If you've ever sang to The Sound of Music or teared up at the end of It's a Wonderful Life or danced in the aisles during Rocky Horror Picture Show, then run—right now—and get your wallet, because it's all over at 11:04 a.m. eastern time on Sunday, November 3, 2013. That's when The Kickstarter campaign to save the Historic Lewis Theatre in Lewisburg, West Virginia will end, and the stakes couldn't be higher.
If donations reach $39,000, the theatre will use the funds plus all profits from recent years to convert to digital projectors, an essential move since film is being phased out by the movie industry. If the campaign is even $1 shy of its goal, the theatre gets nothing, zilch, $0 and will be forced to close its doors.
As of posting time, about 16 hours before the campaign ends, the Lewis Theatre needs just another $1,707. You can rest assured that your donation will really make a difference. Even $5 can help save this slice of history, which started 74 years ago as a vaudeville theatre.
In return for your generous gift, you'll receive one-of-a-kind rewards—ranging from your name in lights on the big screen to a private film party for you and 100 of your friends—and, of course, the best reward of all, knowing that you helped this institution reach its 75th year.
Read also: https://www.buydlp.com/best-mini-projector-under-100/
UPDATE: The theatre exceeded its goal! Movie buffs gave $39,330 to save this gem.

For someone who doesn't have any children or even a readily available womb, I've been thinking a lot about birth. I've hit that age when friends reproduce like mosquitos after a rainstorm. No, seriously, I could paper my bathroom with the birth announcements, but that's just one reason that reproduction is on my mind.
Mostly it's because I'm writing about it. In addition to blog posts, I'm trying my hand at a novel, and it opens with a birth. Without giving anything away, I can tell you that it doesn't go well, and for my protagonist, a young mountain woman named Reenie, it opens up a world of questions. What do you do when life takes a very bad turn? What happens when you're overflowing with love but have no where to direct it? How far will you go to get your nurturing fix?
That's why Carrie Mullins' Cell-Life resonates with me. This compelling short story, published in Appalachian Heritage, brings us Marie, a young, Kentucky mother-to-be whose home life is a mess. On the verge of childbirth, she hasn't even gotten a crib (her deadbeat husband jokes about keeping the baby in a dresser drawer), but she has latched onto a strange notion—cryo-freezing her placenta and umbilical cord. She calls it insurance, figuring the cells could be used to treat a host of diseases.
Is this obsession an attempt to bring stability to her unborn child's life or just a bad decision?
I hope you'll leave a comment and let us know what you think.

*

CELL-LIFE

by Carrie Mullins

Every time Bobo gave Marie money to buy groceries or notebooks or what- ever, she saved a little bit of it. She put it in her purse, into a red and white tin that used to hold mints. She kept a ponytail holder around the tin for a while, then took it off, because someone might wonder what was in a tin with a purple band around it in her purse. Someone might want to take that purple band off and open the tin to see what was inside.
In the early morning when no one was at the house and there was no danger of anyone coming to see Bobo, she counted the money. She counted it on the bed. Mostly ones and fives she stacked around her there on the bumpy white bedspread that had belonged to Bobo’s great aunt.
She counted seventy-two dollars, plus the hundred-dollar bill her Dad had put in her hand that day. She straightened the stacks, put them on top of each other until there was one big stack that she folded over and put it into the tin, closed it up and shoved it down into the bottom of the black purse. She pulled out the pamphlet from one of the zipper pockets on the side of the purse. She always looked at it after she counted the money. It helped to keep her mind focused. Every time she read it, she saw some- thing new. This time she learned that the cryo-bank was in California. Part of her would be frozen way out west, part of her baby too. She told herself she could do it.
When Crystal came over that evening, Marie finally told her about the placenta and umbilical cord bank. She even showed her the pamphlet. Crystal’s eyebrow went up. “So what is the purpose of this?”
“They freeze it for you, and keep it, in case your baby gets a disease and needs those cells.”
“Sounds gross.” She handed the pamphlet back to Marie.
“It’s not gross. It’s like insurance.” Marie wanted to explain all the diseases the frozen cells could be used against, to treat her baby, if she needed it.
“Bobo doesn’t know about this, does he?”
Marie shook her head.
“Well it might be a scam. Have you thought about that?” Crystal shook her head and sat Marie down with a piece of paper. Crystal made a list of what she’d need for the baby. Blankets, pajamas, bottles, a car seat and a stroller. “I’ll have you a baby shower,” Crystal said when they finished. There weren’t but two or three people in Crawford to invite, just Janie and Ed’s witch of a girlfriend. Marie didn’t want to sit around with them. She didn’t want to taste baby food straight from the jar and try to figure out what it was. She didn’t want to play that other game where you have to guess what kind of candy bar was melted in a diaper. She didn’t want to sit there while Crystal’s moon-faced girls watched, those girls who only moved when Crystal told them to, moved like silent, moon-faced drones. But she’d do it, for the baby.
“What are you making for supper tonight?” Crystal opened the refrigerator, then looked at Marie, who shrugged.

