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�MOUNTAIN PREACHER STORIES
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�MOUNTAIN PREACHER STORIES
Laughter Among The Trumpets
by Ben d Fisher
Appalachian Consortium Press • Boone, North Carolina 28608
�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 © 1990 by the Appalachian Consortium Press.
ISBN (pbk.: alk. Paper): 978-1-4696-3662-7
ISBN (ebook): 978-1-4696-3664-1
Distributed by the University of North Carolina Press
www.uncpress.org
�To our sons
David and Hugh
�Appalachian Consortium Press
The Appalachian Consortium is a non-profit educational
organization comprised of institutions and agencies located in
the Southern Highlands. Our members are volunteers who
plan and execute projects which serve 156 mountain counties
in seven states. Among our goals are:
•Preserving the cultural heritage of Southern Appalachia
•Protecting the mountain environment
•Publishing manuscripts about the region
•Improving educational opportunities for area students
and teachers
•Conducting scientific, social, and economic research
•Promoting a positive image of Appalachia
•Encouraging regional cooperation
The member institutions of the Appalachian Consortium are:
Appalachian State University
Blue Ridge Parkway
East Tennessee State University
Gardner-Webb College
Great Smoky Mountains Natural History Association
John C. Campbell Folk School
Lees-McRae College
Mars Hill College
Mayland Community College
N.C. Division of Archives and History
Southern Appalachian Highlands Conservancy
Southern Highlands Handicraft Guild
U.S. Forest Service
Warren Wilson College
Western Carolina University
Western North Carolina Historical Association
�TABLE OF CONTENTS
Preface
Introduction
The Striking Clock.
Coining a Word
Wagon Wheel Stars
Making a Darning Ball
Fresh Air
The Salesman
Super-Salesman...........
Squirrel Gravy
The Three Gifts
The Three-Minute Egg
Stealing Chickens
Young Groundhogs
Not Fit for a Dog
Mule Trouble
Braying Mule
Panther Tracks
The Banty Rooster
Healthy Hogs
The Beehive
A Hard Luck Story
Hog with a Peg-Leg
How to Cook a Catfish..
At Home in the Orphanage
Flooding the Market
Three Kinds of He
Foundered
Ciphering....
Company Nuisance
The Birthday Present
Ain't He Growed?
Between Louisville and Frankfort
Getting Out the Straight Board
' Simmons
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�That's No Reason
A Problem in Communication
I Don't Know Where We're Going
Too Hot to Handle
AWholeKegful
The Umpire
Merciful Justice
Whupped or Killed
The New Jail
Where Do You Live?
Cataloochee Baptist Church
Reaching High
Not So Stupid
The Parachute
Never Went to College Myself
On Smoking
Chewing Tobacco
The Best Man in the Community
Driving a Nail
Anvils
OnNaggin'
Swearing a Character
A Word for It
The Pulpit Robe
The Preacher Who Pressed His Luck
Mountain Preacher or Seminary Graduate
The Bathrobe
I Frenzied
Cussin'
Climbing an Oak Tree
The Shrewish Woman
Riding Shotgun
The Lost Sheep
Creasyback Beans
A True Baptist
Ben: The Man Behind the Stories by Roger G. Branch
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�PREFACE
My husband, Ben Fisher, had collected these mountain
stories for many years, and used them often as illustrations in
his speeches and in his writing. In sessions of the executive
committee of the Southern Baptist Convention, occasionally
when a controversial issue had caused stress and frayed patience, I have heard a motion to "set aside five minutes for Ben
Fisher to tell a story."
"Second the motion!"
He would have to get to his feet immediately and try to tell
the right story for that moment. Often he managed to make a
point, obliquely and with a disarming smile, because he knew
"how to drive a nail without busting the plank."
He had always meant to make a book of these stories, "but
not," he said, "until Fm finished with them myself."
Now, alas! he is finished with them. After he died in
November, 1985, I worked first on his other nearly completed
manuscript, The Idea of a Christian University in Today's World,
and have only now been able to publish the mountain stories. A
few were on tape, a number had been transcribed in rough draft,
and some have been contributed by folk who carried them in
loving memory.
The subtitle of this book, Laughter Among the Trumpets,
comes from Job 39:25 (King James version: "He saith among the
trumpets, Ha ha"). This verse became the headline on a feature
article by Jay Jenkins some years ago, pointing out how Ben
used humor to deflate pomposity or to soften stridence.
It is impossible, of course, to convey on paper the timing, or
the reminiscent laughter in the voice of the teller; but the book
is conversational in tone. Afew stories on tape were interspersed
with comments which I have left in place because they provide
background settings. Some of the old way of life is vanishing;
there may come a day when such description will be a valuable
record of "the way we were."
IX
�Many of the stories have been told in Switzerland, in New
England, in Hong Kong, in Wales, in Japan, in Australia. Ben
received one attractive offer to videotape them, but the proposal
was for him to dress in overalls and act the part of a country
bumpkin. This he refused to do, because to him the chief appeal
of these tales is not their provincial nature but their universality. The characters may never have been out of their home
counties, but in telling about them, Ben had found the secret of
drawing people together with a laugh at human foibles that
know no cultural boundaries. Drawing people together, in the
name of the Lord, was a special part of his ministry.
Sally Fisher
�INTRODUCTION
During the past forty years, I have collected stories illustrating the humor of the Southern highlander. Appalachia, especially that part of it in western North Carolina, was heavily
populated with immigrants from England, Wales, Scotland, and
Ireland. Some were folk of German origin. They brought with
them not only their rugged individualism and their determination to work and to wrest homes out of the wilderness; they
brought also a sense of humor and a dignity which have always
been characteristic of a sturdy yeoman people.
Their humor has certain consistencies which are identifiable. First of all, mountain humor, like all folk humor, typically
arises out of a life situation. Occasionally there will be an
imaginative "tall story," but usually the tale relates something
that happened, not something just dreamed up. Partly for this
reason it is frequently told in the first person. A good storyteller
will often add some embroidery, but he is essentially describing
a happening that needs no adornment. Often one could scarcely
imagine anything as funny as what actually occurred.
Moreover, most mountain preachers and many of the oldtime mountaineers had a real talent for telling stories. This is the
reason that when these stories are written, they are not nearly
so funny as when they are told or put on video-tape. The power
is somewhat in the timing.
A third characteristic of the wit of the mountaineer is that it
is never meant to hurt anybody — it is not sharp, or barbed, or
mean, or ugly — and when possible, a man tells the story on
himself. (This is another reason for the frequency of the first
person.) This kind of satire bears comparison with that of the
Romans — for that matter, all the way back through history
mankind has been laughing at basically the same life situations.
But mountain satire laughs at them gently. In Roman times,
some very bitter satire was written by Juvenal, who could not
make enough harsh, biting remarks about enough people. There
was another type of Roman satire written by the gentle poet
Horace, who made people laugh and feel good. Mountain humor
XI
�is essentially Horatian: light-hearted and kind, it never has a
barb in it, never lacerates, never seeks to embarrass or humiliate. Some of it is not so funny as it is poignant. It illustrates a
great warm-heartedness that characterizes mountain folk.
Another noticeable feature of mountain wit is that it is clean.
There maybe an occasional hell or damn, but beyond that—and
that very infrequently — these stories can be told anywhere: in
church or in any company. This is not to say that the mountaineer didn't have some barnyard jokes. He had plenty of those, but
he had the good sense and good taste to know that the place to
tell those was in the barnyard.
A final characteristic of mountain stories is that most of
them are didactic. There is almost always an implied lesson to
be learned, and for this reason mountain preachers have used as
sermon illustrations many of the stories which follow. In a way,
this book should be considered my tribute to the old-time
mountain preacher. He was a man of God, He knew how to
preach the Word, he loved his people, he shepherded his flock,
and he needed — believe me — a sense of humor in those rough
mountains and in those times.
Ben C. Fisher
�THE STRIKING CLOCK
he story is told of the little mountain congregation
that inherited a very beautiful banjo clock, which
they immediately installed in the back of the church.
They were all so proud of the beautiful set of chimes
that they were encouraged to form the habit of coming early
enough to hear them, thus starting the morning service promptly
at the eleven o'clock hour, and the evening service at eight.
One Sunday evening when the congregation had gathered
expectantly and were awaiting the beautiful chimes, the clock
ran away, striking forty-nine times. One of the old mountaineers stood up and said, "Come on, old woman, let's get out of here.
It's time to go home. This is the latest it's ever been."
COINING A WORD
The old-time mountain preacher could, many times, be
eloquent. His language was often colorful, and sometimes when
he was short of a word, he simply manufactured one that said
more than conventional English.
One Sunday morning Uncle Jethro was preaching—as they
say in the mountains — "in a weaving way," and he was almost
completely carried away by the occasion. He had a large congregation and a good sermon, and the amens had been frequent. It
was one of those beautiful spring mornings with fleecy clouds
floating in the air, and soft breezes coming through the window.
The crops were up, the pastures were green, and the cattle could
be seen on the hills. Uncle Jethro looked down the aisle and out
through the open door to the beautiful valley below, and he said,
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�"Folks, I want you to realize that the whole earth belongs to the
Lord. It's all his; it's his, brethren, from horizon to hosettin."
WAGON WHEEL STARS
This story comes from southern Appalachia. It was told to
me by my dear friend John Steely, a colleague at Southeastern
Seminary and a friend of more than twenty-five years.
It seems that a young preacher had been away to college and
had taken a course in astronomy. He was overcome with the
transcendental distances, the hugeness of the universe, the
black holes, the galaxies, and the enormous size of the stars. He
had a somewhat guilty feeling that he had made God too small.
He incorporated all of this into a sermon to his mountain
congregation, and told them that Jupiter is a planet so big that
the earth could be placed inside it several times.
When the service was over, the mountain boys were outside
talking. One old deacon said to another, "Did you hear that?"
"Yes," he said, "I did."
"Well, what do you think about it?"
He said, "I don't think a thing about it. You can just look up
there — look at all them stars up there. You can tell that if they
was as big as wagon wheels, they'd lap."
MAKING A DARNING BALL
This is a human interest story that actually happened in a
little community over near Franklin, not far from Sylva.
A young girl became the first from her community to attend
college. She had gone all the way down to Greensboro, North
�Carolina, and majored in home economics. When she came back,
the home demonstration club invited her to speak. These good
mountain women were very proud of their college graduate, but
they had requested her to talk about something practical.
She decided that she would teach them how to make a
darning ball by taking the white and the yolk out of an egg, then
pouring the eggshell full of plaster of Paris, allowing it to harden,
and then breaking the eggshell off. The hardened plaster can be
shellacked or varnished, and it does make an excellent darning
ball. It fits very nicely into the toe or heel of a sock.
She appeared at the appointed hour, and she had some pots
and pans and an egg on the table in front of her, and she allowed
her pride in having been to college to be reflected in her choice of
words. She picked up the egg and said to those good mountain
ladies: "You will observe that the object which I hold in my hand
is elliptical in shape. By inducing a small opening in both the
anterior and posterior ends of this elliptical object, and by
exhaling gently through it, I force the contents into a saucepan."
One good old mountain woman piped up, "Friends, ain't a
college education wonderful? I always just poked a hole in each
end and blowed 'er in a cup."
FRESH AIR
The father of one of my boyhood chums had been killed in an
accident, leaving this boy (whom I will call Henry), his widowed
mother, and his older brother. My grandfather had a large,
squared-log house which he allowed the family to use rent-free.
It was carefully built and chinked. Along the north side was a
lean-to built out of boards, with a sloping roof. There was a large
fireplace at one end of the main cabin and a big Foster range at
the other. This was where the family lived. They ate at a big
oilcloth-topped table, and they slept in the large room, where
there were four big beds, each with a straw tick and afeatherbed.
�Henry's mother was a wonderful cook, and I used to like to
go there and spend the night and eat, particularly when she
would bake potatoes in the ashes behind the backlog. Anyone
who has never eaten potatoes baked in this fashion doesn't know
what he has missed. There is simply nothing like the flavor of a
potato baked "mealy done" in good hickory ashes.
On several occasions I spent the night there, and when the
wind was high, I could see the hooked rug waving a bit, because
the cabin sat a little way off the ground. If it happened to be
snowing, a "skiff" of snow would drift in, in a narrow line along
the cracks.
Henry and I went to a little mountain school together. First,
second, and third grades were together in one room, and fourth,
fifth, and sixth in another. Of course we were able to hear it all,
and we learned a lot.
About this time a hygiene course had been introduced in the
third grade of the public schools. Our teacher went to great
lengths to teach us good health rules. One of the habits she
stressed was that in order to be healthy, we needed to get plenty
of good fresh air. Each night we were supposed to lower our
window two inches from the top and raise it two inches from the
bottom so that the air would circulate freely.
After she had explained this procedure several times, we
came into our little schoolroom one morning, and after she had
called the roll, she began to inquire what each had done about
adjusting the window. When she came to Henry, she said,
"Henry, did you lower your bedroom window two inches from the
top last night, and raise it two inches from the bottom?"
Henry looked at her a moment and answered, "Teacher, just
to tell you the honest truth, fresh air ain't our problem."
�THE SALESMAN
A mountain boy had grown a little tired of the back-breaking
work on his rocky little mountain farm, so he decided he'd go into
the city and get himself a job to earn some money. Because he had
done a lot of fishing and hunting, he determined that what he'd
like to do would be to clerk in a sporting goods store. So he went
into the store and applied to the manager for a job. The manager
observed that the mountaineer wasn't dressed very well, and his
English wasn't the best, so the manager was trying to let the boy
down gently. But the boy said, "Friend, all I want is a chance for
one day. It won't cost you one thing. If I don't sell you a lot of stuff
this first day, it won't cost you anything. I need the job. How
about letting me try?"
The store manager thought, "Well, what have I got to lose?"
Along about 4:30 he started checking up, and he found out that
the old boy had sold one man $3600 worth of equipment. The
manager was just fascinated. So he called the mountaineer in
and said, "Friend, have you actually sold $3600 worth of equipment to one man?"
He said, "Yes, sir, I did."
The manager said, "How in the world did you do it?"
The boy said, "Friend, it all started with some fishhooks. He
bought some fishhooks, and I said, 'How about your fishing pole?
We've got a special here: a nice rod and reel. The fishhooks are
not going to do you any good unless you've got a good rod and
reel/ so I sold him the rod and reel.
"Then I said, *Where are you going to catch these fish?'
" 'Well,1 he said, *I guess Fll stand on the bank,' and I said,
'Now, friend, you're not going to catch any fish just standing on
the bank. What you need is a good boat. If you've got a good boat,
you can get out there where the fish are.'
"He said, 'All right,' so I sold him the boat.
"Then I said, 'When you get into this boat, how are you going
to move it along?' "
�" 'Well/ the man said, 1 guess I'll paddle it or pole it/
"I said to him, 'Now, friend, you're not going to catch any fish
paddling or poling. Everybody else will be there first. What you
need is a motor/ So I sold him a motor to go on the boat. He bought
that, and I said, *Now, can you swim?1
"He said, Well, some/
"I said, *You oughtn't to be out there without some life
preservers. In the first place, it's not legal/ So I sold him some
life preservers.
"So," the mountaineer said, "it all added up to a little more
than $3600."
The store manager was just amazed. He said, "Friend, do
you mean to tell me that a man came in here and asked to buy
some fishhooks, and you sold him $3600 worth of fishing equipment?"
"No, sir, that's not exactly right. I didn't say the man came
in here and asked to buy fishhooks. What he said was that he had
aheadache and wanted to buy two aspirins, so that's when I said,
'Man, you need to go fishing/ "
He got the job.
SUPER-SALESMAN
Some years ago a man, after having been away for several
years, returned to western North Carolina to revisit the scenes
of his childhood: the old home place and the little mountain
cemetery. It was a hot July day. As he drove along he got hotter
and hotter, and he began to think about those delicious Nehis
that he used to drink when he was a boy. Suddenly he saw in the
distance what he was sure was an old-time country store. It was,
and he pulled off the road.
The sun had been very bright. He parked his car, and when
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�he went into the cool shadows of the old store building, he was
temporarily almost blind from the light of the sun. But as his
eyes began to adjust to the dark interior, he was amazed to see
boxes of salt and cans of salt and sacks of salt stacked on the
counter and on the floor and almost everywhere else.
He stood around waiting a few minutes. No one appeared.
Finally, when he heard a movement in the back of the store, he
went on through to the part which was storeroom and feedroom.
An old man was carefully cranking out a canful of kerosene from
an old-fashioned hand-cranked tank. As he watched, he noticed
also that there were more boxes of salt, sacks of salt, and cans of
salt back in this storeroom. He said to the old man, "Do you own
this store?"
