Our friend Casey LaFrance is back with a poem about an abuser and the scars she left. A native of the North Georgia mountains. Casey teaches political science and public administration in Illinois, where he has a loving wife, two catkids, and many cat-themed t-shirts. His poetry has been published here and also in Unfettered Muse.

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Pedigree Dogs

By Casey LaFrance

I remember rubber wrestlers
and orange slices on your
days off, when you'd jerk me
out of school. Problem was,
pops, you seemed to forget
I was there after the sausage
biscuits with mustard and
the dime store trip. You
went to work on cars and
watch Don drink beer and
curse through his toothless
mouth while I sat in fear
of this woman who beat me
who drank and drank until
she felt like going outside
to watch me ride the big
wheel while she communed with
nature or god or whatever she
worshipped. I saw her attempt
to get right in the end. I saw
her smile and cry and tell pity-tales
one after the other. I felt bad for her,
but I don't think I ever forgave her.
I still have scars from the cast
iron skillet and the
heavy old telephone,
but momma can't understand
why you didn't cry at her
funeral.

*

Yeah, every­body has a dead grand­mother story. They’re not sexy and nobody’s buy­ing. But this story is mine, and it’s not so much about the woman as it is about the place. I’m from a lit­tle coal town, McAdoo, in North­east­ern Penn­syl­va­nia. A place where peo­ple still use clothes­lines, and it has noth­ing to do with being green. A place where wed­dings and fam­ily reunions mean at least a fist fight, and maybe one of Aunt Vera’s boys piss­ing in somebody’s car to teach them a les­son. A place where it’s hard to say whose sin will draw the nas­ti­est whis­pers, the cousin who’s sus­pected of covert abor­tions, or the cousin who had the gall to earn a PhD. A place where aunts will still rec­om­mend spik­ing a baby’s bot­tle with Karo syrup, and stare slack jawed when you reveal that all of your chil­dren made it through infancy with­out ever touch­ing lips to a rub­ber nip­ple. A place where a cousin can snarl about all the ille­gal Puerto Ricans and not under­stand why you burst into laugh­ter and shake your head. A place where uncles cap­ture snakes from inside houses in paper gro­cery sacks, where a black bear might just amble out of the strip­pins, where great-grandfathers sit with Phillies base­ball games on their tran­sis­tor radios eat­ing tomato and oleo sand­wiches before they die of black lung and are buried in their Knights of Colum­bus uni­forms, swords by their sides. A place where Grannies yell at kids in words that are not Eng­lish, and the onion domes of Byzan­tine churches rise once-resplendent in once-golden paint above streets crammed with clap­board houses and Amer­i­can flags.
Because this is Appalachia, but this isn’t the Appalachia you think of, with blue­grass and corn­bread and kids named Billy Bob. This is where kids are named Stan­ley, and you can’t pro­nounce their last names, what with the sz’s and cz’s and w’s that sound like v’s. And the Stan­leys all say youse guys. This is the Appalachia where grand­moth­ers don’t flinch to say cock­sucker in front of you when you’re lit­tle enough to only pic­ture an awk­ward sit­u­a­tion for a chicken, but Protes­tant is whis­pered, a dirty word. This is the Appalachia where you vaca­tion Down The Shore, and pep­pers are man­gos and you sit on your dupa and shut your trap for two-tree min­utes now, henna?
The colos­sal maw of an aban­doned strip mine yawned behind my grand­par­ents’ house, the house that my Pop­pop built him­self, just down the big back lawn and across the alley from the loom­ing house that he was born in, the house that my Granny and Grand­pap lived in until they died, where Granny’s par­ents had been laid out for their home-funerals, back when such a thing was what was done. My sec­ond cousins lived in one half of that house, and the youngest was just my age. The sum­mer they finally paved that alley, she and I got in a fight, each of us on either side of the cool­ing asphalt, and one of us hit the other in the fore­head with a well-pitched rock. I can never remem­ber which one of us threw the rock and which one of us bled. We were that close. When she got knocked up at fif­teen, I thought Well hell, I can’t judge. There but for the grace of God and my par­ents’ trusty pick-up truck go I.
Because my mom and dad got out, had packed up every­thing we owned and moved us, pick-up truck­load by pick-up truck­load, to Vir­ginia in 1979. I was four. The world had been all of a cou­ple miles squared, and every per­son I’d ever seen had known my name, known my fam­ily. I’d thought black peo­ple were only on TV. But you’ve heard the Billy Joel song, so you know that part of the story. The coal was gone, the fac­to­ries were clos­ing. “It’s get­ting very hard to stay…”
But back I came, each sum­mer wowed by the hori­zon appliquéd with ghosty blue sil­hou­ettes of moun­tain tops, back to this place that seemed on one hand burst­ing with magic and wild­ness, and on the other just plain back­ward. Down at the bot­tom of Logan Street, behind Poppop’s house, there was the Shit Crick, into which all the borough’s raw sewage was emp­tied. There were no big box stores, no fast food restau­rants. We’d get on the high­way in Poppop’s big green Oldsmo­bile, cruise-control it to the Frackville Mall for that. I’d perch on the arm­rest beside my grand­fa­ther as he sang Sina­tra, keep­ing my eyes peeled to catch sight of the golden arches high atop the hill as the mall came into view. Or we’d wind down the moun­tain to Walt’s Drive-In for soft serve ice cream cones, watch golfers on the dri­ving range behind, bring back a CMP sun­dae for Nanny. Her favorite, chocolate/marsh mellow/peanuts. What McAdoo had was the fire­house, with booze at night. An Ital­ian place, for pitza, the kind that drips orange grease to bleed through stacked paper plates and needs to be folded in half to fit in your mouth. An inex­pertly hand-painted sign nailed up crookedly out­side somebody’s door, adver­tis­ing ETHNIC FOOD, and that means pierohi, halupki, halushki. There was a roller rink, but that was closed down every sum­mer, or maybe just closed down for good.
My cousin and I roamed, played all the make-believe games. We watched Hatchy Milatchy on black and white TV, and put on dance shows for Aunt Peggy when she came home from work­ing at the Kmart in Hazel­ton, and dressed up in Granny Palmer’s old hand­made floor-length slips and her other acces­sories, antique hand­bags and scarves, that my Nanny still had saved in a trunk. We picked Queen Anne’s Lace and put the flow­ers in glasses of water and food col­or­ing, watched the blooms turn col­ors. We argued over which celebri­ties we’d marry, we argued over which of her teenage sis­ters’ boyfriends was the cutest, and when we got a lit­tle older we’d skulk in alleys and sneak cig­a­rettes and sing Guns N’ Roses.
These were my sum­mers, until Nanny got sick.

