I originally set out to do a research project on a wide range of Appalachian religions, but I found that overwhelming and narrowed it down to Christianity in Appalachia. And when I gathered together all of the information I'd acquired on it and gave it a look, I discovered that it was largely lopsided. I’d subconsciously gravitated toward one sect in particular in my research: The Church of God with Signs Following, the original serpent-handling church.
I was aware that it was the stereotypical thing to do, but I focused my report completely on the notorious practice. I knew that I was contributing to the prejudice against the area and supporting the world’s view of us as eccentric hillbillies in my own small way, but I couldn’t help myself. Stereotypes are interesting!
Where would this state be without our rowdy reputation for snake-handling, moonshining, and all around law-breaking? What would we have? These stereotypes, exaggerated and negative as they may be, are our history. Without them we have no flavor; we’re just another bland state that nobody talks about.
So when people gripe about Appalachia's negative portrayal in literature and on television (as I’ve read in criticisms of the Kentucky Cycle and television shows like the Beverly Hillbillies), it irks me. Should we instead advertise the unbearable normalcy here? Because I think that would be worse.
-Emma

This is the Appalachian essay of folklore that I've written in parallel to Taryn's essay. It is also written multi-genre, but I've tended to focus more on the story aspects of Appalachia rather than information. I've written everything but the all-capitalized song "True Story."

Folklore of Appalachia
Monsters of Paranoia

Oh God,
Can't sleep,
Haven't slept all week.
It's like my mind's a wild house
And the party's hitting peak.

I shift,
I turn,
Like a freshly salted worm
Attempting for that spot
Not too cold and not too warm.

I roll,
Although,
Then I'm facing the window
It sure is black outside
But there're two things set aglow.

Oh yeah,
That's right,
Two incandescent streetlights.
They're kinda flickering
And they complement the night.

They're so,
Pretty,
Their flickering's a pity.
I stare at the two lights
Until a glorious sleep hits me.


Alarm,
Please no,
I get up tired and slow.
Did I really fall asleep?
I look out my open window.

What's that?
Oh God,
That's really frickin' odd
My windowsill's all ruined
Like the wood was scratched and clawed.

Beyond,
Repair,
I'm kind of getting scared.
And now looking at my street,
I could've sworn two lights were there.

Mothman Sightings
The legend of the Mothman is not too unknown in West Virginia, most notably Point Pleasant. In fact, Pont Pleasant even holds annual Mothman festivals, a Mothman Museum and Research Center, and a twelve-foot-tall metallic statue of the being. Point Pleasant definitely prides itself in its correlation with the Mothman.
Ever since two couples in 1966 saw a “flying man with ten-foot wings and glowing-red eyes” following their car, other sightings spurred up in the newspaper as well. Over the next few days, more people reported similar sightings, describing the same general appearance—“large bird with red eyes,” “like bicycle reflectors.” After the collapse of the Silver Bridge in 1967 (the resulting death of forty six people), no more Mothman sightings were reported, and rumors spread that the Mothman and the collapsed bridge were related.
Skeptics argue that the Sandhill Crane, a crane almost as tall as a man with a seven-foot wingspan and reddish coloring around the eyes, could have temporarily strayed off its migration route and been mistaken by some as the Mothman. However, even today, sightings of the Mothman continue.



Dear Jeff Wamsley,
I have recently discovered your website and want to share to you an experience with the “Mothman” that might be of interest. It isn’t a personal tale of mine, but one of my aunt’s. Now,
my aunt is a very big believer in the paranormal, so it’s not uncommon of her to report her old, crickety house as a victim of ghost activity but she’s never claimed something like what I am about to tell you.
My aunt Gloria was washing dishes in her kitchen late at night when she happened to look out of the window and see two red dots, small but very close to each other. She didn’t know what it could be—no vehicles would be in her kitchen window’s line of sight, and no other possible sources of red light would shine like that from a distance. She retrieved her husband and showed him the red lights, and he went out onto their porch thinking it was some sort of animal to chase away: a coyote or cat or bird of some sort. However, when he went out there the two red dots were already gone, and nothing unusual was left in its place.
The next day, their dog was found on their porch, dead, not even bleeding. A trip to the vet concluded that the dog was strangled.
I have no idea if these strange events would be related to the Mothman in any way, but our family does get spooked when my aunt retells this story. After viewing your site and reading other peoples’ experiences, I might even start to believe my aunt’s little experience with the Mothman…
Sincerely, Leticia F.


