My Ties to Appalachia

Despite the fact that I go to school in West Virginia, I have never lived in the state. Instead, I live in Southern Pennsylvania on one of the oldest (perhaps the oldest) Shorthorn Cattle farms in the United States. It is run by my grandparents, and has been in my family for several generations. I belive the first person in my family to acquire the farm was my great great great grandfather, but perhaps it could go back even farther than that. When I think of Appalachia, I think of the vast farmland that I've become so aquainted with throughout my life.

I have ties to Appalachia from the other side of my family as well. When my grandfather was young, he had the choice of either being in the army or being a coal miner. Since he had flat feet, he was forced to choose the latter. He lived in a company house, and used the company store. It was difficult to leave the coal mine, because he was never given enough money to start a life outside of the mine. Finally, after my grandmother began to work multiple jobs, they managed to get away from the mine, but they did not stray too far. They still live in Pennsylvania, not too far from myself.

                                                                                     -F.

As a child, I'd always been under the impression that I was here in West Virginia for no particular reason. Neither of my parents was from here originally- My dad was born in Providence, R.I. and my mom in Jersey City, N.J. My mother came here to attend college (she was the first of her family to live anywhere near Appalachia, so I needn’t do any research into the West Virginian connections on her side of my gene pool), and my father's family moved here from Rhode Island when he was eight or so. It alluded me as to why both would choose to come here of all places, but I later learned that, for my mom, it had to do with the affordability of West Virginia University, and  for my father’s family, it had to do with heritage.

Both grandparents on my father’s side were born in the state. Unfortunately, both died before I came into this world so I never got to know them personally, nor do I know much of anything about them at all. My mother’s side is full of family-historians, meticulously recounting all of the clan’s goings on since they left the homeland (Ireland), but that person seems to be absent on my father’s side; no one’s keeping track, and I fear that their history will soon be lost.

Here’s what I know: my grandfather, James, was adopted. He was raised by a family in South Charleston, whose fairly uncommon surname can be encountered all over the state. That surname is mine, as well, but I know barely any of the people who share it with me; we don’t keep in touch. My grandfather’s mother’s maiden name (whoa, that’s a mouthful) is equally common in the area, and with a Google search I found that her relatives lived here in the 18^th century, looking very much like the notorious, rugged mountain people that I find so fascinating.

            I was unable to find anything regarding my father’s mother, who was born and raised in Hurricane, as she has the most common last name in the country, which could make a successful Google search quite impossible.
            Perhaps I’ll just take it upon myself to be the historian for my father’s side and interview the living members of my family. I’d enjoy that, and I’m sure there’s an excellent story or two to be told.      

                                                                                                  --Emma

Ties to Appalachia

                Ask me for my ties to Appalachia, I will instantly draw a blank. Give me a moment to think, I can give you a little. Give me a few days, I can gather a few bits and pieces more. This was asked of me, and I fought through a minor battle to gather fragile little threads of the fabric that are my ties to Appalachia. Granted, they may not be long; granted they may not be much, but they are still ties nonetheless.

                Upon asking my father of his little pieces of history, he was rather careless and kept repeating how he was from Detroit. I sensed a bit of confusion emitting from him, so I was forced to expand my questioning. I asked why he and his family moved to little old Preston County. With this look that clearly said that I should already know this, he informed me of how the family already had land here. He, obviously sensing my confusion and seeing my curiosity, went on to tell me how his father had decided to move up to Detroit to try the city life. My father was rather bored with the topic by this point, so I was forced to quickly ask some quick questions that would give me access into a little more of the history. Through the fog of my family’s history, I was able to uncover the fact that my great-grandfather was a miner of sorts with cousins in the same occupation. One of my great-grandfather’s cousins was apparently a welder who traveled to various mines. And thus ended the interrogation into the Italian part of my heritage, leaving me hungrier for more than I was before.

