Ryan Adams

“When you interact with the people, and you spend some time here, you learn that just because you don’t have something, doesn’t mean you can’t have something or you shouldn’t have something. Given the opportunity, the people of this region can achieve any goal any other region of the world can achieve. It’s just the obstacle of being here and overcoming that geographical obstacle.”

Ryan Adams, Assignment Editor/Producer, WYMT Television; Jeremiah, KY (Letcher County):

“Growing up in Eastern Kentucky was special for me. It was a place where I developed a very small network of friends that I’m still very close with today. I came from a family that wasn’t wealthy by any means, but we weren’t as bad off as some other people may have been. I graduated in ‘93. It was an interesting time. Going through school, up until early high school, I didn’t know what a cell phone was. And now, Eastern Kentucky is still adapting and finally getting decent cell phone coverage. It’s not here yet, but we’ve made great strides in that. 
Growing up in Eastern Kentucky was special.

Honestly, I watched a lot of television. In fact, as a child, I had my mother--I think it was ‘83 or ‘85, whenever WYMT first came on the air--I had her get up and record their first broadcast, which I still have on a VHS tape somewhere at home. I’m a big news junkie.

My dad was a coal broker for a company called Westmoreland Coal Company until the mid-80s. A coal broker is basically someone who buys and sells coal from one person to the other. It’s kind of like a stockbroker in a sense. You find a good bargain on coal and then you resell it to someone else and make a profit on it. [Westmoreland went] bankrupt and a couple of years before he was supposed to retire, he was laid off. He’s had some medical issues and has been disabled for quite a while. 

My mother, she was a cosmetologist early in life, and then she’s done various housekeeping jobs since then. They both stay at home now and are both retired. My grandmother was a Headstart bus driver for 30-something years. My grandfather was gone before I can have a memory of him. I was lucky enough to live within walking distance of my grandmother’s house throughout my childhood, and that allowed me to create memories that I’ll never forget. She passed away several years ago from lung cancer.

[In high school], I didn’t participate in any type of sports, which I kind of regret. I wish I would have played basketball. I was in band for a while. I wasn’t that great of a student. I learned later in life why paying attention in high school is important because it does kind of set your pace for later in life. I went on and finished two years of college. I’m still hoping to finish my Bachelor’s degree. I’m not there yet, but I’ve been fortunate enough to have several pretty good jobs, which is rare here. Good jobs are hard to find in Eastern Kentucky. 

Right out of high school I went to work for a mental health agency for a short time, and then I moved to Lexington in ‘94. I was there for about nine and a half years. While in Lexington, I worked for a call center, and I worked for Lexington Center Rupp Arena as a part-time security officer, which I still do today. I moved back home when a company called Sykes Enterprises first opened, which is another call center. I was hired in as the training manager and then was an assistant call center director for a couple years there. Then, I accepted a job with the Kentucky State Police. I had worked in state government for about 13 years, and after you work as a dispatcher for a while, it takes a certain breed of person to do that and not really have the stress affect you. After a while, it just got to where it was time for me to make a career change. I couldn’t see myself sitting behind a desk talking on the telephone for another 15 - 20 years.

Now, I am the assignment editor and a producer for WYMT Television, the CBS affiliate in Hazard. Interesting thing about that, in high school, I volunteered there as a high school intern, and I didn’t pursue a degree in that for various reasons, but I would never have imagined that so many years later, I’m right back where it all started. News television broadcasting is something I’ve always enjoyed and an opportunity came that I couldn’t really pass up, and I took it, and I’ve not been happier. 

[When I moved away] the thing I noticed different about Lexington was here, I might have 20 close friends; there, in Lexington, I might have three close friends. Your network is smaller just because life is busier, and Eastern Kentucky is special for me because of the laid back lifestyle and the ability to get to know more than two or three people. It’s a pretty special place.

I lived in Lexington and I’ve also traveled all over the country. The one thing about Eastern Kentucky is the people: the friendliness and the willingness to help each other, and the willingness to reach out make a new friend. It’s something that you won’t find in Lexington. I spent some time in San Francisco. There, you don’t talk to anybody when you walk down the street. If someone speaks to you, you think they want something from you. It’s just a different pace of life. It’s not that they’re bad people, it’s just a different culture.

I can remember driving down the parkway when you get to Campton, there’s a sign that says ‘Hazard/Whitesburg Exit’. It’s an hour and a half from Whitesburg, but just knowing I was that close meant I was home. It’s kind of ironic that the closer you get to Eastern Kentucky, the more in despair the road infrastructure becomes, but the closer I get, the more at home I feel.

I don’t think coal will come back, and there’s not one factor that’s the reason for that. You can blame the government if it makes you feel better, but that’s not the reason. It’s a whole list of global reasons why that is happening. 

The interesting thing about particularly what’s going in Whitesburg right now...if you go across Eastern Kentucky, you go to Hyden, you go to Hindman, you’re going to find downtowns that are empty buildings and open storefronts. In Whitesburg, in the last two months, there’s been three businesses opened, all of which are owned by local people, most of which are people that have reinvested in this town with their own money, and they’ve found ways to make it. 

Heritage Kitchen is a restaurant that just opened just down the street [by] a gentleman that I went to high school with that lived in Lexington. When he had an opportunity to come home, he came back, and he opened his own business and he’s contributing to the local economy. There’s a record shop and there’s two tattoo shops, one of which is of interest to me because the gentleman, John Haywood, a local artist, is such a interesting character, as is his wife. Both have degrees in their profession, and they’re really talented people.

I remember growing up in Whitesburg, there was a department store downtown and a couple of other businesses, but as time passed there was more and more empty storefronts. Then, all of a sudden, it started with a business called Summit City Coffee was the original name, it’s now Summit City Lounge. A man named Joel Beverly took the initial step to invest in downtown Whitesburg. He purchased a building for pennies on the dollar [and] put in a coffee shop, which is now a bar. That created an opportunity for other people to see that it could be done. 

A short time later, there was a petition to have restaurant-only alcohol sales in Whitesburg. Before that happened, they were having music shows at Summit City. The first show they had was a man named Jason Isbell. He performed in a place where you could only drink coffee, and there were people lined out the door and standing on the street to see him. Now, he just headlined a show last week in Nashville with Chris Stapleton. He’s very successful, a national name. Dozens of national names have come through Summit City, and it’s really amazing. 

Shortly after they opened, StreetSide Bar and Grill came into town. And then the tattoo shop came. And now there’s The Thirsty Heifer restaurant and Heritage Kitchen and the Kentucky Mist moonshine distillery. Every couple of months, there’s something else coming to Whitesburg, and the reason for that is the local government, the mayor, the city council, embraced these businesses, they helped them in many different ways. The thing about Whitesburg is [it’s] an example of something that’s going on right now. 

Tyler Ward at The Thirsty Heifer had an employee shortage this weekend. He goes to Heritage Kitchen, and they let him borrow a couple of their employees to work this weekend. You won’t find that in many other places. Last night was the first night that Heritage Kitchen had alcohol sales. Tyler Ward, who owns The Thirsty Heifer restaurant made sure he went to the Heritage Kitchen just to drink a beer on their first night, just to support them. And that’s just kind of cool, I mean, there’s just no other way to describe it. 

