tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-82342157727539157812024-02-20T04:23:51.655-05:00Appalachian LifestylesStories, tales, lies, musings and daily life in the mountains of central Appalachia. Dedicated to the education of the American public on the unique culture of Appalachia.Matthew Burnshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02625103538582649633noreply@blogger.comBlogger190125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8234215772753915781.post-89553626787764221162017-05-02T20:11:00.001-04:002017-05-02T20:37:51.190-04:00Long Time On This Mountain: The Songs of Shirley Stewart Burns<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjqXdZPkKC53vqpJXyNnuU-V3dsAGoiV9EH3VlGPD_AHb8550opIkMSXNBMMuoA5DJRlIfTutix7LKY4hB5DgUO2zvadFAyepi2_CAjE1P8qWgwJY2owIGZQuVpcDXL4glBsvKjgKFkwE-g/s1600/shirleys+cd+cover.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjqXdZPkKC53vqpJXyNnuU-V3dsAGoiV9EH3VlGPD_AHb8550opIkMSXNBMMuoA5DJRlIfTutix7LKY4hB5DgUO2zvadFAyepi2_CAjE1P8qWgwJY2owIGZQuVpcDXL4glBsvKjgKFkwE-g/s320/shirleys+cd+cover.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
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You may purchase the album by sending $12 (shipping is included) to shirleystewartburns@yahoo.com using your <a href="http://www.paypal.com/" target="_blank">PayPal</a> account. Just make sure you mention somewhere in the payment that it is for Long Time On This Mountain.<br />
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Cost of Factory Sealed CD: $12.00 (shipping included for U.S. addresses). <br />
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For more information about Long Time On This Mountain: The Songs of Shirley Stewart Burns, please visit (and like) the <a href="https://www.facebook.com/LongTimeonThisMountain/" target="_blank">Long Time On This Mountain Facebook page</a>.<br />
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Long Time On This Mountain: The Songs of Shirley Stewart Burns is the latest release of my wife Shirley's original music. Due to a rare form of lung disease, Shirley's beautiful voice was silenced in the prime of her life, but her songs live on and continue to inspire music lovers from around the globe. Shirley continues to write songs about life and living in Appalachia. Each song on this album was performed by various professional musicians from throughout the Appalachian region, and was produced by the expert hand of West Virginia University School of Music professor, Dr.Travis Stimeling. <br />
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As Dr. Stimeling said of Shirley and her music: "Shirley Stewart Burns is a songwriter and historian from Wyoming County, West Virginia. Born in the heart of the state's southern coalfields, Burns's songs embrace the full range of musical traditions that she heard during her youth, from traditional Appalachian balladry to southern gospel and from bluegrass to commercial country. Burns's songs conjures the stories of the many people who have lived and worked in the region."<br />
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I think all of the readers of this blog will definitely enjoy this album. <br />
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<br />Matthew Burnshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02625103538582649633noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8234215772753915781.post-23931617801696982572017-01-23T13:47:00.003-05:002017-04-01T18:27:07.058-04:00Waiting on Dandelions<div class="MsoNormal">
I remember when I was a kid that one of the biggest events
of late winter was searching for the first dandelion. Granny always told us that they were a
promise of spring and once one was found, it wouldn’t be too much longer before
warm weather would return to the mountain.
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I’m sure the search was originally initiated to get the kids
from underfoot during the dead of winter, and to give us a purpose. After the anticipation of Christmastime had
worn off, but before the egg hiding of Eastertime, there is a long stretch of
cold, hum-drum, and did I mention cold weather.
Nothing to do but chores and hunkering down and waiting for better. For us kids, that meant go to school, come
home and carry in the night’s wood, feed the stock, have supper, do homework,
and get ready for bed. Day after
day. After day. </div>
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<span style="font-size: xx-small;">The Mouth of Burns Holler. This is where the first dandelions would always appear. Granny's old house is visit on the right, the old stone cow barn, long since lost in a flood, stood on the left side of the road.</span></div>
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Then sometime in late February, Granny
would holler at us kids as we were walking up the holler road from school and
tell us it was getting to be about time for the dandelions to come up. She always picked an unseasonably warm day to
tell us this (which I might add were uncommon in those days). Now she knew it was still too early for
dandelions on the mountain, but she also knew it would give us a sense of
purpose just when we needed it most. Once
the word was given, the hunt was on. We
would run to the house and throw down our books and bags, and head out the
door. The chores would have to wait. In hindsight, granddad and Uncle Wood usually
did the chores on the first day of the search.
