I find myself spending a lot of time thinking about the merits of invasive plant species (while I am chopping them down all over campus). For anyone who works with the land in our region, contact with these plants is inevitable. Bittersweet, honeysuckle, privet, multiflora rose, kudzu (among others). While I may be annoyed by their pervasiveness and tenacity, this does not stop me from considering what good they could offer. How could any plant be wholly bad?   

The invasive species we are most familiar with tend to be early-successional species. They are hardy plants that have mastered the art of survival. Whether they are where they belong or not, their ecological niche and function is to quickly take hold of disturbed areas, stabilize soil, and aid in restoring the biological functions that will prepare the way for later successional species.   

This is not to minimize the negative effects they can have on various ecosystems.   

Introduced to our landscape both intentionally and unintentionally, and in some cases, incentivized by the federal government, kudzu and multiflora roses were introduced to stabilize eroded soils.  

The floral and landscaping industry introduced bittersweet and privet. Some invasives, like lespedeza, were even planted at the Folk School intentionally as a forage crop.   

In working with our Work Study crews on campus landscape maintenance, these are some of the first plants I cover. These plants spread readily, grow quickly, and thrive in a wide range of conditions. These are the plants that give us easy entry into reductive landscaping. They are plants that we can pull or cut in virtually any setting without much concern for negative impact. If we want to clear an area for better sight lines, physical access, alternative plantings, or for aesthetic purposes, we can remove these plants from the landscape, knowing they are recent arrivals that would quickly return in our absence.    

While many might be meeting these plants up close for the first time, the idea of an invasive species is rarely new. Whether flora or fauna, the science of ecological preservation and restoration has had no shortage of focus on these species and their impact. Many have learned about the negative effects of invasive species through museums, textbooks, or through local volunteer trail and park maintenance efforts.    

In its simplest form, it is a compelling story: There was a vast, bountiful “untouched” land. We foolishly imported the wrong plants; they’ve escaped cultivation, spread unchecked, and pose an intense and ongoing threat to our native plant ecosystems. While I’ve adopted the term “invasive species”, my personal context is more nuanced.   

Plant communities have been shifting around the globe long before humans began moving plants. It is how we ended up with the plant diversity that we have today. Many of the plants that humans have intentionally moved around the globe have become integral parts of cuisines that we know and love. The exact outcomes of moving plants to new ecosystems are always unknown, and there have certainly been many positive outcomes.    

When we speak of invasive plants in this country, we are referring to plants introduced during colonization that are currently perceived to have primarily negative impacts.  The introduction of these plants has certainly disrupted local plant communities.   

It is a disruption that mirrors what has happened to the human landscape. The vast “untouched” land was not untouched at all. It was carefully shaped and stewarded by Cherokee people for countless generations, and the forced removal of Cherokee people did more harm to this land than the introduction of any plant species. 

One of the aspects I value most about the Folk School is the shared stewardship and respect for this place. With so many brilliant and creative people invested in this place, there are surely good things to follow. I have witnessed countless times the beauty that can come from folks investing their collective knowledge, wisdom, creativity, and physical efforts together to reach a shared goal.   

We have an opportunity to explore creative uses of these plants through craft. We have instructors who can make beautiful baskets with nothing but invasive species.   

We have foragers and herbalists who can teach us how to use these plants for food and medicine.   

We have botanists and land stewards who can teach us what the presence of these plants tells us about past and present land use and condition.   

At my home farm, where I keep a flock of Shetland sheep, my approach to managing invasive species has shifted much closer to cultivation than to extermination.   

My sheep are fervent botanists who study forages from the age of 2 days old. I rotationally graze them, turning them into a new paddock every few days. By the time they re-enter a paddock, it is lush with a variety of forage options. All the paddocks contain a mixture of grasses and clovers as well as an abundance of bittersweet, privet, and multiflora rose on the wood’s edge.   

