The blog Appalachian History just posted a simple, sweet poem that I thought you all might appreciate. It is entitled "My Great Aunt Arizona." It was written by Gloria Houston, a teacher, about her great aunt, who was also a teacher. It begins like this:
My great-aunt Arizona
was born in a log cabin
her papa built
in the meadow
on Henson Creek
in the Blue Ridge Mountains.
When she was born,
the mailman rode
across the bridge
on his big bay horse
with a letter.
The letter was from her brother,
Galen, who was in the cavalry,
far away in the West.
The letter said,
“If the baby is a girl,
please name her Arizona,
and she will be beautiful,
like this land.”
To read the full version, click through, or even better, pick up a copy of it. The poem was published as a children's book with lovely illustrations by HarperColins in 1991.

Shelby Lee Adams invited me to a party. It's this June in the backwoods of Kentucky, and it will celebrate his recent Guggenheim Fellowship. Mind you, I've never met the man. At this point, we had exchanged exactly one email each, and his contained this invite:

"A thought, I'm having a party in Leatherwood, Ky...If you're interested, you could attend. You could interview friends and subjects."

This is remarkable and not just because Adams' is a renowned photographer. (His work has been exhibited in scores of museums and is included in the world's best permanent collections.) I'm struck by the invite because he has been criticized by bloggers, reporters, and art critics--people like me.

For 36 years, Adams has followed a single, close knit mountain clan. The resulting images are arresting and, I've noticed, decidedly inclusive. He shows everyone from these Eastern Kentucky hollers--bare chested young men; pregnant girls; old folks with faces so creased they look like they're made from dried apples; snake handlers; mourners; dead people; children who are disabled or dirty, some in diapers, some dressed in their Sunday best.

 

 

Sherman with Hog's Head, 92

They're all here, and they're all staged. Adams' work is more portraiture than documentary. He composes his shots. He uses special lighting and props. It's not unusual to see beautifully lit hog parts or a living room papered with newsprint. The images are self-consciously raw. That's one reason they've taken so much heat.

Vicki Goldberg, a critic for The New York Times seems to both admire and critique Adams' work. She wrote the introduction to his 2003 collection, entitled "Appalachian Lives," but has also referred to his photographs as historical recreations, not contemporary depictions of mountain life. Others have said that they're romantic or manufactured. Bill Gorman, the Mayor of Hazard, Kentucky, went so far to say, “I don’t think this is average… I think it’s the kind of thing that sells.”

In my second email, I told Adams how grateful I was for the party invite, that I need to see if I can make it fit with work and family life, and I asked how he responds to this criticism. He explained that composing the shots actually creates an opportunity to collaborate with his subjects. He shows them Polaroids before any final photos are taken. "My work is collaborative because my subjects respond to the Polaroid’s and change or contribute to the compositions their ideas, locations and feelings," he said. "I think it’s a more honest exchange with no surprises."

There are other critics who reach beyond Adams and point at the subjects themselves. A. D. Coleman, a noted art critic, has said that Adams' pictures "call for a very sophisticated kind of reading. And I’m not sure that these people have the education, the visual educational background, to understand how these pictures read.”

Personally, I find this belittlement of mountain people infuriating. I think that the only ignorance it exposes is Coleman's, but Adams responded cooly with quotes from his subjects and fans:

"We know whether or not you're lookin' at us as some poverty stricken little poor feller. We know. I see a culture that's dying in your pictures. I see a way of life that's dying that may no longer exist. It's important what you do." -- Hobert White, photography subject

"Seeing that world through your eyes gave me something I never fully grasped before, and I'm not even sure if I can explain it to you. It gives me a kind of pride in the hardships we all survived. Pride in the goodness of those people -- my people." -- Sarah, an Appalachian native who now lives in Mississippi

Peggy & Albert, '99

Sarah's quote, in particular, struck me. I'm from Appalachia too, and I feel pride in mountain life. It's there in spite of the hardship, maybe even because of it. If I hadn't grown up huddled around a kerosene heater or drinking God awful, government-issued powdered milk, a piece of me would be missing. I wouldn't be a member of this clan.

This is where insiders, Appalachian natives, might look at these photos differently. Other folks see desperation and poverty; some even call Adams' photos "creepy." Many of us from the mountains see beauty and honor.

Sure, life there is hard. A dry ceiling and a full belly are never a given, but some things are. The sun is going to rise up over the ridge in the morning and burn off the fog. You can always walk through the woods with your grandkids and show them deer tracks. When you need them, kith and kin are a stone's throw away, ready to lend a hand, an ear, $5 for cigarettes, or an extra hamburger when they can afford to go out and splurge.

A. D. Coleman suggests that we aren't looking at these pictures right, but I can't help but think that there's another dynamic here. Maybe we know enough about mountain people to appreciate the full depth of Adams' work. Mixed with the obvious pain, we see people's pride, their love and the indescribable freedom that exists in their peculiar mountain lives. We can read these images because we, unlike Coleman, are part of the same clan. We are invited to the party.

