One of the most amusing things about living in the hills of Western North Carolina was the peoples language. The mountain slang that one learns almost by osmosis is funny, ignores most rules of grammer, but communicates thoughts very well.

On certain occasions, some of my country folk would try to sound more sophisticated and educated than they were and it usually did not end well. Two stories are forever burned into my memory that Illustrate this point. A woman who lived near Marshall, N.C. was approached one day by the new preacher who said to her, “Miss Martha, I saw you in town yesterday. You were in the pickup and passed while I was parked by the court house. I blew my horn but I guess you didn’t hear me or didn’t know it was me”. Her response was, “Well, I’ll say! If Id’a knowd it wus you I’da retched out ‘n woven atchie”.

Then once I was listening to “Swap ‘n Shop” on WGGI a.m. radio from Gaffnie, South Carolina. Folks would call in to the show’s host Uncle Bud and tell him what they wanted to sell, how much, and give their phone number. One morning a lady called and Uncle Bud asked “What are folks doing this moring over in Spindale”. The lady replied “Oh, we’re just sitting here on the back porch having our morning coffee and eating some Fig “Newtings”. She obviously wanted to sound rather dignified on the radio.

A preacher freind of mine called these kinds of snafus as “skinning your ignorance”. I agree, it leaves you pretty naked for the world to see your lack of education.

Royce

“Spring has sprung, the grass has risen,
she wants her’s and he wants his’n.”

A young fellow was driving by the farm house of an older gentleman in Barnardsville, N.C. and suddenly his tire went flat. He pulled partially onto the shoulder of the road and after a few moments of rattling around in the trunk of the ‘62 Impala he started to lift the corner of the car with a bumper jack.

The offending tire was on the right rear and each time he would get the wheel almost high enough to remove it the Chevy would ease back just enough to partially fall off the bumper jack leaving it attached to the bumper at about a 45 degree angle. Since the car was on a sharp incline the frustrated, and now sweaty and dirty, young man decided he would have to “scotch” the left rear tire to prevent the repeat of his previous attempts to jack the car up enough to remove the flat and install the spare.

He started to look around and could not find any stone larger than about fist size, much too small to stop a “led sled” on a steep incline. He surveyed the area and noticed an old man sitting on the porch near where he had stopped. He called out to the old man, “Hey, is there a rock around here big enough to “scotch” my wheel so I can get this @#$%$## flat changed?”

The old man, in a calm voice replied, “Nope. It got bad cold last winter for two weeks and we burnt every one on the place”. The young fellow just looked at him for a while like a calf looking at a new gate, and said nothing. What do you say to a statement like that? The old man didn’t utter another word, never smiled.

Finally after a long trip across a barbed wire fence, across a pasture, and into the creek and back again, a suitable rock was found and the operation was complete.

Royce

This is one of a few posts I will write about my time in Barnardsville, N.C. back in the late 1960’s.

The meeting place for the town’s brain trust to gather and share their ignorance was the general store on the north end of town. The front of the store was decorated with the mandatory places for the locals to sit and talk. In this case it was some old well worn church pews. I once heard the following tale while perched there listening to tale after tale.

The fellow began, “I hooked a big rainbow up near the North Fork bridge yesterday about 2:00 and caught the same trout again about 4:00 right above the old Burleson home place”. Someone asked, “How did you know it was the same trout?” He replied matter of factly, “It was wet with sweat from the fight I had with it up the creek!”

Royce

It was in the 1920’s at a rural farm house tucked away in the Hills of Yancey County, N.C. where a young boy ran screaming into the house “Mama, Bill cut my finger off!” Grandma Fox, who was not too excitable asked “What did he do that for?” The reply was “I dared him to”. “You fool, you deserved it” was his mama’s reply.

She went to the ash heap where the remains of the cook-stove wood fires were dumped and with a piece of flower sack material, she bound the ashes onto the stub that moments earlier was a finger and sent him on his way.

My uncle Fred Wheeler told me this account of childhood misfortune when he was in his 80’s and this is how it happened. Uncle Fred and his brother Bill were splitting wood for the stove. Fred, ever the mischievous one, placed the index finger of his left hand on the chop block and said to Bill “You’re a chicken if you don’t cut it off”. Calmly Bill said “Hold it right still” and whack! went the double bit axe and the finger was cleanly severed.

Despite a missing index finger on his left hand Fred would become a pretty good banjo and guitar player. He like two of his brothers became a preacher and was a carpenter for all of his adult life until he got too old.

This is the first of many tales I can tell about my Uncle Fred Wheeler. He passed away at about 93 still as full of life and laughter as when he dared the wrong boy to do something foolish.

Royce