Soup

I just ain’t a pumpkin spice kind of fella. To celebrate the coming of Fall, give me soup.

I’ve always been a bit partial to the months that end in ‘ber’, after the harvest and as the sun retreats from the sky a tid bit earlier each day. The light that bathes the mountains turns a golden hue, the luciferian humidity wanes, and one finds that they don’t have to work the fields nary as long as autumn settles in. Now I love me a fine mess of momma’s white ½ runners with some fried okra, squash, accompanied with a plate of fresh maters, onions, and cucumber, and I know in a few months time, I’ll have the worst hankering for it again, but on that first cool day when the humidity breaks and the land gets that golden glow, my soul simply craves a homemade pot of soup. 

Picked fresh after the drying of morning dew

I reckon every family has their own version of ‘soup’, but it seems that around these parts it mostly refers to a variation of vegetable beef. I completely blame my soup love on momma. She always made it a point to get excited about holidays and had a love for the changing of the seasons. And without fail, on that preforementioned day, she’d wake up, sip on a cup of coffee, and wake me up by whispering, “looks like a soup day today, Bunky.” (My childhood nickname from momma is yet another tale perhaps to be told). But dang it, if that woman wasn’t always right. She could feel the shift of the season within her soul, and where some folk celebrate with shindigs and ballyhootin, momma celebrated with the perfect food for the feeling of the day.

Being a child born in the throws of autumn as the tall grasses fade to brown and the apples ripen sweet on the trees, I’ve always been kinda partial to those grey, cool days. The kind where a flannel feels good and sittin round a campfire in the eveningtide is better than any TV show. And each year on my birthday, momma would always ask me what I wanted for my special dinner, and my reply was always the same…..soup please, momma. The family would gather, dining on the steaming bowls of the last of the garden’s bounty with a big pone of cornbread slathered with butter, then I’d open presents and we’d enjoy my cake from the Payne lady out on Mtn. View.

Soup beans and the fixins

The tradition of soup stuck with me, and every year when the light begins to shift and shine golden on the mountains, my soul feels the need to celebrate by pulling out the old stockpot. I’ll make a trip to the garden and gather the dwindling veggies or crack open some of what we have canned for winter, and with almost reverie, begin the ritual that heralds the coming of autumn. For I feel the change within my own soul as well. And as good as my soup is (ask anyone who’s tried it), there ain’t nothing like that phone call from momma around this time of year where when you say hello, her only words are, “feels like soup today. See y’all round 6:00.” Thank you momma. For feeding the community and our souls for decades.

The Wise Folk

Irony… Although we have more access to information across the globe at the speed of a button, in the not so distant past, we were more connected with the world that surrounds us.

Mountain folk have long been known for some of their…..unique gifts and talents. Throughout my Appalachian childhood I had the privilege of crossing paths with a fair number of these folk, and their history and personal stories I carry with me to this day. It’s long been told that the seventh son of a seventh son has what many hillfok would simply call ‘the sight’, but these special gifts were also found in those who were fully present, attuned, immersed, or just at one with the natural world around them. These mountains held healers who could fix you right up with a collection of wild gathered plants and herbs. There were those who took the fire out of a burn, those who cured thrush, bought warts, spoke to animals, or could predict the weather better than any meteorologist on the TV simply by fully knowing their surroundings.

Papaw bought warts. Folk would come to him and he’d look at the thing and offer you a nickel or a dime for it. His enormous sun darkened hands would clap and he would rub em together before blowing into them and then work with the area that had the wart. He wouldn’t let you look at it and would talk to you the entire time. A week later the ole wart would begin to go away. I can’t explain it.

Mamaw was known for helping out young mothers when their youngins had the thrush. She’d rub those hands together till they were hot, all the while whispering unknown words into those hands. She’d then cup em together and blow straight into that baby’s mouth..one short, one long, one short breath. And folks kept coming back to her. I just can’t explain it.

