Legends, Secrets and Mysteries of Asheville

reality.

Introduction

Synchronicity is an ever present reality for those who have eyes to see it.

–Carl Jung

I’ve always been intrigued by things that can’t be explained, whether it’s a feeling of déjà vu, a coincidence that seems touched by the hands of fate, a serendipitous encounter, the phenomenon of thinking about someone you haven’t seen in a long time and suddenly hearing from them and even things that go bump in the night. I’m a lover of synchronicity, serendipity and all things paranormal. I do buy into the saying that there are no accidents. We are all connected somehow in this incredible life experience, and I have found that Asheville has its share of strange and delightful stories of hidden surprises, intriguing personalities and interesting mysteries.

After writing my first book, Only in Asheville: An Eclectic History, which focuses on how Asheville became such a popular, quirky place, I naturally gravitated to digging a bit beneath the surface to find out more about Asheville’s secrets, beginning with tales of underground tunnels. Joshua Warren had piqued my curiosity about the tunnels when I interviewed him for the first book. Starting with the idea of the tunnels led me to search out more unique stories, and many started appearing in the local newspaper. I read about the planned auction of a guitar that Elvis gave to a fan at an Asheville concert. Another was about a renovation team finding a secret stash of books and other items in an Asheville home purchased by a local attorney. Yet another was about another attorney who may have struck it rich by shelling out a few bucks at an area flea market.

I discussed my new book content with my dad, who provided me another story. He said, You should write about Senator Bob Reynolds’s daughter, who inherited the Hope Diamond. What? I had never known this. How did I grow up in Asheville and not realize that an Asheville family had ties to one of the most famed gems in the world? That story is in this book and led to a wonderful friendship with Joseph Charles McLean Gregory, the son of Mamie Reynolds and the great-grandson of Evalyn Walsh McLean, who bought the gem in 1912 for $180,000.

Then there were stories that came up in random conversations. Leslie McCullough Casse, who wrote the foreword to my first book, told me about the paper dresses that Bob and Audie Bayer created at Mars Manufacturing. During an interview with Robert Beatty about his book, Serafina and the Black Cloak, he revealed that he and his daughters created a robotics company in their garage. And it was Jan Schochet, who wrote this book’s foreword, who told me during lunch one day about pilfered books from George Vanderbilt’s lavish library at Biltmore Estate. I investigated and wrote about all of these tidbits in this book.

One of the major lessons I’ve learned in my life as a writer is to never delay getting details on a good story. While writing this book, as I read or heard about intriguing people and events, I quickly picked up the phone and reached out to the person involved—in the case of historical information, I made a beeline to the North Carolina Room at Pack Memorial Library. I find that most people are more than happy to share their stories and their lives, and I am extremely grateful to those who let me interview them for this book.

Strangely enough, a surprising find found its way to me during the process. First, a short background story. A few years ago, I was digging through the bins at Goodwill Outlets on Patton Avenue (the same bins where another couple in this book found a treasure they auctioned off for a large sum). The bins are different from a regular Goodwill outlet store. Instead of having items arranged neatly on racks and shelves, items at the outlet are dumped into big bins and sold by the pound at the cash register. One day, I was digging through a bin of books. I picked up a journal, flipped through to find it filled and started to toss it back. I made a tossing motion with my wrist, but my hand couldn’t release it. I couldn’t bear sending someone’s handwritten journal to ultimately be destroyed. I bought it and brought it home with a stack of other books.

It took several months before I remembered the journal. When I opened it, I found a name written inside. I Googled it to see if I could locate someone with that name and found the woman’s obituary. The journal writer lived in Weaverville, and among her children was a daughter living in Marshall, North Carolina. I found Amy Gillespie on Facebook and sent her a note asking if she wanted her mother’s memories. She drove to my house and picked it up, and we’ve been friends ever since. I’ve also become friends with her stepmother and dad, Linda and Jim Gillespie, and feel extremely lucky to know all of them.

Imagine my surprise when I received a note similar to the one I sent Amy. In early August 2016, a man from Georgia sent me a message through my writer’s page on Facebook. He said, in part:

I hope this rather odd message reaches you. Recently, I’ve been going through my belongings seeing what to keep and what to throw out. One item I found was an old French textbook I bought years ago when I began collecting antique books. I was going to throw it out, but realized that it was inscribed with the name of a young woman, one who (rather charmingly) scribbled all throughout the book. I’ve just started researching my family’s genealogy and I couldn’t help but think how nice it would be to own something like this that once belonged to one of my ancestors. So I decided to do some investigating and find the closest descendant. That is how I came upon your Facebook. This book was owned by Lucile Chandley who attended Davenport College in Lenoir, N.C. circa 1931—I believe she was your grandmother.

He included scans of the book cover and inside where she had signed her name. I immediately recognized my paternal grandmother’s handwriting on the pages but was very surprised to see Davenport College under her name. I was only aware that she had gone to Salem College, so it was an extra bit of family history to learn about this. I’ve long been interested in genealogy and was thrilled with the discovery of her French textbook. Much of the family research on Lucy’s side was very easy because she had documented how Rebecca Sevier, ninth child of General John Sevier, was her great-great-great-grandmother. I like going over to Sevierville, Tennessee, knowing that I’m a descendant, no matter how far down the line, of the man for whom the town was named. Sevier had a remarkable career, including six two-year terms as Tennessee’s governor (1796–1801 and 1803–9) and three terms in the U.S. House of Representatives (1811–15). My Sevier line of ancestors moved into Madison County, North Carolina, in the early 1800s, with my great-great-grandfather Mitchell Chandley serving as sheriff for a time. Ancestors on my mother’s side were in Buncombe County by the late 1700s, if not earlier.

Leah Shuford (author’s great-aunt) and Bessie Garrison Shuford (author’s maternal grandmother) standing in front of the garden at the Shuford home in south Asheville. In the far left, you can see part of the Ball glass factory. Today, several businesses occupy the land where they were standing. Author’s collection.

After my first book came out, I found that many people were interested in knowing more about the evolution of south Buncombe County, where I grew up and where my mother and her five siblings grew up. Today, south Asheville resembles an Atlanta suburb with its strip malls, big-box stores, chain restaurants and grocery stores aplenty. It’s hard for newcomers to imagine the south Asheville I knew and loved, with its open pastureland, a community of kind neighbors and such a manageable traffic flow on Hendersonville Road that for entertainment we’d sit on the porch and count the number of cars that would drive by on sultry summer nights.

My maternal grandparents, W.A. and Bessie Shuford (affectionately known as Gan Gan and Granny), had about twelve acres or so fronting on Hendersonville Road, with pastures containing cattle and, for a time, my pony, expansive gardens and beehives. There was plenty of space to roam, dream, ride my bicycle, learn to plant, pick, string and can green beans, shuck corn, gather blackberries and pluck grapes from their vines, play hide-and-seek in the dark or pretend with my cousins that a fallen tree in the front pasture was a pirate ship. Pulliam Properties now has its office building in the center of what used to be the front pasture. My grandfather operated a Shell station on the corner of Mills Gap Road and Hendersonville Road (where Kentucky Fried Chicken is now), and my parents took over operations when he retired. I wish I could remember all of my grandparents’ stories and their advice. I did, however, take note of their allegiance to their Old Farmer’s Almanac, checking the moon signs and stages to plant their gardens, set fence posts, get haircuts and other things. My granny told me to never have a medical procedure (unless of course it was an emergency) done when the moon signs were bad. This advice has served me extremely well throughout my