COMING FRIDAY, SEPTEMBER 17TH - THE LIAR'S BENCH AT THE JARRETT HOUSE IN DILLSBORO!

Kins Hearts, if you are in the neighborhood, the Liar's Bench will be at the Jarrett House at 7:00. So far, he performers that will definitely be there are Steve Brady, Billy Norton, Dave Waldrop and Gary Carden. There is even a possibility that Paul Aiggrussi will be there to sing about murdered lovers, moonshine and rogue bears. There is also a possibility of a "surprise" storyteller who will be in the audience, primed to perform. The Innkeepers have promised to feed us, and we will pass the hat. Come see the show! We will have lots of photos later.

AN INTERVIEW THAT GOT THE BIG ISSUES RIGHT!

This past week, the Smoky Mountain News did an interview with yours truly which I have decided to post here. This one has the normal number of inaccuracies. For example, the radio in my bedroom was not a "transister," nor did my father drive an oil truck. That was my grandfather. And it was my great-great grand father that was shot by Kirk's raiders in Macon County. However, I am still pleased by this interview. Despite getting the minor facts wrong, Giles Morris got the message right. Thank you, Giles.




Carden wrestles with storyteller legacy
By Giles Morris • Staff writer

There are two voices inside Sylva storyteller and playwright Gary Carden. One belongs to the mountain man of letters whom author Lee Smith coined “the Appalachian Garrison Keillor.” The other belongs to an orphaned child who clung to a pink transistor radio to make it through the lonely nights on Rhodes Cove.

“I was a damned lonely little kid, and I’d turn that radio on and it was like a bright night light,” Carden said, his voice turned sweet on the memories of his favorite ‘50s radio shows.

Carden is one of the most recognized literary voices in Western North Carolina largely because of his ability to communicate the authentic experiences and cadences of a mountain culture that is nearly vanished.

As an artist, the tension in Carden’s work is grounded in the double-consciousness of a man who knows firsthand the feeling of being “found wanting” and who still expresses pride in his heritage.

“I kind of turned into a missionary of some kind because I felt it was my job to communicate my culture,” Carden said. “Can you tell people about mountain dialect and the way my granddaddy lived without communicating ignorance?”

For Carden, the question is personal and not abstract. His father drove an oil truck and played in a mountain band until he was shot dead in his own garage by a loafer drunk on wood alcohol.

“It was an accident that didn’t make sense. That’s the kind that bothers you forever,” Carden said.

His mother, only 18 at the time of the killing, left him with his grandparents and went to Tennessee.

While his story is the type of Appalachian biography that reeks of authenticity, Carden reckons what makes him real isn’t his personal tragedy so much as the shared pain of growing up ashamed of his own voice.

“My granny warned me –– and most mountain people know this –– when I got out of college,” Carden said. “’Garneal,’ she said. ‘When you get out of here, you’ll be weighed and you’ll be found wanting.’ And she was right.”

Last weekend, Carden staged his play “Nance Dude” at Western Carolina University’s Coulter Auditorium to benefit the Friends of the Jackson County Main Library. It was the second performance of the two-part library benefit featuring actor Elizabeth Westall in two one-act plays that draw a line between history and folklore.

“It’s a special category. It’s history becoming folklore,” Carden said of “Nance Dude.” “There comes a time when people start decorating the facts and at some point the history becomes folklore.”

The play showcases two of Carden’s innate gifts: his ear for Appalachian dialect and his ability to normalize the brutality of dark mountain history with humor and humanity. “Nance Dude” re-tells the true story of a Haywood County woman convicted for the murder of her granddaughter.

Carden rem-embers his own grandmother explaining to him why his grandfather “didn’t laugh much.” She told the story of Kirk’s Raiders shooting down his great-grandfather in cold blood and leaving the body on the front porch.

