Appalachian Dreamers

Appalachian people are survivors.

We have a history of challenging life circumstances, hardships, and struggle. But amidst that hardscrabble life, we learn important lessons. We learn to cope, to overcome, to look at the bright side. We learn not to merely survive but to thrive.

Some survive through endless hard work. Elbow grease, my dad called it. Some survive through artistic expression. I remember the days of watching men gather at the Courthouse in Harlan and sit on the stone wall whittling with their Case pocketknives. Many gathered to play their Appalachian musical instruments and sing. Others painted pictures of God's beauty of the mountains or of their dreams about where they'd like to be someday. Mountain folks are definitely a creative bunch.

And then there are those who shared their gift of words -- either in storytelling or writing them down for others to read. I remember reading the words and songs of John Jacob Niles, who visited our school when I was in fourth grade. What an inspiration to me.

Do you have a story to tell?

From the time I could read, I knew I was meant to write. I spent many a day swinging in the old front porch swing with my Mountain Feist dog, writing. Those stories allowed me to verbalize what I didn't dare say aloud. My poems praised God, the creator of those beautiful mountains. My dreams of what I hoped and dreamed about for my future were given flight right in that swing. I imagined a world completely different from my own -- a world where my place in it mattered.

One of my dreams was that someday I would do my mountain family and friends proud by becoming a published author. I wanted to share the blessings of growing up in the mountains. The hard stuff and the joys. The tough, determined people who overcame the painful things in life. The love and support offered freely by neighbors who were barely hanging on at times, too. A people who clung to their faith, unashamed of their calloused knees.

Years of excuses, a lot of years, passed before I decided I'd better get busy if I planned to live my dream before my passing. One day, a germ of an idea made it's way to the page and Coreen and Sarah's story bloomed.


On Friday, November 30, 2018, my first novel, set in the coalfields of eastern Kentucky, releases.

Above the Fog by Karen Lynn Nolan

Today, I'm taking a departure from my regular blog posts to tell you a bit about Above the Fog.

Several of my friends and family have their names as characters. That doesn't mean they are anything like the character the name was given to. So, if your name appears, I'm not writing about you, I'm writing in honor of our friendship and special relationship.

You may also recognize a few landmarks -- like Moo Cow Curve and a treck up Laden Trail on Pine Mountain. I also included Mrs. Boggs, the school nurse who gave us shots, the yeast rolls that tantalized me every morning at Loyall School, and Jack's Drive-In's doolies. Also, I had to include the monster flood of 1977 as a character. Even the destruction plays a role in Coreen and Sarah's journey.

The story is purely fictional, though, with a few truths sprinkled among the fiction. I never actually experienced the type of life my friends did in this story.

This is the description from the back cover:

Growing up in a coal mining camp is difficult enough. But, when Coreen Shell’s abusive father makes a promise for her thirteenth birthday that could destroy what’s left of her life, she resorts a desperate prayer to a God she’s not sure exists. The next day, a flood washes through the coal camp, like a backhanded answer to her prayer. Coreen, her mother, and her crippled grandmother next door must climb the mountain to find refuge in a nearby church. Then, news of a murder changes everything, in a way Coreen never imagined.

Now the real question is: Will Coreen and her damaged, dysfunctional family conquer all the lies, secrets, hardship, and hatred … or be destroyed by them?

In case you would like to know more about me, I included a photo of me and my bio.

Karen Lynn Nolan Bio

In case you ever wondered why I started this blog -- it's because my non-Appalachian friends didn't understand our dialect and way of life. Through Diamonds in My Coal Bucket, non-Appalachians can be ready for Above the Fog. And we mountain people can look back and remember the good days.

If you decide you would like to read my book, there's a link to it in the right column, at the very top. Just click on the photo of Above the Fog. 

If you do decide to read it, I would appreciate a review on Amazon and/or Goodreads. Word of mouth is a fabulous way to share the news, so sharing this post would also be appreciated.

