Who are you?

O wad some Pow'r the giftie gie us
To see oursels as ithers see us!

Robert Burns's wish might turn out to be a prayer the devil answers for many, if not most, of us. But it does raise the question, "Who are you?" When asked, we usually give our name, possibly where we live, or even where we work. If we're in Appalachia, we also are obligated to say who our people are, to fit ourselves into the historical and social context of place. But how do we answer when it is ourselves who ask the question?

Richard Blaustein (The Thistle and The Brier) quotes Jim Wayne Miller's famous poem The Brier Sermon: You must be born again, to illustrate the effect the Appalachian experience has had on our sense of self. He describes our collective coming to self realization as identity reformulation, a process of separation, marginality, and return. Like Native American children sent off to Indian Schools to learn how to be white, we have been taught that our world is inferior to the rest of America. We must give up our accents, our syntax, and values to be homogenized with the larger world. We are told this so often and with such authority that we begin to believe it.

I ran across an example recently while sampling You Tube videos. A group of young people has set out to illustrate regional differences in speech by creating a list of words that are then pronounced on camera by young people from different regions. Perhaps not surprisingly, there was almost no variation in pronunciations. One young woman from Appalachia began a word with a traditional Appalachian pronunciation, but quickly corrected herself to say it the "proper" way. No one sounded like my parents' generation, much less my grandparents' generation. We're now True Americans.

I have lived the separation, marginality, and return of which Blaustein and Miller speak. I was just entering high school when my family joined The Great Appalachian Migration, taking factory jobs in the midwest. When registering for classes the first time, I wasn't permitted to take college preparatory classes. I was a "Brierhopper," deemed incapable of such rigorous education and destined to join my parents in the factories. That decision wasn't based on test scores or transcripts, but strictly on the fact that the last school attended was in Appalachian eastern Kentucky, not to mention my then-authentic eastern Kentucky accent. So I conformed, worked to remove traces of Appalachia from my speech, and tried to blend into my peers. I think the only person fooled was myself.

While getting an education and trying to be a True American, I discovered that I really did like bluegrass and traditional mountain music. I found that the writings of Jesse Stuart spoke to me in ways that William Faulkner and F. Scott Fitzgerald didn't. I found that I could out shoot all of my peers with a rifle or a pistol. And that hiking through wooded hills and mountains produced a sense of well-being that was hard to explain. I discovered that there actually was value in my culture and my heritage. I discovered that I was actually proud that I was descended from the West Virginia Hatfields, and my other Appalachian ancestors, as well. I discovered myself.

I now know I am Appalachian, and I'm proud of that fact. Who are you?

Silent Saturday

Just where is Appalachia?

This question was sparked by an article that appeared recently in the Morehead News, a bi-weekly newspaper serving Morehead and Rowan County, Kentucky. The article stated that Elizabethtown, KY, had been declared eligible for funding from The Appalachian Regional Commission, a federal agency established by law in 1965 to counteract the effects of high unemployment in Appalachian counties. The terrain around Elizabethtown isn't exactly what one would think of as mountains. Nor has its economy historically been characteristic of Appalachia. But such have been political decisions, what we used to call pork barrel politics. Anything more I say will turn this into a rant, and that's not on my agenda today.

From the beginning, the area included within the jurisdiction of the Appalachian Regional Commission ranged beyond what anyone would likely consider to be mountainous to include pockets of poverty in contiguous states. Northeast Mississippi is the example that jumps out at the casual observer. Perhaps less obvious is all that was left out of the Appalachian Regional Commission mandate.

Wikicommons - Public Domain

A map of the Appalachian Mountains clearly shows that they range on up through New York and New England into Canada. Even the Appalachian Trail runs some 2,200 miles from Springer Mountain, Georgia, to Mt. Katahdin, Maine. So technically, Appalachia extends all the way from north Alabama to Canada. In fact, these mountains are so old they date back to Pangea, when all of the continents were clustered together. This mountain range not only passes through Canada, but picks up again in the British Isles, passing through Ireland and Scotland and continuing into Scandinavia. A tell-tale mineral, serpentine, follows the complete chain to verify that it was once connected.

