Mountain Memories -- Trick-or-Treat

Blustery winds lift fallen leaves from the ground and swirl them around like haints let loose. Screams and squeals of delight mingle as hoards of children race from door-to-door to claim the best selection of candy from each willing neighborhood resident. Painted faces, costumes ranging from simple to gaudy, barely block the chill of a late autumn night.

Tonight the goal is to fill a poke or pillowcase with enough sugary treats to provide a high for days -- or send some running to the toilet as their bodies revolt from the over-indulgence of treats. Red-cheeked children ring doorbells or bang on the doors. When the door opens, a chorus of "TRICK-OR-TREAT" begs for the treat.

Trick-or-Treat soap

But beware -- for there are some ghosts and ghoulies who carry a bar of soap in their pocket.

If the treat is not forth-coming or doesn't meet expectations, that bar of soap may be used to mark the windows of the house with disappointed graffiti.

Oh, the days of TRICK-OR-TREAT.

I remember well the days when my friends and I dressed in whatever costume we could pull together from our parents' or siblings' closets on Halloween. Some fortunate kids had a mother who lived to create a costume that gave the appearance of being more thought out and creative. If you couldn't afford the appropriate fabric, though, there was always crepe paper.

My mother made several costumes for my TRICK-OR-TREAT jaunts out of crepe paper. She sewed it into a costume -- usually a witch. Crepe paper was cheap and sewable. It was also a bit stiff and made rustling noises as I ran. My hope was that it would last through the night without disintegrating.

I prayed it wouldn't rain because then I would come home with a disappearing costume (I always wore something underneath, just in case). Also, the rain caused the dye in the paper to run. My body would be streaked with dye that took some scrubbing to get off.

I think my mother made my costume so she could also make one for herself and join my brother and me in TRICK-OR-TREATING. She was only five feet tall and shorter than some of my friends. Everyone thought she was a kid, too. I swear she got more candy than the rest of us.

My favorite candy corn

Candy. How we all loved it. My favorite candy was candy corn. Half the fun was switching candy with a friend -- or Mom. She didn't like candy corn and I didn't like chocolate as a child.

Halloween wasn't just about TRICK-OR-TREAT though. It was fall parties at school (more candy), decorating with Indian corn and corn stalks, pumpkins carved and mangled into distorted faces and lit with a wax candle. I still recall the smell of a pumpkin's innards as I scooped out the seeds and pulp. Not necessarily a pleasant odor, but distinct.

Passing by a graveyard while trick-or-treating

Some parts of TRICK-OR-TREAT raised the goosebumps. Passing the funeral home made us run faster. But going by a graveyard terrified us. I don't know why we considered them scarier on that one night than any other, but that night seemed to make us all believe in our innocent child hearts that evil just might exist. Unfortunately, as adults, we now believe in evil is evident every day of the year.

One of my favorite TRICK-OR-TREAT seasonal treats was the orange wax whistles.

Almost every schoolkid used his or her allowance to purchase one at the little store across the street from the school. I'm sure the teachers were more than ready for wax whistle season to end.

We all started out playing "songs" on our whistles, attempting to play the loudest, longest, and most unique tunes. After we tired of blowing, we bit into the tasty orange wax chambers, now filled with slobber, and chewed them like gum. I loved the flavor.

TRICK-OR-TREAT has changed today. Most children don store-bought costumes that represent movie or cartoon characters. No creativity is allowed. You must have the pre-conceived representation of an imaginary character in someone else's imagination -- and pay them money for the privilege to wear that costume.

Pokes and pillowcases have been replaced with molded plastic buckets or plastic bags.

Even the racing from house to house is frowned upon -- for safety reasons. Most children are packed into the family SUV and taken to a TRUNK-OR-TREAT instead of a TRICK-OR-TREAT.

I miss the old days. I miss the excitement of being on the hunt, out in nature, on my own -- except for the company of my friends -- and Mom, of course. But on that night, she wasn't Mom. She was a fellow witch, ghoulie, or clown racing from house to house and yelling, "TRICK-OR-TREAT!"

Do you remember the days of simple TRICK-OR-TREAT? Do you miss it? I'd love to hear your stories of TRICK-OR-TREAT.

Mountain Memories -- Mountain Sandbox

A lot of folks who didn't grow up in the mountains of eastern Kentucky and the surrounding areas during my era, don't realize how creative we had to be to provide fun activities for the children.

One thing I looked forward to each summer was a trip into the mountains of Harlan County to find sandstone. The hills are rich with all kinds of rocks and minerals. Coal, shale, granite, limestone, and sandstone -- among others.

Some may find it strange that we have sandstone in our mountains, so far from an ocean. However, we have often been told our mountains were once underwater. I tend to believe them -- since I gathered pockets full of sea creature fossils from the tops of those mountains. One of my favorite places to collect fossils was at the airport. I remember one of my classes from school went up to the airport for the day and several of us spent most of our time climbing around the cleared mountaintop searching for rocks, minerals, and fossils.

#fossils in Appalachia

Unfortunately, I lost my fossil collection in the flood of 1977.

