Iva Williams and Danny McLaughlin don't have much regard for the official records on panthers. You see, officially, the last of these big cats was killed in West Virginia back in 1887, and black panthers, also known as mountain lions or cougars, never, officially, even existed in North America.

That would all be fine and good if seventy-year-old Williams and her son-in-law McLaughlin hadn't seen and heard these giant cats—one of them being pitch black. The two of them live among the 300,000 acres of national forest in Pocahontas County, West Virginia. With miles and miles of unspoiled woodlands, ranging from high peaks to cranberry wilderness, the area could certainly give a wild panther plenty of room to roam, but has it?

Take a listen to Williams and McLaughlin, who paused their old time music jam to talk with their neighbor Roxy Todd about their Kennison Mountain sightings.
Do you think these elusive creatures still roam eastern forests? Has a cougar crossed your path? Or are folks like these just seeing what they want to see?

https://soundcloud.com/traveling219/black-cat-of-pocahontas-county

This story was collected as part of Traveling 219, a project that uses audio stories and the Web to create a modern guide to the scenic stretch along U.S. Route 219 in West Virginia. The project is led by members of Americorps, the national community service corps, with support from Allegheny Mountain Radio, the West Virginia Humanities Council, and Pocahontas County Free Libraries.

Signs matter in the Appalachian South, and I don't mean the kind in front of your church or sitting on a post. For centuries, we have relied on cues from the natural world to tell us when to pull out sweaters, plant our crops, close the shutters, or head for the hills.
Today, of course, a scientifically derived forecast is no further away than the nearest smart phone, but even in an age of instant information, many of us hold to our weather-predicting heritage. One such feller is Peter Brackney. This Kentucky native blogs under the moniker Kaintuckeean, and like generations before him, he gets his forecast from the back of a certain crawling creature.
How about you? Do you stick to old time traditions in the face of modern technology? And what's your favorite way to predict the weather?

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Heavier coats are coming out as temperatures drop. The annual rite of passage is upon us as the only thing falling faster than the leaves is the mercury on the thermometer.
I wasn’t particularly pleased when I saw the forecast on a recent Sunday.
[caption id="attachment_8858" align="alignright" width="151"] Guest blogger, Peter Brackney.[/caption]
Thirty degrees?
But then again, I shouldn’t be surprised. Sould I? I’ve witnessed the warning signs. Falling leaves. Yellow school buses. Football games and basketball practices.
I should have seen it coming, yet every year I am caught off guard by the onset of winter. I’m guessing I’m not the only one?
So what kind of winter is in store for us?
My father, a native of western Ohio, swears by the venerable Farmer’s Almanac which is a fairly decent indicator for long-range foreceasting. On the map published in the Old Farmer’s Almanac, Kentucky is treated as the southernmost midwestern state where the forecast is “biting cold & snowy.” Of course, the Rocky Top of Tennessee and the majority of the southeast is simply “chilly & wet.”
Kentucky has been described both as midwestern and as southern, making finding our Commonwealth on a map of U.S. regions challenging. And while the cartographer may struggle, it is equally troublesome to reconcile Kentucky’s status as a midwestern state such as Wisconsin and Michigan as it is to find sufficient similarity with Florida.
For generations, Kentucky has been a border state in every sense of the word. During the Civil War, she was represented by a star on the banners of both the Union and the Confederate States. And it remains difficult to categorize her today.
Like so many in Appalachia, we’ve developed our own methods. In communities along the mountain chain, including a significant number of Kentucky, people have looked to something more native in determining the forecast for the upcoming season:
The woolly worm.
At about two inches in length, the woolly worm is easily recognizable by the soft black and cinnamon bristles covering its body. The body is divided into thirteen segments with each thought to represent a week of winter; each brown segment is thought to reveal a mild week of winter while black segments are indicative of harsher weather.
[caption id="attachment_8860" align="alignleft" width="154"] Kentucky weather forecaster. Photo by David Reber on Flickr.[/caption]
So what does the woolly worm say is in store? Well, each year an annual festival aims to answer that very question.
The annual Woolly Worm Festival is held at the end of October each year in Beattyville, Kentucky. This year was the 26th edition of the annual affair.
Beattyville is the seat of Lee County and is nestled between the North Fork and South Fork Rivers. This confluence creates the headwaters of the Kentucky River. The small town counts fewer than 2,000 residents, yet its ranks swell each autumn when the woolly worms race, the parade is held, and live entertainment fills the air.
The woolly worm festival in Bettyville is a lot of fun and, if you haven’t been before, it is always worth going. Plus, there’s the added benefit of knowing the forecast for the next thirteen weeks.
This post was originally published in the Jessamine Journal.

