As before my memory come
Those scenes of my early childhood
In my East Kentucky home.
Which is now fore'er deserted
By my father's bright household;
It has now been changed and altered,
Into strangers’ hands been sold.
Some of that dear homestead's members,
Many past-gone years have trod
In a far and distant country:
Others sleep beneath the sod.
O'er the graves of those dear dead ones
Marked by moss-grown chiseled stone
All the years in wild luxuriance
Have the grass and flowers grown.
LEE SMITH
(November 1, 1944–)
Fiction writer Lee Smith was born in mountainous southwest Virginia, in the town of Grundy, where her family goes back four generations. Her mother, Virginia Marshall Smith, a home economics teacher from eastern Virginia, married Ernest Lee Smith, a businessman who owned a Ben Franklin department store. She went to boarding school at St. Catherine's School in Richmond and then to Hollins College. During the summer of 1966, inspired by Huck Finn, she and thirteen other Hollins College women took a raft trip from Paducah, Kentucky, to New Orleans; the trip was the inspiration for Smith's most recent novel, The Last Girls.
Lee Smith says that in college she tried at first to reject the advice to “‘write what you know.’ I didn't want to write what I knew…. I wanted to write in order to get away from my own life.” Eventually, she admits, she was surprised at the approval she won from her teacher and classmates when she “sat down and wrote a story about some women sitting on a porch all afternoon drinking iced tea and talking endlessly about whether one of them did or did not have colitis.” Her study of writers like Eudora Welty, Flannery O'Connor, and James Still helped her to see the artistic value and potential in the details of women's lives. In each of her novels, she creates memorable female protagonists, many of whom live in Appalachia and struggle to discover their identities in the family and community.
She graduated from Hollins in 1967 and married several weeks later. While her sons were young, she worked as a newspaper journalist, an editor, and a teacher. In 1977, she joined the creative writing faculty at the University of North Carolina in Chapel Hill. In 1981, she began work in the English department at North Carolina State University in Raleigh, a job from which she has now retired.
From the beginning of her career as a writer, Smith has received recognition, earning O. Henry Awards for “Mrs. Darcy Meets the Blue-Eyed Stranger at the Beach” (1978) and “Between the Lines” (1981), which appear in her first short story collection, Cakewalk. She has also been the recipient of the Sir Walter Raleigh Award for Fiction (1983), the North Carolina Award for Fiction (1984), the John Dos Passos Award for Literature (1987), the W.D. Weatherford Award for Literature (1989), the Appalachian Writers Award (1989), a Lyndhurst Fellowship (1990), the Robert Penn Warren Prize (1991), the Lila Wallace-Reader's Digest Writers Award (1995), and a special award in fiction from the American Academy of Arts and Letters (1999).
Lee Smith is the author of ten novels. She and her husband, writer Hal Crowther, live in Chapel Hill and often teach at the Hindman Settlement School Writers Workshop in eastern Kentucky, one county away from her Virginia birthplace.
The excerpt below is from the opening chapter of her novel Saving Grace, in which a minister's daughter introduces herself and her family as she narrates the story of her young life.
OTHER SOURCES TO EXPLORE
PRIMARY
Novels: The Last Girls (2002), Saving Grace (1995), The Devil's Dream (1992), Fair and Tender Ladies (1988), Family Linen (1985), Oral History (1983), Black Mountain Breakdown (1980), Fancy Strut (1973), Something in the Wind (1971), The Last Day the Dogbushes Bloomed (1968). Novella: The Christmas Letters (1996). Short stories: News of the Spirit (1997), Me and My Baby View the Eclipse (1990), Cakewalk (1981).