***

It’s a few days after my four­teenth birth­day, and I’m stand­ing in the Decem­ber rain, strad­dling one of my cousins’ old ten speed bikes, watch­ing some strangers dump back­hoe shov­el­fuls of cold wet dirt on top of my grandmother’s cof­fin. Nanny is down in that hole, not wear­ing the col­or­ful poly­ester pantsuit she asked to be buried in. She’s wear­ing the mint green gown that she wore for one of the twins’ wed­dings. They said what she wanted was tacky. I went back to the house with every­body else after the funeral, but they were all eat­ing and talk­ing, and I didn’t feel like doing either. I came back, by myself, to watch this.
There are sev­eral acres of ceme­tery out here on the edge of town, butting up to the rail­road tracks, before you cross over to the long road through the woods where wild huck­le­ber­ries grow in sum­mer, where cold, cold water bub­bles up from moun­tain springs, the road that leads out past the cigar fac­tory, over to Tresckow, where both my aunts live. Chain link and crum­bling stone walls sep­a­rate sundry grave­yards that belong to dif­fer­ent churches, fences that keep the dead Poles from the dead Ital­ians, the dead Irish from the dead Slo­vaks, the dead Rusyns from the dead Hun­gar­i­ans. I look out and see a wide expanse of gran­ite head­stones jut­ting from the var­ie­gated drab greens, browns, yel­lows of grass that’s been frost­bit­ten. Look­ing back toward town, I see the slop­ing streets crowded with clap­board houses, and the squalid onion spire of St. Mary’s against the low gray clouds.