"Yes, I do," he replied.
"Well," he said, "friend, you must sell a lot of salt."
The old man thoughtfully scratched his chin and said, "No,
sir, but there was a fella through here the other day who sure
sells a lot of salt."
SQUIRREL GRAVY
A mountain preacher who was very, very strict with his
family came home one Sunday afternoon and learned that his
oldest boy had taken a shotgun out that afternoon and killed
seven or eight big fat squirrels. The boy had dressed them out
and brought them in, and his mother had parboiled them and
fried them a golden brown, and was getting ready to serve them
for supper. The preacher was wroth. He told the whole family
in no uncertain terms how he felt about that violation of the
Sabbath.
The time came when they all got ready to sit down at the
supper table before a platter of those rich brown squirrels. The
good woman had made a great big bowlful of good, brown gravy
�and some hot buttermilk biscuits. The aroma of the coffee and
gravy was floating around. The family sat down after the
blessing, and the preacher said, "Just like I said, and I want to
tell you again, young man, you had no business going out
hunting on Sunday. That's a sin. It's shameful, and I'm
surprised that you'd do it. There isn't anything in the world that
would make me touch one mouthful of those squirrels — but I
will take a little of the gravy."
THE THREE GIFTS
Three young people, two brothers and a sister, were very proficient with the guitar, the banjo, and the fiddle. They went to
Nashville to the Grand Ole Opry and did so well there that they
were invited to play at the White House. The music company
sent them on out to Hollywood, where they made some hit
records and soon became very wealthy. However, they were so
busy making money and performing that they neglected their
mother, whom they loved very dearly.
It soon became apparent that they would not be able to get
home for Christmas, and they felt guilty about it, so they decided
that each would do something unusually nice in the way of a
Christmas present. The girl went out and bought her mother a
string of genuine matched pearls. The older brother bought a
beautiful mink stole. The younger brother wanted to do something really special, so he went to a pet shop and spent five
hundred dollars for a myna bird, and another five hundred
dollars getting a fellow musician to teach this bird to sing his
mother's favorite hymn. They met and were all quite pleased
with themselves, and made arrangements to have these presents sent to the mother special delivery so that she would have
them before Christmas.
Christmas came and went, and since they hadn't heard from
their mother, they became a little concerned, so the younger son
called his mother. She said, "Oh son, I'm just so glad to hear from
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�you. I haven't been too well, but Fve been meaning to write. I
hope you're well, and I'm sorry you didn't get home for Christmas."
The boy said, "Mom, did you get our presents?"
"Oh, yes."
"Well, what did you think about sister's pearls?"
She said, "Son, they're the prettiest things I have ever seen
in my life. I'm almost afraid to wear them — I'm so afraid I'll
break the string and lose some of them. Once in awhile I wear
them to church, but mostly I keep them wrapped up in a bureau
drawer, and I open the box and look at them sometimes."
"Well," he said, "did you get the mink stole that brother
sent?"
"Oh," she said, "it's just so warm, and I wear it to church every Sunday. It's the prettiest thing, might'nigh, I ever had. The
people at church just brag on it."
Then the younger son paused and said, "Well, Mom, did you
get the myna bird?"
"Yes, I did, son," she replied. "Thank you so much. It was
delicious."
THE THREE-MINUTE EGG
When I was serving as administrative assistant to the
president of Southeastern Seminary, it was customary for us to
go over to Nashville, Tennessee, in February for the meeting of
the Executive Committee of the Southern Baptist Convention at
which the institutional budgets were approved. On this trip
there were Stealey, Binkley, Sandusky, Newman,* and I. In
those days, before Baptists became prosperous, we didn't have
*Dr. Sydnor L. Stealey, president of the seminary at that time; Dr. Olin T.
Binkley, dean; Dr. Fred Sandusky, registrar; and Dr. Stewart A. Newman,
professor of theology. — Ed.
�the money to fly over, so we had to pack five people into a car and
make a two-day trip. We'd drive to Asheville one day and then
on into Nashville the next. Because they gave us special rates,
we usually stayed at the Mountaineer Hotel, near Beaucatcher
Tunnel. The motel didn't have a restaurant, so we used to go up
to Buck's, just a few doors above, where we liked to eat breakfast
because of the homemade biscuits and baked apples.
On this particular morning, we sat at a round table, and
because I was on a diet, I ordered dry toast and a three-minute
egg. The little waitress brought the egg, and I broke it, and it was
raw, so I sent it back. She brought another egg, and it was the
same way, and I sent it back. She brought the third egg, and it
wasn't any better, but I ate it as best I could.
But I didn't like it. And, of course, when I got home and told
my wife about it, I found that she had been cooking my threeminute egg four minutes.
Just one year from that day, almost to the day, we were back
on our way to Nashville — same crowd. We went up to Buck's
and sat down at that round table. The same little waitress came
up (I didn't recognize her at the time), stood there, and stared at
me for a long time. With a twinkle in her eyes she said, "Okay,
Grumpy, let's get started on those eggs."
STEALING CHICKENS
This story originated not in my native state but in Arkansas.
I heard it first from a well-known Congressman who was one of
the greatest friends that private higher education has ever had,
particularly in keeping up appropriations for student scholarships.
Some years ago, a young man had completed reading law
and had passed the bar exam. He moved into a small town and
hung out his shingle. Almost two weeks went by, and not a single
client darkened his door. Then one day he looked up, and coming
10
�through the door was a lanky mountaineer with about two days1
growth of beard. One of the "galluses" of his overalls was held up
with a thorn, which had replaced the missing button. (The
Congressman explained that the thorn was significant. The
middle class, he said, used a nail for this purpose, but the poor
used thorns. This boy didn't have the money for a nail.)
Pausing a minute, the newcomer said, "Friend, are you a
lawyer?"
The young man replied, "Yes, I am."
"Well, I need help. I've been indicted. Can you help me?"
The young lawyer said, "That's what I'm here for. Sit down,
and tell me what your problem is."
The mountaineer paused, looked at the floor, pulled his
earlobe, scratched his cheek, shifted his cud of tobacco from one
side to the other, and said, "Well, I'll tell you, it's like this: they
swore out a warrant, and I've got to stand trial. I'm out on bond.
I've been arrested for stealing chickens."
"Well," the lawyer said, "that's a fairly serious charge. If I'm
going to help you, you've got to tell me the complete truth. Now,
you understand that whatever you tell me is privileged information. Do you know what privileged information is?"
The mountaineer said, "No, sir, I don't."
"That simply means," said the lawyer, "that anything you
tell me, good or bad, can't be used in court against you. They can't
compel me ever to tell it to anyone or to testify against you. It's
absolutely confidential." When there was no reply, the lawyer
continued, "Now, the first thing I want to know is this: did you
really steal those chickens?"
The old mountain boy hesitated a minute, looked at the floor,
looked at the ceiling, then looked out the window, and finally
said, "Well, friend, to tell you the truth, you've put your finger on
the weakest point in my whole case."
11
�YOUNG GROUNDHOGS
Dr. George Capps passed on to me the story which follows.
It seems that for a good many years the people in a small
mountain community had gone to their preacher to ask him
when it would be all right to plant their gardens. No one could
remember when he had failed to give them good advice.
One spring in recent years, they went again and asked the
old preacher about planting-time. He studied a minute and said,
'"Well, it's going to be a little cool, and it's going to be a little damp,
but it's going to be a good garden year, so you go ahead and plant
your seed. Everything will be fine."
So they went ahead and planted every seed on the mountain.
The weather warmed up, and in about two weeks every seed
came up. Then came a hard freeze, which burned everything off
to the ground. People were really appalled.
One of the deacons went back and said, "Preacher, our congregation is terribly upset. For as long as anybody can remember, you've been telling us when to plant the gardens, and you've
never failed. We want to know two things: how have you been
able to do this all these years, and what happened this spring?"
The old preacher shook his head. "Well," he said, "friend, you
know, I'm nearly ninety years old, and all these years, I've been
watching the groundhogs, but, friend, these young groundhogs
are somethin' else."
NOT FIT FOR A DOG
A young preacher who had been ordained to the gospel
ministry only a short time before was very much excited when he
received one of his first opportunities to preach. He had been
invited to come to a small "quarter-time" mountain church,
located in a rather isolated area of the county. He rose early, put
on his best suit, picked up his Bible and notes, got into his car,
12
�and checked his directions. In his eagerness and anticipation he
arrived at the church about an hour before preaching time.
As he started into the church, there was an old hound-dog
stretched full-length in front of the door. He had to step over the
dog, and he went on into the church, whereupon he discovered
he'd forgotten his Bible. When he came back, the old hound was
still there, and wouldn't move. He stepped over the dog again,
went back to the car, and decided that while he was there, he
would just sit out in the cool air and review his sermon.
The time got away, and people began to gather, so he thought
he had better go on into the church. He got his Bible and his notes
and started back, and this time the old hound-dog rose up just as
he got to the threshold. The young preacher tripped, and fell his
full length down the aisle. He got up very angry, and rushed back
and kicked that dog in the ribs. The old hound went howling
down around the side of the mountain.
The young man had started back into the church when
someone tapped him on the shoulder and said, "Friend, I want to
tell you something. You've made a terrible mistake. I guess
you're the preacher, and I think you ought to know that the dog
you kicked belongs to the chairman of the board of deacons of this
church. That man's got eleven children, and he thinks as much
of that dog as he does of any young'un he's got, and I just thought
you ought to know it."
"Well," the young preacher said, "after the service I'll try to
make it right."
Immediately following the service, the young man rushed up
to the deacon and said, "I want to apologize. I lost my temper and
I did an unchristian thing. I'm sorry I kicked your dog, and I
want you to forgive me."
The old mountaineer looked at the young preacher for a long
time without changing his expression. Finally he said, "Now,
son, don't let that worry you. I'm glad you kicked that dog. I
wouldn't have had him hear that sermon for fifty dollars."
13
�MULE TROUBLE
A well-known and popular local mountain politician once
lost a very close election. His friends were all moaning and
groaning. He was down at the post office one morning to get his
mail, and somebody came up and said, "Aw, Henry, you must feel
terrible."
He said, "Yes, I do. Reminds me of the fellow that was out
one day in the pasture, trying to hem up a young mule in the
fence corner and catch him. The mule turned and kicked him in
the head and, as he said, 'busted his head wide open.' He was
rushed to the doctor, crying, 'Oh doctor, please, please don't let
me die. Do anything, but don't let me die! Please save me.'
"The doctor said, 'You're hurt pretty bad. Fll do the best I
can. You afraid to die?'
" 'Oh no,' the man said, 'it's not that. It's just the thought of
being kicked to death by a jackass that bothers me.'"
BRAYING MULE
This is one of the favorite mountain preacher stories, and
has basis in fact. I got this tale from Phil Elliott, late President
of Gardner-Webb College, and for many years himself a mountain preacher when he was a young man.
Phil Elliott had gone to Robbins, North Carolina, to be
pastor, and while he was there, he invited Brother Thad Dietz,
a greatly beloved mountain pastor known as the Prophet of the
Cowees, to come and lead the revival meeting. Brother Dietz
had learned to read mostly from the King James version of the
Bible, and while he was not college-educated, he knew the great
Biblical themes, and could preach them, Genesis to Revelation,
sometimes in almost pure Elizabethan English. He had a marvelous sense of humor. He was to do the preaching, and Brother
Will Cook was to lead the singing. Will was another great
14
�mountain preacher [along with G. N. (Napoleon) Cowan — I
believe they were the first two Jackson County preachers ever to
attend college; both were Wake Forest College graduates].
The meeting started, and Brother Dietz was preaching, and
the response was good. As they went back one night to the hotel,
Brother Dietz said to Pastor Phil Elliott, "You know, I've been
watching Will, and Will wants to preach so bad he can taste it.
Would you mind if we let him preach on Saturday night?"
A little later, Brother Dietz said to Will, "My throat's a little
scratchy. Will, reckon you could preach on Saturday night?"
Brother Dietz said later that Will rose to that just like a
mountain trout to a grasshopper.
In the meantime, Phil and Thad made an agreement that no
matter how good a sermon Will preached Saturday night, they
weren't going to say anything about it.
Saturday night came, and Will dusted off his best sermon,
and as they say in the mountains, he "preached a big un."
However, there was one brief interruption. Not everyone back
in the mountains had a car or a truck. Some brought their
families to the revival meeting in a wagon, with straight chairs
and straw in it. One farmer had hitched his team too close to the
church, and about halfway through the sermon one of the mules
started to bray. The farmer had to get up and go out and move
his team out of earshot, and then come back and take his seat
again in the congregation. But there was a good response to the
invitation after the sermon: people joined the church by letter
and profession of faith. Three or four young people came for
baptism.
The next morning, all three men were having breakfast at
the hotel—ham and eggs. Will would work up to the sermon, but
neither Phil nor Thad would say a word about it. Finally, Will
couldn't stand it any longer, and he said, "Brother Dietz, I want
you to tellme something: that mule braying last night—did that
bother the congregation?"
Phil said Brother Thad just kept sawing away at his ham
15
�and looked up over his glasses and said, "Now, Will, which one
was that?"
PANTHER TRACKS
Years ago, when my mother was just a child, she and her
dear friend Vera decided to enliven the little Webster schoolhouse. They had found a stuffed panther paw (panthers were
called "painters" in the mountains). They used the paw to make
some authentic-looking footprints in the moist earth near the
school well. At recess, they set up pretended howls of fright, and
when they were sure of everyone's attention, they pointed out
the pawprints.
The response was so much more dramatic than they had
anticipated that they dared not tell about the prank until after
they were grown. School was dismissed, and the men of the
community organized a posse, took their dogs, and tracked that
painter all the way to the top of Gribble Mountain, where they
said it got away.
THE BANTY ROOSTER
This story has its setting in Boiling Springs, North Carolina.
Our two small boys received one Christmas week a beautiful
bantam rooster and five little "banty" hens. These were gifts
from Dr. Robert Allen Dyer and his wife, Mary. Dr. Dyer, later
dean at Wake Forest University, was then professor of psychology and director of guidance at Gardner-Webb College.
We were glad to get the banties. The boys enjoyed them as
pets, and the hens supplied eggs for a long time. Finally, the only
survivor was the little banty rooster.
In order to keep the chickens, I had built a lot for them in the
16
�backyard. Theboy next door had abiggame chicken, and the two
roosters would run along opposite sides of the fence, ruffling up
their feathers and pecking and generally pretending to fight.
One day while I was sitting out on the back porch, the game
rooster backed off, flew over the fence, attacked the little banty
rooster, and was just about to kill him. I walked over and picked
up a little piece of pine limb and hit the game rooster across the
head just hard enough to flatten him out momentarily. He
jumped up, staggered, shook himself, got airborne again, and
retreated across the fence from what he evidently thought was
an attack by the banty.
The banty must have thought also that he had been the
victor, because he got up on a little pine stump and tried to crow,
but he was so tired that he fell off backwards.
Apparently neither of them realized that there had been an
unseen hand.
HEALTHY HOGS
Pork was very important in the early days, all over the South
but particularly in the mountains, not only because it provided
the household with a ready source of protein and fat, but also
because it could be so easily preserved. Although my grandfather told about curing beef, and smoking beef hams, and making
beef sausage, I never saw any of this in the smokehouse in my
day. It was generally pork that was the family's source of meat
for the entire winter. It was used for seasoning-meat, of course;
it appeared on the table as we use breakfast bacon; and the cured
ham was served on special occasions, particularly on Sunday.
Sausage, seasoned with home-grown pepper and sage — and
salt, of course — was sometimes canned and sometimes just put
into a great stone crock and covered with hot grease. Through
the cold weather it would keep very well and served as a rich
source of nourishment for the mountain family.
17
�Along about July or August, pork fat tended to turn and the
meat got strong and became too rancid for food, but the fat still
was not wasted. It was put into a washpot, along with either a
"storeboughf lye or a home-made variety. (Most mountain
people had a lye-hopper, which was a wooden bin. Into it they put
hickory and oak ashes, and either let it sit out in the rain, or
poured water over it. The result was a strong brown lye that
would take the meat off your fingers if you weren't careful.) The
mixture of pork fat and lye was cooked in the iron pot until it was
thick, then poured into pans, cut into squares, and used for soap,
especially for washing clothes.
All this is to say that the hogs which were raised so carefully
were a vital part of the family's resources.
This story, like many of the mountain tales, has to do with
the mountaineer and new-fangled notions about farming and
health.