SECONDARY
Harriette C. Buchanan, “Lee Smith: The Storyteller's Voice,” in Southern Women Writers: The New Generation (1990), ed. Tonette Bond Inge, 324–45. Dorothy Combs Hill, Lee Smith (1991). Chris Holbrook, review of Saving Grace, Appalachian Heritage 23:4 (fall 1995), 67–70. Anne Goodwyn Jones, “The World of Lee Smith,” Southern Quarterly 22:1 (fall 1983), 115–39. “Lee Smith” in Interviewing Appalachia: The Appalachian Journal Interviews, 1978–1992 (1994), ed. J.W. Williamson and Edwin T. Arnold, 341–62. “Lee Smith Issue,” Iron Mountain Review 3:1 (winter 1986). Lucinda H. MacKethan, “Artists and Beauticians: Balance in Lee Smith's Fiction,” Southern literary Journal 15:1 (fall 1982), 3–14. Nancy C. Parrish, Lee Smith, Annie Dillard, and the Hollins Group: A Genesis of Writers (1998). Virginia A. Smith, “On Regionalism, Women's Writing, and Writing as a Woman: A Conversation with Lee Smith,” The Southern Review 26:4 (October 1990), 784–95. Bonnie Winsbro, “A Witch and Her Curse: External Definition and Uncrossable Boundaries in Lee Smiths Oral History,” Supernatural Forces: Belief, Difference, and Power in Contemporary Works by Ethnic Women (1993), 26–51.
SAVING GRACE (1995)
from Chapter 1
My name is Florida Grace Shepherd, Florida for the state I was born in, Grace for the grace of God. I am the eleventh child of the Reverend Virgil Shepherd, born to him and his third wife, Fannie Flowers. They say I take after her, and I am proud of this, for she was lovely as the day is long, in spirit as well as flesh. It isn't true, however. I am and always have been contentious and ornery, full of fear and doubt in a family of believers. Mama used to call me her “worrywart child.”
“You've got to trust more in Jesus, Gracie,” she'd tell me again and again in her pretty voice which always reminded me of running water, of Scrabble Creek falling down the mountain beside our house. “You've got to give over to Him,” she'd say. “Hasn't He always took good care of us? The Lord will provide,” she'd say, smoothing my long yellow hair and pressing me against her bosom where I could smell the familiar smell of cotton dried out on the line. She'd hold me until I quit crying, maybe sing me a little song. Mama was never in a hurry when we were kids. She had all the time in the world for us, putting down whatever she was doing in order to catch us up and comfort us. Mama took good care of us, as good as she could.
This was not true of Daddy, nor of Jesus either, as far as I could see. Daddy and Mama talked about Jesus all the time. I loved Daddy and Mama, but I did not love Jesus. And I actually hated Him when He made us take up traveling in His name, living with strangers and in tents and old school buses and what have you.
I couldn't understand why we had to do this, why this was required of us alone when other children I knew from school got to live in a nice brick house and have Barbie dolls and radios. I was full of resentment and raged against Him in my heart, but I knew better than to say it out loud, for then they might decide I was possessed by the Devil and try to cast him out as directed by Acts 10:38. I had seen this done, and did not want it done to me. But I worried and worried, about everything. I worried that the Devil might really be in me after all, growing like a baby inside of me until I got so big that everyone could see, and everyone would know my awful secret.
When I think on my childhood now, it appears to me as a wild mountainside where I was lost. Often over the years I have dreamed about it. In these dreams I always have a duty—to take something to somebody, to tell somebody something—but the trees are thick and the path disappears beneath my feet. I never know where I'm going, and I never get there.
I reckon I never did get there.
This is why I have had to come back now, traveling these dusty old back roads one more time. For I mean to tell my story, and I mean to tell the truth. I am a believer in the Word, and I am not going to flinch from telling it, not even the terrible things, not even the part about Lamar nor how Mama died nor the true nature of Travis Word nor what transpired between me and Randy Newhouse. I have entered these dark woods yet again, for I've got to find
out who I am and what has happened to me, so that I can understand what is happening to me now, and what is going to happen to me next.
My best memories come from Scrabble Creek. This is where we lived the longest, in the house God gave us when I was seven years old. We had come to North Carolina from Georgia in an old car that blew up in the mountains near Waynesville in the summer of 1949. The car was a blue humpbacked Studebaker. A used-car dealer in Stone Mountain, Georgia, had given it to Daddy free for healing his baby daughter of croup. It made a funny noise but it ran pretty good until that August afternoon when it just flat exploded on a high narrow mountain road with Daddy driving of course and Evelyn and Billie Jean and Joe Allen and me crammed in the backseat and Mama nursing Troy Lee in the front. All of a sudden there came a big “pow!” noise and the car lunged over to the left—away from the edge of the mountain, thank the Lord—and came to rest at an angle against a rocky cliff. Black smoke poured out from under the hood. We scrambled all over each other trying to get out, which was hard since the left side of the car was pushed against the mountain and the right side was up in the air. One by one we jumped.