View more of Adams' work.

What would you do if a specter started bustin' up your moonshine? Chase him with your musket and blow your hillside shack apart, of course!

Fashioned after Loony Tunes cartoons, County Ghostis a four part series of shorts. It opens with the above clip set on a ramshackle cattle farm. While this isn't definitively Appalachia, Mike Geiger, the series animator, explained to me that it could be:
- Where does your moonshiner live? Have a state or area in mind?
He lives in the town 20 miles south from wherever you are viewing the shorts from. If that place happens to be Miami...I guess he lives in Cuba.
- What was the inspiration?
I've been making kids cartoon for the past ten years. It's been really fun and rewarding, but definitely felt it was the time in my career that I wanted to showcase my own ideas. The inspiration for County Ghost was to simply create an animated show that I could have fun with. Ghosts, Moonshine, and Muskets seemed to be a winning combination of ideas to do so with.
- Are more episodes on the way?

There are a few ideas floating around for more, but for the time being the first four episodes make up the complete set. I have started working on a new series entitled "The Smile and Penny Show" which I'm hoping will allow me take what I've learned from the "County Ghost" series and push it even further.
- Has this series been featured anywhere or received any recognitions?
The first 4 episodes of the show have been picked up by MondoMedia ( a larger web content distributor ), so I'm hopeful it will soon be airing on their channel and pick up some additional interest and viewership.
If not, and the show does a quick crash and burn...it was still a blast to make.

Unleash you inner bookworm with this interactive Literary Map of North Carolina. Right off, I browsed the mountain section, and discovered that O. Henry's real name wasn't Oliver Henry; both were just pseudonyms. He was actually born William Sydney Porter in Greensboro, which coincidentally is where I went to college. See, following the lives of literary figures can be fun!
Okay, this is total geekery, and the map could be improved with full profiles of the authors. (Hear that UNCG, we want affairs, addictions, personal foibles, and suicides!) Anyone who has a penchant for Appalachian lit, though, should find this a user friendly tool.

Everyone has a dream job. For most people, it involves paparazzi flashes, fantastic wealth, or maybe gunplay. Not for my friend Nora and me. Five days a week, we share an extra-large cube that we affectionately call the doublewide. In it, we toss out Southernisms (a new favorite -- madder than a bobcat caught in a piss fire) and stream twangy tunes on Bluegrass Country. It's a hoot as cubes go, but we'd rather be fighting forest fires from horseback.
[caption id="attachment_542" align="alignleft" width="199"] For 23 years, Bytner worked on the Blue Ridge Parkway.[/caption]
Park ranger -- that's our dream job. Whenever Nora and I are ready to buck the man, we plot our escape to the National Park Service where we will dawn wide brimmed hats, nurse baby possums to health, and hook-up sewer hoses on elderly tourists' RVs.
If we've learned nothing else from the new book "A Park Rangers Life: Thirty-two Years Protecting Our National Parks," the job isn't all glamour. Author and retired ranger, Bruce W. Bytnar recently told the Staunton News Leader that "Park rangers are responsible for everything that happens in a national park."
That includes the mundane -- answering inane questions, shoveling poop from escaped cows, and monitoring dogs for leashes -- but also the bizarre:
"I remember one incident when a ranger was conducting an evening campfire program showing slides to an audience of over one hundred visitors. Suddenly they were interrupted by a man covered with blood, who ran in front of the group, lighted by the projector, screaming for help. Most people initially thought it was part of the program. When the ranger followed the man out to his vehicle, she found a second man who had been shot."
Nora and I aren't deterred. If you work with us, don't look in the doublewide the next time we miss an all-staff meeting. We'll be in the Great Smoky Mountains scouting injured bears or maybe shoveling a composting toilet. Either way, we're we'll be wearing the hats.

[caption id="attachment_1612" align="alignleft" width="62"] Frank X Walker[/caption]
In Kentucky, they've coined the term Affrilachian. It originated with Frank “X” Walker, a local poet who looked at Appalachian culture and saw African Americans under-represented. Other artists have rallied around him, forming a collective of sorts.
Sometimes their work is contemporary, as illustrated by Crystal Good's recital of the poem "Dem Boyz" in the clip below. Sometimes it is nostalgic, as in Walker's poem, "Canning Memories," which recalls...

Grandmothers who still clicked

their tongues, who called up the sound

of a tractor at daybreak

the perfume of fresh turned earth

and the secret location of the best

blackberry patch

like they were remembering

old lovers

These artists recognize something special about the black experience in our region, but what is it? What makes being black in Appalachia different from being black in say, Atlanta, St. Louis or Denver?
Tell me what you think. Add a comment below.