Raise your hand if you remember 1932. I can't imagine many of you do. (And if you do, please leave a comment!) But in that year, residents of Charleston, West Virginia decided to memorialize their town on film. And I don't mean stills or some stilted, silent movie. They would make a talkie.
Charleston Beautiful showed the best their fair city had to offer, and what they chose to feature is telling—telephone operators using the latest technology; hospital staff who offered first-rate medical care; and firemen with soaring ladders and nets that, right on film, caught someone jumping from a tall building.
In fact, tall buildings themselves got significant airtime. Over and over, the narrator noted that future viewers may not recognize these scenes, because he said, "Some of these buildings will be, oh possibly, 25 or 30 stories high."
This hopefulness is striking. Remember, 1932 was the height of the Great Depression. The Dow Jones Industrial Average reached its lowest depression level one month before this film was shot, and still, shops were open; people were well-dressed on the streets, and the filmmakers saw huge promise in their mountain city.
I don't live in West Virginia, but I hear it's hard the find this kind of optimism today. Can we learn a lesson from this old film? If so, what do you think it is, and what strikes you when you watch our mountain forebears?

"Local in character, [this film] should arouse more than ordinary interest. But what is such interest compared with that which is certain to be displayed in this same motion picture when shown ten or twenty years from now? Many changes will take place. The progress of science, education, and humanity itself, will have made obsolete much contained in this film." — Introduction to Charleston Beautiful

https://www.youtube.com/watch?feature=player_embedded&v=F04ZPAVBVv8

I almost bought pumpkins at my local garden center last weekend. It was just mid-September, but the nip in the air confused me. It told my autumn-ready brain that the dog days of summer had passed and now it was time to put on a sweater, plan my Halloween costume, and cover every inch of my porch with gourds.
Luckily, some still-blooming daisies caught my eye and pulled me back from the edge. I walked on. But imagine my relief when I learned that I’m not the only one in a fall frame of mind. Carol Rifkin, the lead in North Carolina string band Carol Rifkin & Paul’s Creek, is eager for her fall rituals too.
Hers involve a trip to the Heritage Weekend, a celebration of Southern Appalachian life and culture, outside Asheville. And lucky for Carol, now is exactly the time for her tradition. The festival starts tomorrow and runs through Sunday, ushering in the official beginning of autumn.
If you’re anywhere near North Carolina’s mountains, you might swing by. You’ll be able to tap your toes to old time and bluegrass music, meet artisans who are keeping Appalachian traditions alive, cheer whimmy diddle contestants, and maybe even trade notes with Carol on your favorite fall rituals.

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I love when fall comes to the mountains; it gets cool in the morning and crisp at night but not too hot in the afternoon. Leaves start to fall into Paul’s Creek as it runs by my house and orange jewel weed pokes its head up over the creek bank. It is perfect for sitting on the porch playing fiddle or singing a mountain song. Musicians and folk artists all thrive in the fall and come together for crafts, square dances, apple picking, and more before winter sets in.
Playing at Heritage Weekend at the Folk Art Center on the Blue Ridge Parkway outside Asheville, North Carolina is part of my fall ritual. The Folk Art Center and the Southern Highland Craft Guild are steeped in the same kind of traditional lore as the mountain music I love. The artists who exhibit there know each other in much the same way traditional musicians in the region do. It just all goes together.
My favorite thing about Heritage weekend is how committed the artists who show and demonstrate their work are. Any one of them will take the time to show you how something works or how something is made or to share a story. They love what they do like we love the music. You can feel the long history of it there.
The audience is always so appreciative and receptive. It’s an event where people are there because they believe in what we do and in what the folks at the Craft Guild and Parkway have worked for all these many years. It’s a comfortable gathering of old friends welcoming new friends as repeat visitors (there are many) and new attendees join the fold, saunter through the art, or gather near the stage. I always try to make time to see the Martin Carvings and the Pisgah Pottery in the second floor exhibits; they are personal favorites.
As a longtime member of the music community, I am often asked to support events and organizations, but I’m only able to fit in a few. This Heritage Festival and the twice-annual Southern Highland Craft Guild Fairs at the Civic Center get my total attention and support. They are important links in the preservation of Appalachian culture and a tremendous asset in the education of the public.
The festival’s free to the public and has the air of an annual family reunion or birthday party. I often see whole families there together, grandparents, kids and grandchildren playing on the grounds. Familiar faces return each year, new ones join in, and the kids on the clogging teams get taller. It’s a fall gift before winter sets in. And it’s just pretty darn fun. Join us. Y’all come.
 