***

She hadn’t been my favorite. My Pop­pop was ded­i­cated to spoil­ing me, sneak­ing me sug­ary cere­als in tiny boxes and buy­ing me cheap toys at the IGA. She was ded­i­cated to tough love, mak­ing me spend the whole sum­mer writ­ing out my mul­ti­pli­ca­tion tables, and telling me that wear­ing those tight jeans like my cousin did would give me crotch-rot. But then she got sick. Really sick. She had at least two kinds of can­cer at the start, one of which required bed rest, the other of which was best man­aged with an active lifestyle. We would walk two miles every morn­ing, in a big loop, very slowly, very care­fully, and then she would spend the after­noon in her reclin­ing chair. I spent a lot of time with her. We talked a lot, like we never had before.
She told me sto­ries. Her toes curled up girl­ishly, and she rubbed her feet together as she told them. Sto­ries about drink­ing fresh hot milk from the goats her par­ents had kept in their yard over on Jack­son Street. Sto­ries about her father Wasyl com­ing to Amer­ica from Rus­sia, how the coal com­pany owned him, how he never really learned Eng­lish. Sto­ries about dat­ing my grand­fa­ther, illus­trated by black and white pho­tos held into the albums with those lit­tle paste-on cor­ner frames; pic­tures of Pop­pop with slicked-back hair, in white tee shirts and blue jeans, look­ing like Mar­lon Brando, her by his side in bobby socks, the cap­tions call­ing her Katie when I’d never heard any­body call her any­thing but Kath­leen or maybe a few times Kathy. Sto­ries about my mother when she was lit­tle, about how she finally got so tired of wash­ing and brush­ing and iron­ing my mother’s hair that she one day sur­prised her by lop­ping it off with a sly pair of scis­sors after her bath; about how she got so sick of my mother sneak­ing out of the house with her bell-bottom jeans rolled up beneath her school skirt, those hip­pie jeans embroi­dered with a big pair of hands grab­bing the ass cheeks, that she stole them and burned them in the fur­nace. Sto­ries about nurs­ing school, work­ing at the hos­pi­tal, trav­el­ing on her cruises. The story of when I was born, two months early, tiny but strong, and she was there in her crisp white uni­form to assist Dr. Lee with the delivery.
But most of all, she liked to tell me about her favorite movie.
I’d never seen it, The Sound of Music. We never watched it together. It was the mid 1980’s of course, and my grand­mother didn’t own a VCR. The idea of pop­ping a tape in and watch­ing a movie when­ever you wanted to was still an absurd exoti­cism. But this was even bet­ter. She recalled the plot for me a thou­sand times over. She described the char­ac­ters, recited dia­logue, sang the songs. I felt like I knew the whole movie by heart. It made her so happy, even when she was exhausted and strug­gling, even when she was so bent that she couldn’t lie in the bed any­more and had to spend all her time in that brown reclin­ing chair. She died in that chair.
We’d come up to visit for Christ­mas. My birth­day is the day after. I heard her the night before, up all night with my mother by her side, beg­ging my mother to help her kill her­self. Ask­ing for her sewing scis­sors, as if she’d be able to do the job with them. She told my mother that she could see her par­ents, stand­ing in the hall­way out­side her bed­room door, wait­ing for her. Then in the morn­ing, on the day I turned four­teen, she took one last gur­gling, labored breath. She was 54 years old.

***

The rain has soaked through my clothes and I am freez­ing. The grave is filled and I’m alone here, the work­men are gone and it’s get­ting dark. I pedal back up to the Slo­vak church, and I slip inside. The doors have never been locked, day or night, any time I’ve tried them. That would never hap­pen in the city where I live. But I’ve come here a lot, this is famil­iar. I kneel in front of the painted plas­ter Blessed Mother in the dim and quiet. Her eyes are like anthracite slag. I light one of the votive can­dles, add one more flick­er­ing flame to the field of squat red glass cylin­ders. I reach deep down into the pocket of my jeans, and I pull out my rosary beads.

***

I’m sure I’ve been gone a long time, but nobody seems to have noticed. Most of my rel­a­tives have got­ten pretty drunk, even the ones for which it takes a hell of a lot. As I walk in, I hear an aunt say She held out for Christ­mas, she held out so she wouldn’t ruin Christ­mas for every­body. My Pop­pop turns his head slowly, slurs, one thick fin­ger pointed at my chest, She died on your birth­day, so you can never for­get her. 
I change into warm, dry clothes. I ghost past them, between them, eat a lit­tle frost­ing from my cake; it’s still in the fridge, pris­tine, with the plas­tic bal­le­rina on top. I go into my grandmother’s bed­room; nobody wants to be in there. I shut the door and curl up in the dark, in her chair. My hair is still damp. I’m remem­ber­ing when I was scared to sleep in the dark, in this room, and she told me The dark is noth­ing to be afraid of. God made the dark so that every body and every thing can rest.
I’m sob­bing now, chok­ing and heaving.
And when I’m done, I breathe deeply. I rub the brown velour uphol­stery on the arms of her chair. I notice the remote con­trol for the tele­vi­sion on her bed­side table, just where she must have left it last. It’s barely vis­i­ble in the dark, but it some­how catches my eye. I sigh, and I pick it up. My fin­ger touches the power but­ton, and there it is. In Tech­ni­color. Julie Andrews, twirling around and around and around:
“The hills are alive with the sound of music,
With songs they have sung for a thou­sand years…” 