A new county agent, who was working with the county
health officer, was driving along one day when he saw perched
on the mountainside, as if on stilts, a cabin with a long trough
that ran from the back porch down to a hog-pen which was only
about twenty-five or thirty feet away from a corner of the kitchen. There were several hogs in the pen. The mountaineer was
getting ready to have some winter meat.
The agent called him out and said, "Friend, I hate to mention
this to you, but you've got your hog-pen too close to your back door
and your well. You're going to have to move that hog-lot. This
is the most unhealthy thing I've ever seen, and something must
be done about it right away."
The mountaineer said, "I sure don't understand that. I ain't
lost a hog in forty years."
18
�THE BEEHIVE
This story is an excellent illustration of mountain humor
arising out of a situation.
It so happened that on a Saturday just before a revival, Aunt
Sarah discovered that she was low on honey. She said to Uncle
Dave, "Now, Dave, I want you and the boys to rob the bee gums
and bring me some honey because you have put it off and put it
off, and I will need it tomorrow."
Uncle Dave said that he reckoned he would do it, and he told
the boys — two boys, half-grown. This didn't please them
because they had planned to go down to Sylva. But the old man
got his bee-robbing paraphernalia, and they went out to the bee
gum. The bee gum is simply a hollow log about three feet high,
placed on a board with a hole in the bottom where the bees can
go in. Another board is placed on top of all that, with a heavy rock
to hold it down — a very uncomplicated beehive.
They started out to rob the bees. One of the boys took a long
pole, and as his daddy went past he pushed one of those beehives
over. It rolled right under his daddy's legs, and the bees just
swarmed up all over him. There wasn't much he could do except
run, and he took off through the laurel thickets. One of the boys
was telling about it later, and he said, "Friends, you could tell by
the movement of the bushes that the old man was a-laboring."
A HARD LUCK STORY
This was one of the favorite stories of my grandfather, Bob
Fisher, who for many years operated a general merchandise
store in the little community of Addie.
One day one of his mountain friends came into the store.
This particular fellow was usually very good-humored, but he
seemed to be troubled and had a long face. Finally my grandfather said to him, "Henry, you've got a long face for such a pretty
day. What's your trouble?"
19
�The man thought a minute and said, "Aw, Mr. Fisher, we've
got real trouble up at our house. You know, we didn't have but
one sow, and we're depending on that sow for our meat and lard
this winter. Mr. Fisher, she dropped nineteen of the prettiest
little pigs you've ever seen. You know what? Every one of them
little pigs died except one — and damned if it didn't die!"
HOG WITH A PEG-LEG
I have some question about the next mountain story. In
some ways it is a cruelty story, which is rather unusual, but for
the sake of the record, I shall relate it. I'm not certain of the
source, but it was either Kentucky or Arkansas.
A young county agent had heard that there was a farmer up
the road who had a hog with a peg-leg. This the agent could
hardly believe, so he drove out there to see for himself.
The farmer took him down to the hog-lot, and there was a hog
hobbling around with a well-made artificial hind leg. The agent
was fascinated. He said to the mountaineer, "I've been all the
way 'round the world, and I've seen a lot of hogs, but this is the
first one I've ever seen with an artificial leg. Is there a special
story about this?"
"Yes," the farmer said, "and I don't mind sharing it with you.
A couple of years ago — you see that stump over there? I was
cutting that tree down. I'd chopped into it, and notched it, and
I was putting my wedge in to fall it, and the wind shifted and a
gust caught it. That tree came right over on top of me. It was just
about to crush me to death, and that old hog saw it. He rooted
out of that lot and came out here and got his back under that tree
and got me enough room so that I could wiggle out from under.
I'd be a dead farmer if it hadn't been for that hog."
The county agent said, "That's a marvelous story, but it still
doesn't tell me about that artificial hind leg."
20
�"Well," the farmer said, "that's one smart hog. Another time,
just a little while after that, we'd put in one of these new-fangled
wood stoves and we didn't know how to operate it. We'd all gone
to bed, and our house caught on fire. That old hog saw it, and he
broke out of that pen again and pushed his way in, and raised
such a fuss that he woke us up and got us out of the house.
Without his help we'd all have been burned up, and the house
would have burned down. You appreciate something like that/'
The county agent said, "That's great, but you still haven't
told me why that hog has such a beautiful artficial hind leg."
The farmer said, "Man, don't you see? It ain't hard to
understand. Any hog that's done as much as that one has for me
and my family — we ain't going to eat a hog like that all at one
time."
HOW TO COOK A CATFISH
Any mountaineer knows that there are two kinds of catfish.
There is a blue catfish which, when properly dressed and cooked,
has sweet and delicious meat. There is the yellow or mud-cat
which, unless prepared in a very special way, always has the
taste of mud and the river bottom.
The only way to cook a mud-cat is to skin it carefully,
preferably the day before it is to be cooked so that it can take
some salt for at least twenty-four hours. When the fish has been
thoroughly salted, it should be dried with a towel and then split
down the middle and tacked, back down, to a piece of oak plank.
When this has been done, the catfish should be carefully
sprinkled with some big chunks of good yellow country butter.
Salt it a little more, pepper it well, cover with slices of onion, and
put on top some thin slices of bacon. The catfish then should be
put in the oven at 350 degrees and allowed to remain there for
about forty-five minutes. Do not baste, and do not open the oven.
21
�After about forty-five minutes, open the oven and poke the
catfish gently with a fork. If the meat falls away from the bone,
then remove the catfish, throw the catfish away, and eat the
board.
AT HOME IN THE ORPHANAGE
This is not a funny story, but it is memorable to me for its
human interest.
A cousin of mine from the mountains, W. C. Reid, with the
help of his wife, Millie, headed the North Carolina Baptist Orphanage for years. They were greatly loved.
A mountain family of five children had been torn up by the
death of the father in a logging accident and by the sudden death
of the mother not long afterward. Their pastor and one of the
deacons, without even telephoning the orphanage, put all the
children and their clothes into a car and drove them to the
orphanage one Sunday afternoon and left them.
Millie said later, "I didn't know what to do. We couldn't put
them in a cottage that night, so I went upstairs and made up
three beds. We had plenty of room. They were sniffing and
crying, and we finally persuaded them to eat a little—not much
— and drink some milk, and we put them to bed.
"Next morning they came down for breakfast. Fd scrambled
eggs and cooked bacon, and I had jelly and toast on the table, and
pitchers of milk. They just sat there and shook their heads.
"And I noticed one of them lookingback through the kitchen.
There was a plate of yesterday's biscuits sitting there on a side
table, and suddenly it dawned on me; I remembered what they
were probably used to having for breakfast.
"With our modern child-care theories, no case worker would
have approved, but I went back there and got them each a cup of
black coffee, stirred it about half full of sugar, and brought them
22
�those left-over biscuits. They crumbled those biscuits into the
coffee and ate like little hungry wolves."
FLOODING THE MARKET
My grandfather Fisher was noted for his community interest. Although he had little formal education himself (having
been born about the time of the Civil War), he never ceased to
plug for education and anything else that would improve the
community. He was a prosperous farmer, and in addition he
owned a big merchandise store at the foot of the Balsam Mountain. He heard that Buncombe County had engaged in something new in farming. They had employed a county farm agent
who helped the farmers improve their land and the quality of
their produce. Since Grandpa was always in favor of progress,
at his own expense he arranged to have this man come over from
Buncombe County on the train. He pushed back everything in
the feed room and prepared for all who were interested to come
and hear this young man speak. There was a fire burning in the
big old Warm Morning stove in the feed room, surrounded by a
sawdust box so that they could do their chewing and spitting.
About thirty-five or forty mountain farmers gathered skeptically to hear what this young man had to say about teaching
them to farm.
He gave them a talk about diversification of crops so that
they'd have a little something, as they say in the mountains, "to
bring them in some cash money." One of the men who had
gathered there was a well-known character by the name of John
L. Jones. John L. was a good provider, but he had a rough time
on a mountain farm over behind Dark Ridge. He sat and listened
as the man explained about soil conservation and rotating crops.
The young farm agent said, "The thing that you men really
need to do is to raise something you can sell all year long. For
example, one of the things you could raise would be frying-size
23
�chickens, and those will sell almost any time of the year."
When he had finished, Grandpa asked for remarks or observations.
The mountaineer is "not much on talking." Finally Grandpa
turned and said, "John L., what do you think about this?"
John L. rose and spit in ^e sawdust box and said, "Young
man, about them fryers, just let me tell you something—tell you
what I can do. I can go up here on the mountain. I've got a few
fryers. I can catch a half-dozen of'em and dress 'em out, and take
'em down to Sylva and glut the damn market."
THREE KINDS OF PIE
This story was told to me by a mountain preacher who has
long since gone to his rest. He enjoyed telling it, and I enjoyed
listening.
He was holding a revival meeting once in a sparsely settled
mountain community, and the preachers had been invited out to
supper away up in the head of a little cove. They made their way
up as far as they could go in a car; then they crossed a footlog, and
there suddenly, in a little clearing on the side of the mountain,
was a long, low cabin with a lean-to on the north side. As they
went in, there was that nice, clean, fresh smell of floors that had
been scrubbed with lye soap, and a fireplace that had been
freshly whitewashed. Coming from the kitchen were all those
delightful aromas associated with good mountain cooking. The
lady of the house welcomed them and assured them that supper
would be ready in just a minute. They sat down, then, at a long
wooden table with no cloth, but loaded with good mountain
vegetables, fruits, fried chicken, and ham.
She said, "Now, preacher, we don't make company out of
anybody here. Just take out and eat your supper. Eat all you
want, but just keep in mind this one thing—I've got three kinds
of dessert."
24
�In those days, the preacher said, he was mighty fond of
sweets, and he actually "pushed back" before he had finished,
and said to the good lady of the house, "I've finished my supper
now, and Fm really looking forward to the three kinds of
dessert."
She said, "Fve got three kinds, just like I told you. It's
kivered, unkivered, and crisscross, but it's all apple pie."
FOUNDERED
This story was told many times by my grandmother, and my
father told it with great relish as long as he lived.
I suppose that some in this day and generation may not be
able to appreciate all the humor of this story without an explanation of the term foundered. An animal such as a cow or hog or
horse is said to be foundered if it eats too much. At times this
term is applied humorously to human beings.
Another comment that may be needed is that in the economy
of the mountains, most people ate cornbread at least twice a day.
"Wheatbread," as it was sometimes called, was usually reserved
for breakfast and many times only for special occasions, especially if it had yeast in it, in which case it was called "ligh thread."
A very fine family—wife, husband, and about seven or eight
"young-uns"—had a little mountain farm down below where my
grandfather lived, and the whole family was inordinately fond of
hot biscuits and butter. Since they were a poor family, and wheat
was scarce, they didn't have this treat often. But in the spring
of the year up on the side of the mountain under Black Rock they
were clearing a new ground, which is hard work, and some of the
boys kept begging their mother for all the biscuits and butter
they could eat.
About the middle of the afternoon one day, their mother, who
was a good friend of my grandmother, came up and said, "Lilly,
I want you to do me a favor."
25
�My grandmother said, "Of course, if I can. What do you
want?"
She said, "How many bread pans have you got?"
Grandma said, "Oh, Fve got several."
She said, "I want to borrow every one of them, if you can
spare them. You know that crowd I've got — they've never had
enough hot buttered biscuit and sourwood honey. We robbed the
beehives, and we've got some of the prettiest, clearest sourwood
honey we've ever had. I'll bring you some when I bring the pans
back. Tonight I'm going to founder them on biscuits and honey.
I'm going to feed them all they can eat. I'm going to need every
pan you've got."
That night Mrs. Jones flew in and got a good fire going in that
old Foster range, and she made her biscuits. She had great
crocks of yellow butter, and she had plenty of sourwood honey
and molasses. They came in from the field, went straight to the
back porch and washed their hands and faces, came in and sat
down, and they all just ate until they fell away from the table.
Mrs. Jones told my grandmother next day, "I foundered 'em
all right. I thought that was the last Fd hear of it. They ate until
I didn't think they would ever want to see another biscuit. They
went to bed, and got up this morning and started back to the new
ground. You know that littlest boy of mine? On the way out, he
pulled me by the apron and said, 'Ma, how about foundering us
again tonight on honey and hot biscuits?'"
CIPHERING
Another story I should like to pass on has to do with one of
my great-grandfathers, who was a merchant and a man of
property. He had done very well for his time and day and
generation. He had one slight handicap, though, that continues
to be something of an embarrassment to the family. There was
26
�little schooling to be had when he was growing up during the
Civil War, and as a matter of fact, the old man couldn't read and
write.
A business man came in from Atlanta, and he found out that
old man Davey couldn't read and write. While staying at the
local boarding house, he "made his bragf that he would trim the
old man in a trade.
He stayed for three or four days, but things didn't work out
as he had planned. His friends almost had to take up money to
get him out of town. As they were puttinghim on the stagecoach,
someone asked him about how he had fared with his trade. He
said, "Friends, I'll be frank with you. It is true that the old man
Davey can't read and write, but friends, he can cipher to beat
hell."
COMPANY NUISANCE
This story was a favorite of my Uncle David Brown, and he
told it of his grandfather, a prosperous and well-known farmer
who lived in one of the first frame houses in Jackson County
(which is still standing). It was located on a route where many
"drummers" and friends and relatives found it convenient to
come by and spend the night. Since he was a very hospitable
person, there were a few who really abused the privilege.
There was one man — no relation to the family whatsoever
— who had become something of a nuisance. He would drop by
sometimes and stay four days at a time and expect to be fed and
bedded himself, and also have feed furnished for his horse.
One night after supper they were sitting out on the front
porch, having their after-supper chew of tobacco and waiting for
dark and bedtime. The guest who had already outstayed his
welcome was trying to strike up a conversation. He finally spit
and said, "Well, Mr. Brown, there's a lot of people coming and
going here. I guess all these comers and goers sorta worry you
sometimes."
27
�Grandfather Brown said, "Friend, it's not the comers and
goers that bother me; it's these comers and stayers."
THE BIRTHDAY PRESENT
Games came in seasons for children in the mountains, and
in the spring a boy had no social status at all unless he had plenty
of marbles. For that reason the paper sack that Uncle Lewis
Broyles had handed me for my eighth birthday had been a huge
disappointment. It was full of marshmallows.
My thanks were brief, and I carried my present down to the
bridge over the Tuckasegee River at Webster, where I hung over
the rail for awhile and brooded about adults who had forgotten
how important marbles are. I even considered dropping the
mar shmallows into the stream. However, I decided to make a
concession and eat one.
It was at that point that I discovered that Uncle Lewis had
not forgotten his boyhood after all. He had hidden a beautiful
marble in every one of those marshmallows, and made my eighth
birthday one of the most memorable of my life.
AIN'T HE GROWED?
The following story is one of my personal experiences that I
cherish.
As a young man I was very fond of Aunt Sarah. She was no
relative of mine, but she was "Aunt Sarah" to all the young
people. I think the main reason we loved her was that she always
had a jar of sugar cookies, and when we'd come by for any
occasion, she always managed to slip one into our hand and two
for our pockets.
After I had left my little mountain community where I was
28
�born, and had been gone many years, I was invited back to hold
a revival meeting at the River Hill Baptist Church. Uncle Will
Cook was pastor, and I had really looked forward to renewing old
acquaintances. He said to me one day, "We ought to go up on the
mountain. There's somebody I want you to see: it's Aunt Sarah."
I said, "Isn't it some surprise that Aunt Sarah is still living?"
"Yes," he said, "she's still living and enjoying life. I know
she'll be glad to see you." So we went up on the mountain, parked
our car, and walked up a steep front yard. Aunt Sarah was
sitting in her rocking chair on one end of the porch in the shade,
stringing Kentucky Wonder beans. It was a hot day, and she
had pushed her glasses up on her head.
Uncle Will said, "Aunt Sarah, this is the preacher. I've got
somebody here to see you. Do you know who this is?"
Aunt Sarah pulled her glasses down and looked at me
intently for a few seconds, and then a great smile broke over her
face. "Why," she said, "it's Ben Coleman Fisher. Ain't he
growed!"
BETWEEN LOUISVILLE AND FRANKFORT
This is a true story told to me by my good friend and former
colleague, Bill Strickland, who was for some years professor of
New Testament at Southeastern Baptist Theological Seminary
and later became dean of the College of Arts and Sciences at
Appalachian State University at Boone, North Carolina.
While he was still a student at Southern Baptist Seminary
in Louisville, Kentucky, Bill was pastor of a little church near
Frankfort. One day two members of his church hired a friend
who owned a truck to take some young steers to Louisville so that
they could sell them at the Bourbon Stock Market there.