There was the rare occasion when some neighbor had gotten burned and they’d come a calling. She’d comfort the poor soul, and her ring filled hands would begin to rub together. I remember, in her whispers, catching something from Ezekiel, and she would lay those hands just above the burn. She said once that she could feel the fire rising from the poor soul, and as they began to relax I could see the wrinkles in Mamaws face increase. She was always tired and didn’t feel like doing much for a couple of days afterwards, and we ate sammiches till she felt good as snuff. 

These….gifts…. talents…..they ain’t necessarily hereditary or transferable. I never learned the whispers of healing words, and I could never take out the fire, but I did learn the art of plant medicine that helped keep these old mountain folk going for centuries past. Mamaw always said my gift may or may not come. She said mine may be the ability to immerse myself in the natural world and hear its song. And I reckon she might be right…she usually was. But y’all, another gift popped up during childhood that I just thought was normal. I can smell snakes just as plain as day. And different species have different smells. But that’s a story for another day.

The Chariot Home

Death is an unknown than many fear, yet in the hills and hollers of the Appalachian region, for most, it is just a transition to goin home. Now this ain’t to say that we don’t get sad, mourn, and miss the ones we love… but, for many, it means they’re going home to a place that they’ve been taught about and sung about for their entire lives. . Eternal life awaits, and the funeral and procession is their golden carriage to their promised land. 

There was a time when, not too long ago, a common practice flourished throughout the United States of allowing the grieving families an opportunity to know they had the full respect of total strangers: Oncoming motorists would pull over as a funeral procession approached their vehicle Itis a sign of respect, honor, and kinship for our fellow humans. This custom is so ingrained in me that not only do I pull over, I immediately turn off my radio and take off my hat and put it over my heart. I also tend to turn down the radio when passing a cemetery or if the light is on outside the funeral home when I pass by. I respect the dead…. sometimes more than the living and so does everyone else around here. 

Times are changing and now this custom seems to be found only in rural areas of the south and pockets of Appalachia as the ability to slow down for a moment has become an inconvenience. 

Appalachia is well known for some of its odd and quirky traditions, customs, and comfort food. Yet there exists one that many local folk take very seriously around here, and for those who plan on visiting this Autumn, it is a good one to understand and respect…

Anna Garland, who has spent her entire 76 years in the hills and hollers of appalachia  recalls, It’s just a sign of respect — a way of saying ‘We don’t know you, but we know that you’re hurting and therefore we’re going to pause of a few seconds to show our respect.  It’s how things were done when I was younger and I sure miss that level of respect people had for strangers.”

But where it gets hairy is when folks who may not know the custom or those who simply don’t care try to pass the procession or weave through the vehicles who have stopped to pay their respects. And this is where folks get hurt. Us locals will do what it takes to stop traffic even if it means standing in the middle of the road to stop cars.  So as you find yourself vacationing in some of these rural mountain towns and if you happen to come across a funeral procession, take the time to stop for a few moments and honor not only a fellow human’s life, but their family as well. They were probably someone who helped make the town you adore so much what it is today, and you’d want the same respect shown to your family. I mean…..isn’t the point of vacationing here to slow down a bit, anyway

Fading Summer

As the iron weed begins to bloom and the light of the sun starts shifting to that wonderful golden glow we all love so much, I can feel the wind breathing life into the upcoming autumn days.

I remember growing up, some of my favorite autumn memories took place on the porch of a little apple house just north of Blue Ridge and a few houses down from my childhood home. I would spend the first part of my days in the schoolhouse learning arithmetic and how to write, and then the big yellow bus would drop me off a couple of driveways down from my home on the hill. Dad worked picking and grading apples at Mr. Joe’s orchard during the season and I absolutely loved spending cool autumn evenings with him while he was there.