CONTINUE READING

You don't have to go far to find handmade crafts in the Appalachian South. Just swing by your church basement or local farmers market at the right time, and you'll spot crocheted snowflakes, "God bless this mess" signs, and corn husk dolls aplenty.
Everyday crafts like these are real treats--I, for one, cover my tree with crocheted snowflakes at Christmas--but they're just the start for regional artists. Gifted potters, metal smiths, and painters are tucked into hollers and holed up on hillsides across the region, and their work can be harder to find.
[caption id="attachment_8416" align="alignright" width="162"] Pottery by Alex Matisse[/caption]
That's why the 66th Annual Craft Fair of the Southern Highlands is such a treat. It starts July 18, 2013 in Asheville, North Carolina. For four days, it will feature products from some of the region's most talented artists. Clay, metal, wood, jewelry, fiber, paper, natural materials, leather and mixed media--it's all there, some of the best crafts our region has to offer, all at a rock bottom price. Admission is just $8 for adults and free for youngins under age 12.
As if that's not enough, you can also catch first-rate, live demonstrations. Flyfishing expert Sam Johnson of Dahlonega, Georgia will teach you how to make bamboo rods. You can learn to sculpt using found objects like can lids, spark plugs, and clay shards from John Richards of Burnsville, North Carolina. Even kids can do craft activities with the good folks from Arts For Life, a group that supports children and young adults facing serious illnesses.
Toss in a great line-up of live mountain music, and you have the perfect excuse for a long weekend in Asheville. All of this comes thanks to The Southern Highland Craft Guild, which has been a haven for mountain craftspeople since 1930.
[caption id="attachment_8418" align="alignleft" width="530"] Weaver at 1948 Craft Fair.[/caption]

About a year and a half ago, I stumbled across one of the most heartwarming, tearjerking, relatable things I'd ever read. It was an essay on leaving home and longing for it. After wiping my eyes dry, I did what any true fan would do. I cyber-stalked the author. Google told me a lot about Jason Headley. He published an Appalachian novel when he was in his twenties. He lives in San Francisco and makes hilarious short films. He wrote some great commercials for Ancestry.com and did the voiceovers. And he used to be in a rock band. What it didn't tell me is that Jason is seriously good people. I wouldn't find that out until I contacted him and asked to repost his essay--"Dear West Virginia." Jason responded right away and was completely game for running the piece at no charge. He even offered to forward my site along to a few friends. If you've been reading The Revivalist for a while, you know what happened next. More than 70,000 people read "Dear West Virginia" in the first few weeks after it ran. The Roanoke Time and the Charleston Daily Mail wrote articles about it. And hundreds and hundreds of people commented on it. What you may not know is that Jason read each and every comment and personally replied to many of them. He even met up with a young West Virginian who'd just moved to San Francisco and contacted Jason after reading his essay. "I would have killed to know somebody, anybody, when I first moved out here," Jason told me at the time, "So maybe I can help him somehow." That's just the kind of feller Jason is, and that's why I was so excited to catch up with him this week. I found out that he has some big ideas for helping the West Virginia economy and a new viral hit on his hands.

*

TR: Jason, thanks for taking the time to talk. Let's flashback about a year and a half. My head still spins when I think back to the response to "Dear West Virginia." What did you think when it went it first viral? JH: It was really unexpected. It’s kind of a long piece as far as the internet is concerned. And it had already been on another site as a guest post. But for some reason, people found it and started sharing it with one another. Then there was such an outpouring of love for West Virginia in the comments and emails I started getting. It was beautiful. TR: Did the response affect your relationship with your home state? JH: Writing it affected my relationship for sure. There’s power in words. In putting the right words in the right order to reflect your most complex emotions. When I finished writing that one, I knew I had done something important for myself, whether anyone ever read it or not. But the response did make me feel a bit more connected to West Virginia, even from so far away. I’ve always been an advocate for the state. But it was really great to suddenly realize I was a member of a team of ambassadors. And that we’re everywhere. TR: And the essay connected you to the Hollow documentary team that was shooting down in McDowell County, right? I just ran a post on the beautiful interactive site they put up. What did you do with them, and how was it? JH: I was probably the most ancillary member of the Hollow team. I went down to McDowell last summer for a few days to get a sense of the place and the project. I’d never been. Growing up in the northern panhandle, there was never much reason to go farther south than Charleston. That’s the funny thing about West Virginia. It’s a relatively small state, but it’s shaped funny and the mountains make for some real journeys getting from one part to the next. So there are parts I’d never seen. McDowell being one of them. Anyway, I went down there, got to spend some time with [Hollow director] Elaine McMillion and some other members of the team. Then later I did a little bit of writing for the project. Small things here and there. I was just a resource whenever they needed it. But they really didn’t. It’s just an incredibly impressive group of folks on that project. Very inspiring. TR: Now Elaine McMillion is focusing on brain drain, where young people pour out of rural areas for college and jobs never to return. What would West Virginia be like if that pattern flipped and all its native children moved back home? JH: If I were the governor of West Virginia, I would immediately explore the feasibility of some sort of reverse Homestead Act. If you’ve been away from West Virginia for X number of years, if you have a certain level of education, if you have work experience in certain industries, we encourage you to come home by offering land, tax holidays, etc. There are so many West Virginians out there who would love to come home. I think if you gave them an offer they can’t refuse, they might find a way to bring their innovation, entrepreneurialism, creativity, and hard work home to create a new economy. TR: And since Hollow is all about hope and solutions, I should ask you--what do you think can help the folks back home? JH: Jobs. There are more complexities to it, but it pretty much boils down to jobs. Of course, they’re not going to be the jobs that West Virginians once knew. The mines and the plants are never going to support communities the way they did. Never. Thinking otherwise is like being a horse and buggy man who says this automobile fad will never last. I was in Fayetteville last summer and it was really inspiring to see what they’re doing there. So much beauty, recreation, tourism. A lot of money comes through that part of the state. Good money. Happy money. It could be a real look at what West Virginia could become. TR: So writing viral hits aside, what other creative projects do you have going on? JH: Well, I went viral again recently. I’ve been making short films, working up to making a feature film. And a 90-second short called “It’s Not About the Nail” went bananas out there. [See film below.] We’re at 5 million views in just a month. It’s led to people checking out my other work. Led to meetings in some very nice offices in LA. I just happened to be down there last week, on West Virginia’s 150^th birthday. So in each meeting, I wished people a happy West Virginia Day. That was funny. TR: Sounds like you're busy and happy in California, but you know what everyone is wondering. When are those country roads taking you home? JH: I’ll be there in a couple of weeks. Going back to see my folks. To get a nice taste of summer, see some lightning bugs, maybe a thunderstorm, eat some good food from my Pap’s garden. I try to get back once a year. It means more to me as I get older. http://vimeo.com/66753575

