During the 1920s and early 1930s, the people of the Blue Ridge Mountains of Virginia were living, thinking, and working as their forefathers had done for centuries. Their resistance to change extended to most areas of their lives, including their archaic way of speaking, the low position of women in the mountain home and society, and their outdated farming methods that drained the land of its productiveness each succeeding year. Their invariable response to suggestions for change was hostile: "This is the way my pa did it, and it was the way his pa did it. We ain't never done no different." Since those days--especially after the establishment of the Shenandoah National Park in 1935--vast changes have swept this primitive civilization away, and the picturesque mountaineer of story and legend has become a fading memory. Early in his ministry, Dr. Ribble worked as a missionary among these hardy but culturally-isolated Blue Ridge Mountain people. In his book Where Time Stood Still, he recounts delightful stories about the Blue Ridge Mountain folk, painting a vivid portrait of these mountaineers. A few of these stories involve the stereotypical hillbilly, such as shotgun weddings and illegal moonshining. On the whole, however, his stories paint a much more complete and sympathetic picture of these mountain people, whom he came to know well and for whom he came to feel great respect and affection.

Where Time Stood Still

By Watkins Leigh Ribble

iUniverse, Inc.

Copyright © 2010 The Reverend Watkins Leigh Ribble, D.D.
All right reserved.
ISBN: 978-1-4502-2425-3

Contents

Thoughts from a Mountaineer....................................vForward........................................................viiPreface........................................................xiChapter 1 We Ain't Never Done No Different.....................1Chapter 2 Run! Call the Mission Lady...........................8Chapter 3 Blood on the Spotswood Trail.........................21Chapter 4 Now Explain That to Me...............................35Chapter 5 The Story Of A Loser.................................43Chapter 6 Hitch Hiker Homilies.................................53Chapter 7 A Promise and A Slip.................................63Chapter 8 Who Shall My Keeper Be?..............................70Chapter 9 Preachers Are Not Always Welcome.....................76Chapter 10 Bushwhacked!........................................83Chapter 11 Paper's Come........................................92Chapter 12 Here Comes the Bride................................100Chapter 13 A Chicken in Every Pot..............................111Chapter 14 Tempest in a Teapot.................................119Chapter 15 Ashes to Ashes......................................130Chapter 16 A Sunday Afternoon Outing...........................138Chapter 17 Roadside Chat.......................................148Chapter 18 Minding the Store...................................156Chapter 19 Feed Store Theology.................................164Chapter 20 Rambling Rectory....................................173

Chapter One

WE AINT NEVER DONE NO DIFFERENT

The first time I went into the Blue Ridge Mountains to take up residence and work, I felt I had stepped back a century and a half in time. It seemed to be a Never Never Land where little had changed for a hundred and fifty years and which both civilization and history had by-passed. The glacier like movement of population from the eastern seaboard westward had spread over the Appalachia and moved on, leaving behind in the valleys, coves , and hollows, ground moraines of people, who had no significant part in the commercial, industrial, and cultural development of the country. The rugged terrain, the absence of good roads, the lack of skills for developing the slender resources of a difficult environment, and the dearth of creative contacts with the outside world, locked them into enclaves where they long remained virtually undisturbed. They were severed from the dynamic life of a growing nation of which they knew less and less, and feared more and more. So little were they a part of it that they regarded themselves as surrounded by foreigners and felt safe only in their isolation.

Time slowed to a stop. Change was resisted. Each year became more like the last, and, even though their hard lives developed the strong virtues of independence and self-reliance, dreary sameness numbed the spirit. So they clung to the old ways of speech and to the customs of dead generations in which they found a measure of stability, "'Cause this is the way it always was."

Once the first shock had worn off, it was not too difficult to get used to their dialect. One's ear readily got accustomed to it, and in the hills it sounded very natural indeed. With time, it ceased to be a quaint experience when I encountered a mountaineer walking along a road who was glad to stop for a chat and learned that he felt "tol'able peart" and that his wife and children "were well as common"; that he was hurrying home from the crossroads store where he had bought some "vittles" which he was carrying in his "poke"; that he didn't have time to tarry long "'cause home's a right fur piece and the old woman's looking for me to git thar soon with the fixings so's she can cook up a mess for me and the family"; that he was " proud to meet up with me" and hoped that "we'll meet again soon, if I live."

Getting used to their way of doing things posed the greater problem, and I could never become adjusted to some practices that had the status and acceptance of custom. The latter clustered mainly around the position of women in the mountain home and society. Not to be forgotten was the first sight of a husband riding on his horse up a steep grade and his wife walking along behind them burdened with a sack of vegetables. No matter how many times I saw similar scenes, they never failed to cause feelings of anger and in this respect I was always a "foreigner". Sometimes the wife carried a baby as she followed husband and horse. When a husband was on foot, his wife dutifully walked three paces behind him, with or without a load. No wonder mountain women used to grow old so young. Their lives were hard enough as it was without having this menial station imposed on them. Happily, little of this is seen nowadays.

The men certainly found life burdensome, scratching, as best they could, a living from a hostile soil which would seldom allow them to rise above the poverty level. However, they expected their women to "fetch and carry" for them in addition to taking care of the tasks about home and garden, not to mention working in the fields at planting and harvest time. The men worked the crops, looked after the animals, and hunted game, as far back as can be remembered, but they never touched the kitchen gardens. This was beneath their dignity. They wanted the usual vegetables to eat: `taters, snaps, turnips, beets, onions, and cabbage, but raising them was woman's work.

Added to these indignities was the custom of men first at the table at mealtime, with the womenfolk remaining out of sight in the kitchen unless needed to render some service or to bring in more food. In the early days of my stay, being new to this I found the custom difficult to get along with. During my first meal in a mountain home, my host asked me if I wanted more bread, assuring me there was plenty more in the stove. I accepted the offer and immediately he shouted through the closed kitchen door, "Old lady! Preacher wants more biscuits!" Once the men folk were taken care of and had left the table, then it was the turn of the women and children.

This type of separation by sex extended beyond the home. In public meetings and especially at church services, chairs, benches, or pews were arranged in two sections divided by an aisle. The men sat on the right. The women and children sat on the left. The men walked in and out as they chose. The women and children stayed put except in emergencies. Growing boys looked forward to the day when they would be considered old enough to escape from the women and sit with their fathers or with their peers. This would be a big step toward dignity and freedom. Afterward, they coveted the coming of that indefinable time, when they would be allowed to declare their manhood by joining the masculine parade in and out with none to say them nay. When that time arrived had to be discovered by trial and error. The first trials were usually abortive, as an eager fledgling's first efforts usually are. A parental hiss, "Git back thar whar you belong" made it clear that childhood was not over yet. But in due time, the attempt would be unopposed. That was a proud moment, for the boy then felt he was accepted as a man.

This might be a great day for the budding youngster, but it was also the beginning of some anxiety for his parents and even for the adults in the area. Would he be a peaceable kind of fellow or would he run "hog wild?" There was cause for concern as there was...