A classic Appalachian toy—the whimmy diddle—is making a big come back. Made from two sticks and a tiny propeller, it has entertained mountain children for generations.
Now it's the centerpiece of its very own tournament. The World Gee Haw Whimmy Diddle Competition will take place during Heritage Weekend, September 21-22 at the Folk Art Center outside Asheville, North Carolina, and you'll find today's guest blogger wringing her hands right by the stage.
April Nance helps coordinate the event for the Southern Highland Craft Guild, but that's just one reason she is whimmy obsessed. April is also a proud whimmy diddle stage mom, and she's here to tell you that being a whimmy winner is no small feat.

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I still remember my first visit to Heritage Weekend fifteen years ago. I had heard about the Southern Highland Craft Guild’s celebration of traditional crafts and wanted to check it out. In particular, I wanted to participate in the World Gee Haw Whimmy Diddle Competition.
[caption id="attachment_8674" align="alignright" width="216"] Two time winner, Mitchell Nance, practices his whimmying.[/caption]
I was lucky enough to meet Bob Miller of Pisgah Forest, North Carolina, Lifetime Member of the Southern Highland Craft Guild and unofficial grandfather of the event. I purchased one of his whimmy diddles, made from two sticks of rhododendron, one stick having carved notches on the side and a propeller on the end.
Bob tutored me on making the propeller spin to the right and to the left—or gee and haw—by rubbing one stick against the notched stick. I took the stage, confident in my newfound skills. The first rounds were easy enough. Judges make sure contestants can “gee and haw” in certain amounts of time. I even did okay when I had to gee haw behind my back. Then came the surprise. I had to switch hands, geeing and hawing with my non-dominant hand. The stubborn propeller barely moved, let alone made a full rotation. My hopes were dashed, and I had to step down without the receiving the coveted prizes, a trophy and a t-shirt. Like all contestants, I did get a Moon-pie, and for me that was sweet enough.
Fast forward fifteen years, and now, I am a whimmy diddle stage mom. I’ve been taking my sons, ages 10 and 12, to Folk Art Center events since they were babies, and Heritage Weekend is their favorite time to go.
[caption id="attachment_8671" align="alignleft" width="258"] Guest blogger April Nance with a whimmy diddle at the ready.[/caption]
Both Will and Mitchell met my whimmy diddle tutor Bob Miller before he passed away several years ago. He taught the boys how to whimmy diddle too, and in no time, my offspring eclipsed my meager success. My son Mitchell has won first place in the Children’s Competition for two years running. Now my reigning champ is eyeing a third title before moving into the Adult Division. Rumor has it that he's facing stiff competition, so he's is in serious training—geeing and hawing from dusk to dawn—prepping for the 2 pm showdown on September 21 at the Folk Art Center.
Up to this point, my attention to Mitchell’s success has been cavalier, but now that he has won twice, I'm invested in him bringing the trophy home again. If he doesn’t remember his whimmy diddle when he leaves in the morning, I’ll stick it in my purse so he can whimmy in the car on the way to school. He also practices before bed and in between other activities like cross country and band. A strong finish in the Children’s Division will set him up for triumph at the next level. And who knows—maybe he’ll even bring home the Professional Division Title someday.  Wouldn’t that make any southern Appalachian mama proud?

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Have you ever whimmied? Ready to compete during Heritage Weekend? Please leave a comment and let us know what you think.
To learn more about the competition and all of the other Heritage Weekend activities, click on over to the Southern Highland Craft Guild.

Carrie Williams is my new hero. According to folks over at the Northfork Watershed Project--keepers of historic and cultural knowledge along the North fork of the Blackwater River--she was the schoolteacher at the Coketon Colored School in Coketon, West Virginia, and in the late 1800s she emerged as an unlikely leader for civil rights.
Here's how the Northfork Watershed Project tells her story:

At that time, Mrs. Williams was told to teach the 'colored' children for only five months of the year unlike the "white" children that were to be taught for eight months of the year. In a very bold move, Mrs. Williams taught for the entire 8 months and then demanded her full 8 months salary on the basis that education was to be equal.
J. R. Clifford [West Virginia's first black lawyer] took Williams’ case, tried it in the Tucker County Courthouse—and won! The school board appealed to the West Virginia State Supreme Court, where Clifford won again, in 1898! This was the first “separate but equal case” in the United States and was one of the initial stirrings of the burgeoning civil rights movement.