                Now, that was only one side of my history. It takes two beings to create a new one, correct? So, I tried to dig up the other side of my heritage and all but failed. I was able to discover that my mother’s family had lived in Preston County for some generations. And they were also German mixed with some other flavor that I couldn’t unravel. I found some hints at more members, but I was uncertain if the sources of the Internet were reliable or not, so I settled with what I found. For now.

                I took the liberty to expand on the concept of ties to Appalachia. My step-family has been part of my life for as long as I can recall. So, I decided that this entitles them to have claim to part of my Appalachian heritage. I turned to my step-mother and demanded some history from her. I discovered that the males in her family were all basically submerged into the grains of Greer. She gave me some stories of how, as a wee girl, she would wait by her door for her father to return from the limestone mine basically every night. Then, she went into a state of nostalgia and I could gain no more.

                So I give you my ties. I give you what I know. I have more to unravel. I have more to weave back together. I have so much more to learn. But here are the glimmers of the past I have. Here are the little ties. That is all I have to show.

~Chandra

Lewis Wetzel

People are always apt to learning their roots of ancestory, but usually its countries they want to know about; it's already known they're from some place like West Virginia, so it's much more interesting to be able to say they have German in them, or Italian, or French, or Irish. But in the end, despite ties with those Irish people from the past, everyone ended up here in Appalachia for one reason or another, whether it was his or her recent family migrating or a migration that took place long ago. In my Appaclachian Literature class, we took a look at our ancestory that finds its roots a bit closer to home.

As it turns out, my -- and I believe it's six greats -- uncle is Lewiz Wetzel, an Indian killer who, as Wikipedia puts it, roamed the hills of today's Ohio and West Virginia. Lewis lived through the years of 1763 and 1808. His father, John Wetzel, was a German immigrant, thus giving me that dose of an overseas country's blood in my viens.

When Lewis Wetzel was a mere boy, he and his brother were held prisoner by Indians but managed to eventually escape. From then on, Lewis promised to avenge his family, and therefore spent the majority of his days hating Indians. Lewis definitely appears heartless when it came to Indians: "He scalped the Indians he killed. He grew his hair out almost to the ground, to taunt the Indians with what would be an unmatchable trophy. The Indians gave him the nickname 'Deathwind' because of his lethal sharpshooting," Wikipedia has written. But by many Americans he was considered a hero.

The coolest part of this little tale rests with the fact that Wetzel Country, West Virginia, is named after Lewis Wetzel.

Taryn

Connection to Appalachia...

I was born and raised in Morgantown, West Virginia. However, my family moved here in 1992, a few years before I was born, for the university, so I have very little familial or personal connections to Appalachia.
I was told to go over my general family background anyway, so here goes. My parents are both from Los Angeles, California. They met studying at UCLA. My mother was born in Prague in what was then Czechoslovakia, and fled the country to America in 1968, when she was 10 years old. (They left because of the end of Prague Spring, no time to explain it here, look it up if you're curious.) My father's parents were both descended from Eastern European Jews, his mother from Polish Jews and his father from Hungarian Jews. Because my Dad is a professor, he's had to move to get jobs, first to Oklahoma for a short time where my brother was born, then to West Virginia University, where he still works. And here I am.
-E.

