Daddy Talks Turkey

I don’t know about your house, but with my family, as we sit around the Thanksgiving table, stories begin to flow.  My daddy always has a good supply of them.  As this holiday wraps up, I wanted to share some of his thoughts on turkey and Thanksgiving.

He doesn’t remember eating turkey very many times, while growing up on the mountain, and I wondered why There weren’t many wild turkeys around for many years – or maybe decades. Today, we have several of them around, probably due to the efforts of the Tennesse Wildlife Resource Agency.

Daddy does remember one turkey-hunting story.  Around 1930, Uncle Menzo Atkinson and Menzo’s sons, planned to meet some of their family and hunt on the north end of the county. Somehow, they missed the meet-up, but didn’t waste the opportunity to hung. They killed a wild turkey. As they wrapped-up their day, they happened upon the rest of their hunting party. That other group held up a mess of squirrel and Uncle Menzo silently reached into the wagon and came out with the turkey. They enjoyed telling the story as Aunt Medie skinned and cooked it.

Of course, you can have a feast without turkey. One year all of Daddys aunts and uncles gathered at Grandma Keys for a holiday meal and Berris Stepp, Hollis Henry and Vernon Roberts slipped of coon hunting. They were successful and came in with a big kill. Then they wondered what to do with it. Grandpa Berris quietly said, “Grandma will cook that if you ask her to.” Grandma Ida Key heard them and agreed to cook the coon if they would clean it good. The next day, the table was spread with plenty, including the coon. The Aunts were none too happy about that addition to their carefully  planned menu.

I would like to know who decided that the proper Thanksgiving meal was turkey. Aunt Cecil Hall was at Grandma’s talking about folks eating turkey and the girls all decided they ought to serve that as well. So they pooled their money, bought a turkey, and that was the first time Daddy remembered having turkey on Thanksgiving.

Whatever you ate, and I hope you had plenty, please count your blessings today. We have a fair share of trouble in this country, but we are also immensely blessed.

HAPPY THANKSGIVING

Grass String and Duct Tape

For a lot of years – probably my whole life, actually – we’ve joked about the farm being held together with grass string and duct tape.  There was a time that I was certain when I had control, nothing would be tied up, wired together or taped.  Like so many youthful declarations, I have now changed my tune.

With the addition of 3 little goats, a new lot had to be fenced – and goats can get through a mouse hole, so the fencing that held satisfied old cows in had to get an upgrade.  Then, as they found or created escape routes, another panel needed to be added.  A gate was re-purposed and you saw this one coming, it sure was fast and easy to tie that thing up!

I started out securing woven-wire with a spool of aluminum wire but realized I didn’t have the wire pliers handy.  They were just down at the other shed, but that grass string was looped within arms reach right there in the barn. 

Then there was the plastic watering trough which had lost its drain cap.  The every-ready duct tape plugged that right up and it’s still holding water.

My daddy has long said that as he aged, it was amazing how smart Grandpa got – of course nothing was changing in Grandpa, just growing wisdom in Daddy.  I suppose I’m experiencing the same thing as I gain a little wisdom and Daddy’s intelligence quickly rises.

Please comment (and maybe attach a picture) and share how you have recently used grass string, fence wire or duct tape.

The Demise of William Riley Hatfield

The following blog is re-posted from Backwood’s Adventure’s blog by Scott Phillips.

As a backcountry guide I love researching the rich history “some happy and some not so happy” of this area and sharing it with my clients. I’m going to pass along this story as it was told to me.

My 9th cousin William Riley Hatfield also known as WR Hatfield. Born 1824- died from a gunshot wound January 22, 1892. He passed away on the banks of Station Camp Creek in what is now inside the boundary of the Big South Fork NRRA.

On January 22,1892 at age 68 WR Hatfield was on horseback near the banks of the Big South Fork River and Station Camp Creek when he got into a heated argument with a guy on foot near the trail. As the tempers flared between the two WR spun his horse around in the attempt to trample the man that was on foot. The guy then raised, aimed, and fired a 45-70 caliber rifle striking WR in the abdomen. The large caliber bullet traveled up the body cavity exiting near the face of WR Hatfield. Even with such a devastating and deadly wound WR managed to hang on to life for a few hours before passing away.

He is buried in a small cemetery near Station Camp what is now known as Charit Creek Lodge.

Ironically WR Hatfield’s son William Claiborne Hatfield known as WC was also shot and killed at the age of 51 in 1924. He was killed by a man named Newton Blevins who served one year for the killing of WC.

Newton Blevins was later shot and killed as he rounded up cattle with his wife.

I have been asked several times if WR Hatfield and his family that lived near Station Camp were related to the Hatfield’s from the well known “Hatfield and McCoy feud”.

To the best of my knowledge I would have to say yes. I have traced his family originally coming from Virginia into Kentucky and then down south on the Big South Fork River into Tennessee and then to the banks of Station Camp Creek where he lays at rest today.

WR Hatfield would be my 9th cousin and the Captain William Anderson Hatfield better known as “Devil Anse Hatfield” would be my 8th cousin. Devil Anse is known as the patriarch of the Hatfield family during the Hatfield and McCoy feud.