They invited a neighbor who could neither read nor write
and had never been beyond the county line to accompany them
29
�on the sixty-mile trip. As they made their way to Louisville, the
neighbor talked incessantly. Following the sale of the steers and
a good lunch they headed for home. The neighbor was absolutely
silent until the truck passed through the town of Shelbyviile
when all of a sudden he excitedly broke the silence by saying:
"Fellows, let me tell you something. If there's as much land on
the other side of Louisville as there is between Frankfort and
Louisville, this is a big world!"
GETTING OUT THE STRAIGHT BOARD
This story again illustrates something of the wisdom of the
mountaineer.
On a good-sized mountain farm worked a very good carpenter who never would clean up his shop. The floor was always
covered with scraps of wood, shavings, and sawdust. The man
for whom he worked had complained about the clutter a time or
two, but he really spoke sharply about it one morning when he
came in and found the shop almost knee-deep.
The carpenter was busy shaping a board for the tailgate of
a wagon. He looked up slowly, took his plane off the board, and
let it swing down to his side as he gave a big sigh. "Brother," he
said, "is there anything wrong with the work?"
"No, it's just that you're so —just look at all those shavings
on the floor, and that sawdust. This place hasn't been swept."
"Well," the carpenter said, "just to tell you the truth, it takes
a heap of shavings to get out one straight board."
f
SIMMONS
This story concerns my cousin and lifelong friend Mack Hall.
It is reprinted from Historic Webster (Winter 1982) Volume VIII,
Number 4.
30
�Uncle Dick Hall occasionally used to make a corn crop in
Muster-ground Hollow, which was just over the hill from Aunt
Mollie Fisher's home. When he and his boys came to work the
crop, Aunt Lela would send a huge dinner basket, which would
always contain, among other things, some half-moon, fried
dried-apple pies, of which I was inordinately fond. I would make
it a point to get up to the Muster-ground Hollow just a little while
before they would sit down under some spreading oak trees to
have their dinner.
Mack, the oldest boy, said to me one day, "Ben Coleman, do
you like persimmons?"
I said, "I don't know—I never tried one."
He said, "They sure are tasty before dinner. Would you like
one?"
Mack got up, walked over to a small tree, pulled off a green
persimmon, and handed it to me. I must have been about six
years old. I popped the green persimmon into my mouth, bit
down on it, and promptly spit it out.
Mack said, "Ah, pshaw. I forgot to peel it."
So Mack got another green persimmon and peeled it very
carefully. By the time I had chewed it up, my mouth was so
puckered that I couldn't even spit it out, and I set up a fearful
howl. I went running home, and my mother was "hopping mad,"
as they say in the mountains. She was "in a hissy!" She went
charging up to the new ground after Mack. It took Uncle Dick
some little time to arrange a cease-fire, but the truce lasted more
than half a century.
THAT'S NO REASON
When my good friend Dr. Dafydd Davies, then chairman of
the faculty of theology of the University of Wales and principal
of South Wales Baptist College, Cardiff, heard some of my
31
�mountain stories at an international conference at Ridgecrest,
North Carolina, he said he had a good mountain story he wanted
to share from Wales.
The city of Swansea, forty miles west of Cardiff, as a result
of extensive industrial development within its boundaries, found
itself short of an adequate water supply to meet all its needs,
especially during the dry seasons. The government in Britain
can act much more swiftly than ours in condemning land, using
the old English right of public domain. The Swansea city fathers
moved with great speed toward condemning a little valley and
throwing a dam across it to provide a new reservoir. The
implementation of this plan would have destroyed a village with
a small Baptist church and a cemetery. Basic proceedings were
already under way, and property owners had been notified.
The Welsh Baptist preacher was determined that it should
not happen, and put on a preservation campaign with such vigor
that he attracted the attention of the British Broadcasting
Corporation, who invited him to debate the matter one Sunday
afternoon on television.
In the heat of the debate, the television interviewer said,
"And besides everything else, it's not a very pretty little valley."
"Sir,* the preacher fired back, "by no stretch of the imagination could you say that my wife is pretty, but that's no reason to
drown her!"
The little valley is still there.
A PROBLEM IN COMMUNICATION
Humorous situations usually arise basically from fact, and
this story could not have been invented — it actually happened,
and has been passed on from my great-uncle through our family.
Into the town of Sylva, North Carolina, located deep in the
heart of the Smoky Mountains, came a man by the name of Bill,
32
�who opened up a combination tombstone shop and harness shop.
He hadn't been there long when a big strapping mountaineer,
whom we shall call Tom, rode into Sylva one Saturday morning
on a big bay mare. Tom was a well-known citizen in the
community. He stood six feet six in his stocking feet, weighed
over two hundred fifty pounds, and didn't have one ounce of fat
on him. He had something wrong with his saddle, andhe'dheard
that there was a man in town who had opened a harness shop and
could fix it.
Now there was something unusual about both of these men.
Bill, who ran the combination tombstone factory and harness
shop, was deaf and dumb, and no one had told Tom about this.
And Tom couldn't read or write.
He rode to the harness shop, got off his horse, strode over to
Bill, and began to tell him how he wanted his saddle mended.
Bill commenced immediately to make some gestures to ward his
ears and lips to show that he couldn't hear and couldn't talk. He
wrote something on a piece of paper and handed it to Tom. Tom
looked at the piece of paper, and then he said, "Friend, this is a
mess. This is a real mess. You can write, and I can't read it. I
can talk, and you can't hear it. Just fix this saddle, and I'll be
back in about an hour."
I DON'T KNOW WHERE WE'RE GOING
It seems that two tall mountain boys were making their way
to another part of the county one Saturday and got into unfamiliar territory. They came to a place where there was a fork in the
road, and three orfour signspointingthis way andthat way. One
old boy stood there and looked at the signs and said, "Friend,
we've got us a problem. You know, I can read figures, but I can't
read writin'. I know how far it is, but I don't know where we're
going."
33
�TOO HOT TO HANDLE
One Saturday afternoon a blacksmith in a small mountain
town had just finished shaping a horseshoe on his forge. He had,
of course, first heated it red hot, shaped it very carefully to fit the
horse's hoof, and then — with a pair of iron tongs — plunged the
horseshoe quickly into a tub of water.
He had just pulled it out and thrown it on a bench where it
was continuing to cool when an old mountain boy came shambling into the blacksmith's shop to look around. The boy walked
over to the bench and picked up that horseshoe. It was still very
hot, and he threw it down quickly and shook his hand hard.
The blacksmith looked over and said, "Son, that was too hot
for you to handle, wasn't it?"
The boy said, "No, sir, it just doesn't take me very long to look
at a horseshoe."
A WHOLE KEGFUL
My grandfather had a country store at Addie, North Carolina, and one day a small boy came in just after a keg of maple
sugar had been opened and set in front of the counter. The boy
kept eying it, and finally Granddaddy Bob said, "Would you like
to taste that?"
"Mr. Fisher," said the boy, "I could eat that whole keg."
My grandfather was wise as well as kind. He said, "Well, eat
all you can."
He had to go into the back room to fill a jug of kerosene for
a customer, and when he came back, he found the boy ready to
leave, licking his fingers and wiping them on his overalls. There
was only a small depression in the very center of the keg, where
the boy had hollowed out a little of the pure sugar.
34
�"I thought you were going to eat the whole kegful," Granddaddy said.
"Mr. Fisher," the boy replied, "I already ate all that was any
good."
THE UMPIRE
The story that follows illustrates the quick wit and natural
humor of the mountaineer.
A young man came down off the mountain into the valley
looking for work. He had no cash, and he couldn't find a job at
first. Finally, he talked a second time to the owner of the general
store, who said, "Well, I still don't have anything, but do you
know anything about baseball?"
"Yep," was the reply.
"Have you ever refereed a baseball game?"
"Yes, I've called a few games."
"Well," the storekeeper said, "we're having a ball game here
tonight. Our umpire is sick, and we haven't been able to find
anybody to take his place. We're paying ten dollars."
"Oh, man," the boy said, "for ten dollars — yes, I'll call that
game."
That night the two teams came in and took their positions on
the field, the pitcher went to the mound, the catcher crouched
behind the plate, and the batter stepped up. The mountaineer
had put on his breast protector and face mask, turned his cap
around backwards, and picked up his mitt. He "hunkered down,"
and the pitcher wound up and fired a ball. It went across the
plate, and the young mountaineer called, "Strike one!"
At that, the batter whirled around and chewed him out, the
manager jumped off the bench, and they were about to mob him.
35
�He got that strife settled. The pitcher cut loose again and
threw another fast ball. The old mountain boy shouted, "Ball
one!"
The pitcher tore off the mound and dashed over to dispute
the call, and the young umpire thought the pitcher was going to
strike him. He was a little shaken, but he managed to get the
pitcher back on the mound, and he got down behind the plate
again. When the pitcher cut loose another ball, the mountain boy
stood up and said, "Too!"
Here came the catcher and the batter and everybody else:
"What do you mean by twoT
He said, "Friends, it's just too close to call."
MERCIFUL JUSTICE
This is a different kind of story, but it says a great deal about
mountain people. Besides having the gift of humor, they're bighearted and neighborly.
My cousin, Dan Moore, for many years was a circuit court
judge in western North Carolina. He later became governor of
the state and then served on the North Carolina Supreme Court.
He was holding civil court once in Waynesville, and not far
from that city, in a small mountain community, was a Baptist
church whose members had added on some Sunday School
rooms. The contractor had said that when they got down to the
last thousand dollars, he'd donate that. The contractor was
killed in an accident, but the congregation felt that they didn't
owe the money and had refused to pay it. However, the estate
sued the church; consequently the case had to be tried.
It came to court, and Dan Moore told me, "I sat on the bench,
and it seemed a very clear-cut case; it didn't take long for it to go
to the jury. I instructed the jury," he said, "and it didn't seem to
me that there was much doubt that the jury was going to have
36
�to find in favor of the plaintiff, and the little church was going to
have to pay that money.''
He said the jury was gone, and gone, and gone. An hour
passed, and they were still gone, and he said, "I just couldn't
understand it. I was afraid we were going to have a hung jury,
and I was about ready to send the bailiff to find out what was
going on."
Finally, they filed back in, and the foreman of the jury stood
up and said, "Judge —."
Judge Moore said, "Wait just a minute. Have you reached a
verdict?"
"Yes, we have, but I wonder if I could make a statement?"
The judge said, "Certainly. Go ahead."
"Well,"he said, "Judge, it didn't take us ten minutes to decide
the case. It was very clear-cut. We found for the plaintiff, and
the little church is going to have to pay this thousand dollars.
But," he said, "the reason we've been out so long is that we've
been making that money up, and we're still short about two
hundred dollars. I wonder if we could take an offering here in the
courtroom?"
Dan said, "They passed a hat to me first, and we passed hats
around through the courtroom, and we oversubscribed that
thousand dollars."
This is a mountain idea of justice tempered with mercy.
WHUPPED OR KILLED
Another good story connected with my cousin Dan Moore is
an excellent illustration of several aspects of human nature.
Dan Moore was holding court once in Sylva, and it seems
that a group of men had been in a poker game in a little sawmill
town, and had got "roaring drunk." In the process, one man had
37
�taken his knife and cut a fellow up so badly that he died. The
attacker was tried for manslaughter and convicted, and he got
five to seven years in the state penitentiary. This was the first
time the old boy had ever been in any trouble, and so the governor
reduced his sentence, and, with time off for good behavior, he
was in prison only a couple of years.
The day before he was to get out, he got hold of a paper
somehow, and saw that Dan Moore was in Raleigh along with his
wife, Jeanelle, for some kind of judiciary meeting. He learned
that they were staying at the Sir Walter Hotel. As soon as he got
out of prison, he went down and stood in front of the hotel, and
when he saw Dan Moore coming, he said, "Judge, do you
remember me?"
Dan looked at him a minute and said, "Yes, I believe you're
from up near Sylva.*
He said, "Yes, Judge, Fm the man you sent down here for
cutting that man up." And he added, "You know I don't get rich
working down here. I understand you're going back to Sylva, and
I just wonder if I could get a ride with you back home."
Dan said, "Certainly, I'd be glad to have you."
When his wife, Jeanelle, found out about that, she was
terrified, but it was already done, as she told it later. She said,
"We got ready to go, and that man was still there. He got in the
back seat, and I got in the front with Dan. I sat at an angle, and
didn't take my eyes off him. I had a crick in my neck for a week.
It's nearly three hundred miles from Raleigh on up to Sylva, but
we made it all right. We got up on top of the Balsam Mountains,
and started down at a place called Dark Ridge, and he said, "All
right, Judge, now pull over.'"
Jeanelle said, "I thought, 'Here it is. It's coming now.'"
She said he got out and stretched himself and walked around
and said, "Well, Judge, you can let me out here, and I can cut
right across the mountains, and I'll be home with my family
before you can be in Sylva. I just appreciate what you've done for
me so much," he said. "You know I don't have any money, but I
38
�just want you to know one thing: if there's ever any time that you
want anybody whupped or killed, you just let me know."
THE NEW JAIL
This story is, as a matter of fact, a true one, and illustrates
the keen sense of humor of the mountaineer and his ability to
picture a ridiculous situation in an easy manner.
I shall not name the county or the county seat, but in a little
mountain town the grand jury met and after an inspection
condemned the county jail, and ordered the commissioners to
build a new one.
The commissioners knew they had the court order, and knew
the jail should be condemned, but they were short of money.
They argued and argued. Finally one old mountaineer got up
and said, "Brethren, we can't stay here all day. I want to make
a motion."
The chairman said, "Well, John, that is what we are here for.
You just go ahead and make your motion."
"Well," he said, "Mr. Chairman of the County Board of
Commissioners, I want to make the following motion: One, I
move, sir, that, as the grand jury has directed, we tear down the
old jail. Two, I move that we build the new jail out of the
materials of the old jail. Three, I move, sir, that we use the old
jail until the new jail is ready."
The motion passed, and the meeting was adjourned.
WHERE DO YOU LIVE?
We had stopped at a small country store with a gas pump,
and the mountain storekeeper was filling the tank. He watched
39
�our two small boys working off the energy that had been pent up
during the car trip; and as they coasted around, he asked,
"Where do you come from, boys?"
"Boiling Springs,* they both replied.
"Where's that?" he asked. They were too little to know how
to identify their home town on the map.
"Is it east or west of here?" They didn't know that either.
"How many miles away?" They had no idea how far we had
traveled that day.
But a mountaineer is resourceful. "Well, boys, where do you
get your hair cut?"
"Shelby," they chorused, and the problem was solved.
CATALOOCHEE BAPTIST CHURCH
This story happened not far from Waynesville, North Carolina, in the heart of the Cataloochee country, which was once one
of the rougher, wilder sections of Hay wood County.
Brother Thad Dietz and Phil Elliott were on their way one
Sunday morning to preach and lead the singing at a revival
meeting at Cataloochee Baptist Church. I have mentioned both
these men elsewhere in this book. Brother Dietz was a great
mountain preacher, who — as they say back in "them thar hills"
—had "pastored" two generations of my family and was greatly
loved by all the people in the coves and hollows. He lived by the
Bible and out of the love of his heart for his people. Phil Elliott,
who later became president of Gardner-Webb College, was in his
younger days another great mountain preacher. He taught
English at what is now Western Carolina University, and he was
a master storyteller.
As Phil and Brother Thad drove deeper into the territory,
they became completely lost, and it was getting on toward
40
�preaching time. Just about the time they were despairing of
what to do, they saw a long, tall mountaineer loping down the
road, and they pulled over as they approached him. He had
about three or four days' growth of beard, and was wearing
overalls and a blue shirt; his hat was pulled down over his ears.
He said, "Howdy, fellas.''
They said, "How do you do, sir. We were wondering how to
reach the Cataloochee Baptist Church. Are we anywhere close?"
The mountaineer spit, scratched his head, and said, "Well,
friends, I'll just have to tell you this: it's a way hellward from
here."
REACHING HIGH
The mountaineer has often been depicted as shiftless and
lazy, and this is absolutely untrue — a lazy mountaineer is a
very, very rare exception. However, there were some exceptions,
as there are in any community. This story was passed on by an
uncle of mine.
Living in an old frame house on the upper side of my uncle's
farm was a man not noted for his energy, for working, or even for
paying his rent, but my uncle let him live there. If this man had
a little meal and some "side meat" and a little chewing tobacco,
he figured that he could make the rest by fishing and hunting.