Im Herzen des Appalachia

Growing up in the heart of appalachia, I have never felt a more disconnect to my culture, my heritage, my history. Nevertheless, my roots are bound by German descent, specifically from Dusseldorff, Germany; a city that did not foreshadow opportunities for its' poorer citizens, as wars ravaged their farmsteads, forcing its' people to migrate westward into english colonies. Of the thousands of german immigrants, Ottie Hagedorn, my great grandmother, came over to America with her husband to start a new, more free life. Unfortunately, I know not much about the life of my great grandmother, but the rich history of her life, that is known, has been relived through stories my mom's mother, my grandmother, passed down to my mom and then my mom passed it onto me. Interestingly enough, Ottie and her husband, Clyde, were the founders of Hagedorn's Gas Co., in Dellslow, West Virginia. Althoughn it is no longer owned by any member of my family, this public car service is still in full swing! Moving right along, the only other fond memory of Ottie that i possess is that she was vocally blessed, which is ironic for myself because i personally possess absolutely no talent for the 'vocal arts,' as some of my listeners, not by choice mind you, have dubbed me permanently tone deaf! Anyways, back to my gammy, during the time of the New Deal, Eleanor Roosevelt, who proposed this economic stabilizer, went on many campaigning ventures, one of which, led her to Arthurdale, West Virginia. This is where my great grandmother met the lovely Eleanor, and in her honor, sang to her "Home Among the Hills." How incredible! Although I do not know where this event took place, I do know that Ottie was notorious around town for her talented, god-like voice, as her voice was praised by performing on many occasions, like  churches, spoecial events, and even weddings. Sadly, I never did get to meet Ottie, but her memory will not be forgotten.  
                                                                                                                                                   -Leah

Roots in Appalachia

If you were to ask me what my connection to Appalachia is, the answer would simply roll off my tongue, my grandparents. They lived here during a time when it was truly Appalachia, before the tall buildings and paved roads plastered Morgantown. My grandmother lived in Gladesville, a small rural town in Preston County. Her family owned a large farm and built what was the largest house in Preston County at that time. The house was remarkable in the fact that it had three fireplaces, one on each floor, something not common to most homes. My grandfather was raised on what is now the Kingwood Pike, when it was the only way to get to Kingwood from Morgantown. He began his career at an early age, timbering the land that is now the location of my residence. As industrious as he was, he still enjoyed his fill of mischief behaviors. Whether it was bootlegging during prohibition or being stabbed by fellow poker players, his life was rooted in the culture of Appalachia. His final career in the workforce of rural West Virginia was coal mining. Known for pranking fellow coworkers and surviving 2 coal mine disasters, his coworkers nicknamed him Old 97. A strong supporter of the Union, he continued paying dues until his death in 2007.

Although the rest of my family doesn't have such deep roots in Appalachia as my grandparents did, parts of the culture have definitely passed over. Among other assorted small things, our obsession with Bluegrass music is the most prominent. I was exposed to it at a young age and it has become one of my favorite genres. My dad took this to a new level, when he decided to learn how to play the banjo. That's a story all its own.

I almost feel sorry for the next generation of my family, knowing that they won't be able to hear first hand stories about Appalachia. Granted the culture is not going away anytime soon, but it seems to be diminishing away little by little. Change is good though, right?

Chipps

District 12 in Appalachia

I just recently completed a series I was reading purely for my entertainmeant: The Hunger Games. It's a popular young adult trilogy by Suzzane Collins that's quickly gaining popularity as the release of the first movie nears. To quickly sum up the plot, The Hunger Games revolves around the heroine, Katniss Everdeen, who lives in District 12, one of the 13 districts that make up the nation of Panem. Panem is the aftermath of our generations; supposedly we destroy ourselves in the future and from the meager remains of North America rose a communistic, violent government known as the Captiol. The Capitol controls the districts, and each district is responsible for a certain material, such as fish, livestock, lumber, electronics, etc. District 12 is responsible for coal.

I never thought much about this until my mother, who also read the series, mentioned how District 12 is mostly likely in somewhere in Appalachia due to its job of coal mining and mention of the mountains. And though it was also necessary for the plot, it is amusing how Disctrict 12 also happens to be the poorest district, always made fun of, given the least attention, and has its inhabitants living in extreme poverty. Finally, I found a map comfirming what my mother guessed:

Therefore, District 12 is located smack in West Virginia. Of course I don't know how official this map is, but nevertheless, I find it great to have these new bragging rights to anyone who is an extreme fan of the series. Collins knew what she was doing, so this wasn't mere coincidence, but I love how she kept the typical Appalachian setting for a book that takes place probably several hundred years from now.

Taryn