Wednesday, October 26, 2016

Mountain Feist

This week’s Appalachian word is FEIST (MOUNTAIN FEIST) Rhymes with heist.




My first dog and best friend was a Mountain Feist/Beagle mix named Caspy. A feist is similar to a rat terrier, with longer legs. Their main function, besides being a best friend, is being a squirrel hunting dog.




I didn’t enjoy my dad’s hunting trips for squirrel. For one thing, skinned squirrels, without their fluffy tails, look like rats. I have never been able to force myself to eat a rat.





My father’s favorite part of the squirrel, though, was even worse. He loved to eat squirrel brains in scrambled eggs. I had to leave the house when those were cooking on the kitchen stove.

But, I digress. 

A feist is a fabulous dog. Honorable, pleasant, cuddly, and smart. I spent a lot of time on the front porch swing with Caspy. I had to make sure I didn’t swing too fast, though. She didn’t like wild rides and would jump out and run to the yard, after giving me a judgmental glare.

Like most hillbilly dogs during those days, she was an outside dog. Her domain was limited to the fenced in front yard. However, when we went next door to visit Granny, she pulled one over on Mom. Remember, I said feists are smart. She would jump up onto the screen door and lock her claws onto the wood cross-frame and then back up. When the door was open enough, she dropped and ran inside.

When we got back home, she sat on the front steps and licked her lips as we passed by. It didn’t take long to discover why she seemed so proud of herself. Trash littered the entire kitchen.

During the years when I needed some loving on, Caspy was always there for me. That is when I learned the meaning of unconditional love. Hmmm. Maybe I need to find another friend to share my home. Maybe…


Mountain Feist

This week’s Appalachian word is FEIST (MOUNTAIN FEIST) Rhymes with heist.




My first dog and best friend was a Mountain Feist/Beagle mix named Caspy. A feist is similar to a rat terrier, with longer legs. Their main function, besides being a best friend, is being a squirrel hunting dog.




I didn’t enjoy my dad’s hunting trips for squirrel. For one thing, skinned squirrels, without their fluffy tails, look like rats. I have never been able to force myself to eat a rat.





My father’s favorite part of the squirrel, though, was even worse. He loved to eat squirrel brains in scrambled eggs. I had to leave the house when those were cooking on the kitchen stove.

But, I digress. 

A feist is a fabulous dog. Honorable, pleasant, cuddly, and smart. I spent a lot of time on the front porch swing with Caspy. I had to make sure I didn’t swing too fast, though. She didn’t like wild rides and would jump out and run to the yard, after giving me a judgmental glare.

Like most hillbilly dogs during those days, she was an outside dog. Her domain was limited to the fenced in front yard. However, when we went next door to visit Granny, she pulled one over on Mom. Remember, I said feists are smart. She would jump up onto the screen door and lock her claws onto the wood cross-frame and then back up. When the door was open enough, she dropped and ran inside.

When we got back home, she sat on the front steps and licked her lips as we passed by. It didn’t take long to discover why she seemed so proud of herself. Trash littered the entire kitchen.

During the years when I needed some loving on, Caspy was always there for me. That is when I learned the meaning of unconditional love. Hmmm. Maybe I need to find another friend to share my home. Maybe…


Wednesday, October 19, 2016

Appalachian Language - Holler


Photo Courtesy of Corinne Milwee Farley

I’m a hillbilly. I spent the first days of my life in a coal mining camp in Harlan County, Kentucky. After my folks moved into a small rental house in Loyall, Kentucky, on Daddy’s days off from his Greyhound driving schedule, we either visited Granny at Chevrolet Mining Camp or my dad’s mother on top of Pine Mountain.

Life was simple, but hard, back then. A water pump outside provided watering needs. Down a little path stood an outhouse for “those” needs. Chickens roamed freely to provide meat and eggs. Everyone worked the garden so there would be vegetables year round. It was hard work, but nobody complained about it; instead, we all did what was necessary to survive.

When I grew up and went away to college, I learned how the outside world judged me by where I came from. I worked hard to rid myself of the telltale accent of my people. From time to time, people laughed at the words I used from my “language.” It was okay to have a Spanish, British, Italian, German, French, or even Indian accent, but many people considered a hillbilly accent meant we were all ignorant.

Far from it. Hillbilly is a language, just like all the rest. We have our brilliant minds, our creative geniuses, and our not-so-brilliant exceptions.

So, in this blog, I plan to translate some of my language so you will have a better understanding of my culture and can communicate more effectively with my fabulous culture of the Appalachian (Apple-AT-chun) people.

HOLLER


Deep in the mountains of southeastern Kentucky where I was reared, fog snuggled the mountains at night and late into the morning before the heat of the sun burned it off or changed it into dew to nurture the flora and fauna of the dense forests.

The last place to lose the fog each day is the first word I’m going to define for you. Holler.

Photo Courtesy of Corinne Milwee Farley


A holler (or hollow) is the low place between mountains. If you look at the photos above, everywhere there is a wrinkle in the mountains you will generally find a holler. Generally, the people settled into hollers because they were more accessible. Generally, a holler contains a gentler incline and is easier to clear enough land to build a house, plant a garden, and have some chickens. Also, an underwater spring or creek usually flows in the deepest grooves of the holler.

Photo Courtesy of Corinne Milwee Farley

My mother always told me that the further up the holler people live, the thicker their accent. She also told me that they called them hollers because when mothers needed their family to come home, they’d go out on the porch and “holler” up the holler. The sound echoed between the mountains on either side and the sound carried further. Not sure if that’s true, but it makes for a good story. Living in Appalachia is all about the story.

