Phoenix - Spring 1977 by UT Media Center

•/If

‘If' 1—'J

i‘-Vv ' .''^'h-''

’'T' \t, ;*IK? v:Vff'r:<M^'" -ft.fVtW v.V*^ - »^.'l

^ i t»tK^ vri^

' ^ Ir^ni

T ••'^ •

-Lfl

Y>?-<

■

■•..> /f -

1. PHOENIX/ N. (NL, fr. phoenix, fr. L phoenix, fr. Gk phoinix): a lengendary bird represented by the ancient Egyptians as living five or six centuries in the Arabian desert, being consumed in fire by its own act, and rising from its own ashes, often regarded as an emblem of immortality or of the resurrection. 3. PHOENIX: of or from the capital of Arizona. — Webster's Third New International Dictionary The phoenix riddle hath more wit By us; we two being one, are it. So, to one neutral thing both sexes fit. We die and rise the same... —John Donne, "The Canonization" Out of the ash I rise with my red hair And I eat men like air. —Sylvia Plath, "Lady Lazarus" A phoenix self-destructed in my yard The other night; it built an orange fire Then walked in, dark, with half-shut wings, eyes starred. It knew its executioner and sire. I watched the flames climb higher, not convinced The old ruse worked, for miracles are cheap These days, sometimes half-price. My black cat minced To the window; in a single fluid leap He cleared the ledge and landed in the grass Outside. The phoenix flickered royal blue And gold by then. The cat, a velvet mass Of boredom, yawned; the phoenix rose anew. Today there is a burnt spot on the lawn, A cat's black whiskers, and an orange dawn. Thanks for another year. Anybody have a light? -Ed. ©Copyright 1977, by the University of Tennessee. Rights retained by the individuai contributors. Send contributions to Phoenix, 5 Communications Bldg., 1340 Circie Park Drive, Knoxville, TN 37916.

Editor Managing Editor Nonfiction Fiction Poetry Art Photography Editorial Assistants

Connie Jones Lesley Craig John Furlow Virginia Webb Eric Forsbergh Robert Wade John Walker Angelyn Bales Rick Sanders

phoenix

feat;ures

2 UT THEATRES - FOCUS AND POTENTIAL, by Lucinda Cornelius The Daily Beacon entertainment editor takes a look at UT's performing companies and suggests a new direction. 8 PHOENIX PROFILE; WILMA DYKEMAN, by Virginia Webb The well-known Appalachian writer has some pointers for aspiring authors. 18 PHOENIX PROFILE: PRESERVATION OF THE FOLK ARTS, by Lesley Craig Local persons are keeping mountain crafts alive. 22 ELECTRONIC MUSIC, by Angelyn Bales A synthesizer can be a symphony in itself.

art “12 Graphite by Anita Johnson and mixed media by Juan Rodriguez 16 Lithograph by Kim Nixon and intaglio by Marcy Edelstein “I 7 Lithographs by A. Lynn Grimes, John Hart, and Brian Wells 33 Lithographs by Ada Goedbloed and Stanley Johnson

fiction 1 5 "THE BLIND MAN," by W.B. Rose 30 "NIGHT FALLS AT CAMP TROUSDALE," by Gary Shockley

photography 1 0 John Walker and David Luttrell ”1 1 David Dulaney 24 David Luttrell 28 Rip Noel and Harlan Hambright 2 9 Rik Norris, Mike Barnard, and Yvonne Quirin back cover by Jed DeKalb

poetry 7 J. Merrel Pagan, Gary Shockley, Bill Ayres, and John Girard Willis 13 Elizabeth Myers, Rick Thames, and Mitchell Byler “14 Elizabeth Myers, Don Dotson, Don S. Williams, and Bill Silvers 25 Tony Miller and Pamela Jernegan 2 6 Richard Corsini, Gary Shockely, and J.C. Allen 27 Edd Hurt, Deborah E. Whited, Michael Ryle, Winston Miller, and R.K. Harriman Cover photomontage by Robert Wade

, ^-X: • f #fpp

i*^>-

I-

'A,

UT THUTRES FOCUS & POTENTML analysis by Lucinda Cornelius

* .tiL..,: t

v; hS ■'

(Above) Chancellor Jack Reese (left), Robert Culver, former chairperson and president of the board of Valley Fidelity Bank (center), and actor Anthony Quayle announced the formation of the Opening Night Club, a group of theatregoers who donate $100 for membership, in May 1975. Quayle headlined the cast Macbeth in October 1975. photo by Jed DeKalb

photo by Jonathan Daniel

When the cast of Ghosts took its final bow on the stage of the Carousel Theatre on April 9, it was not only bringing to a close the production's 18-day run, but was also ringing down the curtain on the third year of performances by UT's Clarence Brown Company. Despite the fact that the company has occassionally received mention in the national press and has counted among its members veteran actors with stage careers that stretch from Great Britain to the west coast, the program's applause on the home front has been somewhat hesitant. There is a subtle undercurrent of discontent within the department which apparently arises out of disagreements between students and administrators over the advantages and goals involved in maintaining a program that emphasizes actors imported from outside an academic environment.

Depending on whom you talk to, the problems have included anything from students who feel overlooked when plays are cast, to the graduate students who are building scenery while waiting in line for a teaching assistantship. If one party complains that not enough students are given leading roles in university productions, an alternative response is likely to be that the roles now offered in major productions carry much more significance than they ever did in terms of experience and contacts. If a production is meant to be entertaining, it runs the risk of being belittled as too simplistic. If a show should be expressionistic, it might also be labeled boring or too abstract. The issues go round and round, and in many cases, the focus of much of the conflict centers on business responsibilities and misunderstanding

of some basic â&#x20AC;&#x201D; but confusing â&#x20AC;&#x201D; semantics. Going back a bit, UT's company of actors known as the Clarence Brown Company (whose role call is subject to change from show to show), had its beginnings in the 1973-74 season with the arrival of actor-director Anthony Quayle. The company's formation alone was an accomplishment that must have seemed nothing short of gargantuan for Ralph Allen, head of the Department of Speech and Theatre, who by that time had only been on campus himself for two years. Yet, with the assets of a large, modern, multi-stage theatre complex, a sizable and fairly affluent university oriented community to buy tickets, and the reputation of a well-established British actor to attract national attention, Allen began putting together a very business-like package that soon

evolved as professional theatre. However, no sooner had that qualifying adjective been added to the name of the art, than those allimportant semantics came into play. Professional, in the case of the Clarence Brown Company, is basically a distinction which in business and legal terms means paid union actors. The Company is affiliated with the League of Resident Theatres (LORT), whose members also belong to Actor's Equity Association. Like any union organization. Actor's Equity has a very detailed system for the employment of its members. Strict contract terms for all LORT theatres state that if a certain number of Equity actors are used in a production, then a predetermined ratio of student apprentices may be given roles. In the case of The New Majestic Follies, for every 11 equity actors who had speaking roles, three student actors could be used. An Equity membership in a way protects the actor, whose livelihood depends on payment for his or her craft, from being priced out of the market by struggling young actors who would work for practically â&#x20AC;&#x201D;if not literallyâ&#x20AC;&#x201D;nothing, just to obtain experience.

