201 Ozark Street, Fayetteville, Arkansas 72701. The University of Georgia Press. Athens, Georgia 30602* University of Illinois Press. 54 East Gregory Drive, Box 5081 Station A, Champaign, Illinois 61820. The University of Michigan Press. Box 1104t 839 Greene Street, Ann Arbor, Michigan 48106. University of Missouri Press. P. O. Box 7088, Columbia, Missouri 65205-7088. The University of North Carolina Press. P. O. Box 2288, Chapel Hill, North Carolina 27514. University of Pennsylvania Press. 3933 Walnut Street, Philadelphia, Pennsylvania 19104, University of Pittsburgh Press. 127 North Bellefield Avenue, Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania 15260, The University of Tennessee Press. 293 Communications Building, Knoxville, Tennessee 37996-0325* University Press of Kentucky. 102 Lafferty Hall, Lexington, Kentucky 40506-0024. University Press of Mississippi. 3825 Ridgewood Road, Jackson, Mississippi 38211. The University Press of Virginia. Box 3608, University Station, Charlottesville, Virginia 22903. 45 �Vega Publishing* 252 North 16th Street, Bloomfield, New Jersey 07003. Wakestone Books* 405 Clifton Heights, Newport, Tennessee 37821. Wampeter Press, Box 512, Green Harbor, Massachusetts 02041. West End Press. Box 7232, Minneapolis, Minnesota 55407. West Virginia University Press. Mountainlair Book Store, Morgantown, West Virginia 26506. Wildernesse Books. P. O. Box 345, Cleveland, South Carolina 29635. 46 �Jim Wayne Miller was born October 21, 1936 in Leicester, Buncombe County, North Carolina, He graduated from Berea College in 1958 with an A.B. in English. He did graduate work in German and American literature at Vanderbilt University, from which he received his Ph.D. degree in 1965* Since 1963, he has been a member of the faculty at Western Kentucky University in the Department of Modern Languages and Intercultural Studies* Not only have Miller's poems appeared in numerous anthologies but he has authored several books including Cooperhead Cane, The More Things Change, The More They Stay the Same, Dialogue with a Dead Man, The Figure of Fulfillment (a translation) and The Mountains Have Come Closer for which he was awarded the Thomas Wolfe Award. He is married to the former Mary Ellen Yates of Carter County, Kentucky; they are the parents of three children, James Yates, Fred Smith, and Ruth Ratcliff. � Dublin Core The Dublin Core metadata element set is common to all Omeka records, including items, files, and collections. For more information see, http://dublincore.org/documents/dces/. Title A name given to the resource Appalachian Consortium Press Publications Description An account of the resource This collection contains digitized monographs and collections from the Appalachian Consortium Press. Creator An entity primarily responsible for making the resource Appalachian Consortium Press Publisher An entity responsible for making the resource available Appalachian Consortium Press Date Issued Date of formal issuance (e.g., publication) of the resource. June 1, 2017 Contributor An entity responsible for making contributions to the resource <a title="Digital Scholarship and Initiatives" href="http://library.appstate.edu/services/digital-scholarship-and-initiatives" target="_blank">Digital Scholarship and Initiatives</a> Publication Digital Publisher Digital Republication Appalachian State University Dublin Core The Dublin Core metadata element set is common to all Omeka records, including items, files, and collections. For more information see, http://dublincore.org/documents/dces/. Title A name given to the resource Reading, Writing, Region: A Checklist and Purchase Guide for School and Community Libraries in Appalachia Description An account of the resource Published in 1984 in conjunction with the Southern Highlands Institutes for Educators (SHIE), this report was intended to acquaint elementary and secondary teachers with the history and culture of the Appalachian region, and to provide ideas for incorporating these studies into their regular school curriculum. Funded in-part by the National Endowment for the Humanities, Miller’s guide synthesized materials and resources on the Appalachian region for teachers. This report updated Miller’s <a href="https://omeka.library.appstate.edu/items/show/43696#?c=0&amp;m=0&amp;s=0&amp;cv=0">Laurel Leaves</a> report first published back in 1978. <br /><br /><a title="Epub" href="https://drive.google.com/file/d/1JdkX8i0PWliGP87MWegu3q5DDKabv2Bs/view?usp=sharing" target="_blank" rel="noopener">Download EPub</a> Subject The topic of the resource Appalachian Region, Southern--Bibliography Appalachians (People)--Bibliography Creator An entity primarily responsible for making the resource Miller, Jim Wayne Date A point or period of time associated with an event in the lifecycle of the resource 1984 Publisher An entity responsible for