Never give up on your dreams -- no matter what

Do you have a book, a song, or another artistic idea inside you that yearns to take flight? Don't give up on your dreams. I waited a lot of years to fulfill my dream. It's never too late.

What's your dream?

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 -- 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 -- 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 -- 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 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.

Appalachian Word of the Week -- SHAKER

You may call it something else, but in my house we called it the SHAKER.

What's a SHAKER? It's a piece of metal (usually iron) that came with whichever stove your family used to heat your house. We had one that fit the pot-bellied stove when we first moved to Loyall in 1957. In about 1962, Daddy bought a Stokermatic and got rid of the pot-bellied style. The Stoker, as we called it, had it own special SHAKER.

When you build a coal fire in a stove, you naturally have ashes as the coal burns. The ashes don't start out as ashes--they start out as chunks of glowing ash. You have to get rid of the burned up coal, so the fire can continue to burn and keep the area around the stove warm.

Notice I said the area around the stove. We had one stove in our house and believe me, the warmth did not spread out to fill the other rooms. The only fairly toasty spot was the sofa the was placed directly in front of the stove with a pathway of about five feet between them. We huddled on that sofa most of the winter.

Clothesline in the living room for winter

We also had a clothesline hung in that room. That's where we dried the laundry (worsh) in the winter. Or when it rained on washday (worshday) any time of the year.

When the ash gathered in the firebox, Mom got the SHAKER and opened the bottom door to the stove. She'd hook the SHAKER into a special slot and shake that SHAKER back and forth until ash came through the grate and landed in the bottom of the ash box. Her face turned red and she grunted like those wrestlers on the TV. When sparks started dropping, she knew it was time to stop.

I guess that's why they call it a grate. You grate the ash like you would grate cheese or nutmeg.

I think my mom enjoyed using that SHAKER. It was a way to work out all her frustrations. We all have to have some way to de-stress, I guess. Later in life, when she worked in Receiving at Belks, she would take all the burnt-out fluorescent bulbs to the burn box and throw them inside, smashing them to smithereens.

Diamonds in my coal bucket

After she used the SHAKER, she got her little shovel and shoveled the ashes into a coal bucket. I don't have ashes in my coal bucket. I have coal and diamonds in my coal bucket (wink). Then Mom took the bucket of steaming ash outside, down the steps, and into the driveway to dump them. Did I tell you my mom was a mere five-foot tall and petite? She was strong.

Those ashes helped to keep our gravel driveway from developing deep mudholes. It was a lot cheaper than buying gravel.

I loved watching her dump the ash when there was snow on the ground. They mixed with the cold snow and made steam rise up from the driveway.

Did you grow up with a coal stove? Who had to use the SHAKER in your house? Did you call it a SHAKER or something else?

I'd love to hear your stories.

Appalachian Word of the Week - Traditions

Traditions. New Year’s Day seems to be filled with them. When asked why people repeat family traditions on the eve or day of a new year, most of my friends tell me it’s because “that’s what my family did.”

But why? Is it because we feel all warm and fuzzy about memories of our childhood and simpler times? Is it because we feel closer to those we love merely because we repeat a tradition? Or do we believe there is some hidden truth in those traditions that compels us to repeat them “just in case” they are relevant to the success or failure of the coming year?

I’ll look at my traditions and see if I can figure it out.

Sunday night, I plan to stay up until the ball drops in Times Square. It's a tradition. I even attended those "dropping of the ball zoos" when I lived in New York City.  I stood in the massive crowd of loud, drugged, drunk, revelers in freezing weather (sometimes in snow) just to watch a giant apple drop in Times Square. Yes, I lived there before the gorgeous high-tech Waterford crystal ball made its first appearance. As an introvert, the crowd was not an easy challenge for me. The pick-pockets and gropers didn’t make it any easier. But, it was a tradition. I admit I can't remember any time when staying up to watch the ball drop added anything to my new year--except that I woke up later the next morning.

