MOUNTAIN MAGIC with ANN HITE FIRE-TALKER

MOUNTAIN MAGIC with ANN HITE

FIRE-TALKER

All of Appalachia is known for its magic, charms, and spirits. But there is something unique about Southern Appalachia. From ten-years-old, I was raised by my granny, who was born and raised in Southern Appalachia. My Appalachian roots go back to the early 1700s on her side of the family. From the minute I came to live with Granny, we made at least one trip a month to visit her sisters, my great aunts, who still lived in the backwoods of Appalachia. While in their presence, I learned Granny could be two separate women. At home she was a straightlaced, proper talking Southern lady of Atlanta. At the old home place Granny evolved into another person, who dipped snuff and spoke a strange language I didn’t always understand. At the feet of these mountain women, I learned to be a storyteller that led me to be a writer. While at home, Granny wasn’t always forthcoming about her background. On one occasion when I was around three, my parents brought me to visit Granny. My dad was in the Air Force and we rarely got to visit Georgia. While Granny stayed home to cook us a big dinner, we went to a Sunday service in a cramped little church, where Dad attended as a kid. The preacher, who did a lot of screaming and yelling, was some kind of kin to Dad. Mother and Granny had never been much on attending church so this often caused friction between my parents. I got the wiggles like most kids my age would.

Mother kept promising if I was good, we would soon be back at Granny’s house for one of her fine desserts. When we finally got back to Granny’s little bungalow on the outskirts of Atlanta, I was overjoyed. Granny gave me the run of the house while she finished in the kitchen. I moved through each room, stopping in front of the floor mirror to flounce and admire my pink ruffled dress which Mother had made for me. Granny had an old-fashioned bathroom that I purely loved. The pink claw-foot tub captivated me. It was a bubble bath paradise. To enter and leave the bathroom, I had to pass an upright gas heater.

“Annie, come eat.” Granny called from the kitchen. I slid by the heater faster than I probably should have, and one of the dress ruffles caught on the grate. Somehow in the process of freeing myself before the blue flames caught me, I placed my right palm on the top of the stove that was hot. For half of a minute, there was no feeling. Then a horrible pain shot through my hand and I screamed. Dad came running and tore my pretty dress, getting me away from the heater. He carried me to the kitchen table as I howled in pain. Granny came running. She took my hand, closed her eyes, and blew air on it. A beautiful cool breeze eased the pain out of my body.

“I think we need to take her to the hospital.” Mother said, pushing her way closer to me. I stopped crying.

“Just calm down. Ann is feeling better.” Dad reassured Mother.

My fiery red hand faded to a normal color. Many years would pass before I understood what had taken place.

Fire-talkers have been part of Appalachia for centuries. Their ability to pull fire from a burn has never been viewed as magic, but as a gift from God. A person who is gifted with this ability uses a secret Bible verse. In some cases, it is a charm instead. Both males and females are fire-talkers. If a fire-talker tells the Bible verse, they can no longer pull or blow the fire out of a burn. So the verse is guarded and only passed down to those seen fit to take up the gift. We don’t hear so much about fire-talkers now, but seventy-years ago when heat, cooking, and washing clothes depended on a fire, burns were more numerous. Fire-talkers were kept very busy.

In the sixties my sister in-law was burned on her arm and my mother in-law called a relative who was a fire-talker. This person took the fire away over the phone. The story goes that the burn stopped hurting and never left a scar.

I can only say when Granny blew on my palm the pain was gone. Mother, who grew up with these beliefs, was skeptical about leaving her only child to the fate of mountain healing. She proceeded to melt butter. When it was cool, she rubbed it over my palm that showed no signs of a burn.

So what helped me heal? I will leave this to the reader’s judgment. What I do know, even though I fight it often, is that Mountain magic is real and is still used in the hollers and mountains of Appalachia. And of course, by the descendants of granny witches, who still believe, all over our country.