Is there Gold on That Mountain?

M.F. Stephenson’s famous words, “There’s gold in them thar’ hills” are well known, although most people think he referred to California hills when in fact he was pointing to Georgia’s Appalachian foothills.  By the time James Marshall discovered gold at Sutter’s Mill (in Coloma, California) in 1848, the eastern gold fields were already in full production. 

Charlotte, NC saw the first U.S. gold strike in 1799 when a boy found a seventeen pound nugget in a creek on his father’s farm.  Less than fifty years later, gold was found near Dahlonega, Georgia.  The first gold-rush town was established in Nuckollsville, Georgia about six miles from present day Dahlonega.

Legislation passed in 1835 established U.S. Mints in both Charlotte and Dahlonega.  The Dahlonega mint actually processed quite a lot of California gold until the San Francisco mint was opened in 1854.]

Gold Seam

The wealth found in Georgia was a contributing factor to the Cherokee removal of 1838.  Unlike some of the native peoples in South America, the Southeastern-native Cherokee nation did not mine gold traditionally.  However, as the white man began to influence their society, Cherokees learned the value of this precious metal and began to work their Georgia homeland until the time of their removal.

Why all this talk about gold?  No, I haven’t made a strike on the Cumberland Plateau – don’t we all just wish?  But I do know of a legend or two…

You see, gold can be found in a couple of different forms.  There’s the naturally occurring seams of gold that must be mined and refined; then there’s gold coins or jewelry that’s been lost or left.

The first legend speaks of the mining kind of gold.

Sometime around 1909, Tom and Rhoda Norris bought a tract of land in Martha Washington.  Rhoda, born Rhoda England, had a brother named Luke England (known as ‘Uncle Luke’ all around) who was living in Muddy Pond.  While the two communities don’t seem especially close if you’re traveling by foot today, if you go the nigh way, it’s really not too far.  In fact, there is a possibility that the two farms joined on the northwest side of the Norris land. 

At this time, Luke would have been in his mid-fifties, not a young man in that day when the life expectancy was forty-nine.  But he still had small children at home that necessitated him hunting regularly to keep meat on the table.  And it was just such a hunting trip that took him across Hurricane Creek and onto his brother-in-laws farm. 

Now property lines were viewed a little differently in those days of no fence laws, roaming cattle and prolific hunters.  Tom would not have considered Luke poaching even if he hadn’t been kinfolk.  But allowing a man to kill game on your land doesn’t mean all the resources are there for the taking.  Can you imagine the surprise and excitement when a hunting trip seeking deer, or rabbit, or squirrel – really anything edible that you could drag home – produced instead a gold mine?  And that’s just what Luke reported finding!  

Of course, Luke went directly to his Tom and reported the find, but not the details of the location; he knew he had to make a deal before he told everything that he knew.  On the walk up to Tom and Rhoda’s house, Luke had quickly planned the necessary mining operation and he assumed he and Tom would split all their profits fifty-fifty.  Tom disagreed.

Tom was never known for being overly-generous and refused Luke’s offer.  He wanted two-thirds of all profits.  Luke refused.

Luke declared if Tom wouldn’t give up half then he wouldn’t get anything.  He walked away never divulging to Tom the location of the riches.  However, Tom and Rhoda raised twelve children and Luke talked to each of them in turn.  Each of them, mostly grown by this time, was told a slightly different story about what he saw and where he saw it; and each child at one time or another attempted to follow the clue their old uncle had given them, to no avail.

As this story was passed from one generation to another, the little details that Luke disclosed began to be compared.  It seems that he told everyone a slightly different story and we now theorize that had all of the Norris children gotten together with their stories, the gold would have been pinpointed.  Unfortunately, they searched independently and no one was successful.

The really good news in this story is that Luke and Tom seemed to have remained friends with no hard feelings about the failed deal.  Certainly the England and Norris families remained on good terms. 

Many years later, two of Tom’s grandchildren did locate a small seam of Pyrite, commonly known as Fool’s Gold.  They had is assayed and found it to be worth something like twenty dollars per ton.  It was never mined.

Next week we’ll talk about mountain legend of the other kind of gold – coins.

In the meantime, do you have a gold legend from the plateau?  I’d love to hear it.

Picture This

I have a few blogs that I try to read every week for education and inspiration.  This week one of them posted a very old portrait which inspired me to share two of my most prized possessions which are shown here. 