“When my grandmother told me that story, she’d pull me right to her face and say ‘Don’t you forget what they did to Bryant,’” said Carden. “And of course I think that’s one of our greatest flaws as a culture ... the way we carry grudges.”

But “Nance Dude” also gets at the root of why Carden, now in his 70s, still burns hot in quest of his defining work. Carden has won awards as a writer and a storyteller, and honorary degrees as a folklorist, but he has never gotten the one acclaim that would put to rest the prophetic fear his grandmother instilled in him.

“My work has never been considered significant enough to be published,” Carden said.

Carden wonders whether his identity as a storyteller hasn’t limited him.

“Playwrights have a hard time. Poets have it harder. And storytellers have it the worst,” Carden said. “What do you do with a literate Appalachian storyteller? A mountain storyteller is supposed to be a hick with a wooly beard who’s never read a book.”

But Carden’s not making excuses. Instead, he’s still searching for his defining moment as an artist. He recently finished a play called “Signs and Wonders” that casts a light on the damage Pentecostal preachers from Bob Jones University did during their student auditions in mountain towns in the ‘50s. But he thinks there’s something bigger brewing in him.

“I’m kind of in stasis,” Carden said. “I need to do something significant. I’m bored and I’m not content with what I’ve done. I’ve got about 10 plays that need to get done and I know they won’t be.”

Some of Carden’s best written works are published in a collection called Mason Jars in the Flood & other stories. The autobiographical “Harley stories” are his version of Hemingway’s Nick Adams stories, autobiographical tales about growing up that carry both the personal and cultural angst of a moment in time.

Carden grew up in the mountains when the world was turning modern, and the mountain folk were being shut out of their own home. He became a man of letters, earning two degrees from Western Carolina University. When he writes about his childhood, he does it in clear and beautiful prose that hints at a fundamental conflict.

“You have to live in two worlds,” Carden said. “Culture demands it of you.”

Gary Carden, the artist, is still looking for the perfect way to call the world to account for the wrongs visited on Appalachian people since the Civil War and on his heart since his childhood. Like many writers, his thirst for success is fueled by a drive to hold life accountable for the pain it dispenses.

“My strength is the same as my grandparents’ inability to forgive,” Carden said. “I can’t forget things that are wrong. I want to see justice done.”


See “Nance Dude” this week

A DVD viewing of Gary Carden’s “Nance Dude,” performed by Elizabeth Westall, will be held 2 to 4 p.m. on Tuesday, March 30, at the Waynesville Library Auditorium. Carden will offer time for discussion and question & answer following the play.

A Class in Appalachian Literature.

Jack, my jack russell looked a bit take aback when I told him that I was going to teach a twelve-week course in Appalachian Literature at the new Jackson County Senior Citizen Center. It could fall through, of course, but right now, I've been told to prepare my lectures and get ready to saddle up. I will start in April. Jack will sleep in the car while I am doing this.

APPALACHIAN CHRISTMAS: TRADITION, FOLKWAYS AND SUPERSSTITIONS

APPALACHIAN CHRISTMAS: TRADITIONS, FOLKWAYS AND SUPERSTITIONS

Out of the last 35 years of teaching a course called “Foxfire Christmas,” I have selected a few interesting rituals and beliefs that are vanishing. No doubt, some of the items are of pagan origin while others are a product of Appalachian culture.

“Old Christmas”: This is the name applied to January 6 which is the final day of the “twelve days of Christmas (December 25 - January 6”). This time period not only represents the day of Epiphany, but acknowledges the Julian calendar as the true record of Christ’s birth. Since the Julian calendar was still observed in England at the time when many settlers came to the mountains, they have continued to consider the later date as accurate. Consequently, many Appalachian communities spent the twelve days (and nights) going to different homes for music and merrymaking. A few still do!

