Take all of your granny's quilts, your Uncle Eb's moonshine still, every arrowhead you've ever seen, and a few race cars, and put them under one roof. Sounds like one heck of a museum, right?
Well, it was until last month. The Appalachian Cultural Museum, once a cornerstone of the Appalachian Studies program at Appalachian State University, is now officially closed.
"It told the North Carolina mountains' piece of history," said Amy Sparrow Potts, field representative for Preservation Kentucky and a graduate of the university's Appalachian Studies program, "And I can't think of another museum that does the same thing."
The museum was initially displaced in 2006, when its space was reassigned to another department, but university officials promised to re-open it elsewhere. An Associated Press article reported this week that the museum is, in fact, shuttered for good.
University Chancellor Kenneth Peacock blames the move on budget cuts. "We are experiencing totally different and very challenging times than compared to the economic climate of 2006," he said in a statement. "Few could have foreseen the nation's and the state's economic downtown [sic] and the impact on Appalachian and higher education."
I know that every institution is tightening belts and trimming fat; Appalachian State is no exception, but Peacock had options. The museum had not been operational for nearly five years, which certainly saved funds. How much would it have cost to keep the collection in storage until the economy improved? Did the school consider reducing the size of the collection, loaning pieces out or making them available online until a brick-and-mortar museum was again feasible?
The decision to disband the museum shows a startling lack of creativity, and it leaves a gaping hole in the preservation of Southern Appalachian culture. The only Appalachian museums left in North Carolina are roadside tourist attractions that sell hillbilly hayrides and moccasins made in China.
Throughout the rest of the region, I've found only three true museums committed to Southern Appalachian culture--Ferrum College's Blue Ridge Institute and Museum; the Museum of the Middle Appalachians in Saltville, Virginia; and the Museum of Appalachia outside Knoxville.
[caption id="" align="alignright" width="245"] Appalachian State University[/caption]
Each is hard-working but small. None can stand alone as a hub for the Appalachian South--a region that is as large as Greece and, in spite of stereotypes, serves as a global force. Our music has been exported and imitated everywhere. Literature from and about the region is read worldwide. We've produced two U.S. presidents, and we provide fuel for one in five U.S. households.
Because these contributions and our heritage are often overshadowed by hackneyed images, it is a blow to lose even one institution that expands people's thinking about Appalachia.
No one should know this better than the folks at Appalachian State, which is why it feels like they've added insult to injury by putting a positive spin on the museum's closure. In a story in Appalachian State University News, Dr. Anthony Calamai, Dean of Arts and Sciences, said, “There are positive and important opportunities to be gained through the changes." He cited the use of some of the objects as teaching tools and added, "Partnering with other regional museums will ensure artifacts will be available to an even wider and more diverse audience.”
If you want to expand a museum's reach, you create a traveling exhibit; you don't shut it down. Make no mistake about it, this move will not deepen understanding of Appalachian culture. I also doubt that it will do much to shrink the North Carolina university system's budget shortfall, which was $170 million last year.
I only see one upside--the university is freeing up some extra space; so if you need storage in North Carolina, why don't you ring Chancellor Peacock. It sure seems like he could use the cash.