Perhaps one of the most often misunderstood factors related to the prominence of the professional company deals with funding for the individual productions. No university funds are allocated for wage payment for Clarence Brown Company actors. The actors are not paid as employees of the university, since state employees are not legally unionized. Payment for Company actors is made through funds received from grants. Over $130,000 was given for the program this year in grants alone. Chief contributors include the National Endowment for the Arts, the Tennessee Arts Commission, the Benwood Foundation of Chattanooga, and the UT Opening Night Club. According to company manager Margaret Wheeler, all funds received from those grants were earmarked as general support for a professional theatre, and under the terms of the grant, would not be available for any other projects. As far as University money is concerned, the Speech and Theatre Department actually funds only two of the three "companies" at UT Theatres. In addition to the Clarence Brown

Ibsen's Ghosts, the most recent Clarence Brown Company production, ran from March 23 to April 9 in the Carousel Theatre. Left to right are Gregg Almquist, Jay Doyle, Mary Jane McGee, Kenneth Gray, and Wandalie Henshaw. Photo by Jonathan Daniel

Company, there is also the Major Company and the Carousel Company. The Major Company's repertoire includes musicals and modern popular productions, and is cast by students and members of. the community. There is no union affiliation with this company, although, with special permission, union members have on occassion been given a release to perform in Major Company productions. The Carousel Company is chiefly the academically oriented plays. The productions tend to be more related to classroom studies and shows seldom seen. Woyzeck was one such production, as was The Brothers. Carousel Company performers are, with few exceptions, students. As of Fall, 1976, UT Theatres discontinued its long-standing Square Revolution series which was a regular weekend program of student acted, directed and produced plays. Plays produced here were often fulfillments for a class project and the director was given $50 to help defray expenses. Allen said the program was discontinued for a number of reasons including the inaccessibility of facilities, and student involvement in other activities that made rehearsal and scheduling often haphazard. In short, Allen said that for the student, the Square Revolution program was becoming more of a problem than it was worth. As an alternative, the $50 that had been allocated for Square Revolution productions was refunneled this year into funds for master's thesis productions. This year, master's thesis productions were Raisin' Jason in December, and Honor Guild in April. For such projects as these, $150 is available for use at the discretion of the student director. Although one of the student oriented programs has been discontinued, Allen maintains that the opportunities for . students have actually become more significant.

especially when students are cast in one of the allotted professional company apprenticeships. When the 1976 production of Rip Van Winkle toured to the Kennedy Center in Washington, nine students who went with the production were given their union cards because of union rules at the facility which require affiliation of all performers and technicians. Since then, Equity contracts were also given to students participating in The Follies and in Ghosts. When students tour with a show or have a union contract, they must be paid. The minimum union salary for an actor is $203 a week, and $250 a week for stage managers. All students who toured with Everyman and MacBeth were paid, as were student actors and technicians who worked during the Christmas break on The Follies crew. For every student who appears on stage in a professional production, there are dozens of others who have worked unpaid behind the scenes in weeks of preparation. Students help construct sets, build props and make costumes. Some of the work is done in conjunction with a classroom assignment. The labor is not only experience for the student, but economical for the production as well. There is very little doubt, that in theoryâ&#x20AC;&#x201D;and at any rate, on paperâ&#x20AC;&#x201D;the Department of Speech and Theatre has a very broadly based performance program. In many respects the program allows for regular representation of a variety of talent. Perhaps the real core of any dissention goes beyond the state of the programming as it now stands, and has to do with what the program should be leading to, but at this point only exists parallel to. As it now stands, the department is basically scholarship oriented. The department consists of both BA and MA programs, which by nature of the degrees themselves, are geared

towards the education of professors rather than performers. Ironically, this academically structured classroom program has a very extended practical structure existing along side of it. It would seem that a company of professional actors, who in theory and in fact are providing contacts for students in the professional performing medium, would be somewhat isolated, if not out of place, in a college which essentially stresses the classroom side of education. Moreover, although the equity card does guarantee a minimum wage, it does not guarantee that the actor will ever find a job in the first place. There are by no means any easy methods of incorporating all student interests in one program. Perhaps one of the most comprehensive alternatives to two dichotomous programs would be the organization of one degree that combines a variety of training in both performance and academic interest. The subject of a Master of Fine Arts program does occasionally arise within the department, but there seems to be no concrete consideration of such an addition at this time. The program itself would require extensive coordination of several

departments within the university. The results should yield a broadly based educational foundation which would congeal performance training in related fields of theatre, dance and music. Appropriately, the professional theatre program, with its opportunities for apprentice actors, would then lie at the very core of such performance training. However, the Department of Speech and Theatre cannot feasibly carry the responsibility of such a comprehensive program alone. A determined cooperation between staffs in the theatre, dance and music disciplines would be essential. But just as cooperation between departments is imminent, cooperation within the individual department is vital. Once there is a compatibility in the education of both the academic and performance oriented student, there can be a more honest appraisal of the goals that the university can offer through such programs as a professional theatre company. As a prime example, the theatre department, thought significantly advanced in the past three years, is still working with a very narrow bridge connecting the university at large. Although the student access to the program is very beneficial for those who do make contact, the student access as a whole is severely limited in range and scope. If, after careful study, an alternative such as an MFA degree could be devised to solidify all the existing pieces of the program, then such aspects as a professional theatre company could encompass a more satisfying and productive allocation of the student potential that is only waiting to be tapped. This would be a monumental project at best, and realistically would take at least five years to implement. But then, five years ago the idea of a professional Equity theatre company was only theoreticalâ&#x20AC;&#x201D;a theory that has become a reality.

