All the forces working in America to preserve folk song should share Kurt Schindler’s fears. The press is cognizant of the farflung effort throughout the land. The Atlanta Journal (September 19, 1928) says, “The collection and preservation of mountain folk music is a singularly gracious work and one of rare value to history. Collected in its natural environment, it is perforce authentic both in tune and idiom, and sincere collectors are not content with this alone—they complete the record by tracing the songs to their origins. Such is a most gracious work and one which lovers of beauty, whether music or in legend or in local history, throughout the South, would do well to imitate.”
Far removed from the metropolitan area where great singers interpret the simple songs of our forbears and urge the necessity of their preservation, an untrained mountain minstrel is lending his every effort to aid not only in conserving but in correlating as well the folk lore of the Blue Ridge Country. He is a kinsman of Devil Anse Hatfield and lives just around the mountain from where the old warrior lies buried. “Sid Hatfield never was mixed up in the troubles in no shape nor fashion,” anyone can tell you. “He’d not foir a gun if you laid one in his hand. But just give him a fiddle! Why, Sid Hatfield is the music-makinest fellow that ever laid bow to strings. What’s more he puts a harp in his mouth and plays it at the same time he’s sawin’ the bow. I’ve seen him and hear-ed him, many’s the time.”
And so have thousands of others. For Sid Hatfield spends his spare time, when he’s not working for the Appalachian Power Company in Logan County, West Virginia, making music first at one gathering, then another. Sid’s repertoire is almost limitless. He plays any fiddle tune from Big Sandy to Bonaparte’s Retreat. And when it comes to the mouth harp, Sid just naturally can’t be beat. “I love the old tunes,” he says, “and they must not die. You and I can help them to live. Let old rancors die, but not our native song.”
To that end he has become a prime mover in a folksong and folklore conservation movement called American Folkways Association. “There are a lot of McCoys,” he says, “who can pick a banjo and sing as fine a ditty as you ever heard. There’s Bud McCoy over on Levisa Fork. Never saw his betters when it comes to picking the banjo. We’ve played together a whole day at a stretch and never played the same tune twice. We just stop long enough to eat dinner and then we go at it again. Bud’s teaching his grandson, Little Bud, and he’s not yet five year old. Little Bud can step a hornpipe too. Peert as a cricket!” A slow breaking smile lights Sid’s open countenance. “Reckon you’ve heard of our Association,” and, not giving anyone time to answer, Sid is off on the subject nearest and dearest to his heart. “We’ve got the finest Association in the country. Got a nephew of Fiddling Bob Taylor in our Association and by next summer we aim to hold a Singing Gathering down in his country—the Watauga country in Tennessee. Folsom Taylor, that’s his name and he’s living now in the far end of the Blue Ridge in Maryland. He helped us with the Singing Gathering we held in the Cumberlands in Maryland this past summer. We’ve got another helper down in Tennessee. His name is Grady Snead. He was in the World War and about lost his singing voice but he’s not lost any of his spirit for mountain music and old-time ways. Why, every summer ever since Grady got back from the war he’s gathered his people around him in Snead’s Grove—he owns quite a few acres down in Tennessee—and they have an old-time picnic and they have hymn singing and ballad singing and fiddle music. This past summer our Association joined in with them at the Snead picnic and you never saw the like that day in Snead’s Grove. People thick as bees and pleased as could be. We started off a-singing a good old-fashioned hymn all together and that put everybody in good heart. Never saw such a picnic in all my born days. There’s nothing like a good old-fashioned all-day picnic to make friends among people and then mix in a lot of good old-time music. That’s what Americans were brought up on and that’s what they’re going to live on more and more through these troubled hours and as time goes on.”
That day at Snead’s Grove, Sid Hatfield told them about the Association and how already different organizations had united with it. He told of a preacher over in Maryland who had joined in whole-heartedly. “He’s adopted the great out-of-doors for his temple in which to worship with song and prayer. Robinson is his name. Reverend Felix Robinson, as fine a singer and as fine a preacher as you’d ever want to sit under.”
Then Sid put down his fiddle and his mouth harp and drawing from his coat pocket a crumpled paper, he began again. “My friends, I want to read you this piece in the Chicago Daily News. This is the place to read it. We ought to be warned about what can happen in this country to our music, by what has happened to some of our people. Though maybe sometime it’s been for the best. This piece was writ by a mighty knowing man. His name is Robert J. Casey and he flew from Chicago for his paper the Chicago Daily News to hear with his own ears the music of the mountains from the lips of mountain singers at Traipsin’ Woman cabin on the Mayo Trail the second Sunday in June, 1938.”
There was a moment’s breathless silence over the great gathering there in Snead’s Grove. The look of fear and apprehension gave way to that of eagerness and hope as Devil Anse Hatfield’s kinsman read with quiet dignity:
“‘One breathes a sigh for the Hatfields and McCoys who maintain the Democratic majority in cemeteries along the West Virginia line. One voices a word of commendation for the Hatfields and the McCoys who drive taxi-cabs in Ashland or run quiet, respectable and legal beer parlors in Huntington. And looking from one group to the other, one realizes that something has happened to the hill country.
“‘A person of imagination standing on the tree-shaded porch of the Traipsin’ Woman cabin up in Lonesome Hollow probably still can hear echoes of “the singing gathering” which only a few hours ago demonstrated the essential durability of the hill folks.... Where a day or two ago there was only a neutral interest in such proceedings, now people are talking of Elizabethan culture preserved completely for a matter of centuries by people who lived on the wrong side of the tracks, just a few rods from the fence of the rolling mills.
“‘There is a tendency in some quarters to look upon the sing-festival as a permanent and predictable community asset. But that is because the sophisticated and urban population is ignoring the present status of the McCoys and the Hatfields, as for many years it has ignored the crack-voiced “ballet” singers and the left-handed virtuosi in its own backyard.’”