Ironweed

The air within those trees felt like it possessed just the slightest hint of magic, and would turn a nose red if it blew too cold. He would sit on a rickety little stool at the bottom of the grader sorting through the Red Delicious and Arkansas Blacks as I sat in a makeshift lounge of apple boxes reading whatever book I had grabbed from the library that week. Most commonly it was one of the Harry Potter novels, but sometimes I would slip in a classic like “Huckleberry Finn”. The porch smelled of…. well… slightly old apples and fresh apple pies. Now you’d assume this was not a pleasant combination, but it tickled my nose and always made me smile. Dad would tell me stories of his childhood within the rows of old apple trees, and we would laugh and talk until the light began to fade behind the trees. When the day was done he would pack the apple boxes that were earlier my throne and we would ride to the very top of the trees to watch the sun set behind Big Frog mountain. Memories like that stay with you forever……and they begin to shape who you are.
Now, mayhaps over a decade later, and still I spend my days in the rows of those magic filled trees. Dad ended up taking over the orchard when Mr. Joe decided to retire, and now he gets to do what he loves most. You see, dad actually went to college and got a degree in English Lit, but he wasn’t sure what he was going to do with it, he just knew he loved it. So why isn’t he teaching you might ask? Well, around two years ago the stress of the world began to catch up to him and then one night soon after he got a call from Mr. Joe. Old Joe had decided that he was ready to do other things in his golden years and that he was thinking of putting the orchard up for sale and he would love nothing more than to keep that orchard in the family. Dad still says to this day it had to be a sign from the gods. So here we are….we spend the evenings walking the rows in the golden light— orange leaves reflecting it across the mountains in the distance. We rise early to prepare the pies and the warm cider for the eager visitors looking for a small piece of a simpler existence. And true to old Joe’s request, it’s a family affair. Mom and I work in the kitchen baking recipes that have been passed down for generations while dad spends time telling stories and slicing apples for the visitors. The grandparents even come to lend a hand on busy days to simply greet folks with a honest appalachian smile and give directions to their favorite places and pass samples out to reaching hands. Mr. Joe still comes around of course; he’s the best tractor ride chauffeur and storyteller anyone could ever ask for.

Dad at home

He tells the stories of how he and my grandfather spent their evenings during the early 1950’s grafting trees in the basement to start an orchard on his new land. The land actually belonged to my great great great grandfather but he sold it to Joe for a bargain shortly after he and Mary Jo were married ( that’s a story that involves a candy apple red ’54 chevy, shoe shining, and a wee bit of sneaking around. It’s a tale one can hear only while on a wagon ride amongst the trees.) It’s a beautiful thing…the stories you hear within the trees, because every person in the family has their own story to tell. Mr. Joe speaks of his trees, Papaw of the truck rides through the rows performing “pest control”. My dad recalls his time spent reading and running through the trees and how you can count the rings of those old trees as a marker for his own life, and I tell my very own stories which you happen to have come across here. That’s why this land will always hold a special place in our hearts. We are inherently rooted (just like these old trees) to the soil on this appalachian hillside, and why we love the autumn season oh so very much. It’s the time in which the orchard comes to life (and honestly, it’s when our own souls come most alive as well) and we are proud to be able to create stories for those generations after us keeping the magic of the trees and our family alive .

Appalachian Traveler

If you found yourself missing our Appalachian ramblings, I humbly apologize. We disconnected and ventured south to the golden isles of Georgia before the onslaught of apple season. You know, in the really not so distant past, before the rise of instant gratification, when mountain folk took a journey it was a big deal for the whole neighborhood. Anticipation would build and the excitement would be whispered about after Sunday services, and on the day of departure it wouldn’t be strange to have a few good folks turn out to see you off and wish you well.