Cary Guenther

Listen to my music Listen to the sounds of my flute Float down a sea of your own Past men with blueprints, hammers and nails Skylighting the bleakest of all animals. Listen to the moods of my violin Laugh at your neighbors' thoughts As the blackened mirror says "Hello" While white sparrows whistle the blues. Listen to the strums of my guitar Move out of a statue's position Only to be led back by a well-dressed scarecrow Whispering his days to the Doves. Open your eyes to my music Listen to a plastic white box Singing your song which filled the sky blue And peace throughout the land. —J. Merre! Pagan

An Existentialist Ocean The indifferent agony of the ocean is read rather easily. It says: "I have learned to roll rocks larger than your head. And take the life of those that look too deeply." — Gary Shockley

here it is the crust of the evening already the sun rises aware of his hunger his rays slice the black edges and cut out the pieces to make the licorice darkness his breakfast pie

—Bill Ayers

Enchantment Deep in enchantment... Like crabs praying for ripping of the net in which they got caught/ And having prayers answered, the net tears on sharp rocks... wizard crabs get away/ Wry raw rhymes syntax of waves act on the current like jam/ Like exploding lava. Bypass the mainland creating new volcanic islands/ Surtsey's abound lava—beautiful, though beneath atomic blasts Pitcairn Island—people lie stranded... move on & touch new worlds/ Deep in enchantment... See no meaning in rattling papers of Useless computer battles/ Leave —bark with hostility... Deep in enchantment... There are mountains awaiting climbing seas to dive within/ Drink up heat waves Of a dying sun...flashing Deep in enchantment... Climb up in a red oak giant While smelling forest scents & Catch mountain laurels Clothes of brilliance/ Long for a Love to become A family which stands-in For a century Which can be done Deep in enchantment/ —John Girard Willis

by Virginia Webb

'"You don't have to be crazy to be a writer,"' quotes Wilma Dykeman Stokely, "'but sometimes it helps.'" The well-known author of numerous Appalachian books and articles laughingly offers that anonymous quote because she says that writers lead a difficult sort of existence since they must live in two worlds at once. Writers must live at all times in the real world with a keen awareness and sharp eye for observation, but then they must also be able to detach themselves from the mainstream of life in order to present it on paper from an observer's point of view. Ms. Dykeman firmly denounces that image that some people conjure up of writers as being "always out on a cloud somewhere. In fact," she adds, "a writer must live more intensely in the real world than others do," because the writer must notice details and nuances that other people overlook.

Armed with these practical and sensible philosophies concerning the art of writing, Wilma Dykeman is teaching a class in Appalachian Writing this quarter. By offering the students an exposure to those writers whom she considers to be among the best Appalachian authors, and her own experiences as a writer, .Ms. Dykeman hopes to encourage the students to write their experiences and get over that first fear of appearing stupid on paper. Dykeman frequently compares writing to jumping into a pool of water, explaining that "you can't do it halfway or hold back anyâ&#x20AC;&#x201D;you have to be daring enough to jump right in." She cites as a first prerequisite for writing, "a genuine interest in other human beings." And Ms. Dykeman herself exemplifies this genuine interest that she values so highly, both in her interest in beginning writers, and in all those around her. When interviewing someone for a book, she photos by Bill Nation

says that she never uses a tape recorder and rarely uses a note pad because these inhibit people. Instead, she just listens. She stresses the importance of listenirig and being receptive to others because, as she notes, "no one will say, 'Now I'll be quaint—I'm gonna tell you my life story.'" Dykeman asserts that there is something to be learned from anyone, and that it is in some respects the primary task of the writer to find that area in which a person is knowledgeable. She regards everyone as having "an area of expertise," no matter how much education they have ever had. "We're only limited in our appreciation of others," she says. Once writers have listened and observed, they must then p,ut down on paper their impressions. Wilma Dykeman warns against being too hasty and careless concerning the choice of words. She offers this as the distinguishing factor between a good writer and a mediocre writer. Using Thomas Wolfe as an example, she points out that sometimes any word will convey the sense of an idea, but the artistry comes in finding the correct and precise word that conveys all the necessary nuances and subtleties. Probably the best advice that Dykeman gives beginning writers is that "inspiration doesn't hit you like a bolt of lightening out of the blue — inspiration simply means that it's coming easier than it did before, and you achieve that only from lots of perspiration first. Put down the first sentence, no matter how stupid it sounds," she says, "then the rest will follow." A native of Asheville, North Carolina, Wilma Dykeman is well-qualified to write about the people and places of Appalachia. She was educated at Northwestern University where she studied primarily speech, English, and history. Since her first story was published in the Prairie Schooner, Ms. Dykeman has written an imposing number of both fiction and non-fiction books (some of which were co authored with her husband, James Stokely) and countless articles for magazines and newspapers. She enjoys doing the research and the talking with people that accompanies writing, and is particularly effective when writing non-fiction because she adds a human voice to what she writes, thus presenting to the reader "history with flesh and blood." One such book of her "flesh and blood history" is The French Broad (1955), the story of the French Broad River and the people and places that make up its history and existence. Ms. Dykeman recalls with some pride the fact that her chapter entitled "Who Killed the French Broad?" was written some twenty years ago (before the present wave of ecological awareness), and that she occupied a rather lonely position arguing with her editors who were convinced that "no one would be interested in reading about something as dull as pollution." The atrocities that she discovered here prompted her to later write the book entitled Return the innocent Earth (1973) a book in which she explores more thoroughly the interaction between man and the land he lives on.

Ms. Dykeman is no fad-environmentalist who merely adopts the slogans and jargon, but she is an Appalachian and a sincere believer in the necessity of respecting the land. "We're all environmentalists," she states, "we all depend on the land and environment around us." This affinity with nature and the Appalachian region pervades Dykeman's fiction, too. The Tail Woman and The Far Family both deal with mountain people and their lives, which are bound up in and dependent upon the hills they live in. She asserts that "regionalism" should in no way limit an author—"one writes what one has to write," and cannot help being personal. She points out that stories that are set in New York or any other city are just as "regional" as anything else, but that only those stories involving rural or "backward" areas get labelled as regional. As a native Appalachian, Ms. Dykeman listens to the way people talk, and observes that dialect can be captured more readily by paying particular attention to rhythms and specific sayings rather than relying on mispelled words to convey a dialect. She successfully avoids that "quaintness" that non native writers often impose upon the Appalachian speaker.

As a writer, Ms. Dykeman is always listening to people around her with a genuine interest and affection for people. She says that some of her best writing material comes from everyday interactions, such as a conversation she recently heard while waiting in the dentist's office. Although she has no strict preferences, Ms. Dykeman admits a slight inclination towards fiction because she feels that "it has a greater impact—you can really involve the reader." With a distant and thoughtful smile, she observes that the greatest thing about being a writer is that "you're God for a little while. You've got a blank sheet of paper in front of you and you can create your own world." Reading Wilma Dykeman's works gives one a sense of what it means to create a world in words.

John Walker 10

fF^'-»xrrc :m >■>■, , ?t 4;. m^‘~'

. -r

f'M,

iK^A

. T ■'■ *. fi • "-.'•^

'>»■• ''■ > ^ -s : • st^V’.:: . ■

* *", ■*»'

|y "SJ» ' ,/ -

*’*' \

S'-^

'.V ^ S* r U 4t ^ ■'■

■

•' V

•1^

’4'

1»r_ t

f J

Aj>-

€ ^ ,ii J .

I f4

'4:'^

VXfA'.y.

'■itm

a;-

.JVF : ^ j- w^-. ■iJ't ^-■

Aii

, e#

.*«?.>

■iS^

>A-:

-.-T -<■ .

r ?:<4

:> f-tfjA cc.iiA^y^

-/^

5->5r?\^ jS '5^* f<?--2^'

f -Tl Z- .1 f

’■■A .y ; >- /"■■:.; •y*. •

'i 'ty; i'^4- /

^ / . >■<

AA LT^-

-fA^:kA%k

\Ss‘>P^ .