“We're wrecked, we're wrecked!” Joe Allen shouted, running around and around.
“Joe Allen, stop that foolishness this minute,” Mama directed from inside the car. “Evelyn, come over here and get Troy Lee,” she said, and handed him out to my older sister. Troy Lee was crying like crazy, his face bright red. Mama jumped out lightly after him, like she was entirely accustomed to jumping out of burning cars, and took Troy Lee back from Evelyn and comforted him. “Now, now,” she said. “There now.” I clung to Mama's skirt and wished that Troy Lee had never been born, or that he would die, so that Mama would hug me.
My handsome daddy followed Mama out, yelling, “Praise be to Jesus!” as he hit the ground. For traveling, Daddy always took off his jacket and drove in a white shirt with the sleeves rolled up. Daddy was fifty-six then, but he seemed younger, because he was so full of energy. The Holy Spirit kept him hopping, as he said. His eyes were a sharp, bright blue. His long curly hair had been turned pure white by God in a vision on top of Roan Mountain, in Tennessee, when he was twenty-five years old. “All right children,” he said calmly, “help me now,” and we untied the bundles that were lashed to the top and the back of the Studebaker and got them over to the far side of the road just before the car exploded in earnest, its hood popping off, a great plume of smoke shooting straight up in the air.
“My goodness!” Mama said. Billie Jean was sucking her thumb and Evelyn was crying. “What will we do?” Evelyn sobbed wildly. “What will we ever do now?” Daddy fell to his knees in the road and started praying. I knew he would take the explosion as a sign—Daddy was ever on the lookout for signs and wonders, which were vouchsafed to him accordingly.
“I guess we'll just take to the tent again,” Joe Allen said darkly, kicking at our biggest bundle, the green canvas gospel tent which we had slept in before, and plenty of times at that. I wished with all my heart that it was burning up in the Studebaker. I hated it when we stayed in the gospel tent. One time we had slept out in that tent in the blowing snow. Another time, in summer, I woke up one morning and found both my eyes swollen shut from bug bites. That was in Dahlonega, Georgia.
Now Mama sat down on the rolled-up tent and unbuttoned her blouse and set in to feeding Troy Lee some more. A piece of her long blond hair had come loose from its bun and it fell in a screen across her face as she leaned over Troy Lee. The rest of us pulled back from the heat of the blazing car but continued to watch it closely as it shimmered and snapped, except for Daddy, who stayed right where he was.
“I'm hungry,” Billie Jean said, but nobody answered her.
We were all hungry. We had slept in the car the night before, piled on top of each other, and breakfast had been half a loaf of white bread, hours and hours before. I'd never cry, though. I'd die first. I took pride in not being a whiner like Billie Jean. I ignored my empty stomach and looked up the dark column of smoke, past the tops of the dusty green trees, to a patch of deep blue sky. I wished I could just float away with the smoke, away from there, away from them all. “I'm hungry,” Billie Jean said again, and again nobody answered her. We knew there was nothing to eat. Mama buttoned herself back up and placed Troy Lee face down across her lap. Butterflies fluttered around her. She smiled at us. “I'll swear,” she said, “if it's not the prettiest day!”
About five minutes later, a gray truck came rumbling along the road and stopped. God had answered Daddy's prayer. The back of the truck held three boxes with hunting dogs in them, and all the dogs started barking at once. A man got out as quick as he was able. He had a long red face and a nose with a knob on it. “You folks okay?” he hollered over the sound of the fire and the barking and Billie Jean's crying and Daddy's praying.
“Why yes, praise Jesus, we are,” Mama said sweetly.
The man walked over to get a closer look at Daddy. “Son of a gun,” he said. He stood there in the middle of the road and waited until Daddy finished praying and got up.
“Virgil Shepherd, minister of God,” Daddy said, grinning his big grin and holding his hand out. “Mighty pleased to meet you.”
“Likewise.” The man said his name was Carlton Duty, and he was going on to say something else when the other door of the truck swung open and a woman stuck her curly red head out. “And this here is my wife Ruth,” he said. We would learn that Ruth Duty loved children, and hadn't ever been able to have any. She had the kindest heart in the world.
