Elaine McMillion Sheldon is about to get you out of some awkward situations. She's the director of the award-winning documentary Hollow, and while screening the film in over fifty locations—Virginia to Vermont and Amsterdam to Switzerland—she kept bumping into the same problem.
"I would say it correctly throughout the whole screening," Elaine explained, referring, of course, to the word Appalachia, "but during the Q&A portions people would often revert to App-a-lay-shu. It drove me crazy!"
[caption id="attachment_10164" align="alignright" width="260"] Elaine enjoying her new tee.[/caption]
Now, Elaine's momma raised her right; she's not about to embarrass anyone in public. Instead, she hatched a scheme to subtly correct people. "A lightbulb went off: I should just make a t-shirt that politely makes people sound it out."
With that bright idea, she solved a quandary every native of the Appalachian South faces—that awkward moment when someone says the name of your homeland in a way that makes you want to pack your ears with morel mushrooms and wild ramps.
Luckily, there's no need to correct anyone's pronunciation anymore. Just slip into this instructional t-shirt the next time you'll be around folks who insist on saying Appalachia that other way, and they'll get the picture pretty darned fast.
Sizes run slim and supplies are limited, so you might want to order your App-uh-latch-uh tee today.
And whether you buy one or not, let us know—ever had a moment when you wish you'd been wearing this clever shirt?

I keep a Blue Willow bowl on my coffee table. When people come to my house, they must think it's full of aging junk. The objects inside—an old lock, a gear shift from a Model-A Ford, hand-forged nails, a tool part I can't even name—might be worth ten bucks all together, but they mean the world to me. I found them around the farm built by my great, great, great grandparents, on land where my grandpa was raised.
Every few days I reach into the bowl and pick up one of these trinkets, rub my fingers across its pitted surface, and I swear I can smell hay curing, see the farm's cattle-peppered hillsides rolling back toward the base of the Blue Ridge Mountains.
Friends from Appalachia seem to understand. When I explain that the bowl holds pieces of home, most nod and tell me about things they've carried from mountaintops and hollers, the places they got their starts.
This week, I asked a few of them to share their mementos with everyone here, and they sent these lovely photos along with stories, telling us why the objects are special.
Putting them all together, I'm reminded that we're hardly alone. For centuries, folks have migrated out of Appalachia, and I suspect a lot carried pieces of home with them.
Maybe you have too. If you ever left the region, did you take little tokens, objects that transported you back to the mountains?
If so, we'd love to see them. Please share photos on Facebook or Twitter and include the hashtag #mypiecesofhome.You can email me images too, and I'll consider them for a future post here. My address is revivalist at-symbol therevivalist.info.

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I keep a lot of little things from West Virginia here with me in my Iowa house, among them are bones and glass. Growing up surrounded by cattle farms, the sight of sun-bleached cattle (or other animal) bones was very common, I've brought with me to hang on the wall of my office a cow skull, a raccoon skull and a little diorama that my fiancé Matt made for me with a butterfly and joint bone from a cow! I also have a collection of glass bottles salvaged from the old dump pile at the back of my family's property.
Mesha Maren, Iowa City, Iowa
From Alderson, West Virginia

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This is my great-grandmother's teapot from my mother's father's side. No matter your relation to her, everybody called her Mom. She spent almost her entire life in the Tennessee Valley just north of Chattanooga in the little burg called Hixson, which is now a suburb. Back home, my mother still has handmade patchwork quilts, and a hand made stuff dog and teddy bear that Mom made for me as a baby.
Jason Terry, Washington, DC
From Chattanooga, Tennessee

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My dad and I found this paddle on the Buffalo River, a beautiful waterway that streams through the Ozarks along the Missouri-Arkansas border. I was thirteen and we had just bought the canoe, a bright purple beast of a thing my dad would load on his pickup anytime I'd ask him to take me out. I loved, love, those Saturdays with my dad, and as he ages now, faces a current battle with cancer, I'm glad I have this paddle in my room, hanging above my bed. It's followed me, like a river might, to every apartment I've lived in, from Springfield, Missouri to Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania to now Washington, DC.
D. Gilson, Washington, DC
From Nixa, Missouri
(While from our neighboring mountain range, the Ozarks, D.'s story was just too sweet to omit.)