Sunset fishing in the Golden Isles

Just a generation before my own, traveling folks would put on their finer clothes to journey to whatever far away destination. And there wasn’t a fast food joint or cracker barrel at every exit to stop and eat at, no sir. Mamas and Mamaws would pack simple but elegant lunches and snacks to be enjoyed at a roadside picnic table. Gas stations were full service and as a kindly sould would check out the health of your vehicle, the traveler could venture inside for a cold coke and a pack of nabs.
In that time, not so long ago, to have a traveler bring back fresh citrus from Florida was a treat. Or perhaps oysters from the coast or maybe even fresh dug peanuts from where it’s pronounced ‘pee-can’ instead of ‘pa-khan.’ I recall visiting the gulf coast as a kid. My family would stay a week and I’d take my best friend. Then his parents would meet us at the state line and we boys would jump in with them and stay another week. And although we dug out toes in the sand for a day or so, the main objective, on this second week, was fishing. May the good lord forgive me for the mumblings that usherd from my mouth as we would drive back home with the car packed with coolers of fish and shrimp…..in the trunk, the floorboard, between each person, on the roof, and in every lap except for the driver. I always loved the journey, but the ride home was miserable. But upon our return, that fresh fish and shrimp would be given out to the neighborhood, as would the oranges, the oysters, the peanuts, and even the fresh veggies from every roadside stand between here and the ocean.

Evening beach walks of aimless wandering

In a time, not so long ago, we cared about the happiness of our neighbors and their stories that were told around the supper table, and their wins were our wins and their losses were felt throughout the entire neighborhood. You know…..to this day, even though daddy has passed the ¾ century mark, he still puts on his good Sunday go to meetin’ clothes to travel. And although he loves to stop at cracker barrel I see a nostalgic smile spread across his face when he’s eating a bologna and tomato sammich at one of the few remaining roadside picnic tables along the way.
My email is on here somewhere. And I’m a collector of stories. If’n you find yourself missing the feeling of that old neighborhood comradery, send us an email telling us about some of your favorite travel memories, or drop by the orchard, sit on the porch and just visit for a spell like folks used to.

Ridin’ Through

It’s known simply as ‘Ridin Through’, and any local worth their salt will completely understand and follow up with just one question: ‘which dreckshun?’

For most of my early years it was always the Cohuttas. Papaw would load up us youngins in the back of the old half spray painted El Camino ( that’s a story for another day) and he’d drive us up through Tumbling Creek. Sometimes we’d stop at a sunny spot in the ancient moss covered creek and wet our feet, or sometimes in autumn we’d just ride collecting every color of leaf we could find to see who could find the prettiest to bring back home to our mamas. With the youngins, there was always some sort of competition or another. 

Papaw would just drive. His dark brown farmer arm hanging out the window. Slow. Like a man completely content in the moment he was in. We youngins sang, stared at the world, and laid down in the bed looking upward at the specks of the sky poked through the dense canopy of trees. 

Ole Blue

Daddy would load us up into the back of his old 69 maroon Ford and take me and the boys up by the kudzu slides and on to Jacks fields. One day, a rain came up fast and there wasn’t any way we were all fitting into the cab so we just took off our shirts and tolerated the rain. We would yells for daddy to go faster, and we stood up over the cab testing who could tolerate the stinging raindrops the longest. Daddy was also the first to take us ridin’ through when darkness fell. And we began to move on from the Cohuttas to Stanley creek, lower Star Creek, Cashes Valley,and Noontootly. And from those first moments, everything changed.

We rode and looked for deer in Stanley Creek, fished for big cats out lower Star Creek, and rode the flying genie deep in the heart of noontootly. This ‘ridin through’ was to become the epicenter of almost every weekend after I turned 16.

My first car was a 1986 Jeep Cherokee that broke down almost as often as it ran. Her name was ‘White Lightnin’ and for the year before I got my first pickup truck, she explored more dirt roads than she saw pavement. The boys and I weren’t partyers. And truth be told, we really weren’t that social. I was good at it, I just prefered the company of a few rather than the many.

We would eat supper with the folks and then I would make the rounds picking up the boys and it was while stocking up on snuff, mountain dew, and snacks that we would plan our evening. We always did a few laps around the Roses parking lot (Sky City had since closed forcing all the cruisers to migrate to Roses) and we’d say our greetings to folks and then head out in search of dirt roads and mountain boy mischief.  

