Where Roots run Deep.

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. 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. 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 . 

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Generations. Appalachian traditions

Homecoming

Summer has truly begun in our neck of the Appalachian mountains, and the heat and humidity of the day creates a blue haze that lingers over Big Frog.  Summer in Appalachia is my absolute favorite time of year…yes moreso than Autumn itself. The aroma of campfires drift in the breeze and the sounds of laughter and 103.9 FM can be heard almost everywhere. The lake is at full pool and watermelon juice drips down the chins of both the young and the old. The locals love it here, the out of town visitors love it here, it’s just hard to hate these mountains during the dog days…especially on the Fourth of July.

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Light show over the lake

Growing up in a small town, the Fourth of July has always been my favorite holiday, and it also happens to be one of the biggest celebrations of the year. The town is decked out in red, white, and blue balloons, streamers, and wreaths. Little American flags line the medians in the center of town and Lee Greenwood’s God Bless The USA can be heard playing from the radios of the cars sitting in the once a year traffic. Vendors line the street side selling cotton candy and kettle corn and the smell of grilling hot dogs wafts from truck beds through the thick summer air while teenagers set off irrational amounts of firecrackers which in turn results in everyone looking to the sky, thinking the fireworks started early despite it being high noon.  Every year the local churches host block parties with bounce houses, and the youth groups try their best to paint patriotic doodles on little ones’ faces. Kiddos are running around with cotton candy stuck in their hair decked out in glow sticks, and mamaws sport their traditional Old Navy shirts. When I was younger, my mamaw would buy the entire family matching shirts from Old Navy, and still to this day, she and my papaw wear them together. She used to buy Papaw white shirts, but it never failed that he’d stain it with watermelon juice or baby me would stick my blue cotton candy stained hands all over it. The perks of having such a small community is that if you follow the scent of hamburgers or hot dogs, the likelihood that you know the folks cooking is pretty high, and since everyone is so kind and generous, they’ll probably offer you something to eat and you can sit for a while and share stories. The  sense of community is at its all time high.  The local gas station, the Conoco, is always stocked with every flavor Nehi (now we settle for fanta), and dad would always buy a bunch of orange and grape ones for my brother and I to share.

Every year we park at the local bank in the same spot, which sadly is becoming a terrible viewing spot due to a growing Crape Mertle( trust me, we’ve tried to petition), and we play cornhole, walk town, buy mom her lemonade and kettle corn from the same vendor, in the same spot, and  watch the fireworks being shot from Tater Hill.  It is a tradition. The traditions, however, can’t be found in parking in the same spot, eating the same kettle corn, or wearing the same shirts year after year. One day the crape myrtle will grow too tall and we will have to move ten feet to the left, and Old Navy might stop selling their famous shirts. Our tradition is found in the joy and spirit of the families gathered together. It is found within the community that decorates the war memorials every year without fail. It’s a feeling of patriotism and closeness that creates a tradition for us all. My favorite tradition however, is the traditional ice cream I share with my papaw… even 18 years later.

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Papaw and Bella 2005

– bella

The Old Baptizing Hole

https://anchor.fm/folk-apothics/episodes/The-old-baptizing-hole-es1td0

Season of the Ramp

When you’re just a wee one, holidays, events, seasons, even full moons carry an importance and anticipation that inevitably wanes as adulthood creeps in. These moments begin as simply something to do, yet evolve into traditions that can span generations that inherently leave a mark within a community of people.

For generations, winter was a hard time for the folks of appalachia. Darkness was long and fresh food was about as scarce as hen’s teeth. So when the first vestiges of Spring begun to creep up along the mountainsides, the folks in this area knew that freshness and life wasn’t far behind.