Always wanting to provide my sheep with the best nutrition, I observe their favorite fodder. Without fail, when I turn them into a new paddock, they go directly for these invasive plants.    

When I first moved to this land, I was cutting privet at ground level, hacking back multiflora rose and bittersweet at any time of year—doing what I could to rid the land of these plants as quickly as possible. 

While my long-term goal for this land remains removing these plants from the landscape and replacing them (actively or passively) with useful native plants, the timeline, approach, and interim use of these invaders have shifted dramatically. 

While I am still cutting privet, I cut it at specific times of year when it can be eaten by the sheep—early or late in the growing season, when privet has its leaves, but other forages are limited.   

Instead of cutting it at ground level, I am pollarding it – cutting it just above browse height so that it will regrow without the sheep browsing them. I can shorten the interval of this cutting, but currently, I am encouraging regrowth so it provides shade and future forage.   

Instead of removing multiflora rose from the edge of the woods, I am pruning it to promote long, drooping canes that I can easily cut, stack, and carry in the crook of my loppers to deliver to my sheep—their very favorite!   

I don’t wish to argue that these plants are good for the land or that they belong here.   

Nor am I suggesting a passive approach to the management—quite the opposite. I yearn to see this land before the introduction of these invasives, just as I yearn to view these mountains before nearly every acre was logged.   

Instead, I am saying, “They are here. So now what?”   

Despising the plants will do nothing to diminish their presence in our landscape.    

So instead, let’s make baskets, food, and medicine.   

Let’s feed them to sheep that can turn them into meat, milk, and fiber.   

Let’s learn what these plants can offer us and what they can teach us.   

Let’s roll up our sleeves, engage with our landscape, have a vision that goes beyond removing plants, and when the evening comes, and we are weary, let’s stop and smell the multiflora rose.   

Story by: Jason Ebinger, Folk School Garden and Work Study Manager

Jason Ebinger, originally from Atlanta, is happy to now call Hayesville and Brasstown home. Before coming to the Folk School, he worked on vegetable and livestock farms in Missouri, Maine, and Georgia. If he’s not in the Folk School gardens and fields, he’s probably off in the woods looking for mushrooms or at his farm in Hayesville moving sheep fence.  

“Where are folks from?” T-Claw called from the Festival Barn stage, flanked by a verdant backdrop of oak, poplar, and pine.

“Asheville!”

“St. Petersburg!”

“Bombay!”

The crowd cheered.

So did I.

There’s nothing quite like an evening concert in Festival Barn, and this one already felt special. It was the first of five Centennial Sounds concerts organized by the Folk School to celebrate the rich musical traditions of Appalachia while amplifying diverse voices shaping its future. Known primarily for its emphasis on old-time and traditional bluegrass, growing demographic changes and cross-cultural influences throughout the region have led the Folk School, in its centennial year, to examine what it knows and presents about Appalachian music. If someone had come from as far as Bombay to check out the series, we might just be hitting the mark.

I had recently returned from an annual state conference for arts advocates in Raleigh. That’s a place that seems a world away from Brasstown and Cherokee County, and not just because it takes six hours to get there. It’s the density of a million people and double that of cars. The tall buildings, apartment complexes, and super-large subdivisions. The tech-heavy industry and rowdy universities, the State government center, and the lawyers that come with it. Around here, Raleigh isn’t just a place; it’s the whole idea of such a place. A Brasstown friend, born and raised, once told me anything east of I-77 is Raleigh, except perhaps Charlotte, which might as well be in South Carolina.

The advocacy conference was attended by a diverse crowd of several hundred people and by a dozen larger-than-life puppets from Paperhand Puppet Project in Saxapahaw, NC. Co-founder Jan Burger had recently taught a puppetry class at the Folk School, a biennial tradition that makes our yearly Maypole Parade and Dance a most joyful, magical, and wacky event. As frogs and butterflies and a serene Mother Earth danced around the tables, I felt a little closer to home in the otherwise windowless conference hall.