***

My grand­mother left me her wed­ding ring when she died, she left it to me. My mother took it, said I couldn’t be trusted with it yet. My mother wore it on her own fin­ger, for years. As my birth­day approached, in 2004, she asked me if I wanted any­thing spe­cial for turn­ing thirty. Yeah I said I want Nanny’s ring. She gave it up reluc­tantly, but now I wear it. It reminds me of where I’m from.
When peo­ple asked, I used to say Oh, from around Allen­town. Or maybe Do you know where Scran­ton is? Wilkes-Barre? But those answers are not quite true. So, you ask me now, ask me where I’m from. I’ll look at my fin­ger, and I’ll tell you:
Yeah, every­body has a dead grand­mother story. They’re not sexy and nobody’s buy­ing. But this story is mine, and it’s not so much about the woman as it is about the place. I’m from a lit­tle coal town, McAdoo…

This prose poem is for you if your heart has broken—but not for a lover—broken because you looked at someone and saw how hard the world can be.
It comes from Ellen Birkett Morris, the author of a poetry book called Surrender. Ellen was nominated for the 2006 Pushcart Prize and received a 2013 Al Smith Fellowship from the Kentucky Arts Council. A native of The Bluegrass State, she has referred to the Appalachians as "a place of great beauty and dark struggle, of treasure and turmoil."

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What Broke My Heart

by Ellen Birkett Morris

It was the sparseness of your cabin. The slanted porch and wood gone grey. Your tiny kitchen with one clean pot set on the stove. The small bedroom with the iron frame bed I was sure you inherited from your grandmother. It was the bottomland that made up your farm alongside the river. The God willin’ and the creek don’t rise hopefulness of it all. The small patch of zinnias that you picked to put in our baskets each week. It was the story you told me while we stood by your truck of a strict father who didn’t let you go to the movies, at least not the ones you wanted to see. Your worn shoe peeking out from the bottom of your jeans. The sight of your back under your thin t-shirt as you unloaded bushel baskets from your truck. It was your marriage to a woman who bought vegetables from you, and how I asked at the year-end party where she was and you said I don’t know, as if she just vanished one night, leaving you a sky full of stars but no moon in sight. It was the picture of you, your shirt off, young and strong, your heart still intact.

Whether you're looking to learn about hillbilly history or Ralph Stanley's story, you're in for a treat when you visit Bristol, Tennessee this winter. The Birthplace of Country Music Museum is showing a series of Appalachian documentaries produced by the good folks at Appalshop, arguably the region's most distinguished film and arts organization.
"Appalshop has been doing great work for decades," says Thomas Richardson, curator of education and outreach at Birthplace of Country Music Museum. "When we opened the Museum we asked ourselves, who do we want to partner with that's doing similar work, and doing it really well? Appalshop was one obvious answer."
True to form, Appalshop has produced quite a line-up for the series—Sunny Side of Life, Sourwood Mountain Dulcimers, From Wood to Singing Guitar, Hazel Dickens: It's Hard to Tell the Singer from the Song, Quilting Women, The Ralph Stanley Story, Strangers and Kin: A History of the Hillbilly Image, and His Eye is on the Sparrow.
These films run through February 28 with select showings featuring speakers, concert performances, and panel discussions. You can find a complete schedule on The Birthplace of Country Music Museum website. Best of all, the films are free with the price of museum admission.
Can't make it to Bristol? Don't despair, you can purchase all of these films on the Appalshop website.

