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