I was representing the furthest west and most remote county in the room, a common lament when folks from far Western North Carolina get together. Everyone in “Raleigh” knows Asheville, but far fewer know the towns and counties that stretch westward for another two hours. The effect is not inconsequential. Like my Brasstown friend, many people in these parts fix their gaze on Tennessee and Georgia, not on their own state capital, which, in an ideal world, would draw our 100 counties closer together through education, resources, and an appreciation of both our shared and divergent experiences.

Jamie Bennett, a former chief of staff at the National Endowment for the Arts, was the conference keynote speaker, focusing his remarks on the importance of cultural policy, which he described as investments that envision and encourage the kind of society we want to build. Bennett believes that kind of society must be one that recognizes, embraces, and appreciates the panoply of people that live within it.

“If we don’t include all the culture of a place,” he said. “We don’t understand our own place in it.”

I thought about this as both an insider and an outlier in the room. As an insider, I come from the center of the state, a largely urban, high-resource area, and have worked in local government and policymaking. As an outlier, because I now live in one of the most remote and least racially diverse counties of the state, yet one that is so very culturally significant: it anchors the state of North Carolina within Appalachia; it is homeland to the Cherokee, both on and off the Qualla Boundary; and it is home to the 100 year-old John C. Campbell Folk School, the reason I am here.

What Bennett said was powerful to me both as truth and as a challenge. How do I fully understand my place as a North Carolinian, a Southerner, or an American if I don’t invest in knowing my neighbor? In the same way, how must an institution like the Folk School invest in people and place to better understand its own value?

Back at the concert, I listened to the collective, acoustic voice of the Cherokee Language Repertory Choir and the plugged-in, hip-hop and folk-inspired roots music of Tray Wellington, a young IBMA award-winning banjo player and founder of the Black string band New Dangerfield. I watched the woman from Bombay sway to the music, along with so many others from different places, generations, and life experiences, taking it all in. Let this be a starting point for a new Folk School chapter, I thought to myself, as together we contribute to the inclusive society we truly want to build.

Story: Bethany Chaney, Executive Director

Bethany Chaney is Executive Director of the John C. Campbell Folk School, a nearly 100-year-old anchor in southern Appalachia that offers weeklong and weekend classes for adults in a variety of traditional craft, music, dance, cooking, nature studies, and other disciplines.

Prior to joining the Folk School, Bethany served for more than 25 years in a variety of non-profit and public service roles, specializing in resource development, strategic planning, and community and economic development programming.

She served as Alderman for the Town of Carrboro from 2014-19. She is an award-winning writer, a former NC Arts Council Fellow, and an avid maker of pine needle baskets, a craft she first nurtured as a Folk School student.

In 2025, she was named by Country Living Magazine as a Top 100 Design Influencer for her work as an arts advocate. Bethany holds a BA from the University of North Carolina and an MBA from Northeastern University. She makes her home in Brasstown, NC.

My daughter is 2, and I am carrying her on my back on our daily walk. The red branches are emerging on tree limbs; buds that will become leaves are surfacing on the woody stems, and things are pushing up from the crispy ground.

She gently reaches to touch a branch with her little hand as I point these things out to her. Mother Nature is telling us an important story through these signs: life is cyclical, circular, not linear.

Five years later, walking hand in hand after a deep loss for our family, I speak this story again over her broken heart and remind her that Mother Nature says death is not the end of the story, and there are signs that we can see before our very eyes.

Since my daughter was born 10 years ago, I have intentionally made the pilgrimage to the Maypole Parade and Dance at the Folk School every year. The Folk School has always offered a return for me, to my home, and my soul values.

My heart recognizes itself here more than any other place. For 50 years, I have been formed, both personally and professionally, by the lived commitments and visible priorities of this place.

We return to May Day not just for the obvious cultural and communal reasons, but also for an experience that is a tangible reminder of the tree branch lesson that life is not a line but a circle, and we have celebrated its return for centuries.

