On Tuesday, I left a voicemail for someone I don’t know in West Virginia. Her outgoing message was like a spoken-word fortune cookie, a surprise bit of wisdom in the middle of my day. She said, “Forgiveness isn’t an emotion. It’s a decision.”

I wasn’t expecting counsel before the beep. It threw me. I stumbled through my message and hung up, thinking two things.

First, why on Earth did she say that?

This was her office number, a professional voicemail account. Had she forgiven someone for such a galling offense that it bled past the bounds of her personal life? Was the opposite perhaps true; did she herself need forgiveness for something big? Or was she just asking callers to forgive her if it took her a while to call back?

There was no way to know for sure. Rather than create elaborate stories about why she recorded this (which is exactly the kind of thing I’d do), I focused on the other question–was she right? Is forgiveness actually a decision–a conscious choice we make rather than an emotional point at which we arrive? Is it more like picking toast for breakfast than falling in love?

This has been bouncing around my head all week, bumping up against memories–times when I screwed up and points when I felt wronged. There are some glaring workplace faux pas (most resulting from lapses in my verbal filter); a few friend break-ups; and, of course, the long-lingering regret of romantic missteps.

With this jumble in mind, I ran across “Barbed Wire,” a short story from Brian Hyer. Published in the current issue of Appalachian Heritage, it pivots around the question of forgiveness. It is about a wife’s infidelity and the impassioned dilemma that her husband faces.

Take a read, and let us know what you think. Do you like the piece? How does forgiveness figure into it? When you’ve forgiven people, did it feel like an emotion or were you making a conscious choice?

*

BARBED WIRE

BY BRIAN HYER

A woman acts a certain way when she’s in love. I know, because I remember how Joan took to me before we married. Now I see it again, only this time it ain’t my doing, because in the morning when I go to kiss her and she pulls away from me, I know there’s something bad smothering us, bad like the morning fog that clouds a perfectly good view of Balsam Mountain.

Boston is a hard town. For all its culture and history, the people can be coarse. They drive like maniacs and barely acknowledge you when you walk into stores or purchase tokens for the subway.

I moved there after college. It was my first time living north of the Mason Dixon, and I took their ill demeanor personally. I thought maybe it was my accent; maybe I didn’t look right; maybe folks thought I was trying too hard when I greeted them with a goofy smile and an extended palm.

Some days it felt like the entire city hated me, like I’d somehow offended four and a half million people. That’s when I would tuck tail and go find the one thing that brought me comfort–a heaping, creamy mound of lightly-peppered, heavily salted, really mayonnaisey potato salad.

It had to be from Redbones Barbecue. They made it just like my grandma with no mustard and plenty of onion. I’d lift that first bite to my mouth, and I swear it was like Jean Perdue, my momma’s momma, was wrapping her arms around me. It was magical. Love on a fork. A hug from seven hundred miles away.

Food is like that. It can bend space and time. Nobody knows that better than today’s guest-writer, Joyce Pinson. She talks about food the way most of us talk about a love affair. Joyce is downright gleeful when she describes candied grapefruit peels. She glows over pumpkin fudge. She finds joy in every dish, which is why she’s a lady in demand. With a soon-to-be-syndicated food column, frequent radio appearances, and a mouth-watering blog, Friends Drift Inn, she must barely breathe. Still, she found time to tell us about a treat that transports her. For Joyce, sorghum sugar cookies are like a visit home.

*

Five generations ago, my family fled Appalachia. War was brewing. The cholera epidemic had claimed too many youngins. The folks were bitterly split between supporting Confederate interests and a love of the Republic.

It is said you can take the people out of Appalachia, but you cannot take Appalachia from the people. Growing up near Cincinnati, I never knew my mountain roots. The family did not talk about our connections to the hills. In my mind, we had always lived along the beautiful Ohio River farming on rich bottom lands growing vegetables, pruning orchards, and tending bees. But my young eyes did not miss the “oddities” that set our family apart from others in the river community.