There’s a ton of different projects underway in Whitesburg. They’re making a trail off of the Appalachian Trail that will come down into Whitesburg so that if you need to walk off you can actually walk down the trail and get into town. It’s going to involve possibly redesigning the whole downtown and making it a lot prettier, but that’s a long way off, but they’re just so many things happening. [The Appalachian Trail] is just at the top of Pine Mountain, a couple miles away. 

Summit City did announce that they were planning on closing once, and the outpouring of support from the people of this town was really amazing. We started talk about ways that we could save Summit City. We started a Facebook page called ‘Save Summit City’. It grew into thousands of people, almost a thousand people that were lobbying for it, and in part because of that movement and the outpouring of support from people in the community, it spurred the idea to change the alcohol ordinance in town to better accommodate it. Shortly after that they had a special election and voted legal alcohol sales, not just restaurant-only, but everything, and that in part solved that legal quagmire they had as to why they might have to close. 

That election happened in Whitesburg because there were a lot of people thinking outside the box. There were people here that knew that Whitesburg could be something special. Whitesburg could be a tourist destination if something happened that was a little different than what was done before. Would that election pass county-wide? Absolutely not. But in Whitesburg it did, and it’s been a tremendous success for so many different businesses. There was opposition--very well defined opposition, but it wasn’t as loud and wasn’t as prevalent as I would have expected. 

I’ve experienced [stereotyping] a lot. An interesting thing happens in Whitesburg. There are a lot of people from outside the region that come to Whitesburg for various reasons, partly because Appalshop brings in a lot of people. They all leave with a different interpretation of what Eastern Kentucky is. When you interact with the people, and you spend some time here, you learn that just because you don’t have something, doesn’t mean you can’t have something or you shouldn’t have something. Given the opportunity, the people of this region can achieve any goal any other region of the world can achieve. It’s just the obstacle of being here and overcoming that geographical obstacle. It’s the infrastructure, and it all plays into geography. It’s more difficult to put in roads here. It’s more difficult to put in decent cell phone service here because there’s just not as many people here.

Appalshop has been a blessing to this area, particularly to Whitesburg. There are people who are strongly opposed to them, and those are also the people who probably don’t have a full understanding of what they contribute to the area. Tonight, there was a man from Czechoslovakia in this building who spent money in Whitesburg, and that was, in part, because of Appalshop.

People are slowly beginning to embrace the area, slowly beginning to realize we aren’t all a bunch of backwoods hillbillies; that we can achieve any goal that we put in front of us. There have been people from this very town that have gone on to do phenomenal things in life. Once you overcome the belief that because you’re from Eastern Kentucky or Southwest Virginia or East Tennessee, or West Virginia that you’re inferior, and you get passed that, people are more accepting. 

There is a stigma to being a hillbilly. I guess part of it is because of Hollywood; part of it is because of history books.

I see this region still being somewhat fragmented. Just because Pikeville has something, that doesn’t mean that Hazard will ever have it, that doesn’t mean that those two cities will ever work together. I think there is still a ‘us against them’ mentality versus Whitesburg to another city, or Hazard to another city. It would be great to overcome that, but I don’t know if that will ever fully be because ambitions have been withheld from Eastern Kentucky for so long that that ‘us against them’ is kind of beaten into every politician in the area. 

I think there’s probably not a more romantic place in the world than Appalachia. Where else can you go and drive a mile up the road and be on the top of Pine Mountain watching the sunset. You can drive on the top of Pine Mountain and watch the sunrise. There are so many ways to get away from the stressors of life in Eastern Kentucky. [You] can be in Lexington and drive all 19 miles around New Circle Road and still be in the ninth circle of Hell. But I can find ways to get away from it here. 

Appalachia is a true hidden treasure in this world. There isn’t another place I have been to where the people are more hospitable; there isn’t another place where the people are more embracing and willing to help their neighbor. When I lived in Lexington, I didn’t know who my neighbor was, and it was just an apartment, and there was just a wall between us. I never saw them. Here, there might be a mile between us, but I know exactly where they are, and who they are, and that’s not because I’m particularly nosy, it’s just because here you have time to get to know everybody.

There is a deeply rooted connection between Appalachian people and the land. There have probably been more people killed over property disputes in this area than any other reason. Land is more valuable than money here particularly to some elderly people. It’s something that you get as inheritance, it’s not something that most people here have been able to buy. It’s something that’s someone else’s owned and passed down to you, and it’s extremely valuable. It becomes a personal issue for people; my grandmother had this, now I have it; her mother had it before she did, it’s always been in our family possession. 

I remember not that long ago, it was mid-90s, at the time I was working at the sheriff's department as a dispatcher. I took a call one day from a man who was having a property dispute with his brother. It was over access to a storage building. We told him he’d have to contact the county attorney because it was a property dispute. That didn’t settle very well with him, and in about an hour, he killed his brother and two or three other people over a storage building. That’s how important property is here. It’s a life or death thing for many people. 

Shaping Our Appalachian Region [SOAR] is a wonderful idea. I hope that SOAR achieves every one of its goals. It’s a hodgepodge of ideas from different groups that have contributed, and SOAR has embraced all of them and has great ambitions. Whether or not they will be achieved, it’s hard to say. I’m pretty skeptical to be honest with you. Whitesburg is very grassroots, and it’s very different from many other areas. There’s a general belief among most people here that politicians from outside the local level are a bit disingenuous when they get to start talking about wanting to help Eastern Kentucky. There’s a long documented history of people really not helping Eastern Kentucky. Carl D. Perkins, used to say in campaigns that he gave Eastern Kentucky welfare, and he can take it away, and he got reelected for a very long time just because of that one issue.

The iWAY is a great idea, but it’s going to cost a ton of money to get going. I don’t know how an infrastructure of communication in Eastern Kentucky could work consistently. It hasn’t so far. It’s okay now, but it could certainly be improved, and I hope it does. I’m by no means an IT expert, but I’m just personally very skeptical.

The importance of developing [high-speed fiber optic cable internet access] to this region is extremely important. If the cell phone infrastructure was improved, if the broadband infrastructure was improved, it would enable some of these vacant buildings to become another Google [or] Facebook, and all of those companies. There’s a lady from Whitesburg who is a Google executive now. She has a lot of great ideas that would work here if the infrastructure were better. 

(How can Eastern Kentucky become progressive again without the money from the coal companies?) It’s going to require state legislators, federal lawmakers, local mayors, county judge executives thinking outside the box. In part, doing what has already happened in Whitesburg and proving that it can happen in Whitesburg. A guy that’s a contract coal company owner puts in a moonshine distillery. A man who is a biological engineer puts in a lounge and bar. There’s just all kinds of people thinking outside the box, and that’s the idea that you’re going to have to have everywhere to make Eastern Kentucky different, to make Eastern Kentucky something besides abandoned coal towns. 

There’s a ton of people here with a tremendous work ethic. You will not find any better anywhere in the world if they were just given a chance to do something different. Coal companies have done a lot to make coal miners the best miners they can. When the mines go away, not many of them have stepped up and offered them training for anything else. These people are willing to learn. The community college in Hazard has a lineman program where they’re teaching out-of-work coal miners to be linemen for the phone company, power company, or whatever, and it turns into a very good career for these folks.

Appalachia needs someone with sincerity, someone with passion, someone that can look to every town in this region from Ashland to Somerset and have an idea that everyone can embrace, so yes, they do need a Martin Luther King.”