It was almost as if there was a vast conspiracy to get us kids out of
the house. We knew the first blooms would
appear on the hillside between Granny’s house and the old stone cow barn, and
she would watch us search in vain for the first bloom. She’d come out on the porch and talk to us as
we searched, “now when you all find a good mess of the greens, I’ll cook us all up a good
meal. Good for the blood, they are.”</div>
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Day after day, after school, we would look for it. On Saturday mornings we would look for it. On
Sunday afternoons we would look for it. We
paid attention to the other signs of spring that would give us a clue as to
when and where it might be. I devised a
method that when the hog pen started smelling pretty ripe, it was a sign that dandelions were up. Somewhere, anyway. My methodology never really panned out but I
swore that it would someday. </div>
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<span style="font-size: xx-small;">Springtime on the Mountain. Clothesline, dogwoods, lilacs and a chickenhouse. We all think of different things when we think of springtime. This says it to me.</span></div>
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Then one day when we least expected it, there it would
be. The first bloom. It would be small, gnarled, half-frozen and
unopened, but it was the first. Whoever
found it would let out a whoop and everyone would come running. Sure enough, there it was. The finder would pick it and we’d all take
off for Granny’s house. Of course, she’d
hear us coming long before she could see us, and she would have us some treat
made up. Like molasses candy, or tater
candy or something of the like. It was
almost as if Granny knew what day we’d find the first dandelion. Looking back, I wouldn’t be surprised to
learn that Granny used to look for the first bloom while all of us kids were
away at school. Granny always did love
her dandelions.</div>
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<span style="font-size: xx-small;">A good place to find dandelions. At the right time of year, you can pick a mess in just a few minutes.</span></div>
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<span style="background-color: #f6f7f9; color: #1d2129; font-family: "helvetica" , "arial" , sans-serif;">Grandmaw's Dandelion Gravy recipe. You put it over dandelion greens. Put about 1 1/2 cups milk in skillet with 1 tsp butter or bacon grease (bacon grease preferred). Then make thickening in another bowl by combining: 2 Tbsp. flour, 1 egg, about 1/4-1/2 cup milk, stir until smooth. Add about 1 Tbsp. vinegar. Add to the milk in skillet. Salt and pepper to taste. Cook until it thickens. If not sour enough add little more vinegar to your taste.</span></div>
Matthew Burnshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02625103538582649633noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8234215772753915781.post-74196778479874958102012-04-18T15:15:00.007-04:002012-04-18T18:18:29.048-04:00Ellison Mounts & Pike County<span style="font-size: 100%; ">A couple of weeks ago, I was contacted by Jay Shepherd of the Pike County Tourism, Convention and Visitors Bureau regarding making a post about Pike County, Kentucky. I am always amenable to promoting the positive aspects of Appalachia, so after a few emails back and forth, I was excited to help promote Pike County. Jay then solicited the assistance of local historian, Jessica Forsyth, to write about an aspect of the Hatfield-McCoy Feud that took place in Pike County, Kentucky. Jessica also serves as the Director of Activities and Events for the Big Sandy Heritage Center, a local historical museum located on Hambley Blvd. in Pikeville, Kentucky.</span><div><br /><span style="font-size: 100%; "><img style="cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 144px; height: 85px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgXwY7dywLc3W8XLIrEcgJPF_jWDCHcgO2eq4dd0rc7hjixDitPlejCmsvWUss1umWOxtnjCyTR_75cPMxfd2hUw41KvMTOh8YzDE3DSOmkSL558bjPFakfLxN9tiOLXH77Unggx9IHLC2R/s400/PastedGraphic-5.tiff" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5732826366378251282" /></span><br /><br /><span style="font-size: 100%; font-family: Georgia, serif; "><i>"Ellison Mounts was Pike County’s biggest scapegoat, but also one of the lesser known roles of the Hatfield-McCoy feud. Supposedly the illegitimate son of Ellison Hatfield, Mounts was with the Hatfield boys Johnse and Calvin when they went to the McCoy home on January 1, 1888 and set the house ablaze with McCoy family members still inside. Sarah McCoy and her children ran outside to escape their burning home and chaos erupted. Johnse fired a shot before the signal was given to fire on the McCoys and a gunfight ensued between him, Calvin, Ellison, and the McCoy boys." </i><br /><br /><i>"In the panic that ensued, Calvin fired a shot, killing Alifair McCoy. The blame was not directed at him however. Instead, all eyes turned to Ellison Mounts. Mounts, being somewhat dimwitted, probably did not realize the severity of the charges or what would happen to him next."</i></span><div><i style="font-size: 100%; font-family: Georgia, serif; "><br /></i><div><span><span style="font-size: 100%; "><img src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiXcYm5JmaS_XpZV5rLXZHSzrPWx18bQW-ekmb5CxT2oolXXOCKspsT8DFCFuFtVdeNUXfGeIcUzRtTgHWhiMLZCCzT9muSfpt4CFI54D-k1CgsWlXHhm4SaXzI2O8_ebeYxYxszJAUsDB5/s400/ellisonmounts.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5732826357227862162" style="cursor: pointer; width: 300px; height: 400px; " /></span><br /><span>Ellison Mounts (photo courtesy of Pike County Tourism, Convention and Visitors Bureau).</span></span></div><div style="font-size: 100%; font-family: Georgia, serif; "><span><br /><i>"At trial, Ellison was convicted and sentenced to be hanged. He and his lawyer tried to appeal the case, but were unable to do so with a jury that had already made up their minds, as most of the county had. On February 18, 1890, Ellison Mounts was hanged on the site of the present day University of Pikeville classroom building. Thousands of onlookers turned out to witness the hanging, but laws stated that executions could no longer be public. Workers constructed a fence around the scaffold to hide the sight from prying eyes. His last words would attempt to point the blame again to the Hatfields. No one had been sent to the gallows in Pike County for forty years, and after Ellison, no one ever would be again. All the other Hatfield prisoners received life sentences in prison."</i><br /><br /><i>"The University of Pikeville, then named Pikeville College, erected residence halls and classroom buildings on the site where the makeshift gallows had stood. Today, visitors can read a marker placed by the historical society on the site. It tells of the life and trial of Ellison Mounts, and how the nation’s most famous feud claimed yet another young life well before its time."