In which I at long last travel to Bryson City, home of my great grandfather, Horace Kephart

I have written of my great grandfather here on this blog and elsewhere (Tin House magazine) many times. Horace Kephart has been credited with helping to create the Great Smoky Mountains National Park.  He was an author and a campcrafter, a brilliant librarian who left academia to live among the Appalachian people, to understand them.  He has been the subject of countless articles, at least one novel, a stunning song cycle, a lengthy segment in the recent Ken Burns series of National Parks, theatrical productions.  He is celebrated yearly during Horace Kephart Days (an event largely organized by my cousin, Libby).  He has been praised by Barack Obama.  He has been lovingly attended to by George Ellison, a biographer of heart and intelligence.  He has been discussed, parsed, debated, and he continues to be the subject of ongoing scholarship and interest.

I had never had the opportunity to visit Bryson City, where Kephart lived for many years and where he is buried.  I hadn't been able to go, in fact, until this past Sunday, a misty day in the Carolinas.  We had been in Asheville for a glorious wedding.  My husband drove the mountain roads.  When we found Bryson City, we stopped and walked.  Seeing the Historic Calhoun Hotel and Country Inn, I made the decision to be bold.  To knock on the door and see what might happen, for I had heard that this innkeeper had a Horace Kephart library and a respect for Kephart's work.

We were in the south, and so politeness ruled.  Mr. Luke D. Hyde, the Calhoun innkeeper and a key player in the ongoing sanctuary that is the Great Smoky Mountains National Park, didn't just open the door; he invited us in.  He told us his stories, shared images, took us up to his Kephart library (see the portrait of my great grandfather on that wall), even gave me a copy of Kephart's work on the Cherokee Indians.  Then he sent us on our way, and I will always be touched by the time he took and the generosity he showed.

Kephart is buried on a hill beside a small church.  He is buried no more than a half mile away from one of my best friends' childhood homes.  I heard from Ann as we were walking the incline.  I saw her home in the near distance.  I felt her spirit beside me.  Ann has visited Kephart's grave for many years; members of her family are buried nearby.  I wish I was with you, Ann wrote.  And how I wished, too.

Finally, as I was making my way through Bryson City, I heard from my dear friend Katrina Kenison.  I have known Katrina since the beginning of my publishing time (truly) and written of her often here.  Once, years ago, Katrina, who so deeply understands and loves the natural world, sent me a copy of Kephart's Camp Cookery, which sits right here on my shelf.  I had written of Katrina's gift when it came.  On Sunday I was the recipient of yet another kind of gift, for Katrina was reading Handling the Truth and there in the hills of Bryson City, I read her thoughts about its early pages for the first time.

Blessed.

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Kephart-abilia: Horace Kephart Days, The Kephart Glen

I have written, on this blog, of my great grandfather, Horace Kephart, who left a career as one of the nation's great librarians and left a family, too, to live among the private beauties of the Appalachian Mountains and people.  Horace Kephart documented Appalachian ways and campfire know-how.  He was in part responsible for the creation of the Great Smoky Mountains National Park.  He has been the subject of songs (see Daniel Gore's beautiful song cycle), movies (the recent Ken Burns' documentary), novels, and myths.  He is also, thanks in large part to my cousin Libby Kephart Hargrave and the great historian George Ellison, celebrated in the annual Horace Kephart Days, held each year between April 29 and May 1st in Bryson, City, NC. 

George Kephart, my grandfather, was one of Horace Kephart's two sons.  When his father departed for his Appalachian journey, George moved, with his mother, Laura, and his five total siblings, to Ithaca, New York.  All six Kephart children ultimately attended Cornell University, while Laura took in boarders to try to make ends meet. 

Toward the end of his life, George Kephart made two important decisions:  to leave his own papers to Cornell University and to dedicate a glen in his wife's name within the Cornell Plantations. 

This weekend I saw those plantations for the first time. With my husband and son, through mist then heavy rain, I searched for the glen.  There was hardly anyone about, and no one to ask, and if I never found the glen itself, if I will have to return with a guide (and I will), I did discover the tremendous beauty of this place—even in rain, even before most any flower has had a chance to bloom.  This is peaceful, water-streaming, well-considered country.  This is ravines and slopes and green, a tumble of hellebores. My grandfather was a quiet man, a forester, a rose gardener, a lover of things alive and growing.  No wonder, I kept thinking as I walked.  No wonder this place was his eternity. 

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Myself, Today

Today: Awakened at 1:35 AM, I come downstairs and do not sleep. A few lines make their way to a blank page; I do not know if the lines are good.

Morning, then, and at the gym, I find Ann, an old friend, long lost; I'd once thought forever. In the large group room Teresa, leading the Body Pump class, has chosen the music of men. She turns her barbell into a guitar and sings her Aerosmith loud; the rest of us abide her antics, need her antics, love them. We don't scream the pain we feel. Many times a week Teresa leads this class and yet on Saturday it is as if we are her only students, her passion just for us.