making the resource available Appalachian Consortium Press Language A language of the resource English Format The file format, physical medium, or dimensions of the resource Instructional and educational works PDF Type The nature or genre of the resource Text Rights Information about rights held in and over the resource <a href="https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by/4.0/deed" target="_blank" rel="noopener">https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by/4.0/deed</a> Spatial Coverage Spatial characteristics of the resource. https://www.geonames.org/12212302/appalachia.html Source A related resource from which the described resource is derived <a title="UA 76 Appalachian Consortium records" href="https://appstate-speccoll.lyrasistechnology.org/repositories/2/resources/9" target="_blank" rel="noreferrer noopener"> UA 76 Appalachian Consortium records </a> Is Part Of A related resource in which the described resource is physically or logically included. <a title="Appalachian Consortium Press Publications" href="https://omeka.library.appstate.edu/collections/show/82" target="_blank"> Appalachian Consortium Press Publications</a> Temporal Coverage Temporal characteristics of the resource. 1980s Appalachia Bibliography multidiscipline public libraries Reference https://omeka-test.library.appstate.edu/files/original/a97c6fff404342ff3cee7afe4d0dd10e.pdf 47658cf6f0c42c252db43b59c8c197a0 PDF Text Text ���������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������� Dublin Core The Dublin Core metadata element set is common to all Omeka records, including items, files, and collections. For more information see, http://dublincore.org/documents/dces/. Title A name given to the resource Appalachian Consortium Press Publications Description An account of the resource This collection contains digitized monographs and collections from the Appalachian Consortium Press. Creator An entity primarily responsible for making the resource Appalachian Consortium Press Publisher An entity responsible for making the resource available Appalachian Consortium Press Date Issued Date of formal issuance (e.g., publication) of the resource. June 1, 2017 Contributor An entity responsible for making contributions to the resource <a title="Digital Scholarship and Initiatives" href="http://library.appstate.edu/services/digital-scholarship-and-initiatives" target="_blank">Digital Scholarship and Initiatives</a> Publication Digital Publisher Digital Republication Appalachian State University Dublin Core The Dublin Core metadata element set is common to all Omeka records, including items, files, and collections. For more information see, http://dublincore.org/documents/dces/. Title A name given to the resource Consortium News: Preserving, Protecting, and Promoting Southern Appalachia Description An account of the resource This is a partial collection of the Consortium Press News, 1982-1987, a publication of the Appalachian Consortium. As stated in the newsletter, the periodical was published twice annually to serve as a medium of communication between the consortium members and the people of their service region. Appalachian State University was the place of publication.<br /><br /><a title="Epub" href="https://drive.google.com/file/d/1HDg0CcRwp0pKTihYrYxlYwmA0-rzvRlP/view?usp=sharing" target="_blank" rel="noopener">Download EPub</a> Creator An entity primarily responsible for making the resource Appalachian Consortium Press Date A point or period of time associated with an event in the lifecycle of the resource 1982-1987 Publisher An entity responsible for making the resource available Appalachian Consortium Press Subject The topic of the resource Appalachian Consortium Press--Records and correspondence Appalachian Region, Southern--Social conditions--20th century Appalachian Region, Southern--Environmental conditions--20th century Alternative Title An alternative name for the resource. The distinction between titles and alternative titles is application-specific. Consortium News: Regional Cooperation in Southern Appalachia Language A language of the resource English Format The file format, physical medium, or dimensions of the resource PDF Newsletters Type The nature or genre of the resource Text Rights Information about rights held in and over the resource <a href="https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by/4.0/deed" target="_blank" rel="noopener">https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by/4.0/deed</a> Spatial Coverage Spatial characteristics of the resource. https://www.geonames.org/4456703/boone.html https://www.geonames.org/12212302/appalachia.html Source A related resource from which the described resource is derived <a title="UA 76 Appalachian Consortium records" href="https://appstate-speccoll.lyrasistechnology.org/repositories/2/resources/9" target="_blank" rel="noreferrer noopener"> UA 76 Appalachian Consortium records </a> Is Part Of A related resource in which the described resource is physically or logically included. <a title="Appalachian Consortium Press Publications" href="https://omeka.library.appstate.edu/collections/show/82" target="_blank"> Appalachian Consortium Press Publications</a> Temporal Coverage Temporal characteristics of the resource. 