I had the great fortune of growing up in Mt. Sterling, Kentucky. With a population of 5,300, it was the perfect place to be a kid. And of all the places God has made, he saved his best genius and artistry for that part of Kentucky.

Mt. Sterling is the county seat of Montgomery County, and lies about 30 miles east of Lexington. It is the largest city east of Winchester until you get to Ashland, nearly 100 miles to the east of Mt Sterling, on the West Virginia border. Originally christened Little Mount, it is on the eastern edge of the Bluegrass region and the western edge of Appalachia. The town’s radio station, WMST, for whom my father used to work, playing gospel music at 4.00 am on Sundays, has a daily quiz show wherein for each hour the question is not answered, $1 is added to the jackpot. One dollar. And the newspaper comes out weekly whether you are sated for the local news or not. The local high school, which boasted a Kentucky state football championship when I was a senior (yes, I played on that team—there were 8 seniors and 21 of us total), also boasted my graduating class of 68 students. We’re talking big time here.

Mt Sterling is also the home of one of the largest festivals in the United States.

But first, a little history.

Back in the day—we’re talking 1800s here—Kentucky’s population wasn’t all that large. In the 1820s, Montgomery County was the political center of a congressional district that went as far east as the Big Sandy River and included the mountain areas. Mt. Sterling lawyers represented the people in the US Congress from 1817 until 1849.

Because of its importance (it’s hard not to laugh here), and because there was a standing courthouse, Mt. Sterling was the center of judicial business for the entire eastern mountain district (I haven’t even gotten to the funny part yet). But because travel in the mountains was so difficult, court was held only once each calendar year, on the third Monday in October. (It’s ok—we didn’t have direct dial until the late sixties).

Well, as you can imagine, people had been saving up their grievances for a whole year, since the last time the judge rode through, and by the time he did again, they were ready. Folks figured that as long as they were headed to the big city (get me a Kleenex, please), they might as well put everything in their wagons—children, wives, shotguns, country hams, dogs, pigs, chickens, fresh-baked pies—and pull the cows and horses behind, and do a little swappin’ and tradin’ while they were waiting for the judge. They came from as far away as Whitesburg, Middlesboro, Morehead, Frenchburg, Stanton, Campton, Viper, Cutshin, Hell for Certain, Greasy Creek and parts unknown.

When they arrived, it was a veritable metropolis of people, and they all headed down to Locust Street and commenced to tradin.’ There was a railroad line, and it was convenient to tie all the horses and cows and dogs and pigs and maybe even their country hams and their children to the tracks for safekeeping, while the wives met and swapped recipes and quilts.

Then menfolk, meantime, got out their guns and their moonshine and their mason jars and commenced to drinkin’ and showin’ them guns off, and dickerin’ for a trade, and they’d forget that the horses and cows and pigs and maybe their country hams and children were still tied to the railroad tracks, and Lord only knows where the chickens went, and somebody would get mad and see somebody they’d been feudin’ with off and on, and being drunk they’d shoot somebody else and then the train would come through and kill about half the horses and cows and pigs and probably some of the country hams too. But it was all ok, because the judge was in town, and things could get settled right quickly.

It was the same every year.

But by-and-by, the roads got better, and people bought trucks instead of wagons, and the train schedule changed so as to not cause so much carnage, and the court got more regular, and the circuit judge left off with the circuit riding and stayed put, though he or she is still called a circuit judge. But the people still come, some with guns and moonshine and horses and cows and pigs and country hams and everything else you could think of, and they still head down to Locust Street and set up shop, and Mt Sterling has become the largest flea market/swap meet in the country.

And so, the little quiet town of 5,300 people becomes, on the third Monday of October, a bustling, jostling sea of people estimated at around 200,000 strong.

And wouldn’t you know, some dang fool gets shot nearly every year still.

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 The Southern Appalachians were settled mostly by Scottish and Irish immigrants dashing off from their homelands because of clan wars or famine or both. They came in ships like everyone else, landed at the large eastern port cities, and taking a look about, said, “Screw that,” or something to that effect, and headed for the highlands, or as we call them, the mountains, because they looked like home.

These people, mixed in with a few Germans to calm them down, brought with them what they could, which wasn’t much, because the ships were small. But they had their cherished fiddles and their wonderful stories and of course, their dances. After cabin raisin’s and barn raisin’s, when the dinner was done and the smokes were out, they got out their fiddles and told some stories from far off home (no doubt to cheer themselves up and to scare away the bears), and, getting dancy with the music, couldn’t sit still any more, and started in dancing.

Well, the Irish and the Scots are all wonderful talented dancers, and they didn’t need any instruction. They all knew the folk dances of the time, and in a most impromptu way, they fashioned out a new Appalachian folk dance called clogging. The most famous clogging you’ll ever see was done by a group called Riverdance back in the 90s, and watching them will bring a tear to your eye quicker than a Spanish onion. Here is a bunch of them here:

Well, pretty soon clogging caught on (I don’t know if the Germans ever did it—doesn’t seem likely) and, with a bit of Cherokee influence, it became what it is today. And it’s everywhere. As soon as somebody gets up a fiddle and starts scratching, people will get up in droves and start in clogging.You can watch that here:

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As I mentioned, these mountain folk loved their stories. From “Jack and the Robbers” to “Andrew Coffey,”  Celtic descendents always have a story or two to tell. Why, right now, if you asked me to, I could tell you a dozen. It comes natural, as they say.

Well, knowing all this, it shouldn’t surprise you at all that the world’s largest storytelling event happens right in these mountains, every year. Storytellers from all over the world converge on Jonesboro, Tennessee every year to swap tales, thrill audiences, and continue a tradition that is as old as humankind. It’s a wonderful thing to experience, and if you haven’t, I would very strongly recommend it. It’s called the National Storytelling Festival, and one of the sponsors, East Tennessee State University, offers a master’s degree program in storytelling.

Here are some pictures of world-renowned storytellers. One of them, Donald Davis, grew up in North Carolina, and wrote a book called “Listening for the Crack of Dawn.” It is one of the funniest things I have ever read, about growing up in Appalachia.

Erica Lann-Clark

 Mr. Mustard

Floyd Elliot

Donald Davis

I’d recommend that too, if you’ve a hankerin’ for that kind of thing.