If you look at the public domain sites above and click on the Vance Randolph link, you'll find access to almost every collection of Ozark folktales he collected. You'll even find Pissing in the Snow, which is still published by Illinois University Press. Then, you can go to Mildred, Quit Hollering and order his final unpublished collection. Now, I'm no folklorist, but in the great tradition of dilettantes, that won't keep me from writing like I know what I'm talking about. I adhere to one essential truth about folktales: No book captures the spirit of the folktale more fully than the Bible.
The first thing you should know is that folktales come from—wait for it now—"folks," and "folks" do not drive fancy cars and lounge by infinity pools. "Folks" sit on the cabin porch and drink homemade whiskey and strum the guitar. Generally speaking, "folks" don't live in town, and "folks" sure as hell don't live in a city. "Folks" may come into money, but when they do, it is out of sheer luck, usually because they sold a piece of land to some citified nincompoop or they found a box of gold left by Spanish conquistadors or they shot at a rabbit, whereupon oil came bubbling out of the ground. But what "folks" don't do is build department stores or practice business law or play the stock market. Such uncanny occupations would undermine their status as "folks" and elevate their status to—well, to what? Persons, I guess. But there are no "person-tales" or "person-songs." Makes you stop and think, doesn't it?
In fact, folktales are hard on "folks" who have scaled the commercial heights to become "persons." "Persons" put on airs; they lord it over others; they are greedy and manipulative; they strut. And even worse are "persons" who pose as "folks." Chief among faux-folks are car salesmen, politicians, tele-evangelists, and insurance agents. Faux-folks such as these must be humbled, which is why folktales exult in leveling the mountains and raising the valleys to make straight the way of the Lord, Who, as we've always known, is One of the "folks."
Hold on to your coaster bar now because we're about to take a dip.
I contend the Bible is also a folktale. Now, I'm not saying the Bible isn't true; that's for you to determine for yourself. But the biggest theme of the Bible is "Pride goeth before a fall." Take the tale of Noah: What's it about if it's not him riding out a global flood only to get drunk and sprawl naked by the empty boat where one of his boys makes fun of him? Or the story of Moses if it's not about him leading the Hebrew children out of Egypt, only to get shut out of the Promised Land because he hit a rock with a stick? And then there's the story of David: He kills the giant Goliath and gets set up as king, only to look down on a woman in a bathtub, whereupon he says to himself, "Hmm-um! I got to get me some of that," whereupon everything goes to hell. See what I mean? "Pride goeth before a fall."
Up to this point, the Bible and the little folktales are in agreement. But things quickly get dicey because the Bible tends to get a little full of itself; it wants to put on a navy blazer and a red tie and comb some Brylcreem through its hair, in short, to become Scripture, and not just Scripture but the infallible, inerrant, inspired Word of God. The Bible so elevated looms over the little folktales like an elementary-school principal who just opened the door to a classroom full of mischief-making third graders. The boys are cutting up and flicking paper footballs and dipping the braids of little girls in the inkwell and the girls are showing their underwear and picking their noses. The teacher, Mrs. Doowright—she of the gray bun and chalky fingers—slumps over her desk with her head in her hands. Suddenly, Principal Hightower stands in the door and intones in his deep voice, "By God, you kids better settle down in here!"
For a moment, all the little folktales are cowed into silence, but next thing you know, they're sticking their thumbs in their ears and waggling their fingers and blowing raspberries. At the principal, mind you! Not just at poor Mrs. Doowright but at Principal Hightower Himself! And why do they do this? Because they are trying to remind Mr. Hightower that a navy blazer and a red tie and oily hair don't elevate a folktale beyond its origins. In short, the little folktales are doing their best to remind the Bible that He used to be one of them: A poor, barefooted, farm boy who sat in the backrow and flipped paper footballs. All that puerile tomfoolery and mockery in folktales is really a reminder to the Bible not to walk too proud: "'Member what you allus said about us not getting too big for our britches? Well, that goes for you, too!"
Read one of Mr. Randolph's collections of folktales and tell me I'm wrong.
But we're not quite finished here because the Gospel story—the New Testament—gets even more complicated. When Jesus calls the religious leaders a "brood of vipers," the little folktales all holler, "Yea!" and when Jesus says, "The meek [that is, the "folks"] will inherit the earth," the little folktales go, "Woot!" and when He says, "Suffer the little children to come to me," the little folktales nod and say, "Damn straight." But when He says, "You have heard 'Thou shalt not commit adultery, but I say to you, if you even think about batter dipping your corndog with the cute gal next door, you are as guilty as if you had done the deed'," the little folktales say, "Whoa, whoa, there, Pardner. There's a big difference between thinking a thing and doing a thing. Sometimes the thinking just happens. In fact, seems to us folktales that it was You who made folks to be how they are: inclined to fornication and shiftlessness and scuffling and swearing by the devil himself. Seems to us that You bear some responsibility for all our tomfoolery."
Now we're smack in the middle of the woods where the true spirit of the folktale dwells. Because folktales are really about us folks talking back to the Master and saying, "Wait a minute . . . your a-sending me to hell because of my sin nature? Ain't that kind of like whipping the dog 'cause it sniffs another dog's booty hole? How is the dog responsible for such as that? Are You sending dogs to hell? Because I ain't never sniffed nobody's booty hole, and if You ain't sending dogs to hell, you oughta not be thinking about sending me there neither."
Now, here's where it gets really interesting. Because what happens next is the Bible kneels down and places its hands on the heads of the little folktales and says, "Did you ever see who it was a-going to hell?"
The little folktales say, "I don't know. No, not really."
"Well, there was the rich fella who didn't take care of Lazarus, the poor sick man."
"Ooh." You can see the little folktales thinking about it.
"And there were the rich people who wouldn't so much as give somebody thirsty a drink of water."
"Ooh." The light is dawning.
"In fact, and follow me here," says the Bible, "the rich have about as much chance of getting into heaven as that donkey of yours squeezing through an awl."
"OOH!" holler the little folktales. "You ARE—"
"One of you guys. That's right!"
"But what about what you were saying before, about how thinking a thing is just as bad as doing a thing. 'Cause that just don't seem right to us."
"You missed my point! The point is that hypocrites act like they're better than everybody else because they are so pure and prissy and would never do something 'like that.' What I was trying to show is that everybody is the same in their hearts, and nobody is better than anybody else. But y'all missed the point."
"Well, then why do you have Brylcreem in your hair and a red necktie on? Why are you always fussing at us?"
The Bible says, "I didn't put all that stuff on. It was put on me. By the same hypocrites I was just telling you about. You might call it a tragic irony."
At this, the little folktales laugh and sing and join hands with the Greatest Folktale of All Time and dance a roundelay. So, the next time you go to a Bible study, think on these things and ponder them in your heart. You'll come closer to the truth if you do.