>.r-i

«?"•*' '*S /yy.' 4^. I? •■fA-s A A'

II:^ ^

. "f/” »’-^(*

-'-&A '

l: . *• 1 V

• ,<H

.A’*-.-'^ r^-r

^1-- ‘ y ••%*'

’‘.A j>,

—

; - *■

. .

■€ ’ ' ' ^ ' " .

.•*

"f . i ■ --r

■-*■

s<- 4-,;,■?/>'j-v. :,y

• ■ *•“ ,</

V >•

, .• ♦ ' • ' « W» rf-

c A

^. .,/

■■*'. --■^ y '-■ •< i* * #-y

"\W-

' ■/

;•»'*

^ -'

AfJt

David Dulaney

■'

f ,■' • .*.;

, ■■'■y' /yy*- V,

s r

■■' :-

<r y.

Anita Johnson

Juan Rodriguez 12

Metaphor for the Mechanical Age This hour is an ocean with sky of opaque steam and salt crystals, vague light that filters down through scattered currents, stripping trees of scarlet. I having no black prince or white stallion of deliciously insidious possibilities to bind me ignited my red charger and chased the life-absence of leaves down frozen roads, blood meshing in the gears as they dashed against salt-water windshields: Sexual assault by machine. But I am no space-age baby to quicken winter with a switch; It's all my strength to warm myself after eras of neutral in a whirlpool — But I am no crinoline lady tempting men of black and white to live in pristine bowls of honey; I prefer the reefs of bite and blood-coral— And hungers that lubricate with more than sacharrin and antifreeze. — Elizabeth Myers

The Request Listen to the sound it is the stalk of the devil He creaks like wind-swept fire See the shadow contortions of the seething demon a black that glows and grows with submission Feel His breath it burns like salt-caked sores blisters that fester for water, inflamed

Sea Battle Still, sweltering air that day on the pond Left no widening waves on the water; We drifted but little in our small boat While floating free in the hot July sun. Posing astern sat dear lovely Mary, All radiant and florid from laughing. At my lack of prowess, she was laughing As we slowly drifted across the pond; For I was clumsy at rowing, Mary Knew, and could not easily cross water. To be so unskilled brought shame like the sun Burning warm onto our small aimless boat. "Row us ashore in your fast nimble boat That floats here idly," she taunted laughing; "The other side lies not in burning sun. But in shade cooler than the sunny pond. My anger grew as I dipped the water With oars, to meet this challenge from Mary. I resolved that I should prove to Mary That even I could handle such a boat With skill and agility in water And that I should end her endless laughing. My first resolution (to cross the pond) She mocked along with the hot glaring sun. My paddles paddled awkwardly while sun Threw a glare from water to eyes; Mary Did not look my way, but gazed round the pond While I struggled in vain to guide the boat. Scorn and ridicule she expressed laughing; Thoughtfully, I glanced from her to water. Suddenly I leaned toward the water And rocked our craft over beneath the sun. While my fairest partner yet was laughing. Into our sea neatly tumbled Mary. With this dunking would my Mary, the boatBound Eve pay for tempting me on the pond. We swam from our capsized boat in the sun. And dripped water from our dip in the pond. Dousing had failed; Mary was still laughing.

He asks that you say goodnight He requests that you step outside He has words for you

— Mitchell Byler —Rick Thames

Incantation The Way She Walks "Some things are better left unsaid." ^

The summer is in flames, grown full with blossoms and strange fruits I held them early, round and hard and now, wreathed woman I hunted for the ripeness wild and sweet, biting freely till its juices stain my thigh. Bacchante of crimson plenty after dearth, I feed you wine of our own making, always that much more than you can hold; Come dance and crush the vines with me. I have less terror of the question and phoenix's nests And have been whirling through circles since before you traveling far from the young of the year through rains of wanting and wells of desire glinting with laughter like rubies. Come dance on star-mad hills and drink Come, for through my ears pour hoops of gold and silver gleaming with Antares and I hear the words inside you keep in chains Come, I have soft skirts of silk that lick my legs like tongues and I can move ahead of you before I know the way Come, my breasts are loosed from the crime of too much that is woman smooth and asking Man Give me your hand, half your fingers, gentle in the dark and watch my wrist flash red. Not rubies, no, but garnets, real enough; I leave them here, encircling blood around your own. Stand high and feel the wind against your throat, sand brown and warm between your toes, and watch me build with time and loving I have less terror of quests and phoenix's nests So I, night creature, flame to be, will laugh once more our crystal joy then throw myself in strong arcs to the suns. Traveling far and fast, drunk as a mortal, and not more, remember the burning wine and silken dance. Then watch your wrist flash red with fire and truth, jeweled ring of waiting promise, real enough Each one the seeds of fruit to flow again; For all our circles, the center is the same. —Elizabeth Myers 14

Your walk is like the Swaying of a violet, Caught-up in the wipd. —Don Dotson

After Art History No more slides please Of columned collonades. Of spacious promenades. Of alabaster walls. And Mansart roofs. Of finely chiselled shadows And Brunelleschi domes No, I want the miracle Of sudden ceiling frescoes. The awesome vastness of interior spaces; The echoes of choruses. Give me the cold slap of a palm on marble Or, from straining to lift a stone. The sweat of a slave. —Don S. Williams

In a Jazz Club Her Red Teeth Flashing A Smile Smiling. In Bombshelter Heat Melting Breathing—Just Breathing — —Bill Silvers

by W. B. Rose I had almost passed by in the milling crowd before I noticed him. A slight drumming on wood caught my ear, and as I stepped aside to watch him, he struck up a tune on his warped and stained guitar. The man looked as if he had been caught up like a crumpled newspaper on the cold, brisk wind and flung against the brick wall of the alley where he sat. Three or four more deep, resonant cords cut cleanly across the concrete sidewalk as his ragged fingernails picked their way across the scale much like an eagle's claw jerking and pulling at fresh-killed meat. The fingertips were calloused and stained a brownish yellow from the stubble of a cigarette that stuck to his lower lip. It dangled there as a sawing, rasping voice passed through his pursed brown lips carrying a chant of mumbling song. A whining harmonica attached to a chest stand moaned out, taking me

illustration by Robert Wade

by the ears and forcing years of rejection upon my eyes. His face was the rough black of charcoal, pockmarked and creased with oeep furrows. Two dark, shiny-black lenses reflected my gaze back into itself. A torn and tattered gray felt hat slouched over his grey-white wisps of kinky hair. He stopped his singing and playing now, thinking I had passed him by on the busy sidewalk. The fingers groped across the concrete walk reaching for the handle of his tin cup which sat silent and empty on its bottom. He found it, drew it back, and plunged his hand feverishly into the cup. His whole dilapidated body seemed to sink into a kind of relaxed disappointment as he pulled at the flapping opening of his faded green army coat. The half-gloved hands fumbled among the pockets of his seedy pants and produced a pack of paper matches. With surprising ease he opened them and lit one, only to have it blown out by the wind as he reached it up to his frayed cigarette. He drew hard on it and realized that it wasn't lit, so he tried again, and once again the wind snuffed out the match before it could reach his mouth. The cold was numbing my ears now as he tried again and again in vain to get the cigarette lit. I was unaware of the walking sensation as I realized that I was moving toward him. The terrific smell of urine overwhelmed me, but I came and stood beside him, cutting off the chill air. He struck his last match to the cigarette, and a dull, red glow brightened at the end as he puffed on it, savoring the smoke that filtered through his veins. A small, thin trail of water spilled from under his vacant sockets and crept down a wrinkle in his cheek. "Thanks," he said, and as I started he continued, "Yes, you right honey. I can see *â&#x2013; some things. And the sad thing is no one don't see that." I turned and walked away into the blinding rush of people.