Apparently, it is not an important tradition for everyone. Several of my friends admit they go to bed long before the excitement of a ball dropping and people screaming begins. Since I live alone, I sit by myself at midnight, cheering in the new year alone while thousands of New Yorkers scream and kiss beneath the Waterford ball, freezing their tails off. At least I'm warm as I toast my glass of non-alcoholic grape juice.

But there are more traditions than fighting to stay awake long enough to see a ball (or apple) drop at midnight.

Black-eyed peas for New Year's Day

The food. My mother told me from childhood that we must eat black-eyed peas on New Year’s Day. When I complained that I hated them, she pointed out that the more you eat, the more money you’ll have during the year. Then she told me it was up to me to eat as many as possible so that the family wouldn’t end up in the Poor House. How’s that for incentive? It was good enough to guilt me into forcing beans down my throat until I thought I might puke them up.

Being from the mountains of southeastern Kentucky, at least we didn’t have to eat sauerkraut (yuck!) or collard greens swimming in vinegar (double yuck!) like some of my Southern friends. I guess I should feel fortunate I only had to eat black-eyed peas. Of course, my favorite part of it was the fatback used for seasoning.

These days, I still find myself cooking black-eyed peas every New Year's Day. Instead of fatback, though, I use the ham bone from Christmas dinner. I have developed a taste for the peas now. It helped when I turned from the dried peas to fresh ones. So, I spend the day cooking them. 

These days, though, I tend to add a couple of potential traditions (it's never too late to start a new one, is it?) to my New Year's Day meal.

Fried frog legs--a new tradition?

One year, I thought it would be good to JUMP INTO THE NEW YEAR with frog legs. Dad used to go frog gigging often when I was a child. I loved watching my mom fry them in the old black skillet as they jumped around in the skillet. You know they taste like chicken, don't you? Well, I think it's a good tradition to encourage us to jump into the new year full of excitement, expectation, and hope.

Fried green tomatoes

My next new tradition is my favorite vegetable--fried green tomatoes. Okay, so they are technically a fruit. They are green and I will consider them a vegetable for the sake of tradition. They will take the place of the greens most southerners have on January 1st. 

So, why do I celebrate traditions? Perhaps there is something inside me that believes we must continue traditions as our way of not giving up on the promises of our youth. Perhaps it is because the traditions connect me with family members who have already passed. Maybe it’s because traditions are what make me feel connected with my family--past and present. Or, perhaps, traditions are what give us hope that the unknown future of the coming year doesn’t matter as much as the unity, support, and love of our families. Just maybe, traditions solidify hope. 

Whatever the reason, it gives me an excuse to make a big deal out of tradition and eat food I don't usually eat. That makes it special.

Some of you may think you must repeat traditions because your dead relatives will haunt you for the whole year if you don't. I rather doubt that one, but it needed to be said. And some of you may believe you will have bad luck if you don't eat certain foods on a certain day. You are the same people who cringe when you step on a crack (break your mother's back), break a mirror, or panic when a black cat walks across your path. Enough said about that ...

No matter why we honor tradition, there's no harm in it. And it might, just might, draw us closer together with our family, even if only for one day of the year. One thing you can be sure about--tradition will outlive those resolutions you make.

Happy New Year to you and your family. May you enjoy your traditions, old and new, as you celebrate the hope and promises the new year offers.

What traditions did you grow up following? Do you know why? Do you have any new ones you've added to your own family's menu? I'd love to hear your stories.

Mountain Memories -- Ice on the Window Pane

This week, instead of doing an Appalachian Word of the Week, I'm going to share with you a Mountain Memory. I hope you like the change and you will share your Mountain Memories with us, too.

I live in the South now, but this past week vividly brought back memories of my childhood in Harlan County, Kentucky. We had a snowstorm that dropped up to eleven inches of gorgeous wet snow on a normally snowless area of the country.