But back to the sandstone. Each late spring or early summer, Dad loaded the back of the car with empty boxes and we took a drive up Laden Trail onto Pine Mountain, near where he grew up. He knew exactly where to find the best deposits of sandstone.

Sandstone, after weathering, crumbles into a massive pit of sand. If the supply of sand had dwindled, the consistency of the stone allowed us to scrape new sand with the blade of a pick-ax. I enjoyed scraping new sand even if there was plenty to choose from. Remember how I told you about our search for creative outlets in the mountains?

Dad parked the car in a pull-off and we unloaded the boxes. The walk wasn't far. With boxes ready and Dad with a shovel, we began the task of gathering sand into the boxes. When they were as full as Daddy could carry, he put down the shovel and lugged the boxes of sand to the back of the car.

While he worked on shoveling and carrying the sand, I played in the piles left behind.

Quartz pebbles in the sand

I especially loved the sand at this particular sandstone location. It was mixed with thousands of tiny quartz pebbles. My love of sparkly rocks had already become well-established, so quartz pebbles made the sand even more special for me.

With the trunk loaded down with sand, Daddy maneuvered our rear-heavy car around the hairpin graveled curves of Laden Trail and back home. He immediately began the arduous task of unloading the boxes of sand and emptying them into the home-made sandbox he had built.

I spent many joyful hours playing in the sand. My dog, Caspy, a mountain feist, enjoyed playing with me. She rolled around in the sand and dug holes as I built sandcastles lined with quartz pebbles. Of course, I didn't have plastic shovels and buckets to form the sand. I used margarine cups, spoons, and jelly glasses.

I miss those days of simple pleasures.

Did you ever go into the mountains to gather sand? How did you wile away your summer days of leisure? I'd love to hear your stories.

Appalachian Word of the Week -- NANNER

It seems, from a couple of comments I've received lately, that some of my dear readers are not reading the stories before commenting. Please make sure you're not one of them. Also, if you are insulted by our wonderful Appalachian heritage -- including our history and dialect -- then don't bother reading. Just allow those of us who love being from Appalachia to share the love and respect for our people. We're about love, not hate. No feuds allowed here.

Is the word NANNER spoken in your house? Do you know what it is?

Although we usually used the word banana instead, NANNER did sometimes slip out when my mom and dad talked about them. My grandmother used it often. My brother, Larry, used it all the time. Of course, he often used certain words and terms just to be different. I think it was his attempt at being humorous -- like the time he answered the phone and said, "President speakin'." It happened to be a call for me from the leader of the American Legion. His face drained of color and he started stuttering. I may tell you another time why the American Legion was calling a high school girl.

NANNERS were a staple in our house.

I often took a peanut butter and NANNER sandwich to school for lunch. I loved the fragrance of warmed NANNER, peanut butter, and Bunny bread as it cooked inside the classroom (We had no air conditioning in those days). Ahhh. I can smell it now.

NANNER split

Of course, NANNERS weren't only for sandwiches -- or sammiches as most of us called them. A special warm-weather treat was a NANNER split. The best of everything sweet. I loved the ice cream, chocolate syrup, butterscotch syrup, coconut, and peanuts sprinkled over the whipped cream. I mustn't forget the cherries on top. The healthiest thing in it was the NANNER itself.

My brother enjoyed slicing a NANNER for his bowl of cereal each morning. His huge bowl of cereal. I think he ate three boxes of corn flakes a week.

I prefer my NANNERS dark yellow, but without dark spots. I like them firm and sweet. If they're too green, they make you pucker and if they're too ripe, they are mushy and remind me of squash. Like Goldilocks, I like my NANNER just right.

Green NANNERS

Just right NANNER

Too ripe NANNER

Way too ripe NANNER (squash NANNER)

It does seem a bit strange that a tropical fruit was so popular in the mountains of Kentucky. They had to travel a long way to get to us. The trip was worth it if you ask me.

Did you call them NANNERS in your house? If not, what did you call them? And what is the best way you liked to eat them -- then and now? Also, what degree of ripeness do you prefer? Green, yellow, spotted, or nearly black?

I love to hear your stories.

Appalachian Word of the Week -- MADDER THAN A WET HEN

Have you ever met a wet hen?

How about a hen that's wet because you just dunked into a bucket of cold water?

If you have, then you know exactly how mad a wet hen can be.

For those of you who have never experienced a wet hen, you may be wondering why in the world someone would torture a hen by dunking her into cold water. Obviously, she doesn't like it.

There is a reason. Unfortunately, it doesn't always work the way intended.

Brooding hen

Sometimes a hen gets it set in her mind that she needs to sit on her eggs until they hatch. That's called brooding and she is considered broody. Whether it's hormones or some automatic response that kicks in to the bird's tiny brain, it is a problem.

It may be a problem because there's no rooster and the eggs are not fertile -- making her effort to hatch the eggs futile.

Another problem is that she gets really testy when she's broody. Even with the hens who would normally lay eggs in the coop with her. Breakfast can get a bit lean when the hens don't lay their quota.