S8LUU9 UUAl 'V

PHOENIX PROFILE: Preserving the ^olk cy4rts by Lesley Craig Tennessee has always been known for its mountain crafts. For generations Appalachian craftsmen have made utensils, toys and tools that are functional yet beautiful. They taught their children the same skills as they grew up. But as the years passed, many of the young people left home, drawn to the cities where better jobs awaited them. They not only left behind the mountains, but also the desire to learn the quilting, tin and black smithing, wood working and basket weaving that were so important to the lives of the mountain people. The only ones remaining to carry on these traditions were the older men and women of the communities. Today the number of mountain craftsmen has dwindled to a handful. Fortunately for the folk arts, several of these talented people have come down from the hills to teach their skills to anyone who will take the time to learn. They generate interest for their work through workshops at places like Arrowmont in Gatlinburg and at crafts fairs such as the Dogwood Arts Festival Folk Arts Program. Field April 23 on Knoxville's Market Square Mall, this year's fair brought both beginning and established craftsmen from all over East Tennessee and surrounding areas. Featured were several of the more famous artists and craftsmen from the area. While all were involved in different crafts, they came with the common goal of trying to preserve the folk arts.

Paul Lundquist, a blacksmith from Townsend, Tennessee

â&#x20AC;&#x201D;photos by Rip Noel

Ken and Kathleen Dalton Ken and Kathleen Dalton were young and barely making it after they got married. Then they heard about a training program, sponsored by the Tennessee Arts Commision, that would teach them a folk craft they could work at and use for supplementary income. They, in turn, promised to go back to their Coker Creek community and teach their newly learned skill to other low income families. The program worked very well for the Daltons. Kathleen has learned to weave all sizes of split wood baskets, a mountain craft going back generations. Her husband, Ken, helps by cutting logs and splitting them into kindling so they can easily be separated into thin slits. After.soaking the strips, Kathleen's calloused fingers begin to weave and a couple of hours later, produce a finished basket. As far as making it now, they said they're not rich by any means, but they have been able to teach weaving to a good number of people from their community who have successfully used the skills for additional income. And by learning this form of basket weaving, they have helped save a mountain craft from dying. Ken Dalton explains to visitors on the Mall how his baskets are made.

Mary Frances Davidson Mary Frances Davidson, a former high school math teacher from Oak Ridge, now spends much of her time preserving the old mountain craft of vegetable dying. A spry little woman in her late fifties, Ms. Davidson stood in the afternoon sun at Market Square in front of three large vats and vigorously stirred the boiling vegetable mixture with a long, wooden stick. Indigo and madder are some of the plants boiled to produce the warm earthy dyes she used to color skeins of handspun wool. Every few minutes she lifted one of the skeins out to see if it was taking on the true hue of the dye. "See that white showing through? You don't want your yarn to be frosty like that." She remedied the problem by adding minerals to the water to make it harder. When the color was to her liking, she washed the wool out in cold water to set the dye and hung it on a drying stand. The finished yarn is used by Arrowmont students in Gatlinburg for textile projects. Ms. Davidson wrote a book about vegetable dying that she said has saved her a lot of talking time. When someone asks her to explain the dying procedure to them, she grins, points to the half-inch thick book on the table and says, "Read it!"

Mary Frances Davidson at her dye pots

Joyce Cooper Back in the mountains, sometimes the only light at night came from candles. For this reason and because of the minimal cost involved, candlemaking became a wide spread practice throughout Appalachia. Joyce Cooper was demonstrating this art on the mall as she hand-dipped candles, using the same techniques as the mountain craftsmen. Wicks attached to wooden frames were dipped into hot wax. Layers upon layers were built on until a smooth tapered candle was formed. Ms. Cooper learned candlemaking from a friend about eight years ago. "1 made my first candles on the top of the kitchen range," she said. But what started out as a hobby quickly grew into a fullÂ time venture. Ms. Cooper said that she doesn't sell her candles in a store but she does sell. Most of her work is bought at crafts fairs such as the Dogwood Arts Festival.

Polly Page

Alex Stewart puts the finishing touches on a bucket.

Alex Stewart Alex Stewart of Sneedville, Tennessee is 84 years old and is believed to be the only cooper and churnmaker left in Appalachia. His water buckets, churns and small carved pieces are built with such precision and craftsmanship that it's hard to believe that work of that quality comes from a man of his age. But the age shows only in the face, not the hands. Stewart works from the same barn as he did when he began 65 years ago. He uses mostly tools he has made himself. He very seldom uses nails or screws, preferring instead, wooden pegs. To prevent the wood in his buckets and churns from shrinking, he uses only cedar. With all time accounted for, it takes about a day to complete one bucket and two to three for a churn. Several years ago. Bill Henry of Oak Ridge had the good fortune of meeting Stewart. A talented craftsman in his own right, he persuaded his employer, TVA, to let him apprentice four weeks in the summer with Stewart, using funds provided by the Tennessee Arts Commission. Henry has been helping Stewart ever since. The important thing, though, is that there is now one more person who can carry on the skills of a cooper and churnmaker.

Polly Page of Pleasant Hill, Tennessee, has spent 30 years perfecting the techniques of carving her history and storybook dolls. Each doll, she said, tells a story, whether it's from real history or just fantasy. She said she learned her craft at school in Pleasant Hill when she was growing up. "They knew that someone would have to learn about crafts or else they would die." In examining the little wooden heads of the dolls, there seems to be actual life in the expressions. One doll named Aunt Jenny looked almost frightening. Ms. Page suggested, "You put everything into what you do. Whatever mood I'm in shows up in my dolls. Guess I must have been in a bad mood that day!" Ms. Page expressed particular concern that more young people were not learning to do some sort of art or craft. She said she wished she could tell those who had older people around, to learn as much as they can from them. "Us old folks aren't going to be around forever, you know." To encourage more participation in the field of crafts, Ms. Page has opened her shop doors in Pleasant Hill to any one who wants to come in and learn.