I could tell you that Story Time with Uncle Scratch is like nothing you've ever seen. It would be true but such an understatement. This new comic series is about young Moses Hatch, a backwoods farm boy who is pulled, living and breathing, into Appalachian folktales woven by his otherworldly mentor Uncle Scratch.
According to Sean Coxen, the comic's creator, Moses faces "head to head scrapes with the supernatural, where he’ll have to test his mettle against the howling, gibbering forces that lurk, forgotten in the eastern woodlands."
Sounds like good reading to me!
While the first issue is short at just fourteen pages, its art is expertly drawn. The images are, first, beautiful, just a joy to see, and also energetic. They create a real sense of action and motion, which is helped by Sean's smart choices as a writer. He opens with a lie and closes with the introduction of Uncle Scratch, a character my eyes can't help but study.
With twigs for hair; a bushy, fox-like tail; and exposed ribs, Scratch is an enthralling mash-up that manages to look peculiar without ever becoming menacing. (At least not yet!) His oddness is compounded by what he does, which is to say nothing weird. Uncle Scratch sips a steaming beverage and talks to young Moses like a real uncle might. There's no hocus pocus, no dragging the boy into alternate realities. The normality of the scene somehow makes Scratch's debut that much stranger.
Personally, I can't look away, but I'm excited to hear what you think. Leave a comment below, and if you like what you see, consider supporting Sean's creation. You can donate to his crowdfunding campaign over on Patreon, a site dedicated to supporting artists.

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CONTINUE READING

 

When Mark Green was nine years old, he needed to carry nuts and berries in something. That's not an issue most of us encounter these days, but in Mark's family, it made perfect sense. His Cherokee father and Irish-American mother valued traditional living. That meant no plastic toys, no running water, no phones, no car, and it meant a lot of foraging.
Luckily, his grandfather had an old-time solution to the berry and nut problem—simply peel bark from a tulip poplar limb, fold it half, and bind it with a reed. Boom, an instant basket!
[caption id="attachment_10002" align="alignright" width="244"] Handmade acorns are included on each of Mark Green’s baskets.[/caption]
Nobody knows how long Cherokee folk have been making these handy vessels, mostly because they were as common as dirt. Bark baskets weren't art-pieces but instead utilitarian tools. More often than not, they ended up as kindling when they were done being used.
Today, we look at them a little differently. In an era of Rubbermaid and vacuum sealing, these natural containers—devoid of glue and chemicals—take on a special meaning. They connect us with our Appalachian heritage and remind us that not everything useful has to be made by a machine.
According to Mark's wife Kimberly, bark baskets have a hundred uses. "We have one on the spinning wheel for tools. Tooth brush holder. Needle holder," she says. "There is one in the Jeep tied to the air vent for pencils. One in the craft room for scissors and, of course, anytime we need a basket in the woods for blueberries, blackberries, or flowers."
I don't know about you, but there's something about seeing an old Cherokee craft alive and well that makes me smile. It also made me want a basket of my own. Mine is now holding dish towels and I guess I will buy more organization boxes and baskets. If you were to pick one up, how would you use it?

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You can purchase Mark Green's handmade baskets online at Gallery of the Mountains (just email or call to place the order) or in the company's store inside Asheville's Grove Park Inn. They're also available at the store Chifferobe in Black Mountain, North Carolina and make appearances at select festivals, including the Southeastern Animal Fiber Fair, Townsend Fall Heritage Festival, Tennessee Fiber Festival, and Carolina FiberFest.

Photos provided by Aaron Blum.

Scan the rolling hilltops of West Virginia, and what would you expect to see—an old coal tipple, boulders, the crumbling remains of a settler's cabin? How about a gilded palace with colorful windows inspired by peacocks surrounded by an award-winning rose garden and a hundred or so fountains?

For over forty years, Marshall County has been the site of New Vrindaban, one of the largest Hare Krishna communities in the U.S. Filled with ornate touches—stained glass, real gold, and crystal—the temple at the heart of this community has been called America's Taj Mahal, but to photographer Aaron Blum, the people who live there have always simply been his neighbors.

"They just were part of my hometown just like anyone else," Aaron told me in a recent interview. He saw Krishnas as he was growing up, sometimes wearing their tell-tale saffron robes, and while they stood out, he didn't give them much thought until he was older, when he began encountering them at punk rock shows.

 

"The Krishnas were always there serving food, and as long as you would talk with them about religion they would give the food to you for free," he said and with a pause adding, "I am a sucker for pineapple chutney!"

It wasn't long before Aaron visited New Vrindaban, and he started doing so just like anyone else. Tourists are welcome.

"In fact, they're counting on it," Aaron said, "a large part of their income is based in tourism," but he visited so often he began to make friends and eventually secured permission from the community's head of public relations to photograph freely.