Wendell Scott could outrun the law, and he knew it. With a trunk full of moonshine, he would tear along Virginia's back-country roads, pushing his souped-up taxi to the limit, the cops hot on his tail, ripping through the curves, leaving a hailstorm of grit until his headlights were the only ones in sight.
According to his good friend Bobby Fleming, Scott would say, "I loved to keep them ol' bootleg cars sideways through the turns and throw gravel all over the police cars."
Had you hailed Scott in his taxi cab by day, you would have never guessed that he hauled moonshine during his off hours. He was a young black man, hard working, a brilliant mechanic, living in the segregated town of Danville, Virginia during the 1940s and early 50s. While bootlegging was largely a white man's trade, Scott was the best among them. His police chases were legendary, eventually earning him recognition from the men who were trying to arrest him and a spot in NASCAR history.
In 1952, promoters for the Dixie Circuit, a NASCAR competitor, decided that having a negro driver would be the perfect gimmick to get crowds into the stands. They visited Danville police and asked, "Who is the fastest black driver around here." Straight away, cops pointed the promoters to Wendell Scott.
Scott ran his first race on May 23, 1952. According to Wikipedia, "Some spectators booed him, and his car broke down during the race. But Scott realized immediately that he wanted a career as a driver. 'Right from the first, I loved driving that car in that race.'"
Over the course of the next decade, Scott graduated from the dirt track at Danville to the paved track at Martinsville and on to run as many as 56 races in a given season. He became a mainstay and an audience favorite. "He had a lot of white fans," says legendary driver Richard Petty, "A lot of people always pull for the underdog and they looked at Wendell as being the underdog."
True to his image, Scott had the odds stacked against him. He financed his own operation. He could only afford aging cars, which he held together with used parts. His crew was comprised of his sons and daughters, who studied under their father and toured with him across the country. As they grew older, the boys helped him develop a strategy for each race. "We were 'top ten' focused," recalls his son Wendell Scott Jr., "Cause, see, top ten meant that the light bill was going be paid, my third or fourth sister was going to get new shoes."
Racing to keep his family fed, Scott couldn't afford trained mechanics. Even if he could, few would have worked for him. He suffered discrimination on the track and off. Some drivers tried to edge him into accidents during the races, and like all blacks, he had to search for restrooms, restaurants, and hotels that would serve him wherever he travelled.
[caption id="attachment_3329" align="alignleft" width="169"] Scott was inducted into the International Motorsports Hall of Fame in 1999[/caption]
Had things gone better on December 1, 1963, all of his hardship might have been worth it. During the third race of the 1964 season, Wendell Scott was in his signature #34 Chevy. He tore along the track at Jacksonville Speedway Park, holding his own against drivers in better cars who had factory backing. When it came time for maintenance, Scott jumped out of the car to perform his own pit stops. "I'm not even sure they had air wrenches," says retired driver Darrel Waltrip, "I think they may have been just using hand wrenches to change the tire."
Once the car was tuned and the tires were changed, Scott was back in the car and speeding along like a comet. As the drivers approached the end of the 200 lap race, Scott was running two laps ahead of the nearest competitor Buck Baker. On the final lap, the audience howled, anticipating his victory. It would be a first for a black NASCAR driver. The undisputed lead, he sailed under the finish line, and nothing happened. The NASCAR official held the checkered flag aloft. He would not signal Scott's win.
Scott drove around again. He completed another lap, still in the lead. Again, the flag did not move. Scott kept driving, entering the 203rd lap of a 200 lap race.
"And then the checkered flag comes out for Buck Baker, who was actually some laps behind," says Brian Donovan, author of Hard Driving: The Wendell Scott Story.
The drivers, the mechanics, and most of the fans recognized that officials had thrown the race. Even Buck Baker's wife knew the score. She had been counting her husband's laps and turned to NASCAR's chief scorer. She later told Donovan that she said, "You know Buck didn't win that race."
That didn't stop NASCAR from presenting Baker with the trophy and true to NASCAR tradition, a kiss from a beauty queen. Therein lied the problem. Promoters would later admit that they did not want a black man kissing a white woman in the winner's circle.
[caption id="" align="alignright" width="160"] Young drivers benefit from Scott's trailblazing[/caption]
Baker went home with the trophy, and some time after the celebration, officials caught up with Scott. They told him that there was some kind of error. He had, in fact, won the race.
This groundbreaking moment--the first major win by a black NASCAR driver--was celebrated without fanfare or spewing champaigne. Scott was given the purse but nothing more. Just try to picture this veteran of the sport standing alone by the track with an envelope of cash in his hand but no trophy as stadium lights cut off behind him.
This was the pinnacle of Scott's career, and it is now a moving scene in the new docudrama Wendell Scott: A Race Story. Produced by Emmy Award winning NASCAR media group, the film aired directly after this year's Daytona 500. Featuring heartfelt interviews with Scott's children, his wife, and NASCAR drivers, it is now available on YouTube. You can watch the first clip below.
Be sure to let us know what you think. Was Scott an overlooked legend? Does the film do him justice? Has NASCAR made good with its Drive for Diversity program, which tries to attract a broader pool of drivers? Were you a fan of Scott's? Ever see him race? If so, what do you remember about him?
[youtube]tcmo695-29c&feature=related[/youtube]

We have the Celts to thank for our corn whiskey, fiery gospel, old time music, and peculiar grammar. While they weren't the only Europeans to migrate to the Appalachian South, they seem to have left the biggest mark. I suppose it's no wonder. Most of them were Scots-Irish, a notoriously stubborn people, deep in their faith and quick to fight. Before they succumbed to someone else's ways, they were sure as hell going to assert their own.
Visits Asheville February 4-6, and you can get to know your spirited celtic roots. Grove Park Inn is once again hosting a Celtic Adventure Weekend. There will be all sorts of celtic activities, including Irish dance demonstrations and workshops, scavenger hunts, and sheepdog trials demonstrations. The musical line-up, however, is the real highlight:

[caption id="attachment_2811" align="alignright" width="220"] Gaelic Storm frontman, Patrick Murphy[/caption]

The Hunt Family

World Ranked Irish Step Dancers and Fiery Fiddlers

Friday Night, February 4

Grand Ballroom at 8 p.m.