There was a preoccupation with growing cushaws and goose beans. Planting had to be done by the signs, as did canning.  Foraging was the norm, harvesting mint, poke greens, dandelions, pawpaws, and nuts. We fished. We hunted. The kitchen floor was often cleared as Grandma and Grandpa danced, sometimes the Charleston and sometimes something they called “a cloggin.” There was an amulet; a hawk’s clawed foot that Grandpa had given Grandma as some sort of secret token.

For whatever reason, the family chose to hide their ties to Appalachia. But sit down at Grandma’s table, and the history was there for the hungry. A mainstay ingredient, sorghum, was considered a pantry staple. Grandma served it on biscuits.  Sorghum was drizzled on corn cakes. It was the secret ingredient in Grandpa’s Caramel Blackberry Jam Cake, a recipe so rich only the tiniest of slivers was all that was needed to satisfy the tummy and the lost soul.

Sorghum, thick rich rivers of sorghum, flowed from the mountain kin to Grandma’s kitchen and Grandpa’s produce stand in a telltale stream of Appalachian goodness. Perhaps it was fate that brought me to live amongst the mysterious mountains of Pike County’s Appalachia. But after five generations of being away, somehow I know that the restless spirits of my ancestors are now are at peace. I think they are happy to be with me on the banks of Johns Creek.

When cold winter days vex my spirit, I turn to the kitchen and to the pantry where sorghum is still a constant. Sorghum cookies, crisp with a mysterious sweet richness and depth of flavor coupled with a hot cup of tea soothes my longing for the warm days of harvest. Sorghum cookies takes me back to the Ohio River Valley…and brings those that came before me home to the mountains. The circle is complete.

Future eastern home of Sierra Nevada, Mills River, N. Carolina.

How can your town attract a leading craft-brewed beer company, along with 200 jobs, a one-of-a-kind tourist destination, and a great restaurant?

Ask Asheville.

After an exhaustive three year search that spanned more than 200 locations, Sierra Nevada Brewing Company recently announced that its east coast headquarters will be built on Asheville’s south side in a borough called Mills River.

Folks there are beside themselves. “The tourism aspect of this is going to be incredible,” Henderson County Manager Steve Wyatt said in a recent interview. “People will come from all over the East Coast to visit this site, to do the tours or the restaurant or the sampling or whatever. It’s going to be one of the major draws in Western North Carolina, perhaps second only to the Biltmore House. It’s a big deal.”

He’s right. It is a big deal to Asheville and it was to another Appalachian location that Sierra Nevada considered. According to The Roanoke Times, the company also took a long, hard look at Roanoke.

“We were in the running for a long time,” said Jill Loope, Roanoke County’s acting director of economic development, “and we had high hopes for a long time.”

According to Loops, Roanoke County was aggressive in its bid for the facility, but in the end, Asheville won out, which begs one question–why? What made Asheville shine brighter than Roanoke and 200-and-some other spots east of the Mississippi?

Sierra Nevada's flagship brew.

As a Roanoke-native, it smarts a little to ask these questions, but they’re important. There’s a lot the be learned here, so I reached out to Erika Bruhn, Sierra Nevada’s Marketing Manager. She took a few minutes in the midst of the company’s big announcement to talk about the search. She explains why Asheville was irresistible, why business incentives are only part of the equation, and why your city or town better get to work on those bike lanes.

After reading the interview, tell us what you think. What really hooked Sierra Nevada? What can your town do to to attract new businesses? Think this is worth sharing with your mayor or town council?

TR: Erika, thanks for talking with me. You’ve said that “the Asheville area offers Sierra Nevada Brewing the perfect confluence of community, recreation and craft beer culture.” I can see that, and it would be great to hear more. What kind of community were you seeking? 

EB: For the past several years, in our search for a second brewery, we reviewed over 200 different sites with painstaking detail and an exhaustive list of qualitative and quantitative considerations. In North Carolina, we were humbled by the community, its values and the outstanding craft-beer culture in the area. While we were making this decision, it was important for us to choose a location similar to our home in Chico, California. Mills River and the Asheville area feel like a great fit for us; a close-knit community with outstanding quality of life, shared values and access to the outdoors.

TR: I’ve never been to Chico, California. What’s it like?

