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.

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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.

*

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?

While dating a fella from Eastern Kentucky, Louisville writer and editor Lisa Hornung discovered some of Appalachia’s more eccentric superstitions. She tells us all about them in the below guest post, which was originally published on one of my favorite sites The HillVille.

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“Step on a crack and you’ll break your mother’s back,” friends used to say when I was a kid. Whenever I thought about it, I made a conscious effort to not step on cracks, lest my poor mother meet with such a terrible fate.
One day while walking to the bus stop, it occurred to me that I’ve often failed in my vigilance to avoid sidewalk cracks, and my mom was walking around just fine with no residual effects. And why aren’t there more mothers lying around with broken backs? This city is lousy with cracked sidewalks!
That’s when I decided that superstitions were dumb. Why can’t I open an umbrella indoors? How else is it supposed to dry out? I can’t cut up a photo for fear of bad luck? What about cropping in Photoshop; does that not count? The world is already chock full of rules that one has to abide without complicating things with silliness.
My boyfriend, Lance, grew up in Irvine, Ky., a town whose slogan is “Where the Bluegrass kisses the mountains.” “You can hear it all night,” he joked. Since I’m from Louisville, Ky., a city known to the rest of the state as “Indiana,” we often have a few cultural differences.
Recently, my boyfriend and I had a discussion about superstitions and how seriously they are taken in the Appalachian region. We found several mountain superstitions online, and we had a good laugh – as well as a different view of each other.
Since I come from a city-dwelling family without any country cousins that I know of, I’ve never heard of  many  of these rules. My mom would laugh when I told her things I’d heard and say, “Oh, that’s just an old wives’ tale.” Like the time my grandmother told me I shouldn’t wash my hair when in my “cycle.” But when I had a baby who shared my home with a cat, my mother fully believed that the feline would take away the baby’s breath.
Here are a few Lance and I found online.
Death comes in threes. This is a widespread notion. I don’t believe it, but every time two people die, someone says, “THEY COME IN THREES!” While I’ll admit it does seem that way at times, it’s just not true. Do funeral homes shut down after three deaths?  I’m sure you could divide the number of deaths in the world by three and get close to a whole number. If not, well, just wait.
If you tell your nightmare before breakfast, it will come true. Now, seriously people, my nightmares consist of some really freaky stuff that could never happen in real life, so I’m not too worried about stuffing a biscuit my mouth before telling someone how a cat took away my breath in my dreams.
Pets will not go into a room where there are ghosts. Well, duh. Would you?
Never plant any crop while the sign is in the privates. What does that even mean? What sign? What privates? According to naturealmanac.com, some people garden by the zodiac, though I don’t know what “privates” have to do with it.
There are many crop-planting superstitions, and frankly, I don’t know how they find the time to plant with all those rules. I can hardly find the time to mow my lawn.
A cricket in the house brings good luck. In my experience, a cricket in the house brings sleepless nights.
It’s bad luck to walk under a ladder. No, generally it’s just dangerous – for you and the person on said ladder.
To get rid of warts, steal someone’s dishcloth and bury it, the warts will disappear. Maybe, but the person from whom you stole it might be pretty angry. Or maybe just glad you didn’t return it and give them your HPV.
To make it rain, kill a snake and turn it belly up. Poor snakes all over Appalachia must be dying this year.
To stop bleeding, say a specific verse in the Bible. According to the website “Mountain Superstitions,” the verse is Ezekiel 16:6: “Then I passed by and saw you kicking about in your blood, and as you lay there in your blood I said to you, ‘Live!’” Well, that’s nice, but the way you stop bleeding is to put pressure on the wound, and if absolutely necessary, make a tourniquet. I learned that in Girl Scouts!
If I’m bleeding profusely, say your Bible verse once, then get on with the pressure while calling an ambulance. If I die because you spent precious time repeating what Ezekiel said, I will haunt you so hard!
A knife placed under the bed during childbirth will ease the pain of labor. Maybe. It couldn’t hurt to try, I guess. But I’ll stick with an epidural, thank you.
If you drop a biscuit while taking them from the oven, you will have unwelcome company. Also, unwelcome dirt on your biscuit.
Look someone in the eye when you take your first sip of beer after a toast or you’ll have 10 years of bad sex. This is actually a German one taught to me by my German friends, and I intend to follow it because, by God, bad sex is something you don’t  mess with!
There are, of course, many more, but I don’t have the time or space to make light of every belief. And except for the one about bleeding, they don’t really hurt anyone to try it out — they just create more work and things to worry about in this hectic life.
So, you guys continue worrying about bad luck. I’ll just keep drinking beer.

Lisa Hornung is a writer, editor, news junkie and AP Style stickler living in Louisville, Ky. She’s also known to teach, root for the Georgia Bulldogs and ref soccer games.