The first tender shoots of an Appalachian spring would poke their heads up from the forest floor and the meadows and people like my papaw would scour the area looking for fresh greens. He would harvest henbit, deadnettle, dandelion, and borage, green spring onions, and the first morels of the season. He and mamaw would feast on fresh wild salads for weeks to (as he always put it) purify the gut and blood. He wasn’t as crazy as you may think. After a winter of salted cured meats, canned fruits and vegetables, and dried goods, the vitamins and minerals found in these fresh mountain greens helped to purge the body of that salty and fatty buildup and pumped their starved bodies full of fiber. And so what was simply a common occurrence and a small necessity for them, became a sort of tradition for us. And the holy grail of spring foraging was the beloved ramp.

Technically speaking,  ramps are a member of the onion family…Allium tricoccum to be more precise, and once filled specific mountainsides above 3000 feet with their springtime glory. But if you’ve ever tried a ramp, you’ll be quick to realize that it’s like no one ion you’ve ever had before. They’re strong…not so much in flavor, but how, after eating enough of them, your body sweats them out for days. And so it was, that each spring, papaw would round up the family to summit the Cohuttas to a very special patch of ramps that he harvested each year. And as he aged, it became a big family affair. We would hike the mountain with backpacks, buckets, and baskets, spend the morning hours amongst the solitude of ancient forests digging out the tubers and filling our baskets. Mamaw and mama would sing as they worked, and  the breeze would carry those old mountain hymns on their voices down the mountainsides. We never even came close to gathering all of the ramp patch. That would practically be sacrilegious, as one must always leave enough for those who come after and for future years of harvesting.

The next day, we would gather again on mamaws front porch and yard to clean the ramps. Papaw would fill buckets of water and light a pile of pine needles to keep the gnats at bay and we would clean. Daddy would pull his car up under the giant and ancient white pines in the yard and turn on the car radio for us all to listen to, and as the grownups cleaned and talked, the youngins would spin in circles in the tire swing and jitterbug to the sounds of Johnny Cash and Loretta Lynn.

The gentlemen folk would pack the old Mason jars to the brim with the white and pink part of the ramps, leaving the greens for drying. And as the ladies went inside to prepare the evening meal, we set to making the brine to pickle the jars of ramps. Its simple really….a bit of vinegar, a bit of water, a touch of sugar and salt, with just the right amount of thyme and peppercorns….thats all that is needed for the flavor of the reps to shine through.

Supper came and we feasted on platefulls of soup beans with ramps, cornbread with fresh butter, fried potatoes with ramps, pickled peppers and okra, and usually a slap of nearly burnt porkchop, all with a jar full of freshly cleaned raw ramps that sat in the middle of the table for all to enjoy.

We did this every year. What started as necessity for my grandparents, evolved into helping him as he grew older, which evolved into a tradition that carried on for years to come. And we ain’t the only family in these parts with a story similar to our own. Ramp tramps and ramp festivals have popped up all over appalachia. Each a bit different, but almost all involving good food, ramps, bluegrass, and community.

My grandparents are gone from this life, and my mom and dad can’t make the hike up the mountain anymore, my youngings are grown and just starting a life of their own. Now each year I stop in to the ramp tramp held over in Reliance and enjoy a Friday evening by the creek listening to a few fellers pick out some mountain sounds of their banjo and fiddle while enjoying some food and fellowship. But each spring about the time the dogwoods bloom, I still get that twinge of anticipation of a schoolboy. And just after the sun rises, I make that hike up the mountain to the old ramp patch. And if I close my eyes I can see the pictures in my mind of the whole family gathered round singing those old haunting tunes. So as I dig….I sing…..for may these tunes and words forever flow down the mountainside during the heart of an Appalachian spring in the season of the ramps.

The Orchard on the Hill

I grew up in these trees. Sprawled across an Appalachian hillside below an old country church, these trees, with their tree rings, tell the story of my life.

50 some odd years ago Joe put a few apple trees in the soil and a few years later the real orchard began. Daddy and joe both worked at the copper company and had been best friends since their high school days. So every Friday and Saturday after work, those two could be found in the basement grafting apple trees while momma and Mary Jo kept us all fed. The youngins would play in the yard and poke around in the freshly tilled earth just trying to stay out from underfoot.

