Appalachian Word of the Week -- DISHRAG

Back home in eastern Kentucky, we didn't use a sponge or cloth to worsh (wash) our dirty dishes. We used a DISHRAG.

They weren't a pretty sight, either. It didn't take long for those iron skillets to do a job on your new DISHRAGS and rub them into mangled, threadbare, remnants of their previous selves. Hmmm... makes me think of how I feel at the end of the day.

I know my dad used a DISHRAG until hardly a thread remained attached to another. I reckon he considered it being frugal. I just know I lost a few fingernails that way. Iron skillets are rough on hands, too.

Stained and holey DISHRAG

I suppose that's one reason why I have a massive supply of DISHRAGS today. I prefer a fluffy DISHRAG that still looks like a DISHRAG instead of what you have to pull out of the drain so the water can flow properly.

Periodically, I go through my exorbitant supply of dishrags and pick out any with stains or holes. Stains can be impossible to remove. I take all the imperfect DISHRAGS I would be embarrassed if anyone saw in my kitchen and use them for truly disgusting jobs. Hopefully, my dad approves of my continued uses.

Ugly DISHRAGS are great for dusting, cleaning, and paint clean-up. They're also handy for dog or cat issues that need something stronger than a paper towel to scrub out of the carpet or off the sofa. For those incidents, you can simply toss them into the trash with no regret.

DISHRAGS are also helpful for baby or husband "oops" too. Again, toss it when the mess is cleaned up and never wonder if that was the DISHRAG you used for ...

A DISHRAG can save a life, too. When my brother was in junior high school, he received a chemistry set for Christmas. As he attempted to get a cork into an open-ended tube, Mom cautioned him, "You're gonna jab that thing right through your hand..."

And he did.

Blood spurted through the tube every time his heart beat. When he saw it, his heart started beating even faster. We could tell. Mom grabbed some DISHRAGS out of the kitchen drawer, yanked the tube from his palm, and used the DISHRAGS to put pressure on the artery. She practically dragged him to the car and Dad drove them to the doctor. He lived through it--thanks to Mom's quick thinking and the DISHRAGS.

She got a couple of new DISHRAGS after that, too. Even Dad didn't want to re-use the hero DISHRAGS.

DISHRAG

Did your family call them a DISHRAG? Or did you call it something else? What do you call them now?

I'd love to hear your unique story of how you or your family used DISHRAGS.

Appalachian Word of the Week -- CHIMLEE

Spring is showing itself in short bursts. Of course, we mustn't forget about our periods of winter that stick with us a bit longer. Here in Atlanta, we just had Dogwood Winter. I expect it will hit my Kentucky hometown in about two weeks.

Until all our winters are complete, we'll still need a bit of warmth in the house, especially at night.

One of the best ways to warm up our houses on a chilly day or night is to light a fire in the fireplace. I love being outside and seeing the smoke rise from the CHIMLEEs and breathe in the woodsmoke.

Yep, where I grew up, most of the folks referred to a chimney as a CHIMLEE.

At Christmas, Santa came down the CHIMLEE to deliver toys.

Santa couldn't fit in our CHIMLEE

I panicked the year I realized Santa wouldn't be able to come down our CHIMLEE because it was connected to our stove. He would end up in the fire or stuck in the stovepipe. I bawled. Mom tried to explain that Santa knew not to come down our CHIMLEE, but to enter through the door. What a relief to know we wouldn't be responsible for the demise of Santa--and all those gifts he would be bringing to put under my tree.

Of course, I made sure the front door was unlocked on Christmas Eve before I jumped into bed.

After a winter of coal fires, the CHIMLEE was full of coal dust and ash. When spring finally gave way to summer temperatures, Mom's job was to clean out the stove pipe and the CHIMLEE. We didn't have a CHIMLEE sweep to do it for us. It was Mom's job.

I thought it was hilarious to watch her. There was a lot of stuff in that CHIMLEE. It would pour out and cover her up with black dust, poofing all around her and making her look like a coal miner straight from a day at the mines. What a mess!

Good thing she had a vacuum cleaner to suck most of the gunk out of the CHIMLEE and off the floor, stove, window ledges, and anything nearby. It still took elbow grease to get that black smudge off of everything.

Sure glad I don't have to do that.

I love a stone CHIMLEE

CHIMLEEs aren't all the same. Ours was brick. I've seen others that were stone, covered in stucco, or even aluminum siding. Our house had only one CHIMLEE. Some houses have more. Those huge manor homes they show on British TV have too many CHIMLEEs to count. The thing is--the number of CHIMLEEs in your house determines how warm the other rooms in the house will be.

My bedroom was the furthest room from the CHIMLEE. That's why I had a heap of blankets and quilts on my bed. It was almost like sleeping outside on the porch. At least it was dry and the wind didn't howl through the walls.

Did your family call it a CHIMLEE? Do you? Do you remember having to clean out the CHIMLEE each spring?

I'd love to hear your stories.

Karen Lynn Nolan (Bell)

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 -- WORSH

Today is WORSH day at my house.

