100 Books Like Feud

Few books have changed the course of history like Harry Caudill’s Night Comes to the Cumberlands. Exposing political corruption, environmental destruction, and endemic poverty in Appalachia, Night Comes put poverty squarely on the national agenda and inspired LBJ’s War on Poverty. Although not rigorously factual — Caudill never let the facts get in the way of a good story — Night Comes is a priceless document of its time and place, and required reading for anyone who wants to understand Appalachian culture and history in the middle of the 20th century.

In researching Blood Feud, I discovered that some of my ancestors were Union guerrillas who operated near the future feud area. Devil Anse Hatfield led a unit of Confederate home guards in that same region. Hatfield’s uncle, who is widely believed to have murdered Harmon McCoy in the opening salvo of the feud, was said subsequently to have killed a cousin of my father’s uncle during a guerrilla skirmish. I had always understood the Civil War to entail vast battalions of uniformed soldiers mowing each other down as they marched toward enemy lines. A Savage Conflict made me realize that the brutal depredations of guerrillas played a major role in the war and left a legacy of bitter factional hatred that factored into the subsequent feuds.

This book by a Kentucky journalist, based on the sparse court records and on interviews with descendants of the feudists, helped me understand that the Hatfield-McCoy feud was not an isolated occurrence. In addition to the Hatfield-McCoy feud, it describes five other feuds being conducted in Kentucky at the same time. There appear to be similar patterns governing the combustion and ferocity of all these feuds, having to do with a struggle for control over the shifting social, economic, and political hierarchies following the upheavals of the Civil War and the invasions launched by lumber and coal companies.

Much of this book by two psychologists covers familiar ground and some may find their explanation for what they found unpersuasive, but get this: When they brought white male undergraduates into the laboratory on a pretext and called them "asshole," Northern subjects laughed it off or ignored it, but Southern ones bristled. Subsequent tests showed that the Southerners had heightened blood levels of stress-related hormones and testosterone, but the Northerners did not. Moving the study of the South’s “culture of violence” to the physiological level was a remarkable achievement, but hardly anyone seems to have noticed.

I love this book because it recreates the globally unique original forests of the eastern U.S., now lost. From the 1920s through the 1940s, Braun traveled first by horse and buggy, then by Model T, from New England to Alabama, to document the original forests of the East. She particularly loved the Great Forest of the Southern Appalachians, the lushest, most biodiverse hardwood forests in the world.

She sought out the last virgin stands even as they were being logged, and as mighty American chestnut trees died out from blight. Perhaps her most surprising lesson was that not only does second-growth forest (not to mention 3rd, 4th, etc.) not indicate what originally grew there, but it can be completely misleading. 

The amazing photos and descriptions in the book absolutely stunned me. From 1880 to 1930, West Virginia went from being 95% forested with mostly virgin woods to 85% denuded, reflecting the fate of much of the Appalachian Mountain chain. In the early 1900s, the mill in Rainelle, WV, was the largest hardwood lumber plant in the world.

Clarkson tells this story through text and an amazing collection of photos, including of the largest tree ever cut in WV, in 1913: a white oak thirteen feet in diameter and estimated at 1,000 years old.

Outcries over damages from reckless timbering, followed by roaring fires and eroding floods, resulted in the Weeks Act of 1911, which authorized the U.S. Forest Service to purchase millions of acres of burning, eroding mountains for reforestation.  

European settlers brought the ancient tradition of the forest commons, in which peasants could gather firewood, hunt small game, and cut forage for livestock regardless of what aristocrat owned the land. It was a matter of survival.

I’ve heard Appalachians be accused of anti-environmentalism, but through interviews, attending meetings and protests, and deep research, Newfont shows how people of the Blue Ridge see national forests as a commons, and have fought to preserve those forests against destructive practices such as clear-cutting and oil and gas development.

This book helped me understand that the national forests are a modern commons, providing enormous benefits like clean air and water to all of society. 

This book gave me hope for the future of new old-growth, which is the Holy Grail of forest development. Like Lucy Braun’s book, it is an overview of eastern forests, but updated to contemporary conditions. Several essays focus on the Southern Appalachians and give easily understood ecological information on defining old-growth, the survival of remnant old-growth patches, old-growth characteristics like coarse woody debris, and invasive pests and diseases.

But the most important highlight is the role of forests as the largest terrestrial carbon storage, essential against climate change, and the older the forest, the more carbon it takes out of the air and sequesters. 

The spare lyricism of both the text and illustrations of That Book Woman tug at the heartstrings without being overly sentimental. Young Cal works hard with his Pap on their Appalachian farm. Unlike his sister, an avid reader, Cal thinks he was not “born / to sit so stoney-still / a-starin’ at some chicken scratch.” But his grudging admiration for “that book woman” who just keeps coming and coming, rain, snow, or shine, eventually leads him to a love of books.

I love the gentle way that That Book Woman pays homage to the WPA Pack Horse Librarians of the 1930s.

I’m including some verse in my list because there’s no better way to capture Appalachia’s mix of beauty and sorrow than with poetry. This collection by Joseph Bathanti, former poet laureate of North Carolina and longtime inhabitant of the Blue Ridge Mountains, lays bare the effects of mountaintop removal mining against a backdrop of the serene landscape it destroys. I don’t often read a book of poetry more than once, but I found myself skipping back through this one a lot, unable to turn away from the forsaken people and places of the poems.