You probably know that country music gradually emerged from old time and celtic tunes, slave songs, blues riffs, and hymns that had been handed down for generations, but did you know that there was one special moment—a flashpoint—when all those influences came together and the new sound that would be called "country" was set in motion?
[caption id="attachment_10032" align="alignright" width="275"] A museum artifact illustrates a surprise turn in Roy Acuff's career.[/caption]
The birth of country music happened in Bristol, a town straddling the Virginia and Tennessee border, during 1927. By then, the music industry (still young in its own right) was just recognizing potential in this new style. Looking for fresh talent, a producer for the Victor Talking Machine Company named Ralph Peer set off for Bristol, where he auditioned locally known musicians.
The Carter Family, Jimmie Rodgers, the Stoneman Family—at the time, Peer had no idea that he'd help make these artists household names and simultaneously launch an entirely new musical genre.
“These recordings in Bristol in 1927," Johnny Cash later said, "are the single most important event in the history of country music.”
Beginning next week, the now famous Bristol Sessions will have a museum all their own. The Birthplace of Country Music Museum opens Friday with a star-studded line-up that extends throughout the weekend.
[caption id="attachment_10034" align="alignleft" width="230"] Recordings from the Bristol Sessions can be heard and albums are on display.[/caption]
Dr. Ralph Stanley will perform, along with Carlene Carter and Jim Lauderdale. There will be a  scavenger hunt, street buskers, and a special recording of Mountain Stage, West Virginia's nationally broadcast radio show, featuring Martina McBride and Doyle Lawson.
All of this will be in addition to museum exhibits, which include a Bristol Sessions karaoke booth, artifacts from sessions artists, and much, much more. If you head out to the museum for the launch or at any other point, please add a comment below. We'd love to hear what you think!

Ever stand atop an Appalachian mountain and feel like you could touch the stars?
Well, in 1961, a group of Kentucky craftspeople came closer than just about any of us. Today's guest blogger Adam MacPharlain tells us how Churchill Weavers, a company built on traditional Appalachian weaving techniques, got into the space race. It's a wonderful reminder that old-time ways can still find a place in the modern world.
Adam helps manage the sprawling Churchill Weavers Collection at the Kentucky Historical Society, which includes product samples like this one-of-a-kind space fabric, weaving tools, advertisements, and business records. Watch for his posts about the collection on the society's Facebook and Twitter pages.

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From 1922 to 2007, Churchill Weavers stood at the foothills of the Appalachians in Berea, Kentucky. What started as a goodhearted way to enliven the handweaving industry in this rural landscape ended up as the first company in the U.S. to mass-produce handwoven goods—everything from baby blankets to ladies scarves—and distribute them nationally.
By using an innovative loom that allowed weavers to move quickly, these mountain craftspeople out-produced competitors and caught the eye of an unlikely partner—the National Air and Space Administration (NASA).
In 1961, Churchill Weavers was approached by B.F. Goodrich, which was under contract with the space agency to produce cloth for spacesuit lining. Goodrich provided yarn made from glass fiber and rayon coated with Teflon and asked that Churchill experiment with it. The company applied its innovative spirit and developed a number of weaves, using techniques that dated back centuries and looms that were hand-built by the company's founder.
Samples went to B.F. Goodrich and then were passed to the Navy. After testing for space suitability, a final fabric was requested for a mock-up spacesuit, and Churchill Weavers delivered 70 yards.
"We are quite appreciative of the splendid work," said Goodrich officials, noting that handweaving was incredibly versatile, making it possible to experiment with elements like weave tightness, but in the end, cost was king. With Churchill’s price quote being some 300 percent higher than other competitors, the final contract went to a company that used automated looms.
After the "space cloth," Churchill Weavers took on other unusual projects—including fabrics for globally recognized fiber artist Gerhardt Knodel—but none of their other ventures inspired more imagination or put the company's fine craftspeople closer to the stars.

Raise your hand if you're a Stanley Brothers fan. Mine is waving in the air right now. Their signature sound—sorrowful yet sweet—has enchanted generations, and part of its appeal ties to our region's history of outward migration.
In the mid-1900s, mountain folk flocked to industrial towns. Today, we leave for desk jobs in major metros. The work has changed, but the pattern is the same, and I, of course, am part of it. As an Appalachian migrant living in DC, I am enthralled by the generations who left before me and by the music that helped them stay connected to home.
So is today's guest blogger. Luke Floyd is an avid fan of mountain music and a student at Georgia State University. He sees deeply emotional ties between the Stanley Brothers and Appalachian migrants from the last century. The patterns he's uncovered sure strike a chord with me. I wonder if they do with you too.
Have you ever left your homeland for a stretch? If so, how do songs like the one below leave you feeling? 