The Cohuttas

There are enough stories within these weekends of exploration to fill volumes of books. Climbing fall creek falls in our underwear at night, rides across the Toccoa on the cable car, the old church in Cashes Valley where everyone swore there were prints on the ceiling, riding the flying genie in the dead of night and tying a rope to it and the truck (um…y’all….never ever do that. Broken arm, and busted noses and missing teeth.) We explored the creeks, hollers, mountaintops, we built fires and just sat conversing life, we talked about girls, and fishing, and what we planned on doing in life and the next weekend. It was a time that passed all too quickly.

For my youngins, ridin through was just a normal part of life, like going to school. From the time they were wee ones the dappled sunlight of the forest would cross over their brow as they rode in the back of the truck filled with pillows and blankets. I would drive and slide the back window open and turn the radio up so they could hear it. Mae stayed in the back to keep the youngins safe and warm. As they grew we ventured further, and would stay out until the moon rode high and began to fall again. The more they grew, the more we would venture, inviting their friends to tag along, and it was during these times that we began to tell the haunting tales of the southern Appalachian mountains. We visited each cemetery and tried our best to scare the devil out of the kids……and it worked, and they loved it….until the night we all experienced a taste of the supernatural and when the youngins saw fear in mine and Mae’s eyes, the evening wasn’t fun anymore….but it is still talked about to this day. It was two decades of me driving the family as we rode through. 

Small Town Saturday night

Although we have taken more rides than I can count, explored almost every stitch of dirt road in 3 counties, until last summer, I had not been the passenger since I was a teenager. For 20 years, as the driver, I chose the way, the adventure, the destination (if there ever was one). But last summer, the boy visited from his home in the big city in the land of sunshine. He pulled up in his mom’s blue Jeep and said, ‘Lets go ride through’. 

He chose the destination, the way, the adventure. We explored, top down, doors off. We scared ourselves in the old cemetery at Flat Top, we stared out over the kudzu slides, listened to music, and piled out of the car in 1 second when a Japanese hornet wanted to drop in for a visit, not once, but twice. This was the boy’s adventure. He was in the lead. And for the first time in 20 years I looked up at the infinite star filled sky as the crisp night air enveloped me and music filled my soul. I don’t think I have ever breathed deeper or felt so at peace. Thank you, my boy.

Soon, the time comes for the youngest to take up the wheel and load up her old man and mamma and lead the way. It will be her turn to choose the adventure, the way, the destination. Or we can simply do as we have always done, and have no plans, see where the night takes you, and just enjoy ‘ridin through.’

Appalachian summer

It was always a ritual. The final countdown to the last bell of the school year. The last 20 seconds until nigh 3 months of absolute freedom.

As a youngin, my summers were spent with Mamaw and Papaw 3 miles out a little country road, and it wasn’t until adulthood that I realized just how much their lives impacted the person I was to become. Papaw was a tinkerer…. honestly, he was an engineer, but at heart he was a tinkerer who could make any machine come to life, and he had built a personal Harley wagon. Part Harley Davidson, part Volkswagen. And this blue and white 3 wheeler took us enough adventures to fill a book. The little side compartment would be filled with brown loaf bread, a stick of bologna, a couple of tomatoes, and cokes from the little country store, and that was our lunch for each exploration. It was on this machine that we explored every dirt road through cohutta and every back road in this part of the county. It is in this way that my childhood never felt rushed and I learned to simply enjoy the moments that I was in.

Summers came with long light, popsicles on the porch, bare dirty feet, mud pies from the creek, evenings of lightning bugs, baseball games on the radio, snake catching, and the favored mode of transportation for us youngins was our one speed bicycles with the pedals that would take the hide off of your shins. I have never felt the freedom as I did during an Appalachian childhood summer.

