The Mountain's Silent Cry

By Phil Evaul

The Mountain's Silent Cry is a picture of a fictional family, the Pittmans, living in the remote reaches of the Appalachian Mountains of North Carolina in the 1940's. The region is experiencing great changes: new conveniences, new technologies, new ideas. Daniel and Helen treasure the old ways and traditions. They know these values are crucial to survival in this rugged land. But their children are drawn to new ways of thinking and doing. The Pittman family is torn between the need to cling to heritage, against the temptation to seek a vague but alluring future.
While the town and characters are fictional, the tension is very real, even today. Modern families will also identify with the conflict of old versus new as one generation transitions to another.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Melinda Evaul
• Release date: May 19, 2014
• ISBN: 9780983124931

Phil Evaul

Phil Evaul grew up in the Appalachian Mountains of North Carolina. He and his wife, Melinda, have two grown children and three fabulous grandchildren. He enjoys exploring back roads (which drove his young children crazy) and taking photos of derelict barns and rustic settings, many of which can be seen at www.melindaevaul.com. He is Pastor of Sale Creek Independent Presbyterian Church, in Sale Creek, TN.His wife has authored a very fine book, "Grow Old With Me" available in paperback and for e-readers.

Book preview

The Mountain’s

Silent Cry

Phil Evaul

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without written permission from the author, except for the inclusion of brief quotations in a review.

This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any other resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations, or persons living or dead is entirely coincidental and beyond the intent of either the author or the publisher.

Copyright Phil Evaul 2014

Published by Winding Road Ink

Publishing at Smashwords

ISBN:978-0-9831249-3-1

Table of Contents

Dedication

Acknowledgments

Introduction

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Epilogue

About the Author

Also from Winding Road Ink

Dedication

I dedicate this book to my parents, who in the mid ‘60s settled our family in Banner Elk, NC, close to the highest of the Appalachian Mountains. I will always be grateful for the privilege of growing up in Appalachia, exploring the countryside, and knowing the people who inhabited it.

Acknowledgments

I am very grateful for my wife, Melinda, who encouraged me to write, made many wonderful editing suggestions, and directed putting this whole thing together.

Paul and Margaret Neal, of Banner Elk, helped me in the early stages to get many of the cultural and historical pictures accurate. I’m sure they are now with the Lord, but I do appreciate their comments.

~~

I found the Foxfire Book Series, from Eliot Wiggington’s classes at Rabun County High School, to be extremely informative. The reader who wants to learn more about how the people of Appalachia lived will find a wealth of information in these fine books.

Introduction

Time does not stand still. But in the remotest reaches of the Appalachian Mountains of North Carolina it comes mighty close. The hearty folks inhabiting these rural hills provide a glimpse of living history. Many families live today in much the same way as their ancestors did generations ago.

Although many things remain relatively unchanged, as you pass through the area you may see an occasional satellite dish on the side of a house, a beautiful new brick home with the latest model car parked in the driveway, an exclusive gated community, a farmer tending to his fields on a four-wheeler: all evidences of modern civilization making its way up the folds and valleys.

You may also see rusting automobile shells with Queen Anne’s lace growing where windows were, a white porcelain electric washing machine used as a feed trough, a mobile home with tires on the roof to keep the wind from blowing it off: the evidences of former prosperity.

Growing up in Appalachia in the ‘60s & ‘70s, I knew of families who did not yet have electricity or running water; who still used an outhouse; who did not have a bank account, a phone or a car; who dried medicinal herbs the back yard. These people maintained and even treasured the way of life handed down to them by their forefathers, along with the values and traditions associated with that way of life.

Sadly, these folks have been gawked at and laughed at by more ‘sophisticated’ and ‘modernized’ people. Cartoons like Li’l Abner, Snuffy Smith, and the Beverly Hillbillies, which stereotype them as lazy, moonshine-loving rednecks, have not helped, nor are they accurate.

The reality is that the people of Appalachia are generally honest, hardworking, and friendly. They tend to be a religious people (at least nominally Christian), in a simple sort of way. They are not into the finer points of doctrine, but they believe in God, and they believe in doing good and helping others in need. They are a pleasure to know. Of course I’m speaking in generalities. And there are many exceptions to every generality.

The Appalachian region has undergone drastic changes over the last few decades. New roads are opening up the previously inaccessible backwoods. Tourists are pouring in and building summer homes. Condominiums blemish hilltops. Wooded mountainsides are stripped for ski resorts. The whine of snowmaking machines drones on through winter nights. For better or worse, modernization with all its trappings is moving in.

Time is speeding up in Appalachia.

I desire to paint a picture in this little book of what life was like for many people in the middle of the 1900’s, when the tensions between tradition and modernity began to be felt. Although I try to capture some of the dialect in conversation, I hope that my portraits are respectful, loving, and realistic. The story has grown out of my admiration for the people of the land.

Chapter One

Palpable silence. The weight of quietness, the stillness, struck Daniel, as if sound itself had frozen during the night. Stepping on the porch as the first rays of dawn began to glow, he could see through the half-light how the snow that fell during the night had covered every low bush and shrub and rounded the features of the terrain. He swatted an icicle from the low porch overhang. The crack burst in his ears like a blasphemy against the solemn atmosphere, as though Nature turned her head to stare at him for disturbing the reverence of a worship service.

