If you're like me and unable to make the remarkable March on Blair Mountain in West Virginia this week, don't worry. The Virtual March is on.

Each day, you can demonstrate your solidarity with the physical marchers and take real steps to help save Blair Mountain, the site of a massive uprising by as many as 15,000 coal workers in 1921 which is now threatened by mountaintop removal mining.

Here are the Virtual March actions so far:

Day 1: Call on President Obama to preserve Blair Mountain:Send a personal email to the president, asking for him to "stand up for environmental justice, workers’ rights, and the preservation of American history by designating Blair Mountain as a National Historic Landmark."

Day 2: Give $5 to keep the march safe:On the March's first night, Boone County officials told the marchers that they no longer had permission to camp in the park they'd identified and that if they didn't leave they'd all be arrested. Your $5 gift will provide a secure campsite for one marcher.

Day 3: Call the White House and ask President Obama to re-list Blair Mountain on the National Historic Register: Following an easy-to-use telephone script, you can maintain a steady drumbeat of support and ask the President to relist Blair Mountain on the National Historic Register, which will help protect it against mountain top removal mining.

On MarchOnBlairMountain.org, you can also find updates on the marchers throughout each day. It looks like tonight they're having more lodging woes:
"Wed 6/8/2011 2:40 pm  The march ended approximately 5 miles south of Madison. Marchers were shuttled to the backup sleeping spot, as the camping spot that they had planned on using cancelled last night. Marchers are tired after a walk in 102 degree heat, but are in high spirits. They walked 8.5 miles in total today."

These bold women and men may be in good spirits, but they're clearly having a hard time. They need your support. Consider joining the Virtual March today.

County deputies fire on miners from a Blair Mountain bluff in 1921.

You may remember that big coal is trying to blow apart Blair Mountain. This is the site of the largest armed insurrection in the United States since the Civil War. From the mountain's cliffs, as many as 15,000 coal miners took on corrupt coal operators; their hired militia; and, in the end, the United States Army. This was back in 1921, when workers had to wage literal warfare to secure a living wage.

Ninety years later, Arch Coal and Massey Energy Company hold rights to surface mine this historic site, but they face stiff opposition. Unions and environmentalists have partnered to stop them. This June, they will join mountain lovers from all over in a massive protest.

The event starts on June 4 in Marmet, West Virginia, where supporters will begin their march toward the mountain. Over the next six days, they will cover just over fifty miles, following the same route used by outraged miners in 1921. During the evenings, they will enjoy good food and music, cultural festivities, and workshops.

One June 11, additional supporters will join them. In the nearly deserted town of Blair, West Virginia, they will stage Appalachia Rising, a rally for Blair Mountain that honors our proud labor history and the irreplaceable landscape that defines us as Appalachians.

The event will feature a performance by Emmylou Harris followed by a hike--two and a half miles up to the summit of Blair Mountain. At the top, Robert Kennedy, Jr. will lead a rousing culmination to the event, calling for all of us to stand up for Blair Mountain.

This is one not to miss. You can register for the rally alone or, if you have the time and a good pair of walking shoes, for the six day march as well. If you go, be sure to share your feedback and photos here!

As you may have noticed, the site has a virus that is inserting ads for various prescription meds into the posts. I am currently working with a programmer to correct it. In the meantime, I'm so sorry for the inconvenience...unless you're looking for Cialis or Viagra, in which case, you came to exactly the right place!

All eyes are on Appalachia lately. Last week, we saw the premiere of COAL on Spike TV. Tonight, U.S. Senator and Scots-Irish historian Jim Webb brings us Born Fighting: How the Scots-Irish Shaped America on the Smithsonian Channel.

As you may know, Webb wrote a popular book with the same name. It was a spirited defense of the Scots-Irish, who are his people and ours. They were the dominate ethnic group in the Appalachian South. Their fierce pride, clan structure, and distrust of outsiders became our own, but before they defined our region, they were restless immigrants who, for several centuries, seemed as destined to migrate as they were to breathe.

Their story starts in the Scottish lowlands, where they battled the English over sovereignty and one another over food, horses, property, and clan grievances. Their world was full of strife--recurring wars, poverty and soil so thin that it could hardly be farmed. They responded with blunt persistence, fighting whatever came at them and, at times, marauding to survive.

When Ulster Plantation, a new colony in the north of Ireland, was opened they went in droves. It held the promise of land; Ulster was a sparsely populated region. It was also familiar terrain; in smaller numbers, Scots had been migrating there for centuries.

 

By the 1700s, many Scots-Irish had their fill. As much as one-third of Ireland's Protestant population resumed their Westward migration, this time across the Atlantic to the edge of the American colonies, the undeveloped backcountry of the Appalachian range.

Even here, they found conflict. This time, it was with the aristocracy that controlled America's lowlands. They admitted the Scots-Irish so long as the fiery newcomers stayed in the mountains. The Anglican elite found them rowdy and unruly but potentially useful at expanding the colonies' Western reach. They sent them into the ancient forests of Appalachia, where the Scots-Irish would have to do what they did best--fight.

Webb describes the Scots-Irish response:

"Their answer, then as now, was to tell the English Establishment to go straight to hell. A deal was a deal--they would fight the Indians, although many of them would also trade with them and even intermarry...America was a far larger place than Ireland, a land in which they could live as they wished and move as freely as they dared whether or not the established government liked what they were doing...so they made their own world in the mountains."

We know that world well. While there are nearly three hundred years between those first mountain settlers and us, we still see their influence. It appears in our language, our customs, but most conspicuously in our interactions with the world around us. I would say that we remain a clannish people, fiercely loyal to family, unimpressed with material wealth, quick tempered, suspect of the elite, strong fighters and religiously fervent.

These traits run deep in my family. Maybe they do in yours. How many passionate genealogists do you have? How many wildcat personalities? How many religious fundamentalists? How many members of the military? How many are suspicious of doctors, lawyers, the government--anyone who carries an official capacity? How many say a-goin, young'un,or might could,as in "he might could run the young'ins to the store; he's a-goin 'thar, anyways"?

The folks who took us to the Bering Sea in Deadliest Catch and behind the wheel in Ice Road Truckers, are now going into the mines. Tonight COAL premieres on Spike TV. Promotional materials say that the series "explores coal mining through the eyes of Mike Crowder and Tom Roberts, part-owners of Cobalt Mine in Westchester, West Virginia, and the area’s hard-working miners, families and community members."

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.