Appalachian Word of the Week -- PUMPKNOT

My Appalachian word this week is PUMPKNOT.

A PUMPKNOT is what you get when your head bangs into something it oughtn’t. At high velocity. You may call it a “bump” or a “goose egg” instead of pumpknot. But, that’s what my family always called them.

Real Goose Eggs

My sister had a gift for getting pumpknots. I remember one time she was running crazy through the house (which of course we were told not to do) and she flew head-first into the Stokermatic stove that sat in the middle of the living room floor. Boy, I tell you I could see stars above her head and she had a huge pumpknot that popped out and grew bigger as we watched.

Another time, she had just received a skateboard for her birthday and was practicing inside the house. Well, I guess it seemed the smart thing to do since we had gravel in our driveway. I never saw the sense in having a skateboard in the mountains anyway; but then, that was my sister.

She took the skateboard into the kitchen and zoomed from there into the dining room and then into the living room, gaining speed. I suppose she was attempting to avoid the Stokermatic this time, so she swerved a little as she approached it. Well, she was going so fast that the skateboard veered off and went under the coffee table. My sister did not. She went head first into the table corner. Another huge pumpknot.

Of course, I’ve had my share of pumpknots, too. The one I remember most happened when I lived in Greenville, SC. I was carrying my lunch into the living room to eat while I worked on my computer. Somehow, my toe caught on the carpet and I did a slow spin and hit the floor. On the trip down to the floor, my lunch flew all around me and the back of my head hit a nearby table. My ankle did a spin of its own. In agony, I attempted to get up. No such luck.

About this time, my dachshund, Jessy, came running. I thought he was coming to check up on me. Not quite. He came to eat my lunch.

Not able to get up, I reached up to my desk, grabbed my phone, and called 911. When the dispatcher answered, I said, “I’ve fallen and I can’t get up.” Then I giggled because it was so cliché. I figured she would hang up on me. She didn’t.

I made sure to tell her to send someone strong because I’m a big woman. Then I remembered my locked front door and pleaded, “Don’t let them break my door. Tell them to find the stone squirrel in the front yard and pick it up. In its butt is a house key.” Well, now it was her turn to giggle.

Not the squirrel I meant

I lay there on the floor, waiting and watching the pretty stars sparkle around my head. My dachshund barked and looked at the front door. I heard laughter from the front porch. The door opened and in walked four of the hunkiest guys I had ever seen. Glory be!

They surrounded me as my pumpknot pounded as it grew larger and my ankle screamed. One, two, three and I stood in front of them—on one foot and a bit worse for wear.

My heroes. Of course, I wouldn’t have minded if they hung around a bit longer and flexed their muscles for me. But like superheroes tend to do when their job is done, they said their farewells and flew (okay, so they walked) out the front door, laughed as they crossed the porch, and disappeared to wherever superheroes go.

My advice? Beware where you put your head. That is unless you prefer a visit from some hunky heroes. 

Now, tell me your pumpknot stories. Come on, I know you've got at least one doozie. 

Mountain Feist

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

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

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

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

But, I digress. 

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

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

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

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

Mountain Feist

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

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

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

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

But, I digress. 

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

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

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

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

Appalachian Language - Holler

Photo Courtesy of Corinne Milwee Farley

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

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

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

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

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

HOLLER

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

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

Photo Courtesy of Corinne Milwee Farley

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

Photo Courtesy of Corinne Milwee Farley

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

Photo Courtesy of Tammy Hyatt

Photo Courtesy of Tammy Hyatt

Photo Courtesy of Tammy Hyatt

Photo Courtesy of Corinne Milwee Farley

Photo Courtesy of Corinne Milwee Farley

Appalachian Language - Holler

Photo Courtesy of Corinne Milwee Farley

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

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

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

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

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

HOLLER

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

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

Photo Courtesy of Corinne Milwee Farley

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

Photo Courtesy of Corinne Milwee Farley

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

Photo Courtesy of Tammy Hyatt

Photo Courtesy of Tammy Hyatt

Photo Courtesy of Tammy Hyatt

Photo Courtesy of Corinne Milwee Farley

Photo Courtesy of Corinne Milwee Farley

Appalachian Language - Holler

Photo Courtesy of Corinne Milwee Farley

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

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

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

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

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

HOLLER

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

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

Photo Courtesy of Corinne Milwee Farley

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

Photo Courtesy of Corinne Milwee Farley

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

Photo Courtesy of Tammy Hyatt

Photo Courtesy of Tammy Hyatt

Photo Courtesy of Tammy Hyatt

Photo Courtesy of Corinne Milwee Farley

Photo Courtesy of Corinne Milwee Farley

Does Your Pain Compare?

I spent last week in the hospital.

I thought I was going in for a quick out-patient surgery to repair my torn rotator cuff.

That didn’t happen…

Instead, I nearly crashed on the table before they even put me under. I turned blue. I couldn’t breathe.

I thought I was dying.

My surgeon canceled the surgery and I was admitted to the Cardiac department to determine what had gone wrong—and to get my heart rate back down to normal.

In my racing heart, I whined.

I whined a lot that week. I hate having tests done that hurt, make me uncomfortable, that require a second IV line with a larger needle right in the bend of my only good arm.

I whined because they performed a nerve block on my right shoulder before surgery was canceled that rendered my entire arm a dead, lifeless, dangling appendage that served no purpose but to receive all the injections they kept stabbing me with.

I griped about the lack of food or water I was allowed – because of all the tests they had to perform. Then I griped about the food they brought me. Apparently, the dietitian in the hospital has no concept of “a restricted diet” for diabetics or heart patients.

I complained that I couldn’t sleep because I was so uncomfortable and when I attempted to lay my head down to rest, I couldn’t breathe again.

I grumbled when every few minutes I had to unhook my oxygen and attempt to make it to the bathroom AGAIN because they shot me full of Lasix. It didn’t help that I only had one arm, with two IVs in the wrong places for the task at hand, and one dead arm that merely dangled uselessly and in the way.

And then…

This morning I awoke thinking about Jesus on that Good Friday so long ago.

My temporary and minor pain in no way compares to his.

My discomfort and bruises from needle pricks were minimal compared to the wounds he received from repeated flogging with metal barbs that cut into his flesh.

My pain can never compare to the pain he must have felt as he took on the sin of the world.

My damaged shoulder, dead arm, and needle-stabbed arms in no way compare to his journey through the streets carrying the cross he would soon be nailed to.

So, today I cry. Not out of pity for myself, but out of shame for even suggesting that a couple of weeks of discomfort can compare with the supreme sacrifice Christ made to give me eternal life.

It’s not a sad story, though, because his death was not in vain.

Yes, my friends, Sunday is coming.

No matter what we experience in life, our Sunday is coming. And with it comes healing and life for eternity.

For by his stripes, we are healed.