“Why this is awful!” she cried. “You poor little things! You all look like something the cat drug up! I tell you what, I've got a coconut cake in here that we was taking over to my sister's.” She pointed at me. “Honey, you come on over here and help me.”
So I ran right up to the Dutys’ truck, and Mrs. Duty handed me a platter holding a great big cake covered all over with little white strings of coconut, which we had never seen before. I took the cake and put it down in the road beside Mama, and then Daddy came over and sat on a rock and cut it up with his pocketknife. Though we were about to faint with hunger by then, we knew better than to start eating before Daddy had said the blessing. He stretched out his arms and set in, “Hallelujah! Oh, He's a good God, that had led us up here from Georgia and give us His sign of holy fire and provided us a feast in the middle of the day. He's a good God, hallelujah!” Daddy went on and on, the way he always did, but I peeped out from under my eyelids to watch Carlton Duty just standing there leaned up against his truck staring at Daddy with his mouth open. Daddy had had this effect on people before. I thought I would die of starvation before he finally hollered, “Amen!” and picked up a piece of cake.
In my whole life, I have never tasted anything to equal Mrs. Ruth Duty's coconut cake. Even today, it makes my mouth water just to think about it! I reckon we ate like we were about starved, which we were. The Dutys came near to watch us eat, Carlton Duty smoking a cigarette and Mrs. Ruth Duty hovering around our little circle like a big old moth. We didn't even have anything to wash the cake down with. We just ate. I thought we had died and gone to Heaven for sure. We ate until every crumb of that cake was gone, and then we stretched out our legs and lay back against the mossy bank and blessed God and watched our car finish burning up, and Daddy told Carlton Duty how we had got there.
“Mr. Duty,” he said, “I preach the Gospel of Jesus Christ as it is written in His Holy Bible, amen, and not in no other place, and I am out here on the road follering His divine plan where He said, ‘Go ye into all the world, and preach the Gospel to every creature.’ My religion is not a mouth religion, Mr. Duty. No sir. I am follering the plan of God. I will do what He tells me to do, I will go where He tells me to go, and stop where He tells me to stop, praise His sweet name.”
“But what about all these poor sweet little younguns?” cried Mrs. Duty, looking at us.
“I cannot think of no better plan for them than to foller the plan of God,” Daddy said. “Th
ese children may not have new clothes on their back nor new shoes on their feet, but they are going to Heaven with me. These children are on the road to salvation. Isn't that right, Fannie?” Daddy asked Mama, not taking his eyes off Carlton Duty's face, not even nodding when Mama smiled and said, “That's right.” I snuggled over closer to Mama and the sleeping Troy Lee, while Evelyn held Billie Jean in her lap and Joe Allen poked around in the woods with a stick.
Carlton Duty swallowed hard. “Do you mean to tell me, sir,” he said, “that you-uns wasn't even for sure where you was a-going? That you did not have no more definite destination in mind than Heaven?”
“That's right, brother,” Daddy said seriously. “As it says in the good Bible, this world is not our home, we're only passing through. We're follering the plan of God, brother, and we have given our lives over to Him. He is leading us where He wants us to go, and today He has brung us to—” Here Daddy paused and narrowed his eyes and asked, “What place is this?”
“Well, you're about nine miles outside of Waynesville,” Carlton Duty said.
“Bless Jesus!” Daddy said, reaching his arms up in the air and bowing his white head to the will of God. His left hand was still blue-black and swollen from where he had gotten bit in Clayton. “Bless Jesus,” Daddy continued, “who had showed us by the sign of fire in His holy woods nine miles outside of Waynesville, North Carolina, His plan for our life today, by freeing us from the things of this world and casting us wholly on His mercy, amen, and by bringing us His blessing as a gift of food from his good servants Carlton and Ruth Duty, amen.”
“Shoot, it's just a cake,” Ruth Duty said in the silence that followed Daddy's prayer.
But Daddy appeared beatified, gazing around at the smoking skeleton of the car and the thick green woods and the blooming black-eyed Susans beside the road as if he had never seen such sights in his whole life. Bumblebees droned and yellow butterflies fluttered around us.
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