What emerged was a riveting collection of images entitled Almost Heaven.

These photos spotlight what, on the one hand, seems like an unlikely community for West Virginia but, on the other, is actually in keeping with many Appalachian traditions.

"When I’m there I’m constantly thinking about how so many others had come to the hills of Appalachia to isolate themselves for protection, religion, solitude, freedom," Aaron said, "and the Krishnas have a very simple lifestyle, like so many other country people."

In spite of its emphases on simple living and its bucolic setting, New Vrindaban has seen dark periods. In the 1980s, two of the community's resident were killed by a third. The murderer claimed that the group's leader, Swami Bhaktipada, was behind the killings, and later, Bhaktipada did plead guilty of conspiring to commit murders-for-hire.

For a time, the group went into a tailspin, losing many members, letting its grounds fall into disrepair, and even being excommunicated from the International Society for Krishna Consciousness.

But thirty years can heal many wounds. It has at New Vrindaban, which is again a member of the Krishna's governing body and has a new leader, Jaya Krishna. This former Swiss businessman has revitalized the temple and gardens, and he is, at the same time, restoring the group's reputation."There is a completely new set of individuals there," Aaron said, "and they could not be more wonderful."

Today's residents form a unique melting-pot, adhering to Hare Krishna religious traditions while also being influenced by West Virginia culture. In Aaron's photos, you see how this plays out. Krishna robes are worn with Carharrt jackets and beaded necklaces with work boots.

"They exist in both worlds simultaneously," the photographer said, "so it is easy to see how they borrow from each lifestyle."

Want to see for yourself how the worlds of eastern religion and Appalachian heritage come together?

New Vrindaban invites everyone to visit. The Palace of Gold is open according to a seasonal schedule, and the community offers newly-remodeled guest houses to those wishing to stay overnight. If you go or if you've been before, let us know what you think. Are the temple and grounds as pretty as they look? How do you see the merger of cultures working? And what do you think of the Krishna chow?

Aaron says he's hooked on their samosas!

This poem is for anyone who never had a pot to pee in; who shared a bedroom, shoes, maybe even a toothbrush because you couldn't afford more than one. It's for people who've said things like "a can of green beans works just fine as a chair leg" or "isn't one glove better than none?"

 

This poem is for penny pinchers and coupon clippers everywhere, and it's written by Casey LaFrance, a native of the North Georgia mountains. Casey teaches political science and public administration in Illinois, where he has a loving wife, two catkids, and a suit all his own. His poetry has also been published in Unfettered Muse.

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Bobby's Suit Jacket

By Casey LaFrance

Where I'm from
a collared shirt
means you're going
Maybe to 'Lanna or
Knoxville or court.
It ain't something
you wear to push a
buggy in the A&P
and we don't even know
how to play golf.
But, Daddy went in half
with Bobby from the station
on a pitiful suit
from consignment.
They knew a lot of folks
who died or
whose kids were gettin married.
Problem was, they had to
make Superman changes in the gas station.
One suit to split.
So, Daddy would go to the reception
after Bobby left the wedding.
One would go to visit the
night before the funeral
and the other would turn up at the
Problem was, Bobby beat daddy
to coffin. I still remember
his words of sympathy
on the phone with Bobby's wife
begging for the suit jacket:
"Nobody will notice if you leave the
lid shut and I have
to be a pall bearer. Aw, hell, ok.
Can I at least have the pants?"
Daddy had to buy his very first
suit of his own.

With the windows open at night, I heard trains. Even though the nearest tracks were some three miles away, their long, deep tones rolled across the Roanoke Valley. Cars riding the rails and the punctuation of locomotive whistles—these sounds took strange forms in my boyhood dreams. One night, they would morph into a growling beast. The next, they became the baseline to an imagined song.

Long Man is a new novel written and set in the Smoky Mountains. It tells the story of three days in the summer of 1936, when a government-built dam is beginning to flood an Appalachian valley and, in the midst of the rising waters, a little girl goes missing.
I have to admit that this all I know. I've not yet read the book. I can give you forty-two reasons why—busy blogging, have to read a bunch of other books for my MFA program, been planting shrubs, working on a novel of my own—but I don't want my literary slothfulness to stop you from learning about Long Man.
How about I let other reviewers tell you what they think:

"[Amy] Greene has taken the tale of a Tennessee town condemned by flooding and infused it with remorse and panic to produce an unusually poetic literary thriller." Ron Charles,The Washington Post
"The plot is simple but rich, and provides great suspense. One evening Annie Clyde’s husband, James, is trying to persuade her to accept the inevitable [flooding of their valley] and move to Detroit, but in the midst of their argument they notice that their 3-year-old daughter and her dog have disappeared. Annie Clyde saw Amos, the one-eyed drifter, in her field earlier that day and suspects he has taken her child. The hunt for Amos and the girl triggers conflict among the few remaining residents." Daniel Woodrell, The New York Times
"Two older sisters in town provide windows into the folkways about to be submerged, while a local police officer and TVA functionary represent the transformations to come, but Greene’s imagination is too fecund to make these characters mere symbols. Her novel fully inhabits the contradictions within each character and the ironies inherent in destroying a place in the name of progress...A smart and moody historical novel that evokes the best widescreen Southern literature. Kirkus

And here are some great quotes from the author herself:

“In my hometown, there’s Cherokee Lake. When the water goes down in the winter, you can see the tops of silos sticking out of the water. I remember when I was 9 or 10, I asked my mom what that was. She told me there was a town under Cherokee Lake. That was intriguing to me.” The Mountain Press
"When I went to Vermont [College low-residency program for writers], that's when I learned I was Appalachian. I had no idea I had an accent at all, but nobody could understand what I was saying. Everywhere I go, I take the mountains with me." Charleston City Paper
“I have a loyalty to this area. There is so much rich literary territory to mine.” The Mountain Press

Think you will you pick this book up? If so, any interest in writing a proper review for The Revivalist?
Guest posts are always welcome!
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=XkBgkQPFkqA

Dolan Geiman likes to live in places where people were never meant to live. He was raised in a Civil War hospital in Virginia's Shenandoah Valley. His father converted the building into a livable space when he was young, setting a trend for Dolan.

When the artist struck out on his own, he moved to an abandoned warehouse in Stuarts Draft. Gutter punks were his housemates, and the streets of nearby Charlottesville served as a marketplace for his creations. It wasn't a bad setup at first, but then one person was stabbed in the sprawling warehouse he called home and then another. "It got kind of hectic," Dolan explains in the below interview, "I thought I better move out of there."
This time, the move was big, at least in one way. Dolan relocated all the way to Chicago, but he still ended up in another deserted warehouse. He turned this one into a live/work space that included a makeshift gallery, which served as a launchpad for his career.
Dolan's art sort of reflects this scrappy start. "I use a lot of found objects," he says, "but I don't use them for what they are. Like, I'll find a golf club and I'll cut it into thirty pieces and kind of rearrange those pieces, weld them together or tie them together and then nail them to a board or something like that...I'm not just taking something at its face value."
The result is remarkable. With nature themes drawn from his Blue Ridge childhood, his piece's are heartwarming yet unruly, like Dolan is some crazy quilter who decided that fabric just wasn't enough.

Inspecting his work, you'll find an old ruler fashioned into a bear's back and a revolver barrel made of bullets. This delightful mix has turned heads across the country. You can spot Dolan's art in a slew of restaurants, hotels, and resorts, along with YouTube's Chicago office. It's been featured in Fast Company, on HGTV House Hunters, and in daily papers from Detroit to Miami. It even shows up in movies, including the 2010 remake of A Nightmare on Elm Street, and let's be honest, when Freddie Cruger is splattering blood across your artwork, that's when you know you've really made it!
Ready to pick up one of Dolan's creations?
You can find them on his Etsy store and in shops across the country.
I'd love to hear which of his pieces is your favorite. And since Dolan is always looking for new ideas, what animal, person, or object would you like to see him make out of found materials next?
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=wPmNoVmff_o