True Story

SOMETHING AWFUL HAPPENED HERE,
NOT SO LONG AGO
SOMETHING AWFUL HAPPENED HERE
THAT YOU SHOULD KNOW
SEEMS LIKE SUCH A QUIET PLACE
WITH NOTHIN’ MUCH TO DO,

TRUE STORY—BLACKSMITH LOST HIS BRIDE!
TRUE STORY—WOULDN’T LEAVE HER SIDE.
WHOO, GLORY! AWFUL HOW HE CRIED.
TRUE, OOH, OOH, OOH—

WOULD I LIE TO YOU?

BLACKSMITH WASN’T HERE A WEEK,
SO THE TALE WAS TOLD.
MET A GIRL YOU'D NOT CALL MEEK,
EIGHTEEN YEARS OLD.
MAYBE THEY WERE MEANT TO MEET
BEFORE THE MONTH WAS THROUGH
TOO BAD THERE’S NOT A WITNESS
WHO CAN TELL US WHAT IS

TRUE STORY—BLACKSMITH LOST HIS BRIDE!
TRUE STORY—WOULDN’T LEAVE HER SIDE.
WHOO, GLORY! FAR TOO YOUNG SHE DIED.
TRUE, OOH, OOH, OOH—

WOULD I LIE TO YOU?

GO AS FAR AS MEADOW BLUFF,
OUT TO LIVESAY’S MILL,
DOWN A PIECE FROM CATTAIL KNOB,
UP SKEETER HILL,
FOLKS ALL KNOW THE TRAGIC TALE
WE'RE HERE TO TELL TO YOU.
WE MAY ALL TELL IT DIFFERENT, BUT
EXCEPT THE PARTS THAT WE FORGOT
EXCEPT THE PARTS THAT WE CANNOT SAY
EXCEPT THE PARTS WE’LL NEVER KNOW
EXCEPT THE PARTS THAT WE MADE UP,
IT’S ABSOLUTELY
TRUE STORY—BLACKSMITH LOST HIS BRIDE!
TRUE STORY—WOULDN’T LEAVE HER SIDE.
WHOO, GLORY! TRUTH WON’T BE DENIED

Greenbrier Ghost
The Greenbrier Ghost is famous for her “testimony of a ghost” at her murder trial. Zona Heaster Shue married a blacksmith named Edward, and one year later Zona’s corpse was found by a young boy. Zona’s husband Edward seemed to show much grievance over his wife’s death, and even though she had bruising on her neck, Edward insisted her death must have been caused by childbirth.
However, Zona’s mother, Mary, had always suspected Edward killed her daughter. Mary prayed for weeks for guidance and the chance to speak to her daughter again. Four weeks after Zona’s wedding, Mary claims that her daughter visited her in a dream, in which Zona explains that Edward snapped her neck—and demonstrates by twisting her neck completely around until it was facing backwards.
Desperate for justice, Mary pleaded the local prosecutor to reopen the case of her daughter’s death. After hours of convincing, he dispatched deputies to re-interview people related to the case and a more thorough autopsy to be performed on the body; Edward “vigorously complained” about the re-examination of his wife’s corpse. The three-hour autopsy proved that Zona’s neck really was broken and her windpipe was mashed; her throat had bruises and marks in the shape of fingers and the ligaments were torn.


Edward was arrested for murdering Zona. At the trial, Mary testified that her daughter had haunted her and informed her of the murder, and the jury didn’t disregard her stories. Edward was consequently found guilty of murder.
The legend of the Greenbrier Ghost was made into a major stage adaptation; a musical called, The Greenbrier Ghost, which is where the above song (True Story) is from. A state historical marker is near the cemetery in which Zona is buried, and it reads:
“Interred in nearby cemetery is Zona Heaster Shue. Her death in 1897 was presumed natural until her spirit appeared to her mother to describe how she was killed by her husband Edward. Autopsy on the exhumed body verified the apparition’s account. Edward, found guilty of murder, was sentenced to the state prison. Only known case in which testimony from a ghost helped convict a murderer.”