Sitting in my DC office yesterday—a block from commemoration events for the 1963 March on Washington—I was reminded of the thousands of brave souls who led up to that historic day. Women and men like Carrie Williams gave no famous speeches. They had no where to march. But they kept the dream alive generation after generation, until it could be articulated from the steps of the Lincoln Memorial and serve as a beacon for fairness and equality around the world.

You know those old coffee mugs with a bumpkin moonshiner on one side and a smoking still on the other? It might be time to put those away. Same goes for your salt and pepper shakers shaped like moonshine jugs and also that t-shirt of Granny Clampett holding her "roomatiz medicine."

While relics like these have their kitsch appeal, they're anything but accurate. You might say they reflect true moonshining as well as The Apprentice reflects true office culture.
But don't worry. You won't miss your tchotchkes one bit after you pick up the new book Corn from a Jar: Moonshining in the Great Smoky Mountains ($5.99 on iTunes or $9.99 from the publisher). In it, author Daniel S. Pierce separates moonshining fiction from fact, and as it turns out, the true story behind moonshining is a hundred times more interesting that those old stereotypes.
Dan was kind enough to sit down for an interview with me recently. You might be surprised by what he had to say. Turns out, there's real savvy underlying moonshining operations and the distilling traditional goes back further than I ever imagined.

*

TR: Hi, Dan. Thanks so much for taking time to talk. Now, for nearly two centuries, moonshiners have been front and center in popular media. Newspapers, books, movies, and television have built a lore around them. Why do you think there's such enduring interest?

[caption id="attachment_8488" align="alignright" width="202"] How he got stuck in his jug is anyone's guess.[/caption]
DP: I think a lot of the current interest is related to nostalgia for a simpler--although mythological--past, much like the on-going interest in Andy Griffith reruns, which feature lots of moonshiners. [Famous moonshiners] like Popcorn Sutton, Jim Tom Hedrick, and Tickle are fascinating people and, like it or not, they confirm lots of Appalachian stereotypes--at least their popular images do.
TR: There are a lot of different portrayals--bumpkin, outlaw, free spirited mountaineer--and each is flawed, but I'm curious, have any recent media portrayals done right by moonshiners? Is anybody getting it right?
DP: In popular culture, I think folks are primarily playing on stereotypes, both negative and positive. I'd like to think I came close to getting it right in Corn From a Jar. My goal was to humanize the moonshiner and get to the context of why they did or do what they did or do.
TR: So let's talk about what these popular portrayals miss. What's the side of moonshining that most of us never see?
DP: I think there are three things that folks miss.
1. The intelligence and creativity of many moonshiners. The stereotype depicts them as ignorant hicks, but so many of them were or are very sharp cookies. I've often said about Junior Johnson that he probably never read a book on physics, but he could probably write one.
2. The evolution of moonshining from a craft in the antebellum period to an industrial enterprise in the Prohibition era and back to a craft in the present day. One way to describe this is the small-pot and malt mash liquor era to an era when liquor was made as quickly as possible in huge steamer stills with distilling sugar, a little corn thrown in, and probably some adulterant to give it a kick and then a return to smaller stills and a real-corn product. Truth be told, much of the liquor made in the 20th century was pretty vile.
[caption id="attachment_8494" align="alignleft" width="227"] Snoozing with booze.[/caption]
3. The entrepreneurial nature of many moonshiners. We'll never know what capital accumulated from moonshining financed. I do know that lots of race tracks were built and stock car races promoted using money made from illegal liquor businesses. I'm pretty sure lots of other legitimate enterprises were financed that way as well, but there's no paper trail and folks are definitely not advertising the fact.
TR: That speaks to moonshine's economic history, which is a real thrust in your book. White lightning played a central roll in the Great Smoky Mountains. It wasn't just a source of income for the shiners but also served their larger communities. Can you say more about that?
DP: Absolutely, proceeds from moonshine also kept many country stores alive through sales of sugar, canning jars, yeast, and low-smoke fuels like coke. There's good evidence that tithes and offerings from moonshiners built many-a-church in the region and mechanics and metal workers benefitted from the business.
TR: That's enthralling. I also love this stat from your book - “While Western North Carolina held only 14% of the population of the state in 1840, it produced 31% of the state’s whiskey." How did distilling end up so concentrated in the mountains?
[caption id="attachment_8498" align="alignright" width="279"] Allspice and Cinnamon jugs.[/caption]
DP: Before the Civil War, the prevalence of liquor makers in the region was primarily a product of ethnic heritage. The Scots-Irish of the southern Appalachian region brought a long history of whiskey making with them. After the war, it had as much to do with the ability to hide a still as it did heritage.
TR: So it was really a part of the local culture. How far back does the distilling tradition go?
DP: The Romans reported spirit making in the British Isles nearly 2000 years ago, so it goes way back.
TR: Wow. There's so much good stuff packed into this little book. If you could pick one thing for readers to take-away on moonshining history, what would it be?
DP: I'd say the humanity of people making moonshine who were generally looking for ways to support their families, hold on to their farms, and stay out of the mills and mines.
TR: While I have you, I wanted to hit on one other topic--the legality of making moonshine at home. If Google results are to be believed, it is still illegal to make hard liquor in most states, even when it's for personal use. And Federally, if I wanted a home still, I'd have to go through a Byzantine permitting process and pay taxes on what I produced. Is that right?
DP: Basically. It's a violation of federal law to make any amount of distilled spirits without the proper permits and giving the government its cut of the proceeds. You can own a still in many states; you just can't make any liquor in it.
TR: Now why do they come down so hard on hard spirits? I mean, I can make beer and wine at home, right?
DP: I think it's a combination of long traditions of liquor prohibition plus the higher alcohol content plus the tax revenue the government gains from liquor.
TR: Well, I'm still holding out for the day when I can set up a still in my back yard. Think it'll ever happen?
DP: Sorry. Don't see that changing anytime soon.
[caption id="attachment_8492" align="alignnone" width="500"] Dan Pierce at Asheville’s Howling Moon Distillery. Courtesy Univ of NC/Asheville.[/caption]