When the chicken keeper realizes the hen won't come out of the broodiness on her own, a dunking in cold water may be in order to shock her out of her broodiness. Some say it is to cool off the skin where she was sitting on the eggs and reverse the compulsion to keep the eggs warm.

Sometimes this works. Sometimes it doesn't.

Either way, it definitely produces the MADDER THAN A WET HEN response.

The hen will probably go nuts squawking, kicking, pecking, and destroying the nearest human being around.

Have you heard the term "flogging?" Well, a wet hen can be like flogging on steroids.

My mom had a hen that became broody. She was determined to break her from her broodiness and make life in the backyard pleasant again. Mom dragged a washtub into the yard and filled it up with water. Creeping up to the nesting site, my petite mother grabbed the hen between her hands and carried her to the tub of water.

As soon as the hen's feet hit that water, she went into MAD HEN mode. Mom held on tight and was nearly as wet as the hen as she was dragged behind the chicken. I thought they might both take flight. Finally, the hen wrestled herself out of Mom's grasp and started flogging her. I've never heard a chicken make so much racket. The rest of the chickens scattered and left Mom to fend for herself.

Okay, so I left her to fend for herself, too. I hid inside the house behind a screen door. Mom finally made it to the house and got inside the door, doing a bit of kicking and flogging herself to keep the hen outside.

Watch out for wet hens that remember you

Thankfully, I've never seen anyone MADDER THAN THAT WET HEN. But I've seen a few rivals. Mad humans tend to make a crowd scatter for safety, too.

For your information -- that hen never forgot what Mom did to her that day. They may have a brain the size of a pea, but that pea remembers. Every time Mom stepped into the backyard, here she came, squawking and flogging.

Mom had the last laugh, though. The hen made a mighty fine Sunday dinner.

Have you ever known anyone who was MADDER THAN A WET HEN? Have you been MADDER THAN A WET HEN yourself? I'd love to hear your stories.

Appalachian Word of the Week -- ACTIN' UGLY

How many times have you been accused of ACTIN' UGLY? Hopefully, you were only guilty of ACTIN' UGLY when you were a kid -- not last week.

For those of you who have no clue what I'm talking about, mothers, especially, pointed out those occasions of ACTIN' UGLY. Sometimes they employed a pinch or a smack. You were really in trouble, though, if you were ordered to fetch a switch from the bush outside.

ACTIN' UGLY usually involves behavior similar to a spoiled brat. Whining, crying, screwing up your face, hitting someone close-by, throwing things, stomping your feet, refusing to follow commands from those in authority, and making a lot of noise.

A lot of the time, such behavior is influenced by hunger, being over-tired, or being fed up with someone else's behavior. Of course, ACTIN' UGLY can be a direct effect of being spoiled rotten. A boy who's ACTIN' UGLY was often called a "rotter."ACTIN' UGLY is the normal behavior of someone with a mean streak in them. We've all known a few of those for whom ACTIN' UGLY is a way of life. For others, it visits us rarely and is regretted when the instigating factor is resolved. Or we experience the stings from the tip of a switch.

Actin' ugly or a rotter?

In this age, switches are rarely used, so ACTIN' UGLY is becoming a way of life for way too many people -- youth and adults. One of the worst offenses is bullying. The unfortunate victims of UGLY behavior suffer severely. Some develop a lack of self-confidence or self-worth, and some bear resentment or even hatred toward anyone who ACTS UGLY to them.

ACTIN' UGLY today can be quieter than in our youth. One of the main methods is through social media. I have even experienced people ACTIN' UGLY with their comments about my beloved Appalachian heritage on these blog posts.

People also use social media to blast their hatred to anyone who thinks differently than they do. Religion, sports, politics, the value of kale on the planet. They also use social media to belittle and intimidate those who are different from them.

We must realize, however, that the most common way people are ACTIN' UGLY is their silence as they hold a cell phone up between us as a wall to prevent person-to-person communication. I see it often when I eat out. Several people sit at a table staring at their cell phones instead of getting to know each other and enjoy talking and laughing. It's an insult. We should care more about our friends and family than a screen on a phone.

Texting to some else instead of talking to each other

The most dangerous way to ACT UGLY is texting while you drive. Here in Georgia, it is now illegal to have your phone in your hand while driving. It hasn't stopped the people from still ACTIN' UGLY and take everyone's lives at risk just so they can text when they should be watching where they're going. A new law hasn't stopped the texting and driving at all. I continue to see it as I drive around town.

Certainly increases my prayer life.

So, have you been ACTIN' UGLY? Or have you been the victim of someone ACTIN' UGLY?

I'm interested in hearing your stories. Just don't name names.

And make sure you don't ACT UGLY with me because I stepped on your UGLY toes!

Be kind to your friends and family. And potential friends. Don't be ACTIN' UGLY. Go take a nap. Or share a bowl of ice cream. Relationships are important.

Appalachian Word of the Week -- MOONPIE

As I wandered the aisles of the grocery store the other day, I came across one of my favorite childhood treats --  MOONPIE. I had to have one. Alas, they come in boxes now. I got them anyway. It took all my strength not to scarf down more than one each day. 