EB: Chico is approximately ninety miles north of Sacramento with a population of around 80,000. A university community, Chico is home to California State Chico (CSU), and maintains a unique quality of life, with a small-town vibe, bike-centric culture, and incredible recreational opportunities in and around the surrounding area. Bidwell Park is one of the largest municipally owned parks in the nation (3,670 acres), is the focal point of the City’s park system and offers trails for mountain biking, hiking and equestrian use.

Main brewhouse in Chico, California.

TR: If you had to choose one, which influenced your choice more — 1) the local culture and outdoor recreation or 2) business factors like taxes, access to clean water, and affordable land?

EB: We weren’t influenced by one factor alone, which is what made our decision more than a three year process! The intricacies and particulars of the brewing process relating to water quality, coupled with infrastructure needs Ken [Grossman, CEO] wanted around sustainability (close proximity to rail transport), made the requirements of a location challenging. Add to that, finding a community with shared values around the outdoor lifestyle, with a similar feel to our west coast roots, and you begin to understand more about our DNA and approach: it’s about making great beer of course, but also quality in everything we do: family, community and finding our sense of place were all unequivocally part of our decision.

TR: I understand that you were considering two locations in the Appalachians — one outside Roanoke and one outside Asheville. Looking at just these two, what were the differences? 

EB: We can’t comment on other locations, but are very excited to have found our second home in the greater Asheville area in Henderson Country, North Carolina.

TR: If you could give any advice to cities and towns that are looking to attract a business like yours, what would it be?

EB: It’s difficult to offer that advice, since we haven’t walked in their shoes. It’s important to us to work with partners who have shared values and want to make a positive contribution to the local community.  We found that in Mills River.

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I was browsing Steve’s site the other day, and one post caught my eye — The Burro in the Barn Door. I’m a sucker for alliteration, so the title hooked me. It was the photo, though, that kept me glued to the post. It’s deceptively simple. If you look at it fast, you might miss the long eared animal in the doorway, waiting, watching, like it knew you’d come back home.

Thanks to Steve for sharing it here.

*

One snowy morning in West Virginia I left our little garage apartment out in the country and drove the back roads for several hours just looking for that special photograph that might be hiding in the next hollow, on the next hillside, or around the next curve.

Yes, I took several pictures that morning and I thought a lot of them were good.

But, here is the best one and it was waiting right at the end of my driveway when I returned home that morning.

Life is often that way.

We go out into the world to find some special thing, later to discover that, often

the best is…

right at home…

just like the burro in the barn door…

Photo by Steve Alberts. Used with Permission.

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I am a sucker for open houses. When I’m walking around town and see those tell-tale balloons tied to a real estate sign, I make a bee line. I will stand-up friends or be late for a meeting. It doesn’t matter; I won’t pass up a chance to nose around someone else’s place.

If I open the door and find the house empty, I do a brisk walk through, maybe critique the bathroom’s tile job or admire a fireplace. I won’t try to engage the real estate agent for fear of diverting his or her attention away from a real, prospective buyer. I stay long enough to have my “what if I lived here” fantasy, and then I’m on my way.

But if I see a La-Z-Boy that’s too big to be “staged” or a cat scratch post hanging from a knob, any sign that real people live there, all bets are off. I linger, sometimes for an hour. I look in every closet. I open every cabinet, pretending to inspect the hinges. I peer under beds. I’m not searching for dust bunnies, just signs of life. I’m curious about the people who’ve sanitized this home, stripped out their books and family photos, painted accent walls back to renter white, and deserted the place for five hours so that strangers like me can tromp through.

It’s not like I’ve ever stumbled across a severed thumb or a secret meth lab. I’m not expecting my self-guided tour to turn into an episode of Murder She Wrote. I just enjoy it when folks forget to hide their kid’s battered hockey stick or they leave a mug that says “coffee helps me poop.”

Really, that’s it. That’s enough. I just need to believe that these displaced owners are people I could know and maybe even like, that this oddly depersonalized house could actually be a home.

Do you get into open houses too?

If so, you might like this. Below are two houses. Both are in the Southern Appalachians and both are up for sale right now. That’s where the similarities end. They’re different styles with different features.

Which is the mountain house for you?

Vote here, and it would be great to hear what won you over. Leave a comment below.

