"Good Memories For Me"
by FRANK PROFFITT
Appalachian Journal, Vol. 1, No. 3 (Autumn 1973), pp. 197-198
[William Wiley Proffitt was Franks father, Willian was the son of John Wesley Proffitt and Phebe Adeline Pardue Proffitt. Husband of Rebecca Alice Creed Proffitt. His sister Nancy Proffit Prather (1866 - 1942) Caroline Phoebe Proffitt Gregg (1879 - 1949);
Roena B. Proffitt White (1890 - 1966); Stacy Proffitt (1894 - 1971); Mary Alice Proffitt McElyea (1901 - 1993); James W Proffitt (1907 - 1944)]
"Good Memories For Me"
Reprinted with permission fr om Sing Out!, November, 1965. Our special appreciation to Francine Brown o f the Sing Out! staff f or generously su pplying us with a copy of the magazine i n which F rank Proffitt's ar ticle appeared.
BY FRANK PROFFITT
.... My world begins June 1, 1913, in Laurel Bloomery, Tennessee. After one year, my parents crossed the Stone Dam, North Carolina, to be among the cabin folk- people who lived in a pioneer pattern of life that had existed from the earliest mountain settler.
These were the folk who asked nothing of other men and didn't bother you with trifles. They could live a week on boiled chestnuts and get cooking grease from a slick hog jawbone. Ofttimes, the quote was: "We make what we eat; we eat what we make; and we're never beholden, not one time."
But further back than my coming to the mountains, mountain folk of my own kin and others preserved, without thinking about it, songs and tales in the old country patterns of speech, and the skill with the hands. Among these, my own, I lived, enjoying in boyhood the freedom of the woods and the cold streams- and, most of all, the songs and music that were played on the banjer, the dulcimore, and, occasionally, the fiddle.
My early memories were of my father. Along with fashioning woodwork, he made five-string wooden fretless banjers. Upon these, he would play tunes and songs for me. More so when we were alone. My mother, who liked religious music more so than banjerin', could put a damper on too heavy a foot pattin' with just a look. My father cleared land for the better farmers, for crops in the new ground. In addition, he fixed watches, clocks, and made handles for tools and anything that came to hand. He was gifted in spinning tales. Along with his brother and sister, there was always a great night for me if it included singing old
songs and playing games.
The Civil War lived in the minds of my father and his sister and brother. Their father, who went across the mountain to join the Union forces, handed them all the feelings such a conflict could bring. The bitter feelings lived strongly yet when I was a boy
[ ] among my folk. There was a persecution of Yankee children. They were confined very much to dwell upon the upper ridge country, I'm told. I understand the feelings of my grandfather, who was a free woodsman of the ridge. I can understand why he had no desire to fight on the side of the bottomlanders for slavery. I can understand also his feelings o f kinship f or
the log-cabin President L incoln, as he
crossed the mountain t o join the "boys in Blue" (as expressed in the song, "Goin' Across the Mountain"). In "Old Abe," with the gallantry of war at a low ebb and patriotism somewhat soured, t he bellyaching of all military men comes to the front. Both songs are expressions o f the living tradition that has not been interrupted among the mountain folk t o whom I belong. In the playing o f the banjer, I follow the pattern of my father.
I have not been exposed to other styles in so far as a desire to learn other banjerist's ways of playing. I did pick up the guitar throughout the 1930s, and do some Carter songs to a degree. I had much admiration of yodeling Jimmie Rodgers also. . .
. I can understand the young people and others whose hearts cry out to ex- press in songs and music, feelings and thoughts they have had about them- selves and their surroundings. I am one hundred per cent behind anyone who sings and plays any style anywhere at any time on any type of instrument he chooses. I feel a kinship with all of them, and I want them to also feel that way about me. One fellow wrote me: "But I don't have a tradition like you!" Upon which I replied: "If you believe in the Biblical Adam, I'm sure he songed for Eve. If your mind runs to that coming-from- monkey stuff, I'm sure the cave man beat upon the cliff with a sucked-out marrowbone and croaked out a melody or two. What more tradition do you want?"