Dear literati,
I read this week that New York City bookstores are closing at an alarming rate. While I'm sorry to hear it, it can't be much of a surprise. With tiny retail spaces in Manhattan topping $10,000 a month, how many booksellers can afford to stay?
At the same time, I noticed a slew of writerly events—workshops and festivals—in the Southern Appalachians, and it got me to thinking. What if you all just moved down here?
[caption id="attachment_9467" align="alignright" width="208"] Lovers' Leap outside Chattanooga, Tennessee. Photo by Kay Gaensler on Flickr.[/caption]
I know. I know. It would be a big change. You'd give up skyscraper views and great public transit, but imagine all you'd get in exchange—waking with hazy, blue mountains right outside your door; watching a parade of wildlife—fox, deer, even bear—while you write; taking a mid-day break to swim at the base of a waterfall.
Even if you want an urban experience, we've got you covered. Asheville has gorgeous deco buildings and was named Beer City USA four years in a row. Roanoke has a world-class art museum, not to mention a bustling downtown with a daily farmers' market. Charlottesville has more restaurants per capita than nearly any city in the U.S. and an amazing book festival. Oh, I almost forgot Chattanooga; it's had bike-share for years, which I hear is all the rage in New York City.
Now, back to real estate. There's a giant deserted asylum in Staunton, Virginia (also home to a leading Shakespeare theater and a lively arts district.) I know it sounds a little strange, but the facility consists of breathtaking Georgian buildings that I bet would go for a song. With a little renovating, it could make a stand-out corporate campus for Harper Collins or Random House.
And all you Brooklyn hipsters, you're going to die when you see our old coal camps. Picture vintage wooden houses, each with a little porch, neighboring authentic, old-time storefronts. Can you imagine a better spot to open that apothecary-bar or cronut shop you've always wanted?
[caption id="attachment_9474" align="alignleft" width="276"] Tribal graffiti in Roanoke, Virginia. Photo by Jessica on Flickr.[/caption]
Here's the best part—you get all this charm and serious literary chops too. James Agee, Annie Dillard, Ron Rash, Barbara Kingsolver, Cormac McCarthy, Dorothy Allison, Charles Frazier, Thomas Wolfe—some of the world's best authors have called Appalachia home. Whatever you may have heard, we write and read a lot. What's more, we'd love to have you join us.
So how about it? Ready to dip your toe in the proverbial water?
The below events provide a perfect intro to Appalachian writers along with mountain living. If that's not enough, just ring me. I'm happy to show you around, and unlike those fancy moving concierges in New York, I'll do it for free.
See you soon!
Mark Lynn

*

Western Carolina University Literary Festival, March 31-April 4: Let's start with Ron Rash. With multiple best sellers and an upcoming film based on his novel Serena, he may be Appalachia's hottest writer, and here's a chance to see him on his stomping ground. Alongside Jill McCorkle, a perennial New York Times Notable author, Ron will read and share writerly wisdom on the campus where he teaches.
[caption id="attachment_9476" align="alignright" width="220"] Tower of books in Asheville, North Carolina. Photo by Zen Sutherland on Flickr.[/caption]
Appalachian Writers' Workshop at Hindman Settlement School, July 27-August 1: Located at an historic center for Appalachian culture, this Kentucky workshop features Silas House, award-winning Appalachian writer and former NPR commentator. With sessions in poetry, fiction, memoir, and nonfiction, you're bound to find something you like, which might even include a spouse. Love bloomed for Pinckney and Laura Benedict (who might be called the first couple of Appalachian lit) when they met here in the 1980's, so why not for you?
Tinker Mountain Writers' Workshop, June 8-13: Want to ask Pinckney and Laura about their aforementioned romance? Here's the place to do it. Each year, they join other superb faculty members on the Hollins University campus, where they lead small group sessions of no more than 12 people each. Courses include advanced novel writing, getting unstuck, screenwriting, road stories, poetry, and more. The bonus prize is spending time in Appalachia's best kept secret—Roanoke, Virginia—my quirky, vintage sign obsessed, utterly charming hometown.
[caption id="attachment_9480" align="alignleft" width="289"] Malaprop's, a Guernica Editor's Pick bookshop in Asheville, North Carolina. Photo by Joe Schram on Flickr.[/caption]
Appalachian Young Writers' Workshop, June 22-28: Young talent will find its place here. Rising 10th through 12th graders and graduating seniors are invited to enjoy a week of writing and reflection at Tennessee's Lincoln Memorial University. Daily workshops will explore literature from the region and also our unique mountain environment, culture, and music. The session culminates in a lovely anthology of student work. 
Tennessee Mountain Writers' Annual Conference, April 3-5: This mountain gathering offers all the writerly advise you could want in fiction, poetry and nonfiction plus it boasts special sessions on the business of writing. Publisher Kate Larken will advise writers on editing and publishing while literary event planner Kathy Womack offers marketing tips. If that's not exciting enough, the conference is held in Oak Ridge, Tennessee, the once-secret city where fissionable plutonium, the main ingredient of nuclear bombs was pioneered. It will no doubt be (wait for it, wait for it) a blast!