Of course, that is probably because, just like everything else from our childhood, they are much smaller now. At least these are much smaller. They're called minis and have only 110 calories. The box also stated that they are made of "real sugar." Nothing artificial in my MOONPIE.

RC Cola

As I slowly nibbled on my MOONPIE, savoring every bite and remembering the good old days, I had a hankering for what usually accompanied a MOONPIE.

Yep, RC Cola and a bag of peanuts. Now for you folks who have never enjoyed an RC and peanuts, I'll explain. You open a small bag of salted peanuts (cost 5 cents back then) and pour them into the bottle of RC (a tall skinny glass bottle). It bubbled a bit and then you swigged on it until the peanuts mixed with the RC and you got a peanut with your swig.

Peanuts for the RC Cola

Ah, yes! A bite of MOONPIE, a swig of RC and peanuts. That was the high life.

Several years ago, my family moved to Chattanooga, Tennessee. That's when I discovered the MOONPIE was created there. The MOONPIE bakery is still creating those luscious cookies, filled with marshmallow, and dipped in chocolate. They even have a MOONPIE store! 

Did you grow up eating MOONPIE? Did you drink RC with peanuts?

Do you eat MOONPIE today?

I'd love to hear about your memories.

Appalachian Words of the Week -- GIMME SOME SUGAR

My uncle Junior's idea of GIMME SOME SUGAR was to clamp his fingers on either side of my knee and squeeze. When he hit the nerves in just the right spot, it made me scream--just as I thought I might pass out from the pain. I tried to hide from Uncle Junior.

For most folks, though, GIMME SOME SUGAR meant they wanted a sweet little kiss on the cheek. I didn't mind when my mom, dad, or grandmothers requested sugar. They didn't gross me out or hurt me in the process.

I did have a few relatives though who didn't understand the rules of GIMME SOME SUGAR.

GIMME SOME SUGAR

Aunt Georgie lived in Detroit. Thankfully, that meant she rarely came back home for a visit. I liked Aunt Georgie. She was a sweet person and I loved to listen to her half Detroit/half hillbilly accent.

Unfortunately, her greeting of GIMME SOME SUGAR instilled dread in my young heart. Her sugar was so intense, it felt like she would bore a hole right through my cheeks. I looked in the mirror later to see if my cheeks had bruises.

Then there are the relatives, usually older men, who smelled of cigarette smoke or had bacca juice oozing from their lips. They gave me brown sugar. Yuck.

The most common victims of GIMME SOME SUGAR were babies. I felt sorry for them. My sister always cried. Of course, she cried about most things. Everybody seemed to get a thrill out of covering babies with sugar.

Although the pain of the sugar could be intense, the worse part was the remnant of the attack -- red lip marks all over your face! That red lipstick especially was nearly impossible to remove. It had to wear off. Funny how most women who loved to GIMME SOME SUGAR wore bright red lipstick.

Hoping he wants to GIMME SOME SUGAR

As we reached our teen years, we developed a whole new attitude about the idea of GIMME SOME SUGAR. Suddenly, we had a list of people we wished would GIMME SOME SUGAR.

Did your family use the term GIMME SOME SUGAR? Do you still use it today? Do you smother your grandbabies in sugar every time you see them?

In today's political climate, we are inclined to use great caution before practicing GIMME SOME SUGAR--especially without giving the potential recipient the choice to opt out. Perhaps it is more appropriate to use words to express love or adoration to people outside our family circle.

For me, I still like to hug necks and get sugar from special people in my life. As I get older, though, my list of people I want to GIMME SOME SUGAR has shrunk.

How about you? Do you love to GIMME SOME SUGAR when you greet family and friends?

I love to hear your stories.

Appalachian Word of the Week -- LIGHT BREAD

I can smell it now. Warm LIGHT BREAD, fresh out of the oven. Nothing like it.

Growing up in southeastern Kentucky, we didn't have any of those fancy kinds of bread you can get from the bakery or grocery store now. We only had LIGHT BREAD. Most people refer to it as white bread, but we called it LIGHT BREAD.

The LIGHT BREAD of choice in our family was Bunny Bread.

The Bible says we can't live by bread alone, so we found all kinds of things to put on our LIGHT BREAD.

For breakfast, I loved eating cinnamon toast. It was made by putting chunks of butter in the corners and one in the center, sprinkling sugar on the entire slice, and then topping it with cinnamon. Mom put the slices on a baking sheet and stuck it in the oven until the butter melted and the edges turned golden brown. Yum. Sometimes, she substituted brown sugar for the white sugar. The brown sugar became crunchy as it melted on the toast. Either way, it was a great way to start my day.

LIGHT BREAD played a major role in my lunch menu for the first several years of my school life. I either packed a fried baloney sandwich with mustard or a peanut butter and banana sandwich into my little brown poke or metal lunch box. During the warmer months, without any air conditioning in the school, my sandwich warmed up as it waited in the back of the room. When I opened the lid, the aroma of warmed banana and peanut butter, wrapped in LIGHT BREAD, overwhelmed my senses. I breathed it in long and hard before I devoured it.

