"For a couple of generations in that era [50s-70s], Sacred Harp lay well within the South's ring of repugnance. Like other cultural carryovers from its rural past, 'fasola singing' smelled of primitive, uncouth things, of tattered, old-fashioned ways. Dirt roads and old country churches. Outhouses and no air-conditioning. Predominantly elderly folk in unfashionable garb putting tunes up high with their cracked voices. Dinner-on-the-grounds, in the heat of the day, with flies and sweat bees and yellow jackets. The whole scene could seem to represent everything an up-and-coming youth from the area would want to leave behind – and did." (Buell Cobb, in Like Cords Around My Heart, p. 25)When East Texas singer/songwriter/teacher Jno. W. Miller (363, 522, 524, Cooper Book) wrote about Sacred Harp, announced singings, and so on, he often spoke of "singing the songs our fathers and mothers sang." It was a recurring theme with him. Many with rural roots across the South have long forgotten "the songs our fathers and mothers sang" – yea, even forcibly banished them from their minds. If I were a mind to, I could name names of folks my age whose father, mother, uncle, aunt, or grandparents were active Sacred Harp singers – and yet they act as if they've never heard of such a thing. Want to leave, and did. Indeed!
As I reflect on this in my own case, I begin with the musings of the hymn-writer in the Lloyd's book (No. 297) – "Oh! why was I not left behind." For a brief time and perhaps less intensely than others, I was embarrassed by my poor and rural roots – especially after we left the country school and went to school in town. I could (and did) escape in my mind, but I've never lived outside the county where I was born. I was the baby of the family, the "Last of the Mohicans" my mother would say. My parents were old enough to be the grandparents of most of my friends. In some of my teenage years I found this embarrassing. (But to spread the blame and ease the pain, what teenager isn't embarrassed by his or her parents?) What was my pain and embarrassment turned to my salvation – old parents, stuck in some old ways (and, perhaps, also not being too ambitious!). It took awhile, but there was an underlying cord, a bond, that would not let me go. Sure, growing up, the old Sacred Harp seemed to me like it was something reserved for old people. But there was something about those old songs. Even in church I preferred songs like PISGAH and FIRM FOUNDATION over songs like I'LL FLY AWAY and I'LL MEET YOU IN THE MORNING (not that I don't like those).
Nearly grown, I began to do things like buy an "antique" peanut sheller (for only $3; I still have it), get a crosscut saw, and learn to plough behind a horse. Daddy never owned a "real" tractor (he bought an old used David Bradley walk-behind once), but being "the baby" I had escaped learning (or having to do) some things the older ones learned or did. Perhaps this relearning was the beginning of entering back inside "the ring of repugnance" of things in tattered garments, things that smelled old, primitive. Sacred Harp is so much more than that, more than enjoying something antique, more than nostalgia. But it is that, too. Maybe it could begin there for some of you?
Growing up in the country, I've seen that lush grass the cows won't eat around the cow pile. It's noticeable from afar off. But I had never before heard the expression "the ring of repugnance." Doing a little research online, I found the following from a Santa Rosa Junior College student (presumably scientifically accurate). I hope it isn't too repugnant for you! He explains that there are spores of a slime mold that must pass through a cow's digestive system to be degraded enough to germinate. "They are deposited in the dung, which is their nutriment. But the cow will not eat grass within a certain radius of its excreta. So...[the slime mold] must shoot the spores beyond the 'ring of repugnance' around the dung in which the cow will not eat to land on the grass, be consumed once again, pass through the cow's digestive system...for another cycle."
To my rural friends, I say, "Come home, come home, ye who are weary, come home; Sacred Harp, rural roots, all of them are calling – come home." We wish you were here. Don't forget who you are.
The glory days may be gone forever, but we can press on. I don't want to carry the analogy too far, but there is a lesson here. We must "shoot the spores beyond the 'ring of repugnance'." Hugh McGraw excelled at doing that. Others have stepped up to "shoot spores" to regions beyond. Some of us in rural settings haven't well learned the technique, or maybe are too stuck on what worked in the past, or perhaps we just smell too bad to get anyone to approach!
Awake, my soul, in joyful songs,
And press with vigor on;
A heav’nly race demands thy zeal,
And an immortal crown.
Awake! awake my soul!
And press with vigor on;
Awake, awake, press onward now
’Till all thy work is done.
(The Christian's Race)
With sincerest apologies,
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