 

 

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[caption id="attachment_7611" align="alignleft" width="180"] Photo Credit: G. P. Cooper[/caption]
Kentuckians beware! The Terrible Crickenburger Twins of Cabell County and the Disturbing Goat Man of Milton have sprung to life. Pinckney Benedict, author of the classic short story collection Town Smokes and co-founder of Tinker Mountain Writers' Workshop, has birthed something new and wonderfully strange about your state.
Kentucky Samuraiis a graphic novel, the first few pages of which are featured in the latest edition of Appalachian Heritage.
It seems to center around one Cumberland Samurai, a young discontent who tears down I-64 in his 1967 Shelby Cobra GT500 and who has apparently beheaded a chieftain at the legendary battle at Kingdom Come State Park.
It is a gory, nonsensical, cultural mismatch, a fantastic slice of revisionist history that so far, doesn't make a lick of sense. I love it!
Sadly, I don't know where to find the rest. According to George Brosi, Editor of Appalachian Heritage, it may not yet have a publisher. If you catch sight of the full graphic novel, by all means drop a line.

The folks at Appalshop are getting high falutin in February. To celebrate 40 years of Appalachian film, they're packing up their reels and heading to New York City. The Kentucky based film and culture center will have a three day showcase, February 19-21, at MoMA's Documentary Fortnight 2010.
On the bill are The Ralph Stanley story (always a crowd pleaser) and Stranger with a Camera, a documentary that follows the 1967 murder of Canadian filmmaker Hugh O'Conner. While shooting footage of coal miners at a rental house in Jeremiah, Kentucky, O'Conner was shot by the property's owner. I've not seen the full documentary but wonder if it will leave New York audiences second guessing their mountain vacation plans.
Whatever the case, Appalachian expats in NYC should swing by. Don't forget your bibs and fiddle.

My sighting was in third grade. Somewhere east of Sunrise Avenue, an egg shaped object hovered in the sky. It was overcast. I stood in the middle of road holding my breath, watching the egg drift left then right, slower than the clouds themselves. It was an impossible white, a white that should have burned my eyes. It didn't.
I trusted the egg. I thought that it had come for me, to scan me, gauge me, see if I offered what its occupants sought. I waited until I felt the assessment was complete, ten maybe fifteen minutes, long enough that I should have missed the bus.
I walked away, in the road still (not a car had driven by) and disappointed. I wanted to be worthy and lifted off, to represent my town, my people, my planet, whatever they needed. Instead, I got on the Blue Bird bus beside bleary-eyed children and rode to Round Hill Elementary.
People have said that it was my imagination or the sun. I don't rule anything out, but it seemed real. Whatever the case, I'm not alone. Apparently our region is a hotbed for unexplained phenomena. The book Appalachian Case Studies: UFO Sightings, Alien Encounters, and Unexplained Phenomenaand its sequel document everything from mysterious lights to the West Virginia mothman.
Steve Hammons, former journalist and the books'author, speculates that "maybe the people here are just more observant of such oddities, or more willing to report such experiences to authorities. Regardless of the reasons for the increased activity in Appalachia, it remains a fact that citizens of [West Virginia] have recorded an astounding number of UFO sightings over the last fifty years."

In April 1979, Breece D'J Pancake broke into a neighboring home in Charlottesville, Virginia. He sat alone in the dark until the owners returned; then he bolted to his own place and unloaded a shotgun into his mouth. He was a powerful drinker; apparently depressive; and, though he may not have known it, he changed Appalachian literature.
I was just there, in Charlottesville. A friend's baby is at University of Virginia, receiving treatment for a brain injury. I took her away from feeding tubes and CAT scans for a night. Driving through town, I wondered which house was his, which restaurants he frequented, and whether he crossed at this corner or that.
It's easy to idolize Pancake. He died at age 26 and had already published six acclaimed stories, most in The Atlantic. They were vivid, moody portraits of his home state, West Virginia. In "Hollow," Pancake wrote...
"In the brush by the trail, a bobcat crouched, waiting for the man to clump by, its muscles tight in the snow and mist. Claws unsheathed, it moved only slightly with the sounds of his steps until he was far up the trail, stopping only to sniff the blood-spit the man had left behind."
His writing was as enigmatic as his death, deceptively simple, meticulous, a testament to patience and editing. He pressed each story as hard as a diamond, and readers responded. The Atlantic was flooded with letters when he appeared. Joyce Carol Oates compared him to Hemingway. He defined modern Appalachian writing, and what's more, I think he haunts it.
I hear him constantly. In written words (Rick Bragg, Pinckney Benedict, and Josh Weil come to mind) but also in the wild. I would not be surprised if Pancake appeared at my family's collapsing mountain homestead; ten feet from a doe who huffed, ready to charge me; or even in the raucous Charlottesville bar where my friend found solace in karaoke tracks.
It's plain silly, but I want him with me when I lay things on the page. He would let the images trickle at their own pace and distill them into a few faithful words. He treated mountain people and places so much better than he did himself.