Peggy Maggard

“What makes Appalachia special? People, just common people. They are different. They’re more friendly. They make you feel better about yourself. They’re not stuck up. [Appalachians are] just a different breed, a different class. You’re born with that accent, and some people lose it, but I lived in Ohio for 40 years and I never lost my accent.”

Peggy Maggard, Basket Maker; Isom, Kentucky:

“I grew up on Camp Branch. I graduated from high school in ’56. I got married and moved away in ‘56 and came back in ‘96. I was out in the wilderness 40 years (laughs). 

My mother always had food. I never, ever in my life ever remember being hungry.
She did a lot of things herself; canning, homemade bread, and we raised our own chickens and killed our own pork. We always had food. We just grew up like all other kids, I guess. 

[My dad] was a coal miner. He was a hard worker but he died very young. He liked to garden [and] that is why we always had so much to can. With five brothers, they’d go to the mountains and pick blackberries and we would probably can 200 quarts a year. My mom would made the best blackberry jam you ever ate, every morning with hot biscuits. I can still smell it and taste it (laughs).

[My father died in a] family feud, and senseless death is what it was. I never discuss it. I was 14. It was hard. It was hard, you know. It left my mother with very little income. She’d draw very little social security, and she had it hard. My older brother went into service and made out an allotment to her and that’s how we got by. Then when he got out, he got married, and my other brother went in service and he sent her an allotment. I never, ever remember being hungry, or without anything. 

[My mother] was a strong woman (laughs). Very religious. The biggest sin to my mother was telling a fib, and I’ve stressed that all through my kids’ life, my grandkids and great-grandkids. Fibbing, lying is a sin that is listed with murder, adultery, all the other sins in the Bible. God listed liars on not entering into heaven. And she such was a stickler, my mama, on lying. 

I have forgotten a lot of childhood. I’ve had too many strokes [and] I think that caused me to lose a lot of memory. I know I lost a lot of my Bible memory verses and things like that I can’t remember, but it was special having our own swimming hole. [My brothers would] always make us a big swimming hole. But the worst thing in my life was snakes. I am scared to death of snakes, and I’m fortunate since I moved back I bet I haven’t seen six snakes. I’m telling you, I hate them things! 

My family is what I remember. I have three brothers that are dead. My oldest brother is living in Richmond, Indiana. That’s where he went when he got out of the service. When he got out, he married a girl from up there and they’re still married. They’ve been married sixty-some years. He’s got dementia and Alzheimer’s. He’ll forget where we’re living, but he doesn’t forget faces or anything like that. 

My grandfather was Chal DeWitt Cloud, which is an Indian name. I can’t remember my grandmother on my mother’s side or my grandfather and grandmothers on my dad’s side. They died before I got old enough to remember, but my grandpa Cloud, Chal, moved to Tiffin, Ohio. His wife died and he remarried a woman from Whitesburg. She had kids that went to Tiffin, Ohio, for work so they he went, too 

I saw him after I got older. I was married and had kids, and he passed away when he was in his late eighties. I don’t know if he was Indian or what. He looked like an Indian in the face. He wasn’t real dark skinned or anything, but he had that nose that reminds you of an Indian or someone. Or my ideal from seeing a picture of him from when I was little, you know (laughs).

My mama couldn’t afford [to send me to] college or anything. So I was going with my husband, who I aspired to all my life, and we went to Indiana. He got a job on the railroad, and he retired from there as an engineer. And we came back to Kentucky in ‘96 and he passed away in ‘99 from cancer. 

It’s hard to leave your family, but most of all my family had moved to Indiana. Then my mother moved too, you know, after some of us got older. She came back cause my two youngest, my brother Mack and my sister Pat didn’t like to live away at all, you know, and so she came back. She never left any more. And then she passed away when she was young, 59. She had cancer and she passed away. 

You know people’s lifestyles [in Indiana] were different than our lifestyles. We got made fun of over having such a speech, you know. I’d always say, ‘You sound as goofy as I do; you sound as goofy to me as I sound to you’ (laughs). That’s what I would tell them. Laugh and go on. 

I had two children after I got married. I stayed at home and I did sewing. I made all my daughters’ clothes. I was always kind of handy on gifts, sewing, and crafts. I stayed at that until I retired. Then, my husband wanted to move back down to Kentucky because that’s where his family was. The only hard part about moving away was not knowing too many people. 

He worked for the railroad for 40 years, and every year his vacation would be to come back to Kentucky. We never went anywhere. Well, we might go for one night to Gatlinburg or away somewhere like that. We never went, you know, like to Disney World or any big thing.

It was beautiful to see mountains [after being away]. You know there is nothing in Ohio but wind and ice and snow and rain (laughs). It was nice to see the mountains.

I’ll tell you something about my nephew’s wife. He went to Florida. You’ll think this is funny. His wife, he was coming in with her and she was from Cuba or somewhere, I don’t know where she’s from, but when she woke up and when she saw all the trees, she said ‘Well who prunes all these trees?’ (laughs). [My nephew] said, ‘God takes care of our trees.’ It was so funny. I still remember her saying that. It was so funny. 

But it was great to see the mountains and see people you grew up with. By the time my husband retired and I was older and came back, everybody else had moved away. I didn’t know anybody hardly except family, but it was still great to come back. Mountain people are blessed. They are different from people raised anywhere else. I guess everybody has memories, but nothing like these mountain memories

All my life I always thought I’d like to make baskets. I had a drapery shop later, you know, before I came back. I did crafts. I sewed. I did hem work. I did all that for people and I said, ‘when I retire and go back, when my husband retires, I’m going to do nothing, but read my bible as much as I want and learn to make baskets.’

And I had a great teacher, Frances Whitaker. I said if I can get the basics, I can learn anything. My whole family was crafty. If she can show me the basics on how to start, I won’t need any help. I went to her to classes and I made about, I’m going to say four baskets. I like being with other people so I kept going and making them, but I started making them at home, also. I started making them and ordering my own stuff to do it with and I started going to craft shows, started selling them. I give them to everybody for Christmas, wedding gifts, baby showers, everything. I’ve been told they’re woven really tight and very well made. I never make a basket that cannot be used for something. 

I’ve been [making baskets] since ’96. I had to take a little break. I didn’t get a lot made while my husband was sick with cancer, but from there as soon as he passed away, I went at it like a beaver. I love it! I could sit all day and do it!

You figure out what you’re going to make and what size you want, and then you figure out what length you’re going to need for the rib, the stakes. Then, how much you’ll need to weave it with and if you’re going to add anything for decoration. 

The reed, sometimes I buy it. I can order it from where I order my supplies already dyed, but it’s cheaper if I dye it myself, with just Ritz dye. It don’t matter what they’re dyed with, if they’re in the sunlight they’re going to fade a little bit. I started staining them and a lot of people like some stain, so I stain most of them.

I can remember as a little girl growing up a man up the road from us, and I was so fascinated with what he did. He wove chairs, you know, the seats in the chairs, made baskets. It didn’t look like they could be made by hand. You know I always thought things like that was made in a factory or something. But he made them baskets and all that. Egg baskets and all that, but now I don’t make egg baskets. Nobody carries eggs, so why make a stupid egg basket? (laughs).

At one time when I was a child we had 500 chickens! We could have used an egg basket then, but you don’t need egg baskets. Like I said, I don’t make anything you can’t use, that’s not useable for something.