Josh Clevenger is tired of hearing bad news about his homeland. "Every time you turn on WVVA, the local news, they're talking something bad happening in McDowell County," he said, "There's a drug problem in McDowell County. There's this problem and that problem and this problem. You can tell the world about all of our problems, but that's not going to solve any of them."
McDowell is the poorest county in West Virginia. The average annual per capita income is just $13,345 and most of its citizens receive some form of government support. But that wasn't always the case. McDowell was once thriving coal country. Up through the 1950s, it had bustling towns, buildings up to six stories high filled with offices and apartments, posh hotels, and more than 100,000 residents. Now about 20,000 people live there.
"It may not be what it was in it's heyday," Josh, a McDowell native and West Virginia University student, said, "But it's going to be bigger than what it is now. It can only go up."
As it turns out, a lot of other people share Josh's faith. For just over a year, a documentary crew has been visiting McDowell, talking to local residents and leaving behind video cameras. They've encouraged people to capture their daily lives, their memories, and ideas for improving the place they call home.
You might remember a post from when this project, called Hollow, started. Well, what they've come up with is truly amazing. The documentary turned out to be a collection of nearly 30 breathtaking short films, shot largely by locals like Josh. Together, they show striving and struggling, longing and hope in one mountain community.
Hollow launches today. Every single clip in the documentary series can be found on a beautiful, interactive Website--all except one. Hollow's director and West Virginia-native, Elaine McMillion is sharing one special piece of behind-the-scenes footage exclusively with readers of The Revivalist. Below you'll find a little reminder that when times are tough, like they are in McDowell, you can still kick up your heels with a friend.
Take a look at this clip and the rest over on the Hollow site, and tell us -- which is your favorite? And what do you think helps breath new life into boom-to-bust places like McDowell?
[youtube]k3uOEi0Zixo[/youtube]
Also, you can catch up with Elaine and her crew this weekend. They'll be touring West Virginia for a series of launch events:
Charleston, West Virginia, Saturday, June 22, 2013:

North Side of the Capitol (all day)

• Booth during West Virginia's 150th Birthday Celebration
• Talk to the director, Elaine McMillion
• Meet West Virginia photographer and author, Betty Rivard

Welch, West Virginia, Saturday, June 22, 2013: 

McDowell County Public Library (3 – 6 pm)

• Access the website from three computer stations
• Record a 3-minute memory or experience in our “story corner”
• Submit your ideas for change and the future of McDowell
• Bring in old photographs to scan and share with your story
• Refreshments provided

Martha H. Moore Riverfront Park (7:30 – 9:00 pm)

• Visit our story corner in the park to record a memory or experience
• Submit your ideas for change and the future of McDowell
• View aerial maps and art created by the youth of McDowell

Martha H. Moore Riverfront Park (9 – 11 pm)

• Film screening and discussion
• Popcorn and refreshments
• See nearly 30 short films featured in the documentary
• Get an interactive walkthrough of the site
• Join the discussion about the future of McDowell

Caretta, West Virginia, Sunday, June 23, 2013:

Big Creek People in Action computer lab (3 – 6 pm)

• Access the website from five computer stations
• Record a 3-minute memory or experience in our “story corner”
• Submit your ideas for change and the future of McDowell
• Bring in old photographs to scan and share with your story
• Refreshments provided

Big Creek People in Action gymnasium (6 – 7 pm)

• Visit our story corner in the park to record a memory or experience
• Submit your ideas for change and the future of McDowell
• View aerial maps and art created by the youth of McDowell

Big Creek People in Action gymnasium (7 – 9 pm)

• Film screening and discussion
• Popcorn and refreshments
• See nearly 30 short films featured in the documentary
• Get an interactive walkthrough of the site
• Join the discussion about the future of McDowell

Finally, the Hollow team will begin partnering with NPR and Digiso, a collaborative for digital artists, on June 24. The three groups will collect stories from people who grew up in small towns. Watch for their booth around West Virginia in the coming weeks.