Like every Folk School experience (and I have had many), the May Day Parade has meant different things to me in different seasons of my life.

This year finds me entering a particularly dark and painful one. I know I am not alone in crossing the threshold of fear and anxiety; we all have our troubles. I find myself desperate for the persistence of beauty and the courageous insistence that light and life always reemerge.

The image of our whimsical, giant puppets parading alongside our laughter, culminating in people of all varieties and stories surrounding a tall, colorful, ribboned pole situated in a grassy meadow among the mountains of the Southern Highlands, imprints itself in my memory, depositing itself into a reservoir of hope.

My body remembers the drums, the smell of the grass and fresh flowers, and the movement of the dance when my daughter and I were invited to join in, her hand in mine…celebrating our life together.

This will become my anchor so that when the darkness comes, I can remember this collective happiness as another one of the signs pointing me to notice: the buds on the branches, things pushing up from the ground, the sounds of our fiddles and our singing voices dancing around the Maypole, our hands in each other’s, moving forward together.

It is my heart’s desire that it will become my daughter’s anchor as well, the memory of halcyon days dancing with her mother. These are the signs we can see before our very eyes.

I offer thanks for the blessing of the John C. Campbell Folk School in our family’s story. There we live the truth that we can anchor ourselves to beauty and each other, and in doing so, we’ll make a way.

We can know joy…regardless.

Story: Chris Dockery, JCCFS Board Member

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Chris Dockery, MFA, PhD, is Professor of Art & Art Education in the Department of Visual Arts at the University of North Georgia and serves on the Board of Directors of the John C. Campbell Folk School. Deeply rooted in the rich and ever-evolving story of Appalachia, she carries its traditions, beauty, and resilience in her soul, an inheritance shaped by generations past and lovingly passed forward through her daughter.

When you meander down the footpath along Studio Row at the John C. Campbell Folk School, you’ll pass a menagerie of whimsical miniatures thoughtfully displayed in what is likely the tiniest village in North Carolina. Beside Rock Room is a little spot called Mousetown, where a bustling township of imaginary rodent residents can enjoy the many art pieces left by bipedal passersby.

From stained-glass cheese wedges to micro-woven baskets, Mousetown showcases a variety of mouse-sterpieces designed for its pint-sized residents. This cherished Folk School tradition of leaving small, crafted items by the woodshed has been going on for more than 20 years, originally started by Harry Hearne in 2001. Among the handcrafted details is a freshly printed paper titled “The Mousetown News,” its bold front page announcing local happenings and stories.

Following the loss of their archival records (believed to be due to water damage or an unfortunate incident involving enthusiastic nibbling), The Mousetown News was rejuvenated by local Susie Scritchyclaws. She, along with other paws-on-the-ground reporters, has dedicated their time to keeping the public informed, even if some leads involve chasing whispers through walls.

“I came over from Mousefield as a young pup, specifically because I had an interest in journalism, and Mousefield doesn’t have a lot to offer in that regard,” Scritchyclaws said, implying Mousefield’s biggest headline last year was “Local Seed Found.”

The Mousetown News is distributed to the residents of Mousetown and the neighboring community, Mousefield, which is nestled near the Folk School gardens.

“Every time I walked past the empty news office and saw the shuttered windows, I would really miss it. Finally, a few months ago, I thought: ‘Susie, there’s an obvious solution here. You worked there for years. You know what it takes. You should be the one to bring it back,’” Scritchyclaws said.

There’s no shortage of news in the borough, she added, with a full editorial calendar of both beat stories and feature articles on her coverage list.

Upcoming Mousetown events include their annual Soapbox Derby, won by Augustus Twitchy-tail last year. Officials advise ensuring derby cars meet the standards set by the Mousley Commissioners, as concerns have been raised that the competition could easily turn into a rat race.