(What makes Appalachia special?) People, just common people. They are different. They’re more friendly. They make you feel better about yourself. They’re not stuck up. [Appalachians are] just a different breed, a different class. You’re born with that accent, and some people lose it, but I lived in Ohio for 40 years and I never lost my accent. 

[Outsiders] think we are all stupid and just not very smart. It always amazed me in Ohio that people would say ‘how can you do all this?’ and whatever I set my mind to I could do it. I said, ‘actually gifts and talent comes from God.’ I’m a strong believer in God, you know, that God gives us that. I’d say we’re [Appalachians] God’s Chosen People. We’re created just the same way I think God created everybody. That’s how I feel about it. We’re all humans that God created.

I’ll tell you one way I’ll be remembered, I was the best grandmother ever in the world. I tried to be the best mother in the world (laughs) and I’m taking care of a great-grandkid. I take care of her a lot, and she’ll say, ‘Granny, you’re the only mother I’ve ever had’ because her dad and her mama separated when she was three and he got her back when she was five. But it is hard when you get my age to take care of a great-grandchild Even though [her father has] remarried, she still thinks of me as mom. 

She’s 13, and it’s just lately that I’m learning to get away from her because she is getting hard to handle. At 13, they’ll think they’re 21 now. If you could see her for yourself, you’d think she’s 17 or 18. Her dad, I took care of him a lot. My daughter, had a lot of problems, mental-type problems, and I took care of Amber’s dad and he used to tell his friends if he didn’t come home, to keep from going somewhere he’d say ‘the wrath of my Granny is worse than the wrath of God, I can’t do that’ (laugh). So he still sticks and believes, you know, in a lot of things that I taught him and I’m just hoping that Amber does the same thing. 

But she’s totally different. This young generation’s totally different. They’re getting so immoral, you know. They don’t see anything wrong in anything. Everything’s fine, but that’s I think due to all the breakup of the family. 

I want to be remembered for all the good things I’ve done in life.”

Larry Pierson

“To explain [the Appalachian connection with the land] I think would be to probably delve too close into your soul. How much do you really want to know about yourself? Just know that the evidence is there and you can be romantic about it, but it’s caused a lot of hardship, that connection to the land. It’s created a lot of anxiety in people’s lives by just trying to hold onto it.”

Larry Pierson, Broom Maker; Natural Tunnel, Virginia:

“Well, I’m going to tell you what I did. My 60th birthday, I was going up to visit my friends in Berea. Except I missed the turn to go to Hyden, and I went dang near to Cumberland. I said this is perfect for my 60th birthday; I took a wrong turn that ended up being a 60-mile detour! 

I live in Natural Tunnel, Virginia. I have [lived here all my life]. Growing up here was kind of like (it) would have been like the 1880s in a lot of other places. We still had mules; some tractors and some farm implements were slowly, begrudgingly coming in. It had to do with whoever had a better job in say one of the defense industries in Kingsport or some other place, or a good earning job, and then they would have tractors. Most of us were still in the 1880s and all the livestock was still pretty much like the 1880s. Wasn’t a lot of difference and then, in the late 70s, the 50s hit! 

We were allowed to have some childhood. We played and made most of our own toys and our own games. Did the whole cowboy and Indian sort of thing. We created our own amusements. We also were shown the business end of hoes and that sort of utensil. Around six or so we had milking and responsibilities that we had to take on. Now, we had free time too, but it was very limited. You were allowed to go out and make your own money after your own folks’ needs were finished. You’d go off and work for other people here. I grew up on what was then Highway 23. We had a couple of industries that moved in right about the time I was born. But we were still primarily agricultural. 

My grandparents and my great uncles, they were all still involved in tobacco and just preserving their foodstuffs. There was a little bit of subsistence farming ingrained here. We had the automobile culture because you had Highway 23 right across the bridge from my home. We seen all sorts of that ‘north south’ exodus in the 50s and 60s from people going to the mill town jobs up north, and then returning after they become homesick, with their mattresses and their kids hanging out the windows with their trunks open and tied down. 

I’ve seen Model A’s go down that road with three or four kids and all the utensils hanging out a bit like the Beverly Hillbillies. I’ve seen people stopping and asking for donations or for food [and my] mother feeding them. They’d ask to work, but we gave them a meal. I’ve learned my folks are just like everybody else. It wasn’t all good, and it wasn’t all bad, but they were somewhere in the middle. No matter how you think of them as saints, they may not quite be saints.

And if [the people coming through] had some need, they’d go to the church and get a donation and gas and they’d stop by our churches on prayer meeting Friday or Saturday night, folks coming through with kids. People that had sometimes very little extra themselves would make a donation to get them around. 

To explain [the Appalachian connection with the land] I think would be to probably delve too close into your soul. How much do you really want to know about yourself? Just know that the evidence is there and you can be romantic about it, but it’s caused a lot of hardship, that connection to the land. It’s a lot of anxiety in people’s lives by just trying to hold onto it..

It has brought people back from the mill towns up north as I’ve said. I’ve seen them come back on Highway 23 when it was a two lane passing by my home. I’ve seen those people coming back homesick. They were coming back home whether it was the Alleghenies or on down into the border between Georgia and North Carolina. Most of my association I guess is with the mountains. But I also saw people who had that same connection with land I don’t think wouldn’t attract me much. There’s families that I can remember coming from Macon, Georgia [who had] been up in, can’t remember exactly where, may have gone as far over as into Windsor, Canada. 

They came back through in an old black ’39 Oldsmobile. All they had in this world was in that car. There were like three or four kids, can’t remember exactly how many, but they were sitting on their clothes in the back seat of that car and everything on the floorboard was packed in there and everything was between them up front. I don’t think police would let them travel through [like that] these days if they saw them! 

It’s just that whole thing about going back to the land. There’s that whole, ‘do I do it for the cash money, or do I go and think that I can achieve a bunch of cash money and come back?’ I understand in Chicago, in what they call the ghetto in Chicago, it was a mixture of a lot of southern blacks and a lot of southern whites and Appalachian whites. The one disservice they did was that they never invested in where they were. They took the money because that was never going to be home. It ended up being home, and they failed to buy homes, something that was a basic investment. Now, certain generations back in the 50s that have returned home did that. They went up and they invested in property and they invested in a home and some side businesses and so when they did decide to come home (which they seem to drift back all the time now), they had some underpinning so they can come back. And daggone if they don’t just go right back on into agriculture and lose it all! 

I decided I might want a little further education [after high school]. Just after high school I got accepted to a few colleges, which surprised me. I ended up going to Berea College in Central Kentucky, which was one of the best moves of my life. While I was there and starting to be a better student than I ever had been in my life, I got a draft notice. It was next to the last draft. Vietnam was still going on. That kind of rearranged some of my strategic planning. It was one of those big question marks that made me decide that I’d prepared so far, but then the end result was probably not going to be just what I’d planned on. 

[On being in the military] It was good. It was disciplined, but the farm was already providing discipline. It was just another example of learning what the system is, and making it your friend instead of fighting it. Going along with [the flow] like the river. Just swim with it, let it take you, and eventually you’ll get out on the bank somewhere, you know? I never saw action, but a lot of my mentors were there and had seen a lot of military action. That also changed my whole attitude about militarism and about young lives being ended for [a] militarily industrial complex benefit and darker political gains. 