What's better than an evening at the Carter Family Fold? Okay. Nothing. Nothing is better than an evening at the Carter Family Fold, but finding an adorable Carter Family postcard in your mailbox has to be a close second. This mailable art-piece is part of a quirky country legends collection that's coming up on its quarter century anniversary. "I started doing the country calendar about 22 years ago," said Chicago artist Heather McAdams, referring to her popular country calendar that shares the same art as her postcards, "And it just caught on like a wild-fire." The daughter of a Cumberland Maryland native, Heather was raised in Northern Virginia and remembers frequent childhood trips to the mountains. While she admits that she didn't get bit by the country music bug until later in life, she says that she feels like she's being true to her roots. "I will always be a Virginia girl," she said with pride. Fittingly, Heather has featured a bunch of Appalachian artists, including Dolly, Loretta, and Doc Watson, alongside other country legends like Conway Twitty, Minnie Pearl and, of course, the ultimate crossover artist, Elvis. Want to get your hands on these classic creations? If you happen to be in Baltimore you can buy them at The American Visionary Art Museum gift shop. (That's where I got mine!) They're also for sale at the Old Town School of Folk Music in Chicago. Heather says that everybody else is welcome to email her at heathermcadams at hotmail.com. She'll get back to you right away with pricing and pics. So which of these country classic postcards is your favorite? Know someone who'd be thrilled to find one in his or her mailbox?

When you first see a cranky, you can't help but smile. These scrolling creations are the ultimate in unplugged entertainment. Designed by old-time musicians Anna Roberts-Gevalt and Elizabeth Laprelle, they depict scenes from songs, usually ballads. The images are sewn or drawn onto fabric, which runs between two scrolls with soft light projected behind them. But, somehow, a technical description just doesn't do these little art pieces justice. Here, take a look.
http://vimeo.com/50238108#at=21
See, crankies are a little bit of magic. They bring old-time music to life and delight audiences in a way that no CGI-creation ever could. Anna--of the Southwest Virginia performing duo known simply as Anna and Elizabeth--talked with me this weekend about what makes crankies so special and how you can make one all your own.

*

 TR: Anna, thanks so much for taking the time to chat. First, let me ask, what inspired you to start making crankies?
Anna: We get really excited about stories. Whether they are stories in ballads or stories about musicians. We ask What's the context of this old music and where did it come from? That's really hard to say to an audience, so we turned to visuals on the stage. Crankies were inspired by the idea of helping our audience get into the music.
TR: That's great. So do you pick your songs thinking "this would make a great cranky" or do you have an image in mind and go from there?
Anna: It's been a little of both. For instance, with "The Lost Gander," we wanted to do a song that we could definitely show to kids. Well, a lot of ballads have murders, so that eliminated them. Then we heard "The Lost Gander." Hearing that tune hit the spark for both of us.
TR: So how do you make the crankies?
Anna: I saw one six years ago, and that was my only exposure to it, and I was like I'm going to make one. There's the frame part--a box with two dowels. We pick which song or ballad is inspiring us, then decide whether we want it to be quilted or more like shadow puppets. Elizabeth lives in this giant farmhouse with long hallways, and we roll the fabric out. Then we spend a month or two sewing.
TR: Wow. That's a really long time.
Anna: It's kind of why people have fallen in love with them. People who like music also get excited about things that are handmade. It represents, like, a hundred hours of a person's life.
TR: So when you dim the lights and turn the cranky, what's the audience reaction like?
Anna: It's so fun! It turns adults into children. Not everyone is mesmerized by the fiddle the way I am, but everyone is mesmerized by the cranky. You look out and you see open eyes and open mouths, and we've been able to perform in a lot of different spaces. We went to this cookout in Louisiana and did a cranky for the ladies making potato salad in the kitchen. We can do it on the street. People stop and look at it. And yet it works on a stage or in a living room. It's this portable kind of magic.
TR: You say that part of your mission is to inspire people to make art in their own homes. Do you ever teach people to make their own crankies?
Anna: We do! We do workshops. You can make teeny, tiny crankies, like the size of a matchbox or teabox. With kids, we have them make a giant cranky together. We tell them you're going to do this part of the story and you're going to do that part. For us, the cranky comes from this idea that anyone can make one, and it doesn't have to go with music. You can tell a story about your family or make a birthday card cranky.
TR: And people can find upcoming workshops in your list of tour dates online. Anna, thanks so much for telling us all about cranks and for bringing them to life.
Anna: You're welcome.

Not many folks remember Billy C. Clark, an Appalachian writer who churned out eight popular books during the 1950s and 60s. His autobiography A Long Row to Hoe was named to Time Magazine's Best Books of 1960, and he was a favorite of New York publishing houses at the time.
It's easy to see why. Clark was raised dirt poor during The Great Depression. His family lived in a ramshackle house, affectionately called "The Leaning Tower," in Catlettsburg, Kentucky. The town presses right up against the Ohio River, and as a boy, Clark spent his days on the river's banks, dropping lines for bass and setting traps to catch mink and muskrat. He claimed to be living on his own by age eleven. It sounds far-fetched, but he said that he occupied the upper floor of the local courthouse building, where he dried animal skins by hanging them from the courthouse clock.