When trees are young you gotta keep a close eye on em. They’re easy to dry out but are most susceptible to critters who love to munch on the green bark around the base. And when I was a wee one, daddy would sit in the orchard in the late hours keeping an eye out for rabbits while momma would read me books by lantern light or pass down the tales from her father by just the starlight.

Change is inevitable,  and as the trees and i both grew, there were amazing and rough seasons. I remember the year the locusts came and all but wiped out the harvest. I remember the drought, but only from the eyes of a child. As daddy and Joe had night sweats about the fate of the crop, Joel and I simply had fun running and riding our bicycles down the bumpy rows of trees as the sprinklers cooled off two mountain kids on a hot summer evening.  I ruined many a set of clothes this way, to my momma’s dismay. I remember the year of the blight and how Christmas that year was lean, but still as joyous as ever. But I also remember years of so many apples that we couldn’t sell em all and the deer ate well that December.

The trees continued to grow, and I along with them. I learned to drive a stick way before I was supposed to as joel and I drove the old clunker of a pickup up and down the rows with dad and Joe standing in the back still looking for those danged rabbits. I found God amongst these trees. Sitting up on row 26 one Sunday morning among the Jonathans. Before the church on the hill had air conditioning, they would leave the windows up to catch a breeze, and on that breeze the sounds of an Appalachian choir singing those old hymns from the purple book would drift down through the trees and pierce the inner workings of your soul. I lost God amongst these same trees….angry with the world, and simply being that omnipotent and omniscient twenty something year old….knowing everything, yet knowing nothing. And it was here, yeah, among the same older trees that I found God once again in my own way and that peace that had eluded me since the innocence of childhood.

Yall…..orchards mature, and so do the people who run them along with the children who once climbed their branches and slept in their shade. Dad and joe have both since retired, and for a short time, the apples and their trees took a rest. But one spring evening, my wife and i were at the top of the orchard, not so far from the God tree, when it suddenly became as clear as the view of the mountains before us. This is what we are supposed to do…..

And we invite you. All of you, to come see us at our little piece of heaven. These old trees hold countless stories of lives lived. Here, the only crowd is around the pie case where amanda makes those old apple pies just like mamaw did or perhaps the small gathering of codgers who meet to sip coffee and tell the same fish tales they’ve told for decades. Its what you picture within your soul when you think of an orchard of apples and the life that goes with it. So come on out and say hello. You’ll find us out a little country road, below the old church, at the little orchard on the hill. Here our roots run deep. Stop and stay a while at Deep Roots Orchard.

Why you come

You chose to come here for a reason. Mayhaps you are one who seeks adventure, and you heard tell of the countless miles of hiking that can be found within our wild southern appalachian mountains or the hidden waterfalls and swimming holes that beckon you to shed your clothes and cares on a sweltering july day. Perhaps you came to wet a fly and find solitude on a cold and clear mountain stream and find that oneness of forest, water, and sky.

On the banks of ‘our’ creek

It could be that whilst sitting in traffic, you found yourself daydreaming of mountaintop sunsets from the deck of cabin that overlooks an ocean of trees.

And we have that. In abundance.  

But if I were a gambling man, and you were honest with yourself….I mean down deep honest….I would venture to guess that these mountains also drew you in on a level deep within your soul. A longing for just a small reprieve to a life a little more laid back. And perhaps, to a place where in the right moment, time seems to stand still.

Those of us who have roots here understand that call. And contrary to many out there who believe that we are just ‘stuck’, its that primordial call that either keeps us in these mountains, or finds us returning to our roots later in life. There is history here. Some of it isn’t pretty. Yet much of it is beautiful and there are countless stories from the simple folks who scratched out a life (a good life) in these unforgiving mountains. 

And I am here to tell their stories….the good, the heartbreaking, the customs, the colloquial, and the traditions that make us who we are. I tell these stories not for mere entertainment,  but so this dwindling culture that once ensconced such a large part of our nation, should not be forgotten,  and perhaps, just maybe, seen in a different light other than just the bumbling hillbilly. 