Daniel had risen before dawn. He had laced his boots, put on his coat, and allowed himself the luxury of a leisurely second cup of coffee before the morning chores. Now the sun was just beginning to rise into the pale sky above the ridge as he paused on the porch and took a deep breath of the frozen air. The dog rose, stretched its forelegs, and shook the snow off its back.

Mornin’, Ranger, Daniel whispered, patting the dog on the head. The snow absorbed and muffled his voice.

They had gotten the dog as a puppy four years earlier. They needed a watchdog that could alert them of strangers approaching while keeping deer and other varmints out of the garden. Ranger was a mix of German shepherd, golden retriever, and a half-dozen other breeds. His large size should have presented a formidable opposition to any threat to the family’s welfare, but the dog did not take his job seriously. Ever since he was a puppy, all the dog wanted to do was play. In four years, he had not outgrown his silliness. His favorite game even now was to chase sticks or rocks. Of course, he would bark whenever he saw anyone approaching the farm, but it was more a bark of greeting than warning.

Daniel tried to get the dog to sleep in the barn with the other animals during the winter, but Ranger insisted on sleeping on the porch, shivering all night. He built the dog a lean-to on the porch and put an old blanket in it to give him some shelter from the cold, but Ranger dragged the blanket out into the open and slept on it there, no matter how severe the weather.

You’re a dumb dog. Why don’tcha sleep inside your house where at least you don’t get snowed on?

The dog looked up at him with eyes ignorant of the insult but begging for a game.

Daniel lingered on the porch, leaning against the post. He snugged his brown overcoat around his neck, the collar scraping along the stubble of three days’ growth of beard. Running his hand through his white hair, thinning on top, he reflected on his life. There was little to do on these cold days, aside from the regular caring for the animals, except to sharpen the plow and tighten the nuts on the machinery. The tobacco barn had a couple of small leaks in the roof, but those would be no trouble to patch after the thaw.

He could see his breath puff into little clouds before his face and dissipate among the frozen particles of moisture glistening in the crisp air. The spindly twigs of trees around the yard wore a thick covering of hoarfrost like lacy gloves on brown hands. As he gazed out over the pure whiteness of his farm it occurred to him that in only a few weeks the snow would be melting, giving way to the mild rays of spring’s warm sun. He would soon take the children into the woods to tap red maples for syrup. Few people in these parts still tapped the maples, but the Pittmans carried on the tradition as an enjoyable family outing. They really did not need the syrup, and they didn’t tap enough to sell, but the children enjoyed the practice. It was like the signal that the long winter was over and spring had finally arrived.

Spring meant hard work for everyone, young and old, all day, every day. Tapping the maples was a fun way of easing into that daily work routine.

On the edge of the porch a dusting of snow lay on the top logs of the neatly stacked firewood. Now here was something to be proud of. He remembered how hard he and Will had worked to gather, cut and split the wood last year. During the long winter their abundant supply had dwindled, and as soon as the snow was gone the days would be occupied with restocking their fuel. All through the summer they would have to continue cutting wood for the cook stove and for drying tobacco in the fall, but it would not take nearly as much as was needed to keep the cabin warm in winter.

No one was better at cutting and splitting than Will. The toughest locust presented little challenge for him, and the softer poplar and hickory yielded willingly to the edge of his ax blade. Will was a good six inches taller than his father. He had thick dark hair and brown eyes set in a rugged face with a quick smile. His mother had teased him that he would break many a poor girl’s heart. It was Will who had worked so hard to build the locust fence around the barnyard three years ago. Will was only sixteen at the time.

That was one hard working boy.

Daniel could never figure out why Will left the farm last fall. And for what? To seek his fortune in Atlanta, of all places. How in the world could a natural country boy like Will ever feel at home in a big city like Atlanta? It just did not make sense. But Daniel kept alive the hope that Will would come to his senses and return home where he belonged, like the prodigal son in the Bible.

Will’s leaving was about the only blemish in the last few years of an otherwise satisfactory existence. Daniel and his wife, Helen, spoke often of his leaving. It seemed that almost every conversation eventually worked its way back to Will.

Daniel was content in life. Satisfied, not because he was a wealthy man, for he certainly was not. Rather, he was satisfied that life was holding steady for him. The family continued to survive despite their difficult financial situation. It had been a good winter, as winters go in these highlands. The Pittmans and their farm were emerging from another winter, even as the nation emerged from the Great Depression.

They say the Depression is over. They say there is reason for hope. Better times are ahead. Daniel thought it sounded like a sour joke. The Depression may be over down there, but it appeared it would never leave this area. Indeed, as long as Daniel could remember life in the backwoods had always been depressed. It was simply that for a ten-year period of time the rest of the nation felt a little of what folks lived with all the time here. Daniel was not complaining, though. He did not wish for prosperity. He was content merely to maintain a sense of stability in his family and farm. Electricity and indoor plumbing had recently become available to some mountain families, and many of them were enjoying their new affluence. Some of them could even afford to buy cars. But these modern conveniences did not appeal to Daniel. His main goal in life was to eke out a living from the soil and then pass the farm on to his children, along with the values and traditions that were handed down to him.