Time marches on and youngins grow into teens and the freedom of summer shifts more towards personal exploration and time with friends. By now, I had a part time job but off days and evenings were filled with personal time. We no longer had to be home when the streetlights came on, but instead roamed the mountain back roads under the cover of stars. We rode through Stanley creek religiously, always looking out for deer, climbing fall branch falls (before it was a tourist hole) barefoot, in our skivvies, to see who could make it to the top first, and wandering the tombstones of Tilley Bend to test the bravery of the group. Many a night was spent at the cable cars along the Toccoa River. We’d build a fire along the waters edge, sit around and dip snuff and tell stories, and from time to time, climb out the old cable to retrieve the metal car, bring it back and ride doubles across the river. There is a reason the cable cars were dismantled in later years. And I’m happy to say that with our group, only one finger was lost to the river.

We were the last generation to grow up completely without cell phones or tablets. We used pay phones to check in or make prank calls. 

It was a time in life like no other. It was the freedom of unplugged childhood summers spent in the Southern Appalachian mountains. Moments that created a lifetime full of memories.

When the bloodroot blooms

He always taught me to look for the signs. He also impressed into my young mind the limitless power of books, but he always reminded me to live in the moment and look for the signs. ‘When the bloodroot blooms and peach trees blush to the sun is when we’ll dig.’ And he was never wrong.

There be a tradition of sorts with many of the mountain folk when Spring comes rolling in. After months of canned goods stored away last summer and the last of the cured meat was set on the supper table, the souls of southern Appalachia were ready for fresh green food. The meadows provided things like henbit, deadnettle, violets, while other places provided morels, fresh poke, and wild onions. Yet the most favored spring foraged food was the wild ramp. And to be honest with y’all, there really ain’t nothing quite like it.

Now, as long as that man was in my life, he always had bad knees and walking weren’t ever the easiest for him. But he would gather all us youngins (from the littles to the bigs) into the back of that old El Camino, have Old Rube pack us all a picnic lunch, and off we would go. Up into the highest mountains, beyond the land of cracked asphalt and one pump fillin’ stations, back into the hills where the mountain touched the sky. That old El Camino went places nary any person with sense should venture to, but luckily papaw didn’t need things making sense.

The knowledge of what to look for was passed on from big youngins to little youngins and papaw threatened the switch to any older youngins that weren’t patient with the littles. He stayed with mamaw as she set up for lunch while the youngins were left to explore the hollers and little ole mountain branches in search of wild ramps.

The mountainsides were still fairly bare from their winter sleep and the blossoms of the bloodroot sparkled like snow on the forest floor. Here and there, poking their little green heads out of years of settled leaves would sit our springtime desire. Carefully, we’d dig up the roots and place them in our bags before moving on to another patch.

Pickled ramps

With our sacks full, We would scramble back to where Old Rube and papaw would have a fire going and that she would have the skillet already hot with the taters chopped and ready to fry. There are meals that live on in infamy within one’s mind, and I can assure you that simple plate of warm ham, fried taters with ramps, cornbread and butter, with a piece of raw ramp and salt will live on in my soul forever. 

 Each year I alone wander back up that old mountain to carry on a tradition of happiness in search of the wild ramp. each year the ramps are gathered, the fire built, and the taters fried in that same old iron skillet. And each year, my soul twitches in excitement just a bit when the bloodroot blooms and the peach trees blush to the sun.

The Last Summer

I’ve spent a great deal of time within the mountains that surround our little town. Big Frog watched me grow and the Cohuttas called out to me with open arms. Years pass pretty fast as you age, and I found myself enjoying my last summer within the mountains nary a year ago today. 

Now, I know that it isn’t summer just yet, but I know the youngins are beginning to feel that itch that appears as the school year draws to a close. The tubing companys are opening back up, and the sun is rising higher and higher in the sky day after day. The rivers are becoming less frigid to the touch, and peoples’ gardens are beginning to produce the first fruits. Warm Appalachian days are some of the most prevalent memories within me and each year as summer draws closer I experience the excitement and itch for summer vacation no matter my age. 

