All of these plodding, grunting, gobbling creatures were kept in order with the help of one or two good dogs. If a hunter’s dogs were valuable, a livestock drover’s dogs were invaluable. “Head’em,” the drover called, and his dogs brought recalcitrant animals into line, nipping the slow to hurry and curious to remain orderly.
During a long day’s drive to the county seat, or a several weeks’ journey to the lowlands of the Carolinas or Georgia, men and beasts surged forward in a turmoil of shouting and noise, dust and mud, autumn’s lingering heat and sudden chills. But on these journeys, the men left their small mountain enclaves for a brief glimpse of the larger world. They returned home not only with bolts of cloth and winter supplies of salt and coffee, but also with news and fresh experiences.
And accounts of these experiences were related in a language that was part of the mountaineer’s unique heritage. That language revealed a great deal about the people; it was strong and flexible, old yet capable of change, sometimes judged “ungrammatical” but often touched with poetry. In a later century, students and collectors would come here seeking the Elizabethan words, the rhythmic cadences of this speech. It harkened back to a distant homeland.
The mountain person’s “afeard” for afraid, or “poke” for paper bag, were familiar to Shakespeare. In Chaucer could be found the mountaineer’s use of “holpt” for helped, and such plurals as “nestes” and “waspes.” Webster confirmed that “hit” was Saxon for it, and the primary meaning of “plague” was anything troublesome or vexatious (the mountain man might well say someone was plaguing him). The habit of turning a noun into a verb often added strength to an otherwise dull sentence: “My farm will grow enough corn to bread us through the winter,” or, when speaking of the heavy shoes that were brogans, “Those hunters just brogued it through the rough places.”
The daily poetry and humor of the mountain language was caught in the names of places—Pretty Hollow Gap, Charlie’s Bunion, Fittified Spring, Miry Ridge, Bone Valley—and in descriptive words like “hells” and “slicks” for the tangled laurel and rhododendron thickets. It was present in the familiar names of plants: “hearts-a-bustin’-with-love,” “dog-hobble,” “farewell summer.” And the patterns of their quilts, pieced with artistic patience and skill, bore names such as “tree of life,” “Bonaparte’s March,” and “double wedding ring.”
Thus, the mountain people adapted their language, as they had their lives, to the needs and beauty of this land they called home. And contrary to what might seem the case, these later residents were a more nearly distinctive group than that which had first come. The pioneers had been a fairly heterogeneous group, but as the years passed, those with itching feet and yearning minds moved on to other frontiers. Restless children wandered west in search of instant gold and eternal youth. In time, those remaining behind became a more and more cohesive group, sharing a particular challenge, history, folklore, economy, dream. Their lives were gradually improving. They had earned the privilege and joy of calling this their homeland.
Spinning and Weaving
National Park Service
