Sid Hatfield paused in his reading to say a few words on his own. “There is one, not calling any names, who discovered a forgotten England in the Kentucky uplands.” He turned again to read from the paper. “‘One who set down the words of the amazing ballads and studied music in order to capture the changeless arrangements for psaltery, dulcimer and sakbut, who has no such illusions. The music of the hills today is a thin echo of tunes that were sung on the village greens in Shakespeare’s time. Tomorrow it will be gone!’” Sid Hatfield’s voice lifted in warning. “‘And with it will vanish the early English idiom of the hill folks—their costumes, their customs, their dances, the singing ritual of their weddings. Pretty soon there aren’t going to be any more hill folk—if indeed, there are any now.
“‘“The Hatfields and McCoys, they were reckless mountain boys,” whose history is now as stale as that of the Capone mob. Their feud, which ... threatened to provoke a civil war between two states, gave rise to the general belief in the lasting endurance of the hill dwellers. A race must be hardy as the ragweed when it could not be exterminated even by its own patient effort. The tenantry of the flatlands might be excused for believing that a special Providence intended it to survive, despite poverty, malnutrition, bad housing and wasting disease forever and ever.
“‘And so it might have survived, for the hill people had “the habit of standing.” They had set a precedent of fertility and hardihood and the will to live for a matter of centuries.... But there had come influences over which not even the carefully nurtured stubbornness of 300 years could prevail.... The railroad and the concrete highway and the automobile and the black tunnels of the coal mine.
“‘... The day of isolated communities and isolated culture in the United States is already past.... The hill folk have been known to the flatland people chiefly for feuds and moonshine. Perhaps tempers are no less quick, but it’s less trouble to get to court and have grievances adjudicated according to law. And the music is going—and the traditional dances. It is one of the defects of all educational systems that they make it easier for a person to forget by removing the necessity for his remembering.’”
Sid Hatfield again voiced his own observations. “Time was when old folks could recall every word of hundreds of ballads.” He turned once more to read from the newspaper in his hand. “‘... and every note of a music whose disregard for melodic rule made it exceedingly difficult to remember. Now, when such things can be written down, no “grandsir” will bother to repeat them to the youngins and the youngins will get their music from the radio. By that time there will be no doubt that Queen Elizabeth is dead.’”
Devil Anse’s kinsman surveyed his listeners. “My friends, we’ve got a-bound, me and you and you,” he singled out a lad here a man, a woman there, “to put our shoulders to the wheel and save our old ways and our old music.”
Then he told about the American Folkways Association and its purpose. “We aim to unify efforts to conserve and cultivate the traditions and customs of the Blue Ridge Country where conditions are ideal for a renewed emphasis on living a simple and natural life ... to preserve the past and present expressions of isolated peoples in the Southern Appalachians which are untainted by any form of insincerity or make-believe. There is growing interest among city-bred people in the folk-ways, and through research and actual experiences, they are learning to appreciate the simple folk-life that is still intact.”
Sid, like Devil Anse, understands crowd psychology, though neither calls it by that name. Sid had the attention of his hearers and he told them more. “We’re getting our eyes open more every day to the boundless treasures in America. People all through the Blue Ridge don’t aim to stand by and see things disappear because new ways have come in. They’ve started all sorts of gatherings and festivals to keep alive the things that mean America!”
With quick gesture he enumerated upon his fingers as he named some of them: “There’s the Forest Festival held in October at Elkins, West Virginia, with a pretty mountain maid for its Queen; the Tobacco Festival in Shelbyville, Kentucky, that pays homage to the leading product of the Blue Grass country, next to the race horse, of course; there’s the Mountain Laurel Festival at Pineville, Kentucky, in May, glorifying the beauty and profusion of the mountain flower; the Virginia Apple Blossom Festival in April in the Shenandoah Valley at Winchester, Virginia—a wilderness of blossoms that has made beautiful a once lonely valley; the Rhododendron Festival in Webster Springs, West Virginia, in July, that vies in charm with a like event in Kentucky; the Sweet Potato Festival in Paris, Tennessee, that pays tribute to the yam; the American Folk Song Festival in the foothills of Kentucky. Then there’s the Snead Picnic that our good friend Grady Snead has been carrying on every summer ever since he got back from the war across the waters; there’s the Mountain Choir Festival over in Oakland, Maryland, in the month of August, when hundreds of mountain boys and girls gather together to sing hymns and old ballads too; there’s the Arcadian Folk Festival and the Poet’s Fair and the Arcadian Guild all bunched together at Hot Springs National Park and McFadden Three Sisters Springs where down in the Ozark Country folks welcome the advent of ‘the Moon of Painted Leaves’ and pattern new dreams in the valley of pastoral fancy, listen to the Pipes of Pan, meet old friends, and make new ones in a sylvan environment, where poetry slides down every moonbeam. Every sort of gathering right where it belongs, where it was cradled through all these long generations.”
Sid paused a moment for second wind. “When we look about we’re bound to own this is a mighty changing world. Time was when the mountain people rode to the gatherings in Brushy Hollow in jolt wagons. They kept it up a while, loading the whole family in the jolt wagon. But times have changed.... A body has to sort o’ keep up with the times, like Prof. Koch. Bless you, he loads his whole pack and passel of boys and girls in a bus and packs them hither and yon ’crost the country to show out with their play-making. The Carolina Playmakers just naturally fetch the mountain to Mohammed.” Sid flung wide his hands, brought them slowly together. “To get all such folks to work together that’s why we formed the American Folkways Association. What’s more we’ve got us a magazine to tell about what we’ve done and aim to do—the Arcadian Life magazine, with our good friend Otto Ernest Rayburn as editor, ’way down in the Ozarks.” Sid Hatfield smiled pleasantly. “There’s no excuse for folks not being neighborly nowadays. No matter where they live, what with good roads and the automobile—we’ve just got a-bound to be neighborly. To sing together, to make music together, to show out our crops and our posies and our handiwork together. Here in Snead’s Grove today is the third time we’ve bore witness that our Association is not just a theory. We made our first bow in the Kentucky foothills in June, the second in Maryland in August, and now in Tennessee. In October we aim to join hands and hearts and our music in Arcadia under the Autumn moon.”