Blennerhassett Hotel
The Blennerhassett Hotel, opened in 1889, can be found at Parkersburg, Wood County, West Virginia, and is listed in the National Register of Historic Places. This hotel is infamous for several ghosts associated with it; including William N. Chancellor, the man who built it. Customers staying here have reported smelling cigar smoke or seeing cigar smoke when there was no source of the smoke. Elevators will often open on the wrong floor and keep stopping and opening on the second floor even when the button has not been pushed; people have tied this to repeatedly seeing a man dressed in a grey suit pacing the second floor hallways. In the Blennerhassett Hotel’s library, books will fall off of their shelves with no provocation. The doors in the hotel open and close and sometimes get stuck.


Many customers and employees in the hotel report some sort of paranormal activity, and it’s not uncommon to capture orbs or faint faces with cameras and film.

Haunted footsteps step-step nearer,
Orbs that cameras can see through,
Tortured faces in the mirrors,
Elevators stuck on level two,
Listen more and you might hear her,
Softly speaking just to you.

Haley

Appalachian Folklore -- Taryn

The following is an Appalachian folklore multigenre project I put together. Multigenres incorporate various styles of writing and creatively mesh them into a themed paper. My project was originally formatted for Microsoft Word, and therefore it has lost some of its original formatting. Since Blogger's font tools are fighting with me, I've capitalized the titles of each section. The alignment is off as well, and what few pictures I had refused to show up -- but my project is still quite readable; enjoy. :]

The two things I didn't write are the Omie Wise ballad and John Hardy song.

Appalachian Folklore
the interesting to abnormal
the past to modern
the tale to real

November 2011



THE BEAST OR--
November 15 of 1966, and for days to come, an exquisite figure appears before numerous people; the descriptions given resemble a creature larger than a human with a much more intimidating presence. A silent beast, its dark figure watches at a distance with large eyes protruding from its daunting body; a head is not significantly visible in the leering darkness of the night that this beast prefers to reside within. At the most random of moments – yet preferably at the onset of humans passing in vehicles during late hours – the creature extends wings from its body and ascends into the air; it takes such a graceful, steady flight, only making the scene more surreal.
January 11, the creature takes to the air once more to make an appearance by the Silver Bridge – the creature feels the age of the bridge’s massive build; he hears the silent groans as it struggles to withstand the burden cast upon it day by day until alas, in December, the bridge exhausts itself along with 46 lives – and the existence of the Mothman.




--THE BIRD
An exquisite creature of beauty, its tall build, lengthy wingspan provides an intimidating weapon in the case of predators. Emphasizing its eyes are red feathers atop its head. And as its friends fly to warmer climates, he is left behind to find himself in a state of confusion and excessive caution as food becomes scarce and the days become colder. The onset of winter puts him into a fit of desperation – there is no time for rest, and even in the night, when foul and roaring beasts with brightly blinding eyes tear through the world, he must search for food and companionship to survive the harshness of his changing environment. Nothing compares to the fear of being caught in the light of the eyes of those foul beasts, and only when sense returns may our friend realize the notion to stop staring into them and take flight – his wings can save him; and shall he soar through daylight as his desperation grows may he come across a massive structure that carries the very same foul beasts he witnesses in the dark. Lithe wings carry him above it, but there is nothing there for him except a sight of the beasts below, and he descends to the ground – and as death takes its toll on him during the harsh winter, no one shall take notice of the demise of the lonely Sandhill Crane.



GAP CREEK SHACK
In Tennessee around Gap Creek, a man is wary from travel. He wills himself to the next town before resting, but his perseverance is washed away as rain begins to fall, with thunder and lightning shaking the sky soon after. The man’s only hope now is a shack in the distance; through the rain pouring in the darkness he can make out lights within the shack, and a feeling of small hope for a night with food and a comfortable place to sleep guides him through the gloom toward shelter. A knock on the door is answered by a burly man; behind him are other men, and they all smoke cigars that choke the air. Sitting around a craggy, weak table, the men play cards. The traveler’s hope sizzles quickly away as the man carelessly lets him inside but proclaims there is no food. The man – and only him, for the others pay the traveler no mind – grants him permission to sleep in the other room in a bed with the woman they are traveling with. “But do not touch her, for she is ill,” he states, and joins his friends in their card game.
The traveler attempts sleep for hours but can only manage the slightest drift into unconsciousness. Alas, when the storm lets up does the man recognize the prominence of silence in the room despite his own breathing – and only his. He rolls over in bed to finally face the woman he has laid beside for hours only to find a bullet wound in her head; her skin is fleshy and gray with grimy, dry eyes that stare blankly at the ceiling.
The traveler, frightened and disgusted, flees the shack; the men are gone, and when the traveler returns later with the nearest town’s sheriff, even the woman is gone along with signs that anyone had been in the shack at all for many years.