My uncle was driving by one day in his buggy, and he noticed
something unusual about that house. He turned around, went
back, and discovered that the weather-boarding on the side of
the house, all the way up to the top of the window frame, was
missing. He knew what had happened, and he got out of his
buggy and called this man out into the yard and said, "John, the
woods is just full of kindling, and you are too lazy to go get it. You
have burned the siding offmy house for kindling. Look, man, you
have taken it off all the way up to the top of that window frame."
41
�Old John looked my uncle straight in the eye and said,
"Frank, don't blame me. That is as high as I could reach."
NOT SO STUPID
I heard this latter-day story a good many years ago in
Jackson County, at an associational meeting.
It seems that a psychologist was spending his summer
vacation there. He was a man of great sophistication and
education — he'd published a number of books — and he was
fascinated with mountain people. He considered himself several
cuts above them, and he wasn't quite certain how bright they
were. They seemed to him to be ignorant and primitive, but he
liked to listen to them talk.
While he was out for his constitutional one morning, strolling along, he met an old mountain boy who talked with a drawl,
and had on a pair of overalls, a floppy straw hat, and brogan
shoes with no socks. "Let's stop a minute," the psychologist said.
"I'd like to talk to you."
The boy said, "Well, I've got a little time. They's a couple of
stumps here. Let's just sit and talk a spell."
The psychologist began, "How long have you lived here in
the mountains?"
"Well, I was born and raised here. I been here all my life."
The psychologist said, "Do you mind if I ask you a few
questions — give you a little psychology test?"
"What's a psychology test?"
"Well, it's a sort of test of the mind. It shows whether you're
quick or slow."
The old boy said, "Well, I reckon I'm a little slow, but I've
managed to do all right. I make a living and pay my debts."
The psychologist asked the boy a few general questions
42
�about where he lived, the size of his family, and so on, and then
he really got down to the little psychological test: "First of all,
how many fingers do you see?"
He held up three fingers, and the mountaineer said, "I see
one — two — I see three."
"Listen carefully: what would happen if I put out your eyes?"
The old boy thought a minute. "Well," he said, "mister, if you
put out my eyes, I couldn't see."
"You're doing fine," the psychologist said. "Now, if I cut off
your ears, what would happen?"
The old boy thought again and said, "Friend, if you cut off my
ears, I reckon I couldn't see."
The psychologist said, "Now wait a minute. Let's start over.
You know that's not right. How many fingers do you see?"
The boy said, "I see three."
"Listen carefully: what would happen if I put out your eyes?"
"Mister, I couldn't see."
"Now," the psychologist said, "listen one more time. What
would happen if I cut off your ears?"
The boy repeated, "Friend, if you cut my ears off, I couldn't
see."
"Well!" the psychologist said. "Now, young man, you know
better than that. What do you mean, if your ears were cut off, you
couldn't see?"
The boy said, "Friend, if you cut my ears off, my hat drops
down over my eyes, and I can't see!"
THE PARACHUTE
This story pokes a little fun at expertise.
An old mountain boy had never been up in an airplane and
43
�said he never intended to go. But someone came into the
community with a small open-cockpit plane, and almost everyone in that little village went for a ride, circled the pasture, and
landed. They all seemed to enjoy it, and they kept coaxing this
old boy, but he said, "No, I'm not going up there. What happens
is that a man could get killed."
"Oh," they said, "it's perfectly safe. We've got a parachute for
you. If anything happens, you just jerk that ripcord, and you'll
float right to the ground."
"Well," the old boy said, "if you've got a parachute and you
think it's safe, I just might try it."
They talked him into getting into the plane, but in the
process they forgot two very important details: they failed to put
his seat-belt on, and they forgot to tell him how to open that
parachute.
The pilot took off, circled the field two or three times, and
when they got up to about seven or eight thousand feet, he said
to that old mountain boy, "Friend, how are you doing?"
"Oh," he said, "this is great! I wish I'd tried it before."
"Well," the pilot said, "now we're going back to the field, and
I'm going to have to make a pretty sharp turn, so hold on."
The pilot banked the plane rather steeply, and since his
passenger's seat-belt hadn't been fastened, the old mountain boy
fell out. He was picking up speed and clawing around because
he didn't know how to open that parachute. About that time, he
looked down, and here came a little fellow coming right up, and
whizzing by him. As the fellow passed him, the mountain boy
said, "Friend, do you know anything about opening a parachute?"
The fellow looked back down and said, "No, sir. Do you know
anything about a gas heater?"
44
�NEVER WENT TO COLLEGE MYSELF
This is not really a mountain story, but Fm certain that the
old man chiefly involved must have had ancestors who moved
from the mountains to the flatlands of eastern North Carolina.
At any rate, shortly after we moved to Wake Forest, North
Carolina, where I joined the administration and faculty of
Southeastern Baptist Theological Seminary, I had occasion to
make the short trip to Raleigh, North Carolina (which is, of
course, the state capital). I was driving a vintage Pontiac with
a rather uncertain gas gauge. I had driven about six or seven
miles when the unmistakable sputter began to occur, and I knew
that I was out of gas. I looked around quickly; to my right there
stood a farmhouse and what appeared to be a gas pump near an
outbuilding. I wheeled into a dirt road and had just enough
momentum to coast up almost even with the gas tank. There was
an old man sitting on the step of what appeared to be a corncrib.
He was whittling. Sol got out to explain to him my predicament.
I said, "Sir, my name is Ben Fisher. I teach over here at
Southeastern Seminary at Wake Forest, and Fm out of gas. I see
you have a gas pump here, and I was wondering whether you
could just sell me a couple of gallons so that Fd have enough to
get to a gas station."
The old man got up slowly, put his stick down, closed up his
knife on the palm of his hand and slipped it into his pocket,
brushed off his overalls, and said, "Yeah, I guess I could." We
pushed the car up to where he could get the nozzle into the tank,
and he put out a couple of gallons of gas. In those days a gallon
of gas was not very expensive (I think the whole deal didn't
amount to more than sixty cents).
I paid him, and he carefully pocketed the money, and I said,
"I surely do thank you."
He looked straight at me a minute and said, "You say you're
over here at Wake Forest?"
And I said, "That's right."
45
�"Well," he said, ''friend, I've never been to college myself, but
Fve always managed to keep gas in my car."
ON SMOKING
This story is another from my own Jackson County, and it
was told by Brother Thad Dietz, whom I have mentioned elsewhere in this book.
There came to the church a young pastor who was down on
the use of tobacco in all its evil forms. He kept preaching about
it. He had a sermon on dancing, too, and he was against most of
the colleges, but smoking was a sin he denounced often. Finally
the deacons met at the home of Brother Dietz, who had retired
and built a house not far from the Scott's Creek church.
The deacons were of a mind to tell the young man that
perhaps he had the wrong church. Brother Thad said, "Oh,
brethren, he's young, and he needs all the help he can get. Now
you know we dip, and chew, and smoke, and we're not going to
stop. Let's just drag it to death. He'll get tired of it."
Not long afterward, one Sunday morning Brother Dietz
came into church. It was impossible not to know when he came
in, because in his vest-pocket, as always, he had an old pipe half
full of half-smoked tobacco, and in the pocket on the other side
were his matches. The pastor's sermon subject was tobacco
again, and several times when he said, "I don't see how a
Christian smokes," he looked straight at Brother Dietz.
Outside after church, Brother Thad took that old pipe and
packed it full of tobacco, took out two matches, and motioned to
the young preacher to come over. He raked those two matches
along the seat of his pants, and covered everybody nearby with
blue tobacco smoke, and then fanned it away. "Now," he said, "I
want to show you how a Christian smokes."
46
�CHEWING TOBACCO
Most of the old-time mountain preachers not only raised
tobacco but they chewed it, dipped it, smoked it, and sometimes
even sniffed it. It was considered a staple household item, and
many mountain people believed that tobacco, in addition to
giving enjoyment in its use, also possessed an untold number of
medicinal qualities.
However, there moved into a mountain community a younger
preacher who had other ideas about the use of tobacco. He took
every occasion to denounce it from the pulpit — he talked to
individuals about it — in fact, sought to eliminate its use altogether, without too much success. It took an old mountain
preacher to give him his "comeuppance."
One afternoon at an associational meeting the young man
went up to the old preacher and said, "Sir, I don't see how you can
chew tobacco and preach the gospel."
The old mountaineer flushed; he looked at the ground, and
he looked slowly up at the sky; he moved his cud of tobacco from
one side of his mouth to the other, scratched the stubble on his
chin a little, looked at the young man and said thoughtfully,
"Well, son, I can tell you this: it sure does beat preaching tobacco
and chewing the gospel."
THE BEST MAN IN THE COMMUNITY
This story, I believe, came originally from the Madison
County area in North Carolina, where it seems there lived a man
who took inordinate pride in his physique, his strength, and his
ability to "lick" any man in the surrounding countryside. He had
heard that across the mountain there was a man who had never
been defeated in a fight. So he decided he ought to do something
about that situation.
He got up early one morning, having nothing better to do,
saddled his mule, and rode across the mountain. Down in the
47
�valley he came to a crossroad where there was a little mountain
store. He got off and went in to see the storekeeper, and said,
"Friend, I understand that there's a man in this community who
says that he can whip any man in the world and has never lost
a fight."
The old storekeeper studied a minute and said, "Well, I think
you must be talking about my friend who lives right up here at
the head of this hollow. I think he's breaking new ground. You
just follow that trail, and there's a fence around one side of that
new ground. Just ride all the way around until you come to the
end of that fence, and you'll catch him out there in the field."
The man thanked him, got on the mule, went on up to the
head of the hollow, and found the man out there plowing the new
ground. He rode along that fence until he came to the end of it,
turned into the field where the man was plowing, and as he got
off his mule, he said to the plowman, "Friend, they tell me that
you're the best man in this community."
The plowman stopped a minute and said, "Well, that's what
they say."
"I'm here to challenge that," he said. "I've come here to whup
you. I'm going to whup you good."
The plowman said, "Well, we'll see." He very carefully folded
up his lines, hung them on the hames, and grabbed that man and
just wiped up the ground with him. He whipped him every way
that a man can be whipped and finally, he just carried the man
over and threw him across that barbed-wire fence, right out into
the middle of the trail.
The man got up and dusted himself off, and the plowman
said, "Stranger, is there anything else I can do for you?"
The man kept brushing himself off, and said at last, "Yes,
would you mind pitching me my mule?"
48
�DRIVING A NAIL
This is a good illustration of the way mountain humor and
common sense can often be used to relieve tense situations.
This story has its origin in a little Baptist church on the side
of Balsam Mountain. It took place one night during a stormy
church session. One particular deacon thought the only way to
solve a problem was to get up and take the hide and hair off
everything and everybody in sight. When he had finally vented
all his spleen, a wise old fellow-deacon got up and calmly
remarked, "Brother Jones, we love you, but I'm going to say
something to you that I've been wanting to say a long time. Do
you know what your trouble is, Henry? You don't know how to
drive a nail in a board without busting the plank."
ANVILS
This story came from eastern Kentucky.
Back before the railroads or any other form of transportation
except boat or horse or mule power, an old mountain boy who had
had a hard winter went from high up in the Cumberland
Mountains down to a little community on the Cumberland River
to make some "cash money for spending." He looked all over the
little town, and the only thing he could get to do was unloading
a barge that had just come in. In those days the pay was about
twenty-five cents an hour. Among other items on the barge were
several dozen anvils for blacksmith shops. These anvils weighed
about a hundred and fifty or two hundred pounds each. The
merchant said, "If you'll unload these anvils, Fll give you a dollar
an hour."
This old mountaineer was tall and rangy, well-muscled and
very strong. He approached his job with enthusiasm. He
marched up the gangplank and down onto the deck, and picked
up one of those hundred-and-fifty-pound anvils in each hand.
49
�Then he started off the barge. About the middle of the gangplank, with his weight plus the weight of the anvils, the gangplank broke, and he fell into about thirty or forty feet of that
muddy river water. He was thrashing around down there, and
finally he yelled, "Listen, fellers, if somebody don't help me soon,
Fm going to have to let one of these go."
ON NAGGIN*
This is one of several stories told on Uncle Dave Norman, and
presumed to be true.
Uncle Dave was a well-known and well-loved mountain
preacher. His people seldom, if ever, caught a "mess" offish or
killed a deer without sharing with him, and when their gardens
or their crops came in, they were generous.
Uncle Dave's wife was known as Aunt Sarah. They sometimes disagreed, as husbands and wives are wont to do. One
morning Uncle Dave was up about the place, getting in some
firewood and filling up the reservoir on the stove. He and Aunt
Sarah were having an argument, and she was getting the better
of him. He turned to her and said, "Sarah, you want me to tell
you something? Honey, you've worried me and nagged me till,
to tell you the truth, I may be the meanest of the two."
SWEARING A CHARACTER
Uncle Dave was a good mountain preacher who was known
far and wide for his kindness and for his availability in times of
trouble. One Monday morning about daylight, long before most
people had got out of their beds, a young man knocked on the
front door of this mountain preacher's home. Uncle Dave
appeared, scratching his head and saying, "Well, son, what can
I do for you?"
50
�The young man said with great seriousness, "Uncle Dave,
I'm in a heap of trouble and I need your help. They've took out
a warrant for me, and I've got to go down to Sylva-town to
recorder's court and stand trial at ten o'clock; I was just awondering if you could come down and swear me a character?"
Uncle Dave thought a minute and said, "Son, now I'll just be
frank with you. You've been mighty good to me. When you killed
a deer, you've brought me a good roast; when you've caught fish,
you've shared your catch; when you've found a wild honey tree,
you've brought me honey; you're not a bad boy, and I want to help
you. I tell you what I'm going to do. I'm going down to Sylva to
that courthouse, and I'm going to get up on that witness stand,
and I'm going to tell the truth just as long as I can; and son, if the
occasion calls for it, I'll rise a little."
A WORD FOR IT
This is a "one-liner" that deserves to be included in a
collection of mountain stories.
There was a mountain preacher who had not had a college
education, but who knew the difference between Baptist doctrine and the narrow teachings that sometimes characterized
early radio preachers, and after listening to one of them for
awhile, he was heard to observe: "Brethren, that is one ignorant
ramus."
THE PULPIT ROBE
This is another story that probably has factual basis.
A small mountain community had brought in several factories and other enterprises, and had prospered. Instead of just
one little Baptist church as they'd always had, they now had a
51
�Methodist, a Lutheran, and even an Episcopal church. They
decided to have a union service on Easter, and they also made an
agreement that the ministers would wear robes.
The old Baptist preacher "didn't know so much about that."
He had never worn a robe, and he "allowed as how" he wasn't
going to start now, but they talked to him, and after he thought
it over, he said, "Oh, well, it won't do any harm one time. Ill put
one of them things on."
They all gathered and had a very fine service, and the old
mountain preacher participated. When they came out, one of the
other ministers said to him, "Now, David, wearing that robe
wasn't too bad. What do you think about it?"
"Well," David said, "I reckon it's all right, but just to tell you
the truth, pants are warmer."
THE PREACHER WHO PRESSED HIS LUCK
I first met Monsignor John F. Murphy (Father Jack) when
he was executive director of the Association of Catholic Colleges
and Universities. In conferences on Christian higher education,
with uncanny regularity, we found ourselves in agreement on
almost every substantive issue, and formed a lasting friendship.
He told me the following story with an Irish Catholic setting. I
have adapted it for many of my audiences into a Baptist setting.
It seems that a young mountain preacher was called to
become pastor of a small church. He had not even had time to
unpack his furniture when an old deacon came to say, "One of our
members just died of a heart attack, and the family wants you to
hold the funeral service."
When the time came, the young preacher mounted his pulpit
and took his congregation with a great Biblical sermon through
the pearly gates, down the streets of gold, right up to the throne
of grace. Then he paused a minute and said, "I didn't know this
52
�brother, and I don't like to put anyone away without having
someone say a few kind words. I'm going to stop and give anyone
a chance — it doesn't have to be long — a chance to say a good
word about this brother."
There was an embarrassing silence. Said the preacher, "I've
caught you by surprise. Let's sing one verse of'Amazing Grace,'
and you think about what you're going to say."
The good old mountain congregation dragged out a verse of
"Amazing Grace" in close harmony. After they sat down, there
was again dead silence. The young preacher finally said with
considerable heat, "Well, I can tell you this: we're going to be
right here until somebody does say a good word about this
brother."
At last, away in the back of the church, an old gray-haired
mountaineer held up his hand and in a quavering voice said,
"Preacher, his brother were worse!"
MOUNTAIN PREACHER OR SEMINARY GRADUATE
This is a story shared with me by my good friend and former
colleague Dr. George Capps, associate secretary of the Education Commission of the Southern Baptist Convention.