MORE
The one thing that made me go was wanting more. I saw more all the time. My neighbors had more. Folks on the other side of town had a lot more. And people on TV, they had more than more. They had the most. I figured I could have more too if I left. So I went to college and got more education. I got a job behind a desk and got more money. I traveled and got to see more of the world. Along the way I picked up more plates, more rugs, more books, more towels, more underwear, more degrees, more kitchen gadgets, and more debt. A lot more debt. I'm forty this year, and I'd be lying if I didn't say that I still want more. More drives us. More keeps us alive. But for me at least, more has changed. Now I'd like more time to write. I'd like to hang out more with my boyfriend and our dog. I'd like more plants in my yard, and I'd like to hike more. But most of all, I'd like to go home more. I'd like to spend more time in the place I lived before I wanted more.

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Why did you leave your small town..or stay...or come back? A few weeks ago, the people who developed the interactive documentary Hollow asked these questions. While I wasn't sure if Roanoke, where I grew up, counted as a truly small town, I did once feel a powerful need to leave there. It's a need that faded over time and eventually reversed. Now I'd like more time back home.
So I took a few minutes to jot down the above snippet. Readers on cowbird.com, the story-sharing site that partners with Hollow, seemed to identify with the piece. I thought folks here might like it too.
And how about you? Where did you grow up? Why did you leave or stay or return?
Home means something special for everyone but maybe even more so for people who come from a place as distinct as the Appalachian South. I'd love to hear your story. You can share it in a comment below, and if you'd like to be part of the Hollow project, you can also post it on cowbird.com.
Here's how: 1) Join Cowbird for free: https://cowbird.com/join/ 2) Click “Tell a Story," and start your story with this line--“The one thing that made me stay…” or “The one thing that made me go…” or “The one thing that made me return…” Keep your story short — 50 to 250 words. 3) Add a photo and/or some sound to illustrate your story. 4) Click the tag icon on the right and write “The One Thing." That will identify your story as part of the Hollow collection. 5) Hit publish and share with friends on Facebook, Twitter, or through email.

Mountain girls make their own way in the world. As a rule, they aren't the delicate type. They're happy to wade through a creek or dig in a yard. They appreciate a good find, an arrowhead or a turtle shell, as much as any boy.
But they also know the value of sitting with their grannies, working a puzzle and smelling lemon pound cake. At least Ellen Apple, today's guest blogger, did. She spent half her childhood adventuring along Southwest Virginia streams and the other half sneaking to her granny's cabin, where she learned that sausage is good with popcorn and that there's no better gift than a finished puzzle under glass.