We were all still very loyal to our country, which was never even a question. But it sold me into understanding the Civil Rights Movement. It expanded me, I think, into being more observant and a better thinker on issues. Just being there and seeing people who had faced their imminent demise, and having a good, solid, brotherly relationship was what has changed my whole attitude about the benefit of militarism and just how it should be used, or shouldn’t be used. I was in artillery, and later I was [a] parts clerk. That was my MOS training, to actually tell them where the big guns were supposed to be pointing and how far! If you’ve ever pulled a lanyard on an 8-inch Howitzer…I kind of got all that romanticism about heavy firepower out of my system real quick. It doesn’t take long! I’ve never looked at weapons as being anything more now than just tools. 

After the military experience, and being in the reserves for several years, I ended up becoming a broom maker and a farmer. I started becoming more interested in art and history and the survival techniques of [how] my family had lived. We were never poor; we just didn’t have any money! I think Berea taught me that there was such a thing as education, and it’s an ethereal thing. It’s practical and it’s ethereal too. Once you learn ‘this’ is education, your mind is forever changed and you don’t have to send rockets to the moon, but you’re always aware of things. And you soak up some things. My problem is now I think I know everything, but I can’t remember it! 

Both grandmothers on both sides were broom-makers. The first broom I ever saw made was [by] my grandmother on my mother’s side, Grandma Jessie. She had copper wire and after one broom was gone, she would reuse it on another one. You would sit in a ladder back chair on the porch turned away from her and that wire would be wrapped around the leg. As she would wet the material and wind it, your job as her helper was she would give you indication that she wanted you to scoot the chair or stop. Scoot the chair toward her, and she’d take up a little more wire, add another layer. They’d probably do three or four of those a year. They’d take some little needle, or just with her fingers, run [the wire] through the outer layers and make these little loops and then the last one they’d run all the other thread back through the loops, and then they’d pull it tight and all the loops would tighten up an tie it. Everything was used again and again. 

In the mountains, almost everyone had someone who ‘tied brooms,’ as they would say. There were all sorts of different ways they would do the broom tying. Everybody to this day talks about [how] they had a grandparent that grew, some called it, broom sage. They would grow it and hang it in the barn, and it was generally a female that was responsible for tying these things up. They used a variety of things from linen to copper to stitch it up.

Berea College has a broom craft industry. It’s associated with all the other industries they had at the time, woodcraft and weaving, needlework; they had farms at one time. They’re moving back to more of that right now, actually. They’ve opened their farms to put students back into being part of the labor force, which means by and large, when you leave there, and you participate in their programs, your student debt is nothing. There is no student debt. At one time they were growing broom corn back in the 20s, but they weren’t doing that when I was there. 

I was a braider, a weaver, at the time. We wove the handles, so that’s where I started with looking at [broom making] as a form for something different. 

It’s a connection with my grandparents, my great grandparents, in that one element. My generation consisted of quite a few cousins, and I’m the only one that has that connection with something I physically, actually saw and participated in with my grandparents when I was a boy. 

[On broom making] I’ve done some historical research and I’ve also used it as a form to do weaving and to encourage people a lot more talented than I am. I look at it as a focus of sculpting and also tying back to a history of it. There’s a good platform; it has the basic elements of nature and natural materials, so it’s not really tied in too much to the contemporary, in a way. It’s actually not very contemporary. I think that’s probably what makes it a little more eccentric is the fact that it’s not a contemporary thing but there’s also a history. It ties in with several avenues—everywhere from Benjamin Franklin to the Shakers—a celibate sect that existed. The remnants of their settlements are from New England through Pennsylvania into Kentucky where there was one of the most famous ones—Shakertown, Kentucky. 

[They were] furniture makers and box makers, and whatever they did they brought a sort of ingenuity to it. They were the ones who actually invented the broom. Until then, there had been besoms. A biblical term, the besom is round. [The Shakers] invented the broom, which is flat. They also adapted using wire to wind the broom corn fibers. Benjamin Franklin was the one who encouraged the production of the material he called ‘broom corn’. It’s a sorghum from Africa, and he’d seen a lady on a stoop on the docks of Philadelphia with what he called a ‘hand of whisk.’ And it was broom corn. It was African extraction and he encouraged it. Ben Franklin got credit for a lot of stuff! He encouraged the growth of a lot of visionary things.

Most broom corn is now grown in Mexico, but there were different varieties along the way. It changed a lot because it was cultivated like things are cultivated. It was a really irritating process—it has a dust and a pollen on it that’s highly irritating, I can vouch to that! 

I sometimes think I was on vacation the first 20 years of my life and now I’m having to work. But that’s what I did and I’m back home. My dad became sick, he had cancer and I came back and took care of Mom and the farm and I still continued to travel and do art shows for 17 years. I did art shows from Bay Harbor, Maine to Miami, Florida…all over the Eastern United States. That’s what I did for a living; I guess you’d say. 

Someone once said that one of the better legacies for an artist was that he went totally worthless before he died. And so I’m trying to do that. I sort of understand what they’re saying, it’s like well do I make a functional broom or one that has absolutely no function whatsoever? Do you create worthless art? I’m just wondering if maybe before I die I should just become totally worthless.

My dad was a deacon of the church and he wasn’t afraid to speak. He told me whether you’re right or you're wrong, you stand up straight and look them right in the eye. I always tried to follow that.

I was always outspoken. I’ve been sitting around a table at events that have been sponsored by Dupont, the Fords, the Rockefellers and other philanthropists and I spoke my mind, whether I wanted to be the center of attention or not. You have somebody there like J, Rockefeller that knows that lesson well. He devoted his life to the service of the mountain people, and he’s not from here. People like that give me the strength [and] the sheer gall to [speak up].

So, I don’t think I take a great deal of offense in it [people making fun of Appalachian culture]. I kind of have used that myself. It’s humorous because I know how it’s really not real. I know that it could be in some places, it’s not entirely false; it’s however you interpret your existence. I know of other people who have had some terrible lives here in the mountains and had some terrible family situations and my God it boggles my mind to think of some of the things they have had to endure. 

My family went through the boom and bust. I had uncles, they never did anything different. When there were boom times they lived off all their income. When they were bust, they would be loading up off the farm here. Hog meat, canned goods, shoes, clothing, anything that we could scrounge. Boom time comes back again and they’d be working full blast. What’d they do? Spent it. They’d have all the kids and the goods loaded up in the latest Mercury they’d purchased. 

I’ve seen that in my own family. They were complicated people, but I think they thought the same way. They never intended to live their life in a coal camp. They never intended to buy a home anywhere over in Harlan County or Letcher County or Pikeville. They never intended to do that. It was difficult for them to seize the future. I don’t think they were dumb and ignorant, I just think they just really weren’t as educated as they probably should have been. Knowing that you’re ignorant is a good thing, if you know the meaning of it. If you know the fact that ‘hey, I’m ignorant about that.’ Do I want to change that? Do I want to dig into it so I’m less ignorant? We’re always going to be ignorant on some issue. do I want to become less ignorant on how to work some kind of a computerized press so I can have a job making some advancement in some kind of automobile industry? Or tool or dye manufacturer? Do I want to not be ignorant so I can look at these new skills and be in the future? Do I do that? 