</i></span></div><div style="font-size: 100%; font-family: Georgia, serif; "></div><div style="font-family: Georgia, serif; "><br /><div style="font-size: 100%; font-style: normal; "><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEips4V-wENvkWXE2O6OYyaBN9vjwuqwT-5-9OexGVVJo-F_10LKAacCq4Hl2Wy7PSdcyyvwkuaWxXfuOWKRf6TBi5k9T75FjNMPfKd9oaFnc-pjcpbfydwOwHMxxC4ZGkE-C4CQQhdUqmbD/s1600/hanging+of+ellison+mounts.jpg"><img src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEips4V-wENvkWXE2O6OYyaBN9vjwuqwT-5-9OexGVVJo-F_10LKAacCq4Hl2Wy7PSdcyyvwkuaWxXfuOWKRf6TBi5k9T75FjNMPfKd9oaFnc-pjcpbfydwOwHMxxC4ZGkE-C4CQQhdUqmbD/s400/hanging+of+ellison+mounts.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5732826353213436674" style="cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 283px; " /></a></div><div style="font-style: normal; "><span>The Hanging of Ellison Mounts (photo courtesy of Pike County Tourism, Convention and Visitors Bureau).</span></div><div style="font-style: normal; "><span><br /></span></div><div style="font-style: normal; ">I hope everyone enjoyed reading about some of the interesting history that took place in Pike County, Kentucky. I encourage everyone to plan a visit to Pike County in the very near future. Pike County truly offers something for everyone. If you have any questions regarding your visit to Pike County, I'm sure Jay over at the <span><span><span><span><a href="http://www.tourpikecounty.com">Pike County Tourism, Convention and Visitors Bureau</a></span></span><a href="www.visitpikecounty.com"></a></span></span><a href="www.visitpikecounty.com"></a> would be more than happy to assist you.</div></div></div></div>Matthew Burnshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02625103538582649633noreply@blogger.com11tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8234215772753915781.post-79692620112271712182012-01-04T13:38:00.001-05:002012-01-04T13:40:20.035-05:00Folks Are TalkingA former feature writer and columnist on the Bluefield, W. Va., Daily Telegraph has released a double CD of oral histories titled “Folks Are Talking” from men and women he interviewed for the newspaper in the 1970s.<br /><br /> Garret Mathews, who moved to Evansville, Ind., in 1987 to write the metro column for The Courier, retired in 2011 after penning more than 10,000 articles on a variety of subjects from a 91-year-old female bootlegger in Princeton, Ky., to the members of a snake-handling church in Jolo, W. Va.<br /><br /> Mathews selected 28 of his early Daily Telegraph stories for “Folks Are Talking.” They include an early United Mine Workers organizer, a horse trader, survivors of coal mine explosions, coal camp baseball players, a child born during the deadly flood of 1977 and a female furrier who carves muskrats while eating peanut-butter sandwiches.<br /><br /> “These men and women are from a bygone era and most are long dead,” Mathews says. “I wanted to record our time together as a way of keeping their stories alive.”<br /> Music evocative of the region that includes southern West Virginia and southwest Virginia is included on the double CD.<br /><br /> Copies of “Folks Are Talking” will be furnished to public and school libraries in the two-state area as well as to historians and colleges and universities that offer Appalachian studies.<br /><br /> “It’s as I point out in the introduction: You just don’t find these folks any more,” Mathews says. “What they shared with me, I want to share with future generations.”<br /><br /> “Folks Are Talking” was featured on a recent interview segment with Joe Dashiell on WDBJ-TV in Roanoke, Va. Selections from the double CD are also being played on the public television station in Roanoke.<br /><br /> The double CD costs $17 plus $3 shipping and handling. Checks should be sent to “Folks Are Talking,” c/o Garret Mathews, 7954 Elna Kay Drive, Evansville, Indiana 47715. For more information or to listen to four of the tracks or to order online, go to www.folksaretalking.comMatthew Burnshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02625103538582649633noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8234215772753915781.post-46977402125306923022011-08-29T18:56:00.004-04:002011-08-29T19:17:28.725-04:00Second Edition of "Goin Up Gandy" Now AvailableIt has recently been brought to my attention that one of my favorite books, "Goin' Up Gandy" by Don Teter has been reissued into a second edition. Loyal readers of Appalachian Lifestyles may recall the mention of "Goin' Up Gandy" in an old post about <a href="http://appalachianlifestyles.blogspot.com/2009/03/wreck-of-dry-fork-4.html">The Wreck of the Dry Fork #4</a>. After reading that post, "Goin' Up Gandy" author, Don Teter, contacted me and let me know that the long out-of-print book was soon to be reissued in a second edition. That time has now come. I highly recommend the book and urge all readers of this blog to consider picking up a copy of this remarkable book while it is still available. It is perhaps the single best source of local history for the Dry Fork region and the surrounding areas of West Virginia.
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<br />Here is the Press Release:
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<br />"Don Teter of Monterville, West Virginia, and McClain Printing Company of Parsons, announce the release of a second edition of his book Goin’ Up Gandy, A History of the Dry Fork Region of Randolph and Tucker Counties, West Virginia.
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<br />The 135 page history was first published in 1977, but has been out of print for nearly 30 years. The new edition includes a 20 page index. The book details the history of the settlement of the area, the Civil War period, and the boom times of the logging and railroad industries in the Dry Fork, with extensive footnotes and numerous photos. A map of the area “In the age of steam” is included.
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<br />A 1969 graduate of Elkins High School, and a 1973 graduate of Davis and Elkins College, Mr. Teter holds a B.A. in History and Political Science. He has been a West Virginia licensed professional surveyor since 1982, serving as president of the West Virginia Society of Professional Surveyors in 2001, and editing the quarterly publication The West Virginia Surveyor for ten years. Don has done extensive land surveying and consulting work for the Rich Mountain Battlefield Association, the Staunton-Parkersburg Turnpike Alliance, and Historic Beverly Preservation. He is currently on the History Alive! roster of the West Virginia Humanities Council, portraying writer, artist, and Civil War topographer Porte Crayon.
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<br />Copies are available from local bookstores, McClain Printing Company in Parsons, or directly from the author at:
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<br />Don Teter
<br />HC 86 Box 32
<br />Monterville, WV 26282
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<br />or by e-mail at: <a href="mailto:teterdon@frontiernet.net">teterdon@frontiernet.net</a>
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<br />When buying directly from the author the retail price is $26.42, plus $1.58 sales tax (total $28.00). When the book is mailed an additional $3.00 is charged for shipping and handling for a total of $30.00."