Daniel’s boots crunched in the snow as he moved from the porch toward the barn. Mike emerged from the outhouse and called Daniel to him.

Look, Pa. Them’s bobcat tracks, ain’t they?

The fresh prints ran from the woods, near the outhouse and toward the barn.

Yup, sure looks like it. Daniel stooped for a closer look. Ain’t many of these left around these parts no more. This one’s not very big. I’d say it’s about half-grown.

You don’t suppose it got into the chickens, do you?

Daniel shook his head. I doubt it. I think we’d a heard some commotion from them if it had. But we’d best check just the same. If that sorry dog was worth anything it would have run it off.

They followed the tracks until they became obscured in the yard near the barn.

Looks like it wandered around a bit trying to decide what to do.

Mike pointed toward the creek. Here, they head off this way. Bending over them he slowly followed their progress as they went right up to the water’s edge, and then followed the creek’s flow downstream.

A thin, gray sheet of ice lay across the black water where a bend stilled its flow. Where the creek narrowed, bridges of snow had formed from one bank to the other. Rocks rising above the water level wore rounded white snow caps. The night wind had formed cornices overhanging the creek, obscuring the border of the water and giving the creek the illusion of narrowness. In places the weight of the overhang was too great and the cornice had collapsed into the chilly water. A gentle breeze blew light snowflakes off high branches, floating them down like a shimmering curtain.

Mike followed the tracks until they disappeared into the thick underbrush in the woods. He turned back and headed toward the house. Without looking at his father he called out, Reckon it’s gone now. I’m going in for breakfast.

Go ahead. I’ve got some work to do in the barn.

He stood in the doorway of the barn for a moment to allow his eyes to adjust to the darkness. Then taking a rasp and a plow, he sat on a stool and began to sharpen the blade.

~~

Daniel’s thoughts returned to his oldest son. Will said he was tired of country life. He had to get away, to be off on his own for a while.

I have to find myself, is the way he put it. Queer expression, that. All he had to do was look at a mirror to find himself.

But you don’t understand, he had argued. I want to be my own man. I am a man now, you know. Up to now I’ve been doing everything for you folks and nothing for myself.

His mother had pleaded. She had looked up into his eyes and squeezed his broad shoulders. Why don’t you just find yourself a nice girl and settle down with her on that piece of land over the ridge? It’s yours, you know. You could start your own family, farm the way you want to, if you don’t like the way we do it.

That was the natural thing to do, the expected thing. It was taken for granted that the oldest son would continue in the steps of his father. His destiny, like the law of the Medes and the Persians, was unalterably set before him.

I gotta go see if there’s anything else for me besides working a farm just like you and your Pa before you, and his Pa before him.

Will was determined. There was no stopping him once he got his mind made up. Just like cutting wood: when he set himself to it he could not be distracted. No amount of his mother’s tears or pleading, no amount of his father’s arguments, would change his mind about heading off on his own away from the farm.

Will really started breaking away many years earlier. The boy could not have been more than thirteen years old at the time, but he understood the event with surprising clarity.

Daniel had just returned from selling a wagonload of tobacco at the auction in Wilkesboro. The summer had been a good one for tobacco; Daniel had made a good profit. There were lots of plans for how the family would use the money. They could use another cow and horse. It would be nice to buy Ma a new sewing machine so she would not have to do all the sewing and mending by hand. A sewing machine would save her a little time for other things. At the dry goods store she had seen a shiny silver and black treadle machine in a handsome oak cabinet that caught her fancy. And they always needed new tools. The tobacco money was just what the family looked forward to, although, good as it was, even that would not go as far as was hoped.

No sooner had Daniel arrived than he heard that the Martin cabin had burned. Daniel summoned Will and together they rode the wagon to the Martin farm. The acrid smell of burning wood and tar paper still hung in the air for a long way off, and wisps of smoke curled up from the ashes in slowly rising swirls melting into the blue sky. Charred splinters of timbers stuck out from the rock chimney, standing like a brave, lonely sentinel, giving the impression of quills on a porcupine. Soot-covered metal objects—the stove, a bed frame, a rifle barrel, protruded from the black rubble.

By the time Daniel and Will got to the Martin’s place other neighbors had gathered. The womenfolk brought canned foods and blankets to help the poor family set up in the barn until they could get their place rebuilt. The men made plans for a cabin raising the next week. A log cabin would be the sensible thing to build. It could be assembled in much less time than it would take to build a frame or stone house. They would all gather on Saturday and help Mr. Martin cut and place the logs for a new home. Once the logs were up Mr. Martin and his family could put in the chinking on their own.

It was the normal thing to do; a neighbor would always pitch in and help another in need, no matter how busy he might be. Each man there could remember a time when he had been helped by another. This was an occasion to return a previous kindness. It did not matter whether the hand up could be repaid. What mattered was the common sharing of aid to the benefit of all.