My research also shows Devil Anse Hatfield’s Great Grandfather is a brother to WR Hatfield’s Great Grandfather.

I have often wondered if WR moved here to get away from the original Hatfield and McCoy feud and it’s violence just to be killed in an unrelated circumstance.

Bounty from the Fields, Woods, Hollers and Hills

We’ve been talking for the last couple of weeks about foods the land offers us like fresh greens.  How opportune that it’s open season on Dry Land Fish.  Okay, technically you can gather these wild mushrooms anytime of year, but the early spring  is the only time they pop out.  So the delicacy must at least be gathered at this time, if not enjoyed.

I kind of assumed that only mountain folk would even know about this delicacy – at least by that name – but surprisingly a Google search found a page full of results.  There are even songs entitled “Dry Land Fish” - The Kentucky Headhunters  assert “If a genie gave me a bottle , there’d be three things I’d wish Corn, greens and taters, and dry-land fish”.  John McCutcheon’s version even directs us to, “Midst the ash and elm and sycamore, Cast your sights to the forest floor, Where the old trees die and the roots are rotten, That’s where the dry land fish are gotten.”

The song says you can find the fish from March to May but I’ve never seen them after April. 

About a year ago I happened to meet Mr. Ralph Story of Spring City, Tennessee.  He is an avid mycophagist and shared the pictures I’m including today.  I’ll confess I had to look up that name – and I might not call many of my plateau neighbors by it because it might just get me in trouble.  Still, I admire those that can find this wild food in abundance and as you can see from the pictures, Mr. Story certainly can.

So are you wondering just what it is?  Dry Land Fish are formally known as Morel Mushrooms.  They are a famous delicacy that can sell in 2020 for about $80 per pound, if you can find them.  Did I mention they are rare, hard to find, grow in inaccessible places and defy cultivation?  The steep price begins to make sense, doesn’t it?

I would like to know why we call them fish – and can only imagine the name comes from either (or both) their texture and our method of cooking.

Like many of the more substantial mushrooms, Dry Land Fish have a firm and almost-creamy texture.  And we cooke ‘em just like fish.

Rolled in cornmeal, fried in a deep skillet of hot oil – they look like typical Southern food, in fact, they look like a mess of fish on the plate.  And they are a rich, filling food that certainly replaces meat in a meal.  You’ve gotta’ cook them good and done so that makes for a crunchy bite.  Seasoned only with salt and pepper, you can truly appreciate this gift from God.

Now this is probably not a food that will sustain you for long, if only because of its scarcity.  But if you can get it you’ll surely enjoy the experience.

Zenith Coal Mining Community

Janice Matthews Smith discusses in her book, Looking Back, the mining operation and surrounding community of Zenith, Tennessee.  Zenith today is a forest, high bluff, a few homes and no sign whatsoever of industry.  However, in 1913 the O&W Railroad arrived at Zenith and as always happened where the train stopped, a community grew.

This community, as with so many early 1900’s communities in Appalachia, grew around coal mines.  The first mines that were opened weren’t very profitable.  However, other areas proved worthy of the investment and the mining operation continued in Zenith for thirty years.

Across the Eastern United States organizing and strife surrounding unions in coal mines has become legendary.  Fentress and Scott counties can claim their own share of that drama and the violence in Zenith actually broke the community and ultimately ended the mining operation.  Mrs. Smith records no less than 4 shootings at the mines.

The first victim she lists is an unnamed man shot in then neck in a home, although she doesn’t say if it was his own home.  “Union men hid behind the bluffs and surrounded Zenith” at that time.

The second shooting involved Sheriff Wolford Smith.  He was shot from the bluffs hitting him in the leg when he stepped out of the company store.

The next law enforcement officer involved in a Zenith shooting was Sheriff Taylor who responded to a call that Bud Markel was at the company store with a .38 special.  Bud Markel was not a local man but had come to work in the mines.  He befriended Ed Slaven and stayed in the Slaven home.  However, he drank and he was a mean and destructive drunk.  Mr. Slaven told Bud he’d have to change his ways or find somewhere else to stay.  He got drunk again and went into the company store with the weapon and that’s when Sheriff Taylor was called in.  Markel offered to surrender, allowing the sheriff to move in close to him and then he shot him in the chest.  His friend grabbed the sheriff’s gun and shot Markel.  Both men died from their wounds.

At least one more shooting is remembered when someone shot into the store at Mt. Helen.  No one was reported injured at that time.

The final shooting victim Mrs. Matthews details was Cap Woods.  He was tasked with driving the payroll from Union Bank in Jamestown to Zenith; concerned by all the violence in the area he swapped trucks with a foreman from the mines, although the foreman drove Mr. Woods’ truck along behind him.  As the pair reached “Noah Buck” hill, shots were fired from both sides.  Ten men were arrested and fearing a lynching, they were held in Nashville until the trial when all were cleared.

The Zenith mines closed around 1941 leaving many men unemployed.  Some went to work in the Wilder coal mines while others found mining positions in Kentucky and Virginia.  Still others went to the logging woods which continue to employee folks on the mountain today.

The railroad tracks were taken up from Zenith in 1955.