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In 1988 I published in this space "A Hoopie Survey," an invitation for readers to send me their opinions, stories and humor on that topic.
I'm pleased to announce myself nearly ready to report the results of that survey. Almost. Pretty soon. Not long now.
What I really want right now is for local or formerly local people with roots in Hoopie to give me personal family stories so that I may share them with the world in my forthcoming magnum opus, "The Book of Hoopie." I have some great stories, but I want more. I know they're out there. I would like to put them in print before living memories are gone.
There. That's the big news. I'm finally going to write the book about hoopies that readers have been begging for for nearly 40 years.
This book will be filled with humor, history, touching family stories, and helpful reference sections such as a Hoopie-English dictionary and a guide to dialect, "How to Speak Better Hoopie." In other words, a cross between a bathroom reader and an erudite tome of dubious scholarship. It will be the greatest book ever written about Hoopie. It also will be the only book ever written about Hoopie.
"Hoopie" is short for hoop-poler. The term was applied originally to young men living along the Ohio River south of, say, Wheeling, who would cut saplings and sell them in bundles to the upriver-bound packet boats, for use as wooden hoops on the straw-packed barrels in which ware was shipped from the many East Liverpool, Ohio, potteries.
When the young men themselves, then fathers, uncles, cousins and whole families, often with their pigs and cows, came north seeking work in the potteries and later steel mills, they were called hoopies and denigrated as uneducated, low-class people.
Originally a slur, claiming hoopie heritage now is more often a mark of pride by locals, who cherish the hoopie traits of hard work, resourcefulness, and family values.
A well-known trait of hoopies from the beginning was their longing for home. In our area, when people said they were going "down home," everyone knew that meant downriver to places such as Sistersville, Meigs County, Fly and Hamlin.
My own mother, Arizona Lucille Adkins Miller, was from Hamlin, W.Va. Every vacation dad had from the mill, Crucible Steel in Midland, Pa., he drove our family down Route 2 to spend a week or two with dozens of relatives in a two-story tin-roofed house on Mud River. It was the old county poor farm, operated for years by my maternal grandparents, Millard Fillmore Adkins and Leila Jane Adkins Adkins. (Yes, Adkins was her maiden name.) It featured gas grill heat in every room, a chicken coop and two outhouses out back, and water from a well with a pump handle.
Richard S. Thompson was among those who kindly responded to my Hoopie Survey back in 1988. Among the precious information Dick sent me was this joke, which illustrates the pull of "down home."
"A man was being given a tour of Heaven by St. Peter. He exclaimed over the different groups there having such a good time. Finally he saw a large group chained to logs and trees. 'Who are they and why are they chained?' he asked. St. Peter replied, 'Oh, they're the hoopies. They want to go home to Hoopie every weekend.'"
Dick's joke is just a sample of the delights I will put in this book.
My wife Honey, who is a marvelous spouse in nearly all respects, thinks I'm foolish for planning to write "The Book of Hoopie." She doesn't care about hoopie lore, so she thinks nobody else does. She was born in Uniontown, Pa. I forgive her.
Prove my wife wrong. Send or call me with your hoopie stories.
(Send your hoopie family history, anecdotes, photos, etc., to Fred Miller, 193 Dome Dr., New Cumberland, W.Va. 26047, or by email to pacyberguy@gmail.com, cell phone 724.777.5918.)