April 2, 2000

Just a Country Boy

You can take a boy out of the country, but you can't take the country out of the boy.

So says Herman Hebb of Punta Gorda - better known to the folks of Tucker County, West Virginia, as "The old ridge runner."

Herman now is retired after a distinguished career in the U.S. Navy from apprentice seaman to Lt. Commander. Nonetheless, he confesses, "Although I've stretched my theoretical umbilical cord a few times around the world, it was never cut from the mountains of my boyhood."

Evidence of his country-boy attachment is a delightful little book "Peers T' Me." It consists of his columns of memories written for the Parsons (West Virginia) Advocate newspaper. It records the old-time customs, crafts, adventures and yarns of a way of life now gone but not forgotten.

My favorites:

Bear Hunting

While reading an Advocate advertisement for the sale of farm tools, I was struck by one listed as a "pig pole." It reminded me of a story my Grandpa used to tell.

When an acquaintance asked him what he had been doing, Grandpa would say, "We spent the last two days poling pigs."

If the person said, "What do you mean, poling pigs?" this would give Grandfather his chance.

"Well, you take a good stout hickory pole about 12 feet long and trim it real smooth. At the small end leave two limbs about a foot long and about a foot from the small end which should be peeled and made very smooth. Then you insert the small end in the pig's proper receptacle and hold him up in an oak tree to eat acorns."

Another of Grandpa's favorite stories concerned a bear hound he had. When a friend once asked how good the dog hunted, Grandpa said, "Come on, I'll show you." Handing the friend a gun, Grandpa got a coil of rope and with the dog they set off into the woods.

Soon, the dog was barking up a tree. As they approached, a large bear was seen up the tree.

"Shall I shoot him?" the friend asked. "No," Grandpa said, "This is where my dog goes to work."

Grandpa then proceeded to climb the tree and shake the bear off the limb to which it was clinging. When the bear hit the ground, the dog nabbed it right by the family jewels. The bear was absolutely paralyzed. Grandpa then climbed down and  tied the bear up.

"That's the most amazing thing I ever saw!" the friend exclaimed. "But why did you bring the gun?"

"Well," Grandpa said. "Sometimes when I shake a bear, he shakes back. If I fall out, you shoot the dog."  

Mountain Life

Peers t' me, we take for granted many of today's miracles -- such as electricity.

When I was a tad living on Close Mountain (named for a great-grandfather) electricity was as far away as the Moon. Yet, we lived and ate well.

Of course, there was a little extra work for us kids - such as washing coal-oil lamp chimneys and trimming the wicks every evening so they would burn clear and bright. It was a bit more than flipping a light switch, but they did the work.

Refrigeration was unheard of on the farm. We cooled milk, butter and cream in the spring house located over a cool mountain spring.

In the early years of the century, Backbone Mountain, was practically denuded of trees. There were a few scattered bushes of fire-cherry and birch and acres of blackberry vines. This was all that was left after the forests were cut and rain washed off the topsoil.

The blackberries were what we liked in the summer. We would spend days picking them. Mother would can hundreds of quarts - also make lots of jam and jelly.

Some of the berries were dried. In the winter, they were soaked in water overnight. The next day they were just like fresh berries when made into pies, etc. Freeze drying is big business today, but we did it 70 years ago.

In the evening for supper, Mama would make a huge cobbler of blackberries. Served with fresh cream, nothing tasted better. Yum. Yum.

In the Fall, apples were gathered. The neighbor women would get together at each other's homes to peel and slice apples. The slices were made into applebutter, applesauce, apple jelly and other treats.

Apple slices also were strung by needle on long strings and dried in a warm place in the attic. After drying, they were stored in a Gold Medal flour bag and stowed away until needed during the winter. When soaked overnight in fresh water, they were plump and just like fresh apples, ready for pies.

Whole apples were put in barrels lined with straw and buried in the ground. They stayed crisp and fresh all winter.

Cabbages were pulled and turned upside down on the ground. They were then covered with soil. In the winter, you just dug out a head or two when you needed fresh slaw or boiled cabbage.

Sauerkraut was made by stomping fresh-grated cabbage in a large, stone jar. The kraut stomper was a heavy block of wood four or five inches in diameter with a long handle like a broom. A small boy would stand on a chair and pound the cabbage in the jar until the juice ran out.

Salt then was added and more cabbage and salt until the jar was almost full. A large, flat stone was placed on top of the cabbage to keep it under the brine. It always seemed to me that it took a year to fill the jar.

When needed, sauerkraut was taken out, and the brine washed away in fresh water. Sweet peppers were also stuffed with cabbage and pickled. I once saw two stuffed pickles in a Los Angeles store for $2.59. I'm sure if my mother had seen them she would have said she made a million dollars in her lifetime. Just never got paid for it.

Around most of the farms were an abundance of nut trees. In the fall, the kids spent many happy hours gathering the hickory, butternut, black walnut and, of course, the long gone chestnuts.

What fun it was on a cold, winter evenings to sit by the old Number Three Burnside stove and crack nuts on Mother's old flat irons, or boil and roast chestnuts on top of the stove. Popcorn also was a big, evening favorite.

Butchering day was an exciting time for a small, mountain boy. A roaring fire was made to heat water to scald the killed hogs. A large barrel was half-buried at a slant in the ground and filled with boiling water.

The killed hog was dipped in the barrel. This caused the hair to be easily removed. It was the job of us kids to scrape and pull the hair from the hogs. Then, the hogs were washed clean and hung up on a scaffold. There they were split open and the insides removed. The meat was allowed to cool all day.

In the evening, the carcasses were removed and cut up into different portions - such as hams, shoulders, spare ribs, bacon and sausage parts. Some of the meat was cured - rubbed with sugar or salt -- and smoked. Other parts would be canned.

Sausage patties were partially fried then placed in a large stone jar. Layer by layer these were covered with hot, hog lard. In the winter patties were dug out of  the lard and placed in a hot skillet. The lard soon melted away, and the patties were finished being fried. They were delicious with buckwheat cakes and maple syrup.

If there is anything better than sourdough buckwheat cakes, the Good Lord kept it for himself.  

Summer is the time for ice cream today. However, winter was the time we made ice cream on the farm.

We would collect icicles from the eaves of the house and break them into small bits. Mama would mix the cream and other ingredients in the bottom of Dad's  deep dinner bucket. We placed this pail in a large wooden bucket and packed the cracked ice around it.

By turning the dinner bucked back and forth with its ball - sprinkling salt on the ice to make it melt faster - we would have about a gallon of ice cream in a half hour. I still remember how my eyes would hurt if I ate the ice cream too fast.

I wonder how many people could survive off the land today if we had a national catastrophe. You rarely see a hungry hillbilly.

Author: Lindsey Williams

cutline - 3 col. Man painting

Photo provided

[Herman Hebb, folklorist and artist, puts the finishing touches on his painting of Close Mountain in West Virginia where he grew up before joining the U.S. Navy for a distinguished career. ]