FLINTVILLE BEAST
“There's a bigfoot attacking cars and trying to snatch little children in the Tennessee foothills.”

“That thing's so big it could easily hurt somebody. Who knows how many head of our livestock have gone missing because of it?''
-Ned Sinclair, farmer

``It was 7 or 8 feet tall and seemed to be all covered with hair. It reached out its long, hairy arms toward Gary and came within a few inches of him.''
-Mrs. Robertson on her child’s near capture

“A black, hairy, and screaming ape-like creature.”
-common description given by witnesses


JOHN HENRY
An African American slave with exceptional strength, he is known for his gift of “steel-driving.” His fame grew with his ability to quickly build railroads, but is put to the test when a railroad owner buys a steam-powered hammer. He challenges the machine to a race, and wins, yet dies soon after from exhaustion.
It is believed the John Henry was born in Tennessee, but there is debate as to which railroads John Henry worked on and the one he raced on. Some say the race against the steam hammer occurred while Henry worked along the Chesapeake and Ohio Railway; others claim he raced during the construction of the Big Bend tunnel near Talcott, West Virginia. Talcott holds an annual festival for Henry and has a statue and plaque dedicated to his memory. But Scott Reynolds Nelson, professor at the College of William and Mary, claims John Henry, a prisoner in a Virginia penitentiary who was released by the warden to work on the C&O Railroad in the 1870s, is the base of the John Henry legend. He points out that a steam drill race at the Big Bend in Talcott is impossible for there are no records of a steam drill ever being used there. Nelson confirms his belief that the battle between Henry and the drill took place at the Lewis Tunnel, between Talcott and Millboro, Virginia; there, prison slaves had worked beside steam drills.


THE BALLAD OF OMIE WISE
Stories claim that Naomie “Omie” Wise was murdered by her lover, Jonathan Lewis; Omie’s body was found beaten in a river in Asheboro, North Carolina, where she had drowned in a river. Lewis was jailed but escaped; after being caught several years later and put on trial, he was found not guilty and was once again free. On his death bed he confessed to the murder of Omie. Her story is told through a ballad:

I'll tell you the history of little Omie Wise
How she was deluded by John Lewis' lies
He told her to meet him at the Hellington Spring
He'd bring her some money and other fine things
But when she did meet him at the Hellington Spring
He brought her no money nor other fine things
Said, "Climb up behind me and away we will go
We'll ride and be married where the old folks won't know
She climbed up behind him and away they did go
Down through the lonesome valley where the deep waters flow
"Get down from behind me and I'll tell you no lie
My mind is to drown you and leave you behind
She threw her arms around him she was so surprised
"Oh, let me go beggin' if I can't be your bride."
He hugged her and he kissed her and he looked all around
He threw her in deep waters where he knew that she would drown
Then he mounted his pony and away he did go
Back through the lonesome valley where the deep waters flow


JOHN HARDY
This folk song of John Hardy is based on the tale of a railroad worker who murdered a man and was hanged for the crime.

John Hardy was a desperate little man,
He carried two guns ev'ry day.
He shot down a man on that West Virginia line,
You oughta seen John Hardy gettin' away....
You oughta seen John Hardy gettin' away....

John Hardy stood in that old baroom,
So drunk that he could not see.
And a man walked up and took him by the arm,
He said, "Johnny, come and go along with me,
Poor boy, Johnny, come and walk along with me."

John Hardy stood in his old jail cell,
The tears running down from his eyes.
He said, "I've been the death of many a poor boy.
But my six-shooters never told a lie,
No, my six-shooters never told a lie.