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Granny lived in the cabin here on our home place. That cabin likely was the first permanent shelter here, leastwise as far as I can tell. Now that ain’t to say that Indians weren’t here first off. Fact is, I feel fairly sure they was here. When we was little, we was always findin’ signs from them. Arrowheads was so commonplace I knowed some folks that has as many as a pickle crock would hold.
There are a few good places to find arrowheads. Along side creek beds where maybe hunters would set up for the night, in the fresh turned fields in the early spring, and the caves up on the ridge. Those caves always give me the willies, so I never spent too much time lingering in ‘em and I never did go no further in than the sun could find me. I ain’t skeered of the dark, and I ain’t skeered of no haints but I do carry what my daddy would call a healthy respect for both.
That cabin is a place that holds many a good memory for me ‘cause I used to be sneakin’ off there so much to sit with my granny. She had this ole potbelly stove in the front room, and even in the summertime she was more likely than not to be burnin’ a few lumps of coal or a pile of kindlin’, just so as she could fry some sausage and pop up a pan of popcorn in the grease. Her front room always seemed to smell of popcorn and sausage, and the kitchen was likely to be smelling of lemon pound cake.
Now my granny was never one to sit plumb idle, and there was a whole passel of things she kept at hand to keep ol’ Scratch from making use of her on this Earth. She was a fair hand at needlework, and liked to crochet as well. She had an endless thirst for learnin’ and always had a book or two with a page dog-eared for to mark her place. Now her choice in what to read was an education in itself. She could find a recipe in any magazine, and clipped them all out to try later. Whether she did is still up for debate, I think she done most of that fancy cookin’ in her own head. She liked books ‘bout other parts, like the old west days and over in other lands. She had books ‘bout healin’ too, and kept her notes in there. She was a right fair hand at roots and plants. Lord, she poured the Sassyfrass tea down us in the wet months. And I reckon we ate enough liver and greens that none of us could ever have weak blood.
Bar none, her favorite thing to do whilst she sat around eatin’ popcorn and sausage was to work on picture puzzles. She had her a special table just for her puzzles. They was a lip all the way ‘round that table, and she had her a big ole’ piece of wallboard that was just a mite bigger than that table what she would keep it covered up with. She had took a length of feedsack cloth and crocheted her a pretty trim all around the edges and she would keep that wallboard covered with that cloth most days. My idea is that any dust that dared get in her cabin was kept off the puzzle this way, and she was able to keep nosy pitchers out of her business as well.
Those picture puzzles were a sight to behold, big ones that has 1000 pieces and more. When she finished one she was particular proud of, she would glue it all together and put it in a real pretty picture frame with glass and hang it, or give it to somebody. I promise you, anyone what was gifted with one of those picture puzzles felt they was right special in my granny’s heart. Most of them was pictures like we had in our schoolbooks. Bridges and buildings and mountains in far off places.
Sometimes I think mayhap Granny was so fond of those picture puzzles ‘cause while she was concentratin’ so fierce on that picture, getting it all put in the proper order, she in her head was travelling to those far off places. No matter how her soul wanted to fly to far off places, time and money and the way life played out for us kept her feet planted here on this land. As much as the beckoning can call us up to the highest points, this air and the dirt we walk keeps us here as sure as if we were a crop planted in the ground.
When my granny passed I was powerful sad. I cried, and could not rest nor sit still. My momma and daddy were my momma and daddy but my granny was special to me in a way that is even these years later hard to put to words. Being raised in the mountains, we are by need close to life and death. We learn to see the way life comes and leaves as being a necessary thing, like breathing or eating or sleeping. It was a fact in my head, and one I had felt, but never ever like that when my granny passed.
Her wake was held at the home place, and she was laid out in her front room. Folks from all over came to pay their respects, for she was loved and known all over these parts. When the time came, I could not bring myself to look full on her face. I did not want my last sight of her to be when she was without breath in her lungs and a smile on her face. Her burying was done here at the home place as well. We have a plot set aside for our people, not far from the creek and where the wind whispers through the weeping willow on a sunny day. The grave markers are carved from those glacier rocks up on the mountain, and the menfolk of the family keeps a good fence up. That way the hogs and sheep and cows don’t graze over the grave plots.
It had been a season since granny had left me, and I reckon I had moped about and drug my feet to the point my momma and daddy were downright exasperated with me. I was outside meandering about, trying to act as though I had more chores to see to. I had slopped the hogs, and scattered scratch for the chickens. The eggs had been gathered and the cows had gone up the side of the hill and would not be back until my daddy sicced the dog to fetch ‘em when it was time to milk. My hand found the holey stone I had tucked in my pocket, and I decided this would be a right fine time to visit the top of my knobby hill.
I had all intentions of meandering up to that special place where Mother and I had our talks, it is true. But my wandering feet took me around the other side of the house, down past the spring house and towards the creek. Now our creek is special, for it begins here on our land, water just rising up out of the rocks and dancing down over the limestone. The creek begins as a fresh water spring, and it is the coldest, sweetest water known to man or woman in these parts. I reckon we could sell it to make money if we were so minded. My daddy had pipes laid, and we have water to the house that comes from that spring. Of course, these days we are all hooked up with The Water Project. I had a mind to tell you today of The Water Project, but if I start on that path I will get all riled up and I have no thought of being riled up when I am in a mood to be tellin’ you about my granny. That tale will have to be told another day.
No, I meandered myself right over towards that fresh water spring, and the place where the water pooled so deep and cool. Have you ever sat and sunk your toes into the soft mud in the bed of a creek? It is like unto velvet, or the soft fur of a pet rabbit. The minnows dart away, and the skippers and tadpoles make themselves scarce as well. We have salamanders in these parts that are the prettiest dark red color, like blood, and crawdads and turtles and garter snakes, all of which I have played with at the creek. I was always careful to play past where my daddy had laid that water pipe, so as to not muddy the water that my momma used to cook and wash our clothes.
As I sat there with my toes curled in the mud, contemplating on things as I was prone to do – more than my momma thought was “good for me” whatever that meant – my big toe ran across something that felt different. I worked at it for a few minutes using my toes then reached down into that icy cold water and pulled out a pretty. Now I was not exactly expecting to find a pretty this day, and certainly not in the fresh water spring pool there just up above where those family grave plots laid.
An almost in one piece shell of a turtle. Now a turtle, the shell is a wonder to behold. The natives tell us their understanding of how all life came to be here on this earth by using the turtle, saying turtle carries the world on his back, the mountains and the rivers are seen in the pattern of the shell. As I sat there on a rock, running my finger over and around the grooves of that piece of shell I thought of how much a turtle shell brings to mind those picture puzzles granny was always a working on in the cabin. She carried us in a way, I reckon, just like that big turtle that Great Spirit made carries this whole world.
Granny is gone, but we still have pieces of her. We are pieces of her. There are so many folks what loved her, and she was always feeding and healing people, and did enjoy making us laugh when it was a time laughing was okay. Even now, her body down there in that grave, she is still with us. I truly do believe that.
So anyways, I rinsed that piece of turtle shell off real good and took it to granny’s grave plot and nestled it in beside that piece of limestone my daddy had carved her name into and then took and polished it up right pretty. A pretty for my granny, to always be there when I want to go take a look and remember her and all she undertook on herself when she tried teaching me.
We are all making a picture puzzle in this life, just by the way we live and the people we see and love and sometimes have ill feelings towards. It is up to us to keep that picture pretty, and I have no need to tell you how to do that, now do I? Folks is not turtles, and though it may feel that way at times they are not toting the whole cares of the whole world on their back like that turtle.
I sit from time to time and talk with my granny, mostly when I have knots in my mind because she was a right good hand at untying those mind knots. Mother and granny and my holey stone are all parts of my own picture puzzle. I leave her pretties as well, and I make sure to take her a wild violet when they come out.