Mummer’s plays: One hundred years ago, many Appalachian communities enacted a kind of mummer’s play that “traveled” from house to house. The play had about six stock characters: a Knight, a Physician, Satan, Death, etc. The actors were in disguise and dressed appropriately. Each read their speech and the action consisted of the Knight being fatally wounded, but revived by the Physician. The purpose and meaning of the “drama” is unknown. The last time I read about a performance was some 20 years ago down in Cherryville. Some historians think that these plays are pagan in origin and represent the death of winter and the rebirth of spring.

House Cleansing: This ritual has the best results if performed on New Year’s Day. The preferred weather is “cold and windy.” All of the windows in the house are raised and all the doors are opened for the entire day. The purpose of the cleansing is to allow the cold wind to carry away all of the accumulated ills of the past year thereby allowing the family to begin a new year with a purged house. At one time, the Cherokees had a similar ritual.

“Going Home” Tradition: Although this tradition is probably universal, Appalachian natives are especially prone to “go home for the holidays.” Thanks in large part to Scottish and Irish folklore, many mountain natives believe (or once did) that the dead return home at Christmas. This belief has nothing to do with the current attitude towards the returning dead. In fact, at one time, many Scot-Irish natives of Appalachia actually prepared a plate at the table for deceased mothers and fathers.

Christmas Gift! (A Game): I participated in this game as a child. The whole purpose was to sneak up on one of your friends on Christmas Day, tag him with your hand and yell “Christmas Gift.” If he didn’t see you, he was obligated to give you something ( a nickel, a pencil, a marble, etc.)

The Humming Bees: In conjunction with the animals speaking at midnight on Christmas Eve, there is the belief that hives of bees hum the 100th psalm on Christmas Eve night. (I’ve never heard it so I don’t know if they hum “the words” or not!)

Blooming Elder Bushes: I suspect that this is the Appalachian version of another miraculous bloom on Christmas Eve (midnight), the Glastonbury Thorn in England. (based on a marvelous myth about Joseph of Arimathea's walking stick). Allegedly, the hawthorns around Glastonbury burst into bloom on Christmas Day to celebrate the birth of Christ. Appalachia’s elder bushes are supposed to do the same thing except their blooms may occur at any time during the “Twelve Days of Christmas.”

Bells, Guns and Fires: Much in the spirit of ancient traditions which lighted fires and created loud noises with bells, in order to frighten away evil spirits, Appalachia still raises a rumpus on Christmas Day. It is strange to think that the firecrackers and shotguns of today are direct descendants of the whistles, drums and bells of the past that endeavored to make the sun’s “wheel” turn again.

Storytelling: As a child, I was puzzled by the practice of telling stories on Christmas Eve - especially since many of the stories were scary and might have been more appropriate during Halloween. I was wrong. The telling of ghost stories on Christmas Eve is an honored tradition in Appalachia. (There was one “hair-raiser” called “Mr. Fox” which was sort of an Appalachian version of “Bluebeard” that was a favorite.)

Shuckie Beans and Baked Bread: This was the traditional food for Christmas, and the baked bread was often “flavored” with a sprinkling of ashes from the fireplace. On New Year’s Day, the traditional food is still black-eyed beans and hog jowl.

SERENADING (IT HAS NOTHING TO DO WITH SINGING!)

T

THERE ARE SOME STRANGE FOLKS THAT ARE OUT AND ABOUT ON CHRISTMAS EVE NIGHT. THESE MERRY PRANKSTERS ARE SOMEWHERE IN AUSTRIA, I THINK. WHEN I WENT "SERENADING" IN A DARK COVE IN MACON COUNTY CIRCA 1950, I GUESS WE LOOKED PRETTY STRANGE, TOO.


SERENADING


Sometime back in the early 80’s when I as teaching an elderhostel in Tiger, Georgia, I read an editorial in the local newspaper about the banning of “ Christmas serenading” in Rabun County. Although the editor regretted the passing of “an honored tradition,” he noted that the law enforcement agents for the county had made a wise decision. He went on to say that in recent years, the “serenaders” had become increasingly reckless, and cited examples that involved “unlawful use of fire arms” and vandalism.