1980s Multidisciplinary/ Appalachian Studies Periodical https://omeka-test.library.appstate.edu/files/original/f9dd86ab6ff7a7c48a8e6ecccdea42a2.pdf 2cf32d2045cf9a50180d1d2fa5690e1f PDF Text Text ��������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������� Dublin Core The Dublin Core metadata element set is common to all Omeka records, including items, files, and collections. For more information see, http://dublincore.org/documents/dces/. Title A name given to the resource Appalachian Consortium Press Publications Description An account of the resource This collection contains digitized monographs and collections from the Appalachian Consortium Press. Creator An entity primarily responsible for making the resource Appalachian Consortium Press Publisher An entity responsible for making the resource available Appalachian Consortium Press Date Issued Date of formal issuance (e.g., publication) of the resource. June 1, 2017 Contributor An entity responsible for making contributions to the resource <a title="Digital Scholarship and Initiatives" href="http://library.appstate.edu/services/digital-scholarship-and-initiatives" target="_blank">Digital Scholarship and Initiatives</a> Publication Text Any textual data included in the document. Appalachian State University Digital Publisher Digital Republication Appalachian State University Dublin Core The Dublin Core metadata element set is common to all Omeka records, including items, files, and collections. For more information see, http://dublincore.org/documents/dces/. Title A name given to the resource Laurel Leaves Creator An entity primarily responsible for making the resource Appalachian Consortium Press Publisher An entity responsible for making the resource available Appalachia Consortium Press Description An account of the resource <em>Laurel Leaves</em> was a periodical published semi-annually from 1973-1975, no publication in 1976, and annually from 1977-1979 by the Appalachian Consortium. The 1979 issue is not included in this digital version. The newsletter typically focused on the arts, including music, literary, and art works; and on social conditions of the Southern Appalachian region. However, this collections also includes a document titled "Patterns and Processes in Human Action and Land-use" and a Special Edition of Laurel Leaves titled: "A Checklist and Purchase Guide for School and Community Libraries in Appalachia."<br /><br /><a title="Epub" href="https://drive.google.com/file/d/19-R0ej8gsvimGRr_9zI1vx3-bMQjzBwN/view?usp=sharing" target="_blank" rel="noopener">Download EPub</a> Subject The topic of the resource Arts--Appalachian Region, Southern--20th century Appalachian Region, Southern--Social conditions--20th century Appalachian Region, Southern--History Land use--Appalachian Region, Southern--20th century Appalachian Region, Southern--Bibliography Appalachians (People)--Bibliography Date A point or period of time associated with an event in the lifecycle of the resource 1973-1978 Language A language of the resource English Format The file format, physical medium, or dimensions of the resource PDF Periodicals E-books Type The nature or genre of the resource Text Rights Information about rights held in and over the resource <a href="https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by/4.0/deed" target="_blank" rel="noopener">https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by/4.0/deed</a> Spatial Coverage Spatial characteristics of the resource. https://www.geonames.org/12212302/appalachia.html Source A related resource from which the described resource is derived <a title="UA 76 Appalachian Consortium records" href="https://appstate-speccoll.lyrasistechnology.org/repositories/2/resources/9" target="_blank" rel="noreferrer noopener"> UA 76 Appalachian Consortium records </a> Is Part Of A related resource in which the described resource is physically or logically included. <a title="Appalachian Consortium Press Publications" href="https://omeka.library.appstate.edu/collections/show/82" target="_blank" rel="noopener"> Appalachian Consortium Press Publications</a> Temporal Coverage Temporal characteristics of the resource. 