Doors Open 7:15 p.m.

Price: $20

 

Colin Grant-Adams

Scottish Guitarist and Balladeer

Saturday Afternoon, February 5

Grand Ballroom at 2 p.m.

Doors Open 1:45 p.m.

Price: $15

Gaelic Storm

One of the Hottest Celtic Bands in the Country

Saturday Night, February 5

Grand Ballroom at 8 p.m.

Doors Open 7:15 p.m.

Price:$35

You can buy tickets for each event or go in for the full weekend package, which includes lodging and access to "meet the artist" receptions following the Friday and Saturday night performances.
If you've seen any of these musicians before or go next weekend, add a comment here. Let us know what you think!

Community members participate in a prayer service for the miners and their families, April 7, 2010. (Photo by Kayana Szymczak/Getty Images)

Yesterday,investigators shared their theorieson last April's Big Branch Mine explosion with the people who have been most affected--the victims' families. According to investigators, there probably was not a single cause. They believe that a series of controllable errors and uncontrollable circumstances led to the explosion.

The experts were careful in their phrasing around Massey Energy's culpability. They said that the  mine was "noncompliant" in multiple areas, but beyond that, deferred to criminal investigations that are currently underway.
While they presented expert testimony, the Mine Safety and Health Administration also stressed that yesterday's finding are preliminary. The agency's final report is due in 60 to 90 days.

NPR has posted excellent illustrations of the Federal agencies theories.

There has been no stirring in her henhouse. No rooster has sounded. Neither have her children. Polly Dearing is up before all of them. She stands outside the kitchen door in the dark, enjoying the last overnight breeze. It ruffles the hem of her gown, pushing it against her ankles, her shins, and her thighs, which are as muscular as any man’s. It carries the scent of sage and tomatoes that she planted in the spring. She cannot see her garden yet--it was a moonless night and the eastern hills have not yet turned pink--but it smells distinct at this hour and complex. Morning dew has settled on the soil and released the nutty undercurrent of fresh laid manure.
This is the only still moment before Silas and the boys—Ed, Bob, Dick, and George—come downstairs, their hair twisted as rats’ nests, their suspenders hanging low, the little ones moaning about chores as they stumble to the john. They will water and feed the closest animals while they’re outside, and then they will come back hungry.
Polly will be in the kitchen daylong. Porridge and ham for breakfast, brook trout for dinner, and throughout, she will be sousing Silas’ hog. The feet will boil in one pot, the ears and snout in another. She will submerge the head in a third, her largest kettle, which will steam like a train engine. Her dress will be soaked through by mid-day.
Knowing this, she lingers in the morning air. Her hands press flat against the cool doorframe. Her bare toes spread in the soil. A gust rolls up the hillside, lifting Polly’s hair, which falls over her eyes just as the first sunbeams race across the fields. They filter through her graying strands like they're shining through corn silk.
She pushes her hair back, squints and turns. It is time to light the kitchen fire. She steps inside, silent on the floorboards, leaving footprints behind in the red Virginia clay.