True or not, Clark paints a picture of a wild life that still shines some eighty years later. His tales are folksy, full of adventurous boys and loyal hounds. They've drawn comparisons to Mark Twain, which is fair. Both authors write about children running the riverbanks, but Clark's world veers toward the gritty. There are cockfights, bootleggers, and the constant threat of floods. While his characters have a kind of pioneer pride, they are also tinged with a real-life bitterness that Twain didn't touch.
Sadly, Clark's books fell out of print for almost twenty years. It created a gap in his legacy that has yet to be filled, but, thanks to the Jesse Stuart Foundation, you can buy them again. This regional publisher secured rights to the books in the 1990s, and they can now be found in The Foundation's shop and on Amazon.
And below, you can sample Clark's writing. The story "The Used-To-Be-Dog" was recently published in the literary magazine Appalachian Heritage. It's about the strange way a bowlegged dog; a big, mean fox; and a can of carbide came together.
I'm not spoiling a thing to tell you that it reads like a tall tale, and who knows, maybe it was inspired by one. Maybe somewhere along the banks of the Ohio, there was an old man who crossed feist with ferret and told a boy this strange story. In a town that lets an eleven year old hang animal hides from the courthouse clock, I wouldn't rule anything out.

*

THE USED-TO-BE DOG

By Billy C. Clark

Roger May photographs the mountains with the longing of a lost son. He left them when he was just fourteen years old. His family relocated to Raleigh. He did a year of college and then enlisted in the Army. He moved a lot--California, Alaska, back to Raleigh--but something was always missing.
A few years ago, he found himself driving to the mountains more and more. He wasn't just visiting family. Roger started roaming on his own. With a camera on his shoulder, he crisscrossed two states, West Virginia and Kentucky, exploring hollers and hilltops, swimming in broad rivers, and making new friends.
The time added up, a few days here and a few weeks there. In total, Roger spent months exploring his native land. That might not sound like much to anyone who's lived in the mountains lifelong, but for folks like Roger, it's a gift. Over the course of dozens of trips, he reconnected with a home he hadn't known for more than twenty years, and he shot a photo collection that he has described as a visual love letter to Appalachia.
As he was culling the photos, Roger kept thinking of his grandfather, a man who'd been both a coal miner and a minister. In the latter profession, his grandfather invited church members to stand up and testify, to share how God had touched their lives. Roger realized that this is exactly what he was doing with his images. "Through these shots, I am bearing witness of a personal journey," he said, "Of never truly being able to go home again, to seek answers from my ancestral home."
Testify became the name of the photo collection, which has now been featured in Oxford American, the Independent Weekly, and Still: The Journal. A couple of shots from the collection are here, but I also asked Roger to share something new. When he was traveling, he carried a video camera and filmed short clips. He did it less as art and more as a simple reminder. The clips help him remember the sounds and details of a place. By accident, they also turned out to be portraits in motion and an intriguing supplement to the Testify collection.
Roger took a few minutes to tell us about these videos and how they bring his corner of the Appalachian South to life. If you like what has has to say and what he's shot, you can support the creation of a limited edition Testify photo book with a donation on Kickstarter.

*

http://vimeo.com/62944702
TR: Roger, thanks so much for sharing these. Let's dive right in. In this first clip, we see Manuel Collins doing some mean flatfooting. What's Manuel's story?
RM: Manuel lives in War, West Virginia where he is on the city council (or was at the time I shot this). He's a fascinating fellow, full of love for flatfooting. I shot this with Elaine McMillion while she was working in the field for her film Hollow. She and I had been shooting all day and stopped to get some food. Manuel walked in to order a milkshake and spotted Elaine. We all talked, then he offered to dance a while. I don't recall how long Manuel has been flatfooting, but I know he's legendary in those circles and a few bluegrass bands have written songs about him.
http://vimeo.com/62948311
TR: I will never hear of King Coal Highway again and not think of your noggin. What inspired this clever shot?
RM: Frankly, I was devastated by the scale of this mountaintop removal site, which is now the King Coal Highway. It's a relatively new road, which offers these incredible vistas, but the views came at a terrible price, a price that folk downhill will be paying for a long, long time. As I understand it, CONSOL Energy and West Virginia Department of Transit reached an agreement wherein the land, or enough for a highway, would be signed over to the state. What folk don't realize is that it takes years upon years for the valley fills to settle, so several parts of the highway have buckled, causing serious bumps and breaks in the road. Okay, so that was the horrible backstory, but basically I loved the view. And those spring peepers! Man, they were singing to me.
http://vimeo.com/62949237
TR: I could put this on a loop and listen to it all day. I love the sound of railroad cars. What took you to this spot along the tracks?
RM: [My wife] Sarah and I were out looking for pictures one day in McDowell County. We were stuck in traffic waiting for the train to go by. It was hot and we had the windows down. I thought I should be doing something productive, possibly creative. There is something kind of mesmerizing about watching and listening to trains, especially these coal cars. I used Sarah's window to frame the shot and the car door to steady it. She grew up in Mercer County, and I grew up in Mingo County. We didn't meet until 2011 in North Carolina, two West Virginia kids hitting it off.
http://vimeo.com/62950463
TR: Tell us more about these graves. Who were Sid Hatfield and Ed Chambers?
RM: Hatfield was the famous Matewan sheriff who shot it out with Baldwin Felts Detective Agency thugs [hired by local coal companies] in downtown Matewan in May 1920, resulting in the deaths of 10 people. Chambers was his deputy. The two were to stand trial in McDowell County. More than a year later, in August of 1921, Hatfield and Chambers were gunned down in broad daylight on the steps of the McDowell County courthouse in Welch. This was the proverbial straw that broke the camel's back, and it ultimately led to the miner's march on Blair Mountain, one of the most significant moments in our nation's labor history.
http://vimeo.com/62950787
TR: I can't imagine a better summer day. What took you to the river? Did you jump in after shooting this?
RM: I was in the area making pictures, and I realized that I'd never been in the New River. It seemed like a perfect time to remedy that, so I just sat a while, river-sittin', and took in the scenery. I just couldn't believe how serene, how beautiful the day was.