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<br />Matthew Burnshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02625103538582649633noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8234215772753915781.post-71695336250204515392011-02-09T15:13:00.006-05:002011-02-09T15:35:02.167-05:00BelvedereWhen I was growing up, I was considered by my family to be the pet pig. This was because I was the baby of the bunch, and for 12 years I remained that. During this time, I was doted on and given free reign of the place, and I got by with a lot more than I probably should have.<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiwm_XaSG5Zlcp_FaULh18Har1jHm0t8AeJtugyGtVY-qMhgUKqM3vC07sBn7YpjGWDnKAx0YPRhncEKjlyD0tQGNmOQw1u2G44MctCk47vFcHT42-bqiRphbLkwzxprUfOf4sW77vZeeKQ/s1600/matthew.jpg"><img style="WIDTH: 400px; HEIGHT: 303px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5571786095002107170" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiwm_XaSG5Zlcp_FaULh18Har1jHm0t8AeJtugyGtVY-qMhgUKqM3vC07sBn7YpjGWDnKAx0YPRhncEKjlyD0tQGNmOQw1u2G44MctCk47vFcHT42-bqiRphbLkwzxprUfOf4sW77vZeeKQ/s400/matthew.jpg" /></a><br /><span style="font-size:78%;">Me at age 2. Those pants prove I was at the height of fashion.<br /></span><br /><span style="font-size:78%;"><br /></span>I’m pretty sure that I was my granddaddy’s favorite grandchild, and I could get anything out of him or do anything and it’d be just fine. He was so proud of me, he’d tell people, “That boy can drive hen shit to gunpowder.” That’s how good I was.<br /><br />Now this isn’t to say that the other kids, including my brother who is only 18 months older than I am, were slighted in any way, I’m just saying that I got by with more than my fair share because of my pet pig status.<br /><br />I remember one time when we lived on the farm, I got a BB gun for my birthday. I was out playing in the side yard and my brother was in the upstairs window, making faces at me. He apparently thought he would be safe from my vengeance, but I proved him wrong when I shot at him through the window. He dodged to the side, but I waited until he poked his head back in front of the window to see if I was still outside. When he did, I fired again, and just like that, another windowpane bit the dust. This continued until I had shot every windowlight out of that upstairs bedroom. As soon as I’d shot out the last one, Jason hollered out, “Mom…Matthew’s outside shooting out the upstairs windows with his BB gun.”<br /><br />Mom then came outside and investigated the situation and took my BB gun away, and told me I was going to have to pay for those windows, and she was taking by $2 allowance to do so. It wasn’t but maybe a half hour later, and after a long talk with my granddad, that I got back my BB gun. He also gave me $2 and told me not to shoot out anymore windows...and not to tell mother about the money!<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEisod3wiMRGGxtp0ZtJcy6nGH7OMvk7GK5dzZ-o_o61PxjPUdLmBTeHRZM9dK5kbgUEsdrGxTgaM3oKiomgOM5PxkLonNs5nkmrzkXTRKjxMJEOoRXqpHIzzQkxI2Ls3tMATFhcG_Ns4h8u/s1600/matthew_crunch_tom.jpg"><img style="WIDTH: 314px; HEIGHT: 400px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5571786098388034242" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEisod3wiMRGGxtp0ZtJcy6nGH7OMvk7GK5dzZ-o_o61PxjPUdLmBTeHRZM9dK5kbgUEsdrGxTgaM3oKiomgOM5PxkLonNs5nkmrzkXTRKjxMJEOoRXqpHIzzQkxI2Ls3tMATFhcG_Ns4h8u/s400/matthew_crunch_tom.jpg" /></a><br /><span style="font-size:78%;">Me, my Granddad and my Uncle Tom in 1986. Notice my beaver-teeth pose!<br /></span><br />I remember how I used to stay overnight with my granddad and we’d go riding around in his huge red International station wagon named “Belvedere”. Belvedere had a front seat, a back seat and an enormous back end that usually was filled with kids and chainsaws. I know those two don’t mix, but I remember always hating to have to find a seat bakc there so you wasn’t riding up against a chainsaw chain.<br /><br />One time, when I was about 5 years old, just me and my granddad was coming back from Riverton in Belvedere (by now you’ve probably realized I never missed a trip to the store). At that time, I only knew my numbers up to 100, but the speedometer in Belvedere registered up to 120 miles per hour, so of course I wanted my granddad to sink the needle in the straight stretch going out through Germany Valley so I could see it. However, since I didn't know how to say, “a hundred and twenty”, I instead said to my granddad what I knew, “Go Twelve-O, granddaddy, go twelve-O!”<br /><br />Well, Belvedere might have registered 120 mph, but it certainly couldn’t go that fast, looking back I doubt that it could have went 120 mph if it was falling straight down a well. Granddad used to have a saying about how much power Belvedere had, he would say “This ol' car couldn’t pull a sick woman off of a shitpot”. I believe that says all you ever need to know about Belvedere!!<br /><br />Let’s suffice it to say that Belvedere never did go “Twelve-O”.Matthew Burnshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02625103538582649633noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8234215772753915781.post-14314897005610410472010-10-30T22:44:00.003-04:002010-10-30T22:49:13.574-04:00The Erl-KingThis is one of my very favorite poems. I can just imagine my German ancestors living in fear of the Erl-king. What better way to celebrate All Hallows Eve than with the German folktale/song/poem, The Erl-King?<br /><br /><strong>Der Elrkonig (The Erl-king)</strong> <br />by Johann Wolfgang Von Goethe<br /><br />Who's riding so late through th' endless wild?<br />The father 't is with his infant child;<br />He thinks the boy 's well off in his arm,<br />He grasps him tightly, he keeps him warm.<br /><br />My son, say why are you hiding your face ?<br />Oh father, the Erlking 's coming apace,<br />The Erlking 's here with his train and crown!<br />My son, the fog moves up and down. <br /><br />Be good, my child, come, go with me!<br />I know nice games, will play them with thee,<br />And flowers thou 'It find near by where I live, <br />pretty dress my mother will give.<br /><br />Dear father, oh father, and do you not hear<br />What th' Erlking whispers so close to my ear?<br />Be quiet, do be quiet, my son,<br />Through leaves the wind is rustling anon.<br /><br />Do come, my darling, oh come with me!<br />Good care my daughters will take of thee,<br />My daughters will dance about thee in a ring,<br />Will rock thee to sleep and will prettily sing.<br /><br />Dear father, oh father, and do you not see<br />The Erlking's daughters so near to me?<br />My son, my son, no one 's in our way,<br />The willows are looking unusually gray.<br /><br />I love thee, thy beauty I covet and choose,<br />Be willing, my darling, or force I shall use!<br />Dear father, oh father, he seizes my arm!<br />The Erlking, father, has done me harm.