The first one to visit John Hardy in his cell
Was a little girl dressed in blue.
She came down to that old jail cell,
She said, "Johnny, I've been true to you.
God knows, Johnny, I've been true to you."

The next one to visit John Hardy in his cell,
Was a little girl dressed in red.
She came down to that old jail cell,
She said, "Johnny, I had rather see you dead,
Well, Johnny, I had rather see you dead."

"I've been to the East and I've been to the West,
I've traveled this wide world around,
I've been to that river and I've been baptized,
So take me to my burying ground,
So take me to my burying ground."

John Hardy was a desperate little man,
He carried two guns ev'ry day.
He shot down a man on the West Virginia line,
You oughta seen John Hardy gettin' away,
You oughta seen John Hardy gettin' away.


THE JACKS OF APPALACHIA
Foolish, poor, feeble,
A boy with a flair for thrill:
Tales of lucky Jack


Jack and the Beanstalk--
Glorious and high,
A giant resides aloft
As guard from Jack’s greed

Bountiful in mystery
Elegant in build
Annoying in whereabouts
Noticeable by the nosey
Stature strong enough for a boy
Towers through the clouds
And leads to another place, a
Land of giants who are
Killed when chopped down

Stubborn and a fool,
Sold away a steer for beans;
Cast away, they grew

Jack the Giant Killer--
Quick, cunning, with smarts,
Traps a giant and kills him;
Most loved is the pride

Greedy for glory,
Jack tricks a giant to stab
Himself from disgrace

Despite greedy ways
Admired for cunning mind
Tales sift through mountains


AN ASTROLOGICAL GUIDE TO FARMERS
Aries: For ground preparation, beets and onions, and hunting; dare not transplant other crops.
Taurus: All root and above ground crops are in luck, and feel free to hunt and fish
Gemini: Plant anything, and get your preserving for jellies and pickles done
Cancer: Stick with above ground and root crops; cook and fish fruitfully
Leo: Take a break from the farm and try some sports, finding a partner or job, and hunt – just don’t plant
Virgo: Trade, not plant
Libra: Time for above ground crops and things that flower.
Scorpio: Flowering things and above ground crops; fishing and hunting recommended.
Sagittarius: Get a job, trade some crops, bake goodies, and preserve food.
Capricorn: Time for root crops
Aquarius: Take a break from the farm for some social events; if you mustn’t, try some ground crops.
Pisces: Plant, transplant above ground crops, trees, and shrubbery; the husbands can fish, wives wean your babies

Other tips: For planting above ground crops, the most bountiful harvests derive from planting while the moon is waxing; for below ground crops, plant while the moon is waning.



MOUNTAIN MAGIC: A BRIEF
INTRODUCTION TO GRANNY WITCHES
The magic amidst our mountains is full of tradition passed down among Appalachian families for many centuries; it has faded slightly with the modernizing world, yet it still finds itself prominent within our culture. The witches among us who have richly embraced themselves within the art of Granny Magic go by the title Witch Doctors or Water Witches, depending on the basis of magic they are most gifted in. Our traditions are based off the ideas of Paganism; Mother Nature, Jack Frost, Father Winter, Chloe, Spider Grandmother, and Demeter are several of the deities we worship for the balance and harmony they deliver to life.
Music finds itself having deep roots within magic; the majority of spells are sung and danced. For example, an Earth blessing meant to be sung during planting and harvesting is as follows:



A da we hi a ne he ne ha
Do hi u a iu ni
O lo hi a li ga lu lo hi u nah ta
Ga li e li ga O sa da du

Wise Protectors, they are so giving
Serenity, it resounds
Mother Earth and Father Sky are so giving
I am thankful, it is good


Divination is a popular practice among us. Tarot, tea leaves, clouds, and scrying in bowls of water, dirt, or sand play roles in predictions. The Cherokee Spider Grandmother Goddess leaves messages of fate, magic, weaving, art, and storytelling within spider webs.
In general, our magic traditions are pure and of healing and nature; it is an important aspect of our culture and the way we live each day.