Stone House
Burkittsville, Maryland

This 1890 charmer is pure coziness. With its golden stone exterior and red wooden shutters, it has the feel of a cottage but three bedrooms and a two story extension make it big enough for most any family. Features include:

• Fireplace and wood stove
• Open kitchen/dining area
• Log storage building
• Separate workshop
• Repointed stone
• Refinished floors
• Garden

Plantation House
Rocky Mount, North Carolina

Built in 1939, this showplace harkens to a much earlier time. You expect a hoop-skirted hostess to greet you from the curved stairs or for juleps to be served under a big elm on the lawn. Features include:

• Paneled den
• Fireplace
• Sunroom
• Sauna
• Exercise room
• Carriage house with finished office
• Optional guest house

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I will never under estimate the power of the blue and gold. Native West Virginians have flocked to Jason Headley’s love letter to his home state, entitled “Dear West Virginia.” Since it posted last Sunday, more than 42,000 people have read it and hundreds have left heartwarming comments.

All of them share Jason’s love for the state’s hills and hollers and many asked an important question – how do we keep gifted young people like Jason in the Appalachians?

Today’s guest blogger Elizabeth Gaucher has a few ideas on that topic. She left West Virginia at the age of eighteen for college, launched a career in adolescent health and child advocacy, and found her way back home fifteen years later. Along the way, she created the project Essays on a West Virginia Childhood and the blog Esse Diem, where the below post originally published.

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The Magic Question: Can Appalachia Keep Its Young People

Every politician in a rural state with an aging demographic wants to know the answer to The Magic Question:

“How do we get young people to move here and stay here to start careers and families?”

I probably shouldn’t think this is funny, but for some reason I do. The situation itself is not funny, but the bizarre machinations around constructing arguments to lure twenty-somethings to rather than away from Appalachia are a little bit amusing. Part of the problem looks like this:

We say we want young, talented, intelligent, educated, passionate people to want to call West Virginia home.

Fair enough.

But then we talk to the very people we want to attract as if they are not wise enough to see what is written in flames about fifty feet tall. As beautiful as the Appalachians are, many parts of the region (including my home state of West Virginia) have a cascade of challenges. They are economic, social, educational, environmental, political, and medical. At least where I live, our day-to-day is not a party. We exist on some of life’s most frayed and tangled edges.

Don’t smart ambitious young people want to be in hip urban centers with lots of good times and easy living? That’s what it looks like on television, anyway.

What fascinates me is that I don’t think these “what’s in it for me” types are the ones we really want. No offense Jersey Shore and Gossip Girl; you’re entertaining and all, but you are the last thing we need over here.

The nation has suffered several years now of throwing off the costumes of wealth and easy money, sexy start-ups and Internet-driven marketing schemes. McMansions, gargantuan gas-guzzling vehicles, and extravagant parties are dwindling and even a source of embarrassment. We see more clearly what that all was, how false and how wasteful. No one wants to churn that again.

Even the PR efforts to market the great outdoors and low rent are part of a weak sales pitch. I’m betting we are on the edge of a different attraction. I say we market what we have for real and get the most hard-core world-changers we can.

I’m not sure what is more real than the opportunity to turn away from “all for me” and turn towards “all for the world.” Appalachia is in peril, and that is nothing new, but what may be new is the chance to harness global concern about our local issues to attract the right young people.

These are the ones who want to tell the stories of their youth as grand adventures in engaging serious problems with their whole hearts. They don’t care about bar-hopping and overspending on trips to casinos. They are modern journalists and water quality scientists and child advocates. They are health care specialists and teachers and professors. They are small business entrepreneurs and artists and historians and contractors. They are responsible natural resource leaders and sustainability experts.  Despite popular belief, they are lawyers too. They are Democrats, Republicans, and Independents.

They know right from wrong; they know giving from taking.

I don’t think they’re the types to tell self-pitying tales, and I don’t think they want a sales pitch or a hand out. I think they want us to get out of the way and allow their innovation, perspective, and talent to change the future of this complex place that we call home.

Will we?

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"One Man's Dream" by Cheryl Tarrant. Used with permission.