Unexpected snow delighted me for over 24 hours straight, piling up on the trees and bushes and weighing down the branches until they nearly touched the ground. I had never seen so much snow this far south. It was beautiful and exciting--that is--until the juice went off and the temperatures plummeted inside my unprepared house.

We piled quilts on our bed to stay warm

Memories of winter in the mountains quickly returned as I piled more blankets on my bed, donned my furry robe and wool socks, and attempted to keep my nose warm enough to sleep through the night.

Do you remember those frigid nights in the mountains when all we had to heat the house was a stove in the living room, fueled by coal? Some families were fortunate enough to have fireplaces in their bedrooms. We weren't. It was like sleeping outdoors.

Coal stove

We warmed ourselves in front of the stove until our skinned tingled and then ran into our room, where the heat could not reach, and slid under the heap of blankets and quilts. We could barely move under the weight of all those blankets.

In the morning, we awoke to the dread of having to slide out from under the covers. We ran back to the stove to warm ourselves enough to take care of toileting and getting dressed for the day.

Ice on the windows

Sunlight filtered into the house through ice-encrusted window panes. On the inside! I loved seeing the designs each morning and how intricate or thick the ice formed. It reminded me of the fancy glass in a church, all bumpy and wavy. Those windows were our thermometer of how cold it was outside.

Breakfast usually consisted of hot oatmeal with raisins. Mom figured it would warm us and keep us strong as we walked nearly a mile to school. In high school, my favorite breakfast became Chicken Noodle soup. At least we survived.

I had my doubts about survival last week during our surprise storm. I sat huddled under blankets during the day, trying to keep warm enough to survive. It made me wish I had the old pot-bellied stove to warm me. Of course, the one big difference was that I had no juice to run my heat or the microwave. I couldn't even fix my morning Keurig hot tea! And taking a shower was out of the question. I've become soft in the South.

Winter was a game of survival in the mountains. And survive we did. As I look back on that life, I'm amazed at one thing most of all. We didn't spend our days sitting in front of the fire, doing nothing but trying to stay warm. We went about life.

Yes, it was tough. Walking to school and back is beyond my comprehension now. Also, having to go outside to gather coal and lug it inside to stoke the fire would challenge me beyond my ability today. But, my mother did it every day. She also stayed up late on an exceptionally cold night to keep the fire going and making sure it didn't overheat and burn the house down. I remember many times when the stovepipe glowed red. Scary.

There are good memories of winter, too. A heavy snow meant fun for a kid. We stayed home from school and played outside, building forts and having snowball fights. Living on the side of a mountain, a favorite pastime was sliding down on a saucer sled, if you were lucky, or any other item that would slide across the snow. A friend's family used an old car hood.

Building a snowman

It seemed to be a requirement to build a snowman, no matter how much snow fell. We rolled the balls around the yard, getting them as big as we could manage to keep rolling them. Unfortunately, having dogs meant we usually had tainted snowmen. We would grab some clean snow and pack it on top of any "dirty" snow.

That dirty snow is why we were extremely careful when we collected snow for our most favorite winter activity--making snowcream. It's also why we collected that snow first thing before we did anything that could possibly add undesirable ingredients to our snowcream.

That concoction of fresh white snow, sugar, cream and vanilla flavoring is one of my favorite memories. We filled a bowl with a huge scoop and sat in front of the stove to eat it. Even with the stove, our fingers and faces numbed. It was worth it.

Do you have memories of winter in the mountains? What was the hardest part of it for you? What's one of your favorite activities when it was cold enough to freeze your snot?

I love hearing your stories.

Appalachian Word of the Week -- CHIFFEROBE

I'm sure you've heard of The Lion, the Witch, and the Wardrobe, but have you heard of a CHIFFEROBE?

A CHIFFEROBE was commonplace in the homes of Appalachia as I grew up. I remember them being a place of wonder and mystery. They had a key, you see. Only the possessor of that key was allowed to open the CHIFFEROBE.

Oh, the surmises my brain came up with about what was inside. What secrets could possibly be hidden behind that locked door?