1970s Appalachian Studies Multidisciplinary Periodical https://omeka-test.library.appstate.edu/files/original/5b6ac4ecd37c4f06bfffb0f5643039f4.pdf d46fafa59c9c303753d62b86a2ed1522 PDF Text Text �������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������� Dublin Core The Dublin Core metadata element set is common to all Omeka records, including items, files, and collections. For more information see, http://dublincore.org/documents/dces/. Title A name given to the resource Appalachian Consortium Press Publications Description An account of the resource This collection contains digitized monographs and collections from the Appalachian Consortium Press. Creator An entity primarily responsible for making the resource Appalachian Consortium Press Publisher An entity responsible for making the resource available Appalachian Consortium Press Date Issued Date of formal issuance (e.g., publication) of the resource. June 1, 2017 Contributor An entity responsible for making contributions to the resource <a title="Digital Scholarship and Initiatives" href="http://library.appstate.edu/services/digital-scholarship-and-initiatives" target="_blank">Digital Scholarship and Initiatives</a> Publication Digital Publisher Digital Republication Appalachian State University Dublin Core The Dublin Core metadata element set is common to all Omeka records, including items, files, and collections. For more information see, http://dublincore.org/documents/dces/. Title A name given to the resource Artisans/Appalachia/USA Creator An entity primarily responsible for making the resource Gaynes, David Description An account of the resource This is the documentation of an Appalachian Consortium traveling exhibition of Appalachian Art produced in the 1970s. The project was supported by a grant from the National Endowment for the Arts in Washington, D.C.<br /><br /><a title="Epub" href="https://drive.google.com/open?id=12p1-d769yfk9tZoVDtMm2P35MJQy_FZo" target="_blank">Download EPub</a> Publisher An entity responsible for making the resource available Appalachian Consortium Press Date A point or period of time associated with an event in the lifecycle of the resource 1977 Language A language of the resource English Subject The topic of the resource Art, Appalachian Region, Southern--Exhibitions Handicraft--Appalachian Region, Southern Artisans--Appalachian Region, Southern Coverage The spatial or temporal topic of the resource, the spatial applicability of the resource, or the jurisdiction under which the resource is relevant Appalachia Format The file format, physical medium, or dimensions of the resource PDF E-books Type The nature or genre of the resource Text Rights Information about rights held in and over the resource <a href="https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by/4.0/deed" target="_blank">https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by/4.0/deed</a> Spatial Coverage Spatial characteristics of the resource. https://www.geonames.org/12212302/appalachia.html Source A related resource from which the described resource is derived <a title="UA 76 Appalachian Consortium records" href="https://appstate-speccoll.lyrasistechnology.org/repositories/2/resources/9" target="_blank" rel="noreferrer noopener"> UA 76 Appalachian Consortium records </a> Is Part Of A related resource in which the described resource is physically or logically included. <a title="Appalachian Consortium Press Publications" href="https://omeka.library.appstate.edu/collections/show/82" target="_blank"> Appalachian Consortium Press Publications</a> Temporal Coverage Temporal characteristics of the resource. 1970s Appalachia Art artisans exhibits museum NEA https://omeka-test.library.appstate.edu/files/original/7a87a5b474fea55e349c795c84cc36cf.pdf 3e9eb8cf13d3cdd8e5dc19413d8c5477 PDF Text Text ������������������������������������������������ Dublin Core The Dublin Core metadata element set is common to all Omeka records, including items, files, and collections. For more information see, http://dublincore.org/documents/dces/. Title A name given to the resource Appalachian Consortium Press Publications Description An account of the resource This collection contains digitized monographs and collections from the Appalachian Consortium Press. Creator An entity primarily responsible for making the resource Appalachian Consortium Press Publisher An entity responsible for making the resource available Appalachian Consortium Press Date Issued Date of formal issuance (e.g., publication) of the resource. June 1, 2017 Contributor An entity responsible for making contributions to the resource <a title="Digital Scholarship and Initiatives" href="http://library.appstate.edu/services/digital-scholarship-and-initiatives" target="_blank">Digital Scholarship and Initiatives</a> Publication Digital Publisher Digital Republication Appalachian State University Dublin Core The Dublin Core metadata element set is common to all Omeka records, including items, files, and collections. For more information see, http://dublincore.org/documents/dces/. Title A name given to the resource Blue Ridge Parkway: The First 50 Years Creator An entity primarily responsible for making the resource Jolley, Harley E. Description An account of the resource This book is an overview of the Blue Ridge Parkway's first fifty years, with photographs by William Bake. Noted Blue Ridge Parkway Historian Harley E. Jolley wrote the descriptions and text.