Preserving the artsâ&#x20AC;&#x201D;that's what it's all about. With few exceptions, the craftsmen said they would jump at the chance to teach their skills to some eager young person willing to learn. Pearl Bowling, who is famous for her corn^ shuck dolls, expressed the urgency of the matter this way. "Forget this stuff about 'Oh, my grandmother knows how to do that'. Sit down and learn it from her now, while she can still teach you. Because the time will come when she'll be gone. Then you're left with nothing."

ELECTROI^IJC HUEJC

< (

by Angelyn Bales

photos by Mike Barnard

Carlos, Tomita, the Beatles, Return to Forever, Santanaâ&#x20AC;&#x201D;their names mean music. To connoisseurs of the art they mean electronic music. Electronic music can be written in any style, such as classical, avant garde, rock, or jazz. "Switched on Bach" by Walter Carlos and Debussey's "Snowflakes are Dancing" as performed by Tomita are classical electronic music. The realm of avant garde includes Stockhausen's "Telemusik" and Subotnick's "Wild Bull." Santana, the Beatles, and Emerson, Lake and Palmer feature electronic music in their rock compositions. Electronic jazz music includes "Where Have I Known You Before" by Return to Forever and "Mysterious Traveler" by Weather Report. Tape recorders, synthesizers, and computers are used to make electronic music. Any sound can be recorded and produced by the use of a tape recorder. It can manipulate sounds by various methods, such as splicing tape together, using different speeds, and playing the sounds backwards. A synthesizer is an instrument which contains a number of devices, called modules, which are used to generate, modify, and organize sounds, as well as control the devices that perform these tasks. A synthesizer can be used alone or with a tape recording. A musical piece produced by both instruments is called a synthesized tape composition. This particular type of electronic music is more familiar to listeners than a composition produced by a single electronic instrument. Computer music involves the process of using binary numbers to designate a specific sound wave. The corresponding digits for the sound wave are fed into the computer by means of a punched card or at a terminal. Every detail concerning the sound wave, including the length, the frequency, and the pitch of the note, must be given by the use of digits. The computer is programmed to give back

a read-out tape of the detailed composition in its exact order. The computer is then electrically connected to a "digital to analog converter" which produces the musical sounds when the read-out tape is fed into the computer. It is easier to work with a tape in a live performance than with a synthesizer, because a composition on tape has already been produced and needs no further work. But working with a synthesizer is quite different. It takes a considerable amount of time to prepare a synthesized composition because of the many control mechanisms the composer has to work with. This limits the production of a synthesized composition before a live audience. Because the fact that the composer can control every sound produced on a synthesizer by mechanical means there is a significant advantage to using this instrument. It enables the composer to produce a clearer, more distinct sound. Some music lovers complain that electronic music is too mathematical. Electronic music can be only as mathematical as the composer wants it to be. It is not the medium itself which is mathematical, but the style of electronic music the composer wishes to produce. Another dislike some persons have of electronic music is the lack of a performer in a tape composition. The common triangle in musical production is that of a composer, a performer, and a listener. Because the tape is the finished product, a performer is not needed to provide a link between the composer and the listener. Therefore, live performers, such as musicians, dancers, or actors are often added ,ip a concert. The invention of recording has changed the existence of a live performer in the present and the future of music. There is a growing awareness of electronic music at UT. This awareness is being broadened by the production of electronic music

Dr. Jacobs rehearses for the spring quarter concert.

concerts which are given each quarter by music students under the direction of Dr. Kenneth Jacobs, professor of music at UT. A few of the popular songs which were featured in this spring's concert include Jethro Tull's "Living in the Past," Stevie Wonder's "You Are the Sunshine of My Life," Carole King's "I Feel the Earth Move," and Kiki Dee's "I've Got the Music in Me." "Electronic music as a course of study has been around since the fifties," said Dr. Kenneth Jacobs, professor of music at UT. However, this particular field is rather new at UT, said Jacobs. Jacobs explained that electronic music is "music made with electronic instruments." He first became interested in this field of music eight years ago when he was exposed to records of electronic music. The first class in electronic music at UT was in the winter of 1975. The response to these classes usually comes from students majoring in departments other than music, Jacobs said. Many music majors are now aware of electronic music and do not understand it; it is easy to feel

threatened by something different, he said. There are three classes in electronic music presently offered at UT and taught by Dr. Jacobs. Electronic Music Techniques is the introductory course which gives the student a basic knowledge of electronic music. Anyone with a general background in math and music, such as reading notes and a knowledge of musical interval terminology, will be able to do well in the course, said Jacobs. Students taking the latter two courses must have a broader knowledge of music. The course of Advanced Electronic Music Techniques deals with the live performance of an electronic synthesizer. Students enrolled in Composition of Electronic Music will have the opportunity to work in a studio with electronic media. An additional one hour credit course entitled Synthesizer Ensemble will be offered next quarter. This class will enable students to perform all styles of music using a synthesizer, said Jacobs. Electronic music is becoming more popular at UT each year. The music of the future? Maybe, and it's here today.

David Luttrell

Lady of the Calendar Ashes The years get almost real When the calendar's burning And you can feel it better Than you ever did before Come look back with me At leaves like snapshots sinking In Lullwater Lake where I've been drifting So many weeks now And I can't reach her number anymore When I know that she would remember But the laughter would sound as bleak As the places are faint For me and that lady Lady of the calendar ashes. If you ever watched icicles melt Down windowpanes You know how the freeze Always snaps back again And you're one of those Dark and haunted boys Who's thought a way back And realized how you never think Very far ahead When honeysuckle's smellin' Up the nights so humid and sweet And you hold all wet and gasping To those breathing shadows as you slip asleep Boy, you're just lingerin' On your own literary lies And they couldn't make it real for that lady Lady of the calendar ashes. She woke up to the hard cool truth Like metal in August haze dawn light It eclipsed the writhing shadows And the words I framed them in So it all comes down to yellowed poems And woodsmoke phantoms As I pass through this historic winter That seems like it won't ever end Endless as these frosty sheet nights And prayers to apparitions And fantasies over calendar dates of a spell Just say I drenched her so willfully in sorrow And at last look when it doesn't matter I understand the sounds of the pleasure And I've grown to mean each and every word, lady Lady of the calendar ashes.

