"Hearing music,
I couldn't help but hit the floor." (Left to right)
Ray, his mom Rena, Frank Proffitt, Ted Hicks, Phyllis
Proffitt and Aunt Buena Hicks in 1959.
By Connie Regan-Blake
We have been looking up to him from the beginning . .
. the lanky 6’ 7’’ man of the mountains,
who came down from North Carolina, bearing old-world gifts
that have enriched our modern lives beyond measure.
I first met Ray Hicks on October 7, 1973, in Jonesborough,
Tennessee. It was an afternoon that changed my life .
. . and the course of storytelling in the United States.
The setting was the first National Storytelling Festival.
On that same day, Ray met his first microphone. The mic
was perched on a flatbed truck and loomed above him. Ray
stared up at it as if the mic was a preying mantis. Ray
was ramrod straight, telling his Jack tale like the audience
was in the sky and yet he charmed the 35 people sitting
on folding chairs in front of him. From that Sunday afternoon,
Ray Hicks has welcomed his mission.
By the second festival he was more comfortable behind
the microphone. And it did not take long before listeners
felt Ray was telling the story directly to them. Ray found
a way to be himself on stage even though 1,000 people
sat before him. Over the next 3 decades as a special featured
teller at the Festival, he has continued to entertain
and teach thousands as if they were guests in his cabin
on Beech Mountain.
National Storytelling
Festival 1987
Within a week of hearing and meeting Ray, I made the first
of many pilgrimages to Ray and Rosa’s home. Ray
lives in the cabin he was born in. It was hand built by
his father and grandfather on land that has been in his
family since the 1700’s. His wife Rosa still lights
the fire in her wood cook stove and fixes green beans,
sweet corn and new potatoes freshly picked from the garden.
With help from Ted, their youngest son, she carries water
from the springhouse while Ray stokes the fire in the
front room to keep them all warm.
For
generations the Hicks have teetered on the edge of a precipice
where a dry summer meant possibly starving the following
winter. Once when Ray was only 10 years old, an early
spring snowstorm roared through the mountains and the
wood box was as empty as the cupboard. Ray’s father
was off the mountain and it was too much for his mama.
She took to bed crying, afraid that all of her hungry
children would freeze during the night. It was Ray who
had the heart to go out and break off branches and dig
under the snow until they had enough firewood to keep
them alive.
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Over the years Ray has continued to take care of the
family.
When he was in his early 20’s, Ray got a job cutting
down wood; “lumberin” as he calls it. The
little bit of money he earned each day was desperately
needed to pay property taxes to keep their land. A man
down the road loaned Ray a truck so that he could get
back and forth to the job. One night when he was close
to home, it broke down. Times were hard for lots of folks,
and men were waiting in line for work. Ray knew if he
missed a day, he’d lose the job.
Ray also knew that if a mechanic even opened the hood,
it might cost $50. So he went to bed, asking, “Help
me just a little bit.” In the middle of the night
he woke up. And there, spread across the ceiling, was
the complete inner workings of a combustion engine; the
gas coming into the carburetor, the sparkplugs exploding
and the pistons going up and down. Ray saw how it all
fit together.
The next morning Ray fixed the truck and drove to work.
Ray’s
first storytelling beyond Beech Mountain came in 1951.
A teacher at Cove Creek Elementary School invited Ray
and he told stories to her class. Word spread that Jennie
Love’s students had heard a storyteller and that
they were clamoring for him to come tell again. When Ray
returned to the school, everybody wanted to hear his stories.
That pleased Ray and he spent all day going from room
to room. Jennie gave him $3 for gas. (Footnote
#1)
When Ray was a boy and the other children were outside
playing, he was at the feet of his elders, listening.
Ray said his Great Grandma Becky told stories; “…and
Granddaddy Benjamin too, telling me ‘bout Jack and
the u-ni-corn, he’d laugh ‘til tears come
in his eyes. I was with him a lot, helping him work, tannin’
groundhog hides to make shoestrings to tie my shoes with.
I told ‘em when I was little, tried to tell stories,
long about 5 or 7 years old.”
Now Ray is the Elder. August 29, 2002 marked 80 years
since he came into this world. He is recognized as a master
storyteller and mentor. His reputation reaches around
the globe. Here in the United States, he is known as a
“National Treasure.” In 1983, he received
the prestigious Heritage Fellowship Award from the National
Endowment for the Arts. Ray and Rosa were brought to Washington,
DC for the ceremonies. It was quite a trip. Ray rode his
first escalator and got lost in the fancy hotel. He remembers
with a wink, “that revolving door, took me two days
to get out.”