So when I think of Appalachia, I'm thinking of the second map, not the first. To me, Appalachia means mountains, or at least true hill country, not a social, economic, or political construct. And the Appalachia I know best lies in five states, Kentucky, Tennessee, West Virginia, Virginia, and North Carolina.

This is my Appalachia,

and this isn't (although I love the Bluegrass, too).

Home Again, Home Again

For the past couple of weeks we've been wandering around a different part of Appalachia, visiting friends and Shaker museums. The hills and valleys of New England are different, but no less beautiful than our southern highlands. We first visited Hancock Shaker Village (Massachusetts) with its signature round stone barn.

The Watervliet (New York) site is the final resting place for the early Shaker leaders, including the society's founder Ann Lee.

Mt. Lebanon, New York, was the central ministry site during the church's expansion into Ohio, Kentucky, and Indiana. It was from here that the three missionaries were sent to the Second Great Awakening revivals being held on the then frontier.

Canterbury, New Hampshire, was the only village to pass directly from the Shakers to a non-profit museum, and is the best preserved as a result. It and Pleasant Hill, in Kentucky, offer the most complete view of Shaker life available.

The Enfield, New Hampshire, site is the newest museum and most of the Shaker buildings remain in the hands of private owners.

Sabbath Day Lake, Maine, is home to the last five Shakers. Always the smallest and least successful of the Shaker villages, it is the only one that survives.

In addition, we caught up with long-time friends, ate lobster, immersed ourselves in New England history and culture, shot 730 photos, visited 11 states, and drove more than 3,000 miles without ever venturing out of Appalachia. Did I mention taking a lot of pictures?

We were without access to the internet for much of the time we were away, so I'll be trying to catch up on reading blogs for a while now.

A not-so-English village

For many years, Rugby was marketed as an English "colony" here on the Cumberland Plateau. It is true that Thomas Hughes intended for young second sons to come here so they could learn a trade and support themselves, free of the social constraints of Victorian Britain. But he never intended this place to be an exclusive club. There is a row of graves in Laurel Dale Cemetery that clearly shows it wasn't. The first graves are those of Charles C. and Nellie O. Brooks. While Brooks is a recognizably English name, the O in Nellie's name isn't.

It is, in fact, German, as the next grave shows. Buried next to Louis is his wife.

Emma's matching gravestone bears the maiden name Lender,

and the next grave, Barbara Lender's, is inscribed with the German phrase used to express farewell.

These days Rugby is being marketed as an English-Appalachian settlement. And what could be more Appalachian than German settlers?

Vicki Lane

Many of the readers of this blog are fans of Vicki Lane's novels and followers of Vicki's blog. I'm both. So I'm very pleased to announce that Vicki is coming to Rugby Saturday, July 21, for a book signing.

For those of you who are near enough to attend, it will be in the Historic Rugby Visitor Center's Rebecca Johnson Theater. The event is free and starts at 7:00 p.m. eastern time. Lodging is available by calling  toll-free 888-214-3400 or by visiting the Historic Rugby web site. Come early and enjoy dinner at Rugby's Harrow Road Cafe.

If you can't join us, pick up one of Vicki's novels and read along. She's good!

Big South Fork Scenic Railroad

Last week we took a ride on the Big South Fork Scenic Railroad, which leaves from nearby Stearns, KY. This is a fairly long ride, so get comfortable and enjoy the trip. The trains are privately owned, but operate in cooperation with the National Park Service. The tracks were originally built by the Stearns Coal and Lumber Company to haul coal and timber from their operations, and to provide passenger service to the company-owned camps.

There is entertainment while people gather for the train ride. The guitar player turned out to be the engineer, as well.

But we had brought our own engineer. (Her great uncle is an engineer for Norfolk Southern and had given her the child-sized engineer's cap.)

Maybe riding with her Granny would be more fun than driving the train.

The train ride goes from the top of the Cumberland Plateau into the valley of the Big South Fork of the Cumberland River, passing through cuts and a tunnel that are barely wide enough to let the train pass.

Much of the trip follows Paunch Creek as it flows down to the Big South Fork.

It passes through the recreated mining camp of Barthell, where overnight lodging is available in reconstructed miners' cabins.