This post is for anyone who has left home. I don’t mean to go to the grocery store or even for vacation. This is for folks who have packed their possessions, hugged their mammas and daddies, and pulled away from the curb with their cheeks wet and their eyes on the road because if they glance in the rearview mirror, they might not go. It’s for those who bookmark their hometown newspapers and like their native accents. It’s for the homesick, the diehards, people who would charter a plane or ride a mule, whatever it takes to go home at the holidays. This post is a love letter like no other. It comes from Jason Headley, today’s guest blogger.

*

Dear West Virginia,

I suppose this has been a long time coming. Looking back, it must have seemed abrupt. Twenty-two years we spent together, then I up and left with no real explanation. I probably owed you more than that. So I’ll try my best to explain it to you now.

We were perfect together at first, weren’t we? As a boy, I couldn’t have asked for a better playmate. Your hills and trees, your railroad tracks, rivers, and run-down factories. You could have killed me a dozen times, at least. I seemed to be asking for it. I was rough on you, but you gave as good as you got. My blood in your soil, your splinters and gravel under my skin. This is how we did it, becoming more and more of one another every single day.

I drew your initials in my notebooks in the sharp angles of the university logo. They weren’t just letters. They were you. I wore blue and gold, but those weren’t your only colors. You were green and white, too. Just like my Paden City Wildcats. You were orange and yellow and red, your hillsides alight with fire every autumn. You were the purple of the Ohio River, the sun’s last rays drawn deep. You were black, a night sky as endless as my imagination.

You were everything to me. My mom and my dad. My brother and my grandparents. My home and my school. All of my very first firsts. It was perfect while it lasted.

I wish I could tell you when things changed. That I could point to one moment. Maybe the first time I saw the ocean, standing there with my pant legs hiked to my knees, staring at the end of the earth. Maybe it was something I saw on television: a bionic man, a talking car, a chimpanzee sidekick, a girl in her underwear. Maybe it was the books, one of the stories that seemed so wild and strange and far beyond anything I could ever imagine happening while surrounded by the steadfastness of you.

That might be part of it. I knew, as sure as I knew anything, that you were never going to change. You’d spent lifetimes building mountains from flat, solid ground. You’d grown forests, had them taken from you, and grown them again. You were strong, stalwart, and set in the ways that worked for you. But I slowly began to realize they wouldn’t work for me.

I can’t actually think of a time beyond boyhood when I thought I was going to stay. It’s strange. Ungrateful, I suppose. You were the only thing I knew and somehow you weren’t enough. But my interests and ambitions grew beyond any realistic expectations. Far beyond the reach of your panhandles. And I suppose that changes a relationship forever.

The question is, did I begin to stand out because I knew I was going to leave? Or did I know I was going to leave because I was beginning to stand out? I fished your streams, but with little frequency and even less success. Friends and family stalked your forests for hours in the hope of bringing home deer, quail, squirrel. The interest never took with me. But there were bigger things. Ideals I didn’t recognize, some old-fashioned, some simply old. Disagreement with common-held beliefs. Those I saw as wrong-headed, and those I knew were just plain wrong. All of that combined to leave me somewhere in between. There, but not.

I know your state bird, your state flower, your state tree, your state animal. I know your state fish, for crying out loud. Every fiber of my being was forged, formed, and intricately woven by the experience of growing up with you: my basic values, my ingrained suspicions, my belief that good things can always happen to you, but don’t hold your breath.

You see, I’ve never had a problem being from West Virginia. I just had some difficulty being in West Virginia.

Still, now, the places we knew together are like songs to me. Just the names bring a flood of memories: Dolly Sods, Canaan Valley, Oil Ridge, Buck Run, Bickles Knob. And then the places that had no real title: the rope swing on the north end of town, the outfield of the far baseball diamond, the attic of my best friend’s house, and, of course, the few square feet of my bedroom. I papered those walls with dreams. That town. I sought your best places and poured endless meaning into some of your most ordinary corners. I did all of this, day after day, for over eight thousand days. And then, one day, it was time to go.

You probably didn’t see it, because my back was to you as I drove, but I cried when I left. And not just because I was in Kentucky. I cried because I missed you already. I cried because I’d never been away from you for longer than two weeks. I cried because I was afraid. Because if I wasn’t a West Virginian, then what was I?

