Dearest Grandchildren,
1950's & 1960's
The Appalachians are a system of mountains running from Alabama and Georgia up the eastern states all the way to Newfoundland. The eastern edges of Tennessee, Kentucky and Ohio form the western boundary of the mountains. They were once a massive range, right on par with the Alps and Rockies but have eroded away, what with being much older, around 480 million years. Looking at a map of the Appalachians, Summit, Kentucky (where I was raised) is right on the very western side of the range, near the confluence of the Ohio and Big Sandy Rivers where Kentucky, Ohio and West Virginia meet. Summit is one of those little towns that is technically part of the Appalachians but is too much on the edge to have all the character and charm often associated with them. You could probably consider Summit a hybrid – just like me.
From my travels, I have discovered that people outside the Appalachians often view those of us with roots in or around them as hill people, hillbillies, hicks, briars, backwoods and bass-ackwards. Folks tend to visualize pigs, dogs and chickens lounging under the front porch of a backwoods shack right long-side the snot-nosed, dirty, sometimes naked kids that dot the yard (dirt patch) like feral organisms, while old ladies with old-fashioned hooded bonnets, maybe a corn cob pipe sticking out of her mouth, snapping green beans, slowly rock in a squeaky rocking chair sitting just a few feet above the feral critters on that very same front porch, gossiping, humming hymns and running herd on the comings and goings of her world. Coon hunting and coon dogs might come to mind, or men squattin’ in the barnyard sketching in the dust with a stick, scheming on the next sure-fire way to make a little extra money, lying about hunting, fishing, ginseng, cars, women – man gossip. Or maybe one thinks of a shack pushed back into a nook in a hillside surrounded by a thick, dark, humid, deciduous forest of hickory, maple, oak and poplar, with smoke lazily wafting into a little valley from two chimneys: one from the shack, the other from the moonshine still. A decrepit hound dog or two might be lolling on the shack’s steps long-side the feral organisms.
TV has made bullfrog giggin’ a thing to ponder. But don’t gig too close to home because people like listenin’ to the long, deep drones at night while rockin’ on the front porch. The late-night howling of a pack of coon dogs is as melodious to the men sittin’ around the fire up in the holler, drinkin’ shine, chewin’ tobacco, fartin’ and lyin’, as an opera is to a city dweller. Lightening bugs, moths, June bugs – all the insects in creation – soar and crawl across the starlit night. When you think of Appalachia you might think of people with such a southern drawl that if you listen to them on a TV show you need subtitles – TV has not been kind. Appalachian folks are generally nice, generous with their time, but often suspicious of outsiders. Family comes first. Everyone works, knows someone that works or has relatives that have died in the coal mines or steel mills. And we all have at least one relative back in the closet somewhere that has run – or otherwise associated with – 'shine.
Yep, that’s what people might think, and some of it is even true. I know; I’ve lived it. Appalachia is people. Sure, the mountains have a part to play, what with their bounty of coal, lumber, game, beauty, hazards, and history, but it is the character of the people that has evolved (often a bad word in Appalachia) from these mountains that many of us think of when we think, Appalachia. I pretty much had a foot in both worlds: hillbilly Appalachian kid and whatever the rest of the world was, but certainly not a city slicker. If I had to choose between the two, I would say I was a little more hillbilly than whatever the rest of the world was, but I certainly did not have all the charm, character, and quality of a full-blown hillbilly. So, yep, I am part hillbilly, briar, hick, Kentuckian; I am a hybrid Appalachian.
But when I was growing up, I never really thought much on what I was: Appalachian, hillbilly, or anything else for that matter. Heck, I didn’t even know what the Appalachians were. In fact, I really didn’t put too much emphasis on thinking at all – I just got in the river and went with the flow. I wasn’t born with any preconceived notions, and I figured my associates were in about the same boat as I. The way I figured it, those of us living in those parts were neither poor nor rich; we had a mom, dad, brothers, sisters or both, two pappaws (grandfathers) and three mammaws (grandmothers); we were Christian, that’s what I was told, anyway; white as opposed to “colored”; many people used the N word, to include me before I learned better. And I do believe that many folks thought black people were not quite up to the level of the whites. I didn’t know why they thought that and I doubt they knew why they thought that; they just did. It was just the way it was and that deeply bothers me to this very day.