Summer solstice in the Ocoee

Growing up, warmer days consisted of playing outside or going on some sort of adventure with dad. These always ended up somewhere shady or near water as  there is nothing he hates more than the summer heat. We spent a great deal of our time exploring the dirt roads, creeks and hollers that lie within the Cohuttas and its surrounding areas. To know these mountain roads is to live and to experience warm nights in the bed of a truck watching the stars shine in the gaps between the thick trees of the forest canopy…it is to know heaven. His favorite spot to cool down from a dreadfully hot day was the old baptizing hole down off the banks of Tumbling creek. We would grab some conoco chicken and taters, wade around, skip stones, and he would tell me stories of when he and old Papaw Creed would do the very same thing but with a bologna sandwich in tow. It’s simple here in the warmer months. Everyone gains an appreciation for the shade of the mountains and longs for those sunset drives on the dirt roads they remember so fondly from their younger days. 

Even as I got older we still did the same things each summer. Creek exploring, camping at the Point, stringing beans to can, driving the back roads with 103.9 blaring, running through the orchard with the sprinkler system on…… that’s summer to me. 

The Bard and The Bee

I say this all now because as the warm weather approaches all of these memories have come flooding back to me. (It’s also already 87° down here in the concrete jungle of Kennesaw so that’s basically summer). I realized that this summer is going to be different and I don’t know if I am quite ready for that fact yet. I figure I’ll find myself driving home more often than not, simply to find reprieve within those very same creeks that everyone before me has. Big Frog and the Cohuttas still call to me, even from 100 miles away and I long to feel the magic of those ancient hills and see the dark sky once more.  That’s the thing about this town and these mountains…. they’re unforgettable. They imprint upon your soul for generations

A late intro

The Bard was raised out a little country road just a tad bit over 3 miles from the copper company across from the old white house where my Mamaw ran barefoot as a wee girl, at the foot of an apple orchard, all within the shadows of Big Frog Mountain. I grew up with folks who lived through the great war and the depression and heard stories of how they weren’t really sure when it was over cause being poor was just how life was.The struggle was simply consistent. I fell in love with the mountains, forests, and creeks early on and would wander them often instead of going to baseball practice (much to daddy’s dismay). And while wandering the area and falling in love with the magic that these old mountains hold, I fell even more in love with it’s people. The old farts, the weird and unusual, the downtrodden, the farmers whose necks were as of old leather from years in the sun, the preacher’s, the congregations, the teachers, the miners, the mechanics…….each of them had, and still have, a story to listen to. A story full of life and hardships, family, and love.

The Bard in ‘Ole Blue’

I repeated these stories to my own youngins as they wandered these same hills and hollers as children to hopefully instill the same love for both mountain magic and for the good folks who would happily open up a spot at their supper table.

The Bee grew up in the little house upon the hill surrounded by forest but had two very important features: it had a view of the old family orchard and there was a well worn path to Mamaw’s house. The town was a little different by the time that she came around, but the hearts of the people remained the same. The Bee spent many childhood days roaming the great woods that surrounded the house on the hill, Mamaw’s house, and the pine thicket that surrounded the big apple orchard she loved oh so much. She grew up in the backseats of an old honda element that turned into a little silver Subaru as she aged, but the adventures stayed the same. She learned to write from The Bard’s stories, learned of the magic of the ancient mountains that surrounded her home, he and her mother taught her to appreciate nature. They made sure she never forgot that the roots of their family run  far deeper than the roots of the tallest trees. It’s something that stuck with The Bee and something that always will. No matter how far away she may wander, these hills will always be her home and the muse of her writings. Her stories may differ a wee bit from those of The Bard, but so has the world and a different perspective from the youngins of these hills is what will keep our fading culture alive for the generations to come. 

The ‘Bee’ with Papaw on a summer day years ago.

Yes, these are our personal musings, but in reality, it’s just a collection of memories of all of those whose roots can be found buried in this rich magic mountain soil.