Fresh-baked LIGHT BREAD

Nothing topped our visits to the bakery, though. We were blessed to have a bread factory near our house. Sometimes, on Dad's day off, he gathered us all into the car and took us to the bakery in Baxter, Kentucky. Daddy took me inside with him while Mom sat in the car, holding a stick of butter.

We watched the bread make its way from the oven, down a conveyer belt, to where we waited. A worker dressed in white grabbed a loaf of still-unsliced and piping hot bread as it passed and slipped it into a paper poke. Daddy paid his twenty-five cents and handed the hot LIGHT BREAD to me.

Back in the car, Mom ripped the bread open and put the butter inside. As it melted, she tore off chunks and passed them around. We sat there in the parking lot and devoured the entire loaf. Ah! Nothing like it.

LIGHT BREAD, the staple of our diet

LIGHT BREAD filled many roles in our diet. Daddy mixed up honey and butter and slathered it on his LIGHT BREAD. He also used it to dunk in his glass of buttermilk. Toasted was preferred for homemade apple butter and jams and jellies.

In summer, we made 'mater sammiches (tomato sandwiches) with mayo. Meat was not necessary. When we had hot dogs, though, LIGHT BREAD became our bun.

Hot out of the oven, out of the bag, or toasted, LIGHT BREAD served as a staple for our diet. Too bad we are encouraged to avoid bread these days. Especially LIGHT BREAD. Sad, too, that we should now miss out on the pleasure and joy from having it in our daily lives.

Did you call it LIGHT BREAD? Do you still choose LIGHT BREAD over the "healthier" varieties available today? Do you eat bread at all?

I'd love to hear your stories.

Appalachian Word of the Week -- DECORATION DAY

We just observed Memorial Day in America. The emphasis tends to be for all military personnel who sacrificed their lives for our freedom. I've always loved the small American flags dancing in the winds on the hillsides of a graveyard. I can't help but shed a tear. I love America and our heroes.

Do you remember, though, when it wasn't called Memorial Day? We called it DECORATION DAY.

We didn't, however, only decorate the graves of our military heroes. We celebrated the lives of all of our ancestors by placing flowers on their gravesites.

Decoration Day flowers

When I was young -- much younger -- we didn't have the fancy cloth flowers that looked almost real. We had plastic flowers for DECORATION DAY. Plastic flowers that looked ... well ... plastic. Even the colors were far from realistic in shades of bright red, blue, orange, purple, yellow, and white.

Every year on DECORATION DAY, people flocked to the grocery store, florist, hardware store, dime store, or roadside stand to pick out arrangements, some in wreaths, crosses, or bouquets. Large families covered the gravesite with their plastic flowers.

One of my favorite pastimes on DECORATION DAY was to drive through Resthaven Cemetery in Loyall and look at all the beautiful colors covering the hillsides. We parked the car and took a closer look. I remember running all over and oohing and ahhing at the biggest and prettiest displays of remembrance.

Decoration Day flowers for a hero

Of course, I made special notice of the ones with a little flag stuck in the ground by the headstone or marker. It saddened me when a grave had no decoration at all.

I'm not physically able to climb the hills and place flowers on the graves myself anymore. Especially not my old family graveyard up on Pine Mountain. My cousin, Carol, still climbs the steep hill and takes care of the task for all our Nolan and Shell ancestors buried there.

I have to laugh as she tells about the experience each year, though. It's so steep and slick up there, she usually has at least one slip-and-fall during the process. At least she remembers our family on my behalf. Guess I shouldn't laugh.

Still today, I enjoy driving by a graveyard and noting the beautiful flower arrangements and flags on display. The only thing that has changed about DECORATION DAY is the name of the holiday and that the flowers are now more realistic than ever before. Some you need to touch to determine if they are real or fake.

Looking at flowers on Decoration Day

Do you place flowers or flags on graves for DECORATION DAY? Did you or do you still call it DECORATION DAY? I'd love to hear your stories.

Appalachian Word of the Week -- LYE-MEE DISEASE

It's that time of year again when creepy-crawlies and flying menaces drive us to distraction.

Although there's quite a selection of bugs I could have chosen this week, I decided to discuss the tick. Ticks strike fear in the hearts of most people who find themselves needing to be outside the house.

Is it any wonder? They are, after all, kin to spiders (one of my most hated critters). Add to that the number of diseases they carry and their uncanny ability to jump through the air and land on any host who has blood pumping through his or her body. Of course, it grosses me out just thinking about them burrowing their heads into my flesh and sucking out my blood.

Since this is the Appalachian Word of the Week, though, I picked the tick so I could talk to you about what my father called LYE-MEE DISEASE. Yes, most people call it Lyme Disease. However, this gives me the opportunity to explain why a lot of Appalachian people have strange ways of pronouncing some words.