Ray Hicks was honored because he is a tradition bearer.
He tells the Southern Appalachian tales about Jack with
total authenticity. He says, “I live the stories.”
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That wind, where they stayed at, that northwest wind...gah,
hit would come through and just burn the house...like
I’ve had it here...just burn the house. So Jack
said, “Mama, I’m gonna go get you a bunch
of wood and I’m gonna go ‘till I find that
hole and put my cap in it and stop the northwest wind
from blowing.” So cold of a wintertime where we
live and others . . .
So Jack got up and took off. Walked and walked .
. . finally came to a log cabin where a man was outside
a-cutting wood with a poleaxe.
“Hello, son,” the man said. “Why
be on your way?”
Jack said, “Man, that northwest wind has blowed
so at home till I’ve decided to go hunt the hole
where the wind’s a-coming out at. Gonna put my hat
in it . . .”
“Gosh, son,” said the man.
And Jack said, “Me’n my mom ain’t
got nothing to eat much – no vittles, and we’s
about to starve, and hit so cold.”
“Well,” said the man. “Don’t
go stop up the hole. Just go back home. I’ll give
you a tablecloth that all you have to do is spread it
out and say, ‘Spread, spread, vittles, spread tablecloth
full of vittles.’”
And so Jack went on there, and he was a-feeling
so big because he knew how to make the magic tablecloth
work. (Footnote
#2)
Jack and Ray trust the help that they ask for: A tablecloth
that spreads itself out on the ground, covered with food.
An engine spread across the ceiling. And Ray reminds us,
“You gotta ask for what you need.” And be
humble enough to accept the help that is given, in whatever
shape it appears.
There is also a kinship between Ray and the old man who
puts down his poleaxe to listen to Jack’s plight.
Ray and Rosa always stop whatever they are doing and welcome
visitors.
A linguist from England comes to study the ancient rhythms
and unique dialect of Ray’s speech; a film crew
from CBS Evening News; journalists from The
Smithsonian and The New Yorker; and hundreds
and hundreds of people from all walks of life who have
heard about Ray.
They find their way to the Hicks cabin, thirsty for Ray’s
stories and to be in his presence. When a car pulls up,
Rosa and Ray put down their hoes and stop planting the
seed potatoes. Everyone is invited in. Ray pulls back
the curtain of time so we can see the Old World and the
Old Ways. And with great delight and open-heartedness,
Ray begins telling.
I have experienced that generosity many times.
In the mid ‘70’s, I traveled full time in
a little yellow camper truck with my first cousin and
storytelling partner, Barbara Freeman. But in 1978 our
‘home on the road’ had serious (and expensive)
troubles: a cracked engine head. We didn’t have
the money to get it fixed, so instead we kept watch on
the temperature gauge. Whenever it edged up towards hot,
we would pull over to let the engine cool, add water to
the radiator, and begin again. It made for mighty slow
traveling.
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On a warm day in early spring, we arrived at Ray and
Rosa’s place for a visit. We left our car troubles
parked up on the road and walked past a sea of lupines
blooming along the path. Ray called out his welcoming
“hey-lo” and Rosa’s face lit up as she
came to greet us.
"And Jack, he told his
momma he's a'goin down the road to seek his for- tune.'
(Left to right) Connie Regan-Blake, Barbara Freeman and
Ray in 1976.
We walked around the house to see where she’d
be planting her dahlias and she showed us a patch of lady
slippers. With all the chores she had to do, she made
time for her flowers. Rosa Harmon Hicks knows that beauty
is as necessary as cornbread.
When we were all settled on the porch, Ray began an animated
telling of Wicked John and the Devil. It was
fresh, like the first time I heard Ray tell it back in
1973. Once again Ray was the bridge to another time and
place; a world of beggars, devils and wishes.
Early that evening, we reluctantly had to leave. The
four of us headed up the hill to our truck. When we got
to the road, Ray finished up the story he was telling
us. Then he said, “Pop the hood.” I was stunned.
Those regular everyday words coming out of Ray’s
mouth sounded so strange to me. That was the first time
I had ever heard him say anything that wasn’t a
story.