I had a tape recorder on the front seat to capture thoughts as I drove, alone, toward a new life. This is what I said as I left you behind: “If California is half as good to me as West Virginia has been, I’m going to be in pretty good shape.”

And I was right. But a dozen years here has taught me just how wrong I was about something else. I never stopped being a West Virginian. There are some things that can’t be undone. Not by all the gods in all the heavens. Geography be damned.

The other day someone wrote to me and said, “I’ll be coming to your state next week.” And I thought, “I wonder why he’s going to West Virginia?” He wasn’t. He was coming to California. But I still, in my marrow, think of you as “my state.” I only hope you still think of me as your son.

I have grandparents and great-grandparents buried in your ground. I have family living in the curves of your hills. I have pieces of me scattered all across your land. And I have the best parts of you locked here in my heart.

Maybe that’s not enough. Maybe all these words can never explain away what I did. Maybe abandonment is too great a sin to be absolved. Maybe. But I like to think not.

I like to think all your countless years have given you unbridled understanding, the likes of which I’ll never understand. That on a cold autumn night when the air smells like burning leaves and small town football, you miss me a little, too. I like to think that when I come home, you’re as happy to see me as I am you. And that the few days we get to spend together each year are like a gift, a time machine. Proof that old friends never fade.

That’s what I like to think.

Forever yours,
Jason

Jason Headley does some things for art and some things for money.

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If you’re like me, you don’t plan your New Years Eve activities until the eleventh hour. We just decided two days ago to ring in 2012 playing pool and eating pickle flavored potato chips (our local billiard’s specialty).

For all of my fellow stragglers, here are five favorite Appalachian NYE options:

5) SnowShoe Mountain’s Gone Country New Years, Snowshoe, West Virginia: Snowshoe’s 15,000 square foot entertainment venue, the Big Top, is going country tonight. Country headliners Tony Rio and the Relentless will be crooning for the grown-ups; the Boot Scoot Teen Dance starts at 11:30; kiddies will have video games; and everyone can chow on BBQ and fixins.

4) Tennessee Aquarium’s New Year’s Eve Sleep in the Deep, Chattanooga, Tennessee: Where else in the Appalachians can you ring in the new year with penguins? The Tennessee Aquarium invites you to go behind the scenes with its exhibits, get up close with their critters, and literally sleep with the fishes when you bed down in the Undersea Cavern of Ocean Journey. This one-of-a-kind slumber party includes guided tours, pizza, cider, and continental breakfast.

3) Veritas Vineyard, New Year’s Eve Masked Ball, Afton, Virginia: Want to be a masked marvel in the new year? Here’s your chance. Veritas Vineyard is hosting a five-course masked ball and dinner. There will be dancing until midnight, when the masks come off and the champagne flows. Breakfast follows at 12:30 a.m.

2) Georgia Appalachian Trail Club, Blood Mountain Hike, Blood Mountain, Georgia: Ring in the new year the way all good mountain folk should–standing on a mountain top. While details are iffy on its website, the Georgia Appalachian Trail Club is leading a six-mile loop hike that crests atop the 4,458-foot Blood Mountain, the highest peak on the Georgia section of the Appalachian Trail.

1) Make Some Noise at Home, Wherever You Are: You don’t need Dick Clark to rock out at home tonight. Just grab some pots and pans and latch onto local lore. According to our friends at Appalachian History, “some folks in Appalachia open every door and window at the stroke of midnight to let out any residual bad luck. They make a loud ruckus banging on pots and pans, setting off fireworks and taking part in other noisy activities to chase it far away.”

However you ring in the new year, I hope you have a safe and spirited night!

Check out my gifts! With 125 of Dolly’s favorite recipes and a coal history classic under my tree, it’s been a very Appalachian Christmas. I hope you’re having a wonderful day too, full of home cooking, maybe some country crafts, and more loved ones than you can count.

Y’all might remember my surprise when I learned that fissionable plutonium originated in Tennessee’s foothills. Well, I just learned that Oak Ridge, the secret production facility that pioneered it, wasn’t just cooking up nuclear magic. It was also the birthplace for one of country music’s most enduring bands.