I remember the one Granny had. I couldn't imagine what a granny would hide in that CHIFFEROBE. Unfortunately, I never discovered its secrets. I can only imagine.

Did she come from royalty and her jewed crown was hidden inside? Were there amazing ball gowns hidden away from a former life? Had she hidden a stash of money in there?

Key to CHIFFEROBE

It nearly drove me crazy as I stared into the mirror on the door and wondered what lived on the other side of that keyhole. And where did she hide that key?

Daddy had a CHIFFEROBE, too. Many times, I tugged on the door, hoping he had forgotten to lock it. No such luck.

What in the world would a man hide inside a locked CHIFFEROBE? What could he possibly hold so dear that it required a lock to keep everyone else out?

After the huge flood of 1977 swallowed our house and destroyed almost every possession we owned, I finally got to see the inside of Daddy's CHIFFEROBE.

Disappointment. Behind one door, he had a rod hanging with most of his clothes. Apparently, Mom took up all the room in the big closet with her clothes. On the floor of the CHIFFEROBE, he had his shoes stored.

Behind the clothes, in the corners, he had his guns--shotguns and rifles--for hunting. Of course, what I remember most is the day he came into the backyard while Mom was reclining in the sun and shot two HUGE black snakes out of the tree above her. She wasn't happy about that.

The other door of the CHIFFEROBE hid more interesting items. Instead of a rod for clothes, it had shelves and drawers. Papers, family photos, a few books, all his notebooks detailing every penny he ever spent and all family data (births, deaths, full names, some genealogy). I am fortunate enough to have one of those notebooks now. On the bottom shelf, he had some Mason jars of homemade wine he made from the grapes that grew wild on Laden Trail on Pine Mountain where he grew up. I had never seen my dad take a single drink of his wine.

The drawer on the bottom contained all kinds of trinkets and items he deemed necessary to save. Loose coins, screws and bolts, and things I didn't recognize. I did recognize his Greyhound safety awards, though. Each pin had a Greyhound dog (their logo) on it, the year he earned it, and a diamond, ruby, or sapphire under the dog's tummy. A few years after the flood, Mom took those pins to a jeweler and had the stones removed and reset into rings. I got one of the rings. It's my most prized possession.

The CHIFFEROBE Daddy built

When I was born, Daddy built a kid-sized version of a CHIFFEROBE just for me. He crafted it himself, in the apartment he and Mom lived in at the time, with a handsaw, sandpaper, and a hammer.

My CHIFFEROBE survived the flood and then a fire in my first apartment. It has lived in Kentucky, New York City, Ohio, Michigan, Maryland, South Carolina, Tennessee, and now in Georgia. It bears a few scars and smoke stains, but it still has most of its original glass knobs Daddy placed on it over 60 years ago. I still use my CHIFFEROBE every day.

Did you grow up with a CHIFFEROBE in your house? Do you have one now?

I'd love to hear your stories.

*Special thanks to Kay Ball for the top photo of her CHIFFEROBE.

Appalachian Word of the Week -- AIRISH

You head out the door, thinking it is as warm as it was yesterday, and a cold blast of air whirls around you. Little daggers of ice stab you in the face and through the weave of your clothes. You shiver as chill bumps pop out all over you.

You decide to go back inside and grab a jacket -- and maybe a hat, scarf, and gloves. Then, maybe not, since you're a mountain man or woman and tough enough to handle a bit of AIRISH weather.

Many times while living in the mountains, I experienced some of those AIRISH mornings. They tend to arrive during the span of time between seasons. Of course, most of our winters were AIRISH all day long.

I live further south now, but I still experience a tad of AIRISH chill when I head out early or after dark during the in-between seasons. It's the wind that gets you and sends you scrambling indoors for a jacket.

Warm fire on an AIRISH morning

Even though we can usually ignore it and hurry to our destination, it helps to have a warm fire waiting inside when we arrive. Or a steaming cup of coffee or hot chocolate.

