Appalachian Word of the Week -- LORD WILLIN' AND THE CREEK DON'T RISE

We've had more than our share of thunderstorms here in Atlanta the past few weeks. My friends from eastern Kentucky have reported several days of heavy rains there, too. I brought back to mind the saying I often heard in Harlan, LORD WILLIN' AND THE CREEK DON'T RISE.

Many a time, when someone made plans for an event in the future, the person who had to accept or decline the offer would respond, LORD WILLIN' AND THE CREEK DON'T RISE.

Now, what in the world did they mean?

Rickety footbridge 

Anyone who's had to depend on crossing a creek to get to anywhere else in the county knows exactly what it means. So does a person who had to cross a rickety footbridge over a creek.

If heavy rains fall in the mountains, the water from the top of the mountain flows downhill quickly and joins up with the rest of the rains, eventually emptying into the creeks and streams. Those creeks and streams don't take long to overflow.

Not only do they contain more water, it is powerful water that has built up speed on its way down. That means it's dangerous to cross. Most likely, you'd get knocked down and swallowed up by it as it drags you downstream to the river.

LORD WILLIN' AND THE CREEK DON'T RISE

A catastrophe.

That's why a person will only make the effort to attend an event if the creek is shallow and calm.

Have you ever attempted to cross an overflowing, fast-running creek or stream? How about trying to cross a footbridge when the water is flowing over top of it? I promise not to say anything negative about your lack of smarts if you tell me your story.

Did you hear LORD WILLIN' AND THE CREEK DON'T RISE when you were young? Do you still say it?

And don't forget the LORD WILLIN' part of the saying. I figured if the Lord was willing for me to go, he would make sure it didn't rain.

Appalachian Word of the Week -- MILLER

Ah, the front porch. A wonderful place to wile away the cares of the world. Whether you sway in the swing, recline in the glider, or in a rocker, the front porch is an important part of Appalachian life. You may even find a discarded davenport (couch/sofa) on the porch to provide extra seating for family or friends who drop by for a spell.

Porch light

But when twilight descends upon the mountains, drawing the lightning bugs and sundry other flying critters out of their hiding places, the front porch experience changes.

As soon as you flip the switch or pull the string to activate the porch light, every flying bug in the mountains comes buzzing to join you on the porch.

One of the least creepy fliers is the MILLER.

Example of a MILLER

They are drawn to the light like a moth to a flame. Well, it could be because that's exactly what a MILLER is -- a moth. Even though the term MILLER means moths in general, we used the term for the small moths that fluttered relentlessly around the lightbulb.

At least they don't bite like gnats and mosquitos. They are merely annoying as they flutter past your face on their way. If you swat one, you end up with a swipe of pale-colored powder on your clothing or skin from their wings.

The lightbulb tends to acquire a dusting of their powdery wings, too, as they smash into it. I never understood why a MILLER insisted upon crashing into the light. Just what was it that attracted them so?

As an introvert, I've often compared myself to the front porch light.

An introvert lightbulb being
swarmed by
extrovert MILLERS

As soon as I feel comfortable (in the dark) and walk into a room full of people (turn on my light), it seems that every extrovert in the room flies to me, fluttering around me and smashing into me.
Apparently, they consider my quiet, calm attitude toward life to be a failing and believe their lot in life is to re-create me into an extrovert just like them. I desperately attempt to turn off my light and retreat from their attention.

In reality, all they do is wear me out and leave a powdery residue on me. A residue that makes me less eager to turn on my light again.

And then there are the crazies. Those are the MILLERS on steroids. They're the ones who refuse to leave you alone and desire to control your life. Scary.

Did you have MILLERS on your front porch? Do you have MILLERS in your life that annoy you like a MILLER?

I'd 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 -- CUSSIN'

I never heard much CUSSIN' when I was growing up. I don't recall my father ever uttering a single inappropriate word in my presence. My mother, on the other hand, had one favorite word she used when she had taken all she could take. It was similar to my grandmother's only CUSSIN' word. Well, to be honest, Granny's word wasn't really a word. It was a sound.

I found it amusing when a writer friend, who grew up on the other side of the mountain from Harlan in Kingsport, Tennessee, commented recently about the exact same CUSSIN' word her grandmother used. It started with a drawn-out "Shhhhhhhh" and ended with a garbled spitting sound. Both our grandmothers claimed it wasn't CUSSIN' because it wasn't a real word.

My mom's word was definitely CUSSIN'.

Washin' your mouth out with soap for CUSSIN'

CUSSIN' wasn't allowed in my house by us kids. I found out one day what would happen if one of us got caught CUSSIN'. My brother accidentally let out a CUSSIN' word in Mom's presence. She marched him to the bathroom, turned on the sink, and washed his mouth out with soap.

I hid my laughter. What a hoot! It enthralled me so much that I tasted some soap later. Believe me, it deterred me from ever CUSSIN'. Not that I had ever heard a CUSSIN' word -- except for Mom's word.

In grade school, CUSSIN' was frowned upon in school, too. Anyone caught dirtying the air with an illegal word had to face the wrath of Roscoe, the principal's paddle.

In order to avoid Roscoe and the shame of getting paddled or switched again when we got home, some of my friends and I decided to come up with our own CUSSIN' words. We drew them from ordinary everyday items or activities. One of our favorites was, "Well, peanut butter and jelly!" Others included dirty dog, broken pencil, fiddlesticks, thunder and lightning, and gravy and biscuits.

There were a few CUSSIN' words we borrowed from others. Sam Hill and dadgummit were a couple of our favorites. We generally got our borrowed words from older brothers and sisters. If they had used them in the company of adults and didn't get paddled, switched, or soaped, then they were safe for us to use.

No CUSSIN' allowed

In today's world, CUSSIN' seems to be a normal way of life to most folks. They don't bother with the mild words, they go right for the ones that would have curled people's hair in my day.

I've often wondered why people use filthy and blasphemous language when there are words that would describe their intent without offending others. Is it because they want to shock others with their language? Could it be because they desire to attack someone with words when they don't dare instigate a physical attack? Or could it be that they have become so accustomed to profane language (which means unholy) they don't consider it anything but "normal."

Whatever the reason for CUSSIN', I suggest we choose to make a few changes in our lives. Instead of splashing vile language willy-nilly at people, why don't we attempt to use words of affirmation, affection, and encouragement instead?

The world is hateful enough without adding to it. Let's share some positive words instead.

What are your favorite positive words? The ones you receive and the ones you use?

I'd love to hear your stories -- minus the CUSSIN'.

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.