***

This is how I imagine Mary “Polly” Dearing. She was my great, great, great grandmother. The house she built with Silas sits atop a foothill in the Blue Ridge. A hundred and twenty five years after her death, it is boarded. Her kitchen garden is gone. Her henhouse stands in a grove of trees and brush. The whole farm is decaying, but it is the most beautiful place I know.
[caption id="attachment_2580" align="alignleft" width="230"] The Dearing home place, 2008[/caption]
The couple is buried by the house with a collapsed wrought iron fence around their graves. Their shared stone is on its back and defaced with a pentagram. Trailer park kids must have crossed the fields and thought they'd summons the dead.
Maybe I'm doing the same thing. I kneel there and imagine when they built the place.
It was 1850. They purchased two hundred acres and made a one-room cabin in a rush. Winter was setting in. I've heard that neighbors kept them alive that first year, feeding the family until they were stable with crops and livestock.
I know this much because great aunts and cousins spent years piecing together records about my father’s side--births, deaths, marriages, literacy, property, anything that could be found in a census or county courthouse. That knowledge is quite an inheritance. I am lucky to have it, but I am greedy too. I want know more.  I want to know them.
Who had a temper? A stutter? An affair? Who sang? Who whittled? Who cracked jokes? Who would have gotten along with me?
I am certain that these things are knowable when I am kneeling there and looking past the buildings. I see what they saw. The fields are still fields. The path is still dirt. The mountains are still blanketed with trees. Not a single house has been built within sight to the east or the west. I expect ancient sounds to echo from the hollow, the rhythmic whoosh of scythes or children squawking because the creek water is too cold.
All I hear is wind and cattle. I eventually turn and face the years. The house has been vacant longer than I have been alive. The first room that Silas and Polly built still stands, along with a kitchen that was added around 1900. Everything else is gone or going.
Once, there was a two-story extension; it was taken down a quarter century ago. The barn roof and floor are half missing. A full size tree grows in the center of the silo. The privy is about to topple, and an outbuilding already has; it was the slave quarters.
[caption id="attachment_2568" align="alignright" width="270"] Dearing Gravestone, Defaced[/caption]
Silas owned at least three people. After emancipation, one of them--Adaline--stayed as a domestic. She raised her five children in this single-room cabin. Now it is a pile of rotting logs.
Walking towards the rubble, I recognize that time is a hungry beast. It has consumed most of my ancestor’s stories, and it is munching on the boards they laid. I may be naïve to intervene, but I pick up a brick. It is rough and pale, uneven, clearly hand hewn. I think that it was part of the two-story extension. I carry it away, back to my Jeep, and sit it on the floorboard.
It is there today, protected from the slow decay. I also have an old door lock tucked away in a drawer. I keep audio recordings of people who remember the place as a functioning farm, and I have a hard drive filled with photos of the home place. Scrap by scrap, I am slowing time’s feast and getting to know my ancestors.
What I cannot learn through ruins and records, I craft in my mind. I’ve created a semi-fiction—likes and dislikes, personalities, bad habits—that would give any real genealogist heartburn. For me, though, it makes these people more than the sum of census data. It makes them flesh-and-blood, people who can be known. In my mind, they are now lovable and quirky. Sometime they are infuriating, but they are more than names on a tree chart. They have become real. They have become my family.
Have you imagined the lives of your ancestors? Do you have a home place that you like to visit, or are you lucky enough to live there? If so, tell us about it by leaving a comment below.

In Appalachia, there are so many collapsing old structures, like the coal mining towns from the last post, that are being reclaimed by forests and lost to time. You could spend a lifetime exploring them, but if you did, you'd miss the fun of deserted places that didn't stay deserted for long.
A great example is outside Asheville. In this case, it's multiple deserted places that aren't old at all. They are ultra-posh neighborhoods, and, until a few years ago, they were being carved out of North Carolina mountainsides at an alarming rate. To make room for people with appetites for three car garages and four treeless acres all their own, developers were leveling the scenic beauty that brought people to region in the first place.
I'll spare you my diatribe about this self-destructive cycle. What's notable is that these developments came to a screeching halt when the economy faltered. The backhoes and double drum rollers pulled out, leaving behind empty lots and, more importantly, long, fresh-paved streets that navigate hillside terrain with twists and turns.
Philip Aschilman says, “It’s easy to find these places.” He hosts a Facebook group for skateboarders who have turned these deserted sites into their own private skate parks.
“I just go onto Google Earth and start searching around," he recently told Blue Ridge Outdoors, "Look for that telltale brown spot where all the trees have been freshly cut down around a neighborhood road."
Once Philip pinpoints a spot, he doesn't visit it alone. Conk your head against a sidewalk in one of these deserted neighborhoods, and the vultures might find you before anyone else. He takes a friend and also a push broom, which he uses to sweep away debris--nails, wood bits, and gravel. Since these were recently construction sites, they can be messy.
With the path clear, he positions the friend at the nearest intersecting road to watch for unexpected traffic. Then he hops on his board and carves his way down an empty hillside. Imagine coasting alone, doing ollies and slides along the way, a warm mountain breeze against your skin, the gentle woosh of your board's wheels on the new pavement, and in every direction, views meant for million dollar homes. This is deserted Appalachia at its best. This is a skater's paradise.