I guess it is obvious that serenading has nothing in common with traditional Christmas caroling. Certainly, the practice of singing of “Good King Wenceslas” and “We Wish You a Merry Christmas” outside your neighbor’s home on Christmas Eve is not commonly considered “a disturbance of the peace.” Like Bob Dylan’s song says, “The times, they are a-changing.”

As a child, I often accompanied my grandfather to my great grandmother’s home in the Cowee community of Macon County. Going to Aunt Nancy’s was like a journey into the past. My grandfather and I always slept in a feather bed in an attic filled with tin-types,spinning wheels and quilts. On one memorable Christmas Eve, I not only witnessed a serenading, I participated in it.

In the company of my cousins (Lyndon and Fred), Aunt Irene and a collection of relatives (Daltons and Gibsons), we assembled on Aunt Nancy’s porch a little before midnight. I was given one of Cousin Irene’s dresses to wear (in serenading, the males dress like women and the women dress like men) and everybody put soot on their faces. Lyndon and Fred carried a washtub and a hammer. Uncle Pratt carried a shotgun. Cousin Irene led the way with a lantern and we walked along a dark road to a neighbor’s house, the Hasketts. On a signal from Uncle Pratt, who fired the shotgun, we screamed like banshees while Lyndon and Fred beat the washtub. We kept it up until the lights came on in the house.

Later, it occurred to me that the Hasketts woke up, dressed and filed out on the porch in record time. I finally decided that they were not in bed at all. In fact, they had been sitting in the dark waiting for us. They laughed at our costumes and then invited us in the house for stack cake and hot apple cider (which had been prepared in advance). Then, we all went up on the ridge above the Hasketts house and burned a big brush pile which had already been soaked in coal oil. It lit up the whole holler and I could see other fires on other ridges around us.

The next day I told Cousin Irene my suspicions. She reluctantly admitted that I was right and confessed that she had told the Haskett’s to expect us “around midnight.”
“Why did we do it?” I asked.
“I don’t know,” she said, “but it has been going on for a long time.”
“Why the soot and the clothes?” She didn’t know but said that great grandmother, Nancy used to serenade, too.
“Stop asking so many questions, Gary Neil. You had fun, didn’t you?”
I had to admit that I did.

It was many years later when I was teaching in a little mountain college that I finally found a partial answer to why we behaved in such a strange manner that night in Cowee. In a collection of Irish and Scottish folklore called The Silver Bough by F. Marian McNeill, I read about an ancient belief concerning the sun and “the shortest day of the year” (December 21st) In the latter part of December, according to Scot/Irish tradition, the old folks believed that the “sun’s wheel” actually stopped. Each time this happened, it was necessary to perform a ritual that would make the wheel turn again. It was then that villagers would smear their faces with soot and march from house to house making a tremendous noise with drums and bells. Beacon fires burned on the mountain tops, tar barrels were lighted in the streets in the belief that if the noise and light were great enough, the sun’s frozen wheel would turn again and spring would come.

According to Abramson and Haskell (Encyclopedia of Appalachia), variations of serenading persisted in many mountain communities well into the 1990’s. An account of a recent New Year’s Day celebration in Lewisburg, West Virginia is described as a large parade that involved “...marching through town, banging on pots and pans, using a variety of noise makers and cross-dressing or wearing other masquerades in a traditional practice of inverting the normal social order.”

The Silver Bough didn’t solve all of the mysteries. The significance of the soot and the origin of the reversal of roles for men and women came later in an English tradition called “The Lord of Misrule.” However, If you add a few old Scottish and Irish superstitions, the reason for the ritual becomes clear. I suddenly realized that my night of “Serenading” in Cowee was an unwitting attempt to bring the new year. I find it wonderful and strange that such a thousand-year-old ritual could be transplanted to western North Carolina and a cold winter night in Cowee (circa 1950).