These portraits are my great-great grandparents, Andy and Polly Livesay. I don’t have dates on the pictures themselves, nor do I have a whole lot of information on the people.  However, I do know that their son, my great-grandfather, was born in 1876 and we believe him to have been the youngest child, therefore dating these pictures about 1875 seems reasonable.

Like almost all pictures from that era, these people have a very solemn, almost sad look.  It’s easy to reason that they had difficult lives, faced death and disease from an early age and had little reason to smile.  While those things are certainly true of life in the mid-19th century, that probably doesn’t account for all the serious expressions that are memorialized in pictures. 

The fact is that photography of that day required the subject sit, virtually motionless, for several minutes.  The photographer would tell you to relax your face because it’s just hard to hold a smile that long.  Then, to keep your head from bobbling about as we tend to do, he would affix a metal brace behind you – now, if that didn’t give you the shocked look we often see, I don’t know what would. 

Pictures were valuable in that day.  Most of us can still remember when taking snapshots required the purchase of film and then paying for developing.  Even those pictures were more costly than today’s digital media that allows us to snap a dozen shots of anything remotely interesting.  Sometimes the value of photos is easily forgotten since today we can pick, choose and edit our pictures so we give little thought to how many times we click the shudder.  In 1850 having a picture made was a pretty big deal.  It was reserved for special occasions and was prepared for as such. 

The family valued Andy and Polly’s portraits long after they were gone.  Family legend says that my great-grandfather’s severely impoverished family moved many, many times with their household goods packed in a wagon and pulled along unimproved roadways with much bouncing and shaking.  These pictures (along with a third portrait now in the possession of my second cousin) were the first things to be packed and were moved between the bed pillows.  Upon arrival at the new home, they were the first items unpacked and immediately hung up. 

Today they still hold great value to me.  Even with their near-scowling look, I am happy to have them watching over my family and reminding us that we have a history, we need only to learn it.  As I said before, I know very little about these people and the lives they led, but I always wish I could read the thoughts that must have been going through their minds as they sat perfectly still to create these images.  Andy would have been a young man during The Civil War, I wonder if he fought, or begged parents to allow him to go because he was just a little too young?  I don’t even know how many children this pair had, but it seems I can see great sorrow etched in the lines on Polly’s face – at a time when the infant mortality rate was something like 100 out of 1,000 live births wouldn’t survive, and when vaccines did not yet exist to prevent childhood diseases we’ve all but eradicated now, it isn’t hard to imagine how much sorrow she must have faced.

Surely there were joys too, though!  And yet the photographic technology of the day didn’t do a very good job of recording those.  Still, as I look closely at Andy’s eyes, it seems I can see a kindness there. 

As I look at other historical photos, the people often seem to be dressed so well, and surely everyone would have been photographed in their very best.  But Andy isn’t even wearing a tie / cravat or a vest – both of these were very much in fashion in the late 19th century.  It’s hard to see the cut of Polly’s dress, but there is a bit of lace around the neck.  Almost all lace was machine-made by 1900, but it still had to be a bit of a luxury to poor families.  The images have been hand-tinted so the details of her dress are a little harder to discern, and certainly the cut of the skirt which might help to date the style, isn’t visible in this head shot. 

Andy’s picture is framed in a very simple black lacquer frame, which I’m afraid has taken much abuse over nearly a century and a half, but Polly is framed in gold leaf.  This frame is also very worn, but would have represented a significant investment in 1875.  Surely the existence of the pictures and the quality of the frames tells us they were experiencing at least a period of prosperity.

People can stand before the art work of the masters for hours imagining his thoughts and intentions.  I find I can do the same with old photographs.  While I’m thrilled to simply have the two dimensional images, there is so much more of the story I long to know.  Maybe some details will reveal themselves through family research.  However, unlike histories of Washington or Lincoln or Lee, who were written about and whose writings were preserved, so much of these lives have been lost to history.   Now, we can only imagine… ah, is there a short story there?

I would love to hear about your old family photos, and if you’d like to share them, please do.  Just click on “comments” below.

Dinner on the Ground

For the past 26 weeks I’ve been posting an on-going fictional story.  Click here if you’d like to go to the beginning of The Lewis Story.

This week we return to weekly, topical stories as we look into the legends and lessons of The Cumberland Plateau.

Dinner on the Ground

Three siblings chat before the meal.  In the background you see the tables laden with food.

It’s homecoming season – no, not football games, parades and beauty pageants – I’m talking about church homecoming.  This event is like a family reunion for your church family and like all reunions, it’s a joyous if somewhat bittersweet event.  You’ll get to see lots of folks you haven’t seen in a long time - at least since last year’s homecoming; the children have changed remarkably and there’s often a face or two missing for they’ve gone home to the ultimate homecoming celebration in heaven. 