I'm a sucker for deserted places--old buildings, sometimes entire towns that were once bustling but have been left and forgotten. Hand me my camera and drop me by an empty factory or a house with trees growing through its roof; I'll be content for hours.

Part of the thrill for me is imagining these structures at their prime. I picture them on the day they were finished, when they are new and clean. I try to remember that someone was proud of each and every one of them, even the must utilitarian shed.

I try to figure out the original configuration of rooms and the ways they were used. A summer kitchen, for example, is the setting for a thousand meals, but it surely hosted as many conversations, some gossipy stories, maybe arguments or an unexpected kiss. At the very least, it must have heard someone unleash a string of curses, long ago, at badly burnt food.

I also see potential. As long as their foundations are strong, each building could be put to good use. They could be homes, shops, restaurants, mechanics' garages, offices, or banks. Any function that a new, prefab building could serve, I can't help but think that an old one could do better.

This series will explore some of Appalachia's most interesting deserted places. Some have been restored; others are in the last stages of decay. Some are deep in the woods; you could drive right up to others.

We'll start with lost buildings in coal country. Photographer Jim Lo Scalzo took his camera into hollers and up hillsides to uncover the remains of shuttered coal operations. In his introduction, he explains "in some cases the remains are barely noticeable: a concrete foundation, a larry car, a coal tipple. In other cases entire towns lay abandoned and overgrown."

Below is a video of what he found. During this series, it would also be great to hear about your discoveries. Maybe it's an old family house that has fallen into disrepair or a place you played as a kid. Where are your favorite abandoned buildings and forgotten structures?

Share your stories and post your photos as we explore deserted Appalachia.

Ghosts in the Hollow from Jim Lo Scalzo on Vimeo.

 

Betty Gusler was waiting tables at the Oasis Restaurant. It was a Williamson Road mainstay most notable for its sign--two stories tall with neon palms. The lunchtime crowd was gone and the dinner crowd hadn't yet arrived when she received a call. It was around 3:00 on November 4, 1985. Her sister was on the line.
"She told me that she didn't want to upset me," Betty recently explained to The Roanoke Times, "Momma and Steven and Samantha were missing."
Her mother Sadie often cared for Steven, Betty's ten-year-old, an only child. On November 4, Sadie heard that schools were letting out on account of the rising rivers. Steven could have stayed at school for a few hours more, but his grandmother wouldn't have it. He was close--about a mile away from her north Roanoke home--so she put his toddler cousin Samantha into her Oldsmobile and headed into the downpour.
The rain had started days before. A disorganized weather system, it bounced between Louisiana's coast and the Gulf of Mexico, loosing and gaining steam in cycles. At its peak, it was called Hurricane Juan and spurred 85 mph winds. By November 1, the storm was over land and weakened. It looked like it would bring a mid-autumn soaking to the Appalachians but nothing more.
Then there was a meteorological twist; moisture from Juan unexpectedly combined with another system. This new, powerful storm, a cyclone, delivered rainfall that was measured in the double-digits.
Rivers swelled across four states, including the one that Sadie crossed after picking Steven up from school. The Roanoke Times said that Sadie drove into the rising waters. Apparently her car stopped. She took the children from their seats and tried to escape, but the current was too strong. It pulled her grand babies from her arms and washed them all downstream.
"I was out of there," Betty said. When she got the alarming phone call, she left her job. Her boyfriend, Barry Simmons, drove them in his tow truck to the spot where her mother's car was found. Rescuers were on the scene.
Soon after Betty and Barry arrived, her niece was spotted. Samantha was only three years old but had somehow survived the torrent. She landed on an island of high ground. Water flowed on all sides but she was safe. A helicopter carried her away.
"After they found Samantha, they were looking for a while," Betty said, "Then they called the search off."
Darkness impeded the search party but not Betty's brother. He grabbed a flashlight and went looking for their mother. The authorities followed him. Within an hour, Sadie's body was found.
Betty faced the loss of her mother while holding out hope for her son. He was out there somewhere, but the relentless storm and charging waters made it impossible to continue. Everyone was sent home.
On the morning of November 5th, the waters began to recede. By first light, relatives and authorities were back on the emerging creek banks. The search resumed, but Betty was overwhelmed. She couldn't go back. She waited at her mother's house for word on Steven.
"It seemed like an eternity before them cars come back," she says. "When Barry come back, I said, 'Did you find him,' and he shook his head 'yeah.' I said, 'Is he alive,' and he shook his head 'no.'"
Watch this video of Betty. She sounds like a woman who has told this horrific story a thousand times. Still, the emotions overtake her when she says, "I think the death of a child is the worst thing that you can go through, to have to bury your child..."
[caption id="attachment_2306" align="alignright" width="200"] A cow carcass entangled beneath the Cheat River Bridge. Photograph by John Warner, courtesy of the West Virginia State Archives.[/caption]
Twenty-five years later, the flood still haunts families across our region. More than 50 people were killed in Virginia and West Virginia. The Cheat River, the Greenbrier River, the South branch of the Potomac River, the Roanoke River, the Little Kanawha River--they all flooded their banks. They carried people off. They drowned livestock. They covered bridges, tearing some apart. Houses went too, along with businesses, sheds, topsoil, boulders, and machinery of all sizes. In a rushing torrent, water swept up the earth and everything resting on it.
This month, news outlets are reporting on the flood's lasting impact. The Roanoke Times has a special section full of photos, video testimonials, and original articles from 1985. The Charleston Gazette has a story and slideshow with powerful images.
It's a fitting time to remember the flood's victims. As we're counting our blessings, I hope we all send prayers, warm thoughts, hope--whatever goodness we believe in--toward those who saw their loved ones and livelihoods washed away.
If you were in the area in 1985, you no doubt remember the flood. Please take a minute to share your story with us.