I realized in that moment that Ray’s use of words
and language is so intimately connected to story, that
he doesn’t say the normal everyday things like “I’m
hungry,” or “I’m tired.” Hearing
him say, “Pop the hood,” was so unexpected.
Ray’s long body bent all the way down and hovered
over our little truck. He was quiet. Rosa whispered to
me, “Listen to him. He stopped talking.” He
rested his hands on the engine and the radiator. Then
he said, “Now we got it,” and closed the hood.
We waved goodbye and Barbara and I drove away. When we
climbed the first mountain out of the valley, the most
astonishing thing happened - the temperature gauge stayed
right in the middle! And for the next 75,000 miles we
cruised along. We never did have to get that engine fixed.
Twenty years later, I had the enormous pleasure of telling
a modern day version of Wicked John accompanied
by original chamber music for piano, violin, and cello.
When our tour was coming to Boone, NC, the closest big
city to the Hicks, I wrote to Ray and Rosa and asked if
they could come for that performance.
The Trio and I walked out on stage and we took our opening
bows in tuxedos and finery. And there in the 2nd row was
Ray, dressed the same as always in overalls and flannel
shirt, with Rosa sitting next to him. He leaned forward
and listened to this unconventional rendition of his traditional
tale. His face lived the story as it unfolded. Ray’s
whole body was laughing; relishing Wicked John’s
antics set to the rhythm of classical music.
After the performance, Ray said to me, “Connie,
you have to keep telling the stories and tell about me
when I am gone. Tell on. Tell on.”
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In April of 2001, Ray was diagnosed with advanced cancer.
After two weeks of tests in the hospital, Rosa took Ray
home. Their daughter, Dorothy Jean, was waiting for her
daddy. She had thought he never would see the homeplace
again. The ambulance arrived and the attendants carried
Ray down the path. As soon as Dorothy Jean caught sight
of her father, she began laughing. She said, “ .
. . not a regular laugh but a holy laugh.” A laugh
she had learned from her mother.
Rosa continues her loving care for Ray with patience
and humor. She says, “I know people are thinking
about us during these hard times. I can feel every prayer.”
The nurses and volunteers from Hospice have grown to love
Ray and Rosa and to depend on Ray’s wisdom and herbal
knowledge. Ray showed a nurse how to cure an ingrown toenail.
Another had scratched her eye with a contact lens, and
only got relief when Ray told her how to use the pith
of the sassafras branch to heal it.
The healing power in Ray’s stories is not only
for the listeners, but also for the teller, himself. Last
winter Tim Tingle, a Choctaw storyteller, traveled up
from Texas to visit Ray and Rosa. I was catching up with
Rosa in the kitchen when I heard Ray call, “Connie,
Tim wants to hear Wicked John, but I’m not up to
it. I told Tim how I taught it to you. Come tell it.”
I said, “I’d love to Ray. Why don’t
you start it off and I’ll help when you get tired.”
Thirty minutes later, Ray was finishing up the story.
“The Devil was a’yelling, ‘Bar the doors,
boys! Yonder comes John.’ Devil took the tongs and
reached ‘em a coal of fire and handed it to John.
Devil said, ‘You can’t come in here. Go build
you a hell of your own.’”
Then Ray chuckled, glanced out the window, and added,
“The Brown Mountain lights is where I think he built
it at.”
Even in his sick bed, if Ray has an eager listener, he
starts into a story and his strength miraculously returns
to him. And for those moments, Ray and his stories are
full of life.
When Ray is gone, it will be the end of an era. But for
generations to come we can see through Ray’s window;
the Old World and the Old Ways will spread out like a
feast before our eyes. We can laugh a holy laugh; for
Ray Hicks has given us a look into another time and he
has also gifted us with a legacy for living in this modern
world.
Connie Regan-Blake always finds herself
heading back to Ray's front porch. When she met Ray and
Rosa, she was telling stories full time in Chattanooga,
TN. Since then, Connie has traveled as a storyteller,
teacher and mentor, bringing her artistic vision and passion
for oral tradition to communities around the world.
For reprint permission or to contact:
Connie Regan-Blake Post Office Box 2898 Asheville, NC
28802 phone: 828-258-1113
E-mail: connie@storywindow.com
Footnotes:
#1 Recently Ray told me, “Jennie
Love come by to see me. She’s a’living now
– in her 90’s.”
#2 Ray Hicks: Master Storyteller
of the Blue Ridge by Robert Isbell, University of North
Carolina Press, 1996.
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