Today, our churches have air-conditioned fellowship halls with kitchens to keep food hot or cold, tables and chairs to eat at and usually no flies or ants to share the meal.  But in years past, churches were thankful to have a decent building to worship in each week and no one ever thought of building a house just for fellowship.  Therefore, when a meal was planned (and let’s face it, this is The South and we’ll plan a meal for any occasion we can), so every family brought a dish (or two or three) of their favorite foods.

The morning’s service was honored by special music and a guest preacher.  Often, the sermon was delivered by someone who had pastored the church in years past before The Lord moved him on to other work.  As the preacher wound down and the end was in sight, many of the women would quietly step outside to begin spreading the food on tables fashioned from boards and saw horses. 

With a final song and a prayer of dismissal and blessings on the food, the service was dismissed to the yard and everyone immediately lined up at the tables.

As plates were filled with fried chicken, Cole slaw, thick slices of homegrown tomatoes and cornbread, you made your way to a blanket that grandma had spread on the ground or a stump shaded by a big oak tree.  Why is it that everything tastes so much better on a picnic?  Then there was a whole separate table for desserts!  From Apple Stack Cake to Banana pudding, fried pies to watermelon every taste was accommodated. 

As the congregation was able, and as they realized meals were going to be a priority, permanent tables were built and eventually covered to protect the food from the occasional rain shower as well as to provide some shade for those setting everything up.  In yesteryear, people would come from far and near walking, riding or driving with several generations in each vehicle.  The difficulty of the trip did not hinder and may in fact have made for a more joyous visit once they arrived.  No one was concerned that there were no cushioned seats or that the chicken and dumplings might not be strictly hot.  The purpose of the day was fellowship.  It wasn’t a difficult goal to attain; you started fellowshipping before you ever arrived because you were traveling – no matter how far – with your family.  An aging aunt who could not drive or cousins who couldn’t afford the trip were packed in with your own kids making the journey itself exciting as you anticipated who you might get to visit with this year. 

Dinner on the ground has never been confined to church congregations.  My own Todd family enjoys a family reunion each year that originated as an annual birthday celebration for my great-great-grandfather.  He had eleven children and thirty-two grandchildren.  It’s not hard to see that this party was far too large for anyone’s home.  Originally held at the home of his youngest daughter, Cecil Todd Hall, the lawn was covered with family, and friends.  Just like at the church house, makeshift tables were setup and the feast spread across them. 

That grandfather passed away in 1957 but we’ve maintained the tradition with the crowds reaching well over one hundred at its peak.  Much as the churches built fellowship halls, the reunion moved to a state park and enjoys a covered picnic shelter and all the amenities of the park.  But the spirit of a dinner on the ground lives on.

Do you have a memory ‘dinner on the ground’?  We’d all love to hear about them.  Please click “Comments” below and share.1

What do y’uns say?

“The rain in Spain falls mainly on the plain.”  Every time I hear Eliza Dolittle being put through the paces and carefully, deliberately, even painfully pronouncing every letter of every syllable I want to shout (or holler) at the stage or screen, “Leave her alone.”  After all, she is beautiful and charming even when she drops a few letters off every other word. 

Setting aside any social commentary George Bernard Shaw intended, I can’t help comparing this exercise in speech refinement to some of the dear friends I’ve known from around the world.  It’s sometimes very amusing to hear or read English from my Hebrew-speaking friend and equally as amusing when I watch her face as she listens to my family talking together.  I’ve had Mexican–national missionaries in my home who were desperately trying to learn English and the diligence with which they approached our grammar was inspiring. 

One of my college professors once postulated that regional differences were a thing of the past.  He gave me the opportunity to refute him in a final paper and you can bet I had an opinion to express!  As I listen to cousins raised in West Tennessee, dear friends from Mississippi or co-workers from the south side of Atlanta I clearly hear that at least in our speech patterns, we are still beautifully unique. 

As an author, I find writing in the vernacular both difficult and comfortable.  I suppose the difficulty arises from years of English classes – and a high school English teacher who insisted we write in the Queen’s English despite her own origins on the Plateau.  But there is something comfortable about writing the way I’m most at ease speaking.  I’ve spent many years in business speaking with customers across the country and I can’t tell you how many times I’ve been asked, “Where’d you get that accent?”  When that question comes from a native of Michigan or New England, I have to bite my tongue not to retort, “Who’s got the accent here?”  But when it’s your livelihood, you do tend to work hard to be understood.  Still, at home it’s a pretty fast transition back to the mountain slang.