<br /><br />The father shudders, he darts through the wild;<br />With agony fill him the groans of his child.<br />He reached his farm with fear and dread;<br />The infant son in his arms was dead.<br /><br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgpZ_rlXBDIDrBtLVT_TPFq2hIuGrJ7BfMHyEWhCD02l_g1wKPoFloNlWt4WggwLDfaPYw-7tAsG0cHBtlOmDD1oxKTsw3nIbDXIOqOACKyUSOlbPux11wtEoDutZB-tHUD6ith74Cq3Hsw/s1600/Erl_king_sterner.jpg"><img style="WIDTH: 400px; HEIGHT: 307px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5534035764811098050" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgpZ_rlXBDIDrBtLVT_TPFq2hIuGrJ7BfMHyEWhCD02l_g1wKPoFloNlWt4WggwLDfaPYw-7tAsG0cHBtlOmDD1oxKTsw3nIbDXIOqOACKyUSOlbPux11wtEoDutZB-tHUD6ith74Cq3Hsw/s400/Erl_king_sterner.jpg" /></a><br /><div></div>Matthew Burnshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02625103538582649633noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8234215772753915781.post-55377751238433870932010-07-22T19:53:00.004-04:002010-07-22T20:07:08.253-04:00Marked?<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgE-tHXrmNmLjOEbFhrTPg8JjpUIt89q-xgfRHSPpLqQzAbpXrgJOuz6x8p2NNxDnnQ4T7rDYoyX1ITeKdKLqVGulm5x_Ls_OKHeYwBuBCiInGQfifJLvGQh5k-jPPQYzG0GD_QfC7ISZjR/s1600/Memorial+Day+2010+053.JPG"><img style="WIDTH: 400px; HEIGHT: 300px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5496884739884058962" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgE-tHXrmNmLjOEbFhrTPg8JjpUIt89q-xgfRHSPpLqQzAbpXrgJOuz6x8p2NNxDnnQ4T7rDYoyX1ITeKdKLqVGulm5x_Ls_OKHeYwBuBCiInGQfifJLvGQh5k-jPPQYzG0GD_QfC7ISZjR/s400/Memorial+Day+2010+053.JPG" /></a><br /><br />It all began on that night so long ago. It was hot when it happened, it was sometime way down in the summertime. I remember it was about the time the crickets start to hollerin’ but before the nights start to get chilly. I remember that I was wide awake that first night because it was too hot to sleep. Me and brother slept upstairs in the little bedroom, and it was there that I first seen it. I was lookin’ out the window upon the moonlit night and watched as it casted shadows over the trees whenever a cloud happened to pass by. It was then that it happened, I see them start to crawling. It was snakes, lot of ‘em, and they kept crawling and writhing all around the sill and even tried to get traction up on the glass. Then a giant yellow snake appeared in amongst all the rest of them and it was clear to me that he was the snake king. I took to hollerin’ for Maw and Paw and soon enough they come runnin’ to find out what was the matter. By that time, brother had run over to the top of the steps as if that in some way would speed up Maw and Paw. When they finally got to me, I told them what I seen, Maw just grabbed me up in her arms and started bawlin’ and mumblin’ out loud about how I was marked. Her baby was marked. That night and every night after that I kept seeing them snakes and they kept comin’ back to the window night after night.<br /><br />Maw did what she could to keep them snakes away from the window, she put little pots of mint out on the window sill, and she would hang dried snake root inside of the window from the curtain rod. I think she knew that what she was doing was going to be of no use since they were spirit snakes, but she done it anyway. Every morning when we’d get up, those little pots of mint would be knocked out onto the ground below the windowsill, and the pots busted. The snake root would be all dried up and shriveled, and would be as black as coal. After a few nights of this, Maw talked to Granny about it because that was the only person she trusted with this information. If people were to find out that I was marked, I would have a hard row to hoe.<br /><br />Granny said it sounded to her like I was witched, and that we should see Bromie, the old woman that lived way up on the mountain. It was rumored that she was marked as a child and that she was forced to live up on the mountain, out and away from everybody else, because people was afraid of her and thought her to be evil. Granny told us to go right away because she’d always heard that spirit snakes would keep coming night after night until eventually they got inside and then I would be in real danger. Granny took out a handkerchief and put all manner of stuff in it and tied it up, and said to give it to Bromie when we went to see her.<br /><br />We left that day about noon and it took about an hour to climb up the ridge to Bromie’s little house. As was expected of callers, Maw started calling out Bromie’s name long before we got to her house so as to let her know we was coming. By the time we got to the clearing that led to Bromie’s front door, she was sitting there waiting on us.<br /><br />Maw made the appropriate niceties to Bromie and gave her the tied up handkerchief that Granny had prepared for her. Maw explained to Bromie how she thought I was marked and how the snakes was coming to me every night. Bromie, with her eyes slightly squinted, looked at me and then back at maw and said, “Nothin’ much to worry about, as long as they ain’t a yeller one in amongst them.” I blurted out, “there is a yellow one, he’s their king.” Upon hearing this, Bromie looked a bit shocked and muttered, “They must be at it again…”<br /><br />Trying to be polite about it, as quickly as she could, Maw asked if there was anything that she could do to help me. Bromie explained, “Snakes come to youngin’s a lot, especially in the heat of the summer. They sense a pure heart and if there’s one thing snakes don’t like, it’s that. But that yeller one is what bothers me. That is the boy’s soul snake. They say that everybody has a soul snake out there, but it’s seldom that the soul snake finds its match. When it does it means one of two things, either the soul snake will keep on trying to get to its match until the match dies or the match will be marked as a snake witch.”<br /><br />I remember being scared to death at what Bromie told us. Maw was too, but she was also smart. She asked Bromie was there anything that could be done to stop it. “Sure is,” Bromie said, “but it ain’t an easy thing to do. You need a snake witch to stop that yeller snake.”<br /><br />“Ain’t you a snake witch, Bromie?” I piped up.<br /><br />Blood drained from Maw’s face when I said that, she was just sure that I had offended Bromie by calling her a snake witch.<br /><br />“I was marked years ago. Young man, I’ll help you because you are pure of heart and I know you mean well. I wouldn’t wish this life on my worst enemy. Besides, I reckon I owe your Granny a great debt for all that she has helped me with over the years. I reckon I would have starved to death long ago if it hadn’t been for her leaving me jars of food and sacks of dried apples and such out in the woods where I could find them.”<br /><br />“I didn’t know Granny knew you,” I said.