You know what Appalachian literature needs?
It needs more experimental prose, the kind that makes you cringe like you just saw blood gush. It needs more emotionally explosive writers who treat their books like they're a form of primal therapy. Also, it needs more amputee strippers.
Lucky for us, Scott McClanahan is doing his best to fill all of these niches. His strange tales, which blur the line between fact and fiction, have filled three story collections so far, and now he's releasing a new book.
This one is called Crapalachia: A Biography of A Place. Try not to be turned off by the snarky title. The work is based on his teen years in West Virginia, when he lived with his Grandma Ruby and Uncle Nathan, who suffered from cerebral palsy. Folks who've gotten advanced copies are glowing about it on Goodreads:

Hot damn this book is good. Like, really good. Really really good.
J.A.
Reads like a leap forwards for McClanahan -- and I was already very fond of what McClanahan was doing.
Tobias

McClanahan's writing is kind of groundbreaking. His characters are strange--a suicidal dog, an effete gay who believes you should be kind to everyone, and, yes, an amputee stripper. If Appalachian fiction has one too many wise backwoods grannies, you might say that McClanahan is balancing the scales, and he's doing it in a stream of conscious, obscenity-laced style that is more 1970s West Village than 2010s West Virginia.
While Crapalachia doesn't comes out until March 19, the smarties at Oxford American have stolen us a sneak peak. This is a feat, because the author has been vocal about his aversion to publishing outside his own books. In a recent interview, he told OA, "I feel like my stuff only works when it’s read up against another Scott McClanahan story. Always feels weird to me when you have a distinct voice here and another distinct voice there—like those compilation albums, That’s what I call Music 22!"
So reading a McClanahan story outside a McClanahan book is something rare. Whether you consider a it rare treat or not, well, that's up to you.
I know you give a crapalachia about our region's literature (sorry, couldn't resist!), so I'm excited to hear what you think of the below excerpt. Is McClanahan's style a welcome addition to the Appalachian canon or would you rather stick with the tried and true?

*

CHECKERS

by Scott McClanahan

I was getting tired of playing checkers with Nathan. I even told him a couple of months earlier that I wasn’t going to play anymore because he was always beating me. But here I was playing checkers again for some reason.
I jumped one checker and then waited. He made a move and then I made another move. He made a move and pointed to the toy in front of his chair. It was a ceramic hog with these giant testicles hanging down in the back. There was a rubber frog and a plastic puppy and a small stuffed alligator, too, but he kept pointing at the hog balls. Then he pointed at his chest. I finally said, “Gosh, Nathan, I’m trying to figure out where I’m going to move my checker. I wish you’d quit pointing at the hawg nuts. This is part of the reason I don’t like playing.”
Then Nathan turned the hawg toward Ruby so she could see.
He pointed to the giant testicles and then to himself.
Ruby whispered “shit” beneath her breath and then, “Nathan, you quit talking filthy like that. Can’t believe you put that filthy stuff out there.”
Nathan laughed and pointed at the ceramic hawg and then back to himself, which meant: I got big hawg balls all right, Mother.
I made my move and he laughed again and pointed to the newspaper. Then he pointed to his finger. He was saying, I’m going to get me a woman out of the paper without a ring on her finger.
Then he spread his arms wide. I said, “Nathan you can’t place personal ads for a big fat woman. No woman would answer that.”
Nathan laughed and spread his arms real wide. Well if I’m going to get me a woman I want the biggest goddamn woman I can find. I want one so goddamn big I can’t even get my arms around her big ass. Ruby whispered “shit” beneath her breath and then he jumped my checker. He pointed to the newspaper again and then acted like he was writing. He was telling me that he was going to have me write to one after he beat me. Then I jumped one of his checkers and then another and then another.
I was winning. For the first time I was winning. “Maybe it was a good thing I took a couple of months off.”
I thought that it was because maybe he was bragging so much that he wasn’t paying attention. I jumped another checker and I said, “King me.” He kinged me. I started moving all over the checkerboard. He wasn’t even watching really.
My grandma told Nathan, “Well, you’re going to talk so much no one is going to believe what you say. It’s going to be just like Mary.”

*

THE STORY OF AUNT MARY
I never should have been on the ride. I begged but my aunt talked me into it. She was always saying, “When I was a size 2.” And then a few minutes later she said again, “When I was a size 2.” Then she would remind you later in the day. “Of course, I haven’t always been so big. I used to be size…” I knew all of this was a lie but I still got on the ride with her. I got on the ride and I sat on the right side of her. This was a mistake. The ride started up and my Aunt Mary was pulled by the G-forces to the right. I felt my hip bones rubbing together. My Aunt Mary was not a size 2 anymore. So therefore, I should warn everyone: If you’re ever at the West Virginia State Fair do not ride the Tunnel of Love with my Aunt Mary. I repeat. Do not ride the Tunnel of Love with my Aunt Mary.
Or
YOU WILL REGRET IT!