As a reader, I find myself in a similar situation of difficulty and interest.  Sometimes it’s hard to wade through an unfamiliar vernacular.  Even in my beloved Gone with the Wind, it is sometimes a struggle to get through the speech of the 19th century African Americans as presented by Georgia-born Margaret Mitchell.  (And we don’t even want to get started on the accents the movie offered as southern.  Remember that Vivian Leigh was overcoming a British accent to produce that southern drawl.)  I have a Scottish-born cousin-in-law who is one of the most intelligent men I know, and his speech usually reflects that.  But he is rightfully proud of his heritage and you hear that in his accent.  He’s even worked to learn the once forbidden Gaelic language. 

As I research our history, I find myself feeling protective of my people.  Even in things written decades ago, I bristle at a portrayal of mountain people (and especially those from the Cumberland Plateau) as backward, ignorant or even foolish.  I long to remind these authors and their readers that these were strong people who forged a life in times and places where many of us would never survive.  They are generally godly people who lived and taught values America would do well to re-visit today.  And above all, they survived!  We are thriving on the Cumberland Plateau today and our history, traditions and even our language are largely intact.

All of this brings us to a few critical questions.  Do you enjoy reading dialog written in the vernacular or does it make you work too hard to read it?  Are you proud of how we sound or do we feel that our southern or Appalachian accents separate us?  I’d love to hear from some readers for whom ‘Appalachian’ is not your mother-tongue, what do you think?

Peddles, Heddles, Shuttles and Warp Thread?

I guess we are going backward a little with this week’s story, but let me explain why.  The stories I share on Tennessee Mountain Stories are largely the result of research I’m doing for other writing projects. Recently I’ve needed to research fabrics that would have been used on the plateau in the late 1800’s. 

We know that feedsacks became more widely used around 1870, but even when the sacks were commonly available, the people of the plateau still had limited resources to buy store-bought feed or flour. 

So that led me to wonder how children were clothed and beds were covered.  Then I remembered that by the end of the Civil War, many of the Confederate soldiers were dressed in butternut-colored homespun.  In cotton-rich Georgia and South Carolina, it would seem very logical to use their most plentiful resource.  But was that possible on the Cumberland Plateau?  I’ve never seen a cotton field on the mountain and we certainly weren’t home to any plantations.

I started asking questions, and I thank God for our rich, oral history because I actually got some answers!  Do you recall my mention in the quilting article that my great-grandmother grew enough cotton for her quilt batting?  I guess you were all thinking, “Well, didn’t everybody?”  Turns out, yes, they did!  I even heard one story of a local lady who had a little tabletop cotton gin.  That was pretty exciting because I’ve cleaned about 1 ounce of cotton in my life and it was enough to tell me I did not want to do it for a living.  Flax was introduced to America by the earliest settlers.  It is now naturalized throughout most of the country.  Of course, you’d want to grow a domestic crop in order to have sufficient quantities to spin and weave, but it will certainly grow in our climate and soil.  And of course there have always been a few sheep around.  So it was easy to find the raw materials from which an industrious mother could clothe her children and decorate her home.

Peggy Casteel with her loom.

Now I needed to get a feel for weaving and my dear friend Peggy Casteel happens to have a loom – well 4 actually.  (Don’t things like that just multiply?)  She allowed me to watch while she worked on some fabric and she shared what she’s learned about the craft.  It was fascinating. 

As I sat in Peggy’s quiet sunroom watching her rocking back and forth with the motion of pulling the beater to snug the threads tight, I was full of questions but had to try to be quiet to allow her to concentrate on her pattern.  However, we discussed that when she was in the groove of weaving a simple pattern, she could weave and visit with no trouble at all.  It was easy to imagine the weavers of old who would spend endless hours at their looms.  If you wanted to visit with them, you would have to do so amid the rhythmic drum of that beater, the click of the pedals as they lifted the heddles with just a brief pause to throw the shuttle across the warp thread. 

It seems a solitary occupation, sitting before this big, wooden apparatus.  But the accounts of all the weavers that I’ve read relay tranquility and a strong sense of accomplishment as they watch their pattern develop and the cloth slowly rolling up on the cloth beam. 

Like the slow lines of a quilt, rows of knitting or the stitches of tatted lace.  Weaving seems to be yet another creation of art and love; something the creator pours herself into and produces something both lovely and practical.