<br /><br />“Nobody knows it. Your Granny does things for me that nobody knows, for if they did, your Granny would be an outcast, too.”<br /><br />“She’s a good woman, that’s for sure,” Mama said, “I know what people say about you and I knew you lived up here but I never did think about it. I always reckoned you lived up her because you wanted to.”<br /><br />“I live up her because this is the only place I can live. I can’t live anywhere that would make my life an easy one, for that is when the snakes would return,” Bromie explained.<br /><br />“What causes this sort of thing. Why are the snakes bothering us my boy?” Mama asked.<br /><br />“Because they can. You see, somebody long ago witched this whole mountain, and everybody who lived on it and everyone who would ever live on it. At any given time there has to be a marked snake witch that lives on it. There can only be one snake witch at a time, but there is always going to be one that lives here on this mountain,” Bromied added.<br /><br />Mama asked, “But you said that you were a snake witch, and since you already live here, then why are they bothering my boy?”<br /><br />“I reckon we both know the answer to that,” Bromie said softly. With her eyes cast down and the gray strands of hair poking out of her old worn-out sun bonnet, “The good book says we don’t know the hour nor the day, but I reckon I’ll come closer to that than most. To be honest, I welcome the death angel even though I wouldn’t wish this life on anyone else.”<br /><br />Bromie added, “Here’s what we’ll do, you’re going to have to leave the boy with me tonight, you can stay here to if you’d like, but you can’t interrupt anything or say anything once the sun goes down. Now I mean that, you don’t know the things I know so I’m only going to tell you once that if you stay, you can’t do or say anything once that sun goes down until the sun comes up tomorrow morning.”<br /><br />“I understand,” Mama affirmed, “but I would like to stay with the boy. I’m going to have to go down and tell everybody where I’ll be staying tonight so they won’t worry, but I’ll be back long before dark.”<br /><br />“Just leave the boy with me,” Bromie stated, “we have work to do anyway.”<br /><br />I was scared to be left there with Bromie, but I trusted her. She knew my Granny and that meant a lot in my book. We watched as Maw made her way down the path on the ridge, and when she was out of earshot, Bromie turned to me and said, “Young Gentleman, what you say we get to work.”<br /><br />From an old pasteboard box up on a shelf, Bromie took out a little black book. “This here is the Sixth and Seventh Books of Moses. It has everything we need to stop these snakes. Now, I’m going to have to make you sleep in a burlap sack but we need to keep it covered with a quilt at all times. I know it is going to get powerful hot under there, but that is what we need to do. I promise I won’t hurt you and I’ll do my best to see that those snakes don’t either.”<br /><br />It seemed like a short time when Maw came walking back up the ridge. I reckon it seemed so short to me because me and Bromie had been making plans for that night. She read the books over me, and did some chants, and she tied some roots onto a piece of twine and told me to hang it around my neck. She told me to take off my shoes so I’d be more comfortable, and she took them from me as I pulled them off my feet. It wasn’t long after Maw got back that we ate a bite of supper and waited on darkness to arrive.<br /><br />That night it was dark. Real dark. There was no moon at all, and there was no breeze to speak of neither. It was stifling. Bromie said, “Yep, they ain’t going to make it easy on us.”<br /><br />Bromie told Maw to settle in somewhere in the room and to stay put, and remember what she had told her earlier.<br /><br />Bromie put me in the sack, only my shoulders and head were out of it, and she covered that with a big, heavy quilt. “What keeps out cold will keep out heat,” she said as she prepared me for bed. “Try and get some sleep if you can. It’d be better if you didn’t know what was going to happen anyway.”<br /><br />I was tired from walking so far that day, and the heat just took it out of me. As uncomfortable as I was, it wasn’t long before I was fast asleep. Maw stayed awake and heard Bromie praying over me, and watched as she opened all of the windows and the door and welcomed in all spirits that was seeking me. Maw said she seen it with her own eyes, it wasn’t long after Bromie started calling up the spirits that a giant yellow snake poked it head in the door from out in the darkness. It looked around and slithered in and toward the bed where I lay.<br /><br />Making slow, deliberate movements, Bromie made her way toward the open door and she quietly shut it, and one by one, she closed the windows. Then she picked up a large clay pot and loudly started chanting in a tongue Maw had never heard. When she started that chanting, Maw said that ol’ snake just froze in its path and turned and looked at Bromie. She kept right on singing and slowing lowering the pot down to the snake. Just then, the snake reared up on its tail and swayed back and forth. Bromie paid it no mind and kept on with her chanting. The snake began to coil and strike out at the darkness, but Bromie continued her chanting. Then, the snake turned toward the bed where I lay and started coming closer and closer. Bromie kept right on singing, though now a little louder and with more feeling. Maw said she could tell things was getting very tense. Maw said that snake laid its head right down on the foot of that bed but then turned back toward Bromie and that clay jar. Then in one fluid movement, it made a great lunge at Bromie. Just as quickly, Bromie threw up the open jar in front of her and the snake went right into it. Bromie quickly put a lid on it, and with seemingly otherworldly skill, she grabbed up a bundle of herbs of some sort and lit them and threw them into the pot, and then she sat down on top of it.<br /><br />After a few minutes, and much thrashing about inside of the clay jar, Bromie turned to Maw and said, “I believe that will do it. You can speak now.”<br /><br />Without saying a word, Maw just lay there, and remained silent. Bromie repeated herself but Maw again ignored her.<br /><br />Morning came in a few hours and the light of day brought with it some remarkable sights. Bromie was sitting on the front stoop when Maw walked outside. “I reckon you seen things last night that you never hoped you would.”<br /><br />“Yes,” Maw said matter of factly. “I don’t reckon there is much any of us can say about that.”<br /><br />“I’m glad you remembered what I had told you. You see, when that soul snake went in that pot and I threw the burning brand in on him, part of that spirit went into me. That is why I am marked,” Bromie continued, “all snakes great and small, spirit or living, can share my body. I wish it wasn’t so, but it is what it is. If you had of answered me or made any movements, that spirit probably would have attacked you, and there wouldn’t have been anything I could have done.”