The media] think that we have a lack of character. There are people with a lack of character, but you’ll find them everywhere. I think it’s just easy because we had the war on poverty and we didn’t think nothing about going barefoot when we were kids. As a matter of fact, supposedly our feet were in better shape than everybody else that was wearing shoes! We had healthier feet! I don’t take any of those [stereotypes] to heart anymore. If I had to have one little trigger point, it would be… this is pronounced ‘App-ah-la-cha.’ This is not ‘App-uh-lay-cha’ or ‘App-uh-lay-chi-uh.’ This is my trigger point. I’m sorry but it’s just a little hair trigger. 

Other than that, they can talk about inbreeding which may of happened, but it’s not my family. They had too many strong women! My family made sure you didn’t go there! They wanted to know if you went to the hayloft, just how long you’d been there and they wanted to make sure you didn’t have time to take your clothes off and it was nobody closer than a fourth cousin. They applied that vigorously! They knew where you were at all times. 

The big thing now is the diminishing of the coal industry, which has a lot of people on edge. But we had a culture and an economy before they ever found coal. To me, we ought to go with our strong suit. There was a lot of ingenuity, natural engineers, people who had a natural inclination for knowing how to make things, how to change things, how to make things easier to work with. I think there probably will be a future for coal somewhat, but I think it’s going to have to really rely on a lot of advance technology and the changing of what it is into something that it’s not. The basic element is there. 

Coal is just a diamond that hasn’t formed yet. So I see it as being something that may have a future if the technology will keep up with the needs other than just purely as taking a mineral that will create heat and burn. We need to take it to some other level. It’s a bit of romance on my part, but I think we’re forgetting that we had a culture and we had trade and we had industry before then. It just depends on how the generations decide to do it. [With] My parents and my grandparents and my great, great grandparents, increasing the population was beneficial. I don’t think at this point that’s necessary now. You don’t need all those hands on a farm. The labor requirements are not there. We have people going into other things. 

[On what makes Appalachian culture special] To me, it’s freedom, but I think that it takes a long time for that desire for freedom to morph itself and change itself around. The mountains have offered an opportunity for an agriculture-based society; we had foodstuffs, wood, trees for homes and cabins. We game and streams and we were enjoying everything that the Native Americans had had. But we were coming from a different culture. We weren’t coming from the village, we were coming from the vassalized nature of Europe and other countries, and that control was from the top down. 

I think we got here and we saw the ability to control our own lives and decide. I think that’s a difference in the culture. During the Civil War, there were really no parts of my family that fought in the Civil War. Actually my great, great grandmother had runaway slaves in her root cellar. She was sort of a part of the Underground Railroad. My family particularly, they were rabbles and they were rebels. 

I think they were just resisting control, that they were strong individuals and they wanted to control their own lives and I think that’s what kept us out of [the] Civil War. I think we were more Union sympathizers. My folks to this day are still of the party of Lincoln. My grandmother and grandfather, they were in their 80s when I was a young boy and I got to spend a lot of time with them. They were a lot more intimately acquainted [with] some of the history of where they came from or how they got here. I think it was basically just they mistrusted all the government and they figured the best thing [and] most important thing for them wasn’t anything more than their family. And they were trying to do their own village, I mean like the natives. The roots just go deep, man. Roots just are deep. 

I admire the Native Americans, and that concept of village. To me, it’s something we’ve lost here. We don’t help each other like we used to. My dad’s generation, I remember other people were coming and whether it was simple as getting your hay in because it was going to rain or your tobacco or whatever worked off, your crops or whatever it meant as far as your sustaining your life here, everybody would jump. It thrills me when I have an opportunity to help somebody. That’s a neighbor. All of a sudden something goes wrong, and I’m there and I can sit and I can do something about it right there. And that’s the way I grew up around my dad and my folks. That’s the way it was. It was a broader village. 

[Appalachia today] like everywhere else in the world is in transition. I think somebody will take it on. [In ten to twenty years] we’ll still have young people that are taking after our traditions in music. They’re also firmly planted in the century that I’ll never be a part of, but it’s the future. I think there’s a lot of sense to resist it and I just don’t see the romance over there across that divide. 

Economically, I’m not sure. I think it will continue to be looked at as a natural resource. Our colleges and universities in the Appalachian Mountains attract a lot of attention from other parts—they [students] really want to come here, there’s something that they want to have happen to their children here too. There is the Appalachian romance. I don’t think that we’re quite as maybe ethnically as pure or divided as some other more urban areas seem to be. I just see transitions. I see hope. 

I’ve been an organic farmer for about 16 years now. You take your things and you go to the market and you try to expand into something else where it’s like mushrooms and various other niche crops that weren’t really here. But there are always resources out here, and when someone remembers a lesson and everybody else forgets it, that’s sort of a source of power there, isn’t it? 

I want to touch somebody’s life somehow or another. I want to make something better. The thing I’ll probably regret is the times I’ve gone and seen somebody that needed help, and I didn’t take time to do it, that’s probably the regret. 

For us here in the mountains, would you really know if you passed Jesus needing help on the road? Would you really know that you’d just passed Him up to go on with your own petty things? So I think about that very often. Dang… I should have turned around and went back. I should have stopped. And I have stopped; I just don’t do it every time. I guess everybody’s going to have regrets. I don’t think any of us is going to be perfect. 

I cancelled a lot of my bucket list early in my life, so I don’t really don’t have a great big bucket list now. It’s kind of [like] everything I thought I wanted to do back then, I’ve been able to experience those things. I’d like to see Alaska once. Never been to Alaska. 
I did a different bucket list, and some of it was I wanted to go snow ski, I wanted to go to Southern Highlands games, I want to lay on the beach in Miami next to somebody famous. Female. A famous female. 

In my early years I wanted to go see the cathedrals. The cathedrals were a common effort whether building them was forced on you, or you were paid to do it. I always thought [about] the sheer numbers and skills that it took to erect those cathedrals. The craftsmanship, the different craftsmen across everything, all the different metal, wood, stone and yes, creating new tools and methods and skills to create those. It wasn’t an easy thing, of course. A lot of them died from their endeavors, whether it was stone dust or timbers falling or stone falling, or just sheer hard life. 

You’ve got glassmakers, you've got people that work in metal, you’ve got people who refine metals. You’re bringing things from basic lead. You’re creating colors in glass, you’re creating a whole base industry just by creating a place that’s theoretically supposed to be a place for worship. 

Of course, we all know it was also a political power and had a lot of darker elements to it. But I’m just [talking] about those basic craftsmen, those basic human beings that advanced at the same time they were being exploited. You always had to have a patron or somebody forcing you to work or forcing you to leave your family or take your family. There was a lot of force there, a lot of subtle threat or subtle insistence. 

But how many people went underground in the mines for almost nothing? Because that’s the only thing they had. That was it. And they didn’t know anything else. You took your family, got paid the script, company store, that whole legacy.”

Joan Boyd Short

“The music and the storytelling has always been a part of this culture. It sort of gets canned up like fruits and vegetables do, and held onto. “

Joan Boyd Short, Retired Teacher, President of the Daniel Boone Wilderness Trail Association at Natural Tunnel State Park; Duffield, Virginia: 

“I grew up in Chattanooga, Tennessee. I lived in a very comfortable, middle class family about eight miles out of the city, in a suburb that’s now Hamilton Place, which is hard to believe. [Hamilton Place is one of the largest retail and lifestyle centers] in Tennessee. That is where I went camping with the Brownies and the Girl Scouts, so it was a wilderness at the time I was growing up there. Everybody was kind of alike, working class families, little working class school. We all went to the same church. It was very comfortable. I came from a family of coal miners in the Sequatchie Valley, which was just over the mountain from Chattanooga. There were a lot of mines there in Whitwell, and my great grandparents, grandfather and uncles had worked in the coalmines there. 

