James Britt McCracken
In his own way James Britt McCracken was a comic genius. To be around him was to laugh and be filled with good spirit.
Smokies natives have always been noted for their humor. Dozens of books and thousands of oft-told tales offer examples of this characteristic.
Over the course of my life I personally have been privileged to know folks with tongues sharp enough to flay hide off a razorback hog or blessed with repartee that pierced like a rapier.
None, however, quite matched Britt McCracken. A Swain Countian who was a friend of my parents, father of a high-school classmate, and someone whose company I often enjoyed as a youngster, Britt was one of those jolly souls who daily managed to wring juice of joy from life’s sponge.
North Carolina’s high country may have produced an individual with a quicker wit and finer sense of humor, but in my experience he stands unrivalled as the funniest man I have ever known. When his wife wrote, some years after his death, that Britt “seemed to enjoy living more than anyone,” she aptly encapsulated his zest for life.
Britt’s youth resembled that of many mountain lads born in the 20th century’s early decades. Raised on a little mountain farm tucked deep in a cove on Galbreath Creek, he was a nephew of legendary mountain sportsman and raconteur Mark Cathey. Young McCracken’s parents often boarded school teachers, and one of the key reasons the family settled on Galbreath Creek was to provide their children an opportunity to attend school.
Frequently a companion of his Uncle Mark as a boy, Britt became an avid sportsman and clearly inherited his uncle’s droll sense of humor. No matter what the subject, he always seemed to wear a good-natured smile.
One of Britt’s closest friends in early adulthood was Cecil Plott, a member of the famed Plott bear-hunting clan for whom the state dog of North Carolina, the Plott hound, is named. Although Plott, born in 1906, was almost a decade older than Britt, during the prime years of their adult lives they spent considerable time together afield. In all likelihood some of their sporting adventures would have rivaled those of their forebears in the Plott and Cathey clans.
A Plott hound figured prominently in one of Britt’s earliest forays into the mirth and mischief, which were hallmarks of his life.
Though barely in his teens, Britt had been invited to join his Uncle Mark and some “dead serious” fox hunters for a night of listening to the hallelujah chorus of hounds hot on the trail.
As was customary, the group settled down at a listening spot atop a lofty ridge, built a big fire, and waited for the dogs to strike a trail. All of this was accompanied by imbibing ample quantities of tanglefoot.
Once the hunters had gotten comfortable, Cathey instructed his nephew to lead his favorite Plott hound into the woods a good way before turning him loose. Instead, reluctant to get out of sight of the fire, young Britt walked just far enough to be outside of the hunters’ vision and tied the dog to a tree.
Soon thereafter the hounds struck a hot trail and Cathey proudly proclaimed: “Just listen to old Thunder, he’s singing a song. Boys, that’s sho’ ‘nuff hound music.”
Another member of the party insisted otherwise, saying it was his prize hound in the lead. Between talk and peartin’ juice, soon hefty wagers had been placed. All the while Britt was trying desperately to get his uncle’s attention, but he was shushed and told this was “men’s business.”
Finally, with the betting completed, the nonplussed boy managed to let Cathey know that his hound, far from leading the pack, was tied up just out of firelight. According to McCracken, this was one time when his Uncle Mark, usually the most jovial of souls, was so furious he was “fit to be tied” like the hound had been.
A member of the “greatest generation,” Britt saw four years of Army duty before returning to his beloved highland homeland.
Over time, before launching a dry-cleaning business, he held jobs including being a substitute mail carrier and driving a commercial bus. The latter employment featured daily runs between Maggie Valley and Bryson City when old U. S. Highway 19 was the main road linking Asheville to towns in the Smokies.
Once Britt was running behind but with a single exception his riders were unconcerned. They were locals who realized he would make up time as he could. If they were late, so be it. Theirs was “Smoky Mountain time,” not rigid adherence to a clock.
The sole exception to that relaxed attitude was a prim, proper Yankee lady. Upon boarding the bus in Maggie Valley she took the seat directly behind Britt and immediately began berating him for being behind.
She condemned shoddy service and local indifference to schedules nonstop while Britt drove on in stoic silence as the bus made its slow, granny-gear climb towards Soco Gap. She threatened to report Britt to state transportation authorities, contact her lawyer, and generally raised Cain.
Finally Britt topped Soco Gap and, as was his custom, really let the bus roll.
That perfectly suited all passengers except the flatland termagant. She rapidly transitioned from criticizing slowness to growing alarm about excessive speed. Finally, with fear in her voice, she loudly pronounced “Driver, if you’ll stop this bus, I’ll get off.”
Britt had endured enough. Gently but nonetheless audible to all he said “Lady, if I could stop this bus, we’d both get off.” Silence reigned supreme for the remainder of the journey.
On another occasion Britt was fishing a trout stream designated “artificial lures only.”
Action was slow so he decided to tip his spinner with a night crawler. Things picked up immediately and he quickly creeled several trout. Then, glancing downstream, he spotted a game warden, a situation demanding drastic action.
It was too late to reel in and remove the night crawler, so Britt began jerking the spinner violently to get rid of it. Alas, he had done too good a job hooking it.
When the warden arrived and asked to check his lure, Britt took an unorthodox approach. He reeled in and shook his head in disbelief. “I’ll be damned,” he muttered. “I’ve caught most everything on spinners—hogsuckers, hornyheads, and red horse. Once I even landed a hellbender, but this is the first time I’ve had a night crawler hit a spinnerbait.” The game warden was so struck by his originality and seeming seriousness he didn’t write a citation.
Then there was the time when he was part of a group camped near Fontana Lake. The campsite featured a rough privy and after supper the cook foolishly dumped scraps, including bones from a mess of trout, down the outhouse hole. At some point well after dark, with everyone sitting around the convivial campfire sharing tales and sipping “soothing syrup,” one member of the party headed for the john. It’s best to let Britt take it from there.
“He got settled down to business and was making good progress,” Britt said, “when the ground beneath him began to rumble and the toilet seat commenced to shake. A small bear, attracted by the smell of fish and other fried foods, had clambered adown the privy hole. I’ve seen sack races and three-legged races where folks managed to scramble along at a pretty good pace. But let me tell you right now, you ain’t seen real speed in that sort of doin’s until you watched Henry Truett with his pants around his ankles making tracks after a cheek-to-cheek encounter with a bear. I guarantee he set a new time record and was completely cured any constipation.”
Sadly Britt died in 1974 just a month past his sixtieth birthday. He is buried alongside his wife, who died in 1991, and his parents, Forrest C. and Rebecca Cathey McCracken, in Swain Memorial Park.
In his own way James Britt McCracken was a comic genius. The examples of his wit offered above are but a slender sampling. To be around him was to laugh and be filled with good spirit. He was just that funny.