This same county is the seat of a native art exhibit which has attracted nation-wide attention. It was started many years ago by a descendant of Mary Queen of Scots, Mrs. Lyda Messer Caudill, then a teacher of a one-room log school on Christy Creek. One morning a little boy living at the head of the hollow brought to school, not a rosy apple (there wasn’t a fruit tree on his place), but clay models he had made in native clay of his dog, the cow, and his pet pig. Mrs. Caudill seized the opportunity to encourage the other children in her mixed-grade one-room school to try their hand at clay modeling. Later Mrs. Caudill became county superintendent of Rowan County Schools. Through her enthusiasm and efforts the plan has developed through the years and today mountain children of Rowan County have exhibited their handicraft in national exhibitions through the co-operation of the group of American Association of University Women of Kentucky with which Mrs. Caudill is affiliated.
Silver Moon Tavern
Over on Main Island Creek in Logan County, West Virginia, where Devil Anse Hatfield held forth in his day, another picture greets the eye today. Coal-mining camps are strung along from one end of the creek to the other. Omar, near where Devil Anse is buried, is quite a thriving town. It was here that Jonse, the eldest son who loved Rosanna McCoy, spent his last days as a night watchman for a power plant. Jonse’s nerves were so shattered he jumped almost at the falling of a leaf and the company, fearing some tragedy might be the result from too sudden trigger-pulling, found other occupation for the Hatfield son.
Within a few yards of the spot where the home of Devil Anse burned to the ground stands today a rustic lodge garishly designed. Over the doorway painted in bright red letters are these words—
SILVER MOON TAVERN
Neighbors call it a beer j’int. Entering, you are greeted by the proprietor, a mild, pleasant fellow who asks in a slow mountain drawl, “What kin I do for you?” If you happen to be an old acquaintance as I am, Tennis Hatfield—for he it is who runs the place—will add, “Glad to see you. I’ve not laid eyes on you for a coon’s age. Set.” He waved me to a chromium stool beside the counter. “I’ve quit the law.” Tennis had been sheriff of Logan County for a term or two. “This is easier.” He flung wide his hands with a gesture that encompassed the interior of the Silver Moon Tavern. “Well, there’s no harm in selling beer.” He fixed me with a piercing look such as I had seen in the eye of Devil Anse. “What’s more there’s no harm in drinking it either, in reason. Young folks gather in here of a night and listen to the music and dance and it don’t cost ’em much money. A nickel in the slot. We ain’t troubled with slugs,” he said casually. “The folks choose their own tune.” He pointed to a gaudily striped electric music box that filled a corner of the tavern. With great care he showed me the workings of the moan box, he called it. “These are the tunes they like best.” He called them off as his finger moved carefully along the titles: “Big Beaver, The Wise Owl, Double Crossing Mamma, In the Mood, and Mountain Dew. They just naturally wear that record out. Young folks here on Main Island Creek like Lulu Belle and Scotty. See, they made that record Mountain Dew.” A slow smile lighted his face. “’Pon my soul all that young folks do these days is eat and dance. That’s how come me to put the sign on the side of my beer j’int—Dine and Dance. We’re right up to snuff here on Main Island Creek,” he added with a smug smile. “But now Joe Hatfield over to Red Jacket in Mingo County, he follows preaching and he says a beer j’int is just sending people plum to hell. I don’t know about that. There’s never been no trouble here in my place. I won’t sell a man that’s had a dram too many. And if he starts to get noisy”—he lifted a toe—“out he goes! I aim to keep my place straight.” He shoved his thumbs deep into the belt of his breeches. “Not much doin’ at this time of day. The girls in school or helping with the housework; the boys in the mines. Don’t step out till after supper. Then look out! The young bucks shake a heel and the girls put on their lipstick. Them that can’t afford a permanent go around all day with their hair done up in curlycues till they look a match for Shirley Temple by the time they get here of a night. Times has surely changed.”
A bus whizzed by and disappeared beyond the bend of the road.
“Times has changed,” Tennis repeated slowly as his gaze sought the hillside where Devil Anse lay buried. “I wonder what Pa would a-thought of my place,” he said with conscientious wistfulness. His eyes swept now the interior of the Silver Moon Tavern. “This couldn’t a-been in Pa’s young days. Nor womenfolks couldn’t a-been so free. Such as this couldn’t a-been, no more than their ways then could stand today.” The son of Devil Anse leaned over the bar and said in a strangely hushed voice, “Woman, I’ve heard tell that you have a hankerin’ for curiosities and old-timey things. I keep a few handy so’s I don’t get above my raisin’.” He reached under the counter. “Here, woman, heft this!” He placed in my hands Devil Anse’s long-barreled gun. “Scrutinize them notches on the barrel. That there first one is Harmon McCoy. Year of sixty-three,” he said bluntly.
While I hefted the gun, Tennis brought out a crumpled shirt. “Them holes is where the McCoys stobbed Uncle Ellison and there’s the stain of his gorm.”