We crash through the front door, exclaiming in sounds that resemble a "brrrrr" and shake off the AIRISH chill like a dog shakes off rain. Then we head for the source of heat in the room as we hunch our shoulders and rub our hands together to warm up.

Someone in the room asks, "What'n the world's wrong with you?"

You reply, "Whoo-ee. It's a bit AIRISH out there."

Do you use the term AIRISH for chilly, windy weather? Did your family?

My dad used it often. He was a tough mountain man and being a bit AIRISH didn't stop him from doing what he needed to do. But he often warned the rest of us to dress warmly before heading out because it was a tad AIRISH.

Tell me your stories about AIRISH weather. Did you call it something else?

I need to turn up the thermostat. It's feeling a bit AIRISH in my house this morning.

Keep your critters warm on AIRISH days

Don't forget that your pets feel the AIRISH chill, too. Make sure you keep them warm on these AIRISH days.

Appalachian Word of the Week -- SHUCK BEANS

Thanksgiving is almost here. What does that mean for an Appalachian family? It means you'd better have your SHUCK BEANS ready.

If you grew up in Appalachia, you know what a SHUCK BEAN is. You may also know them as shucky beans or leather britches.

Whatever you call them, they are a necessity for Thanksgiving, Christmas, and a few other special holidays.

SHUCK BEANS are dried green beans that are reconstituted and cooked until the bean itself is moist and creamy and the hulls are soft enough to dissolve in your mouth.

My SHUCK BEANS are hanging in my window, drying, right now. They still have some time to go before they are dry enough to rattle when they are moved.

Stringing your beans

How do you make SHUCK BEANS? You take green beans--preferably fresh white half-runners or little greasies for me--clean them, then string them. Stringing a green bean is the process of snapping off each end and pulling the string all the way to the other end. Then you snap off the other end and do the same on the other side.

When you have all your green beans ready, you take a large needle and thread it with heavy duty cotton thread (I prefer thread for putting buttons on a coat, some people use dental floss.

Push the needle through one sturdy bean and tie a knot around the bean. This will keep the SHUCK BEAN from sliding off the string. Then thread the beans onto the string until it is near the end of the string. Repeat what you did with the first bean and tie the string around the last bean to secure it.

Next, hang your beans to dry. You can hand them outdoors, but you'll take the risk of squirrels or some other hungry critter eating them. I put mine on a clothes hanger and hang it near a window.



How to prepare your SHUCK BEANS:

The night before you need to cook your SHUCK BEANS, snip the strings and slide them into a large pot. (Discard the strings) Cover them with water and leave them to soak overnight.

The next morning, strain the water from the beans and refill the pot with clean water. Add some meat. Generally, I use a slab of fatback. You can also use salt bacon, bacon, or ham hocks. According to how salty your meat is, add a bit of salt. Then get the water boiling to where you have bubbles rising to the surface.

SHUCK BEANS after cooking

Cook the SHUCK BEANS for about three hours. Check on the water level often. If the level gets below the SHUCK BEANS, add more water.

After three hours, test your beans. If the bean part is soft and silky, they're ready. If they are a bit hard and mealy, keep cooking. You can adjust the salt levels now, too.

Check them again every 30 minutes to see if your SHUCK BEANS are done.

When they are just right, turn off the heat and let them sit for another 20-30 minutes.

Then you're ready for some Appalachian heaven.

SHUCK BEANS have always been one of my favorite side dishes. Each time I visited my mom in Harlan County, KY, I expected her to fix some and to have a couple of strings in her freezer for me to take home with me.

Looking for an interesting and historical side dish for your special holiday celebration? Try some SHUCK BEANS.

Did you grow up eating SHUCK BEANS? Do you still eat them? Did you ever string them and then hang them to dry?

I'd love to hear your SHUCK BEAN stories.

Happy Thanksgiving SHUCK BEANS to you.

*Special thanks to my cousin, Carol Nolan Cavins, for her SHUCK BEANS photos.