My great-grandfather was the closest thing the Sequatchie Valley had to a vet, so he rode all over the valley taking care of people’s animals, and he took care of the mules that they used for the mines over there at Dunlap, Tennessee. The mountains are a little different from the south. Chattanooga is definitely a southern town as opposed to mountain, but I’ve lived here for forty-five years at this point and so this is really home to me now.

The music that I grew up singing in church and the folk songs we sang in school were what I later discovered, when I was probably in high school, Appalachian folk songs. I began to hear that term more as I got older. We tended to say ‘from the mountains,’ and ‘mountain people,’ so I see the people that I grew up with as mountain people and the people that are here as mountain people. I came to call it Appalachia as I learned about that mountain chain and that culture. 

[Here there is] a sense of the importance of extended family; my cousins were more like brothers and sisters [and] I had lots of them. We saw each other every week. We all took care of each other. Now people are so spread out. That next generation, including myself, kind of left the place where we all grew up, but all of my cousins lived in and around Chattanooga, the Sequatchie Valley. So [there is] certainly that idea of extended family, neighbors, of faith.

I went to a little Methodist church out there in the country, but it was kind of the community church, and so we all knew each other. The idea that everyone is equal and that we’re all in this together is, I think, a value that we’ve lost. I hear so much, people say, ‘this is my right to do this.’ You don’t hear people say, ‘our rights,’ as much anymore. I was raised to believe that democracy meant people and not person. I was raised to look behind me to make sure the door I was closing wasn’t closing in someone’s face, and to say, ‘excuse me,’ and ‘thank you,’ and ‘yes, ma’am,’ and ‘yes sir,’ and things that made living a little more civil than they can be today. 

Education was very, very important to my parents to give us opportunities that they had not had, and they worked very hard to do that. I think that there is, certainly in that generation, a sense in this area of the importance of education. I think we’ve also lost that a little bit; people don’t stress that as much. Being able to be independent, and able to pull your weight early was something that I learned, and a love of the natural world, and a love of music, especially. I was very lucky to have people to sing with. We sang in school. We sang in church. We sang with the family. I assumed all families did it. It took a while to figure out that really wasn’t true.

My grandfather played the fiddle, and he also played the piano. My two uncles, his two boys, would travel from church to church and sing together sometimes as a little family trio. All my aunts loved to sing. My mother was very shy. They didn’t like to perform so much as they liked to just sit down, and one would start a song and the others would sing. I learned a lot of Carter Family songs very early from my Mother and her sisters. I guess it never struck me to ask them, I just assumed that they had always known them. It was later that I learned about the Carter Family, and became very interested in them, because I had been hearing their songs for so long growing up.

I didn’t grow up in a coal mining family, per se. My father and mother both worked outside the home until we came along, then Mom stayed at home with my brother and myself until we were old enough to maneuver on our own. It was my grandparents that were the coal miners, and my uncles. My father just had a high school education, as did my mother, but he worked as a planning manager for Provident Life and Accident Insurance Company. He taught himself. I know my brother went off to MIT for graduate school, and would call my dad to get his help with math problems. My dad was self-taught, and it was amazing to see how hard people would work to learn things at that time. My coal mining roots were the generation before that, my grandparents and my great-grandparents, but I think a love for rural life and a respect for farmers, and for people who worked the land, and people who had to work under the land, certainly was a part of forming who I am.

I went to school in Chattanooga, the University of Chattanooga, and then I moved to Nashville, went to Knoxville, (Laughs) went back to Nashville, and worked as an editor for the University of Tennessee and also Vanderbilt University. 

I went to Boston to visit my brother, when I was a freshman in college, and I was terrified. I had never been in a big city, but he was afraid I’d never get out of Chattanooga, so he brought me to Boston and sent me off on my own to sort of look around. He got off the subway and went to work, and there I was. I was determined to show him I could handle it, and I went to the Durgin Park Restaurant. It was over where they slaughtered beef, and it had fresh beef, but you sat at long tables like picnic tables, and I sat down. 

There I was in my little Jackie Kennedy A-line dress, sitting at a table with people I didn’t know. I was pretty shy, and I ordered my lunch. This gray-haired man, dressed in a business suit sitting next to me, turned to me and said, ‘are you from Chattanooga?’ It terrified me, I was afraid to say, ‘Yes.’ I thought, ‘How could he possibly know?’ 

He was a professor at Yale, and was a language expert. He said that there were eight cities in the United States that had very specific language and he was pretty good at recognizing them, and Chattanooga was one of the eight. It was the way I said Chattanooga. It was the way I said rice, when I ordered rice, and I’d never really thought about the way I talked until I got to Boston. And I drawl, I get stuck in a word sometimes, but my brother had never done that quite so much, and so they didn’t make fun of him as much as they made fun of me, teased me. But it was meant to be good-natured, but there’s no doubt. 

I worked for WSM Television after I graduated from college, and that same man was on one of our TV shows, the morning show. I recognized him, especially when they said what he did. I introduced myself and he said, ‘oh my. What happened to you?’ Because I’d had so much response to the way I talked, I had unconsciously changed it, felt like it was wrong.

In the early seventies, I heard about a job that was available up here in Public Relations for an early childhood development program. That was really the area that I had studied, so I applied for it and got it. I was doing some three-chord folk singing at the time, and I came up for a festival. [One of the other performers] was playing the blues, and I was singing three chord folk songs and I thought his amplifier was too loud, so I went over to him and said, ‘could you turn down that amplifier just a little bit?’ 

The first day of the job, I was in a meeting and they said, ‘you’re going to meet your Regional Supervisors.’ These two guys in suits walk through the door, and one of them was Ron [musician, actor and storyteller, Ron Short] whose amp was too loud. I didn’t recognize him, because he looked so different in a suit. But he ended up being my boss, Regional Supervisor, and we got to know each other. He moved away for a while, but we stayed in touch, and then he became a director for an early childhood program in East Tennessee because he had written the grant for our early childhood program that I was working for. We just stayed in touch, and then when he moved back to the area, we got to see each other a little bit more and realized that maybe we did want to be a little more serious than friends. We got married in 1975, and we’ve been together ever since.

[Starting in 1977] we were at the Highlander Research and Education Center for two years. Ron was the Administrator there, and I was working in Knoxville at UT. Highlander is just out of Knoxville on Asheville Highway, so he came up here to work with some health clinics that Highlander was starting. When we got up here two years after we’d been married, I took a job with Mountain Empire Older Citizens and they put me in high schools to do sort of Foxfire Projects to help teenagers understand older people a little better and [learn] they have a lot in common. I realized I loved teaching. 

My intention from the beginning was to teach. A couple of the professors from Clinch Valley were interested in what I was doing, and helped me get my Teaching Certificate and the rest of my education courses. I started teaching at Powell Valley High School in ’78, and I was there thirty-two years.

Ron actually worked for Mountain Empire Older Citizens, too. He got sick for a while right after we came up here, and he stopped the health clinic work because he just couldn’t travel a lot. He started working for Mountain Empire Older Citizens and ran their nutrition program where they had sites where the elderly could come out and have lunch and social time together. It was called, Congregate Meals, and he did that for a couple of years. 

