The American Plutarch

As the woodcutter sawed and chopped and hewed oak, hickory, maple, and pine, he sang songs to the past, to the land, and to the Lord.

His name was Van. He was a simple man. He could read and write but he had no formal schooling. Yet he was a thinker. He was a big man, stout, strong, blue-eyed, a firm gazer, an honest looker, a man whom others trusted, who kept his word, who believed firmly that the Lord watched him always, and knowing this, Van wished his actions to be pleasing to God.

Van had light hair tended toward reddish-brown, hence he fit the surname Sorrell, which literally means, reddish-brown, or auburn–a Norman-English name. Indeed the Sorrells according to tradition were Normans who came to England with William the Conqueror in 1066. Some authorities claim that the Sorrels were Huguenots from France.  In America the name has been spelled variously, Sorrel, Sorrel, Sorrels, Sorrells, and so on. The immigrants from the British-Isles are often of Scotch-Irish extraction. Many moved south and west in America. Some of the earliest Sorrell immigrants arrived in Virginia in the first half of the seventeenth century. For example there was a Robert Sorrell who came to Virginia and owned 800 acres in James County. He could have been the same Robert Sorrell who died during Bacon’s Rebellion

This man Van of Norman and English extraction of reddish-brown hair had hard muscles, because he worked from dawn to dusk, most days, cutting trees in the forest, cutting off the limbs, dragging the large trunks to his workshop, hewing the wood into various shapes, squares and rectangles that could be used for fencing, barn and cabin framing, railroad ties, and such. During winter he spent much of his time cutting firewood for customers. Sometimes his work was more intricate: preparing wood for the delicate task of fashioning a stringed instrument. Some of this work took thought, some of it did not; he supplemented the routine actions with traditional songs and hymns, many of which he had memorized, others he had composed based off of the original–his own compositions, his own verse–which he said or hummed, thinking that later in the day, after dusk, he would sit next to the fireplace strumming his guitar, or making the mandolin sing. And his wife would join in, their voices merging together, the mandolin, guitar, or fiddle combining together in joyous tunes of praise to the Lord, the land, and the past.

Van’s great-great-great grandfather William Sorrels lived in Virginia, born in 1735, died in 1780 during the War for Independence. He was a veteran of the French-Indian War, discharged early in the war in 1755. He was once again involved in the War for Independence, even though he was in his forties. A record exists showing that he was part of a medical staff caring for wounded soldiers, including his son Richard, who died from his wounds. William appears to have married Ann Holloway, ten years older, in 1749. They both died in 1780. Although there is a record of a Thomas Sorrell dying in 1777 during the war, it was probably not William and Anna’s son Thomas, who died in 1832. Whether or not such historical records ever occurred to Van, I would doubt, as he was a farmer and woodchopper, not the type to care about the details of his forebears in the Revolution. Perhaps he had good reason, as the records are very vague and uncertain, and it is only speculation that William and Anna and Thomas were his ancestors. 

 Imagine one November day that found Van alone in the forest about a mile from his cabin. He was hard at work felling a huge oak tree. It was difficult, dangerous work. His ax rang out into the silence of the forest as he struck and struck again and again. The steel blade of his ax attached to a hard ash handle was his pride, his livelihood, an expensive, elegant tool that he kept sharp every day, in the morning before going off into the woods, grinding and whetting the blade until it shined and was ready for the day’s work. This day, Van struck at the oak, the blade digging deeper and deeper, the wood shavings flailing into the air, the smell of the cut wood inundating the air. He knew that his work was life to him and to his family yet death to the tree. This tree was old, much older than Van, and had been in this forest for several score years. Yet Van was bringing about the tree’s demise. He might have thought about this as he swung his ax. He did not sense that the tree felt anything. But to bring about death to anything, any creature–and the tree was certainly a creature, created by God—was solemn work. The forest surrounded him with life. There were countless trees like this one. The forest filled a purpose for him, so that he and his family might live. Such was the course of life and death in God’s creation.

Van swung the ax, in rhythm with time, with the Creation, and he thought of simple words, like a verse for a song. Such is how this simple man passed his days, working in the forest, cutting wood, thinking, singing, perhaps even creating a Psalter in his head to justify his existence, to make peace with God’s creation.

Van’s ax fashioned the cabin, we imagine, in which his young family resided. It was a solid pine cabin with oak flooring. Van had constructed a hearth on the north side of the cabin to counter the coolest winds of the winter. It was a broad hearth that dominated the room, which was altogether spacious for his family, with one part a parlor for sitting and conversing, another part with beds for sleeping, and the hearth itself for cooking, warming, sitting, reading, relaxing. Van had his chair before the fire. He found it stimulated his thinking. His wife Martha had her rocking chair next to his before the fire. Here she worked with her hands, sewing, mending clothes, cutting the vegetables for the family meals, holding her book to read, or sitting quietly next to her husband in the simplicity of daily life. Unlike him she was small, not weak but still delicate, appearing like a fragile flower, at least in Van’s mind. She was pretty in a basic feminine way. Her hair was long; she kept it up in the fashion of the day. She wore long dresses of her own manufacture. She was fond of simple pastel colors: blues, pinks, yellows. She spun her own thread at the spinning wheel, situated at the northwest corner of the cabin. Here she had a basket filled with yarn and thread. She had a small table with scissors, pins, pin cushions, thimbles, and such tools of the dressmaker’s trade. She made her own dresses, and perhaps even made Van’s trousers and shirts.