It has to do with a church somewhere in the Smoky Mountains where the congregation had never had a pastor except one
whose schooling had been very limited. As has often happened
in small communities, the village began to grow and prosper,
some small industry moved in, new markets opened up, and
many new young members were attending church. When the
time came to call a preacher, the pulpit committee was divided
on whether to search for a good old mountain preacher such as
they had always had, or whether to try to find a seminary
graduate.
Because the old pastor had retired and moved away from the
community, they had to make the decision on their own initia53
�tive. On two separate Sundays they went to hear first an oldtime mountain preacher and then a seminary graduate. They
had announced that on the third Sunday they would make a
recommendation to the church.
One old deacon just couldn't wait. He didn't get out much,
and he sent word to the chairman of the search committee to
come and see him. "Now, Henry," he said, "you know I can't get
to church, and I can't get out to tell nobody. I oughtn't to ask you
to do this, but I'm just a-dyin' to know what kind of a preacher
you're going to get—and I'll keep it confidential. Fm not in favor
of getting one of them new young pastors. I hope you're going to
call us a mountain preacher."
The chairman of the committee said, "Deacon, I'm afraid
you're going to be disappointed, because we thought about it, and
prayed about it, and it was unanimous. We decided to call that
young seminary graduate."
The old man thought a minute and said, "I hope you know
what you're doing. He must be a powerful preacher."
The chairman said, "No, sir. We're not calling him on his
preaching. We're calling him on his praying."
"What do you mean — 'calling him on his praying5?"
The chairman said, "Let me tell you something: when that
young preacher prayed, he was asking God for things that old
preacher didn't even know He had."
THE BATHROBE
This is an old story that I believe came out of the red clay hills
of north Georgia and made its way into North Carolina and into
Jackson and Swain counties.
It seems that back during the Depression, a family was
trying to scratch out a living on a little hard, red-clay farm, and
54
�things weren't going too well. The oldest boy decided he was
going to have to do something about the situation, so he went to
Detroit (he didn't go to Detroit; he went to Deetroit; everybody
went to Deetroit looking for work). He lucked into a job that paid
him twenty-five dollars a week. When Southern cotton mills
were paying about six or seven dollars a week, this was a real
bonanza. He didn't know there was that much money in the
entire world.
He had great love for his grandmother, who was up in her
eighties, so he went to the store and bought her a beautiful knit
bathrobe with three panels, in three different colors: green, red,
and white. He bundled up this bathrobe and sent it to his
grandmother, who opened it, put it on, and liked it so much that
she wore it to church on Sunday morning.
Some of the ladies that had traveled a little and were a bit
more sophisticated recognized it for what it was. They were
giggling and making remarks behind Granny's back, and she
knew something was wrong. After the service, one of the good
ladies went up and said, "Granny, don't you know what you've
got on? That's a bathrobe. Why in the world would you wear a
bathrobe to church?"
"Well," she said, "Sadie, you always did have a mean tongue.
I'll just tell you why I wore this bathrobe to church. In the first
place, it's the prettiest thing I ever had in my life; and in the
second place, my grandson sent it to me, and I love him dearly.
And," she added, "in the third place, I love my Lord, and I wore
it for the glory of God. Besides," she said, "I ain't got no
bathroom, and you ain't neither."
I FRENZIED
This is a story which comes out of my own experience of being
a pastor. I was invited to supply in a mill church in the foothills
of the mountains of western North Carolina. The church was
55
�having some difficulty in keeping a pastor. They wished me to
come and serve with them awhile, preach doctrinal sermons, and
try to help them to develop a better fellowship.
One of the first things I discovered when I went into the
community was that there were five or six ordained ministers
who were members of the congregation. These men had migrated, mostly from the mountains, to find employment in the
cotton mills. There was a considerable amount of jealousy about
who would be called upon to lead in prayer, teach a Sunday
School class, or perform any other duty in the church.
I had not been there too long when the church voted to
establish a mission. We had one member-preacher whom we
shall call Adams, who had had some difficulty in his last church.
As a matter of fact, he had been asked to leave the church
because he had used some intemperate and rather crude language in the pulpit. The chairman of the board of deacons came
to me and said, "Preacher, we want you to talk to Brother Adams.
He is dying to preach, and we believe he can serve this church at
the mission if he can promise not to use that kind of language in
the pulpit."
I agreed to talk to him, so on the following Sunday after
church, he came around to the study and I just put it on the line.
I said, "Now, Brother Adams, the congregation wants you to
preach, but you remember that in the last church you got to
saying a lot of ugly things about women and the way they dress,
and the language you used was pretty harsh, and you know what
the result was."
He said, "Yes, Brother Fisher, the devil got ahold of me," and
he continued, "You just give me a chance to preach, and I won't
ever do that sort of thing again."
As a result, he went ahead and accepted the little church.
About four or five weeks later on a Monday morning Brother
Adams came, passed right by my secretary, burst into my office
and said, "Brother Fisher, they've fired me. Can they do that?"
I said, "Brother Adams, sit down and tell me about it."
56
�"Well, they fired me," he said. "I didn't know a mission
church could fire their preacher. I thought that would be up to
the parent-church."
"Well," I said, "I don't know. I'll have to look into that. But
there must have been some reason. Now suppose you sit down
and tell me what you preached on." It turned out that he had
become excited again, and he had used some very strong language in regard to the way women dress. He had specified short
skirts, lipstick, etc., and what he had said was unbelievably
crude and vulgar. "Brother Adams," I said, "you know we talked
about this, and you promised that you would not do this again.
What happened?"
"Brother Fisher," he said, "I'll just be frank with you. I was
preaching one of my best sermons. I really had the congregation
with me, and the more I preached, the more they got to Amen-ing
me, and Brother Fisher, when you Amen me," he said, "you just
as well sic a bulldog on a heifer. To tell you the truth, I just
frenzied."
CUSSIN'
A young and eager preacher, walking the mountain roads to
visit his congregation, came upon one of his members who was
plowing new ground. The air was blue with his expletives, and
the young preacher was shocked. He begged his church member
to control both his language and his wrath, whereupon the
farmer said, "You want to plow this row? Help yourself."
The preacher picked up the challenge and started down the
row. The ground was uneven, and he stumbled along, zigzagging as he went, and getting his breeches covered with red
clay. The plow struck a rock and nearly threw him. The mule
balked, but finally was induced to go on. When the preacher
finished the row, sweating and dirty, he threw the lines over the
hames, and walked back to where the farmer was still standing.
57
�Wiping his brow, he said, "Son, you'll just have to do the best
you can, and not cuss any more than you have to."
CLIMBING AN OAK TREE
This story was a favorite of a good old mountain preacher
friend of mine, who was quite a philosopher. He used it as a
sermon illustration.
A mountain congregation had had some experiences in the
Depression that made them very cautious about going into debt.
They needed to add some Sunday School rooms and put a steeple
and a bell on the church, but they had agreed that they wouldn't
start until they had enough money to pay for the whole job. They
were quite proud of the money they had already raised, but the
last of it was slow coming in, and they were becoming discouraged.
Their preacher said, "Well, I can tell you, brethren, it's time
to roll up our sleeves. You know, there are just two ways to climb
an oak tree. You can wrap your arms and legs around that rough,
scaly bark, and work at it; and when you get to the top, you may
have lost a little of your hide, but the view will be pretty, and
you'll be proud you're up there.
"Or," he said, "you can plant an acorn and sit on it."
THE SHREWISH WOMAN
There was in a little mountain community a woman who had
spent a lifetime making things miserable for everybody. She
criticized the pastor, the deacons, and the choir, and gave her
neighbors a piece of her mind when it suited her. She was
especially vocal in church conferences and had kept everyone in
turmoil for about forty years. She didn't like what the Woman's
58
�Missionary Union was doing; she didn't approve of the people
who led the Training Union programs; and she thought the
Sunday School superintendent was something less than perfect.
The pastor, she hinted, worked none too hard.
A new young preacher had been on the field just a few days
when this dear lady suffered a fatal heart attack. He had not
been there long enough to know about her, and he preached a
glowing sermon. The crowd made its way to the little mountain
cemetery, and as they were lowering the casket into the grave,
a huge cloud was hanging over the mountains. Suddenly, there
was a great roll of thunder, and lightning split the sky. One of
the old deacons looked up and said, "Fellers, she's there."
RIDING SHOTGUN
While I was visiting our son Hugh, his wife, Serena, and our
granddaughter Elizabeth, I rode along one Saturday morning to
a shopping center where Serena wanted to get some groceries.
I elected to stay in the back seat of the car, and six-year-old
Elizabeth stayed with me. "What shall we do, Elizabeth?" I
asked.
"Let's play stagecoach, Granddaddy."
"Good," I replied. "How shall we do it?"
"I'll drive," she said, moving over under the wheel, "and you
ride shotgun."
I had a gnarled cane made by a friend years agofromthe new
growth of a beech stump in Maine. It had dried to an inordinate
strength, and had a natural knob at one end. I was firing away
from the car window with this cane as my gun, uttering loud cries
of "Pow! Pow!" and not noticing that Elizabeth, in embarrassment, had slid down in the driver's seat to a point where no one
could see her.
59
�"Myrt!" shouted a passing shopper to his wife. "Come here.
This ya gotta see!"
In mountaineer fashion, I made as if to cock the cane—with
a suitable click, aimed straight at him, and reached for the
imaginary trigger. He took off, and as far as I know, he is still
running.
THE LOST SHEEP
This concerns an incident in connection with my first revival, which I held at Perry's Chapel, Franklinton, North Carolina, in August of 1938.1 had taken as my text the parable of the
lost sheep, and (I thought) was exhorting in no mean measure.
From time to time I observed an old gentleman in the last pew
in the church. He seemed to be drinkingin my words, and I noted
too that when I mentioned in an illustration that my home was
in western North Carolina, he seemed somewhat excited.
I was very much elated and felt sure I had led some lost soul
to the throne of grace; and sure enough, as soon as the service
was over, the old man sent one of his boys for me and said that
it was urgent that I see him. I made my way hastily to the back
of the church and gripped the old man's hand. He looked at me
a moment and then with nasal twang made the following
statement: "Son, hain't you from up in the mountains? Shore did
preach a powerful sermon. I just happen to recollect, being as you
was speaking of sheep, that my ram died last month, and I
thought you might know someone in Hay wood county that would
sell me a pure-bred Hampshire ram."
CREASYBACK BEANS
This story happened to me.
The Haywood Association was meeting in a little church in
60
�what is known as the Cowee section. There are some log houses
there, built long before the Civil War, that people still live in. It
was one of those beautiful cool October days in the mountains,
and I was with my good friend and cousin Weston Reid, and a
preacher by the name of Sawyer — a man about my size and a
good trencherman.
When we went out to have "dinner on the grounds," I noticed
a dear old lady in a faded blue dress and black shoes and
stockings. She wore a poke bonnet such as I hadn't seen in years.
She hesitated a little before unpacking her old pasteboard box,
then shyly set an old-fashioned iron pot on the table, and something wrapped up in a white towel. I alerted Reid and Sawyer,
because I knew there'd be something worth looking into in that
pot, so — being experienced — we didn't go in with the first two
or three waves.
For people these days who have never attended a mountain
association, it is a feast-time. There is nothing in the European
festivals that will equal the table that is set out in the yard, with
every kind of meat and vegetable you can think of, and pies,
cookies, cakes, and desserts of all kinds made by everyone's best
recipe, and tea and coffee and milk to drink.
When we went over and took the lid off that little iron pot, we
found it full of creasyback beans. A creasyback is a bean
somewhat like a Kentucky Wonder. These had evidently been
the last "mess" on the vines, because about half the beans were
shelled out (these are called "shellie" beans). They'd been cooked
with a large piece of salt pork (the kind called streak-of-fat-andstreak-of-lean). And in the white towel was a big "dodger" of
cornbread. Since nobody seemed to mind, we put that iron pot
down where we could reach it, and found some vine-ripened
tomatoes and some onions and hot pepper; and "amongst us," as
they say in the mountains, we cleaned up those creasyback
beans. I hadn't eaten any like that in years. They were delicious.
We went back into the church for the afternoon service, and
when my time came to address the association, I spotted that
dear little lady in the back of the church. I began by saying,
61
�"Lady, I don't want to embarrass you, but I want to tell you that
I just had the best dinner I've had in a long time. Those
creasyback beans and that cornbread you brought were absolutely delicious. If I could just have found some buttermilk,
everything would have been perfect."
She beamed, and the congregation smiled too.
Just about a year from that date, the three of us — Reid,
Sawyer, and I — happened to be back at the same association,
meeting in a different church, to represent our various institutions and agencies. We were standing under a big oak tree,
waiting for the crowd to thin out a little bit before we went up to
the table.
I felt someone tug at my coat sleeve, and though I didn't
recognize her for a minute, there stood the dear old lady in her
same little poke bonnet. She was holding the iron pot, and a jug
with a cob for a stopper. She said, "Ain't you the preacher that
likes creasyback beans? This time I brung your buttermilk."
A TRUE BAPTIST
This story is told in connection with the early days of CarsonNewman College, which was being operated not too long after
the Civil War, not as a college but as a Baptist orphanage.
The head of the orphanage was a mountain preacher. He
had been out several weeks riding his mare back in those
mountain coves and hollows, collecting money to support the
children during the winter. He had started home and was just
coming down Roan Mountain. He reached a spot where he could
see the blue smoke coming up from the kitchen fire at his home,
and he could almost smell the bacon frying and the cornbread
cooking. He was thinking how good it would be to get home and
see all of his children again, when his dreams were rudely
interrupted. A grizzled mountaineer stepped out from behind a
bush and put a muzzle-loading rifle against his stomach. The old
62
�mountaineer said, "Friend, stand and deliver. I want your
money, or I want your life."
"No use to get excited," said the preacher. "You can have the
money. Fm offering no resistance, so just don't be nervous. I've
got three hundred dollars here," he continued, "silver dollars, in
these saddlebags. You go ahead and take this money, but if you
do, I just want you to know one thing: there'll be some little
young 'uns down there at that Baptist orphanage that are going
to go cold and hungry this winter. If that's what you want, you're
welcome to the money."
The old mountaineer looked at the preacher a moment,
uncocked his gun, put it down by his side, crooked his arm
around it, reached down in his pants pocket and pulled out
another silver dollar. He said, "Here, preacher, take this silver
dollar and put it with the rest. I wouldn't touch that money. I'm
a Baptist myself."
63
�BEN: THE MAN BEHIND THE STORIES
by
Roger G. Branch
en Fisher was a story-teller. His skill was an abiding
legacy from his mountain culture. Mountain people,
typical of most folk societies, use story-telling both for
recreation and as an intellectual tool for abstract reasoning, treating one vivid life experience as an analog for wider
applications. Capable of squeezing a laugh out of life if anyone
could, Ben often told stories just for the fun of it. But he also
understood thoroughly the power of a well-crafted story to make
a point that stimulates thought and sticks in the memory. So his
stories usually had a didactic function, artfully influencing his
world and making it better.
When Ben died on November 3, 1985, he left incomplete a
task long urged upon him by friends — the task of capturing on
paper the mountain tales for which he had become famous. He
had begun. Some were in manuscript form in various stages of
polish, and he had recorded others on tapes. His wife, Sally, has
transcribed these and edited the entire collection in her determination to finish this project that he had launched before cancer
slowly dragged him away from his manifold ministries. These
are not all of his stories, but they offer a representative sample
of his treasury.
At the time of Ben's death, one of his former students, Dr. R.
F. Smith, Jr., wrote in his church bulletin, "Most of you don't
know Ben. But you need to." Knowing him makes the stories
more meaningful. This chapter is intended to be an introduction
to Ben — only that, because you had to be with him awhile, hear
64
�his stories, touch his mind, observe his victories over suffering,
and feel his love to begin to know him.
Benjamin Coleman Fisher was born May 27,1915, at Webster, North Carolina. His parents were Ben F. and Amy Long
Fisher, and his forefathers were pioneer mountain settlers. The
world of his childhood was still characterized by such pioneer
attributes as economic self-sufficiency, strong family ties, neighborliness, a sense of community, love of the land, and religion —
ardent, evangelical Christianity—as ever-present as the mountains. That world became a part of the man, profoundly shaping
his character and values although he lived much of his life
beyond its cradling hills and valleys.
The pioneer heritage was a source of deep satisfaction to
Ben. A prized possession was a gavel fashioned from the
original, hand-made pulpit of Scott's Creek Baptist Church.
