Synopses & Reviews
Only my father saw me to the Asheville station that Sunday morning in 1912. Mother had gotten up early to fix us a hot breakfast. It was one of those moments that would be as sharp and real in my mind years later as it was that January morning: that particular look of love and longing in mother's eyes; the smell of the starch in her crisp white apron; the hissing of the pine resin in the big iron stove; the lake of melted butter in the steaming mound of hominy grits on my plate.
Then father had called from the front room, "Time to start!" And my brother George, hearing the announcement, had stumbled out of bed and down the stairs to the landing, where he had stood leaning sleepily on the banister, tousled hair in his eyes, to tell me good-bye.
"Have to go," father repeated from the doorway. 'Me engines running. I had a time cranking the car in this cold."
In the gray light before dawn, the railroad station had a wraithlike look. I saw with a strange leap of heart that the train was going to be pulled by Old Buncombe, a favorite engine on the East Tennessee, Virginia and Georgia Railroad. The engine was painted green with gold trim and lettering and there were big brass ornaments on its headlight. The billows of smoke pouring out of Old Buncombe's smokestack looked blacker than usual against the background of new-fallen snow.
As father carried my bag on down the platform, he was trying to be jovial, teasing me as if I were nine and not nineteen. He still considered me too young to go off alone, especially on a wild adventure like teaching school in a mountain cove of which no member of our family nor anyone in Asheville, as far as he could discover, had ever seen oreven heard.
But walking along the platform that January morning, the elation I felt at this victory over my parents struggled with other feelings. Father was too heavy now with irongray hair. Tenderness for him welled up in me. Impulsively I stuck my right hand into the pocket of his overcoat
"My hands cold," I said as if a childish gesture needed an explanation---but he knew. His left hand covered mine in the coat pocket.
Girlie," he asked suddenly (that was what he always called me at sentimental moments), "do you really think you have enough money to get you through till, pay-day?"
Plenty, father. Yes--thanks"
"Well, twenty-five dollars a month isn't going to go far" His voice was gruff with emotion.
"Probably for the first time in my life there won!t be any temptation to spend money. It will be good for me." I was trying to sound gay. "Right in line with your ideas, father. For all I know there may not be a single store in Cutter Gap."
Then we were mounting the steps to the train. I was to ride the coach, for it was only a six-hour trip. There was that certain smell of coal dust that railroad cars had; grime in every crevice and in the corners of the window ledges; brass spittoons; a potbellied stove in the rear; sacks of grain and produce piled toward the back; a lot of people. I marveled that so many would get up to catch a train at six-thirtyin the morning.
Father found me an empty space and I sank down on the scratchy red plush seat, with my suitcase on the floor beside me. The whistle blew shrilly. Father reached out for me; the tweed of his big coat was rough against my face. "Don't forget now---soon as you get there, write us. Want to know you've arrived safely" Trying to be playful, he pinched my cheek-and was gone.
Then the conductor was waving his arms and shouting, "All a-boarrd!" He mounted the steps and noisily clicked the guardrail shut. Old. Buncombe sputtered and wheezed with the familiar chuff ... chuff ... chuff. Our car jerked forward, the one behind slamming into us. The door at the front of the coach swung crazily, but finally the jerking and the bumping smoothed out and the telephone poles were sliding past.
Across the aisle a country woman with a red-faced equalling baby jiggled the child up and down, back and forth, on her ample lap. Then when the crying did not stop, she opened up her shirtwaist to let the infant nurse. The man in front of me was lighting up a pipe filled with home-grown tobacco that stung my throat and made my eyes water.
After Budford, North Carolina, the conductor began moving down the aisle gathering tickets. The old man's blue serge suit was shiny at the elbows and knees. I fervently hoped that he would not mortify me before the other passengers by telling me that he wouldtake good care of me, so I turned pointedly toward the window and pretended to look at the white fields and rising hills. What I actually saw reflected in the window glass was a figure so slender that it should have belonged to a much younger girl. I threw back my shoulders and took a deep breath, trying to fill out my new fawn-colored coatsuit a little better The blue eyes beneath the piled-up dark hair stared back at me quizzically.
"Ticket, please. You're Christy Huddleston, aren't you ?"
"I'm Javis MacDonald" he went on. "I've known your father a long time." He punched my ticket, handed it back. "So you're bound for El Pano, young lady. Your...
“A novel of celebration…wholesome, inspiring…Enjoyable reading.” St. Louis Post-Dispatch
“It has something that keeps the reader reading…Relevant and heart-opening…Rich, dramatic.” Fort Worth Star-Telegram
“An affirmation of faith... A clear impression of the proud Scotch-Irish mountaineers and their harsh, lonely lives.” Library Journal
“Wonderful...an epic novel”. Dallas Times Herald
“Deeply moving...filled with suspense adventure, humor, and even comedy.” Pasadena Star News
“A powerfully moving book of great depth.” Atlanta Journal-Constitution
“An inspiring story. With skill, Catherine Marshall has described human qualities common to all people everywhere.” Boston Globe
At nineteen, Christy Huddleston left home to teach school in the Smokies --- coming to know and care for the wild mountain people, with their fierce pride, terrible poverty dark superstitions... and their yearning for beauty and truth. But in these primitive surrounding, Christy's faith would be severely tested by the unique strengths and needs of two remarkable young men --- and challenged by a heart torn between desire... and love.
Christy is the book that inspired the CBS television series by the same name. It is the story of a young girl who came to teach in the impoverished Smokies and how her faith conquered her primitive surroundings.
In the year 1912, nineteen-year-old Christy Huddleston leaves home to teach school in the Smoky Mountains -- and comes to know and love the resilient people of the region, with their fierce pride, their dark superstitions, their terrible poverty, and their yearning for beauty and truth. But her faith will be severely challenged by trial and tragedy, by the needs and unique strengths of two remarkable young men, and by a heart torn between true love and unwavering devotion.
And don't miss another heart-soaring bestseller from Catherine Marshall: Julie
About the Author
Born in Johnson City, Tennessee, the daughter of Minister John Ambrose Wood and his wife Leonora, Catherine Marshall was married to Presbyterian minister and Chaplain of the U.S. Senate Peter Marshall. After her husband's death, she wrote his biography, A Man Called Peter, a book that enjoyed tremendous success and became a major motion picture. She followed with numerous devotional books and three novels, two of which -- Christy and Julie -- became national bestsellers. Christy was also made into an extremely popular television series. Catherine Marshall died in 1983, but the popularity of her inspirational writings continues.