Over in Mousefield, debates unfold regarding the expansion of the garden. Some residents are tired of the improvements, claiming “too many upgrades, not enough crumbs!” Others are more prone to live near the compost pile symbiotically, citing “an unbeatable variety of dining options,” and “a five-star dining experience, depending on the day.”

“When I decided to revive the paper, I really didn’t know what would happen, but I sort of assumed that it would hang in Mousetown. A few people would read it, and that would be it, so it’s gotten a much bigger response than I expected,” Scritchyclaws said.

“It’s all very serious, but I realize humans might find us amusing. On the flip side of that, we find a lot of things that humans do amusing, so you might start to see some humor in our stories when we report on human activity,” Scritchyclaws said.

The Mousetown News stands as a testament to creativity and the enduring appeal of community journalism, no matter how small the audience. As for the future of the paper, Scritchyclaws remains optimistic as she curiously pursues her mission to squeak the truth.

Story: Verna Townson, JCCFS Marketing & Communications Coordinator

Editor’s Note:
We’re aware that longtime readers may remember this miniature municipality as “Mouse Towne.” After a brief town hall (three acorns, one bottle cap, and a thimble were thrown), the editorial board agreed to streamline the spelling to “Mousetown.” Rising ink costs, cramped column space, and repeated complaints from our copy editor’s twitching whiskers all contributed to the decision. The town remains unchanged; we thank the former “e” for its dedication and wish it well to whatever word it scurries to next.

The idea began as a quiet message, passed from the roots of the trees and carried on the wind. It whispered through leaves, river, and breeze, softly sharing its hope with anyone attuned to the land, though many could not hear it.

Only those who were in tune with the forests and rivers had ears to hear the secret. The animals knew. The flowers, too. Every creature felt it in their bones. Even the humans who were natives of the land, familiar with the language of the trees, knew the secret.

They lived in harmony, together with the earth. The inherent message of the trees was called community – the spirit of unity through diversity. The give and take, ebb and flow of nature. Working together to produce peace in the forest. A place where every creature is vital to the survival of the whole.

When the native people were removed from the land, the community was interrupted. The word went out among the trees, and they wept at the news. The birds sang sorrowful songs, and the animals mourned. In their grief, they sought out others who might hear their whispers. It took years for the newcomers to the land to receive their message.

John and Olive Campbell heard the trees loud and clear. They thoughtfully explored the culture of the land's residents. They studied how the land and the people coexisted and learned from each other. Their desire was for the community to thrive. After John died, the whispers of the woods sparked Olive and her friend Marguerite Butler to research folk schools.

Later, when Olive and Marguerite returned to the area, 200 people had heard the same whispers. They agreed to be the hands and feet of the land’s message. To build a place of creativity, diversity, and community where all are welcome to learn and contribute.

That’s how I came into being. Many of the trees sacrificed themselves to become my living walls. The stones were hand-selected from the land and carried to form the fireplace, a place of warmth.

A place to gather.

The people added their own blood, sweat, and tears to make it possible for me to be built. A place for the community to meet and become.

My floors have cradled both young and old. Each nail pounded has been matched with dance steps…multiplied by 1,000s. Celebrations of joy hang on the walls and from the rafters. Captured in the very grain of the wood. Etched and rubbed into the patina. Music is mixed with the mortar. Every song is a part of me. Every hand clap, a beat of my heart. My boards were fitted together with purpose and love.

I stood proud when our whispers were answered by those who love the land. Listening to every word of instruction, every idea shared, because I knew with every new class our dream of communing in harmony was becoming reality. So many lessons have been learned here, beyond my wildest dreams.

The more time that has passed, the more creativity has been born, and more buildings have been erected as places of inclusion. I must admit I love acting as the heart of the place, but I also love extending a wider embrace. It seems there is no craft that has been overlooked; no stone left unturned with which to build. Respect and kindness hold me together. Joy covers the timbers like dust. My beams are as strong as the values of the community held within my embrace.

