8

Ain't No Badge That Shines Brighter

9

Mockingbird, Mockingbird

10

Little Rabbit Skin

11

There's a Balm in Gilead

12

“I've Been Witched!”

13

Run, Devil, Run

CONCLUSION

APPENDIX A

Zodiac Signs and Their Corresponding Body Parts

APPENDIX B

List of Herbs/Curios and Their Uses

BIBLIOGRAPHY

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

None of this work, nor this writing, would have been possible without the aid of my ancestors. Writing demands sacrifices, not only of time and energy, but also of faith and love. Like many things that are spirit led, you walk into it blindly, without a clue as to how it will turn out. Much like writing, life is the same.

Each time I write, life has its demands and the enemy throws everything he can at me to stop me. With each writing, my family has endured hard times and trials, from strokes and blood clots to my grandmother's hip surgery during the writing of this book.

Mrs. Margaret was born in March 1939 to wonderful parents. She went to church her whole life and knew who she was and what she wanted to be. She played piano in grade school and had a talent for it—she could replicate any tune she heard just by listening. She worked as a certified nurse for most of her life until she retired, all the while making and raising a family with my grandfather, Gene. They met in church and he showed up on her porch one day and asked her out. They got married in 1958. Together they raised not only their own family but also hundreds of foster children who needed a home filled with love. At Nana's house there was plenty of that. You never left without being fed or cared for in some way.

From a very young age, she was my best friend. It may sound cliché to say I always sat at her feet to hear stories and talk with her up until she passed, but it's true. We always sat at the foot of her recliner to listen to her and enjoy her company. But life goes on, and we grow up and opportunities take us away from home. But every chance I got I was hearing her stories.

After Papaw passed, she started showing signs of dementia. It's the hardest thing to watch someone you love disappear a little bit each day, all while seeing them and holding their hand. We figure God gave it to her because He knew she wouldn't be able to handle the heartbreak of losing Papaw after forty-seven years of marriage.

Even with the dementia, though, and her memory coming and going, she was always herself—maybe herself before she had kids or before she had grandkids, but she always knew herself. It was like simultaneously losing her, but meeting who she was at different points in her life. Regardless of what happened, she was always wrapped in dignity and peace. We made sure she stayed that way to the end.

She was a strong woman in the flesh but even more so in the spirit. In the days leading up to her passing, my mother (who has the sight) continuously saw her surrounded by her mama and daddy and her lost love; heard angels singing as the windows shook; and saw the light hands of ancestors reaching to comfort her from the picture frames on the wall. I was sure the world would end when she went, but I told her we'd be fine. That morning, as we waited for the coroner to come, the sun broke through the clouds after a long week of rain and it was the most beautiful, colorful morning I'll ever live to see. After that the world lost some color, but the Land of Beulah gained it.

We weren't sure how we would go about the funeral. We didn't have the money or the insurance for it. I was willing to do anything to make sure that wonderful saint of a woman was laid to rest with the dignity she lived by and not in pinewood box. We spoke with bank after bank; we tried every possible thing we could do until a friend made a fund for it once I put aside my pride. To my surprise and amazement, we were able to raise the funds for her burial, all donated by past clients I've helped. It still has me speechless, and I can never repay any of you for that blessing.

So, Nana, I hope you can somehow see this book like you did the first. I hope you know I will never forget you. That's why I'm saying this here. Because a saint died on Exum Street and the world kept going on without you. So here in this moment, on this page, you're still with me. And we can remember, together.

INTRODUCTION

I have lived in east Tennessee my whole life, but I've also traveled across the country—and I swear there ain't no better place than Appalachia. Maybe I'm biased, but after seeing the rest of the country, I understand what Nana meant when she said this was God's country. Appalachia, the “never-ending forest,” continues to surprise me. The growth of culture, both animal and human, is astounding, as is the relationship between the two connected by blood and spirit, sometimes quite literally. I've worked roots and conjure now going on thirteen years, having learned from my elders, from my dreams, and from my own experience. I was raised by family in many places—my mother's home, her mama's house going toward Piney Flats, Tennessee, my paternal great-grandfather's in Unicoi, Tennessee, and my paternal great-grandmother's holler in North Carolina, near Devil's Nest on Big Ridge. I'd play in corn rows, catch caterpillars in a jar. In the spring, I'd be chest-deep in the mountain creek beneath the little bridge covered in wild yellow roses, opening my chest from the previous winter. From an early age, I was exposed to the local lore in each community, equipped with stories that would one day be of aid one way or another.