If you're Roanoke businessman Mike Whiteside, it wasn't too far back. While casting lines with friends and friends of friends, he learned that the guy holding the pole beside him was a producer for the hit reality show John & Kate Plus Eight.
Between baiting hooks, the two got to talking about Mike's work. He reclaims architectural treasures--mantels, doors, floors, shutters, you name it--from old buildings that are about to be torn down. He sales his finds, along with business partner Robert Kulp, in the Roanoke shop Black Dog Salvage.
Now, skip ahead a few months. DIY Network has turned its cameras on this history-loving duo and their ragtag crew. They've shot hundreds of hours of footage and cut it into a new series aptly called Salvage Dawgs.
[caption id="attachment_6665" align="alignright" width="155"] A 12' tall statue is among the shop's quirkier finds.[/caption]
The show premiered in November and was an immediate hit. When I asked Christa Stephens, Blackdog's marketing manager about its impact, she laughed and said, "We've got a parking problem." Salvage Dawgs has sparked a swarm of new customers. "Folks are finding us who didn't know we were even here," she added.
When they arrive, people discover more than architectural treasures. Beyond the expected doors and shutters, Blackdog Salvage boasts a 14,000 square foot "marketplace." Stall after stall is filled with home and garden furnishings, both old and new; stained glass; gifts; and crafts from artisans across the region.
Salvage Dawgs hasn't just captured shoppers' attention. It has also turned heads at Knoxville-based Scripps Networks Interactive. After the show's initial success on DIY, its first four episodes are about to air on sister channel HGTV, which reaches about twice as many households.
You can catch the HGTV airings on January 3 and 10, 2013. They are currently slated to run at 8 and 8:30 ET both nights, but be sure to check your local listings.
If you have DYI, you can watch Salvage Dogs even sooner. Two episodes air tonight, and all five original episodes air New Years Day.
What's better than seeing the show?
Visiting Black Dog Salvage in person, of course. The warehouse-sized store is open Monday through Saturday, 9 AM - 5 PM. Think you'll make it out? If you've ever been, what are some of your favorite finds?
Tell us what you think of the shop and the show. Post a comment below.
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[caption id="attachment_6610" align="alignleft" width="310"] Katie MacIntosh developed "Hairy Bikers" for HISTORY.[/caption]
Have you ever told your more peculiar friends or relatives "you should have your own show"?
Well, here's your chance to help them out. Katie MacIntosh, casting director at the agency Mac Worldwide, is looking to build a new documentary series around interesting mountain folk. She needs people who march to their own Appalachian beat. Maybe they live way off the grid. Maybe they're part of a quirky family. Maybe they run an unusual business.
"Our goal is to show the diverse and unique world of Appalachia," Katie explained to me. "The pride and flavor of a people."
She went on to compare her concept to what she sees when she reads The Revivalist. "I love how you mentioned in your blog that Appalachians have their own language, their own food...that's exactly what we want to tap into. Those who almost live by their own code."
Now, we all know that there've been wide ranging portrayals of mountain people--everything from crazed hillbillies in movies like Deliverance to attempts at real authenticity in HISTORY's recent series Hatfields and McCoys.
[caption id="attachment_6616" align="alignright" width="141"] Katie MacIntosh, casting director at Mac Worldwide.[/caption]
When emailing with Katie, I pointed this out and explained that stereotypes about our region have a real impact. I asked, point blank, where she fell on this spectrum.
Here's how she responded--"I absolutely understand where you are coming from regarding the media...We are not out to reinforce any undue stereotypes. We respect the Appalachian region and its people and hope to be able to peel back the layers of the fascinating lives that many of the people lead."
As points of reference, she noted other shows she's developed. Her series Lovetown USA airs on The Oprah Winfrey Network. It unites the entire town of Kingsland, Georgia behind a single goal--to help eight singles find true love in their own backyard. She also developed Hairy Bikers for HISTORY, in which two food-obsessed, wooly-faced bikers take viewers on a backroads eating tour of America.
After watching a few clips from these hits, I was convinced. Sounds like Katie MacIntosh is good people. Which brings me back to my original question. Who in our extended mountain clan is entertaining enough to deserve their own show? Who would do the region proud and hold viewers' attention? Who should be put on national TV to represent Appalachia?
Share your ideas below, and be sure to include your email address. It won't be publicly visible, but it will allow Katie to contact you if she'd like to follow-up.

How do you pronounce Appalachia?
We don't need Merriam Webster to tell us that the word's third vowel can be a short A or a long A. If you've spent fifteen minutes in the mountains and fifteen minutes anywhere else, you know that.
You also know that this little difference in pronunciation can lead to some big arguments. I've seen folks launch into fiery diatribes to defend their version. Long A People say that Short A People don't know how to speak proper English and ought to get their snaggle-toothed selves on a bus, plane, or train and learn how the rest of the country talks. Short A People point out that the dictionary has both pronunciations and then call Long A People a bunch of vocal imperialists who wouldn't know the value of local identity if it smacked them in the behind.
From this point on, broken beer bottles or firearms are often involved. I can't say who comes out on top, because I usually make a quick retreat. But I bet you can tell me--who's right? And why on earth does this one little vowel matter so much?
Before you leave your comment, be sure to check out this clip from novelist Sharyn McCrumb. She is the author behind the Appalachian "Ballad" novels, including the New York Times best sellers The Ballad of Frankie,so she knows about dialect. Sharyn doesn't think this is just a case of tuh-mey-toh or tuh-mah-toh. She believes that Appalachia is one mighty important word and how you pronounce it tells the listener a lot about who you are.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=eGCqWrsAZ_o

Either you felt it or you heard about it. The area around Whitesburg, Kentucky was home to a 4.3 magnitude earthquake yesterday. It occurred at 12:08 p.m. EST.
While it wasn't huge, it was big enough to rattle pictures and knock over knick-knacks, not just in Kentucky but across the region. On The Revivalist's Facebook page, folks responded to the question "who felt the quake?!"