One hundred years have flown by for me. I long for 100 more to represent this special community, born from the whispers of my ancestors and from the hearts of all who will listen.

Story by: Michelle Gunnin, 2025

Folk School student Michelle Gunnin is a wife, mom of four grown children, retired teacher, writer, sister, daughter, and caregiver. These different roles give her a unique perspective. In addition to her teaching certificate, she has a degree in psychology and a master’s degree in Collaborative Teaching and Learning. She currently lives in Cleveland, GA with her husband and two dogs.

Occasionally, she pauses, making space to reflect her deep affection for the Folk School. A talented multimedia artist, she beautifully blends words and visuals to illustrate this evocative corner of Appalachia. We are pleased to share three of her pieces along with several of her images. Cory Marie Podielski contributed images, clockwise, far right and bottom right.

For the Love of Craft

Craft when the morning feels soft and bright,
when clay turns kind and the stitch sits right.
Carve a small heart, smooth the rough in half
because we do it for the love of craft.
Craft at the table with friends close by,
with coffee steam and a laughing sigh.
Weave a little joy down an old worn path
because we do it for the love of craft.
Strike the anvil, let the sparks run free,
bend the iron how it wants to be.
Find a rhythm in the hammer’s laugh
because we do it for the love of craft.
Set a stone in a silver ring,
fold a page where the margins sing.
Press the paper, feel the fibers draft
because we do it for the love of craft.
No matter how simple, no matter how grand,
a bowl, a book, or a ribbon in hand.
Made with heart, the maker’s mark–
we do it for the love of craft.

Weeds

They crack the sidewalk, lift the stone,
Where soil is scarce, they thrive alone.
No tender hand, no gentle rain–
Still, up they rise through grit and strain.

The gardener scoffs, the mower hums,
Still dandelion’s gold returns.
They bend with storms, not break nor fade,
Their roots hold fast in sun and shade.

Unloved, unseen, they find a way,
In rusted lots, in gravel gray.
No map, no plan, no guiding chart,
Just stubborn will and a beating heart.

Oh, call them wild, call them a curse–
But life has crowned them with the first.
Where others fall, they bloom instead–
The green survivors, leaf and thread.
So here’s to weeds, defiant things,
With quiet strength and ragged wings.
Not pretty, no–but fierce and free–
And full of raw tenacity.

Winter

Winter keeps rewriting the campus
Snow learns patience on our hills,
melting by day, stiffening by night,
until the eaves wear a row of cold teeth.
At the Farm House porch where the morning meets the sun,
at Open House where music still lives in the corners
and the boards know more than they ever tell,
and at the Woodcarving Studio porch
where once, in the warmth, it was adorned by carvers
who only wanted to feel the sun,
winter writes its plain, honest story–
just water learning how to be still.
The creek carries its low winter song,
thin ribbons over patient stone.
Smoke drifts gentle from chimneys,
and the morning feels like it always has–
slow enough to remember your own name.
Boot steps soften on familiar paths,
past gardens asleep and split-rail fences dreaming.
Windows hold their small squares of gold,
and inside the day begins the way it always has—
with coffee strong enough to wake a mountain,
with laughter finding the rafters,
with hands learning the old conversations
between wood and knife, clay and water,
needle and cloth, bow and string.
For 100 years these hills have kept this rhythm:
freeze and thaw, song and supper,
people arriving as strangers
and leaving with new names for one another.
The season works slowly,
teaching what the Folk School already knows–
that good things are made by returning,
by trying again, by sitting beside somebody
who remembers how it used to be done.
And when the melt begins,
drip by patient drip,
winter loosens its bright grip
from eaves that have been keeping time.
The campus takes a long breath,
ready to start the story over.
There’s something about a Folk School snowfall
that makes time feel kinder,
as if the next century is forming
one glittering snowflake at a time.