Ben's great-grandfather, Humphrey Posey, had established this
and many other churches as a pioneer preacher in the mountains
of the Carolinas and Georgia. Ben was particularly proud of two
things about "Grandpa Posey." First, he was among those who
resisted the shameful removal of the Cherokees and Creeks from
their lands to Oklahoma. Second, this ardent mountain preacher
was well educated, having studied classical Latin and Greek
from books his mother had brought when the family migrated
from Virginia. Ben, his descendant, hated the "ignorant hillbilly" stereotype of mountain people. He also believed with every fiber of his being in an educated ministry and in Christian
education generally. To that cause he gave a lifetime of faithful,
innovative service.
Ben's childhood was a rich sampler of some of the best of the
rural South, a world largely defined by kinship and the land. In
an autobiographical article in the Historic Webster newsletter,
Ben said, "When I was still a baby, my mother and father went
to live with Uncle Wibb and Aunt Mollie Fisher on what is now
the Swayngim farm. Since Uncle Wibb and Aunt Mollie had
reared my mother, they were more like grandparents." The
social fabric of his childhood was a densely woven network of
65
�extended family relationships. More often than not, those who
touched his life in the community, church, or school were kin. He
attended the Webster school with his brother Wibb and sister
Marian, his mother's younger sister and brother, and numerous
cousins who were not only family but also best friends. Forever
afterward Ben's conversations were sprinkled with accounts of
boyhood adventures and misadventures with these kinsmen.
He lived in a land of many aunts, uncles, and cousins. The aunts
were a pervasive, loving influence throughout his life; the uncles
told him stories of the War Between the States; and the cousins
(notably Mack Hall) fed him green persimmons and otherwise
evoked images of Tom Sawyer and Huck Finn.
Among the boyhood companions most frequently mentioned
in Ben's accounts of growing up in the mountains were two
cousins named David. One was David Hall, who became a U. S.
Congressman from North Carolina. The other was David H.
Brown, who became an engineer and rose through the management ranks of Chrysler Corporation to the position of head of its
Australia and Far East Division. One family in one small
community produced these three — a national leader in Christian higher education, a Congressman, and a corporate executive. The tales of their youthful adventures are human slices of
rural America, but these men shatter the "backward hillbilly"
stereotype.
Great folk story tellers always have strong links to the past.
Ben learned many of his stories and the art of telling them from
his maternal grandmother, Florence Long Cagle. Even her
homesite was steeped in history, a rambling two-story house
located in the Muster-ground Hollow where troops had drilled
before marching away to the Civil War. As Ben recalled his
experiences, "I spent many a pleasant hour there. Granny
Florence was a great story-teller."
Ben Coleman, as he was called by kin and neighbors to
distinguish him from his father, also named Ben, grew up as boys
do. And how he grew! As an adult, the man from the mountains
was a mountain of a man—six feet three inches tall and ranging
66
�in weight through the years from about 250 to almost 300
pounds. He once described his running gait as a teen-ager with
the word "lumbering." However, his huge hands were deft in
such diverse skills as photography, playing a guitar, and electrical work.
As young Ben Coleman grew in stature, he also grew in
knowledge. His lifelong love of learning was born where his
education began, in a small community school. Read his tribute
to that school:
My early schooling was in the old Webster school, where sometimes three grades were taught in one room, and where at one
time the library consisted of two shelves which held a Webster's dictionary and a King James Bible. But I want to say that
although since that time it has been my privilege to attend
some excellent schools and to visit and study at some great universities at home and abroad, the moral influence of the
Christian men and women who taught in that little, old-fashioned Webster school has made a lasting mark on my life and
my career. I don't know of a single teacher at that time who had
had the kind of teacher training that is required today, but I remember one teacher particularly who repeated often to her
classes: "No real man or woman would lie, cheat, or steal. Let
your word be your bond. Pay your just and honest debts, and
be beholden to no man. Make something out of yourself. Go to
college if you can." Those instructors also taught us how to
spell, how to read, and how to do basic math. These were great
teachers because, as far as I know, without exception they
wanted to leave a better world than they had found and to
provide for young people a better chance than they had had.
While Ben took these lessons to heart, the admonition to go
to college presented a major challenge. First it was necessary to
journey across the mountains to Fruitland Institute, a Baptist
academy established to provide secondary education for mountain children. By the time he completed his high school requirements there in 1933, he hadbeen licensed to preach. Determined
to secure the best preparation possible for ministry, he gathered
his courage and his scant resources to go to Wake Forest College.
67
�In the middle of the Great Depression that was a long journey of
faith, and necessitated one year out to work and save. In the
years that followed he was unfailingly sympathetic to students
in financial distress. He was able to remain at Wake Forest
College, which bestowed upon him the A.B. degree cum laude in
1938. In 1971 the school honored its distinguished alumnus by
conferring upon him the Doctor of Divinity degree.
After serving the Castalia and Peachtree churches as pastor
in 1938-39, Ben followed up on his conviction of the need for
further preparation for ministry by enrolling in Andover-Newton Theological School in Newton Centre, Massachusetts. - He
received his Master of Divinity degree in 1942.
The sojourn in the North was an enriching experience for
this young man from the hills. He received an excellent education and exposure to a new culture. Before he returned from
seminary, he married Sara (Sally) Gehman, of "Pennsylvania
Dutch" heritage; their sons were David Lincoln, born in 1942 in
Boston, and Hugh Robert, born in 1944 after they had returned
to North Carolina.
There was a bit of the "Br'er Rabbit" trickster in Ben. He told
his new bride that he was "used to having fresh, hot biscuits
every morning for breakfast." He continued, "Well, I got right
ashamed of myself watching that sweet little girl get up to make
my biscuits on those cold, dark winter mornings in New England. After a few weeks one of my cousins who was in the area
paid us a visit, and she quickly set Sally straight about my
custom, or lack of it, of having hot bread every morning for
breakfast. It was a while before I saw another biscuit."
A special treasure from Ben's days at Andover-Newton was
a profound knowledge of and appreciation for the great New
England writers. In later years one of his favorite activities was
to teach college-level courses on this subject when he found
opportunity to do so.
The Fishers returned to North Carolina in 1942 to the
pastoral ministry. Ben was pastor of First Baptist Church,
68
�Nashville, 1942-45, and First Baptist Church, Newton, 1945-47,
before entering the field of Christian higher education, which
thereafter dominated his life. Movingto Gardner-Webb College,
he served as chairman of the English department, 1947-48, and
executive assistant to the president and director of public relations, 1948-52.
After serving with the Education Commission of the Southern Baptist Convention and with the Baptist colleges of Kentucky, 1952-54, Ben returned to North Carolina to join the staff
of the dynamic new seminary that was being created on the old
campus of his beloved Wake Forest College. He was administrative assistant to "Doc" Stealey and director of public relations
and professor of Christian Education at Southeastern Baptist
Theological Seminary, 1954-62. He joyously plunged into the
new school's heady, idealistic mixture of emphases: prophetic
involvement, academic excellence, intellectual freedom, and
commitment to world missions. And, for a season, it truly was
Camelot.
Even as he played an amazing variety of roles, he also made
important contributions to the world of ideas. He helped to
restructure public relations, away from practices bordering
upon manipulation and deception, and toward sensitivity to
public interests and honesty in reporting. He thought through
the role of the college trustee and published his practical conclusions in A Manual for College Trustees. These were fruitful
years.
For the next move the Fishers remained in their home in
Rolesville while Ben changed his daily commute from Wake
Forest to Raleigh. He became executive secretary of the Council
on Christian Higher Education, Baptist State Convention of
North Carolina, 1962-70. He served effectively as liaison person
between the seven colleges supported by North Carolina Baptists and the denomination. It was far from an easy task.
Southern Baptists have typically been ambivalent to ward higher
education. The rural and frontier heritage is intolerant of
anything that smacks of elitism. Moreover, the colleges have
69
�often served as a highly visible, convenient, and virtually defenseless target for malcontents and power-seekers, Ben went
far beyond the role of trouble-shooter and peace-maker; he so
interpreted higher education to North Carolina Baptists that
the colleges came to have strong advocates in most Baptist
churches "from Manteo to Murphy."
It was during this period also that at the request of Governor
Dan K. Moore, Ben served on the "Speaker Ban Commission,"
which was able to defuse the controversial issue of limiting
choice of speakers on state college and university campuses.
This was the era of the governance crisis in all of higher
education, and it is a measure of Ben's expertise that the state
Board of Education commissioned him to write a special report
on duties and responsibilities of college and university trustees,
used as the basis for Chapter V in the major study called Planning for Higher Education in North Carolina (1968).
In 1970 Ben was chosen for the highest leadership position
in Baptist higher education: executive director-treasurer of the
Education Commission of the Southern Baptist Convention. He
held that office until his retirement in 1978. He applied effectively the wisdom gained during his near quarter of a century of
experience in Baptist higher education. In addition to his direct
involvement with Baptist colleges and the denomination, he
continued to write extensively. He also worked hard to help
other denominational groups improve their colleges and universities. He campaigned for cooperative efforts to strengthen all
Christian higher education, as is evidenced by his service as
chairman of the Secretariat of the National Association of
Independent Colleges and Universities, 1978-79.
Ben Fisher was an unblinking advocate for private churchrelated colleges and universities. They had nurtured his mind
and soul. More importantly, however, he believed that America
needs a strong dual system of higher education — public and
private institutions. In his view both are required to meet the
varied educational needs of a diverse people because they supplement and complement one another. No doubt one of the most
70
�satisfying events of his very eventful career came in December
1977, when he organized and led a White House Conference
between President Jimmy Carter and chief executives of 22
boards of church-related higher education.
Retirement mostly meant a change of address for the Fishers. They moved to Murfreesboro, N. C., home of Chowan
College, where long-time friend Bruce Whitaker was the president. They were home, but hardly retired. Ben was named
adjunct professor of religion and educational consultant to
Norman A. Wiggins, president of Campbell University. He
served actively on many advisory boards and councils. He
continued to write. He excitedly made plans to go to Rusehlikon,
Switzerland, to study for a time at the Baptist Theological
Seminary there. At the invitation of Dafydd Davies, he gave the
introductory lecture of the centenary celebration of University
College Cardiff in Wales. He arranged for Dr. Davies and Harry
Blamires to give lectures in the United States. He sailed his
beloved boat, the Sara G., and found life to be full.
However, dreams of a long, satisfying period of semi-retirement soon were smashed. Stricken by cancer, Ben began a long
battle using surgery and various forms of treatment to stretch
his time to the fullest. He did not stop doing what he wanted to
do. He did go to Riischlikon, and other places as well. He
surrendered treasured activities grudgingly, and only as deteriorating strength left no alternative. Eventually, the Fishers
moved to Raleigh to be closer to specialized medical care. He
continued to write — and to tell stories, even about the deadly
enemy that was taking his life. Through the years he would
occasionally threaten a friend with a reference to his great size,
saying, "If you don't treat me with more respect, Fm going to
provide in my will that you must serve as one of my pall bearers."
The list of public honors bestowed upon Ben for his many
ministries is far too lengthy even to sample. They range from
local citations to national, even international, recognition. Being
human, he appreciated them; being Ben, he didn't let them turn
his head. Crate Jones, Ben's friend and former pastor, wrote
71
�about his inherent humility in an article in the Biblical Recorder:
His "take the lower seat" attitude was matter-of-factly revealed one day. He was to give the baccalaureate address at an
important university. "They are going to give me another
degree." Sound like bragging? But wait. The Big Ben rang as
true as Westminster's famed one when he added, "I don't need
it; I'd rather have two dozen ears of sweet corn."
Maybe Ben wouldn't actually have swapped one of his five
honorary doctoral degrees for two dozen ears of sweet corn, but
he was secure in his sense of self-worth. And he did like fresh
sweet corn.
Like everyone else who knew Ben Fisher well, I have a
personal store of rich experiences. All of us want to say, "Let me
tell you about... " So, let me tell you about Ben.
My wife Annette and I arrived in Wake Forest in early
August of 1956 in a state of youthful optimism, innocent faith,
and abject poverty. Our total assets were our personal belongings, a tiny (and leaky) housetrailer, and $20 beyond what I
would need for fees to begin my theological education. Our plan
for survival was blind faith and the hope that someone named
Ben Fisher could use my degree and experience in journalism.
With my ratty little trailer settled in, I trudged halfway
across Wake Forest to the "old music building" which had been
the home of Southeastern Seminary during the years of joint
occupancy of the campus with the recently removed Wake Forest
College. At the foot of the steps a student identified himself as
Randall Lolley and responded to my inquiry that Ben Fisher was
on the premises. "I was talking to him just a second ago in the
hall," he said. "You'll find him right inside, and you can't miss
him. He has a 'lean and hungry look.' " Why that mountain of
a man ever hired a scrawny kid from South Georgia with his
mouth wide open and his eyes bugged out in shock remains
something of a mystery. Life with Ben began with a joke on me,
and it was far from the last. Even as I prepared to leave the
72
�seminary after completing the B.D. and course requirements for
the Th.M., Ben had a parting thrust, the last of many teasing
references to the backwardness of my native state. He said to
President Stealey, "Yeah, Doc, we're sending Branch out as a
missionary — to Georgia."
Although Ben showed little reluctance in unleashing his
humor upon me and other friends, he did not use it to inflict hurt
as many do. More often than not he made himself the butt of
many funny stories. In fact, they often were true accounts, and
his willingness to share his misadventures and embarrassments
revealed a rare openness to others. He invited us to laugh with
him at himself— a sign of being at ease with self and everyone
else.
Ben was not a plaster saint. Some of his humor was too
country-boy earthy for his after-dinner speeches — a thing
shared with close associates only, and such it will remain. He
also had a towering temper. Once it exploded upon a new
student assistant in the darkroom, who had decided to clean up
the place, even scouring the surface of the print dryer with gritty
household cleanser. The shiny drum of the expensive dryer was
terribly scratched, and Ben found many ways to describe the
assistant's incompetence before his anger cooled.
Another young man who earned Ben's wrath was one I call
"the evangelist." Part of my job was to write graduation stories
on all persons completing degrees. With accompanying photos
these were sent to students' hometown newspapers. It was a nice
touch for students, and good public relations for the seminary.
Before the stories were mailed, we asked the students to come by
briefly to check for accuracy or to suggest changes. One student,
known for "getting results" as an evangelistic preacher (and by
his demeanor obviously aware of his importance to the Kingdom
of God), found himself too busy to come by our offices in spite of
several messages from me. Not long before graduation I mentioned the situation to Ben, and "it struck him wrong." He set off
toward the cafeteria where the student was taking part in some
pregraduation festivities. He reminded me of Casey Jones'
73
�freight train on the long down-grade to the cafeteria. I did not
go along to witness the event and wish that I had. I know only
that the young man was in my office almost immediately, and he
was contrite, cooperative, and curiously humble.
I remember Ben most for his compassion. Annette and I both
worked for the seminary for the sub-minimum wage that all
institutions paid in those days. Ben once said, "Roger, you can
make as much per hour as you like but I have only $ 150 a month
for you, and we have to work as many hours as it takes to get the
job done." It was not exploitive. We worked together, he longer
than anyone. Always living at the edge of need, we Branches
found our situation even more precarious when our son Gary was
born during our second year at Southeastern. Ben was alert for
little grants-in-aid, and helped me find loans when things got too
tough. He also brought us food from his pantry and freezer.
Since he was supporting a wife, two hearty teen-age sons, and his
father on a limited salary, I know that every one of those gifts
was a sacrifice.
The Branches also ate some meals in the Fisher home, where
Sally and Ben both cooked. Our first was a dinner meal built
around a big roast. After the blessing, older son David asked,
"Dad, FDI or FHB?" Ben seemed taken aback briefly, then
relaxed and said, "FDI, boys, FDI." Then he explained, "We have
this code that we use when we have company. If the food's a little
short, it's FHB: Family Hold Back. If there's plenty, it's FDI:
Family Dig In." Ben and his father gardened, and Sally managed. I never saw any evidence of hunger. So I think that the
FDI-FHB business was a joke, probably on me, but I guess I'll
never know for sure.
Visits to the Fisher home let us get to know Sally; their
mutual devotion was obvious. Ben once explained, "Sally and I
have an agreement. If she decides to leave me, I am going with
her." She remained his emotional, spiritual, and intellectual
partner to the end and beyond.
Three years as a pastor and a teacher in a Baptist college in
Georgia ended with my return to North Carolina in 1963 as
74
�associate editor of the Biblical Recorder. Ben was a member of
the paper's board of directors and influenced my decision to
accept the position. By then he was with the Council on
Christian Higher Education. His close relationship with editor
Marse Grant made us all co-laborers in the cause of Baptist
higher education. Always a mentor and friend, he now became
my colleague.
