The Heart of Appalachia

I was raised in the heart of Appalachia, up a dirt road holler in an old blockhouse my grandparents called home. The shelter of the holler shaded us from the heat of the late afternoon sun, but also kept us under a blanket of snow longer than we would have liked.

Through the summer, Papaw cut wood and stacked it in the woodshed, floor to ceiling, wall to wall, to heat the house and fire up the wood cookstove through the winter. Screened windows were raised, and box fans were put in to cool the house on hot days. Many nights, the hum of a fan and the call of whip-poor-wills sang me to sleep. In the winter, I slept beneath heavy handmade quilts as the fire burned low and the house cooled, the best sleep I’ve ever known.

Papaw was well known by locals for his wine, which had a sweet kick. I watched as he worked, mashing blackberries and squeezing them through a pillowcase to strain out pulp and seeds. He always gave me a ladle full of fresh juice before he started it fermenting. Strangers would sometimes pull up in the driveway looking for a bottle, and Papaw would usually just hand it over with a smile.

Mamaw spent her time in the kitchen, singing old hymns as she worked. She cooked three meals a day from scratch. Sausage gravy and cathead biscuits were everyone’s favorite. On winter evenings, Mamaw sat with her sewing box in her lap, working on a project as The Man in Black sang “Sunday Morning Coming Down" through the stereo. Mamaw loved quilting. I can still see her working on a red and white quilt with eyelet lace trim. She laid it out across her bed, sewing and knotting. Mamaw gave me the quilt for my birthday that year. She also raised fantail pigeons and Bantam chickens, her favorite being a feisty little rooster she named Mr. Perfect.

I was born in the ’80s, but stepping into the holler was like traveling back in time. It was a place where an old wringer washer sloshed water on the porch as it agitated, and stiff clothes swayed on the clotheslines, where spring rains peppered down on an old tin roof. Cool, musty cellars were lined with shelves of home-canned food and gallon jugs of wine. Upstairs, onion sacks of ginseng hung to dry, filling the air with an earthy scent, proof of the work Papaw and Mamaw poured into their daily lives.

As the years moved forward, my grandparents left me with their legacy, that can be seen in my home today. Old iron skillets hang on the walls, and antique pickling crocks sit in random corners, echoes of the life I once lived. Each time I pick up an iron skillet or Mamaw’s old rolling pin, the memories are with me while I work, and I feel the grit my grandparents poured into their days, still shaping the life I live now.