COAL TIPPLE

This week’s Appalachian word is COAL TIPPLE.

Crummies Creek Coal Tipple

Some of you may never have heard of a coal tipple, so I’ll try to explain it to you.

Wikipedia defines a tipple as a structure used at a mine to load the extracted product (e.g., coal, ores) for transport, typically into railroad hopper cars. In the United States, tipples have been frequently associated with coal mines, but they have also been used for hard rock mining.

Courtesy of Wikipedia

 If you’ve ever driven through coal country, you’ve probably seen a tipple and didn’t know what it was used for. I’ll let Wikipedia help in the explaining again.

Basic coal tipples simply loaded coal into railroad cars.^[1] Many tipples had simple screening equipment to sort coal pieces by size before loading.^[2][3]:20 Today, a coal mine facility usually includes a coal preparation plant which washes coal of soil and rock, before loading it for transport to market. The term "tipple" may be used interchangeably with coal prep plant.

I remember seeing lots of coal tipples in Harlan County. My granny lived across the road from one in Crummies, KY. I sat rocking on the front porch of her house, watching as the train cars slowly rolled under the tipple. They opened the hatch on the tipple and coal filled the train cars as they continued to roll underneath.  

 Because they kept moving underneath, the coal filled the cars a mound at a time. I often thought it interesting that the result was a mountain range of peaks and hollers, just like the mountains around me.

Tipples don’t only fill up train cars. They also fill up pick-up trucks (really big pick-up trucks) so coal can be delivered locally to vendors who sell coal to local businesses and residents.

Also, coal doesn’t come in just one size lump. Different sizes are needed for different uses. Big blocks are used mostly commercially—like in plants. When I was a little girl, we had a pot-bellied stove for heating the house. We used smaller chunks of coal for that so the fire wouldn’t burn too hot and burn the house down. I do remember, however, a couple of times when the fire got so hot that the stovepipe between the stove and the fireplace flue glowed bright red. Those were the nights my mom stayed up all night to watch after the fire.

Later, when we bought a Stokermatic stove, smaller pieces of coal were required. They had to be small enough to fit through an auger that took coal from the built-in coal bin and into the firebox. These stoves had a thermostat and monitored the heat produced by the stove. Much safer. They also didn’t burn you if you accidentally touched them. And they had a fan inside to blow the warmed air so it traveled further into the house.

Imagine today on a cold winter day and you only had one vent from your furnace. One vent in the living room. All the other rooms in the house had to depend on that one vent to receive any warmth at all. I love progress!

If you ever wondered how the coal got to the tipple, stay tuned for next week’s word. If you don’t want to miss it, then sign up with your email address on the right side of this post and I’ll send you a link each week to the new posts.

Do you have any stories about coal tipples? How about scary nights with your coal-powered stoves? Leave a comment below and share.

Appalachian Word of the Week -- STEP-INS

My Appalachian word this week is STEP-INS.

Granny always used the term “step-ins” when she referred to a woman’s underwear. She thought the word “panties” was too crude. I always laughed when she said it, but I didn’t say “panties” either. I called them undies or unmentionables.

One of my aunts called them bloomers. It seemed that everybody in the mountains had a different word for the same thing. Now that I look back on those days when Granny was still around, I appreciate her use of step-ins a lot more than I did back then.

Whatever each family member called them, it was the dreaded gift to receive at the family Christmas party each year. Granny always gave me step-ins for Christmas. In my pre-teen years, few things embarrassed me more than having to open that gift in front of all the aunts and uncles and hold them up for all to see. Aunt Mona Jo seemed to get way too much pleasure out of making a big deal of the reveal. She raised her voice so no one could miss her and announced that Kurn Lynn (Karen Lynn) was opening her gift. Oh, what is it, Kurn Lynn? Oh, look! Ain’t they purdy? Kurn Lynn got some step-ins. Hold ‘em up for everybody to see.

If I didn’t hold them up (I much preferred hiding under my chair), Aunt Mona Jo would hold them up for me, high in the air. The laughter only lasted a few seconds but they echoed in my head for… years.

What did your family call them? Did you have any other unusual names for underwear?

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…