If you ask me, I'd say that we're in the middle of a full on revival of Appalachian culture, and it's time we let the whole world know. That's why I've led a top-to-bottom redesign of The Revivalist. With a fresh look and new features, it gives you a whole new way to experience the Appalachian South. The Design: It all starts with the site's updated look. It's a far cry from the original design, which was based on a free Website template. The new look moves the site's categories to the top, where they're easy to find, and it prominently features big, bold photos for every post. All told, the new site is easier to navigate and a lot prettier to view. Free Badges and Wallpaper: "Like" The Revivalist on Facebook, and you'll receive access to Mountain Man and Mountain Mama freebies. First, you get social media badges. They're perfect as profile pics and fun to share in status updates on Facebook, Twitter, Google Plus--wherever you post stuff for friends and family. You can also access free wallpaper for your computer desktop. It shows your mountain pride every time you boot up. To get yours, just like The Revivalist on Facebook, and click freebies. Download the goodies you want, and share them however your heart sees fit. Fresh News Hand Picked: I find great news stories about the region all the time. This section on The Revivalist homepage gives me a place to share them with you. Swing by once or twice a week for curated articles all about the Appalachian South. Pinterest: If you haven't already spotted it, The Revivalist now has a Pinterest page. Over there, I'm sharing the best Appalachian images from this site and wherever else I find them. That's the latest and greatest. Though a lot is changing, my commitment to bringing you the best in Appalachian music, food, art, culture, and travel stays the same. I can't tell you how much I appreciate you following the site and helping make it better. Thanks for sending ideas, chatting with me on Facebook and Twitter, and re-pinning photos on Pinterest. Together, we really are spreading the word from the Appalachian South!

