In fact, the land around us—a long the border of Floyd and Carroll counties in Southwest Virginia—stood much as it had 70 or 80 years ago when both hellraising and religion were commonplace in these mountains.
J.W. Hylton and I were here to learn of a man who embodied both.
We passed a beautiful, white-rock church that held me spellbound as we turned into a little dirt road that would lead us to the house of Bryan Childress, who was to tell us more about the man who had embraced both hell and heaven, who had become a legend to the people of Buffalo Mountain.
As we turned into the driveway, Bryan Childress was already on the porch. He invited us into his house, but both Hylton and Childress seemed more comfortable outside, so we sat down on the steps to talk.
The church we had passed was Buffalo Mountain Presbyterian Church, the first of six churches built in the Buffalo Mountain area by Bob Childress, Bryan's father.
Bob Childress, Bryan told us. was born January 19, 1890. He would live to revolutionize the people and their way of life in this backwoods section of southwest Virginia.
"Dad grew up in a family of 11," Bryan began. "Big families were common then.''
The book—"The Man Who Moved A Mountain” by Richard C. Davids—picks up the Bob Childress story through his own words.
“We boys slept in the loft on straw ticks, the girls on ticks on the earth floor. Pa and Ma had the only bed. A stone fireplace cooked our food and warmed the room, too. We generally had one opening for a window, but it had no glass, only shutters to keep out the cold.
"The only time we felt crowded was when Uncle Tom came with his nine to spend the night. That made 22 of us. But we just thought it was fun. Six or seven of us boys would sleep crossways on a single tick and think nothing of it."
For the next 10 years his “hell raising” softened and he became a nondenominational minister and teacher. More importantly he became a helper to the mountain people. Helping the sick, doing chores for the elderly and the unfortunate gained him more and more respect.
At age 35, he decided to become a Presbyterian minister. This meant that he must be better educated.
“Dad was discouraged from this by my mother's family and his older brother,” says Bryan Childress. They thought he could make a good living as a blacksmith, which was the trade that he lived from. "But," Childress adds, "he had encouragement from a Quaker lady Dad called Miss Sally and a local minister by the name of Roy Smith."
So, with the support of his wife and family, he started to school. After finishing high school and one year of college. Childress realized that he could not finish college. Time was too short and his responsibilities too great.
He asked to enter Union Theological Seminary at Richmond. a Southern Presbytery school.To his surprise, they refused. Only high school, one year of college, a wife and five children and no money? Impossible!
Childress asked only to attend classes and the president of the seminary acquiesced. No one expected him to succeed in the beginning classes. Nevertheless, he scored high in every class. As a reward he was given two scholarships plus his choice of any of the homes on the campus. In five years he culminated his education from the eighth grade to graduation from seminary.
Upon his graduation, Childress was assigned to his home territory of Buffalo Mountain. The story of how he tamed this area of the Blue Ridge is a heartwarming, dramatic and sometimes humorous story.
''He was at times a stern man but was a great story teller. He used all of these to captivate the mountain people and kindness was one of his greatest virtues," says Hylton.
An example of his humor is shown by an excerpt from the book ''The Man Who Moved A Mountain."
''A man was cutting wood," he said, ''when a neighbor came by. his eyes wild, and exclaimed. 'Whar's your woman?'
“Back in the house.”
“Well. get down quick. I just seen a wildcat jump inside the winder.”
''The mountaineer kept on chopping.'' 'He'll have to get out the best way he can,” he said. 'I guess next time he'll look whar he's a jumpin.'
It's reported that Childress traveled 50,000 miles a year in his Model T. This on roads that horse and buggy could be stuck on.
“He built six distinctive rock churches," says Bryan Childress. "The rock was selected for durability and not to cut expenses. A man was brought in from Tennessee to teach the mountain people to lay the rock.''
Bob Childress died January 16. 1956. ''Dad accumulated little earthly treasures. He had enough to put him away and little else,” says Bryan Childress.
To a forgotten people with no livelihood and no education, Bob Childress gave purpose and vision for a better life.
As a legacy he left Bryan Childress and his brothers Robert and Bill Joe as dedicated ministers to God and to the people of his churches.
"Dad came home one night and told all of us he had been visiting an old man who was sick and dying. He said that it really bothered him because the old man didn't even have a bed to die on—he was lying on the cabin floor. After eating, Dad got up, went to his bedroom and took the mattress off his bed and took it to the old man. Upon returning he told us he just couldn't lie down and sleep knowing that the old man had no bed to die on.”
Childress relates a second story:
"One Christmas day we looked out the window and saw a whole line of people on horseback coming up the road to our house. We all wondered what in the world was happening. There must have been 15 or 20 horses. As they entered the yard and dismounted, we saw their purpose. They were unloading flour, meal. dried apples and even a couple of hams. They didn't have any money, but this was their Christmas present to Bob Childress and his family.”
