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.