&nbsp;<br /><br /><a title="Epub" href="https://drive.google.com/file/d/1o9yDa5gqH53IhPvsAlXiScEyUQ-EQCMR/view?usp=sharing" target="_blank" rel="noopener">Download EPub</a> Subject The topic of the resource Blue Ridge Parkway (N.C. and Va.)--History Blue Ridge Parkway (N.C. and Va.)--Pictorial works Publisher An entity responsible for making the resource available Appalachian Consortium Press Date A point or period of time associated with an event in the lifecycle of the resource 1985 Language A language of the resource English Format The file format, physical medium, or dimensions of the resource PDF E-books Type The nature or genre of the resource Text Rights Information about rights held in and over the resource <a href="https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by/4.0/deed" target="_blank">https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by/4.0/deed</a> Source A related resource from which the described resource is derived <a title="UA 76 Appalachian Consortium records" href="https://appstate-speccoll.lyrasistechnology.org/repositories/2/resources/9" target="_blank" rel="noreferrer noopener"> UA 76 Appalachian Consortium records </a> Is Part Of A related resource in which the described resource is physically or logically included. <a title="Appalachian Consortium Press Publications" href="https://omeka.library.appstate.edu/collections/show/82" target="_blank"> Appalachian Consortium Press Publications</a> Temporal Coverage Temporal characteristics of the resource. 1980s Architecture Blue Ridge Parkway historical commentary history photographs https://omeka-test.library.appstate.edu/files/original/953843c1379461dceef3050a0c17bb3b.pdf 13b9b65eee0f7be71a7c4b98da2b2506 PDF Text Text ��������������������������������������� Dublin Core The Dublin Core metadata element set is common to all Omeka records, including items, files, and collections. For more information see, http://dublincore.org/documents/dces/. Title A name given to the resource Appalachian Consortium Press Publications Description An account of the resource This collection contains digitized monographs and collections from the Appalachian Consortium Press. Creator An entity primarily responsible for making the resource Appalachian Consortium Press Publisher An entity responsible for making the resource available Appalachian Consortium Press Date Issued Date of formal issuance (e.g., publication) of the resource. June 1, 2017 Contributor An entity responsible for making contributions to the resource <a title="Digital Scholarship and Initiatives" href="http://library.appstate.edu/services/digital-scholarship-and-initiatives" target="_blank">Digital Scholarship and Initiatives</a> Publication Digital Publisher Digital Republication Appalachian State University Dublin Core The Dublin Core metadata element set is common to all Omeka records, including items, files, and collections. For more information see, http://dublincore.org/documents/dces/. Title A name given to the resource The Sword of Lord and Gideon: A Catalogue of Historical Objects Related to the Battle of King's Mountain Creator An entity primarily responsible for making the resource Kelly, James C. Clyde, III, William Baker Language A language of the resource English Description An account of the resource This catalogue of objects related to the Battle of Kings Mountain was published as a way to commemorate the battle's bicentenary. The objects included in the catalogue belong to various individuals and institutions; in particular, the D.A.R. Museum, King's Mountain National Military Park, the National Museum of History and Technology, the North Carolina Museum of History, the Rocky Mount Overmountan Museum, the Tennessee Historical Society, and the Tennessee State Museum.<br /><br /><a title="Epub" href="https://drive.google.com/file/d/1vc44N2YDSIkodn3u54Z9pYWGHwpr50yu/view?usp=sharing" target="_blank" rel="noopener">Download EPub</a> Subject The topic of the resource King's Mountain, Battle of, 1780 King's Mountain, Battle of, 1780--Pictorial works Publisher An entity responsible for making the resource available Appalachian Consortium Press Date A point or period of time associated with an event in the lifecycle of the resource 1980 Format The file format, physical medium, or dimensions of the resource PDF Reference works E-books Type The nature or genre of the resource Text Rights Information about rights held in and over the resource <a