A few days later I walked through the woods with a young fellow who was an outcast. one of the worst fellows I knew. His home life was bad, even for that community where badness was ignored or expected. As we walked together I told him how I felt and asked him if he would like to kneel with me for a prayer. He did but said I would do better to be praying and talking to some of those who had joined the church, that he was better than they were. I could not tell that my talk or prayer helped him but a few years later, after I had moved out of the community and had definitely decided to enter the ministry and was attending Davidson College, this same fellow drove several miles to see me. He had accepted Christ and was preaching in a little Methodist church. He said he wanted to thank me for influencing him and helping him find his Savior. He had a young wife with him and told her as he introduced us that this was the man he had been telling her about. a man he would never forget. I was happy and grateful.
It was not always easy though for I have fallen much and sinned much since then, but God has always been faithful and not given me up.
My folks did not consult me about being born. Possibly if they had I would never have consented. People did not consult anybody, in those days, not even themselves. They married. They had babies, many babies and that was all, no preparation for them but they came and managed to live, most of them ...
Drinking affected the lives of every man, woman and child in our community to some extent. I had not been beastly drunk since my first drunk when I was still wearing dresses but I was drunk a lot of the time. I would attend Miss Sally's school and Sunday School as I desired, never very regularly but enough to feel my need and to learn something about God. My conscience often bothered me even then but I would try to hush the voice of conscience with drink and often succeeded.
My first fight was a complete failure I thought. I had picked on a fellow foo big for me. He did not seem to want to fight and I thought he was a coward and so I kept pushing it on him till we were at it. We did not fight fair. Both of us used rocks but his rock was bigger and he hit harder. He was bloody but I was most dead and for several days was very weak. I had learned my lesson though. I would never pick another fight. Very soon after this I managed to get myself a gun and really felt protected. I knew though what it meant to pull the trigger for by this time I had seen many go out in gunsmoke.
It was the custom of the community for men to get together and drink and fight. Many did not escape as well as we did. A close neighbor on one of these days was killed over five cents. That was as high as the stakes went most of the time but the gambling spirit was there and the danger just as great as if the stakes had been thousands.
When my friend was killed I wondered how a little bullet could kill such a big man. He weighed about 240 and was killed by a little fellow who weighed just a little more than 100 pounds, with a cheap pistol that cost around three dollars.
It was during this period when I had about the darkest year of my life. I was about 20. I had gone to school long enough to finish the grades. This was done as I felt like it. Sometimes I would stay out of school for months. There was no compulsory educational law and my folks did not worry about it. I also attended Sunday School some. We had to walk and walking from four to six miles, depending on where we lived, for we usually had to move each year before my brother moved us to his farm, was not always attractive, especially when we could gang up and have ourselves a big time.
I was the most miserable creature alive but no one knew it. I was drunk every day. My mother spent many sleepless nights and when I would come home she would be walking the path that led to our home, wringing her hands, with tears running down her cheeks. I wanted to die but was afraid to die. Twice I went into the woods to take my life but was too cowardly to pull the trigger. I held the gun against my temple but did not have the strength or courage to do it. I was in a cold sweat and trembling like one with palsy but I just could not go through with it. My relief would come in drink and forgetfulness.
When I was 22 I married Pearl Ayers. I felt that God never made a better girl. I still feel that way. I had known her all our lives and gone to school with her but never really saw her as she was till I took her riding in my buggy. We were the same age. We both fell hard and decided we should get married. Pearl lived six years and two children were born. These were hard years, especially for Pearl. God took her as she gave birth to the third child and they were buried together.
I spent much time in the woods praying to God to spare her but, even as I prayed God seemed to be saying. ''you have a work to do and you must do it.'' After she was gone things really looked dark. We had talked about death and each of us wanted the one left to keep the children but we both felt that I would be taken first for I was a nervous wreck and had been very nervous and moody all my life. It may have been partly from my severe illness when I was a child and partly from drinking and wrong living, but Pearl was gone and I felt I could not take it.
I was now about 30 years old and had quite a large family but life was taking on new meaning.
I had quite an experience about this time with an old lady who lived on Squirrel Creek. Squirrel Creek was about six miles away but I felt I should visit this old lady because she was sick and I was about the nearest preacher to her. I was beginning to think of myself as a preacher and others were calling me preacher. I took a big Bible under my arm and went to see the old sick lady. She was really very ill but seemed very happy. They said she was 105 years old. I told my friends later that she did not look to be more than 104. Anyway, she was sick.
When I arrived she said, “did you bring me a drink of whiskey?” I thought here was a good chance to witness a bit. The room was full of people, her sons, grandsons and other relatives and I was sure she and they had already had a drink or two so I told my own story about drinking. its evils and what it had done for me and my own folks. I told her I had quit whiskey and never meant to touch it again. She was very quiet when I had finished for a minute and I was feeling like I had scored, when she said, "Well don't blame you, I'd ruther have brandy myself."
We had some great characters in the mountains in those days. I visited one old man who lived alone. It was hard to reach his cabin which was located way up on the mountain side but I wanted to visit him and did. He sat in the door and from where he sat he could spit tobacco juice all over his yard. He could hit a cricket or a fly several feet away. We had a good visit and I learned a lot from him. I asked him if he had lived there all his life. He answered, no, not yit.