Turn off the computer. Go ahead. Don't even finish this post. Shut it down and close your eyes. Keep them closed for five minutes. Breathe. Think back. Remember the last time you were in the woods. Remember sitting by a creek or counting lightening bugs in a clearing. Relax. Recall the sensation of walking on a leaf covered path. Imagine the view from your favorite mountainside. Think about treetops swayed by a cool breeze and clouds draped across the long ridge in front of you. If you feel like it when you're done, come back and finish reading.
How was it? How did it feel to step away from the screen and picture somewhere tranquil? During those five minutes of quiet, did anything special happened to your brain?
[caption id="attachment_1644" align="alignleft" width="300"] A favorite field in Stanardsville, Virginia[/caption]
Some scientists think so. In an era when we are inundated with emails, text messages, phone calls, tweets, data streams wherever we go, some people are asking if the constant stimulation takes a tole. If so, how does meditation or a walk in the woods help ease the strain?
To get close to these questions a small band of scientists recently gathered in the bottom of a canyon. They camped and kayaked and let themselves stare into space. Art Kramer, a prominent University of Illinois professor told The New York Times reporter who joined them, “If I looked around like this at work, people would think I was goofing off."
But David Strayer, who organized the trip and teaches psychology at the University of Utah, says that resting our brains is essential and that we do have a finite attention span. He elaborates:
"Attention is the holy grail...Everything that you’re conscious of, everything you let in, everything you remember and you forget, depends on it.”
To underscore the point, the group discusses a study from the University of Michigan which demonstrated that people learn better after walking in the woods than after walking on a city street.
This section of the article strikes a chord with me. I live in the city, but feel deeply drawn to quiet places. For me, they are usually in the Appalachian woods. There is a tension between the bustle that surrounds me and the solitude that I crave. I do my best writing, my best thinking when I am somewhere tranquil. I am more patient. I listen better. I really believe that I am my best self when I am quiet and surrounded by the mountains.
Strayer would argue that my working memory is taxed in the city. According to Wikipedia, working memory is the "ability to actively hold information in the mind needed to do complex tasks such as reasoning, comprehension and learning." Blaring horns and crowded sidewalks chip away at your working memory, leaving you less able to think.
[caption id="attachment_1637" align="alignright" width="270"] A mind clearing spot on the Shenandoah River[/caption]
I'd say that's true and agree with Strayer when he adds that in a natural environment "our senses change." He says, "They kind of recalibrate — you notice sounds, like these crickets chirping; you hear the river, the sounds, the smells, you become more connected to the physical environment, the earth, rather than the artificial environment.”
He says that “there’s a real mental freedom in knowing no one or nothing can interrupt you."
I know that's the case for me. What about you? Do you ever feel the need to escape all the stimuli of modern life? How do you recalibrate? Do you think that time in the mountains can really make us smarter, better able to concentrate and learn?