href="https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by/4.0/deed" target="_blank" rel="noopener">https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by/4.0/deed</a> Spatial Coverage Spatial characteristics of the resource. https://www.geonames.org/4584106/kings-mountain-national-military-park.html Source A related resource from which the described resource is derived <a title="UA 76 Appalachian Consortium records" href="https://appstate-speccoll.lyrasistechnology.org/repositories/2/resources/9" target="_blank" rel="noreferrer noopener"> UA 76 Appalachian Consortium records </a> Is Part Of A related resource in which the described resource is physically or logically included. <a title="Appalachian Consortium Press Publications" href="https://omeka.library.appstate.edu/collections/show/82" target="_blank"> Appalachian Consortium Press Publications</a> Coverage The spatial or temporal topic of the resource, the spatial applicability of the resource, or the jurisdiction under which the resource is relevant |3|0.0000000|0.0000000|osm Kings Mountain National Military Park Temporal Coverage Temporal characteristics of the resource. 1980s Battle of Kings Mountain exhibits objects photographs https://omeka-test.library.appstate.edu/files/original/729020ace02698d7b4d0998f42715399.pdf e775a29003ab3ace964976be3a0851e9 PDF Text Text ��������� Dublin Core The Dublin Core metadata element set is common to all Omeka records, including items, files, and collections. For more information see, http://dublincore.org/documents/dces/. Title A name given to the resource Appalachian Consortium Press Publications Description An account of the resource This collection contains digitized monographs and collections from the Appalachian Consortium Press. Creator An entity primarily responsible for making the resource Appalachian Consortium Press Publisher An entity responsible for making the resource available Appalachian Consortium Press Date Issued Date of formal issuance (e.g., publication) of the resource. June 1, 2017 Contributor An entity responsible for making contributions to the resource <a title="Digital Scholarship and Initiatives" href="http://library.appstate.edu/services/digital-scholarship-and-initiatives" target="_blank">Digital Scholarship and Initiatives</a> Publication Digital Publisher Digital Republication Appalachian State University Dublin Core The Dublin Core metadata element set is common to all Omeka records, including items, files, and collections. For more information see, http://dublincore.org/documents/dces/. Title A name given to the resource Life in the Stage Coach Days at Historic Sherrill's Inn Creator An entity primarily responsible for making the resource McClure, Elizabeth Cramer Blackmun, Ora Description An account of the resource This is a section from a larger work titled "Western North Carolina to 1880: Its Mountains and Its People." This part focuses on paintings by Elizabeth Cramer McClure that hang on the walls of a room in the original Historic Sherrill's Inn in Fairview, North Carolina. The inn, near Hickory Nut Gap, was a way-station for travelers during the 19th century and early 20th century. Present day, the inn was restored as a private home by Mr. and Mrs. G.K. McClure. <br /><br /><a title="Epub" href="https://drive.google.com/file/d/112EitRIiSlFhrnLePdv8AcMNbvIbq1Cx/view?usp=sharing" target="_blank" rel="noopener">Download EPub</a> Subject The topic of the resource Art--North Carolina, Western Art--Appalachian Region, Southern Publisher An entity responsible for making the resource available Appalachian Consortium Press Language A language of the resource English Coverage The spatial or temporal topic of the resource, the spatial applicability of the resource, or the jurisdiction under which the resource is relevant ||||osm Fairview (N.C.) Format The file format, physical medium, or dimensions of the resource PDF E-books Type The nature or genre of the resource Text Rights Information about rights held in and over the resource <a href="https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by/4.0/deed" target="_blank" rel="noopener">https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by/4.0/deed</a> Spatial Coverage Spatial characteristics of the resource. https://www.geonames.org/4465705/fairview.html Source A related resource from which the described resource is derived <a title="UA 76 Appalachian Consortium records" href="https://appstate-speccoll.lyrasistechnology.org/repositories/2/resources/9" target="_blank" rel="noreferrer noopener"> UA 76 Appalachian Consortium records </a> Is Part Of A related resource in which the described resource is physically or logically included. <a title="Appalachian Consortium Press Publications" href="https://omeka.library.appstate.edu/collections/show/82" target="_blank" rel="noopener"> Appalachian Consortium Press Publications</a> Art history murals Native American photgraphs Sherril's Inn