Taryn

Hillbilly

“What is a hillbilly?” I remember my grandmother asking me this question two summers ago. I remember thinking hard about how to answer this question. I knew it would be difficult regardless, due to the fact that my grandmother knows only a little English, and I only know a little Spanish. However, there was still something else that would prove to be an issue. I didn’t really know what a hillbilly was. I mean, I thought I knew, but when I tried to put it into words to translate for my grandmother, I couldn’t. I kept thinking, “Just what is a hillbilly?” and “Isn’t it just another word for redneck?” I couldn’t answer my grandmother’s question, so I simply told her that I couldn’t explain it; that it was just one of those things you just knew. My grandmother just shrugged it off and didn’t ask about it again, but the question kept popping up in my mind, “What is a hillbilly?”

According to dictionary.com a “Hillbilly” is “A derogatory term for a person from a backwoods or other remote area, especially from the mountains of the southern U.S.; often used offensively.” So basically a not-so-smart, almost hobo-like, person who lives in the woods…Funny, but I don’t think anybody is like that. The people I do know who “live in the woods” are very nice, and well rounded people who in their own way know more than I do. Sure, they may be a bit eccentric when it comes to certain things, but then again, who isn’t? But people would rather label things than look into them. So I guess if my grandmother ever decides to ask me again, I’ll just tell her, “A crazy guy named Billy who lives on a hill.”


Nicolle

I took these at the Virgin Hemlock Trail. If you haven't been there, go. It's beautiful and an awesome hike. :)
-Emma C.

The Kids of Morgantown.

I’ve been going to Morgantown High for three years now, and I’ve always thought that my high school was any different, I thought that the kids in my school were more well rounded and overall nicer people. I had never seen any bullies in my school, and every one seemed to do pretty well in class, I never saw anybody cheating. My naieve opinions changed qiuckly when I started leaving the comfort of my house more often. I began to see how my peers could be seen as ‘holigans’ by the others, and that some kids weren’t as well manner and goodly as I had previously thought. But that didn’t apply to all of them, sure at first I was really surprised, and I stopped leaving my house for a while but I realized that just because these kids were perticipating in..less than reputable acts…didn’t mean they weren’t as nice as I had thought they were, my opinions of them fell dramtically, but a lot of them were still nicer than a lot of the adults I knew.
When I traveled to other states for various reasons, I saw what kind of people lived there, and I saw how the interacted with one another. They were WAY less patient and understanding than the folks around Morgantown. Every state will have it’s problems, but West Virgina is pretty much one of the better states that I could’ve ended up in. I like that people will wave at you where ever you are, that someone is always ready to strike up a converstaion with you, and that people will always be genuinly concerned with you and whatever problems you may have. I don’t often see that in other states, and it’s always a relief to come back to Morgantown after any long trips.
As I entered my junior year in high school, I started to be=reak out of my shell, I started to talk more with students in different groups, and I made so many new friends, I found out that a lot more people did drugs than I thought, there were a lot more parties than I had known about, and there was much more underlying drama than I had previously anticipated. But everyone was still really accomidating, and I began to care less and less about all of the drugs, parties, and drama it was so irrelevant. People can still be wonderful, and you don’t have to agree with every decision that they make in order to be friends with them.

This past weekend I went to my hometown to attend the yearly Glass Festival. It’s typical of a small town festival; bright lights flashing, overcrowded streets, music blaring, and food as far as the eye can see.

When we crossed over the state line, it didn’t feel like we had ever left West Virginia. I witnessed the same things I’ve seen here; trees beginning to change colors, teenagers hanging out with their friends, and people flocking by the dozen to watch local bands.

As dusk was nearing, I was able to meet up with a few old friends. Thinking back, it doesn’t seem like we did all that much. We roamed the streets for hours before giving in to the urge to buy food. Needless to say, the smell of all the types of food was just too tempting. We feasted like kings until we couldn’t possibly eat anymore.

After the festivities had come to an end, my friend mentioned that she wanted to go to WVU for college. She has to wear a uniform year round except every now and then, when they will have dress down days where they can choose to wear clothing from a college they hope to attend. So, of course, she jumped on the opportunity to display her love for WVU.

