- My great grandparents hard scrabble farm resting along the tracks above the Mon River. A safe spot during the Depression for train hobos to stop for a hot meal and a barn’s hay bed in exchange for helping with farm chores.
- My grandfather boxing bare knuckled in traveling carnivals that passed through.
- My grandfather working in a coal mine at 11 years old.
- Sitting with my grandma on her back porch shelling peas.
- Crunching foot steps down the red dog driveway across the dirt road we lived on to play in the woods. All day.
- Childhood. We were cowboys, soldiers and pirates.
Perseverance…hold on for dear life while I go back to fields of my own youth… running uphill on a bareback Appaloosa mare who is named Abby with red mane blowing back in my face, Insanely fast and free…turning along the ridge to a gentle trot through the pear trees of an old abandoned orchard. I dreamed that ‘ take-your-horse-to-school-day’ would happen…and I would fit in? Appalachian, according to others, meant always having to prove yourself/myself. Now thanks to you, Rachel, it clearly means to me at least- freedom in the truth and walking lost paths, down the holler and up the other side to the mountains and hillsides only a true Appalachian would love. Thank God.
What a picture you paint, Maria! Abby sounds like she was a delight. Did you ever get to take her to school? I was incredibly lucky to have my father ride my horse to my 5th grade class for show and tell to learn how to "saddle a horse". It was pretty epic. Thank you for the beautiful comments.
Rachel, Thank you for the invitation to probe within for Appalachian memory. This one burns in me for so many reasons.
When I was about to enter first grade (1958) at Mt. Braddock Public School, my family knew that I would be walking to school, with neighbor kids, through a sheep pasture, then downhill through woods, across Gist Run (named for Christopher Gist, frontiersman, guide to George Washington and first settler west of the Allegheny Mountains in what would become Fayette County, PA), arriving then at the school, built in 1908. Such a walk was not considered unusual at that time, in that place, but it would require crossing a stream which sometimes ran high.
A few days before school began, my father (William E. (Bud) Moyer) accompanied several us kids along the path to Gist Run. He carried a bundle of boards, and we kids packed an ax, shovel, saw, hammer, and nails.
My father felled two wild cherry trees so they fell across the creek, parallel, then positioned their ends into four tight channels he'd dug into the stream bank. He then sawed the boards to length and nailed them atop the cherry logs to serve as a bridge for our crossing of Gist Run, to and from that humble institution known as Mt. Braddock school.
It strikes me as uniquely Appalachian, that a father would take this responsibility upon himself, and that no one would impede his doing so. (Note, though, that I do understand and support the need for regulatory protection of riparian zones) It's a memory I cherish and always will.
A perfect Appalachian bridge building memory should absolutely include a creek. And thank you for reminding me about Christopher Gist! I once lived in a city apartment where a giant bronze relief sculpture of Gist and Guyasuta stood outside my balcony. I think it was later moved to outside of Heinz Field. A gorgeous piece of art. And yes, I agree that the themes of ingenuity and independence are uniquely Appalachian.
As for Appalachia, this week it’s about the wilding. The folks who know when and where the morels and ramps and ‘sang come up, and never take it all, always leaving for the next year. The if-you-know-you-know folks who know where all the different ephemeral wildflowers will emerge, like beacons, around the same times each year, usually in sequence, brief harbingers of hope, that beauty and small pleasures will remain even as so much else seems to be falling apart. Even with all the changes to our western North Carolina mountain landscapes left from Hurricane Helene. This week it was a gloriously large patch of full-out blooming Bloodwort with 3+” white petals with yellow centers and those lovely curled tongue leaves.
A turning point in my life… I was around thirteen hiking through some high dry grass when I found the front of an old rusty birdcage. I felt such delight in its beauty, imagined history and symbolism potential. The thrill I felt was the beginning of my creative journey. Sixty some years later it still hangs on my wall to remind me of that moment.
I would love to see a photo of your old rusty birdcage, Deb. So much symbolism. And the fact that you have carried it around with you all these years. A perfect Appalachian moment.
Loved meandering down the path with you in this piece! Following fairies and the unstructured Muse… Art and authenticity at its best!
Thank you, dear Megan! That makes my day.
Appalachia is;
- My great grandparents hard scrabble farm resting along the tracks above the Mon River. A safe spot during the Depression for train hobos to stop for a hot meal and a barn’s hay bed in exchange for helping with farm chores.
- My grandfather boxing bare knuckled in traveling carnivals that passed through.