(untitled) temerity engulfed the woman oozed from lips swollen with rancorous chewing the bones of contention she paused to consider still another answer as brows knits together cautioning discretion she pondered reconstructed the syllogisms watched in rapt attention as the image unfolded musically abstracted rapture perfection of mind over reality who has stolen her soul? hidden the frayed moments of certainty? dissected the mind that questions from the nature that knows made her breathless in anticipation? she walks encased in sweet sensuality strains of 17th century trust and optimism lyricize harmonious her eyes sought for not yet found answer timorously playing hide and seek in fugue patterns 1 -2-3-4 lute call absently heard enamoured yet the brows knit again to endless pyramids of Hegelian logic lost but a moment, temerity returns â&#x20AC;&#x201D; Pamela Jernegan

â&#x20AC;&#x201D; Tony Miller

Obsessions "...the thin yield of his fields, the brief love of this earth, at this moment when at last a man is born, it is time to forsake our age and its adolescent furies." —Albert Camus, The Rebel

1. The leaves are released to rot among the grasses: Down into the digestion of memories Where images are flowered by dreams & voices gather the sunlight like mirrors of echoes—

Pere Joliet, where are you now? Underneath the frozen pox River, Swimming home to tell us, tell us all Of the river that leads to the sea? by the rain.

The radio has said that it must stop But beyond these demands it falls: Continuing from a mist gray sky crowded It swirls with the wind among the many descendings... Strangling the land — its changes entailing: A single breaking life lived out Among the spider webs of streets where There is the driven man ./ the haunted woman — falling. 2. As a convex sky in its death glow of sunset Pushes against the skyscrapers Gray smoke blooms from black stacks & they are the flowers of death. The evening traffic inches among geometries & the streets are as gray as clouds— Sounds are distorted between concrete walls Beating up past angles sprawled against the skies. The swirl of a drain & its noise Guzzling existence all around me: Chaining time with duty to decrease my sensitivities Which endlessly push against themselves...expanding. 3. The evening thickens over the buildings like ice Obscuring outlines in halos of blurred light: The scenes pass in clouds concentrated & glowing Like the sparse patching of yellow flowers on the farmlands Where on browning green slopes black cows graze: Standing out on the rolling monotonies of aging & ruin... Thru the fog the night passes with unbroken movement— A strength beyond power that hast not time. Then burning like wings spred with sunlight The windows of a building flash in another sunrise: The pigeons balancing wings on the breeze Lift up into the air like a reprieve. —Richard Corsini

Wisconsin

In Wisconsin, in the ice-cream Blue of the dawn, early morning Men are moving. To pickup trucks. To the day's first smokes. Following Their exhausted white breathing to Another day. In the diners: talk of savage Ancestors, of toes taken by Mindless frostbite, beards frozen as Solid as rock in the endless Agony of a frozen night. Later, after the history And hot coffee, the trucks will take These frozen sons of Joliet Over the old man's face of the Fox to work in the papermills. — Gary Shockley

Evening Ice Deep ocean vein Concealed crimson veil Pulses Black and white Day and night Farther along Ocean foam Woman Scent on the breeze. —J.C. Alien

Harvest Hand FARM In the snap and the chortle of the morning, the trees jut up, leisters jabbing the lachrymose sky. Exactly positioned, they pull up the ground and cov er it with its own deadness. The water is alive with fish, and the earth is alive with men wear ing overalls and bearing old tools. There is an art to living on a morning like this: can't go fish ing, so kneel in the hard mud; you are in church. — Edd Hurt

(untitled) WHAT WAS BROKEN GLASS IS NOW CRYSTAL. WITHOUT TOUCHING, YOU LOVED ME‘ TO SLEEP. — Deborah E. Whited

Arrival Open the basket. What have your brought? Motionless sun tangled in the dogma of clouds? Cathedral hush of vaulting hills? Supplicating fingers of a dead oak? Granite rocks at prayer? Monkish trees in kudzu habits? Solace of the river's intonations? Now that you've come at last, we shall have a picnic, you and I. But we must hurry, for like Noah, I smell rain. —Michael Ryle

The Harvest Hand ain't made of snow ain't grown of green ain't sown of sand The Harvest Hand is made of labor for all the seasons feed from the Harvest Hand — Winston Miller

(untitled) I learned the ways of the power-mower from my Father who— as a man — had grown too old to trim the weeds of memories in my stead. "Stand back. I've stepped this stair before you-were-a-gleam-in-your-mother's-eye." and his myosin gripped the chord and swept it taut, building staccato walls among us. And now that his sounds have settled into earth, I see him with foreboding acuity through the fog of my morning-mirror and the tears of awe in my son's eyes gazing as I shave and wash yesterday's grass away in the drain. —R.K. Harriman

Rip Noel

Yvonne Quirin

Night Falls at Camp Trousdale â&#x20AC;?1^

by Gary Shockley

(Note; This story was inspired by a Civil War diary kept by my great-greatÂ grandfather, Colonel Carroll Henderson Clark, Company 1, Sixteenth Regiment, Tennessee Volunteers, C.S.A.)

Wednesday, May 15,1862 Spring has come early this year. Already the county's farmers are over the corn for the second time and the promise of a rich harvest hangs heavy in the air. Memories of a harsh winter on the mountain have begun to fade. Yet neither spring nor harvest were on my mind when I arose at first light this morning. For today was the day I entered into the service of the Confederate States of America, ready to fight the things I hate and fear most in the world. It would be untrue to say I left home with no misgivings in my heart, but this warm Wednesday morning seemed to give strength to a frightened boy and a threatened nation. By noon I was ready. We all met at Riley's mill around one o'clock with mothers, sisters, and sweethearts in great abundance. People were crying and blessing us all about. I must admit I was near moved to tears myself at the spectacle. Around two p.m., all goodbyes had been said at least once and we marched off to the sound of fiddle and drum down the dusty highway that would lead some to glory, others to death. The thought that I might never see home or Mother again saddened me beyond words. Soon, however, the boys began to sing marching songs and talk of the fury of battle and I lost all such morbid thoughts. We marched all day over the savagely beautiful mountains that are our home and the backbone of the new nation. We arrived in McMinnville just as the sun fell down the largest peak on the horizon. Night falls quickly from these mountains and we were soon asleep in the warm southern night. Thursday, May 16 The railroad here runs down by the river below town. This ancient, timeless river, carved by time into the face of these rocks, seems to say something about what the south is becoming. It says something of time, of movement, of the grace of these silent mountains all around. I wonder how much longer people will listen to the message of rivers and look to the mountains for salvation. Many of the boys had never seen a railroad car before and spent some time looking underneath their cars trying to find the engine. The arrival of the steam engine from the water tank put an end to such foolishness and we were soon on our way. It took us about six hours to travel the thirty-five miles to Tullahoma and the train felt as if it flewl One of the boys held his watch while another counted off the mile posts. Together they calculated that we were traveling one mile every minute! We all found this hard to believe. We switched trains once in the afternoon and finally arrived at Camp Alisona, near the Elk River. We had a supper of rice from a camp kettle, bacon, and coffee. Afterwards, we all danced and sang around the fire to the likes of "Pewter",