<br /><br />“Can you tell me why that snake went for you instead of the boy on the bed, since it was the boy it was seeking?” Maw asked.<br /><br />“Well you see, while you were gone, I had the boy take his shoes off and give them to me. I put the shoes down in the clay pot. I knew that soul snake would get the scent of the boy from those shoes. Of course,” Bromie added, “the boy still had his scent on himself, that is why I gave him a charm to hang around his neck that kills scent, and I had him sleep in a burlap sack that I had gathered chamomile in last month so the burlap also hid some of his scent. The quilt on top is the one I use to lay out my drying herbs in the sun. I never use it so it wouldn’t have people scent on it. That helped cover up his scent even more, and it would have protected him had the soul snake tried to attack him.”<br /><br />She continued, “I reckon you heard that singing that I done. It is part of being a snake witch. What I done was use those words to put that soul snake into a trance. One it was in the clay jar, I threw in the cleaning herbs which ridded this world of that spirit. You’re boy will not be bothered by snakes again. I just want you to know that what I done wasn’t evil, what I done is straight out of the good book, from the Sixth and Seventh Books of Moses. Most people just don’t know where to look for those books. I don’t want you thinking that I was witching the boy.”<br /><br />“Bromie,” Maw said, “I want you to know that I will forever be indebted to you for what you have done. I don’t think you are evil and I want you to know that you are welcome to visit our home any time that you want. You will always find a plate set at our table for you.”<br /><br />“Oh no, you mustn’t do that, people will shun you as they have me,” Bromie pleaded.<br />“I reckon I can invite to my home whoever I want to” Maw replied. “Besides, Granny must set a great store by you to have helped you out all the years as you said she has done, so you must be a good person. I reckon between me and Granny, we can set the old gossipmongers to packing should they ever utter a bad word about you in our presence.”<br /><br />“I’ll not hear anyone speak ill of you in my presence.” Maw added, “You’ll find that I am loyal to those that are loyal to me and mine, and what I seen you do last night was far above and beyond what I have ever seen anyone do for us. So if you ever find yourself down on our property and see something you want, why you just take a share of it and all will be well. That way, you can still live the way you must and we will be able to begin to repay you for all that you have done for us.”<br /><br />Bromie just said, “I’d appreciate it. I reckon now that I have done what I done, the snakes will rethink their plans about replacing me with somebody younger. I suspect they’ll come around and aggravate me for some time to come but nothing I ain’t used to. I’ve been marked now, oh, going on 70 years. That’s why I reckon I done what I done. I couldn’t bear the thought of that youngin’ in there having to live like I’ve had to live all these years. Like I said before, I wouldn’t wish this life on my worst enemy.”<br /><br /> <a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjEXERRRxRmdjb3Adp8QCc-W1RuPF9kGMg3KORVC-FfGrtJrgLEwtR6vpNUVqja9VdtluCHmPPuxZOdIcb0lHNZcD7vS4prF4wmAI9lryUCKDwfBFQNOcA1vN7n1fM48XMNrGxmYN4DycyH/s1600/Memorial+Day+2010+075.JPG"><img style="WIDTH: 400px; HEIGHT: 300px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5496884758704206322" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjEXERRRxRmdjb3Adp8QCc-W1RuPF9kGMg3KORVC-FfGrtJrgLEwtR6vpNUVqja9VdtluCHmPPuxZOdIcb0lHNZcD7vS4prF4wmAI9lryUCKDwfBFQNOcA1vN7n1fM48XMNrGxmYN4DycyH/s400/Memorial+Day+2010+075.JPG" /></a>Matthew Burnshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02625103538582649633noreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8234215772753915781.post-55044644347598845102010-06-24T10:59:00.007-04:002010-06-24T11:17:56.579-04:00Jack Learns a Lesson<em>With apologies to the "real" Jack Tales of Appalachia...</em><br /><br /><strong>Jack Learns a Lesson in Honesty</strong><br />by Matthew Burns<br /><br />Did you ever hear the one about Jack getting a lesson in honesty? No. Well then, it’s about time you hear it then don’t you think? You see, one time, I always heard it was up around Helvetia or thereabouts, there was a boy named Jack. Well, Jack wasn’t quite a boy but he still wasn’t no man either, he was at that age when he was caught somewhere in between the two. Jack was the oldest boy of the family, some would say the man of the house since his Daddy got kilt in a log jam back a few years before. As you might imagine, the family was pretty poor, as the old saying went, “they didn’t have a pot to go in, nor a window to through it out of.” The family still had a few acres of rocky ground, poor land though it was, almost too poor to even raise a fuss. <br /><br />Well one day, Jack’s mama looked into the gaunt faces of her children and knew she had but one option. She was going to have to sell the family cow. She loved that cow, having raised it up from a calf, but them was better times in better days, and even though the family would be at a loss for milk, there just wasn’t no way around it. They needed flour and meal and salt and sugar and maybe even a little coffee if they were to get through the coming winter. So it was with a heavy heart and a troubled mind that she gave Jack instructions to take the cow down into a nearby town and try to get as much out of it as he could, and she give him a list of foodstuffs to buy while he was in town. She told Jack not to take less than fifteen dollars for the cow, for if he couldn’t fetch that price he might as well bring it back home and they would keep it and make due the best they could. <br /><br />Well, ol’ Jack was about a sharp as a box sled, though he fancied himself an intelligent person. He reckoned he could fetch a big price for the cow if he could figure out a way to talk the cow up to prospective buyers. He studied on this as he began the long journey down to town. <br /><br />On the way, he stopped in the creek at the foot of the mountain, and while holding the halter on the ol’ cow, he clenched handfuls of white sand off the bottom of the clear stream and scrubbed that cow down from head to hoof. He then fashioned a comb out of a hickory limb and combed the cow, freeing her hair of briers, sticks and mud. Jack stepped back to admire his handiwork and reckoned that it would at least double the value of the cow. Jack was stepping mighty high as he led the cow on down the path toward town. <br /><br />They weren’t long on the path until they came upon a pine grove. Jack was