- My grandfather working in a coal mine at 11 years old.
- Sitting with my grandma on her back porch shelling peas.
- Crunching foot steps down the red dog driveway across the dirt road we lived on to play in the woods. All day.
- Childhood. We were cowboys, soldiers and pirates.
- Listening to a pair of titmice perform a duet.
- Love. Memories. Grief. Joy.
You are so good at creating images with your words, Dianne. I love your Appalachian memories.
Perseverance…hold on for dear life while I go back to fields of my own youth… running uphill on a bareback Appaloosa mare who is named Abby with red mane blowing back in my face, Insanely fast and free…turning along the ridge to a gentle trot through the pear trees of an old abandoned orchard. I dreamed that ‘ take-your-horse-to-school-day’ would happen…and I would fit in? Appalachian, according to others, meant always having to prove yourself/myself. Now thanks to you, Rachel, it clearly means to me at least- freedom in the truth and walking lost paths, down the holler and up the other side to the mountains and hillsides only a true Appalachian would love. Thank God.
What a picture you paint, Maria! Abby sounds like she was a delight. Did you ever get to take her to school? I was incredibly lucky to have my father ride my horse to my 5th grade class for show and tell to learn how to "saddle a horse". It was pretty epic. Thank you for the beautiful comments.
It is most certainly a joy to read!
Rachel, Thank you for the invitation to probe within for Appalachian memory. This one burns in me for so many reasons.
When I was about to enter first grade (1958) at Mt. Braddock Public School, my family knew that I would be walking to school, with neighbor kids, through a sheep pasture, then downhill through woods, across Gist Run (named for Christopher Gist, frontiersman, guide to George Washington and first settler west of the Allegheny Mountains in what would become Fayette County, PA), arriving then at the school, built in 1908. Such a walk was not considered unusual at that time, in that place, but it would require crossing a stream which sometimes ran high.
A few days before school began, my father (William E. (Bud) Moyer) accompanied several us kids along the path to Gist Run. He carried a bundle of boards, and we kids packed an ax, shovel, saw, hammer, and nails.
My father felled two wild cherry trees so they fell across the creek, parallel, then positioned their ends into four tight channels he'd dug into the stream bank. He then sawed the boards to length and nailed them atop the cherry logs to serve as a bridge for our crossing of Gist Run, to and from that humble institution known as Mt. Braddock school.
It strikes me as uniquely Appalachian, that a father would take this responsibility upon himself, and that no one would impede his doing so. (Note, though, that I do understand and support the need for regulatory protection of riparian zones) It's a memory I cherish and always will.
Ben Moyer
A perfect Appalachian bridge building memory should absolutely include a creek. And thank you for reminding me about Christopher Gist! I once lived in a city apartment where a giant bronze relief sculpture of Gist and Guyasuta stood outside my balcony. I think it was later moved to outside of Heinz Field. A gorgeous piece of art. And yes, I agree that the themes of ingenuity and independence are uniquely Appalachian.
As for Appalachia, this week it’s about the wilding. The folks who know when and where the morels and ramps and ‘sang come up, and never take it all, always leaving for the next year. The if-you-know-you-know folks who know where all the different ephemeral wildflowers will emerge, like beacons, around the same times each year, usually in sequence, brief harbingers of hope, that beauty and small pleasures will remain even as so much else seems to be falling apart. Even with all the changes to our western North Carolina mountain landscapes left from Hurricane Helene. This week it was a gloriously large patch of full-out blooming Bloodwort with 3+” white petals with yellow centers and those lovely curled tongue leaves.
You could write a Substack, Lee Ann. Your writing is beautiful.
I prefer riffing off your writing 😘
I can share a memory of song about a horse- Wildfire, lol
Might not be what you expect.
Thanks for sharing your creative process.
https://www.raptureready.com/2024/06/18/wildfire-by-jeff-hauck/
Favorite song. Love horses though have never had the privilege to have one as my own...yet.
This is STILL one of my all-time favorite songs. I think you may have chosen the perfect song for this essay. Takes me back. Thank you.
A turning point in my life… I was around thirteen hiking through some high dry grass when I found the front of an old rusty birdcage. I felt such delight in its beauty, imagined history and symbolism potential. The thrill I felt was the beginning of my creative journey. Sixty some years later it still hangs on my wall to remind me of that moment.
I would love to see a photo of your old rusty birdcage, Deb. So much symbolism. And the fact that you have carried it around with you all these years. A perfect Appalachian moment.