Ted Hicks, Appalachian Storyteller

The man and his stories--Ted Hicks' 

photo taken by Valerie Menard of SilentLightImages.com

 on Beech Mountain

Ted Hicks--more than just Ray Hicks', the storyteller's son

Some time ago, when I was collecting the oral histories for my book, Southern Appalachian Storytellers: Interviews with Sixteen Keepers of the Oral Tradition, I visited Beech Mountain.  For those of us immersed in the world of Performance Storytelling, going up to that fabled mountain is akin to a sacred journey.

 The ancestral home of Ray Hicks and his family sits on top of Beech Mountain in a hollow so secluded and lovely, one would never know there was a madhouse of a resort on the other side of the mountain.  Since the discovery of Ray's oral tradition storytelling in the early 70's, many have made that trek and left with a curious sense of satisfaction and mission.  Hicks' language was, in many ways, linguistically connected directly to the old English spoken when his ancestors migrated to America.  That he knew the stories they brought over the water with them made him even more unique.

Unfortunately for me, I made the trip long after Ray's death in 2006, but it was still a rare treat to listen to his wife Rosa, and his son Ted speak about him and tell their own stories.  Tall--but not quite as tall as his father was, Ted is an imposing man in his fifties with dark brown hair and an expressive face, and at times, it took all I could do to disentangle the stories of mother and son from one another.

I asked Ted when he began telling stories, and was surprised to learn he had always known the stories--having heard them from birth, but never told them.  It was not until illness struck that he began to express himself as a storyteller, entertaining other folk on the van down to the doctor from the mountain top.

Ted's storytelling is completely natural--a simple extension of his normal self, albeit a compelling one! Having listened to many of his father's recorded stories, I detected the cadence learned from Ray, but the authentic storyteller's voice is all his.  Ted Hicks walks in his father's footsteps, but he is the tradition-bearer now, strong, humorous and true.

Doc Watson, the man and his music

I saw Doc Watson last year at the Downtown in Johnson City. Attending with friends, I very nearly missed it; now I'm glad I was there.  The Downtown--the sound alone is phenomenal in that space-- is one of those places one is likely to hear the best of musicians at any given time, and it's my understanding Doc Watson graced that stage many a time.

The night I heard him, I was surprised by his appearance: his blindness meant little to this observer, because he had something else--a presence that went beyond what he couldn't see with his eyes.  Tall, white-haired and a bit fragile, all that was forgotten when he took his guitar in hand and began to play. Call it magic, skill, charisma or all of the above, that man could play the guitar.  Those old fingers fairly raced over the strings, drawing enchantment into the room. All those in attendance were still--we couldn't move for fear of disturbing the aura.

Long live his memory and the music he shared with us.

Memorial Day 2012-a Salute

I've got to admit I'm a war-like passifist.  In other words, I don't like war and would prefer to pursue any way to get around it, but once we're in, let's win it and get our soldiers back home.

One of my cousins is my personal hero. A Vietnam-era veteran, he wears the scars of war in both body and mind, but he does so with dignity.  I remember well when he left to join the war effort, spiffy in his pressed uniform and close-cut hair--a youthful eagerness enveloped him then. He was always one of my favorite cousins and it was hard to see him leave and know he might not return. When he finally came home, some years later, I found a man much older and "wiser"; one who experienced much in my place, and one who would do it again should he be called.

So, with this experience in mind, I thank all the men and women who fight to keep us free. Salute!

Topless mountains-can we still call them mountains?

I saw my first flattened mountain a couple of years ago while driving to Kentucky. Soaking up the abundant, verdant beauty around me, I was unprepared for the specter looming in front of me: the mountain was gone. In its place was a gaping hole in the sky.  Dust, grit, carved tracks and deep ruts, despair and sickness filled in the gap, while someone--possibly you or me, made off like bandits with the energy robbed from that place.

The shock of that day is still with me and hard to think about, but recently I was again confronted with it, this time through a movie--The Last Mountain. In it, I saw more than just that one mountain stripped and flattened--there are thousands of acres of land decimated all the time, most of it in Appalachia.   The wealth from mining goes not to its few workers who run mammoth machines, but to robber barons who stand on the backs of our people, strip the earth of its resources and then send it someplace else.

Will we ever learn that the earth is more than a resource and that much of what is here is finite?  Can we restructure corporations so that blind acquisition no longer drives them to rob our world to line the nests of the few?

 The thing about most energy sources is that once we use them, they are gone. Whack the mountaintop off, rob it of the coal and other minerals collected through the eons, and there is no more. Gone; used up.

