Mountain Bred
On a December Saturday in 1967, my parents and I traveled 30 miles from Marion to Asheville to Christmas shop at Sears. But after we parked at the store, we headed up the street to the S&W Cafeteria.
The S&W was a historic landmark, known for its lavish Art Deco facade, elegant interior, and tasty food.
We chose our dishes and carried our trays upstairs to the mezzanine. We found a table near the windows that offered a view of the city.
While I ate I noticed people nearby. At one table a priest in his black clergy shirt and white collar sat with some nuns in dark habits. Before they ate, they prayed and crossed themselves. Only at this cafeteria did I see Roman Catholics, my family being Baptist, and I was impressed by their reverent behavior.
After our meal, we returned to Sears. My parents told me to stay put in one spot and not look around, but I saw my father purchasing a Silvertone guitar like the one I had admired in the Sears catalog. I never let on that I had seen my father with the guitar, though I felt guilty that I had prematurely spied my gift.
Once we were together again, my father pointed to a sign that said John Parris was in the store signing copies of his latest book, Mountain Bred.
“Can we go see him?” I asked.
Every Sunday, my father and I sat together and read the Asheville Citizen-Times. We first looked at the comic strips, his favorite being Andy Capp. He liked the English working-class characters that likely stirred memories of being in England during World War II. Then we found John Parris’ column Roaming the Mountains, in which he told tales of Western North Carolina people and traditions. As my father read the column aloud, I listened intently. He made the story come to life, and took pleasure in reading it to me.
“Let’s go find him,” my father said.
When we saw Parris I whispered, “There he is!” I recognized him from his picture in the paper. In suit and tie and with gray hair and neat mustache, Parris was a distinguished-looking gentleman who seemed very refined.
I was bashful and hesitant to approach. My father walked with me to the table, but once there, he took a step back to allow me the author’s attention.
Parris greeted me and asked where I was from.
“Marion,” I replied, and I’m sure even in that one word he could hear my accent.
He told me he was from the mountains, too. His kind manner put me at ease, and I explained I’d seen his stories in the newspaper. He seemed pleased that I was familiar with his writing.
“I want to get her one of your books,” my father said, and Parris asked if I would like him to sign it for me.
“Yes,” I said and watched him as he picked up a book, opened it, and put his pen to the first page.
When he finished writing, he handed the book to me, and I held it against my chest, proud to have an autographed copy. I couldn’t wait to see what he had written.
At home, my father and I read the inscription that Parris had penned in a clear cursive hand:
To Julia Nunnally—
Who is mountain bred, too,
and who has a proud heritage.
Best of good wishes—
John Parris, Sylva N.C., Dec. 16, 1967
I still have that book, its dust jacket now discolored and worn. I’m grateful the jacket’s backside features an author photograph in which Parris sits at a typewriter, a bookcase behind him, a tobacco pipe in his hand, and a warm smile on his face. This image sparks the memory of my Christmastime conversation with him—a meeting that surely influenced my desire to become a writer.
More importantly, the book reminds me of those times when my father and I shared a Sunday newspaper, laughing at the funnies and enjoying a John Parris tale.