CONTINUE READING

 

I was tickled pink when an advance copy of Barbara Kingsolver's new novel Flight Behavior showed on my doorstep. You might have read the post I wrote after skimming the first chapter. Over the last few months, I've been savoring the rest of it, all 436 pages.
The book is filled with crystal clear imagery and compelling characters, but be warned, it isn't exactly a romantic look at the Appalachians. You won't find descriptions of dewy mountain laurel shining in the morning sun or wise backwoods grannies who make tea from hand-pulled sassafras. This is a realist's view of modern Appalachia, where the protagonist, Dellarobia Turnbow, lives in an aging ranch house with damaged shingles and a yard that is more mud than grass.
An accidental housewife, Dellarobia found herself pregnant and married younger than she ever imagined. Like dozens of my own friends back home, she excelled in school--says she wanted to go to college so bad her teeth hurt--but her dreams were deferred. Year after soul-sucking year passed, and by the time Flight Behavior opens, Dellarobia is desperate for a break from her toy-strewn living room and domineering in-laws. When we meet her, she is climbing the side of a Tennessee mountain toward an old turkey blind where she plans to have her first extramarital encounter.
As I noted in my prior post, this is the only self indulgent thing Dellarobia has done in forever. She climbs half blind because, in a fit of vanity, she left her glasses at home. As she squints to see briars and loose rocks, she considers the consequences of this affair. Her town will judge her. Her children will be branded. Still, she marches forward and comes upon a scene she cannot explain.
[caption id="attachment_6592" align="alignright" width="199"] Barbara Kingsolver.[/caption]
On the trees around her, she spots brownish clumps. At first, she takes them for a spreading fungus and, preoccupied, keeps walking. When she reaches an overlook, her view expands and, though her vision is blurred, Dellarobia can tell that every single trunk and twig is covered. The color is not brown so much as red. She faces an entire valley blanketed with some strange smokeless fire. It moves in waves, releasing bits like sparks from a burning pine log, but it does not crackle. This is some silent miracle, and Dellarobia knows what it means. She must go back to her family, to her cluttered yard, and to the future she was trying to escape.
Turns out, Dellarobia's future isn't as certain as she thought. As news of the miracle spreads, members of her small town congregation begin to call her a saint. Strangers ask if she's the one who had the vision. While Dellarobia can't explain what she saw, she knows why she was on that ridge, and she just wants the spotlight off of her.
That, of course, is impossible. As the book progresses, we learn that her blurred vision was actually a mass of monarch butterflies. For reasons that no one understands, most of the North American population has descended on this hollow rather than continue their usual migration into Mexico. The year's unusual warmth and endless rain may have something to do with it, but whatever the cause, the butterflies have made an unlucky choice. They've settled on land that Dellarobia's father-in-law plans to clear-cut. He's looking to sell the wood.
As soon as I hit on this environmental twist, I remembered the film Citizen Ruth. It was a 1996 comedy that centered around a drug-addicted, pregnant teen who becomes the inadvertent flashpoint for the abortion debate. Pro-life and pro-choice advocates tried to sway Ruth with bribes and deceit. After shrill protestors draw media attention, Ruth finds herself in the middle of an around the clock, nail biter of a news story. The whole country is asking "will she or won't she have an abortion." Harnessing the energy around this hot topic, the film builds a farce that skewers all sides.
I could see the same thing happening here. Media, environmental protesters, religious extremists, scientists--I expected them all to descend on Dellarobia in a rush. I figured they'd be as subtle as the Feds at the end of E.T. They'd swoop in and ruin the magic, the miracle. Their big, loud plodding presence would destroy the beautiful scene that Dellarobia found.
I was right; all of these groups showed, but Kingsolver surprised me in how they showed. They didn't come in a swarm. They didn't fill the hollow all at once. They made some noise, but it built slowly.
Rather than a team of scientists, a lone entomologist arrives first. Ovid Byron is a warm and charming man with a lilting Virgin Island accent. While Dellarobia is intimidated by his Harvard degree, she also admires Ovid's intellect and his commitment to the butterflies. Talking to Dovey, her sassy best friend, Dellarobia says that he's "like Bob Marley’s cute brother that avoided substance abuse and got an education.”
Ovid could have easily become a parody of scientists, but Kingsolver makes him something more. He serves as a gentle counterpoint to Dellarobia's underwhelming home life. He is kind to her children, respectful of her gravel-hauling husband, but as the handsome professor builds a lab in the family's sheep barn, he opens a new world of possibilities for Dellarobia.
This is a tricky balance. In Appalachia, there is real tension between everyday folk and intellectuals, between locals and outsiders, between people like Dellarobia, who can't even afford decorations for her Christmas tree, and the privileged lab students who join Ovid. "These people had everything," Dellarobia thinks when she meets them, "Education, good looks, boots whose price tag equaled her husband's last paycheck."
Dellarobia is drawn to their work, to the fancy scales they use to weigh the butterflies, to the first intellectual challenge she's experienced for years, but still, she distrusts them. In another passage, she draws out this contrast by describing audiences she has seen on TV:

Yuppies watched smart-mouthed comedians who mocked people living in double-wides and listening to country music. The very word Tennessee made those audiences burst into laughter, she'd heard it. They would never come see what Tennessee was like, any more than she would get a degree in science and figure out the climate things Dr. Byron described.