I am Luke. I was born in the shadows of Big Frog Mountain out a little country road that led into the depths of the Cohutta Wilderness.  I grew up wading the crystal clear waters of Tumbling Creek, and rambling around the woods behind my house. Daddy worked in the copper mines, Momma worked for the state, and I went to grammar school at a little old school that sat on top of a large hill overlooking our small town on one side and the vast de-nuded landscape of copper mining on the other.

Grading apples at the orchard

I spent my summers with Mamaw (old Rube) an Papaw (Creed) in their little shift of a place just up the road a piece from my own house. It wasn’t much. Papaw built it after he and mamaw got married at the start of the Depression, but Lord, was it a warm and homey place. Papaw worked in the mines till he retired and mamaw was a housewife who raised all the youngins and grandbabies, and she was the local Avon lady. Those two always had something going on, but yet always found the time to enjoy a front porch sitting with friends and family. 

It was here, my summers with them, and the stories they told, that I learned of the beauty and simplicity that these ancient mountains hold.  And in the stories to come, I hope that perhaps….just maybe, if you close your eyes and breathe in real deep, that you too can find yourself on an old front porch on a warm June evening with a cold glass of overly sweet tea in your hand listening to the resonating voice of Papaw Creed telling tales as lightning bugs rise from the meadow and Old Rube hums those old southern hymns.

-L

The Dog Days

The dog days of summer are upon us here in Appalachia and the heat is absolutely…. well… miserable. Days are spent indoors and it’s only reasonable to venture outdoors about 2 hours after sunset. Legs stick to lawn chairs, fish don’t bite, bugs are incessant, the lake is packed, and the air is heavy with humidity. As a child, these days didn’t seem quite so bad, but it seems as though every year the dog days grow longer and hotter and our hearts become despondent that autumn will ever arrive.

As a kid, I normally spent most of July and August outside chasing fairies and swimming in our duck pond and I only came inside for 2 reasons: 1) Dora the Explorer was on the telly, or 2) dinner was ready.  After dinner was when we would go on our adventures.  Some of my favorite memories are on summer evenings when dad and I would jump on the big green four wheeler and take off for the family orchard. Still to this day, its the best place to watch sunset or to watch a storm roll over Frog Mountain in the distance, and the fireflies put on a show there that is truly breathtaking.

I’m going to tell you a story, and I want you to zone in on this writing for a second to where you can almost feel the hot summer breeze graze your cheek, and hear the sounds of the cicadas and the peepers ( that sound that frogs make in the summer when they’re mating).

It was probably the summer of ’09 or ’10, and the mountains hadn’t seen a drop of rain in quite some time. The only moisture present was that of which hung depressingly in the summer air. I had spent the day outside climbing the big hemlock tree in our front yard that I lovingly named Tinkerbell. Mom made dinner and called for me to come inside, and as I ran inside, blonde curls bouncing with me, the long awaited smell of petrichor was creeping into the air. I cant recall what we ate that night, but I remember standing on my tippy toes putting my plate in the sink, and running to my room to put on my flip flops…. it was time for mine and dads evening ride.

As dad pulled the starter string for the four wheeler, the smell of gasoline would waft into the air. The four wheeler was old, so sometimes startup took a little while, but it always started on way or another. I sat in front of dad because I’ve always been a reasonably small person and also because sometimes I got to drive, and as we would ride, I’d stick my feet straight out under the steering wheel, because my legs didn’t reach the foot rests,  so i’d end up burning my self on the engine if i didn’t.