I just stumbled upon this startling clip of Bill O'Reilly. It's older, dating to the 2009 airing of Diane Sawyer's award winning 20/20 story on children in Appalachia, but it is filled with provocative quips about the region:
"Kids get married at 16 and 17. Their parents are drunks. I'm generalizing now. There's a lot of meth. There's a lot of irresponsibility...I don't want to sound hopeless about it, but I think it is hopeless."
I'm dying to hear what you all think. Is Bill dosing out tough love or belittling stereotypes? Does Diane give a reasoned defense or is she making excuses? And, most importantly, can anyone put an end to widespread Appalachian poverty? If so, how?
[youtube]FLkc6LJmtNs&feature[/youtube]

Fighters on Blair Mountain

The security alarm has been sounding a low, pleading beep for the last twelve hours. “Meeeeeer meeeeer meeeeer.” On battery power, it called out through the night and into this morning like a lovelorn cicada that doesn’t know when to stop.

The stove and microwave are down. There’s no air conditioning, and today promises to top 100 degrees. No lights. No hot water. No refrigeration. My computer has some charge left. Otherwise, our house has been rendered pre-industrial.

Sitting shirtless in my den, worrying about my ice cream, I am acutely aware of coal. It’s so easy to take it for granted or blame it for ills—climate change, black lung, soot—but right now, I’d trade my dog for a little bit of its juice.

Coal still provides half of our power in the United States, and I don’t have to tell ya’ll what it means to the Appalachian South. For nearly three centuries, an army of miners has burrowed into our mountainsides to carve it out. Entire towns have risen and fallen around these operations. Recent generations have been fed off of coal’s profits, and before them, even more starved in spite of the wealth associated with their work.

It may be hard to imagine now, in an era of minimum wage and overtime, but early miners had to risk their lives for reasonable pay. There were no picket lines or swarms of union lawyers. To secure a living wage in the early 1900s, they took up arms and waged literal warfare against corporate agents.

There was gunfire, death, sabotage, and battlefields throughout the coal-producing South, but the moment that we should all remember is the Battle of Blair Mountain.

Miners had lived like indentured servants for decades with their livelihood miserly administered by their employers. In August 1921, they'd had enough. As many as 15,000 coal miners rallied. They scrambled up a mountainside and took on corrupt coal operators; their hired militia; and, in the end, the United States Army.

The workers fought for nearly a week. They survived homemade bombs and almost overtook a nearby town. They were only subdued when U.S. fighter planes intervened and dropped gas and explosives, leftovers from WWI, overtop them.

The battle was the largest armed insurrection in the United States since the Civil War, and it changed the course of labor relations in this country.

In a recent article in National Geographic, Cecil Roberts, President of the United Mineworkers of America, explained, "Blair Mountain stands as a pivotal event in American history, where working men and women stood up to the lawless coal barons of the early 20th century and their private armies and fought for their rights as Americans and indeed, the rights of working families all over the world."

Now, almost ninety years later, Blair Mountain is about to be blown to bits. Arch Coal and Massey Energy Company hold rights to blast and mine the land, effectively removing the top of the mountain.

I won’t go into the startling ecological damage caused by mountaintop removal; I’ve covered that before. With Blair Mountain, the trouble is compounded by the looming erasure of a great historic site.

What’s more, the state of West Virginia seems to be complicit. After archeologists discovered relics from the insurrection—guns and shells covering the mountainside--a small coalition secured a listing for Blair Mountain on the National Register of Historic Places. This would have prohibited any strip mining on the mountain.

Within a week, Randall Reid-Smith, a political appointee to the position of West Virginia State Historic Preservation Officer (SHPO), requested that this designation be removed. Reid-Smith claimed that property owners on the mountain favored the mining operation over preservation.

Additional research from preservation advocates found that Reid-Smith’s figures were dead wrong, literally. They included two deceased men as well as one woman who sold her land years before. The state’s figures also omitted 13 property owners entirely. When recalculated, there turned out to be 63 landowners on the mountain, and only 25 objected to its designation as an historic place.

Regardless, in December of last year, the National Register of Historic Places recognized the authority of the SHPO, and removed the protective measure. Mining operations could begin on Blair Mountain at any time.

Want to help save Blair Mountain? Write the National Register and ask that it return the mountain to a protected status.

Want to help save my perishable food? Swing by with a cooler real soon.