Logging truck in Harlan County

Daddy had to quit school in eighth grade after his father died. He took a job with a logging company on Pine Mountain and ended up driving a logging truck across Laden Trail. The trail is a one-lane graveled road that winds through the mountains. S-curves and meet-yourself-in-the-middle curves are common. No guardrails and washed out areas make it even more dangerous.Yes, Daddy was only a child. And, yes, it terrifies me to think about doing that as an adult, let alone as a child.

All this to say, Daddy got all of his education after he dropped out of school from reading, not from being taught by a teacher who knew how to pronounce words.

Daddy was a brilliant man. But when you heard him speak, it was hard to get past all the mispronounced words and realize how smart he was.

That's the way it was with a lot of Appalachians. They had to quit school to help support their families. Fathers died in the mines, at war, or from illness. Without an opportunity to continue in school, many people did their learning from the newspaper, books from the library, or any way they could.

Although Daddy spent most of his off-time working the garden or hunting in the mountains, he checked himself carefully to make sure he didn't have a tick on him. That LYE-MEE DISEASE scared him more than coming across a rattlesnake or bear.

His fear spilled over to me. One day, as I bathed my little sister, I found a tick embedded in her scalp. Let me tell you, I screamed so loudly my mom came running. My sister commenced to crying.

In those days, we didn't worry about the head of the tick so much. We took tweezers and yanked it out then flushed it. Mom and I stood there staring at my sister as she cried. I suppose we thought the LYE-MEE DISEASE would activate immediately and cause her to have convulsions or something. She just cried.

Engorged tick

Thankfully, none of us ever contracted LYE-MEE DISEASE. Or any of the other diseases you can get from a tick. Sadly, a lot of other people did contract LYE-MEE DISEASE and have suffered the rest of their lives from its effects. We had no idea we should take a round of antibiotics to counteract the infection in those days. Some people never realized they had been bitten by a tick until it was too late. It had already gorged itself and fell off.

The purpose of this post is to point out a truth about Appalachian people. Most of us are intelligent and many are considered gifted. However, when arrogant, uppity college-educated folk hear our unique and interesting pronunciations, they falsely assume it means Appalachians are ignorant. Not so. The Appalachian people are intelligent, artistic, creative, hard-working, and innovative. And well-read.

If you're not from Appalachia, visit the area and sit down for a spell and chat. Listen to the abundant knowledge they can pass on to you. They deserve respect.

Did you or someone in your family call it LYE-MEE DISEASE? Or did you call it Lyme Disease? Do you have a tick story? Do you have a story about a relative who has interesting pronunciations for words?

I love hearing your stories.

Appalachian Word of the Week -- FILLIN' STATION

Today, most people refer to them as a gas station. Back in my day in Harlan County, we called them a service station or a FILLIN' STATION.

A FILLIN' STATION sold gas and very little else. If you were lucky, you could pick up a candy bar or gum on the oil-slimed counter. Most customers didn't come inside, though. They sat in their car as an attendant pumped your gas, checked your oil, and cleaned your windshield for you. Then you paid in cash.

Mechanic at FILLIN' STATION

Most FILLIN' STATIONS also had a mechanic on duty. My dad took care of all his mechanic needs by himself. But, if you were on the road and needed a tire, some oil, or a new fan belt, the FILLIN' STATION mechanic would come in handy. I know I used one a few times as I traveled back in the 70s. They also had their own tow truck in case you got stranded on the side of the road--or in a parking lot when I forgot to turn my lights off.

I heard tell there was another major product the FILLIN' STATION provided in Harlan County. Since we were dry--that means liquor was not legally available for sale--some FILLIN' STATIONS provided a secret stash of bootlegged whiskey or moonshine. At least that's what I heard.

These days, gas stations provide all kinds of goods. The station is more like a small market. I mentioned this last week when I talked about TRADIN'. They also have hot food available. Most have pizza, hot dogs or sausages, soup, and fried chicken. Beer and harder liquors are still outlawed for gas stations.

FILLIN' STATIONS have always attracted bad behavior for some reason. Aside from being held up, they're also the scene of disagreeable sorts who would rather duke it out than behave in a civil manner.

Cat fight at the FILLIN' STATION

Just today I experienced an all-out catfight at one of our local gas stations.

As I innocently pumped my own gas (not like the FILLIN' STATION), a car screeched into the pumping area. A woman threw open her door and ran for the woman at the pump across from me.

Before I knew what was happening, the newcomer threw the pumper onto the ground and started wailing into her with both fists (woman to woman). Much language I can't repeat here ensued.

Those two grabbed each other by the hair extensions and dug into each other with their sculpted talons (nails). They rolled all over that parking lot, screeching like banshees.

The rest of us grabbed our phones and some called 911 while others started videoing. Sorry, I'm not one of the videographers.

Not a single man tried to help the recipient of the newcomer's anger. They stood there and taped it --  to show their friends, I guess.

Finally, the two women from inside the gas station came out and tried to separate them. When they mentioned the security cameras and that the cops had been called (the police station is right down the road), the attacker released her victim and hightailed it to her car. She flew out of that parking lot, leaving rubber to identify her path.