As we rode through the orchard rows, the hot air hit our faces, along with the occasional firefly,  the cicadas and peepers were loud enough to be heard over the roar of the four wheeler. The air smelled faintly of apple spray and dirt, and the clouds were building in the distance. As we crested the hill at the top of the orchard, just beside the little church on the hill, and into the meadow,  I remember looking up to this one little puffy cloud right over head as it flashed bright with pink lightning. No thunder rolled quite yet. I looked back at dad with a big toothy grin and pointed to the clouds, and a smile crept across his face. Rain was coming. Now still to this day,  I’m not sure if it was just perfect timing, or dad had something up his sleeve, but moments after i pointed to the skies, the sprinklers in the orchard came on. Now I know that Mr. Joe knows better than to turn on sprinklers right before rain….. but I’m not going to question my favorite memory. So the sprinklers turned on and as we drove through the water, my pink cherry silky pajama pants began to stick to my legs, and my curls stuck against my pale skin. I can still hear mine and dad’s laughter as we drove through the mixture of sprinklers and the rain. That was the first rain, and it brought a reprieve to the dog days.

So, yes, the dog days may be the most dreadful and miserable time of the year, but if you make the most of it, the memories are irreplaceable.

-bella

Homecoming

Summer has truly begun in our neck of the Appalachian mountains and the heat and  humidity of the day creates a blue haze that lingers over Frog.  Summer in Appalachia is my absolute favorite time of year, despite whatever dad may write about it. The smell of campfires drift in the breeze and the sounds of laughter and 103.9 FM (our local country station) can be heard almost everywhere. The locals love it here, the out of town visitors love it here, its just hard to hate in the summer… especially on the fourth of July.

Growing up in a small town, the fourth of July has always been one of my favorite holidays, its also the biggest celebration of the year. The town is decorated with red, white, and blue balloons, streamers, and wreaths. Little American flags line the median in the center of town and vendors line the street side. Traffic is always backed like crazy and the trucks always fly big american flags . The smell of grilling hot dogs wafts from truck beds through the thick air while teenagers set of irrational amounts of firecrackers which in turn results in everyone looking to the sky, thinking the fireworks started early.  Every year the local church hosts a block party with bounce houses and the youth group tries their best to paint patriotic doodles on little ones faces.  Kids are running around with cotton candy stuck in their hair decked out in glow sticks, and grandmas sport their traditional Old Navy shirts. When I was younger, my grandma would buy the entire family matching shirts from Old Navy, and still to this day, her and papaw wear them together. She use to buy papaw white shirts, but it never failed that he’d stain it with watermelon juice or baby me would stick my blue cotton candy stained hands on it. The perks of having such a small community is that if you follow the scent of hamburgers or hot dogs, the likelihood that you know the folks cooking is pretty high, and since everyone is so kind and generous, they’ll probably offer you something to eat and you can sit for a while and share stories. The  sense of community is at its all time high.  The local Gas station, the Conoco, is always stocked with every flavor Nehi, and dad would always buy a bunch of orange and grape ones for my brother and I to share. Every year we park at the local bank in the same spot, which sadly is becoming a terrible viewing spot due to a growing magnolia tree( trust me, we’ve tried to petition), and we play cornhole, walk town, buy mom her lemonade and kettle corn from the same vendor, in the same spot, and  watch the fireworks being shot from tater hill.  Its tradition. My favorite tradition however, is the traditional ice cream I share with my papaw… even 16 years later.

– bella

The Art of Nothingness

On a recent lazy Sunday we did like we often do, and loaded up the Subaru with sammiches, a cooler, and a backpack full of clothes and drove. Many of our favorite days stem from not having a single plan or directive and we literally go wherever the wind may take us. (No agenda=no expectations=no disappointment). It was an unusually warm early June Sunday and our toes began to itch for the cool flowing waters of some hidden creek nestled amongst some deep holler. Making our way down an old dirt road covered in washboards far off the beaten path, we were shocked  to find over 20 vehicles parked along the roadside at one of our favorite ‘locals’ swimming holes.  Now I don’t mind sharing some of our favorite places, and Lord knows that we’re not the only folks around who know about this place, but as we strolled up the road past the cars to get to the trail, I couldn’t help but notice that out of the multitude of vehicles only one tag was remotely from around here.  Somehow, our little secret swimming hole isn’t quite so secret anymore.