When I was young, I helped in the gardens and barns, picking pears and gathering chicken eggs and sometimes duck eggs from the pond. Just about everyone here did, growing up. I'd watch intently as my grandmothers canned the beans and tomatoes, cracking the whip of country wisdom and making something almost eternal, like scientists in a lab. God strike me if I'm lying, but I'll bet you anything they've still got some of those jars that six-year-old me watched them can!

I grew up being told to get “warshed” up for dinner, to get a mint from Nana's “poke” bag during church while Papaw preached. I was raised on porch swings, old men trading news over a coffee or beer, wives and sisters standing outside talking on warm summer nights until the wee hours of the morning. My alarm clock was the morning sun and the occasional rooster; my lullaby was often the howls of coyotes while fireflies carried stars down from heaven.

I have always had a wonderful relationship with animals—I think everyone from here does. However, I think I was almost to the point of giving Mama a heart attack. I'd wander off and play beneath a bull in a cow field, or tangle with a copperhead my daddy caught in a minnow trap. Mama said I had snake charmer's blood, meaning a person who isn't easily bit by snakes because of some charm naturally cast by the holder. We were around wild animals every day, and we respected them and they respected us. This added to my relationship with the land as nature, and its inhabitants became not only a window into God, but also a window into myself, reflecting back to me the good and the bad, like water pooling in the still eddies off the creek. Animals and plants play a very large role in the way we're born, live, cook, clean, work, and die, so of course they have a role in Appalachian folk magic and the work of a hilltop conjure man.

We grew up on stories of witches and family encounters with the Devil; stories of local spirits and creatures that roam the hills. My grandfather was a faith healer who had the sight. He cured thrush and warts, stopped blood with a prayer, and stole a fever with an egg. His mama may have also done this work. I never met Mamaw Seagle, but my mother has told me stories of her home on Pine Street in Johnson City, Tennessee, that the walls seemed like they were breathing, and there would be cold spots in the dead of summer even though Mamaw didn't have an air conditioner. Mama said she always had oil lamps going and something burning with a musky smell on the stove. She loved the woman to death, but she hated going to her home. My maternal great-grandmother, Sadie Mae, from the melungeon¹ side of my mother's family, used to make dolls and hide them for some reason. Her husband, a white man, we think was a conjure man also due to a photo we found of him posing with a doll that has black feathers attached to it.

Mama also has the Gift as a seventh daughter. Her mama has the sight, too; anything she says has passed and will pass. She has always had those weird quirks that everybody notices but doesn't put much thought into. I think she enjoyed it until I came along! See, I was born “blue,” which is said to be an indicator of the Gift or the sight in Appalachia. Being born breech, sunny-side up (that is, faceup instead of facedown), or with a veil over the eyes (when the baby has part of the amniotic sac covering its head or face) was dangerous for the child, and many died—so it was said that those who survived were extremely lucky, born from the jaws of death, and walk that line until they enter the grave.

When my elders began passing away, I dedicated myself to collecting this lore, and keeping track of the beliefs and tales I heard growing up. Being born blue, I grew up hearing things that weren't said aloud by anyone present, knowing what someone was going to say before they said it or how they were faring, and sensing what was about to happen. My sister, a “left twin,” or a surviving twin since our sister died in the womb before birth, also has these gifts. These occurrences, like speaking with the dead openly, laying salt and cinnamon at the doors, or being healed by my mother's hands instead of the doctor, weren't anything strange to us.

There have been many books coming forth to help preserve our culture: how we pray, how we cook and eat, what toys our kids play with, how we work and dress, how we birth and bury our own. However, largely kept to the side, out of sight and out of mind, are the secret doings of how we handled when the deck was stacked against us: those secrets kept in the home, or those secret ventures to meet that one person everybody was wary of. Folk magic and conjure have played a big role in Appalachian life for centuries, being a mix of cultural beliefs from the native tribes such as the Cherokee and the immigrant people who settled here: Germans, English, and Scotts-Irish. And it's high time that folks knew it and quit throwing it off as simple old wives' tales. Back in the day, these folks weren't talked about much, let alone written about, so many of the stories that have remained are oral stories passed around. That is the reason for my writing: to help preserve these traditions and, in a way, to revive that culture of superstition and tales that is unique to southern Appalachia. First we will meet some of the key figures in Appalachian folk magic, understand them and the tales that remain. Then it's off to the top of the mountain to meet the roots of money, love, and justice and see how they are worked.