The two workers helped the victim off the ground as both parties released a few more streams of cuss words at each other, followed by a few threats.

At least the employees were still offering "service" from the FILLIN' STATION days. They even finished pumping the lady's gas for her.

Did you call it a FILLIN' STATION? Do you remember anything I've forgotten? What do you call them today?

I love hearing your stories.

Appalachian Word of the Week -- TRADIN'

Is your larder bare? Well, you may need to do what I have to do today. Go TRADIN'.

If you grew up in Harlan County, like I did, you probably shopped at the A&P most Saturdays.

A favorite childhood memory, though, is getting to go to Pennington Gap, Virginia, with my granny and my step-pappaw to Cas Walker's. It was an all-day trip across the mountains and through those winding roads. What an adventure to ride in the back seat of their red Oldsmobile before seatbelts were invented. I slid across those vinyl seats every time we rounded one of the many curves. It was like the rides at the Tennessee State Fair every TRADIN' day.

TRADIN' at a small neighborhood general store.

If we only needed a few items to tide us over, we'd walk up the road to Joe and Anna Martha's little roadside grocery store. It ended up being my job to do the trip to do a quick bit of TRADIN'. I didn't mind when the weather was good. Besides, I usually got a treat for my effort. My favorite treat was a Brown Cow. Remember those?

Joe and Anna Martha were like friends to our family. I roamed the aisles of the store to see all the goodies available and chose the ones on Mom's list. They didn't have any buggies. I had to carry each item to the massive counter in the front and stack them together in one spot -- in case another shopper needed space for their TRADIN', too.

After I collected everything on the list, which might include a Squirt pop for Mom from the old Coca Cola cooler at the front, Anna Martha added up the tab and recorded it in her little book. Daddy paid her next time he got his paycheck.

Miner's Market in Lynch, Kentucky

Today, most of those general stores are gone. Actually, our A&P and Cas Walker's are gone, too. But, there's always an alternative in the mountains. These days, if you need to do a little TRADIN' in a hurry, you can pick up a few things at your local gas station. You can even get dinner or supper there, too.

When I did research for my novel (coming out in November), I spent some time in Lynch, Kentucky. There weren't many options for TRADIN' there, but I did discover Miner's Market gas, TRADIN', and cafe. Home-cooked food served. They only had a couple of tables inside, but the food was great.

I loved TRADIN' day. It meant I had lots of options for food and Mom cooked better meals. I never enjoyed regular breakfast foods, like cereal. Instead, I got up before school and fixed a bowl of Campbell's Chicken Noodle soup or a fried baloney sandwich. I miss those days.

In elementary school, I took my lunch in a tin lunchbox with a thermos. My thermos usually had chicken noodle soup. I also packed a peanut butter and banana sandwich. It wouldn't ruin on those hot days in my classroom. We didn't have any air conditioning at our school. I did love the fragrance of a warmed peanut butter and banana sandwich on Bunny bread. Ah ... takes me back.

Did you go TRADIN' when you were a kid? Where did you shop? Do you have fond memories of those trips to the A&P or Cas Walker's?

I'd love to hear your stories about going TRADIN'.

Appalachian Word of the Week -- TAKE TO MY/YOUR/THE BED

Several of my friends are feeling the negative effects of spring. Sneezing, drainage, sore throats, red eyes, upset tummies, and headaches. One friend made a comment the other day that brought back memories of my childhood in the mountains.

She said, "I feel so awful I'm gonna TAKE TO MY BED."

Did you ever get up in the morning and decide you'd rather stay home from school and watch TV, play outside, or read a book? That's when you decided to put on the "I'm sicker'n a dog and can't go to school today" act.

I never tried that tactic -- except maybe a time or two when I wasn't ready for a big project or a test and needed extra time.

Take to your bed or couch

My brother and sister tried to pull a fast one on Mom often. But Mom was too smart for them. She pointed her finger in the direction of their rooms and said, "If you're that sick, then TAKE TO YOUR BED." They tried to argue they would feel better on the couch, watching TV, but she wouldn't have it.

"If you're too sick for school, you're too sick for TV. TAKE TO YOUR BED."

Now that I'm older, a lot older, I have days when I wish I could TAKE TO MY BED and forget about all the things I need to do. I know I have to really be sick to give in and TAKE TO MY BED, though.

Take to your bed when you're pooped

Of course, being sick is not the only reason to TAKE TO YOUR BED. Sometimes we get so pooped from chores and tasks on our To Do List, that we need to TAKE TO THE BED to get a bit of rest.

There are other reasons, too. Not MY reasons. But maybe one of yours. On those days, you might not make it far enough to TAKE TO YOUR BED. You may TAKE TO THE SOFA. Or TAKE TO THE FLOOR.

Was TAKE TO YOUR BED used in your family? Do you still TAKE TO THE BED at certain times?

Tell me about it. I'd love to hear your stories.

Appalachian Word of the Week -- RINCH

Did your mama ever remind you to RINCH a piece of fruit before you ate it?

Do you know what it means? Or why she said it?