But he always was playing music, playing music, playing music and he knew the people at Roadside Theater. He started doing some music with them, and joined them fulltime. He wrote, I’ve forgotten how many plays now, for them and wrote music for those plays, and he worked at that for thirty-five years, I guess. Traveled all over the world.

Roadside Theater is an Appalachian based theater group. They primarily tell the positive side of Appalachian culture, and try to put off that negative side that we often hear in the media. They also worked with people who were representing other cultures. For instance, they wrote a play together with an African-American group from New Orleans. They wrote a play together with Zuni out in New Mexico, and looked for commonalities between Appalachian culture and Native American culture. And worked with recently, a Puerto Rican theater group, and looked again for commonalities between those cultures. Their goal was always to look for not what makes us different, but what makes us alike. When was first working with them, sometimes he was gone two hundred and fifty days out of the year, so I had to be a pretty independent schoolteacher. 

I think environment to begin with, makes [Appalachians] unique. The way that the western movement happened in this country brought a lot of people into this area. Many moved on to the West, but many stayed. We have to remember that this was such a melting pot because some of the first people on the frontier were Germans and not the Scots-Irish. They came a little later, so this area really was a melting pot and I think that we represent that. It took a lot of personal faith to send people on out to the fringes of society, so I think that makes the culture unique. 

The music and the storytelling has always been a part of this culture. It sort of gets canned up like fruits and vegetables do, and held onto. You see in this culture a lot of roots in our European culture, from which we came, and the people, the music, and the stories still represent that. There is a sense of fierce independence. I know you find that in other areas as well, but I do think this culture is unique, not only in those positive ways, but it’s also the last culture that it’s okay to make fun of. 

I think part of it is that nobody’s ever stood up and said, ‘Quit that!’ You would never say about African-American culture, or Italian-American culture, the kinds of things that people say and make fun of in Appalachian culture; the barefoot hillbilly, you know. 

When I taught high school, we had a group come down from a private school [from Connecticut] and wanted to have an Appalachian experience. We were not real sure what that meant, but we said, ‘Sure.’ Our kids had worked so hard to prepare for their visit, and they were excited about meeting someone from somewhere else. As soon as they got off the bus, they said, ‘Oh, we didn’t think you’d have shoes on.’ 

And our kids said, ‘There are restrooms inside. Let us show you.’ And they said, ‘Oh, we thought you’d have outhouses.’ It was like it was okay to say those things to these young people, who had worked very hard to be welcoming. I’m not saying that as a stereotype of the people from Connecticut, but it was interesting to watch. It was interesting to watch that for a week, and watch our students interact. 

In one case, when we were all together, somebody said, ‘Why did you want to come down here?’ They said, ‘we wanted to help the poor people of Appalachia.’ They had already said that they rode the subways to school, and one of my students raised his hand and said, ‘have you ever seen any street people in New York or in the subway?’ They said, ‘why, yes, we step over them every day getting on the subway.’ And [our student] said, ‘well, why would you want to come down here and look for poor people? Why don’t you help the poor people at home? How would you feel if we came up there and said we were going to help?’ 

There are poor people everywhere and they all need help, and there are gifted people everywhere. And of course, language is different. It’s very rich, and it’s very beautiful here, and you do hear the roots of the Anglo-Saxon English, but you hear a lot of other root words, too. But people make fun; if they think if you talk slowly, then you think slowly. I remember that being an issue when Jimmy Carter was elected President. One woman from Georgia said it was so wonderful to have someone at last, who did not have an accent, in the White House. So it just depends on where you’re from, and what your ear is attuned to. I find mountain people extremely warm and welcoming, but there’s a reserve that maybe you don’t find where people have to live so close together, in each other’s faces all the time. That’s hard for the people in this area to imagine. 

It’s more of just looking down and looking aside from a whole culture that brings so much to the American texture. Sometimes, when you’re made fun of, people tend to start as a defense, making fun of themselves, and that has happened in Appalachian culture some. [There was] ‘Hee Haw’ and there’s a couple of people not too far from where we’re sitting, who have been producers in Hollywood, who have tried to create a new Beverly Hillbillies where they would bring an Appalachian family out to Hollywood, and think it’s funny that they wouldn’t know what to do. Excuse me? 

My husband was in a group of people that auditioned for a movie that was going to be made here years ago. A lot of people went over and auditioned in Kentucky for that movie, and he was actually going to have a speaking part. He only saw one page of the script and he said, ‘I can’t even tell what this story’s about. I would like to know.’ They sent him a script, and he read the whole script and he said, ‘I can’t believe what this script says.’ 

They had people pulling into filling stations on their way to Ohio, and a voice coming over the microphone saying, ‘Pay before you pump,’ and they had the quote ‘hillbillies’ acting like they didn’t know what that meant, or where the voice was coming from. It was just so insulting, and they had on tombstones ‘Born, Died, Revenged.’ That was just so far off. 

So Ron said, ‘I’m sorry, but I can’t be a part of it. I couldn’t face people again, when I try to write plays that show a positive point of view.’ They never had anybody turn back a script and not sign a contract before. I was always proud of him for taking that stand. It would have been nice to have a new pickup truck at that time, but some things are more important. He was happy that he had made that decision.

Ron went to a two-room schoolhouse through the seventh grade, and they were all just alike, they were all from the same community, they all played together. Everybody got to play. He had to move to Kingsport, Tennessee. He had straight A’s. He had done very well in school, but when he got to Kingsport, they took him to his classroom, introduced him to the teacher, handed her his records, and she said, ‘well class, this young man seems to have straight A’s. We’ll see if he can make it in Kingsport.’ He was so shocked that anybody would even say something like that. He was just over there for a year, but he describes it as one of the worst years of his life. He had always been treated so well in school, and encouraged, and if he finished an assignment, got to help others. They gave him magazines to read, or they were constantly encouraging him to learn something new. It was almost a challenge to even belong. And he went out to recess, and couldn’t figure out how to play because they chose teams, and he was a stranger. As a teacher, I was always so attuned to new students who hadn’t been there before. It’s a very, very difficult transition to make. 

He said in many ways that was harder than Vietnam, because Vietnam, as hard as it was, had a context and you knew what it was. You knew why you were there. But in a school and a neighborhood, you don’t expect that kind of treatment. I think it’s a shame that we don’t appreciate each other’s accents, and the way that we talk, and the wonderful phrases we use. 

(Are you a hillbilly?) Well I think it depends on whose saying it. I have to say that. I don’t think, it’s because I’m so connected to my southern roots, I do not think of myself as a hillbilly, but I use mountain people all the time. That’s just the phrase I grew up with. I think if people who live here are talking about being hillbillies, it’s usually meant in a good-natured, ‘I recognize who you are,’ kind of way. If someone else says it, it feels a little different, and I guess that’s true for all kinds of cultures. I do feel it’s derogatory if I hear other people using that term. 

If we use the term hillbilly, like for the ‘Hillbilly Highway,’ that meant all those people who, on Friday evening got in those cars and headed back for those mountains; that for me is a warm, familiar kind of image. We went to England and people dressed up like what they thought the Beverly Hillbillies were, and that was meant as a parody or insult. I know that Ron said when he was in England, ‘you can call me a hillbilly if you want to. Once.’ (Laughs) It was interesting that they stopped using hillbilly after that.”