Mid-morning and in my in-box I find the first official review of The Heart is Not a Size. I am overcome. The reader has found within my work just precisely what I hoped a reader would. A faster plot. The smell of dust. The have-everythings who learn from those who possess little.

Noon, and while shopping for the small dinner party that I'm throwing Sunday, I find my father at the Farmer's Market, sit with him while he eats his lunch. Then there is the frenzy of deciding and shopping. Yes, the serrano ham and the lavash, the strange apples from the Lancaster trees, the fatter berries and the insanely rotund scallions, and why not those tomatoes, which cannot decide what size they wish to be.

Mid afternoon, and I sit with the work of my fantastic Penn students, who move me to tears with the way that they think; I sit with Patricia Hampl. And then time alone with the Horace Kephart segments of the Ken Burns film, "America's Best Idea" (go to episode four, plays segments five and eleven). I don't care what you want to say about my great-grandfather. He did this country good. He saved what remained of the Great Smoky Mountains from the avaricious loggers, all the while knowing that once the park was made, it would not be his homeland anymore.

Later, a conversation with Andra. An email exchange with my friend Buzz. A note from Alyson Hagy, perhaps the grandest writing teacher of all.

Later, dinner.

Later, now.

Myself.

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Horace Kephart in Words and Pictures (America's Best Idea)

The image above is drawn from the new Ken Burns film, "America's Best Idea," and introduces the words and images of my great-grandfather, Horace Kephart, who (as I've said previously here and elsewhere, forgive me) played a pivotal role in the creation of the Great Smoky Mountains National Park. Those of you who might interested in reviewing a brief segment from the film can go here, to the WHYY web site. I never heard my great-grandfather's voice, obviously. It is fascinating to hear it rendered by this voice actor and to see photographs that I have long had in my own personal trove revealed to the wider world.

Thanks to Libby, for sending along the link.

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Ken Burns, Horace Kephart, and an Upcoming Documentary Film

Ken Burns has been at work on a six-part documentary called America's Best Idea—a series that will tell of the making of our national parks. Since my great-grandfather, Horace Kephart, played a pivotal role in the creation of the Greak Smoky Mountains National Park, he, along with his good friend, photographer George Masa, will be featured in the stories told.

(I've written about my great-grandfather from time to time, both for literary journals and here, on the blog.)

The photograph here is of Horace Kephart's son, George Kephart, my father's late father. Though Horace was absent during the majority of his children's youth—ensconced among the Appalachians, recording their ways, advocating on behalf of earth and stream, living a life that to many remains a mystery—few people were as proud of Horace Kephart as this son. I think of him looking down right now, and smiling.

The series begins this Sunday night. A viewers' guide is featured here. Concurrent with this event is the release of a long-hidden Horace Kephart novel, Smoky Mountain Magic, that features an interesting foreword by my cousin, Libby Hargrave, and a beautiful introduction by long-time Kephart scholar, George Ellison.

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An Ode to My Great Grandfather, Horace Kephart

I have, I will confess to this, been feeling exasperated, rushed. I've gotten myself too deeply into too many things; we all do that, this time of year. But did I really have to sign up to perform a complicated cha-cha Friday night, in the midst of finishing a massive corporate web site and launching four new client projects? And can I really think about anything coherently until I know whether my son will be granted his early-decision wishes at a fabulous university? And why is the Christmas tree sitting out on the porch in the rain, and not here, in the house, where it belongs? And have I bought a single hostess gift this year? No. Not yet. Of course not.

But today, running from my house to the mailbox and back, I stopped—realized that I had in hand a package from my dear friend Katrina Kenison, who edited Best American Short Stories for years and who now at last lives in a house that she and her family literally loved into existence. (And you should see the views at night.)

In any case, there I was, running, and there, of a sudden, was this package, and before I knew it, I was holding in my hands an original copy of a book called CAMP COOKERY, which probably doesn't ring a bell for you, but which was authored by none other than my great grandfather, Horace Kephart. He was a bit of an odd bird, this man, but a genius, too. A brilliant librarian who had a Virginia Woolf-quality breakdown at the age of forty-two. He was already the father of six, the husband of one, but he left everything he knew behind and traveled to North Carolina, where he fell in love with mountains and bears and local lore, drank moonshine, authored books with names like OUR SOUTHERN HIGHLANDERS, became mayor, and fought for the creation of the Great Smoky Mountains National Park. He won the last battle. The preservation of that land as whole and true has a lot to do with him. (I hear that Ken Burns is making a documentary of great national parks. Oh, I hope that he remembers Horace.)

CAMP COOKERY, Katrina wrote, had been in her personal library for years, acquired, her letter informed me, "back when I was sure that, someday, I'd be living part-time in a rustic cabin by a pond." I'm not sure that we knew each other then. I'm not sure that I've ever even told her my great-grandfather's complete story, but here was this book, this perfect, sanctified, preserved treasure, and not just the book, but old newspaper recipes kept inside.

Are there better gifts than these? Are there dearer friends? Are there more succinct reminders of what this season means?

Horace, I hope you're up there listening, you strange and wonderful man. You may have left your family for a mountain, but family continues to swell around you.

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