A Kindred Charm not a Shallow Arrogance - Spring 1988  

One of the many stories from his journals and  "Mirrored Souls A Study of Paul Murray's Art"     written by Paul Murray along with Jay Diemer Louise

The native pride, which is not a shallow arrogance, but is a kindred charm of the mountain people I have met.  Never was this pride expressed more eloquently nor more gracefully than when I met Fannie Johnson. Townsend, TN, is no different from the rest of Appalachia, with its dead end roads, and countless paths branching off in every direction. Some are choked with foliage while others are squeezed between rocky ridges. This dirt path was one of these obscure lead-ins, well back from the main roads.   Midway along a narrow, puddled and rutted laneway, we stopped the truck. It has become a ritual to stop in this particular  spot where a pipe juts out of the ground. The pipe taps into a clear, underground water source and brings to the surface a fountain of pure, icy water. To me there is nothing more satisfying. Drinking out of this spring always makes me think of the mountaineers.

This mountain spring is cherished by all locals, even John Oliver drank from here and collected pales of water for his daily needs. John Oliver who in 1936 was one of many who left Cades Cove after the National Park took over. He lived just up the hollow until his death in the 1960's. After filling up our jars with this clear liquid, we commenced driving up the forgotten path that eventually opened to a tiny vale, with steep

ridges demanding on both sides. There in this bucolic valley sits this small cabin with real blue smoke chugging from the chimney. As we near the cabin we heard a peculiar thumping noise was coming from the inside of the cabin, a sound of wood hitting against the planked floors. There are muffled voices from within, but they are aware I was at the door. I don't have to knock, but am greeted with the customary, "C'mon in!" Fannie is sitting near the door, rocking her infant granddaughter to sleep in the kitchen chair, rocking back and forth, so that the chair legs thump in a haunting rhythm. Her son Ernest and another grandson, Vernon, are with her. It is a glorious spring day, but the potbelly stove is red hot to ward off the chill mountain air. The room is warm, cozy and dark, save for the muted light passing through the windows and Fannie's endless, winning smile. Her long black hair is tucked neatly behind her ears, exposing the earthy pigment of her skin, the unmistakable angular face reminiscent of Indian bloodlines. Her deep brown eyes are small but there is a light in them as though eternal flames burn there. Fannie's soft voice is halting and musical to listen to. Her speech is typically clipped, almost child-like in its purity. Always her w ords are flavored with unabashed pride in her family and home, and with a tender, undying devotion to her husband, Till, who died a few years ago. "We  was married 48 yars," she tells us, 

"Bin with 'im e'er since I wuz 15 yars old. 

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