I just noticed that the Grammys are tonight! Earlier, I posted a lovely from the Great Smoky Mountains Association, and I mentioned the organization's surprise nomination for a Grammy award. Since the ceremony starts in a matter of hours, I thought you might like to learn more.

Arch Goins and family, Melungeons from Graysville, Tennessee, via Wikipedia.

Nowadays, it seems that every other black-haired, mountain dweller claims Melungeon roots. The name refers to a specific set of families. Traditionally dark-featured and visibly different from their white, black and Native American neighbors, they have lived in southwest Virginia and northeast Tennessee for centuries.

Their ethnic origin has been a source of debate for nearly as long. Over the years, they've been called American gypsies, descendants of the "lost colony" of Roanoke, and members of a wayward Israeli tribe. Many Melungeon's themselves claim that their ancestors are Portuguese; some identify as Native American; and still others profess to have originated in Africa.

This ambiguity made early Appalachian whites suspicious. They isolated the Melungeon's to their own small communities in places like Newman's Ridge and the Blackwater Valley of Tennessee.

Early references to the group speak volumes. Dating to 1813, minutes from an area church describe someone as "harboring them Melungins." This less than neighborly phrasing suggests that area congregants regarded the group with disdain, and according to the Melungeon Heritage Association, the discrimination did not end there. In nearly a dozen court cases, the ethnicity of Melungeon people was challenged, including one case in which several members of the group were tried for illegal voting. They were accused on the grounds that they were not white and therefore ineligible to cast a ballot. While they were acquitted, this kind of legal discrimination, along with a general social stigma, dogged the Melungeons well into the twentieth century.

It wasn't until the 1960s, when other racial groups found a new pride in their identity, that the Melungeon's revisited their own. Rather than reject the name that had been used against them, they reclaimed it.

Ever since, popular interest in the group has grown. Melungeons have inspired news articles across the country; several books; the 2007 documentary Melungeon Voices; and at least one song called "Little Carmel." Performed by the rock band The Ready Stance, the tune riffs on the questions surrounding these now notable people:

Little Carmel
Try to trace the roots along
Melungeon family tree
Each branch divides in triad
Settler, slave, Cherokee
Outcast, exiled miles behind
Some seaside colony
Legend holds in manifold
Dash Turk or Portuguese...

 Once an ethnic mystery has been memorialized in song, you know it is the stuff of legend, but that legend is slowly being unraveled. A recent DNA study, published in the Journal of Genetic Genealogy, dove deep into the backgrounds of Melungeon families. The researchers compared the families' oral histories, documentation such as court records, and DNA patterns. They found that, in spite of a wide range of ethnic claims, the overwhelming majority of their subjects were the offspring of men who originated from sub-Saharan Africa and women from northern or central European. That is, Melungeons are the most common kind of mixed-race in the United States--black and white.

 

A conflicting study, conducted at University of Virginia College at Wise, claims to have found more complex DNA evidence with a different sampling of Melungeons. While this research has not been peer reviewed, it states that "about 5 percent of the DNA indicated African descent, 5 percent was Native American, and the rest was 'Euroasian,' a group defined by clumping together Europe, the Middle East and India," according to a 2012 article in Wired Magazine.

It seems the Melungeon debate continues. Researchers are jockeying to crack the group's ethnic code, and their DNA evidence is undoubtedly inching us closer to a final answer.

This, of course, begs a whole new set of questions. What happens to the Melungeons once their mystery is solved? Will they still inspire songs? Will people still clamor to claim Melungeon roots when they know exactly what that means? Will journalists and bloggers like me still bother to write about this unusual clan, or will they fade into history, another mixed-race group assimilated into the mainstream?