All this earth shaking set me to wondering--what's the risk of a more serious quake in the Appalachian South?
Turns out, we have one major fault line and several smaller ones in or near our area. The New Madrid fault is the largest of these. It runs just west of us and puts large population centers, such as Memphis and St. Louis, at risk for a bigger earthquake. Other small faults run right through the mountains, such as the one that caused yesterday's event.
According to a 2010 interview with Dr. Michael May, a geology professor at Western Kentucky University, we shouldn't be too concerned about the size of a quake in these parts. A major earthquake would probably be centered west of us, along the New Madrid. We should, however, consider our lack of preparedness for one. Earthquakes can reach 6.0 in the eastern United States, and Dr. May says that "some of our older buildings were not constructed with that seismic risk in mind."
After yesterday's quake, The Los Angeles Times noted that the biggest quake ever recorded in Kentucky was a 5.2 in 1980, which struck in Sharpsburg, a town in the eastern part of the state. "Property damage totaled more than $1 million during that temblor, with collapsed chimneys and cracks in the ground seen about 7 1/2 miles away from the epicenter."
All told, earthquakes, even local ones, can do damage, and other natural disasters are common in our mountains too--tornadoes, severe winter storms, even hurricanes as they sweep inland. There's plenty of reason to prepare for the worst. You can find excellent emergency preparedness tips on the American Red Cross Website and in its new suite of emergency apps.
Also, the below earthquake awareness video is a fun way to learn what to do the next time a quake hits our area. Produced by Lexington high school student Samuel Stucky, it won the 2012 Kentucky Emergency Management video contest.
So did you feel yesterday's quake? Do you feel prepared for a serious disaster? And if you could have any one item in your emergency preparedness kit, what would it be?
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This week my mama got a little sneaky. My birthday was Friday, and since she lives some 250 miles away, she called my partner Ryan to task him with a family tradition.

Growing up, my nose was coated in butter within an hour of waking up on October 26. Mama got me while I was still groggy and stumbling around our apartment with sleep in my eyes. She'd sneak up behind me with a generous dab of butter--usually Kroger's Cost Cutter brand. It would be balanced on her index finger, threatening to slide off and drop to the floor. She'd hug me from behind, and while she had me in her grip, she'd reach for my nose and smear me good.

As a kid, I thought it was funny. As a teen, I worried that the grease would cause a break out. These days, I'd pay good money to have Mama here, spreading a dollop of butter across my face. It was a sweet custom, but with family living far off, it's one that I never expect to be upheld.

Now, Ryan was great on my birthday. He bought me a vanilla/vanilla cake, which is a favorite; he gave me a card addressed from him and our dog; and he told me that we could go wherever I wanted for dinner. I opted for chinese delivery so I could eat in my PJs with my pup at my feet. The day came and went without a molecule of butter touching my nose, but I didn't know the difference.

I went to bed thinking that my birthday was a hit, and got up Saturday to run errands. That's when mama called. I was biking around town, and pulled over. I'd barely said hello before she asked, "Now, did Ryan give you something special?"

I told her about the dinner and described the front of the card--a pug wearing a birthday hat. She mmm-hmmed and awwwwed and waited, clearly expecting more. Since there was nothing left to tell, I started to change the subject, to ask about her cats, but she stopped me cold.

"Woah. Now wait. Is that all?"

Thinking she was about to come down on my partner's gift giving skills, I went on the defense. "That was plenty, Mama," I said, "The cake was really good and..."

"Well, that little turd!"

She interrupted me, and that's all it took. Maybe it was her tone, but I knew, right then, that this wasn't about what Ryan gave me. It was about something he forgot to give me.

I hustled home, biked like the wind to get to him first. I found Ryan petting the dog, oblivious to the storm that was brewing a state away. I touched his shoulder and, in all seriousness, advised him to change his telephone number.

"That woman's ready to skin you over the cellular lines," I told him, adding, "And I know her. She'll find a way to do it."

Poor thing. He didn't know whether to pee or go blind. He's from Illinois. He had no way of knowing that he'd interfered with a tradition that extends back to my childhood and God knows how much further. If miscellaneous websites are to be believed, birthday nose buttering originated in Scotland. The grease made unlucky forces slide right past, insuring a good year. Today, it's popular in a number of places settled by that nation's fiery people, including the Appalachians, Newfoundland, and other parts of the eastern Canada.

So Ryan stepped in it good. Mama's on the war path, and now we're searching for a safe house where he can hide. If you've got one, please let me know. Also, if you come from a family of nose butterers, by all means, keep that tradition alive.