Outside, mowed fescue lays in tidy rows in the fields 

waiting to be swept up into tight cylindrical bales. 

Sunflowers gleam in the garden, 

following the turn of the day. 

Inside, soft snicking of sharp knives into wood 

and chattering voices fill the community room,  

softened by hanging quilts and  

aged wooden walls and floor. 

Local poets gather in the library 

for companionship, 

coffee, and 

to share words. 

Students, tired from the week’s labors,  

seek refuge from a sudden storm that moves in, 

dumping inches of rain, dampening the ground 

but not the spirit. 

100 years of service to community— 

Local and far— 

Georgia, Tennessee, Virginia, Missouri, Arkansas, California, Oregon, Vermont 

and more, all represented this week. 

Olive Dame Campbell 

Marguerite Butler 

Louise Pitman 

Murray Martin

Those and others who, through the years, 

dreamed big and started small 

In this little Brasstown Valley 

sheltered in the Blue Ridge. 

Wouldn’t they be  

amazed, pleased. 

and so very proud of this living legacy—of the John C. Campbell Folk School .

By: Tommye McClure Scanlin, Professor Emerita, University of North Georgia, Dahlonega, Georgia

Growing up in North Georgia just a few miles from Brasstown, Tommye McClure Scanlin passed by the John C. Campbell Folk School long before she understood what took place inside its distinctive buildings. As a teenager, she and her boyfriend would drive past the campus on weekly dates to a local drive-in theater, curious but unaware of the creative life unfolding along the road.

A few years later, the Folk School reentered her life in a more intentional way. While teaching art at North Georgia College, she learned about craft classes being offered in Brasstown. Eager to learn to weave, Tommye enrolled in her first class during the summer of 1974.

Tommye couldn’t have known that stepping into the weaving room would mark a turning point in her life. That first class set her on the path to becoming a tapestry weaver and, eventually, an author. Over the next five decades, Tommye both studied and taught at the Folk School, sharing her expertise to thousands of joyous Brasstown visitors.

Her connection to the Folk School extends beyond the studio. She served two terms on the Board of Directors and has supported numerous programs through her philanthropy, including a recent gift benefiting the Fain Archives.

Tommye is the author of The Nature of Things: Essays of a Tapestry Weaver, Tapestry Design Basics and Beyond, and Marking Time with Fabric and Thread. In 2025, while taking a writing class with Rosemary Royston at the Folk School, she composed “Ode to the John C. Campbell Folk School,” a poem that captures both the daily rhythms and the enduring legacy of this special place in Brasstown.

Her story – like her poem – reflects what so many students discover when they arrive: you may come for a class, but you leave changed.

Beneath Fall Festival quilts, among the gentle glow of the Folk School Community Room, a silent story waits to be told. For nearly a century, a collection of hand-caned chairs have cradled the community in moments of joy and gathering. Now scattered around campus and tucked away in storage, the stories woven into these seats are hidden in the grain.   

As you approach the door of Keith House, the Community Room outstretches through the door to the left, beckoning visitors to take a seat at the Folk School table. Decades of handicrafts decorate the walls; numerous Fall Festival quilts hang elegantly from the room’s parameter. Once accompanying the patchwork, the community room chairs add to the artisanal collection, woven and sewn by the hands of generations. 

For a century, lifelong learners have gathered under these linens and woven seats, coming together for contra nights, concerts, and celebrations. From birthday parties to holiday gatherings, the Community Room’s inanimate observers have held this space, yet the origin of the chairs remains a mystery.  

Each one is hand-made, with a name etched on the back. Embedded in the woodgrain is the hidden history of their origin, the story of each laboring hand, and every callous fingertip that went into their creation. 

Looking out unto the northeastern part of campus, the Fain Archives sits atop the Book Arts Studio. There, a plethora of records, photographs, and handicrafts chronicles the past and how it breathed life into the Folk School today.  