She if often criticized for loving a sports team from hillbilly nation. Some people even went as far as to say things like, “Don’t you know why they don’t have a CSI West Virginia? It’s because they are all closely related!” I have to admit, that is one of the more clever ways I have heard someone stereotype people from West Virginia. This witty comment did put my view into perspective, however. Even though my hometown is only a short drive away, and considerately smaller than Morgantown; stereotypes are present nonetheless. I never stopped to think that a place so close by would see us as another world. To me, it always felt the same place. After all, the people were more or less the same; same accent, same habits, and just ordinary people.




Kaylee

Re: Things to Come

As the photograph displayed on the sidebar of the blog claims, cold times are definitely ahead. The chillier days of autumn are pressing in on us, and as I type this the temperature is a mere 37 degrees Fahrenheit. The air is dry and people are gradually giving in to their winter apparel. A few flurries may be seen descending from above any day now.

Many people like me who are not fond of the cold may have a desire to move South -- anywhere South, really, as long as it's warmer. But of course the retired folk usually manage to buy up places down there, and residential areas are naturally going to be pricier there anyhow. So despite my dislike for cold, I probably won't get to be moving South anytime soon; it's when I force that fact onto myself that I'm a tad grateful for living in a place with definable seasons. Because I'm used to it. I'm going to be used to hazardous wintry roads and biting temperatures. I can't imagine it being the other way around: having to move from some nice Floridian paradise to somewhere in the mountains, completely unprepared for the colder days.

Driving on a snowy day once, my mother was frustrated by someone going exeedingly slow. The road conditions called for some caution, but this person was just overly paranoid. My mother said, "In the winter you can always tell who isn't from here."

And it's pretty true.

Taryn

Appalachian Contrast

It was fifth grade when I moved to West Virginia from Denver. The differences I immediately noticed were of the environment:

1.       There was so much more humidity.

2.       There were so many more trees.

3.       There were so many more hills.

I remember Denver’s winters being blizzard-ridden, cold, and dry. In as long as I’d lived in Denver, we’d only had one day off of school due to the snow, probably because of ease of transportation in a city built on flat terrain. Here, it’s so plagued with hills and curvy roads that a thin sheet of ice on the street is a life hazard in some parts of town, and the humidity here makes a lovely blinding veil of fog in the mornings. I was ecstatic when I’d had my first West Virginian snow day off from school—and almost awestruck when it lasted three consecutive days.

But in terms of the people, I didn’t notice much of a difference in the accents of West Virginians compared to the accents of those in Colorado, and even today when I visit Colorado I can’t pick out too many differences. But the people here—the feel here is much different to that of Denver. Even my Dad, who still lives in Colorado, commented on the people here when he was visiting. “People wave to you from their cars!” he’d marvel. “And they smile at you from the sidewalk!”  And it’s true, it’s an obvious difference between the two cities; Morgantown is a generally friendlier place than Denver. But another observation about Morgantown’s people is that the white and African American ratio is skewed. The African American population at my school is probably outnumbered by whites in a 50:1 ratio, in the most honest estimate I can provide. Whereas, in Colorado, the numbers are very different—for example, my fourth grade class (in the private school that I attended) had eight children in it, and from those eight children, four of them were African American and one was Hispanic.

I never really knew much about Appalachia until I’d moved here. The first time I'd heard the word, "Appalachia," was in my fourth grade class in Colorado. It was just a name then—the Appalachian Mountains, which, at that time, was just an inferior mountain range to the Rockies. Never had it occurred to me that Appalachia was a region until I’d visited it. Upon hearing that I’d be moving here, I had no idea that I was supposed to be expecting uneducated, moonshine-guzzling, overall-wearing gun-huggers in log cabins. Which sucks the fun out of it. Everybody visiting Appalachia should expect that :]

Haley

Accepting it

For me, Appalachia always represented my less-interesting half.

            My father grew up here, for the most part. He moved to Morgantown with his family from Rhode Island when he was eight years old, because his parents had some serious West Virginia roots. I didn’t realize just how extensive those roots were until I did a little research for my Appalachian literature class. My ancestors lived in-state before the state was a state. The earliest I could find were here around the 1750s.    

            From a pretty young age, I thought I knew what it was to be Appalachian. Appalachians were independent, but ignorant. They all played the fiddle and lived in the mountains, isolated from the rest of the world. Each and every family owned at least one gun. The women were tough and gritty as the men. The men had thick dirty beards. They were all backwards. Some still used out-houses. I preferred not to think about them.

