In Search of a Slat-Back

In Search of a Slat-Back by Dianne Watkins A few years ago I became fascinated with slat-back chairs and determined to find six for each of my five children plus six for myself. I needed a passe! of chairs. I searched many antique shops for slatback chairs. Each intriguing chair was a challenge to restore. Most of them had hickory bottoms that were broken out. I learned to re-cane chair bottoms but not having access to a stand of hickory trees or knowledge of stripping bark, I purchased reed materials to replace the beautiful bark. While attending a Writer's Workshop at the Settlement School in Hindman, Kentucky, I heard about an Appalachian chairmaker. How exciting it would be to purchase a chair from a real, live chairmaker . I realized that there are very few craftsmen still making slat-back chairs. I phoned Irvin Messer to inquire if he had some chairs I might see. He said he did and was "stripping bark to do some seats" and I was "welcome to come and see." Now I was really excited! I asked for directions. He began, "Do you know where 8OE is towards Prestonsburg?" As this was my first experience driving in the Eastern Kentucky mountains, I had no idea. I said, "No," and added skeptically, "but I think I can find it." The directions that followed rolled over the phone like this: "Go three-four miles on 80E towards Prestonsburg until you get to the soft Shell Exit. Turn right at the service station there. Take the third paved road to the left. Cross three concrete bridges. Turn right and I live at the end of the holler." I was most confused, mentally replaying the seemingly simple directions and wondering why they called the Shell Station "soft." But I wanted to meet a chairmaker so, with determination, I headed out. I left the Settlement School in the rain but my spirits were not damped. I was going to see a chairmaker stripping bark from a tree! I found the Softshell Exit with the service station that was not a Shell, turned right and was on my way. Without a hitch, I soon pulled up beside a row of mailboxes. One of the mailboxes had "Irvin Messer" painted on it. I thought I had arrived. But there was a row of houses in sight too. Nearby, several children were playing in the misty rain. I drove slowly towards them, rolled down my window and asked, "Do you know which house Irvin Messer lives in?" "You'll have to ask my mama," one child timidly replied as he pointed to a nearby house. I drove a few more feet up the road and hollered to a woman on her front porch, "Do you know where Irvin Messer lives?' She looked at me blankly and said, "He's dead." What! I thought. I had just talked to him! "He's a chairmaker," I tried again. "Oh, you mean Junior. He lives at the end of the holler." Wednesday, August 3, 1988, I was to learn the true definition of "the end of the holler." Prior to that date, I understood "holler" to mean a valley lined on both sides by hills or mountains. I envisioned the end of the holler as the last place at the end of the road in the valley. 22 Ii i'WIH I'll I" I turned onto a narrow, gravelled road and began climbing. The rain was coming down harder and the houses in the hills were getting fewer and further below. I drove what seemed an endless distance on the winding road, only to see the houses over the ridge to my right continue to get smaller and smaller. I felt I was leaving the holler! I was climbing higher and higher. Soon the rutted and puddled road forked and I could see a house at the end of the right fork. It went straight down so I just knew that had to be the end of the holler! At the foot of the hill, more children were playing in the yard. A German shepherd, tall enough to look me eyeball to...