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With a voice that sounds as old as his native Virginia hills, Ralph Stanley has become one of the most recognizable names in modern bluegrass music. His gravelly, high-pitched tenor transmits a lonesome sound that is part and parcel with the music and tradition he embodies.
To me, Dr. Stanley sounded his finest when he accompanied his brother Carter Stanley. As the two began their music careers during the 1940s, their voices blended into a smooth mix of Ralph’s high-line with Carter’s baritone. Although their repertoire expanded to include many bluegrass hits, the Stanley Brothers wrote and sang songs that consistently centered on a single theme—home.
During the great migration of the mid-20th century, some seven million Appalachians found themselves away from home and family while searching the Midwest for jobs. In cities like Detroit, Cleveland, Pittsburgh, and Cincinnati, the newfound industrial might of the United States churned thanks to mountain-less migrants.
So when Carter wrote of "mother at home a’waitin," his lyrics resonated with these displaced people. They missed not only their families and their mountains but also their music. The meeting of the Stanley Brother’s lyrics and lonesome tones with the heartache of migration created a semi-sacred reverence. For many, it was as close to the “little mountain church” as they could be at the time.
Remembered as one of the greatest bluegrass lyricists, Carter performed with such emotion that he often had tears in his eyes as he sang. One of my favorite songs written by Carter is “The Fields Have Turned Brown.” While short, the lyrics convey the same melancholy found in historic ballads from the region.
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=mevmoxEsT1g
Our narrator—a man who left his mountain home—begins the first stanza by warmly recalling the parting words of his mother and father, including a soft reminder to not forget his religious raising—as the chorus says “remember that love for God can be found.”
Later, the narrator returns home, but he doesn't find God’s love, just an empty house. Both his parents died while he was gone.
Although his reason for “rambling” is not disclosed, like the millions of Appalachians who left home during the great migration, regret permeates his remembrances. Even when they had good reasons—hunting for work, military service, chasing a better life—mountain people often felt sorrow over leaving.
Carter Stanley was a powerful lyricist, because he harnessed that guilt. The scene in the first stanza of mother and father waving from the porch was reenacted countless times in reality and in the memories of these migrants. Surrounded by an urban, foreign setting, the image of their mountain homes never slipped too far from their minds.
When Carter Stanley wrote of mourning the cost of his choices, he struck a chord among this unique group and, as it turned out, countless other old time and folk music fans who made the song a lasting hit. Decades later, it was still being covered by bands like The Grateful Dead and Old and in the Way.
For Appalachian ex-pats, however, it held special meaning. In their new, urban homes, many found a semblance of normalcy as the years rolled on. People from West Virginia, North Georgia, East Tennessee, and Southwest Virginia found one another and bonded around their cultural similarities. They shared food, a peculiar take on the English language, and, of course, music, forming Appalachian communities that felt a little like home. While their gentle mountains were nowhere in sight, their lives still hummed to an Appalachian tune, though one tinged with displacement and regret, one sung by Ralph and Carter Stanley.

Put down your oversized #1 foam finger long enough to check this out. In the spirit of March Madness, the good folks at Garden & Gun have launched the competition to end all competitions—a Southern Towns Bracket:

With so many great towns in Dixie, we couldn’t possibly hit them all. But after much heated debate, we’ve put together a bracket of 32 of the South’s finest. For the record, we kept it to towns, not cities, capping the population at 150,000 (sorry Atlanta, Nashville, and Dallas). There are historic towns such as Charleston and St. Augustine, artsy towns (Athens, Bentonville), college towns (Oxford, Chapel Hill), and just about everything in between.

[caption id="attachment_9413" align="alignright" width="265"] Greenville, South Carolina. Photo by dustinphillips on Flickr.[/caption]
If ever there was a competition where the Appalachian South had an advantage, this is it. Our region is chock full of charming towns. Roanoke, Asheville, Charlottesville, Gatlinburg, Morgantown, Berea, Greenville, Lewisburg—they're all on the list and waiting for your vote.
Round One is up now. The towns with the most votes by Monday, March 24, 2014 will advance to round two. Oh, and you can vote once a day throughout all of the rounds, so keep on clicking.
You can also cheer for your favorite mountain town on Twitter, using hashtag #SOUTHERNTOWNS.
As the field narrow over the next few weeks and winners are announced on April 4, you'll find the latest updates on The Revivalist's Facebook page.
Which towns will get your votes?