Here, one will find Susanna Pyatt pleasantly perched behind her desk. She is the collections and archives manager on campus, diligently navigating through pieces of history, cataloging with care.  

“There were five chairmakers, including Virgil Ledford, and the names on the backs are those of donors.” Pyatt added. 

In the archives, there are little to no pledge cards, records, or receipts about the chairs— only questions and speculation. As the mystery deepens, Pyatt’s words resonate. The archives hold answers, but the origin of the chairs’ lives not within the walls of this building, but inside the hearts and minds of the Brasstown community 

“I searched through the Archives catalog, but there doesn’t seem to be mention of the Community Room chairs — not even in the Folk School’s early newsletters. I was also surprised to find that chairs aren’t mentioned on any of the pledge cards,” said Pyatt. So, the only source for the origin story of the chairs is oral history.” 

Like the weave of each chair, the story reveals itself thread by thread, never quite whole. Though their true beginnings may never fully be known, their purpose is unmistakable. Each seat continues to hold the weight of community, echoing tales of the past and the rhythm of hands at work.  

Now, the Folk School invites the community to help finish the pattern. Any photographs, letters, or memories connected to the Community Room chairs are vital to uphold the historical recollection of the chairs and their origins. 

Together, we can bring the hidden history of these hand-caned chairs to light and honor the generations of craftsmanship that shaped them.  

If you, or anyone you know, has valuable information pertaining to the Community Room chairs at the Folk School, please share with us at Marketing@folkschool.org. 

Story: Verna Townson, JCCFS Marketing & Communications Coordinator

Welcome to our very first Substack, and thank you for being here.

In 2026, the John C. Campbell Folk School is continuing to celebrate an extraordinary milestone: 100 years of learning, making, music, movement and community in the mountains of Western North Carolina. For a century, this place has been shaped by hands at work, stories passed across generations and the belief that creativity and tradition belong to everyone.

This Substack is our new gathering place.

Why a Substack? Why Now?

For 10 decades, the Folk School has been a place where people come together to learn by doing – to sit at the loom, join a dance, share a meal and discover what happens when tradition is kept alive through community. As we continue our centennial year, we wanted a space that reflects that same spirit: thoughtful, human and rooted in story.

Substack allows us to slow down and go deeper. Here, we can share the history behind the headlines, the voices behind the workshops and the moments that define the Folk School’s past, present and future.

What This Substack Will Be

This newsletter will serve as a central hub for our centennial year and beyond. It will be a place to connect Folk School alumni, students, instructors, supporters and friends near and far. You can expect:

• Centennial stories and history
  Essays and reflections on the Folk School’s first 100 years, including the vision of founders Olive Dame Campbell and Marguerite Butler, and the enduring mission that continues to guide us.

• Voices from the community
  Stories from alumni, instructors, artists, staff and neighbors who have helped shape the Folk School across generations.

• Behind-the-scenes moments
  A closer look at what goes into preserving our historic buildings, planning major events, restoring collections, and carrying traditions forward .

• The Folk School today
  Class highlights, faculty and staff spotlights, student work and seasonal rhythms that reflect life on campus now.

• Centennial events and milestones
  Features and updates on special celebrations throughout the year, from exhibits and festivals to workshops and gatherings marking this once-in-a-lifetime anniversary.

Our Goal

At its heart, this Substack is about connection. Our goal is to build a vibrant, engaged community around the Folk School, one that honors tradition, welcomes curiosity and invites participation. We hope this space inspires you to reflect, remember and maybe even plan a visit (or a return) to Brasstown.

Over time, this newsletter will also become a living archive of our centennial year: a collection of stories, interviews and reflections that capture who we are at this moment in our history.

We’re so glad you’re here at the beginning. Thank you for being part of the Folk School story.

With gratitude,
The John C. Campbell Folk School
Brasstown, North Carolina

P.S. If you enjoy what you read, we invite you to share this Substack with fellow Folk School friends and makers. Community, after all, grows best when it’s shared.