1 Melungeon is a term used for triracial people in east Tennessee. We are mostly thought to be a mixture of European, Portuguese, Native American, and African, often characterized by our dark hair and olive skin. This term likely arises from the French word mélange, meaning “mixture.” Originally a slur denoting “dirty” or “tainted,” it has been reclaimed in recent times.

1

WITCHCRAFT AND CONJURE IN APPALACHIA

Every man was his own doctor and priest back in the day, until as recently as the early to mid-twentieth century, when Western medicine and stationary preachers became more abundant. Before that, every family or community had usually one to three people who helped with a range of ailments, from bleeding and infections to nightmares and supposed curses. These same folks would also deliver babies, perform baptisms, marry couples, and bury the deceased. Now the folks who did this were as varied as their titles, but the most fascinating character in the hills was the root person. This was the old woman who knew everything whispered in the dark, and the man who came over the hills to cure you of a curse, holding a bucket of vomited crickets and salamanders.

God listens to our prayers and knows what we need. But we Appalachian Americans have a certain self-reliance. We were left to fend for ourselves for the longest time while simultaneously being robbed of resources by outsiders, whether it was coal or timber or what have you. There wasn't anything else here they wanted or cared for to the point some transport trains didn't even stop here for anything but to fuel up. Therefore there was rarely a train that came through with news of the outside world or anything like that. Otherwise it was us and God. We didn't have preachers or priests down the road to pray for us—we prayed for each other. The preachers we did have were circuit riders who traveled from community to community constantly, maybe staying in one place for a week to preach, baptize, or bless. Otherwise, it was just us, fending for ourselves, growing our own food and making our own work.

Because we were all taught that God only gives you what you can handle, we will try everything to make ends meet before giving up and giving it to God. And a good first step before seeking His help is to find the conjurer or root person of the community. These healers had a way about them, a way of seeing and walking, that allowed them to speak with the spirits to bring about change. The way it was taught to me is that everybody's life is like a water pipe: it flows and flows, but sometimes things get clogged up to the point where the water (the person) can't overcome it on their own; so they call up a friend first (root doctor) to see what the issue is and to see if it can be worked quick before calling the plumber (God), who works by their own time. This is what the doctor does; they move things around in your life to create the best and most beneficial flow for you.

TYPES OF WORKERS

There have been many kinds of mystical folks in these hills, each with his or her own title or name for their particular spiritual trade. Some folks stick to just one degree, such as faith healing, while others cross barriers, drawing on several practices or methods. There are many, many names that denote the same type of worker. For our purposes, we will stick with the most common titles and names that most are familiar with.

Faith Healers

Faith healers, also known as high men or power doctors, aid with ailments by the movements of their hands, the ease of their breath, and the power of prayer. The word power here may be a corruption of the title used in northern Appalachia: powwow being changed to powower, and eventually to the current form. Faith healers might also be known as fire talkers, wart charmers, thrush doctors, blood stoppers, and more, which alludes to their specialties.

Root and Yarb Doctors

Root and yarb doctors, also sometimes called remedy men, help people using roots and bark. Yarb is a corruption of the word herb and was mostly used in the hills and mountains, while herb doctor was the term used in the valleys and cities. The folks who cure in this manner were known in their communities as the local doctor, and they often had titles attached to their names.

Oftentimes, for a woman, regardless of age or parenthood, she was called granny, mammy, aunt, or maw before her name, so Mammy Smith or Granny Easle. This was a term of respect and endearment. Men were called doc, doctor, uncle, or paw. In researching my family lineage, I have found a handful of grandfathers and uncles who are named on census records and other documents as doc so-and-so, although there's no record of them being anything but a farmer or other worker. This could be an indication of their possible side profession as a yarb doctor.