Van and Martha lived in the forest and hills of northwest Arkansas, in the small town of Rule in Carroll County. Van worked the land he rented. A small part of this land was plowed and planted for subsistence living: they grew potatoes, corn, okra, tomatoes, lettuce, beans, and squash. There were wild fruit trees and vines throughout, such as persimmon, mulberry, blackberry, blueberry. Van made maple syrup from maple trees in the late winter. He supplemented their diet with fishing. Osage Creek, a mountain stream that flowed into the Illinois River, cut through Van’s rented acreage. The river hosted trout for the cunning angler to supply the dinner table. Van spent part of almost every day fishing. It was relaxing, after a long day swinging the ax. And it was important for his livelihood. The shallow river was fresh and cool, perfect for trout. Van made his own poles and flies and was quite a good fisher.

Fishing was a thoughtful, solemn activity. Van stood at the riverbank, or waded close to shore, fishing quietly. Van listened to the water, to the breeze flowing through the trees, and thought of the ways of the Lord, who communicates so silently.

The dangers of the Arkansas forest were many. But Van knew that God was with him and his family. His father, an Arkansas farmer, had taught Van the greatest lesson he sought to teach. Rely on the Lord. Life is filled with happenstance, it seems. There is danger and death. Rely on the Lord. Van was not a man of great words, rather great thoughts. He spoke when necessary.

Van was not a preacher. Preachers were prolific, of course, among the people of Arkansas, and Van knew quite a few, had listened to even more. The Bible was the great source of knowledge of God, not preachers–though they served their purpose. Van believed in reading the Bible, the source of wisdom.

The farmers and laborers of Carroll County met on Sundays at the Baptist church. It was a small, rectangular building fashioned with wood, built by the people of the town. The pews were of hardwood, and they were uncomfortable to sit in in summer when the clothes stuck to the wood and in winter when the fireplace at the north end hardly warmed the place. The preacher told the people that this was a way to mortify themselves, deny themselves, to prepare for the inevitable meeting with the Lord. “You shall meet the Lord soon,” he said; “some of you sooner than others. Prepare yourselves for His wrath.” Van heard the preacher’s message and wondered about God’s ways. Would God send some to Hell, others to Heaven, as the preacher said? Who goes where, and why? These were difficult matters to consider, and Van’s questions and uncertainty matched others in the congregation.

The time we are describing, 1895, provides few records to help us discover much about Van and Martha’s lives. They were married March 27, 1895, in Mountain Home, Arkansas. Mountain Home was Van’s birthplace, and his parents, Ephraim Deals and Sarah Amelia Sorrels, yet lived there. Martha was born in northern Texas, Titus County, to Joseph Wesley and Jerusha Clementine Tully. Her parents had relocated to the town of Liberty in Carroll County, Arkansas, seventy miles from Mountain Home, where she met Van. Soon after their marriage, Van and Martha set up housekeeping in Rule, Carroll County, near where Joseph and Jerusha lived. And, soon after the marriage, Martha became pregnant with their first child.

The people of Northwest Arkansas were mostly whites, descendants of immigrants who came to the original southern colonies; many had relocated to Arkansas from North Carolina and Tennessee. There were few blacks who lived and farmed in Carroll County; before the Civil War there were few slaves in this region. The people generally had not been slave owners, hence opposed secession, as did their forebears in eastern Tennessee; but when push came to shove and it was a choice between the Confederacy and the invaders, the Union troops, the people of Northwest Arkansas went with the Confederacy. Part of the reason for their choice was the presence of armed bands of Union troops, some official army, some Jayhawkers from Missouri and Arkansas, that brought lawlessness to the region. The independent-mindedness of the people did not pay off, as much of Carroll County was overrun with Union troops, who destroyed and confiscated as they marched through the farmlands. Rule was a small town that was founded after the war; the population was scarce and scattered, and Van and Martha had land, wood, and fish but few neighbors. Joseph and Jerusha lived nearby. The land was mountainous, good for apples, grapes, and peaches as well as family gardens. The land was well-watered. Besides Osage Creek, other good places to fish included King’s River and White River. Oak and cedar provided wood for fences, rustic furniture, and the warmth of family hearths. Traveling in Carroll County was a chore in the late 1800s. Even today the highways are few and far between, windy and filled with quick elevations succeeded by rapid declensions in the road. Walking, riding horseback, or traveling by horse and buggy would have been treacherous in a land of contrary weather and quick storms brewing, rough often nonexistent roads, thick forests, and rapid sometimes uncrossable streams. It tended to make people stay put. It is surprising, however, how often Van and Martha, Ephraim and Sarah, Joseph and Jerusha, and other members of the Sorrels and Tully families, moved–it was poverty and want, more than anything else, that forced the frequent movement, usually west. 

Van and Martha about 1906   

For a complete history of Van Sorrels and his extended family, purchase my biographical portrait published at see Van Sorrels the Woodcutting Musician | Ash Hill Publishing