Thankfully, it's not as difficult as it used to be during my childhood.

Do you remember WORSH Day?

Remember that old wringer WORSHER that sat on the back porch? It was a handy convenience, according to my mother. She remembered the day when they had to use a scrub board to clean the clothes at the river. I wasn't sure if I believed her hard-luck story back then. Now, I realize she described common practice in her day in Appalachia. Our WORSHER had wringers -- two round stick-like things -- on the back, above the WORSHER. You stuck the soppy wet clothes between the rollers, clamped them down, and it fed them through, squeezing most of the water out and back into the tub. It came out a bit flat and stiff.

Of course, my cousin discovered the hard way that those wringers would squeeze an arm and shoulder flat, too. Luckily, my aunt Joyce managed to stop the wringers before they pulled his entire body through. He ended up in a cast for quite a while after his smart little trick. I doubt he got anywhere near a WORSHIN' machine again.

After the WORSH had all been run through the wringers (Hmmm. Wonder if that's where they got that term), and mom stacked it in a laundry basket, she went out in the backyard to hang the WORSH on the line.

Lift the pole to raise the WORSH

Our line sagged across the yard from one pole to another. In the middle of the line, we had a pole with a cut-out on top, that could be adjusted to lower the line or raise it. Since Mom was only five feet tall, she had to lower the line enough to reach and pin the WORSH to the line. Of course, the pole kept it high in the air when not in use. Otherwise, it could decapitate an unobservant runner. In the least, it would smart right good.

Did you have one of those little bags that hung on your clothesline with the clothespins inside?

When I was old enough to help hang the WORSH, my arms ached by the time I had it all pinned up. To keep the WORSH from dragging on the ground, we'd take that pole with the notch in it, lift up the line, and stab the pole into the ground. Certainly didn't want that clean WORSH to end up draggin' the ground--or being low enough for the dog to grab hold of it and run.

After the sunshine spent the day drying the WORSH as the breeze flapped the WORSH around on the line, it was time to unpin it and put it back in the basket. Oh, how heavenly to draw that sun-dried WORSH to your face and breathe it in. Nothing like it. Not even Snuggle dryer sheets.

ARNIN' the WORSH

WORSH day was not complete yet, though. Some laundry could be folded and put away, but a lot of it had to be ARNED. We didn't have steam ARNS in those days, so we had a different method for arnin' the wrinkles out of our WORSH.

Mom had a sprinkler head made of metal. It looked a lot like the end of a watering can, except it had cork around the neck of it and could be inserted into a bottle. We used a Coke bottle. That means it could have been Coke, RC Cola, Sprite, Squirt, or Nehi. We called everything Coke.

We filled the Coke bottle with water and stuck the sprinkler head into the top. Then we sprinkled the dried clothes, one piece at a time, folded and rolled them into a tight roll, and stuck them into a plastic bag with a zipper.

The next day, we ARNED the WORSH and hung it up in a closet or chifferobe.

Now, every WORSH day didn't fall on a warm, sunny day. For rainy, cold, or snowy days, we had a line set up in the house. It stretched from the front room to the kitchen. To keep it from sagging, a hook on the doorframe to each room held it high. Maneuvering through the house was a tad tricky on those days. We had to be careful carrying coal to the stove, or removing ashes from the firebox. We also had to keep the WORSH away from the stove. Mom constantly reminded us, "Don't mess up that WORSH or you'll be WORSHIN' it again yourself." Nobody wanted to re-worsh anything.

Do you remember WORSH day when you were little? Or littler? Are you as thankful for modern washers and dryers as I am? Guess I shouldn't complain anymore about WORSH day, should I?

Tell me your stories. I'd love to hear them. 

Appalachian Word of the Week -- APPALACHIA

This week's word is not a word few people outside of Appalachia recognize. It's about a word few non-Appalachians know how to pronounce correctly.

This week, I was honored to record an interview for Speak UP! radio, a division of Christian Devotions Ministry. The interviewer, a Yankee, mispronounced APPALACHIA. I gave him a trick to pronouncing it correctly. Hopefully, he will never forget.

Now, most of us from the mountains know how it's pronounced. Just in case, I'll give you the trick.

APPALACHIA is pronounced as if you were telling someone, "Say it right or I'll throw an APPLE AT CHA.

Chun Li, street fighter

Now, isn't that easy? Of course, if you're saying APPALACHIAN, all you have to think is APPLE AT CHUN. I don't know who CHUN is, but if it's Chun Li in this photo, it might take more than one apple to stop her. The walls look like more than apples have been thrown at her already.





Is this how you say APPALACHIA?

If not, how do you say it? And who told you that was the way to pronounce it?

I mentioned above that I did an interview. If you'd like to hear a bit about my rearing and my struggles with chronic illness, I put the link for the radio show below. You can listen anytime.

Tune in to Speak UP! radio for an interview with Karen Bell


If you listen, I'd love to have your feedback. Tell me about your adventures and challenges growing up in APPALACHIA.

Or, tell me about the joys you remember.

I love hearing from you.