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2. Happy Days in Virginia 
The lilting drift of a square dance fiddle floated on the warm evening air from the old timber schoolhouse in Schuyler, Virginia. I was new in town and curious about this foot tapping "ladies go round, gents don't go" country style music. Long flowing skirts billowed out as the men swung their partners. Cowboy boots rattled the timber floor boards to the pulsating beat. I paused in the doorway. "Should I go in?" "Wasn't this just the sort of place an evangelist should be?" The dancers suddenly called out to me from the floor, "Y'all join in!" Receding shyly from the doorway, I sought out a corner seat where I could sit and listen.
The women skipped and the men stomped to the fiddle and the guitar. Soon my feet were tapping out the rhythm, too! My heart raced as I waited for the music to start up again. Soon I was on my feet, swept along by the surge of new dancers. I eagerly launched into the swing of things. Changing partners I cheekily introduced myself, "Hi, I'm the new preacher at the Episcopal Church in town!" Some raised their eyebrows as I whirled them round.
The Waltons
The following Sunday I had to pay dearly for that evening. It was a bright sunny start to the day, a crisp fresh breeze stirring in the trees outside as I rose to begin the morning service. My smile quickly melted. There before me were row upon row of gaunt, brooding, stony faces, eyes turned disapprovingly away. The stronger I pressed out the versicals, the weaker grew their whispered response. At the end of the service, I mechanically shook "wet fish" hands and exchanged facial muscle movements intended to look like smiles. One kindly lady, who had taken pity on me, drew me aside gently. "Going to that Square Dance is the cause of all this, you know!" Then she added, "But don't worry, they'll get over it!" I was considered an "Ambassador of Satan" for what I had done. Having a northern accent was bad enough, but spoiling my copybook in the eyes of my parishioners was unforgivable. Little did I realize, when I traveled down from the North to these beautiful Blue Ridge Mountains, what problems I would face.
My accommodations there were at the luxurious, Schuyler Hotel. The next morning, I went for a walk to find out about the community. The Soap Stone Mining Company, its one and only employer, dominated the town. As I strolled, it gradually dawned that there were two quite distinct classes of people here. The Hotel and a few very palatial mansions belonged to mine executives, but the workers' families occupied ramshackle little houses. If I was to reach the people, I had to get out of the hotel. A small timber shack in a natural hollow on the edge of town was offered me and I set aside one room for myself. A group of church folk and I turned the rest of the building into a community center and small library for young people. We christened it, "Friendship Corner." We had our problems. Local people kept on objecting to certain books and novels because of the bawdy language. Many children called in on their way home from school, and mums stopped by with their shopping.
Earl Hamner
Earl Hamner, who wrote "The Walton Family", grew up at Friendship Corners. A thoughtful boy and an avid reader, he was always thrilled to see the latest titles as Sister Sherman unpacked them from the publishers. He was also well aware of the great poverty and hardships of the mining families. Even the simplest medical treatment was too expensive so we decided to run our own mission automobile the thirty miles to Charlottesville hospital as a free ambulance every week. Some people became a problem for others. A group of poor women started coming for special injections every two weeks, but certain others gossiped, "I'm not going in that car again, it's infected!" Despite the mud slinging, our ambulance kept running!
Mountain Music
Away from the difficult relationships in town, I visited in the wooded mountain passes. As poor as they were, they always insisted I stay for a home cooked "lip-smacking" chicken dinner. As we sat and talked, cackling noises erupted from the hen house outside as a chicken was making the supreme sacrifice in my honour. The laid-out dinner table heaving with steaming vegetables made me welcome indeed. After dinner, someone started strumming a guitar and someone else a violin. Fits of hearty laughter punctuated our singing, "The old grey mare she ain't what she used to be." The echo hauntingly sped back from the pine trees across the valley. Later, by the light of a flickering oil lamp, I opened the Bible and read a well-known story. The next day, we played Gospel hymns on our squeaky pump organ at the mine, to hundreds of brawny workers during their lunch break. The heart-felt testimonies of Christians who were also their work-mates moved them to tears.
"You've gotta have a glory in the things you do, an alleluia chorus in the heart of you" 