North Carolinians, I hope you're sitting down. I know you all are real proud of Orville and Wilbur Wright, and you've rebuffed challenges for their "first in flight" status from other states and countries, but historic research now suggests that the first flying apparatus actually went airborne in the North Georgia mountains more than twenty years before the Wright brothers' highly lauded flight.
Today's guest writer, Dave Tabler of the popular blog Appalachian History, presents the evidence. We'll let you be the judge.
Do you think this claim holds water? If so, is it time to change the North Carolina license plate? And what about our history books; if Micajah Clark Dyer flew decades earlier that the Wright brothers, how should we tell the first in flight story?

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Micajah Clark Dyer (1822-1891) filed patent 154,654 for his ‘Apparatus for navigating the air’ in 1874, a full 29 years before the Wright brothers made their historic first flight.

Be it known that I, Micajah Dyer, of Blairsville, in the county of Union and State of Georgia, have invented certain new and useful Improvements in Apparatus for Navigating the Air; and I do declare the following to be a full, clear and exact description of the invention, such as will enable others skilled in the art to which it pertains to make and use it, reference being had to the accompanying drawings, which form part of this specification…

Witnesses at Choestoe, Georgia to Micajah Dyer’s illustrated and written patent document were Francis M. Swain (a neighbor) and M. C. Dyer, Jr. (the “other” Micajah Clark Dyer who, to distinguish the two, signed Jr. after his name. He was an uncle to the inventor Micajah Clark Dyer, but they were reared as brothers by Elisha Dyer, Jr., grandfather of Micajah). The document was dated February 16, 1874. It was filed in the patent office on June 10, 1874, and was approved there on September 1, 1874.
[caption id="attachment_9268" align="alignleft" width="271"] Clark Dyer and his wife Morena, photo courtesy Union County Historical Society.[/caption]
“When he was not busy with cultivating the land on his farm and tilling the crops necessary to the economy of his large family, Clark Dyer labored in his workshop,” says his descendant Ethlene Dyer Jones.
“There he experimented with a flying machine made of lightweight cured river canes and covered with cloth. Drawings on the flyleaves of the family Bible, now in the possession of one of Clark’s great, great grandsons, show how he thought out the engineering technicalities of motion and counter-motion by a series of rotational whirligigs. He built a ramp on the side of the mountain and succeeded in getting his flying machine airborne for a short time.
“Evidently, to hide his contraption from curious eyes, and to keep his invention a secret from those who would think him strange and wasting time from necessary farm work, Clark kept his machine out of sight, stored behind lock and key in his barn. Those who did not ridicule the inventor were allowed to see the fabulous machine. Among them were the following who bore testimony to seeing the plane; namely, his grandson, Johnny Wimpey, son of Morena and James A. Wimpey; a cousin Herschel A. Dyer, son of Bluford Elisha and Sarah Evaline Souther Dyer; and James Washington Lance, son of the Rev. John H. and Caroline Turner Lance.
“Just when the fabulous trial flights (more than one) occurred on the mountainside in Choestoe is uncertain [about 1872-1874.] Prior to his death, he had invented a perpetual motion machine. It is also a part of family legend that Clark’s son, Mancil Pruitt Dyer, turned down an offer of $30,000 for the purchase of his father’s pending patents on inventions, especially the perpetual motion machine. Maybe Mancil reasoned that if he held out for more, he could receive it. Still another family story holds that Clark’s widow, Morena Ownbey Dyer, sold the flying machine and its design to the Redwine Brothers, manufacturers of Atlanta, who, in turn, sold the ideas to the Wright Brothers of North Carolina in about 1900.”
“Mr. Dyer has been studying the subject of air navigation for thirty years,” says the Macon (Georgia) Telegraph and Messenger, June 27, 1875, “and has tried various experiments during that time, all of which failed until he adopted his present plan. He obtained his idea from the eagle, and taking that king of birds for his model has constructed his machine so as to imitate his pattern as nearly as possible. Whatever may be the fate of Mr. Dyer’s patent, he, himself, has the most unshaken faith in its success, and is ready, as soon as a machine can be constructed, to board the ship and commit himself, not to the waves, but to the wind.”
[caption id="attachment_9261" align="alignright" width="270"] Dyer descendant Jack Allen, a retired Delta Airlines mechanic. crafted every piece of Clark Dyer’s airplane model to scale. Photo courtesy of The Towns County Herald.[/caption]
“We had a call on Thursday from Mr. Micajah Dyer, of Union county, who has recently obtained a patent for an apparatus for navigating the air,” adds a July 31, 1875 article in the Gainesville (Georgia) Eagle. “The machine is certainly a most ingenious one, containing principles entirely new to aeronauts, and which the patentee confidently believes have solved the knotty problem of air navigation. The body of the machine in shape resembles that of the fowl, an eagle, for instance, and is intended to be propelled by different kinds of devices, to wit: Wings and paddle-wheels, both to be simultaneously operated, through the instrumentality of mechanism connected with the driving power.
“In operating the machinery the wings receive an upward and downward motion, in the manner of the wings of a bird, the outer ends yielding as they are raised, but opening out and then remaining rigid while being depressed. The wings, if desired, may be set at an angle so as to propel forward as well as to raise the machine in the air. The paddle-wheels are intended to be used for propelling the machine, in the same way that a vessel is propelled in water. An instrument answering to a rudder is attached for guiding the machine. A balloon is to be used for elevating the flying ship, after which it is to be guided and controlled at the pleasure of its occupants.”
Clark Dyer later invented a spring-loaded, propeller-driven flying machine, according to several witnesses who saw him launch a successful model. Legend says he later personally flew in a full-size one with foot controls and a steering device. He would glide from a mountainside in Choestoe, on a rail-like ramp of his own design.
“Mr. Dyer has worked thirty years on his machine,” said his neighbor John M. Rich in a letter to the editor of the Athens Banner-Watchman from April 28, 1885. “He is not crazed, but is in dead earnest, and confidently believes that he has solved the problem of aerial navigation. He is not a crank nor a fanatic, but is a good, quiet citizen and a successful farmer.”
“People said he continued to work on perfecting the machine until his death on January 26, 1891 at age 68,” says Clark Dyer’s great, great granddaughter, Sylvia Dyer Turnage. “Since the patent we’ve found was registered on September 1, 1874, I believe he had a later and more advanced design in those 17 years.”