Since we grew a lot of our vegetables and fruits on the hill behind our house when I lived in Harlan County, I heard that word of warning often. I always wondered if my mom thought I was a bit deft and couldn't remember to RINCH the dirt off before I ate something fresh from the garden or whether she thought I was downright stupid and had to be reminded each time. Like when she reminded me to lock my door every, single, time we got in or out of the car.

In the mountains, we were instructed to RINCH everything.

Yes, I mean RINSE.

Pick a tomato without RINCHIN'

I never told my mom how many times I picked a ripe tomato and ate it on the spot without RINCHING it first. I swiped it on my shirt and hoped that would be good enough.

If she had known, she'd probably tell me that's exactly why I've had health problems. Wonder if she was right.

Carrots and onions were a different story, though. They had chunks of dirt hanging onto them. Thankfully, we had a spicket (spigot) outside for a quick RINCH.

RINCH your dish first

When I went to the kitchen to get a drink of water, Mom always reminded me to RINCH the glass first. I don't know if she thought dust had settled in it on the shelf or something else. Maybe it was because coal dust constantly filled the air and settled on everything. Or it could be the fear of a six-legged or eight-legged critter that had danced through the dishes and left germs behind from all those little feet.

Either way, I RINCH a dish even today before I use it for food or drink. Just in case.

RINCH the summer off your face

When we came inside after a hot summer day of playing and adventures, Mom always told us to RINCH the summer off our faces before dinner. Of course, she didn't tell us to RINCH our hands. That operation had to include some soap in the process.

It always felt good to RINCH off after a hot day. Get rid of the grime and salty taste of the sweat. Made you feel all clean and ready to start again.

Baptizing RINCHES you clean

Almost like getting baptized in a cool river. You go in all dirty from your life and come out RINCHED clean to start a new life with Jesus. Halleluah!


What things did you always have to RINCH when you were a kid? What things do you RINCH now?

I'd love to hear your stories.

Appalachian Words of the Week -- Mountain Medicine

Since before Christmas, I have been one of the many victims of the flu. I imagine a lot of you have suffered right along with me.

As I struggled to find anything to rush the healing process -- and survive -- I willingly tried a pharmacy of products. Nothing really helped. I found myself going back to the days of my childhood in the mountains and trying some of the MOUNTAIN MEDICINE my parents gave me when I got sick.

Instead of running out to the doctor for penicillin, about the only thing they prescribed back then, my parents utilized the MOUNTAIN MEDICINES they grew up receiving from their parents.

Do you remember these?

SALTWATER GARGLES for a sore throat -- As soon as a tickle appeared in my throat, Mom grabbed a glass of warm water and added some salt for me to gargle. I suppose it helped. It taught me how to gargle without swallowing, at least.

VICKS SALVE for coughing, sneezing, and sniffling -- Oh, how I remember getting that stuff plastered all over my chest, back, neck, and into my nose. Bleh! I hated it. But I do remember being able to sleep some after using it. I used it every night when my flu was its worst.

Cola Syrup for upset stomach

COLA SYRUP for upset stomach -- Daddy crushed some ice, put it in a big spoon, and poured pure cola syrup over it. I then swallowed it. At least it was sweet and felt good going down. Not sure if it kept me from writhing in pain from a stomach ache or stopped me from throwing up.

SWEET OIL -- Remember earaches and the cure? Warmed sweet oil, poured into your ear and topped off with a wad of cotton stuck in your ear to keep it inside. That stuff felt really weird as Mom poured it in. It felt like a bug in my ear. I usually fought her off -- briefly. She always won.

Slippery Elm Bark Tea

SLIPPERY ELM BARK TEA -- Daddy went into the mountains and collected some slippery elm bark. The inside of the bark was rather slimy. He cut up the strips of bark with his Case pocket knife and made a tea out of the bark, strained it, and added honey. It tasted a bit earthy, but it did soothe the throat. Unfortunately, you can't drink it 24 hours a day.

I have since learned you can purchase slippery elm bark tea bags at the grocery store or health food store. The one I use is called Throat Coat. I keep some on hand for those times when my throat starts to tickle. It is used regularly by a lot of professional singers.

Potato Soup-Mountain Penicillin

POTATO SOUP FOR ALL THAT AILS YOU -- Any time I felt a bit off, Mom brought out a big pot and started peeling potatoes and onions. When I couldn't keep anything else down, I could usually eat potato soup. It was gentle on an irritated tummy. I suppose it's the Mountain version of the Jewish Penicillin (chicken soup).

Still today, when I don't feel quite right, I yearn for a pot of potato soup.

And yes, I made a bit pot while I was sick. I even had a bowl for lunch today, with a bit of cheese and bacon added. Guess that means I'm getting better.

Special Brew Mountain Medicine

SPECIAL BREW -- When nothing else has worked, it's time for the special brew. Yep. White Lightnin' medicine will heal anything. Of course, even if it doesn't heal you, you won't care after you take a few doses!

What MOUNTAIN MEDICINE did your parents use to heal you when you were fellin' poorly?

I hope you're fit as a fiddle now and I'd love to hear your stories.