Following the overgrowing trail, we made our  way down to the creek and were greeted by what almost looked like some sort of revival. The quietness of the forest was gone. But what perplexed my soul was that almost no one was in the water. Everyone was simply posing for pictures. But not just a snapshot……A photo would be taken, looked at, scrutinized, and then retaken……all in a quest for the perfect Instagram photo that said to the world, “I WAS HERE AND EXPERIENCED THIS.”

All of which is a lie.

There was no experiencing. There was no taking a moment to look around, to hear the sound of the eternal mountain water as it tumbled over ageless stones, to breathe in the earthy aroma of the forest floor, or feel the warmth of the random beams of sunlight as it peeked through the canopy onto the boulders in the middle of the creek.

We watched this scene and then quietly walked on up the stream for another 1/8 mile to the real destination. Here, the trail narrows even more and in many places one is forced to simply wade up the creek. But just beyond where the tourists seem to go, around a bend  is the waterfall. Here, there was a small group of teenagers swimming  in the cool green waters beneath the cascading falls and sunning themselves on the boulders along the creekbank. I said my hellos, offered them some drinks from my cooler, and asked them where they were from. They were the one car among the many who were from just a few miles away. Only once did i see a phone when they asked if i could take a picture of them together. Then it was put away and they lived the life others want to Instagram about.

As a society, we are quickly forgetting the beauty in the art of doing nothing. Of Stillness. Of allowing the sun to warm our anxious bones. Of watching clouds come, take magical form, and then go. We are quickly forgetting the beauty of being alone with our own thoughts without fear. Of breathing from relaxed bellies. Of the sound of the wind across a silent mountaintop. Of being okay surrounded by the vastness and stillness of nature. These things we should strive to remember…..To practice frequently. Remembering to lay aside the phone and just be.

Traditions

I grew up in the shadows of Frog Mountain, nestled in a holler, alongside the borders of the Cohutta Wilderness, deep within the heart of Southern Appalachia. Dad worked at the copper mines and my mother, when she wasn’t working at DFACS, had an obsession with dressing me in monochrome fashion, much like every other mother in the late 70’s/early 80’s. It was a time before trees scattered the McCaysville area and when were known on a global scale as ‘The Red Desert”, and when ‘the epizootie’ was a side effect of going barefoot before the first of May.

As mom and dad drove to work each morning, they would drop me off 4 doors down with Mamaw Rube and Papaw Creed. Mornings began siting on the kitchen counter as Ole’ Rube cooked breakfast, most likely burning the bacon in the process. My favorite days were when papaw would crank up his self built three wheeler (part volkswagon, part harley davidson, part blue carpet monster), pack us a loaf of bread and some red string bologna in the glove compartment, and we’d head into the Cohuttas in search of an adventure.

Mamaw and papaw were special folks. Mothers would come to Rube when their baby came up with thrush for help. She would blow into their mouth, whisper a few words, and the thrush would soon disappear. Other times she could be found helping folks take away the fire from a bad burn….still with a few words, a couple of hand gestures, and perhaps a homemade salve from the herbal cabinet.  Papaw could buy warts off people for a penny, and they both knew how to use the plants that grew in the garden just off the porch. That’s how my family has always been. Simple folks…deep in the mountains.

My folks have always felt a…..draw to the forests of the Cohutta wilderness. Our souls feel connected to these ancient mountains in a way that is simply indescribable. Believe what you will, but i believe a magic dwells within those very hills…a presence that is as old as time and my family has always had a touch of it. Some folks call them healers, some call it the mountain hoodoo, and I’ve even heard the word witch whispered among some. Call us what you may, but we are the wise folks. We aren’t doctors. We don’t know everything, Nor are we readers of the mind. We simply read the signs of nature, we spend time among the trees. We carry the knowledge and traditions of those who came before. We study plants and their properties to assist those who seek. We are The Folk.