Girls were the weaker sex and boys grew up to protect them. The main difference between boys and girls was that girls wore dresses and had long hair and boys wore pants and had short hair, but both girls and boys could wear shorts in the summer – well, girls could if their parents said they could. Dads worked hard and moms did too, but a mom’s work was usually at home, except for my mom, but that was okay. Everyone had a dog and most did not have a cat, except maybe for girls – I didn’t know much about them (girls, that is), except they had long hair and wore dresses. There were smart kids, stupid kids and those in the middle and we were organized into smart, stupid, and middle classes in school. Teachers told us the stupid kids weren’t “stupid” and to not use that word; they just needed extra help – yeah, we knew better than that. Boys got “gawd-awful” dirty, even to the point where their mothers would sometimes wrestle them down and give them a hard brush-scrubbing right there in the back yard – right in front of all my friends, Mom? It was okay to take off to explore the woods, streams, deserted coal mines, ancient shacks complete with Civil War era graves in the backyard, or just to go discovering in the back five acres, all without telling anyone where you were going – be careful crossing the road and be back for supper. Critters and whatnot were often running around in the yard or in the woods the very same day they were the main course for dinner. Boys got switchin’s from their mom for minor offenses and the belt from their dad if they stepped way over the line. My friends and I – or was it just me? – got a lot of switchin’s but only the occasional belting. There was a willow switch tree in nearly every back yard for easy access. Dads drank beer, but that was okay. There were stills in the hills and revenuers looking for them. Everyone chased lightning bugs, even the adults, except for the Mammaws and Pappaws, especially Pappaw Lewis because he was, as mom put it, “bad crippled.” Adults smoked and some chewed tobacco. Pickin’, stringin’ and snappin’ green beans on Mammaw’s front porch could turn into a family gathering. Swimming naked in the creek, pond or mud hole was okay if you were a boy (or pig) – I guess it was not okay for a girl because she would get her long hair wet. Eating green apples with salt (especially salt from a fresh-licked horse lick) was a culinary experience. The Kentucky Wildcats basketball team was the pinnacle of sporting success. When you got married you pretty much stayed that way. Dads tended to die before moms and often pretty darned early, but that was the way it was. Women were “ma’am” and men were “sir” as in “yes ma’am” and “yes sir.” Most boys “cussed like sailors” – except for Basketball Buddy because he was a preacher’s kid – but never in front of the adults because we respected them, and also because we would get our butts busted if we did. There were no “coloreds” or full-blooded Indians in school. Some of us were part Indian, or so we were told, but never talked about it. We all sang “Onward Christian Soldier” (my favorite) or some other hymn, prayed and said the pledge of allegiance to the flag each morning to start the school day. You automatically went to heaven if you died before the age of 12, went to hell if you died over the age of 12 and were not “saved,” and there was considerable debate as to what happened if you were 12 on the nose. Some figured girls went to heaven and boys went to hell. I always figured it was the other way around since boys were worse than girls in general and needed an extra year of leniency. Jews and Catholics? Well, they all just went to hell – that’s what they told me, anyway. I couldn’t figure that out, didn’t they believe in God? Alas, it was just as confusing then as it is now. Boys played (or tried to play) football, basketball, and baseball. I don’t know what girls did other than the ones that later became cheerleaders. We slid on ice slides in the winter at recess and the janitor salted them during class time, because ice slides were not safe. We just made another one the next recess – it was a game we played. Girls got “tough” which meant we boys were noticing the curvier (tougher) ones, and the girls knew it – seems there was a difference other than the long hair after all. We all loved Disney’s Wonderful World of Color (although many of us didn’t have a color TV) and the zany antics of Little Joe and Hoss on Bonanza on Sunday nights. We all went to bed when our parents told us to, got up in the morning when they told us to, went to school when they told us to and usually went to church when they told us to, and none of us really thought much of it.
So, all in all, I was pretty much like every other kid around those parts. I didn’t think of myself as anything but just a regular boy with short hair who wore pants. That was just the way it was.
I grew up there. It was home. But over time I had to leave that home for reasons that might make themselves known through my stories. Perhaps they won’t, perhaps I won’t let them. But I found my home: Oregon. With my sweet wife (Emmi, Marg, Marguerite), three children (Elizabeth, Gary, and Ben) and five grandchildren (Charlie, Tony, Izzy, Gina, and Isla), I have very successfully made Oregon my home.
I told Marguerite just the other day, I think if there is a heaven, then perhaps I’m living it, because I can’t think of anything better than the life I am living today, this very moment, with my grandchildren, my children, their spouses, and my wonderful wife.
I think that pretty much sums it up: I am living the life I want to live because of the people I am living it with now, those upon whose shoulders I stand, and the accident of my birth.
Baba