Looking back over the years, more than 30 of them, I realize
that Ben was often misunderstood and inadequately appreciated. Some people heard his stories and thought they were funny
but missed the underlying message. Some may even have
judged him to be an intellectual light-weight because he told
humorous stories. Inability to perceive the several layers of
meaning in his messages led such folk astray. In fact, his
intellectual interests were broad, and his vision was acute. If he
often used country boys' way of speaking, he was no less a world
citizen, at ease almost anywhere.
Ben was a peacemaker, a mediator. Such people are sometimes seen as lacking courage or convictions. In the sometimes
fractious relationships between Baptist colleges and their critics
within the denomination, he filled an indispensable role for
decades. He had to struggle to control that thunderous temper
because he had strong convictions and attendant emotions.
Sometimes patience takes more character than taking a dramatic stand. Yes, he had convictions. On the day that the
trustees of Southeastern Seminary voted officially to drop all
racial bars to admission, I watched him write a straightforward
news release announcing the decision. He pounded it out
himself on his battered typewriter. When he finished, he said
softly, "At last!"
Once one of my friends at Southeastern said, "Your friend
Ben Fisher can be downright rude. I'm in his class but I met him
on campus today and spoke to him, and he acted as if he didn't
see me." My response was, "He didn't see you, and what's more
he does the same thing to me." Ben's power of concentration was
phenomenal. When he started "chewing" on an idea or problem
75
�mentally, other things faded to the periphery of his attention.
Thus, his apparent occasional aloofness was an unfortunate byproduct of one of his great strengths.
Ben Fisher's service to the cause of Christian higher education was profoundly significant. It crossed denominational,
regional, and national boundaries. Character traits and values
nurtured in a mountain family and community reached out to
the world through him. Because his cause was education, his
contributions will continue. We should not forget that he made
them.
One of the educators who spoke at Ben's funeral was Monsignor John F. Murphy, who — as head of the Association of
Catholic Colleges and Universities — had worked closely with
Ben in national organizations and programs for Christian higher
education. He began his remarks by saying, 'That which we
miss most today at this celebration is Ben's voice telling us a
story for the occasion."
We shall continue to miss Ben's voice telling his stories. But
if you ever heard him and if you read carefully his stories in this
book, you may think that you still catch echoes of his robust
tones.
Roger G. Branch, Sr., Ph.D., is professor of sociology and head of the
department of sociology and anthropology, Georgia Southern College, Statesboro,
Georgia. He is also a pastor, and the author of a number of books and articles.
His latest book, Resources for Ministry in Death and Dying, was published by
Broadman Press in January 1988.
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Dublin Core
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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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Appalachian Consortium Press
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Appalachian Consortium Press
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June 1, 2017
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<a title="Digital Scholarship and Initiatives" href="http://library.appstate.edu/services/digital-scholarship-and-initiatives" target="_blank">Digital Scholarship and Initiatives</a>
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Appalachian State University
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Mountain Preacher Stories: Laughter Among the Trumpets
Description
An account of the resource
<span>Over a period of forty years, Ben Fisher collected stories illustrating the humor of the Southern Highlander. English, Scotch, Welsh, and Irish immigrants to the Appalachian region of North Carolina brought with them a rugged individualism and a sense of humor and dignity which have been characteristic of the sturdy yeoman farmer. Most mountain preachers and many of the old time mountaineers had a real talent for telling stories. While the “tall tale” is a staple of mountain storytelling, more often the tales relate to something that happened, not something just dreamed up. Mountain humor, like all folk humor, typically arises out of a life situation. Fisher’s work, edited by his wife Sally following his passing, relates many of the stories and tales that he had heard over the course of his life.</span><br /><br /><a href="https://drive.google.com/open?id=1ZAWHgOYz-DRmnf49UwJnz2cHS4rKihJw" target="_blank">Download EPub<br /><br /></a><a title="UNPC" href="https://www.uncpress.org/book/9781469636627/mountain-preacher-stories/" target="_blank">UNC Press Print on Demand</a>
Creator
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Fisher, Ben C.
Publisher
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Appalachia Consortium Press
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English
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Appalachian Region, Southern--Humor
Clergy--Appalachian Region, Southern--Humor
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1990
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e-books
PDF
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Appalachia
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Text
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https://www.geonames.org/12212302/appalachia.html
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<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>
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<a title="Appalachian Consortium Press Publications" href="https://omeka.library.appstate.edu/collections/show/82" target="_blank"> Appalachian Consortium Press Publications</a>
humor
mountains
Preachers
religion
-
https://omeka.library.appstate.edu/files/original/a2af87766fa49d64ea67521d19437f5e.pdf
bae8d6f37ac72c4777caf83b5f09653d
PDF Text
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APPAL4CHIAN
STATE
UNIVERSITY
�welcome
Welcome to our mountains - and welcome to Appalachian State University
We encourage prospective students. educators, alumni and other friends to
visit and tour the campus.
Appalachian has been a special kind of school for more than 75years. From its
beginning as a mountain school for mountain people. Appalachian has
maintained a reputation for excellence in education and service to the region
Enrollment at Appalach ian tripled in the decade of the 60 sand the University
continues to grow in size and stature.
We're proud of our university and glad to have you here. You II find plenty to
see and do at Appalachian. so make yourself at home - and stay awhile.
APB4l4CHIAN STATE UNIVERSITY
the area
Appalach ian is right in the middle of the most popular year-round recreation
area in the East. There are sports and cultural activities for every season of the
year. Located in the Blue Ridge of the Appalachian Mountains, the area is both
rural and urban, both agricultural and industrial - but still relatively
undeveloped and unspoiled. The Blue Ridge Parkway 1s approximately six
miles from campus. Within a half-hours drive from the campus are several ski
slopes. golf courses, major tourist attractions. the Appalachian Trail and
Pisgah National Forest. The area 1s widely known for its native crafts and art
forms, for fishing, hunting, camping, hiking, and nature trails.
Wtnsron - Salem
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Wilkesboro
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the university
1
I
University Organization : Appalachian, one of 16 members of the
consolidated University of North Carolina. has six colleges - the General
College (in which all undergraduates are enrolled for the first two years). the
College of Learning and Human Development, Arts and Sciences, Business,
Continuing Education. and Fine and Applied Arts- offering some 150degree
programs in 32 academic departments. The Graduate School offers master's
degrees and degrees that fall between the master s and doctoral levels.
levels.
visitor parking
Visitors are permitted to park in the20-mrnute (blue} zones which are lo
in most areas of the campus. For periods over 20 minutes v1~itors must obtain
a parking permit and lot assignment from the Security Office (dow~ta1rs in
corner of building number 23).
Faculty : The teaching faculty numbers some 550, of whom more than 65%
hold doctorates. The student faculty ratio 1s 16 to 1.
Accreditation: ASU 1s accredited by the Southern Assoc1at1on of Colleges and
Schools, National Council for Accreditation of Teacher Education. Council of
Graduate Schools in the United States; North CarolinaAssoc1at1on of Colleges
and Universities; American Association of Schools of Music, National
Association of Business Teacher Education; American Assoc1at1on of State
Colleges for Teacher Education, American Council on Education; American
Association of University Women, American Home Economics Association,
American Assembly of Collegiate Schools of Business.
Athletics: ASU fields 13 men 's varsity teams in the Southern Conference and
the NCAA competition and six varsity sports for women. Varsity and intramural
teams use ASU 's artificially-turfed Conrad Stadium and the 8,000-seat Varsity
Gym. Women's teams compete in the Association of Intercollegiate Athletics
for Women.
/.
1
~klng areas
~st Church
floward Street
Presbyterian Church
Student Union
Faculty Apartments
Lovrll
information for visitors
• University Office hours are 8:00 a.m.-5:00 p. m. Monday through Friday; the
Admissions Office is open on Saturday from 9:00-12:00 p .m.
• Information desks are located in the Administration Building (33) and
Plemmons Student Union (16) .
• For campus telephone information, dial 262-2000. (Drop the 262- prefix
when calling from interior telephones.)
• Student telephone information is available at the Student Union (16).
262-3030.
• Emergency assistance: Campus Security is staffed 24 hours a day; dial
262-2150.
• Dining facilities open to visitors include : University Cafeteria (6.30-9 :30.
10:00-2 :00, 3:30-6:30 Monday-Friday; 8:00-10:00, 11 00-1 :30, 4.30-6 ·15
Saturday-Sunday.) Number (18) on the map.
Bavarian Inn (fast foods; 7:30 a.m.-11 :00 p.m. Monday-Friday ; 5:00
p.m.-11 :00 p.m. Saturday-Sunday.) Number (18) on the map.
Gold Room (Steaks and seafood: 11:00 a.m.-2 :00 p.m .. 4:00 p .m .-7 :00 p.m .
daily.) Number (16) on the map.
Ice Cream Parlor (7 :00a.m.-9 :00 p.m. Monday-Saturday, 1 00 p m.-9 :00 p.m.
Sunday.) Number (16) on the map.
• Campus tours may be arranged through the Student Affairs Office.
Number (33) on the map.
the center for continuing education
Visitors are encouraged to visit Appalachian 's Center for Continuing
Education. Located at an elevation of 3.535 feet at the top of the new west
campus, the Center contains some 70,000square feet-with 21 multipurpose
meeting rooms (including a small auditorium), a library, and exhibit10n areas It
provides complete living accommodations for guests. with 91 bedrooms. a
spacious restaurant, and a coffee shop
The Center also contains the most up-to-date aud1ov1sual and learning
resources equipment as well as special lighting Besides these facilities. there
are lounges, cable-color-TV, and two lobbies. Well-lighted parking areas are
available for cars and buses, and charter or limousine service is provided for
four airports. Number (45) on the map
COVER · The poster front of this campus guide is adapted from Appalachian
artist William Dunlap's print entitled March Snow.
Cannon
Hoey
Administration Building
STADIUM
%
\..
!-
Stadium Area
Rankin Science (Faculty)
Edwin Duncan Hall (F;lculty)
1verECM5
Chapell Wilson Hall
Whitener Hall (Faculty & Staff)
CONRAD
Admin1strat1on Building Annex
Varsity Gym
P~~~al Plant
U Industrial Arts
V Stansberry
W Cafeteria
X Infirmary
Y Methodist Church
Z Auditonum
AA Doughton Hall
BB East Hall
CC Casey
DD Depot Street
EE Visitor Parking
6
c::= __
north
I
0
I
200
400
I
600 It.
I
numerical key
1.
2.
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.
31.
32.
33.
Chancellor's Home
Bowie Res. Hall
Eggers Hall
Gardner Res. Hall
Coltrane Res. Hall
Justice Res. Hall
Newland Res. Hall
Duncan Hall
Wilson Hall
Rankin Science Bldg.
Belk Library
Smith-Wright Hall
D. D. Dougherty Library
Whitener Hall
University Bookstore
Plemmons Student Union
Watauga Res. Hall
Cafeteria
Varsity Gymnasium
Broome-Kirk Health and
Physical Education Bldg
Scott Industrial Arts Bldg.
Power Plant
Purchasing ; Security; Laundry
I. G. Greer Hall
Sanford Hall
Brock Nursery School
Dougherty Home Economics Bldg.
Workman Res. Hall
Faculty Apartments
Cone Res. Hall
Home Management House
East Res. Hall
B. B. Dougherty Administration
Bldg. (Information)
academic departments
how and where to find it
34
35.
36.
37
38
39.
40.
41 .
42.
43.
44.
45
46.
47.
48.
49.
50
51
Hagaman Medical Center
Administration Bldg. Annex
Lovill Res. Hall
Doughton Res Hall
White Res. Hall
Cannon Res. Hall
Hoey Res Hall
Faculty Housing
Mountaineer Apartments
Towers Res. Hall
Farthing Auditorium
College of Continuing Education
Center for Continuing Education
Art and Speech Center
John A. Walker Hall
Outdoor Instructional Field
Driver Education Bldg.
White House (Watson)
Academic Affairs . ...................................................................
Admissions Office .......................................................................... .
Alumni Affairs .............................................................................
Athletic Offices . .............................................................. ..
Business Affairs ..
..................................................... ..
Center for Continuing Edu ..................................................... .
Chancellor ... .. .. ............................................................... .
College of Arts and Sciences ... ...........................................
College of Business .... ......... .. .. .........................................
College of Continuing Edu. ... .... . ..................................... ..
College of Fine and Applied Arts
.....................................
College of Learning and Human Dev ......................................
Computer Center .. .. .. ... ........ ..
. .............................. .
Development and Public Affairs .. .. .. .....................................
Dogwood Art Gallery .. ... . ...... ..
................................... .
Faculty Apartments
............................................ ..
Financial Aid Office ................................................. ·· ··· ·· ··
General College ........................................................ · · ··
Graduate School ...............................................................
Housing Office .
. ................................................ ·· ....... ..
Library ..........
.. ..........................................................
Medical Services. ................................................... ··· ......... ···
Personnel Office .................................................................
Placement Office ............................................................. ··
Purchasing Department .....................................................
Registrar's Office .....................................................................
Summer Sessions ......................................................................
Student Affairs Office ........................................................ ·· ···
Student Development. ..........................................................
University Gallery
.................................................... ·· ··· .....
Watauga College ... ......................................................................
Building Number
33
33
35
20
33
45
33
25
48
45
24
8
14
33
16
29
35
13
33
35
11
34
35
35
22
33
45
33
28
28
32
Accounting & Finance ........................................................... .
Administration . Supv... ...................................................... .
Art.... ..... .
................................................... .
Biology..
.. ...................................................... .
Business Administration .......................................................
Business Edu. & Office Adm, ..........................................
Chemistry
..................................................... ..
Counselor Edu. & Res. .. .............................................. .
Economics
.............................................................
Educational Media ...............................................................
Elementary Education .............................................................
Eng lish
.................................................... .
Foreign Languages ....................................................... ..
Geography ...
.................................................................. .
Geology
.............................................................................. ..
Health P E & Rec ..............................................................
History ..... ............................................................................ ..
Home Economics ..................................................................
Industrial Arts
.............................................................
Mathematical Sciences ............................................................ .
Military Science
......................................... .
Music
..........................................................................
Philosophy & Religion ............................................................ .
Physics.
. . ... .. .. .. .. . .. .........................................
Political Science ..................................................................... .
Psychology
.......................................................................
Reading Education ...... ......................................................
Secondary Education ....... .. ........ .. .. ... . . . ............................
Sociology & Anthropology................................................. .
Special Education ................................................................
Speech
.................................................................
Speech Path. & Aud ................ .............................................. .
Building Number
48
8
9
10
48
48
10
8
48
8
8
25
25
10
10
19
14
27
21
25
13
25
25
10
14
12
8
8
14
8
9
8
�
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 State University Campus Maps
Description
An account of the resource
This collection contains campus guides including detailed maps of the Appalachian State University campus buildings and parking lots. Also included is information about the university as well the town of Boone, Watauga County and Watauga County schools. Three maps are dated.
Still Image
A static visual representation. Examples of still images are: paintings, drawings, graphic designs, plans and maps. Recommended best practice is to assign the type "text" to images of textual materials.
Geographic Location
Appalachian State University Boone, NC
Number of pages
2
Scan date
10/7/2014
File size
5.60 MB
Scanned by
Tony Grady
Equipment
Epson Expression 10000 XL
Resolution
300
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/.
Identifier
An unambiguous reference to the resource within a given context
CM_WelcomeToOurMountains_M
Title
A name given to the resource
Appalachian State University Campus Guide: Welcome to Our Mountains
Language
A language of the resource
English
English
Rights
Information about rights held in and over the resource
Copyright for the Appalachian State University Campus Guides site is held by Appalachian State University. The guides are available for free personal, non-commercial, and educational use, provided that proper citation is used (e.g. Appalachian State Collection, Appalachian State University Campus Guides, W.L. Eury Appalachian Collection, Special Collections, Appalachian State University, Boone, NC). Any commercial use of the materials, without the written permission of the Appalachian State University, is strictly prohibited.
Source
A related resource from which the described resource is derived
<a title="Appalachian State University Vertical Publication Files" href="https://appstate-speccoll.lyrasistechnology.org/repositories/2/resources/1364" target="_blank">Appalachian State University Vertical Publication Files</a>
Description
An account of the resource
A sepia-colored map with a numerical key and information about the area, the mountains, the near-by merchants, and the campus.
Subject
The topic of the resource
Appalachian State University--Maps
Universities and colleges--North Carolina--Boone--Maps
Type
The nature or genre of the resource
Image
ASU
map
mountains
numerical key
sepia
stay awhile
visitor information