Photo Courtesy of Tammy Hyatt

Photo Courtesy of Tammy Hyatt

Photo Courtesy of Tammy Hyatt

Photo Courtesy of Corinne Milwee Farley

Photo Courtesy of Corinne Milwee Farley





Appalachian Language - Holler


Photo Courtesy of Corinne Milwee Farley

I’m a hillbilly. I spent the first days of my life in a coal mining camp in Harlan County, Kentucky. After my folks moved into a small rental house in Loyall, Kentucky, on Daddy’s days off from his Greyhound driving schedule, we either visited Granny at Chevrolet Mining Camp or my dad’s mother on top of Pine Mountain.

Life was simple, but hard, back then. A water pump outside provided watering needs. Down a little path stood an outhouse for “those” needs. Chickens roamed freely to provide meat and eggs. Everyone worked the garden so there would be vegetables year round. It was hard work, but nobody complained about it; instead, we all did what was necessary to survive.

When I grew up and went away to college, I learned how the outside world judged me by where I came from. I worked hard to rid myself of the telltale accent of my people. From time to time, people laughed at the words I used from my “language.” It was okay to have a Spanish, British, Italian, German, French, or even Indian accent, but many people considered a hillbilly accent meant we were all ignorant.

Far from it. Hillbilly is a language, just like all the rest. We have our brilliant minds, our creative geniuses, and our not-so-brilliant exceptions.

So, in this blog, I plan to translate some of my language so you will have a better understanding of my culture and can communicate more effectively with my fabulous culture of the Appalachian (Apple-AT-chun) people.

HOLLER


Deep in the mountains of southeastern Kentucky where I was reared, fog snuggled the mountains at night and late into the morning before the heat of the sun burned it off or changed it into dew to nurture the flora and fauna of the dense forests.

The last place to lose the fog each day is the first word I’m going to define for you. Holler.

Photo Courtesy of Corinne Milwee Farley


A holler (or hollow) is the low place between mountains. If you look at the photos above, everywhere there is a wrinkle in the mountains you will generally find a holler. Generally, the people settled into hollers because they were more accessible. Generally, a holler contains a gentler incline and is easier to clear enough land to build a house, plant a garden, and have some chickens. Also, an underwater spring or creek usually flows in the deepest grooves of the holler.

Photo Courtesy of Corinne Milwee Farley

My mother always told me that the further up the holler people live, the thicker their accent. She also told me that they called them hollers because when mothers needed their family to come home, they’d go out on the porch and “holler” up the holler. The sound echoed between the mountains on either side and the sound carried further. Not sure if that’s true, but it makes for a good story. Living in Appalachia is all about the story.

Photo Courtesy of Tammy Hyatt

Photo Courtesy of Tammy Hyatt

Photo Courtesy of Tammy Hyatt

Photo Courtesy of Corinne Milwee Farley

Photo Courtesy of Corinne Milwee Farley





Appalachian Language - Holler


Photo Courtesy of Corinne Milwee Farley

I’m a hillbilly. I spent the first days of my life in a coal mining camp in Harlan County, Kentucky. After my folks moved into a small rental house in Loyall, Kentucky, we either visited Granny at Chevrolet Mining Camp or my dad’s mother on top of Pine Mountain on Daddy’s days off from his Greyhound driving schedule.

Life was simple, but hard, back then. A water pump outside provided watering needs. Down a little path stood an outhouse for “those” needs. Chickens roamed freely to provide meat and eggs. Everyone worked the garden so there would be vegetables year round. It was hard work, but nobody complained about it; instead, we all did what was necessary to survive.

When I grew up and went away to college, I learned how the outside world judged me by where I came from. I worked hard to rid myself of the telltale accent of my people. From time to time, people laughed at the words I used from my “language.” It was okay to have a Spanish, British, Italian, German, French, or even Indian accent, but too many people considered a hillbilly accent meant we were all ignorant.

Far from it. Hillbilly is a language, just like all the rest. We have our brilliant minds, our creative geniuses, and our not-so-brilliant exceptions.

So, in this blog, I plan to translate some of my language so you will have a better understanding of and can communicate more effectively with my fabulous culture of the Appalachian (Apple-AT-chun) people.

HOLLER


Deep in the mountains of southeastern Kentucky where I was reared, fog snuggled the mountains at night and late into the morning before the heat of the sun burned it off or changed it into dew to nurture the flora and fauna of the dense forests.

The last place to lose the fog each day is the first word I’m going to define for you. Holler.

Photo Courtesy of Corinne Milwee Farley


A holler (or hollow) is the low place between mountains. If you look at the photos above, everywhere there is a wrinkle in the mountains you will find a holler. Basically, the people settled into hollers because they were more accessible. A holler contains a gentler incline and is easier to clear enough land to build a house, plant a garden, and have some chickens. Also, an underwater spring or creek usually flows in the deepest grooves of the holler.

Photo Courtesy of Corinne Milwee Farley

My mother always told me that the further up the holler people live, the thicker their accent. She also told me that they called them hollers because when mothers needed their family to come home, they’d go out on the porch and “holler” up the holler. The sound echoed between the mountains on either side and the sound carried further. Not sure if that’s true, but it makes for a good story. Living in Appalachia is all about the story.

Photo Courtesy of Tammy Hyatt

Photo Courtesy of Tammy Hyatt

Photo Courtesy of Tammy Hyatt

Photo Courtesy of Corinne Milwee Farley

Photo Courtesy of Corinne Milwee Farley