If you could pick up WNOX out of Knoxville in the 1940s, Wally Fowler was a name you’d have known. He was a Georgia transplant with a baritone that was as smooth as river rocks, and he led a band called Wally Fowler and the Georgia Clodhoppers. Fowler’s music was a marriage of Nashville country and swing with the occasional accordion riff thrown in for good measure. It was a hodgepodge that worked. His band was a regular on the popular WNOX show Mid-day Merry Go Round.

He was also asked to perform at a nearby facility that wasn’t listed on area maps. Oak Ridge was new–only about a year old at this point–and scientists had moved there from all over the country. According to the good folks at Wikipedia, Fowler’s band was brought out to entertain children who lived inside the compound.

Though he was known for popular country on the radio, he played mostly southern gospel at Oak Ridge. The hymns were a hit with the transplants. Fowler was invited to play at the facility so often that he decided to adopt the secret city’s name. Wally Fowler and the Georgia Clodhoppers became the Oak Ridge Quartet, and having found a new audience with gospel, the band began to focus more on old time religious tunes.

The changes served Fowler well. By 1947, the Oak Ridge Quartet had attracted attention from record labels. They began cutting albums full of traditional hymns played in Fowlers’ swing-laced style and became a mainstay in the region’s gospel scene.

Over the next decade, the nuclear inspired name stuck, but band members didn’t. In that time, the band dissolved and re-formed three times with more than twenty members passing through. Fowler was as close to a constant as they got, but even he came and went. At one point, Fowler sold rights to the name Oak Ridge Quartet to band member Bob Weber. Under Weber’s leadership, the band only lasted for two years. Fowler stepped in again and revived it.

In 1956, he assembled an inspired mix. With a stellar tenor named Smitty Gatlin serving as lead singer and as the band’s manager, this iteration of the Oak Ridge Quartet clicked, and the band’s popularity hit new heights. They looked beyond the hills of Tennessee and developed a national reputation for great country gospel, but as they climbed, they left pieces of their past behind.

First, they cut ties with Fowler. I’ve not found much info explaining the reason for the split. Maybe Fowler thought it would be like the others–that he’d take some time off and return to lead the band down the road. What is clear is that he had amassed a personal debt with the band or with Gatlin individually. Whatever the case, he settled things by giving Gatlin rights to the Oak Ridge Quartet name.

For Fowler, there was no coming back. He would later be pitted against the band in a lawsuit over the name he had created, but he wouldn’t win. After fifteen years, he was out of the picture for good.

After the split, the band began to develop a new identity. It was the start of the 1960s, and they were crafting a fresh, contemporary sound. To reflect the band’s evolving character, a record producer suggested that they go with a new name. They took the advice, and in 1961 the band became the Oak Ridge Boys.

If you’re over age forty, you probably know where the story goes from here. The Oak Ridge Boys vacillated between gospel and country, scoring loyal followers in both camps. Over the next two decades, in spite of continuing to switch out band members, their popularity grew. They earned their first Grammy award in 1970. They toured Russia with Roy Clark. They performed on The Mike Douglas Show and The Merve Grifffin Show. Two songs from their 1977 album Y’All Come Back Salon landed in the top five on the country charts. All paths were leading to something big for the Oak Ridge Boys, but no one imagined that an upbeat tune about a good time girl would secure their spot in country music history.

“If you told any one of the four of us if we thought 30 years later we’d still be singing ‘Elvira’…we wouldn’t have believed it,” Oak Ridge Boys bassist Richard Sterban recently told the Knoxville News Sentinel.

Released in 1981, “Elvira” shot to number one on the country charts and crossed over, ranking in the top five on the pop charts as well. It was a huge success, and it catapulted the band into the limelight.

With their star high in the sky, they turned out several successful albums, played for five presidents, and toured the world over. While the big hits subsided in the 1990s, the Oak Ridge Boys are still producing quality country and gospel. They’ve also become known for their Christmas shows, which started in 1989.

“We left home on Thanksgiving Day,” said Sterban, “And, except for a few hours, we won’t be home till Dec. 22.”