Frank George

In His Own Words

The following excerpts are from an interview published in the Spring 1983 issue of GOLDENSEAL.

My first encounter with William Frank George was at a 1963 West Virginia Centennial celebration in Mercer County: He came dressed in a Scottish kilt, complete with elaborate regalia, and stalked about playing ancient music. A long line of mesmerized children trailed behind.

I never forgot Frank after that, but it was several years before I could count him as a friend. I really got acquainted with him and his wife, Jane, in 1970, when I became involved with the 4-H Mountain Heritage Program, sponsored by the West Virginia University Extension Service. Both had played a major role in developing that program, and I soon became a regular visitor. Their home was always open to anyone who might drop by to discuss mountain heritage, play music, talk knives, shoot guns, or even just visit. The house was furnished with all manner of interesting antiques, and guarded over by a ferocious, unpredictable chihuahua named Seamus. Frank once told me he took that dog places to get even with people.

A visitor might find Frank in his underwear shining a knife, or trying to analyze a particular piece of Bulgarian bagpipe music. He was eccentric, no doubt of it, and has been called—among the things that can be printed here—authentic, independent, cantankerous, rare, and even anachronistic. Jane said that she was his manager but added, “if anyone can manage him.”

With her help, I interviewed Frank back in 1983. What follows are excerpts from that interview: the one-and-only Frank George in Frank’s own words. –Michael Meador

I was born in Bluefield, October 6, 1928. My mom was from Berlin, Tennessee. They say “Burlin” down there. It’s six miles north of Lewisburg, Tennessee, but I guess really you could say that Berlin doesn’t exist anymore. There’s only two or three houses and a little store left.

My dad was born near Ingleside in Mercer County and grew up in Bluefield more or less, but they lived all over: Rock in Mercer County; Dry Hollow near Shannondale in Tazewell County, Virginia; Mud Fork; the East End of Bluefield—they lived all over Mercer and Tazewell counties.

[My mom’s family] goes back to what’s now Marshall County, Tennessee, and at one time was Bedford County, North Carolina. Her grandmother’s people were Boyetts, and there’s an old tax ticket, where one of the Boyetts had paid property taxes in Bedford County, North Carolina, to King George III in so many shillings and pence, so we know that was before 1776.

[My dad’s family goes] way back in Greenbrier and Monroe counties. My fifth-great-grandfather, Joseph Ulrich Swope, who was originally from Germany, walked into what was to become Monroe County in 1751. He moved in from Staunton, Virginia, and settled at Wolf Creek.

There’s a story that when he first got to Wolf Creek, he was spotted by some Indians, and he had to hide inside a hollow tree until they had gone. He stayed on at Wolf Creek with his family. One day, he sent his five-year­old son Joseph to the spring for water, and the boy was kidnapped by a band of Shawnees and taken to their town on the Scioto River near Chillicothe, Ohio. He was kept prisoner there for nine years before he was brought home. He was a “white Indian,” didn’t hardly remember anything about his family. But he finally got back into the swing of things. He knew three languages, German, Shawnee, and English, but I doubt if he could ever write his name. He was my fourth-great-grandfather.

The Georges are from near Blue Sulphur Springs in Greenbrier County. My Grandpaw Ellis moved to Mercer County from Greenbrier about 1870, right after the Civil War. He moved over there to right where they put the tunnel through East River Mountain when they were building Interstate 77. He had an enormous farm over there. When they dug the tunnel, they moved his grave to Princeton.

My Grandpaw George left home early—he was an orphan, and they were trying to make him a bound servant, so he just took off and came to his uncle’s house, to my Grandpaw Ellis. He married his uncle’s daughter Martha, who was also his first cousin. That was the start of all the trouble.

On my mother’s side, I had a grandmaw who was a Jackson—close kin of “Old Hickory”—she could play a harmonica. That’s the only music I can find on Maw’s side of the family. The Ownbys couldn’t carry a tune on a stretcher. All my musical ability, such as I got, came from my dad’s side. The Georges had the music, the Ellises couldn’t carry a tune in a jug with a stopper in it. The Ownbys couldn’t either, but the Georges and the Jacksons seemed to have got a double dose.

This is the part that I don’t like for anyone to know about, but since it’s a fact, there’s no use in trying to hide it. The first tunes I ever tried to pick out was on a piano. I could pick out tunes with one finger when I was about four years old. When I was about five years old, I started taking piano lessons from Miss Ella Holroyd, who lived in Athens. She would come to Bluefield every Saturday to Tom Scott’s and gave lessons all day long. My lesson was about 9:00-9:30 and cost $5. My dad nearly went through the roof when he found out how much it cost. I walked about a mile to the place she gave lessons. So, I guess you can say I started the first of my music playing on a piano with a bona fide teacher.

You can read the rest of this article in this issue of Goldenseal, available in bookstores, libraries or direct from Goldenseal.