When Earl Scruggs passed away in 2012, I called him the ambassador of bluegrass, and today, the title couldn't be more appropriate. The Earl Scruggs Centeropened this morning in Shelby, North Carolina, Scruggs' hometown. Like the man himself, the center promises to deepen understanding and appreciation of bluegrass music.
It would have been easy—and warranted—to build a simple tribute to Scruggs and the groundbreaking, three-finger style he originated for the banjo, but the center reaches beyond its namesake.
State-of-the-art exhibits celebrate bluegrass itself. Clear-fronted banjos demonstrate different styles in the instrument's construction. An interactive tabletop called  “Common Threads” allows as many sixteen users to throw a “pickin’ party” by playing virtual banjos, mandolins, and guitars. And local history rounds things out, providing a uniquely Appalachian context for bluegrass.
[caption id="attachment_9094" align="alignright" width="214"] The Center is housed in a renovated courthouse.[/caption]
“Earl and his family approved things every step of the way,” said Emily Epley, executive director of the $6.2 million center. While The Earl Scruggs Center reaches beyond one man, it also provides real insights into the innovations he made in the music industry. “We have some great footage of him going back to his home place and showing where he had his aha moment.”
That "aha moment" turned music on its head. By showing the musical complexity that was possible on a banjo, Scruggs elevated the instrument from a silly prop in mistral shows to a centerpiece instrument that wasn't bound by style. We expect to hear the banjo in bluegrass, country, and folk tunes today, but that didn't happen overnight. Scruggs crossed lines throughout his career, playing with everyone from Joan Baez to Elton John.
That sweeping reach and Scrugg's legacy are being celebrated today. Outside The Center's home—a restored 1907 county courthouse—fans can join a street festival complete with a petting zoo; old-fashioned games; and, of course, music. Inside, they get a first glimpse of the center all day long, and tonight, an all-star line up, including Vince Gill, Travis Tritt, and Sam Bush, will share memories of Earl through stories and song.
While most of us can't make it to Shelby, North Carolina for the opening, we can share our own memories here. Have a favorite Earl Scruggs song? Ever see him perform? Please post a comment and tell us about your connections with this remarkable musician.
* Thanks to The New York Times for providing content for this post.

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.