At one point Paunch Creek runs rust red from acid mine drainage, the result of improper mine closure. The mining company has been in litigation over its closures and just recently forfeited its mineral rights ownership in settlement of the case.

At the bottom of the hill the track curves to follow the Big South Fork downstream. A switch is thrown and the train moves in reverse ...

crossing Paunch Creek on its approach to the Blue Heron mining camp. The railroad bridge over Paunch Creek was bought used by the mining company, and curved in the wrong direction. That was remedied by simply installing the bridge upside down and laying the track on the bottom of the bridge, which of course was now facing up.

The track runs beside the mine road on its way into Blue Heron, and both parallel the river in a strip barely wide enough to contain them. Throughout much of Appalachia there isn't room for a road and tracks on the same side and they will occupy opposite sides of the creeks or rivers.

The National Park Service has recreated the Blue Heron mining camp. Significant structures, such as miners' cabins, the church, and school, are represented as "ghost structures," skeletal buildings of the correct dimensions located in their original places. Inside these structures are life-size cutouts of the people who lived, worshiped, or learned in them. A push of a button plays a recording made by these same people describing their life in Blue Heron.

The track ends at a station/museum/ gift shop in the middle of the coal camp. Riders have an hour and a half before the train leaves for the return trip.

Inside the museum is an H.O. scale model of Blue Heron as it looked during coal production.

Then it's off to find some lunch.

Ahh! Mountain soul food, pinto beans and cornbread. Does anyone have some chopped onions?

The excursion train consists of passenger cars built on old flat cars. It's currently pulled by a diesel switch engine. By this time next year they expect to have their 0-6-0 steam locomotive restored and in operation. I'm looking forward to that, especially since that very engine once ran on the Morehead & North Fork Railroad that was part of my childhood.

There was more entertainment as people gathered for the return trip.

Along with much anticipation.

The whistle means it's time to go!

The return trip led past a rock house occupied by the wee folk, one of whom sat and watched the train go by.

We again passed through Barthell, passing the miners' cabins perched on the hillside above the tracks.

It also passed a former passenger platform, a remnant of the days when this line was the only means of reaching coal camps such as Barthell, Blue Heron, Zenith, and Yamacraw.

The trips ends back in the town of Stearns. The large building just barely seen at the far right in the photograph is the Stearns Coal and Lumber Company headquarters building. We rode the train on Friday; on Saturday night the Stearns Coal and Lumber Company building was destroyed by fire. Arson is suspected.

Bill Henry - Whittler, Artist

Bill is a native of eastern Kentucky who's spent his entire adult life In Oak Ridge, Tennessee, where he is retired from Oak Ridge National Laboratory. For much of that adult life he has been a student of Appalachia and a practitioner of the ancient art of whittling, Appalachian style. He is or has been a member of the most prestigious craft guilds in the mountain south.

His carvings reflect Appalachian life, from items of everyday use reproduced in wood to traditional toys. My favorites are his jackstraws.

The game of jackstraws is an elaboration of the ancient game of pick-up-sticks, similar to spillikins in Britain. Styles vary both between and within regions of the U.S., but always the jackstraws are carved pieces that like to hook onto each other as a player attempts to remove them one-at-a-time from the pile. Bill's sets feature tiny carvings of everyday items.

In addition, he carves pieces that are jackstraws in form, but which are meant to be displayed as small mountain sculptures, such as these bluebirds sitting on an ax handle.

Bill formerly owned one of the historic houses in Rugby as a second home, and he still comes frequently to participate in festivals or simply to demonstrate his art for visitors.

He always is popular with visitors, not only because of his talent, but also because he happens to be one of the finest men one can hope to meet in a lifetime.

Decoration Day

The old name is still used in the southern highlands, even though everyone knows it's officially Memorial Day. It's an occasion for families to gather that goes well beyond simply placing flowers on the graves of departed loved ones. Many do that year round anyway, since the advent of inexpensive, realistic, artificial flowers. But Decoration Day is a time for family get-togethers; a time to catch up on births, deaths, and marriages; a time to trace genealogies; and a time to reaffirm self, family, and place. It's one of our cultural anchors.