              Instead I chose to take pride in my mother’s ancestors: Irish and Italian immigrants who came to the states via Elis Island and made lives for themselves in New York and New Jersey. Automatically I associated Italian New Yorkers with the mafia. The mafia was awesome. End of story.

            And so I blatantly ignored my West Virginia heritage and begged my parents to move us to New Jersey. We visited twice a year, usually, to be with my mother’s family for Thanksgiving and Easter. I had a host of cousins there that were very nearly my age, give or take a few years. They were fantastic playmates. The buildings were bigger and more abundant. There were people everywhere. It was more conducive to my fleeting, 7-year-old attention span. 

            For about four years after that, I requested the move at least twice a year, whenever we visited. And each year I cried when I had to wave goodbye to my cousins from the Subaru as we began our journey back home.

            But rather suddenly, around age 10 or 11, I became a social-hermit. The quiet Morgantown, West Virginia I lived in was finally rubbing off on me. My cousins were great. I loved the entire New Jersey clan, but New Jersey no longer fit me. I missed the solitude of West Virginia. Relief struck me each time we reached Appalachia again. And it was easy to tell when we did.

The houses we saw while driving on the highway grew farther apart from one another and appeared more modest. Massive, protective walls suddenly sprung up around us, taking form of the Appalachian Mountains. Everything was so green, that is unless we were coming back from Thanksgiving, and if we were, the high elevations were blanketed with a thin sheet of snow or ice. Traffic, such an issue in New Jersey, did not exist. Everything was palpably calmer and quainter. And it was beautiful. It was home.        

                                                                                    --Emma C.

Wearing Appalachia

Appalachia.

One early memory the word "Appalachia" manages to take me back to is when I was in third grade. My class was learning about something I don't even recall, but it led up to my teacher telling us that we live in the Appalachian mountains. To intrigue us more or at least give us motivation to actually tell our parents something when they ask what we "learned today at school," she told us to go home and ask our parents where the Appalachian mountains are. She said to us to tell them -- assuming, I suppose, that they played along and pretended not to know -- that, "We LIVE in the Appalachian mountains!"

So I always remember that and await the day my younger sister comes home to tell us the shocking news, too.

Of course my teacher didn't delve any farther into the topic of Appalachia anymore than the mountains. But beyond the stereotypes that connect with several states, including one state that is seemingly unknown to the entire West, there's a broad history of people, culture, and geography just like anywhere else in the world.

Though it was long ago, Appalachians were once degraded by the outside world as "mountain people" that are barbarous and reckless; some of those ideas still linger today but are certainly not as prominent. Joining together in the past due to prejudice assumptions from others would have gradually built up a fiercely independent and possibly even proud culture.

In attempt to reflect what I wrote above onto modern day Appalachia, I will take West Virginia's sports' fan base and everyday civilians into account. They have pride, and pride derives from independence and of certainly not being ashamed. Many states would claim to have "pride," as well. But allow me to bring up West Virginia University. WVU attracts not only many West Virginians but college-seeking students in neighboring states still within the boundaries of Appalachia.

To any athletic event, most people wear accessories and shirts that support the team they root for. But WVU is known for being one of the few -- if not the only -- college where people wear West Virginia shirts outside of athletic events. And such is true and not limited to students of WVU -- there's always someone out and about wearing the famous blue and gold. Even when I travel with my family to Orlando, Florida, to visit Disney World, we will occasionally come across some West Virginians wearing their home colors. My outgoing father will give a shout out to our fellow Appalachians and they always happily return the greeting. I remember once a guy asked my dad if he knew the current score of the football game going on between WVU and some other state.

Little quirks like that added to my day while I'm away from home bring a dose of nostalgia of the mountains; it's nothing that would make me homesick while in Disney World, but something to at least make me feel like lifting my head a bit and think, "Heck yeah, that's right, I'm from West Virginia," even though most people around me couldn't care less.

We are planning a trip two weeks from now to Disney World to partake in one of Disney's Halloween events. Is it ironic we're planning to not dress in costumes but rather in Mountaineer fan gear?

Taryn

Voices from Appalachia --

-- coming soon.