Farmers Markets, Then & Now

In the fifties, I went to my first farmer's market with my grandfather in his cream-colored Ford coupe. It was a  big day for us and held in a very special place in downtown Tallahassee, Florida. In those days many farmers still worked the land with mules and draft horses and it was exciting to see the wagons piled high with colorful produce parked in shade in front of the market, where the mules and horses accepted pats and gifts of food as city folk passed by.

Held less than a mile from the state capital building, the market stood behind an ancient live oak, its trunk knotty and broad, with branches spreading over the building to shade and protect all within.  It was an open-air, long, rather primitive building, built of nothing more than pine poles and a tin roof, but under that roof were tantalizing smells, bright colors and wonderful sounds. Linguistically, it was a smorgasbord of southern back-country/elite southern/northern accents mixed with the occasional bray of a mule, a heavenly cacophony of sound to my young ears.

While I've not been back to a market in Florida in many years, I have been to a fabulous farmers market in Paris, France, where it seemed every vegetable and every piece of fruit was dripping with luscious flavor and color, with piles of burgundy grapes, pears and greens set as if in a painting. Lyrical French was spoken there as strolling musicians played violins and guitar, and mimes turned up on every corner; to me, everything I saw and heard was beautiful.

  Here, in contemporary Jonesborough, TN, I enjoy the market for what it gives me beyond organic fruits and vegetables. Here, I am part of a community, buying from farmers I know, eating from the land on which I live, and I find the experience both comforting and exhilarating. Here, I've eaten lettuce just taken from the earth in Curtis and Marilyn Buchanan's garden, and reconnected with folks I met while in a play.  Here, I've made new friends, like farmer Jose` who grows the tastiest potatoes I've ever put in my mouth, played with Betty, the nattiest little chicken ever, and bought a lovely deep berry-red Mandevella for my garden.

  When it comes down to it, not only is it healthier to eat organic and close to home, but there's also the organic experience of becoming part of the place in which one lives. Long live the farmer's market.

Medical Care for the Multitudes

One of my neighbors spent his weekend with several thousand others in line for free medical care. A veteran of the Vietnam War, he is now retired and living on an extremely reduced income. Luckily, he has access to the VA for most of his medical expenses, but not dental.

So what is getting adequate care like for those of us who are not flush with money and have little or no insurance? Daunting is a good word for it.

Finding no dentists willing to work for almost nothing, my friend heard about the free clinic coming to the Bristol Motorway in Bristol, Tennessee, and left here Saturday morning at daybreak to cue up for a ticket. By the time he got there (and thank goodness he has a car to get there in), all of the tickets were gone.

"Come back later this afternoon, between 6-9," said the compassionate attendant, "Maybe you can get a ticket for tomorrow." He went back--by now having driven two hours on borrowed gasoline.  He left again at five and snagged a ticket, went back to his car and slept the night in the cold--again, thankful he had a car, as some did not. The next morning he saw a wonderful dentist who was able to help but told him a root canal was necessary. This is where things get complicated--the one clinic in our area that serves needy clients isn't accepting new patients.

I can see it now: the well-heeled executive, or person who has always had access to insurance, who might be reading this may be thinking, "Well, that's the way the cookie crumbles." I'm here to tell you the cookie has crumbled.  Many of us are sick and tired of money low-paying jobs or no jobs at all, and all of the money being suctioned upwards in well-crafted funds and trickery. There's no such thing as a "trickle down" effect.

Some time ago, I was in an accident and tore the meniscus in my knee. The pain was beyond excruciating. I've been considered uninsurable most of my adult life due to several chronic conditions, so when I called the clinic I attend, they told me to go to the emergency room. There, while I was treated politely, I was treated lightly--a clumsy Velcro brace that refused to stay up, nothing at all for pain, and no physical therapy. I can assure you that had I had insurance, my treatment would have been completely different.  While many fuss and complain about the concept of universal healthcare, had there been such a thing, my treatment plan would have been completely different.  And while we are at it, for those of you who complain the poor get free care at the emergency room--sometimes that is true, but the kind of care differs drastically from what an insured person gets, with no follow-up.

 Money buys almost anything, doesn't it, and it has bought the most wealthy among us freedom from taxes--and some have the gall to say requiring payment is class warfare on those who have worked hard to make it.  Phooey! The absence of money is a nightmare, and those who would refuse healthcare to those without it should experience it first hand. That might make a difference.

Thank goodness for compassionate medical providers who are willing to give of their time to those in need, but where is Scrooge's ghost when we need him for those who consider themselves above us all?