"Old Joe Clark", and "Railroad Bill" from the Rev. Gabriel Eakin's fiddle. Old Gabe says when war comes it's time to put down the Bible and take up the fiddle and gun. The Rev. Eakins is a fine patriot and most anxious to see battle. Monday, May 20 We were mustered into service today by General B. T. Anderson, C.S.A. We were lined up to be inspected as to our general health and physical ability and even the crippled, crazy, and cross eyed put forth their best appearance. That is until work detail began and then even the strongest among us began to complain and shirk their duty. I consider such shiftlessness when engaged in a great struggle to be cowardly and shameful. I received a small wound when I accidentally struck my foot with a shovel while digging outhouses and had to be excused from work for about an hour. I also worked my first guard duty last night on the south end of the bridge over the river near our encampment. I pray this will be my last experience with night guard duty for some time. I find it hard even now, in the light of day, to describe the fevers and fears last night held for me. Yankees were the least of my concern in the lonely hours after midnight. The woods, the river, even the darkness itself seemed to promise that dawn would never come again and I would spend all eternity guarding sleeping, ignorant men against the darkness. And what darkness it was! The night was as dark as any night has ever been. The sky was a silky black, like a fine mourning garment, and the stars stood out like diamonds or tears against it. I found that if I listened very carefully I could almost believe I heard God himself breathe in the night. I was at last comforted and slept till my relief arrived. Sunday, May 26 We travelled on another train today that took us still further away from the warmth and familiar comforts of home. We boarded at first light but before we left I noticed Porter Farley standing on the platform staring at the telegraph wires overhead. I asked him why he was so fascinated with the wires and he said "Ah jes' cain't see how letters can skip over them lines and throught theter bottleneck at the top." The Rev. Eakins overheard this and explained to Porter how this was possible. Later, on the train, Eakins got a false face made to look like the devil from somewheres and went about the train scaring the life out of anybody who would pay any attention to him. He was having a high old time of it until Porter Farley poked his finger in the eye of the false face. The Rev. Eakins didn't find this as funny as the rest of us did and bloodied poor Farley's nose for it. We all congratulated him on being our first casualty in the great struggle. Throughout the day we marched and rode on the now familiar trains until we arrived at a camp just east of Nashville. The camp is surrounded by dark wilderness and it is hard to imagine 15,000 kind people just a few miles away.

Tuesday, May 28 We marched all day and all night yesterday and reached Camp Trousdale early this morning. We are all exhausted and need rest badly. I am too tired to write an account of all the singular events that occurred yesterday, particularly during the interminable night march. Perhaps I can recount them later. But now I must sleep and hope to trade the dreams of the waking for the softer dreams of the sleeper. Monday, June 10 Today our regiment of about 1,000 men was ordered into ten companies with General Zollicoffer and the biggest mess of Colonels, Lieutenant Colonels, Majors, and Captains that you ever saw in command. I was assigned to Company 1 along with several other home-town boys. Tomorrow we march two miles north of camp at dawn to take up a defensive position. Monday, June 17 Thousands of soldiers have arrived in camp since my last entry and are busily organizing to make war on the Yankees. The sounds of fife and drum and the words â&#x20AC;&#x153;Hepl Hajp! Forward!" fill the air. Spirits are high and all are anxious to get to the front and "clean 'em up." Today we elected the Rev. Porter Farley company chaplain. Old Porter is nearly as famous for his numerous spectacular conversions as he is for his sense of humor. Some of the boys complained that Porter was "not a real, true man of God." Porter told them that he had been ordained by a street preacher on his last trip to Nashville. When I asked him why he had never told us about this before he said that being a preacher "jes' ain't the kind of thang you go 'round tollin' everybody." We all agreed that this was true. The Rev. Porter defeated the Rev. fiddlin' Gabe Bakins for the post and, after his victory, led us all in prayer. "Ooool Most heavenly Father!" he prayed, "make yore holiest of holy faces to shine on us. And may that holiest of holy lights of the most holiest of holy Lords lead us out of the despicable darkness of death and despair into the glorious light of victory, in youre name we pray." Amen. Sunday, June 23 Chaplain Farley got his first chance to preach to the whole company today and he wasn't about to disappoint anybody. Old Porter preached for nearly three hours on just about any type of sin you can think of (most of which he has gained first-hand knowledge of at one time or another). He ended the sermon by lecturing on how Jesus came to judge the quick and the dead. I hate to say it but that kind of sermon really isn't much comfort to men who could stop being quick and start being dead just about any time now. Thursday, July 4 We received our banner today and all are filled with patriotic fervor. All are also filled with cake and cider from a sweets stand two darkies set up on the edge of camp. Millions of flies swarmed all over the darkies' cakes but the boys all bought them anyway. In fact, the crowd around the little stand was so great at times that it appeared as if the boys would have bought up those darkies' very souls if they would have been willing to sell them.

Friday, July 12 Measles have infected the camp and all who have not had them before, including me, are sorely down. None of the cures prescribed by our chaplains or commanders seem to offer even the slightest relief. One small comfort to me in my illness is that I have been excused from work detail and guard duty until I recover my previous strength and resolve. Monday, July 15 I have been miraculously cured of my measles by one Caleb Savage of Sparta. Caleb, on seeing the gravity of my illness, went out into the wilderness near camp and gathered up weeds and secret herbs out of which to make a medicinal tea. He threw the mixings in a camp kettle of water, boiled it a while, and then dipped some out and told me to drink it without straining it. I was sure sick but I had confidence in Caleb and his strange mountain ways, so I did as he said. And just as he said, I was cured! Some people accused Caleb of learning this trick from "an old mountain Witcher woman "but none of these skeptics had suffered with the measles. I say it just goes to show that there are things on this earth that no one, least of all man, is ever going to be able to explain. Saturday, July 20 We were aroused from a deep slumber last night and ordered into line of battle. It seemed we were about to confront the enemy for the first time and we must put all of our training and all our ideals on the line. We had not yet been issued guns and were in poor shape to fight, but the boys all brought out their pistols and butcher knives from home. Silence soon prevailed all about and a thousand frightened men crouched alone with their private fears and stared blindly into the blind night. The sky covered us like a hot, black blanket filled with starry lint. The smothering heat and deathly silence was broken only once. That was when the Chaplain Farley discovered that he had left the firing pin for his pistol back in camp and was defenseless in the night. He cursed loudly once and shouted "How come it's nothing around here ever works?" But no one answered him. The night felt like eternity as it moved by without telling anyone. My shoulders and neck cramped as I kneeled in a ditch with my mother's old kitchen knife clasped in my wet hand. It soon became evident that we would not fight any Yankees tonight. Yet we were kept in position, ready to fight anything that might emerge from the black space that held us. Someone somewhere must have had a reason to keep us in fear and sweat in the hot July night. I knew that somewhere in that night Saturday became Sunday and most of the world slept unaware. I resolved to wait for hope to return with dawn and to watch for the first line of light to shoot into the blackness overhead. I was determined to see and to realize the exact moment that day defeated night, just as it has done every morning since the first man cried out against the darkness and the world began. I watched carefully all through the night and dawn came at last, but I never saw that first light burn across the empty fields. Before I knew it, the day was back and we all slept again.

Ada Goedbloed

Jed DeKalb