Other reviewers have described Flight Behavioras a story about climate change. That's certainly a central theme, and I like that Kingsolver explores the impact it could have on everyday folk, but I think there's more going on in the book. Flight Behavior is also about the social fabric of Appalachia, about people who work hard for every dollar, people who's sole extravagance is an ATV, people who see professors and scientists when they're flipping past the Discovery Channel but don't know what to do when a bunch of intellectuals start rooting around in their own backyards.
I have to imagine that this part of the book is informed by Kingsolver's own life. She is a wildly successful author who lives in Virginia's Blue Ridge Mountains. She not a resident of Blacksburg, where she'd be surrounded by Virginia Tech intellectuals, or even Roanoke, where she'd find a creative class. Kingsolver lives in farm country. Her neighbors are probably like Dellarobia in many ways, and I can't help but wonder if Kingsolver faced a similar chasm when she first moved to the area in 2004.
However much the book is or is not based on reality, the class divide in Flight Behavior is handled deftly. Kingsolver doesn't demonize either side or resort to tired stereotypes. She crafts fully realized characters with complex personalities and pasts. It takes many, many pages to pull that off, but it is ink well spent.
For me, reading Flight Behaviorwas like a long visit home. The characters rang true, and I identified with their lives. I know what it’s like to downgrade my purchases in a discount store because I’m broke. I know how it feels to choose my words around privileged people so they don't think I'm ignorant. When outsiders visit my homeland, I too worry that they’re pretending they’re on some hillbilly reality show--Redneck Survivor as Dellarobia puts it.
As an Appalachian native, I identified with Flight Behavior. To me, the book seemed real, more real than other novels set in the region. It was smart without being high-falutin’ and entertaining without launching into a flight of fancy.
Maybe it will feel the same for you. Maybe it already has. Are you reading Flight Behavior?
If so, let us know what you think by leaving a comment below. If not, today might be your lucky day. Harper, the book’s publisher, sent me an extra hardback copy, and one lucky person is going to win it.
To enter, just visit The Revivalist's Facebook page and click “share” beneath the November 24, 2012 post about Flight Behavior. Next weekend, I will pick one winner from folks who’ve shared the post by 9 am EST on December 1, 2012.
All you have to do is watch Facebook next weekend to see if you won!

None of us are old enough to remember when handmade goods were the only goods. I'm talking life before Amazon, before Walmart, even before Sears. You have to go way back to hit an era when woodworkers and metal smiths were essential to daily living.
Back then, craftsmen used old-fashioned tools and muscle grease to create our home goods. There was no particleboard or Polypropylene. They cut pieces from real trees. They forged metal. And their products lasted a lifetime, often more than one.
Heirlooms like these are in short supply today. The stuff we pick up from big box stores won’t be around for our great, great grandchildren. Even our houses are semi-disposable—drywall and pressed wood that threatens to give if you lean too hard.
Look around your place. Do you see anything that’s built to last?
I’m not talking about objects you inherited from prior generations. Have you picked up anything new that could be considered an heirloom in one hundred years?
[caption id="attachment_6567" align="alignright" width="216"] Kevin Riddle and his wooden pitchforks. Image courtesy of Kevin.[/caption]
If not, then it’s time to visit Kevin Riddle. This Virginia woodworker and coppersmith is an intentional throwback. Rather than buy lumber from The Home Depot, Kevin takes down his own trees and shaves the wood using a drawknife. Rather than hold his pieces together with metal nails, he uses wood pegs that will not rust.
I visited Kevin’s workshop in Eagle Rock a few months back. It’s on land that’s been in his family for generations. He and his father constructed every building there. They used a mix of traditional and modern techniques, but over time, Kevin was drawn more to the old ways of building things. He did mention that he likes to keep up to date with modern tools by reading magazines and rowsing sites like https://www.toolnerds.com/saws/table-saw/hybrid/ as a hobby and as a way not to fall behind.
He showed me around his shop, which was filled with tools I didn’t even recognize. “They invented this technology in the colonial period,” he said, pointing out objects like his shaving horse, which is a vice and a workbench combined, “Had it through the 1950s, and then it started to fade out.”
Kevin got serious about traditional woodworking twenty years ago. “Then,” he says, “There were still a few old timers around.” He’d go and chat them up about their gardens and their grandbabies, and in the process pick up old-fashioned woodcrafting techniques.
Over time, he advanced to the point where school groups were asking for demonstrations and movie producers were seeking him out for props. For instance, he made old-fashioned tools for Somersby, a Richard Gere and Jodie Foster drama that was shot north of him, in Lexington, during the early 1990s.
Today, Kevin has expanded his craft to include copper work. He said, again, there was no apprenticeship to learn it. He just picked up a little here and a little there.
[caption id="attachment_6570" align="alignleft" width="240"] Tools in Kevin's workshop.[/caption]
Piecemeal as it may be, Kevin’s education has paid off. He now produces stunning kettles, some small enough for a bushel of veggies, others big enough to cook up a season’s worth of apple butter. He creates wooden pitchforks and benches. He even makes ox yokes, though he admits that folks usually use them for decorative purposes nowadays.
Drawing from his craft and also his frontier heritage, Kevin speaks on everything from wooden folk toys to making apple butter, from moonshine to coal mines. He can even help you identify those old tools you’ve found in your basement.
So if you’re eager to learn more about your roots or pick up a new family heirloom, get in touch with Kevin. He's happy to help you out.
And if you already have some special pieces, please tell us about them. What have you made or bought that will be around in one hundred years?