State

North Carolina’s Yarn Crop Mot the kind of yarn that is woven into elotli and other things, hut the kind that you hear told as you visit various sections of the state. IT’S a strange thing, but North Carolina's most bountiful crop is not tobacco or corn, but stories. As your correspondent drives over the state on frequent business trips, it is difficult to ride a full mile without a story of the locality returning to memory. Last week, driving by Lakeview in Moore County, we suddenly thought of this peculiar fertility. Within a mile of us was the story of Hop Along Cassidy. Whatever became of him? Hop Along, in about 1938, was a talking crow, the pet of a man named John Hanes at Lakeview. He could say a few words, but the word he could say the best was ‘•whoa,’’ and he delighted in flying over a team or a ploughing mule and yapping "whoa” at the ani¬ mals. Once in a while, Hop Along would say “come along,” "hurry up,” or "I’m waiting for you, George." But he loved that word whoa, and at the time I saw him, the garrulous bird had about dis¬ rupted the spring planting around Lakeview. Fertile Fields In fact. North Carolina is so full of whimsy that in 1940 Ed Thomp¬ son. then field editor for Life, de¬ cided to do a layout on the State of Stories. The idea perished be¬ fore the fell blow of somebody in editorial conference, but it still is a good prospect. Some sections always seemed more fruitful than others. Yancey County yields a new story every time you pass through it. My favorite always was the Big Tom Wilson bear camp story. But near¬ by is Dan'l Boone and his forge, and just a mile away is Dr. Robert¬ son’s pioneer implement museum. Up the road a piece also is the print shop of an elderly moun¬ taineer who runs his presses and linotypes by steam power. But the interesting thing about this enterprise is the fact that the pro¬ prietor had never seen a linotype machine when he bought his first one. It came to him in crates, knocked down, and he and his sons By BILL SHARPE hauled it up the rough mountain trail on sleds. Then they unpacked it. and. working from an instruction book, began to put it together. However, inevitably they would come to a piece which didn’t seem to fit in. When this would happen, the old man would tell his eldest son to run down to get information from the Asheville Citizen. But mountain pride and shyness prevented the boy from asking questions of the foreman. Instead, he would ease up to a linotype and watch the operator set type, study¬ ing the machine closely. When he discovered the secret, he’d hie himself back to Burnsville, and the work would proceed. It took sev¬ eral such surreptitious instruc¬ tions to get the machine operating. That lino apparently was the only thing the old man bought on credit. Mountaineers of the "qual¬ ity" type dread debt. He told me of the time he went to Asheville to visit a boyhood friend. The friend was living in a fine home and driving a spanking new car. “But did you know," whispered the mountain man in tones of hor¬ ror. "I found out that he hadn’t paid for either one of them." More and More It isn’t so far from there to the Penland story in Mitchell, nor from there to the Roan Mountain story, nor from there to Roby Buchanan's gem "factory." Unless you are completely heedless, you will meantime stop and get a ga lacking story or a story on "sang" roots. In the same area lived old Kettlefoot and the bear¬ hunting Wisemans, who gave their name to famous Wiseman’s View, one of the best outlooks in the state. Even the streams bubble with stories. Nearby is Neal’s Creek, the only trout stream reserved ex¬ clusively for women. And the very holes in the ground are voluble. In one, they found mining imple¬ ments beneath the roots of a tree estimated to have been 300 years old. Atop Mt. Mitchell is — we be¬ lieve — the loneliest weather ob¬ servatory in this country. The names of towns cause a reporter to stop and make inquiry. There's Daybook and Ledger — both with whimsical stories. And Loafer's Glory, named by sharp-tongued wives because their mates went there on Sundays to frolic. Keepers of Lore The conventional historical fea¬ ture never appealed to me much — the stories of graceful and gracious families, with decaying mansions for illustrations, with pompous titles and bigwig careers. But in Dare, you get to your grassroots yarns; so also in Carteret and Hyde and Brunswick, and many more. Maybe the reason some regions are more thickly populated with stories — and by that is not neces¬ sarily meant something for print, but incidents and anecdotes which you hear in hunting camps or in Pullman cars, wherever people talk of people and places — maybe the reason is that some regions have been favored by keen observ¬ ers who with an ear for good yarn¬ ing. and. perhaps, the talent for a little embellishment, meaning fudging. Like in Burke County, where they tell you of the country store¬ keeper up on US 181 who was asked for a box of crackerjacks, and he replied that no, he didn’t have any. Used to buy them off the wholesaler, but as fast as they came in. the folks would buy them so he couldn’t keep 'em in' stock. Got to be a denied nuisance; he quit stocking ’em. A faithful preserver of yarns is John McLaughlin up at States¬ ville. Another is Bruce Etheridge at Manteo. Hi den Ramsey of Ashe¬ ville has a truckful. Best of all is Stanly Wahab of Ocracokc. Every¬ thing that ever happened on that island is humorous to him, includ¬ ing the native who ordered the hat 1 Continued on page 20) THE STATE. January 20. 1951 1 1