happy to see it for the path under the pine grove was shaded and cool, and it had been a long trek off of the mountain. Jack noticed that several of the pine trees had great balls of sap welled up on their bark. He touched one of them as he passed, and found it to be very sticky. He rubbed his fingers together to free his hands of the sap, but the more he rubbed his hands, the more he spread the sap around. Soon though, the path came upon another creek and Jack was able to scrub the sticky sap from his hands. <br /><br />After the few minutes it took for the cow to drink its fill, they were again on their way, and quickly passed out from under the shade of the pine patch. As he walked out into the bright sun, Jack gasped as he saw his hands and forearms where the sap had been, they were literally shining in the sunlight. So using his vast intellect, Jack quickly came upon another idea, he would mix some of the runny sap with water and he would rub the cow down with the mixture to make her extra shiny and appealing. She’d be the best looking cow in town after he shined her up. After much deliberate trouble, Jack soon had the cow shined and spiffied up, never had he saw a cow look so good as the old family milk cow. <br /><br />It was nearing mid-afternoon when Jack led the clean, curried and shining cow into town. He was walking with his head heisted high like he was leading a fine stallion. He began announcing as he passed townspeople, “Cow for sale. Make me an offer. Ain’t she a beauty. Fattened on mountain pastures. She’s a fine milker. There ain’t another cow like this in all of town. Make me an offer.”<br /><br />Jack saw a few men loading their wagon by one of the stores in town. He slowly passed them, making sure to give them his sales pitch. One of the men there asked him, “How old is that cow?” To which Jack answered, “Not a day over three years, sir. As you can see, she still has her youthful shine about her.” The man, as it turned out, was the store keeper in town and though not fooled by Jacks spit-and-polish antics, told Jack he could see that the cow had been well cared for, and since he was in the market for a good cow, offered Jack twenty dollars in cash or thirty dollars in credit at his store.<br /><br />Jack looked quite indignant at the offer, “Sir, surely you can’t expect me to part with this fine animal for that paltry sum. Surely this cow is worth much more than you offer.” The storekeeper merely replied, “That’s what I can do on her,” to which Jack responded, “Then I shall bid you good day, sir.”<br /><br />As Jack made another round through town, he remembered his mother had told him to take no less than Fifteen dollars for the cow, but he reckoned with all the improvements he had made to the cow, she was worth at least Fifty Dollars. And by the way the townspeople were looking at his fine cow, he was sure that his mother would agree. <br /><br />It wasn’t too much longer that Jack came upon a man and wife, coming out of an attorney’s office. Jack started announcing his sales pitch again as he passed, “Cow for sale. Make me an offer. Ain’t she a beauty. Fattened on mountain pastures. She’s a fine milker. There ain’t another cow like this in all of town. Make me an offer.” Finally, the well-dressed man said to him, “Hold up there son, that’s a mighty fine looking animal that you are leading. I heard you say that she is for sale. How much, might I ask, would it take for me to take her off your hands?”<br /><br />“Why sir, I can see that you have a good eye when it comes to livestock,” Jack said, “there’s not another cow such as this in all of the county. What would you offer for such a one of a kind animal?”<br /><br />“Well young man, my wife and I are new in town. We hail from Old Virginia, and I haven’t seen a cow shine so since I left my home in Chesterfield County. I don’t know the going rate for cows in these parts, but I will make you an offer of Fifty Dollars and a fine meal in exchange for that cow.”<br /><br />Pausing while he pondered this offer, Jack reckoned he’d better not take the first offer the man gave him, he reckoned he had heard a hundred times from countless people to never take the first offer someone makes you for anything. With this in mind, Jack politely said, “Sir, it is true that your offer is above what cows generally cost in this county, but surely you would agree that this isn’t just an ordinary cow. You said yourself that she shines like a low country cow. I’m afraid I just can’t let her go for a mere Fifty Dollars.”<br /><br />“I understand your hesitation, young man,” said the man, but as I said, my wife and I are new in town. I have just opened up a law firm here, and I don’t feel comfortable investing more than that into a milk cow at this time. I’m sorry we couldn’t do business.”<br /><br />“Well, thank you for your time, sir,” Jack responded, “have a good day, but I must bid you goodbye since I must find a buyer for this fine beast before nightfall.”<br /><br />Jack made a few more rounds in town, but by that time it was beginning to get late in the afternoon and the town was starting to clear out. Though disappointed, Jack wasn’t too very concerned, after all he had already gotten two offers for the cow, and it was only the first day. He reckoned if worse came to worse, he could always come back tomorrow to make a deal. He reckoned after the storekeeper and the attorney slept on it, and had the idea of owning this fine animal fermenting in their minds, they’d gladly meet his price. It was clear after a few more minutes, it’d be best f he made his way back out to the creek that he had crossed over on the path into town earlier in the day so the cow could graze and drink her fill at the creek. After arriving at the creek, Jack began looking for a good place to make camp, and he settled on a quiet spot just off the main path, under a big pine tree with grass and a small stream nearby. He quickly make a crude camp, pulling dry grass for him a bed and building a small campfire to keep away any roving night critters and biting insects. As the evening gave way to night, Jack waited until the cow bedded down for the night before feasting on cornbread and sweet milk, which he had freshly milked a few minutes earlier. After he ate, he began to thinking again of his cow. He reckoned tomorrow he wouldn’t take a penny less than One Hundred Dollars for her, fine animal that she was. <br /><br />The next morning, Jack was awakened by the gentle sounds of the cow grazing nearby. He looked over at her, and was shocked by what he saw. The dampness of the night had caused all of that pine resin he had rubbed her down with the previous day to form little balls and it was all matted and caked in her hair. He then noticed that her whole one side was coated with pine needles where she had bedded down under the pine tree. All of a sudden, anger washed over him and he started screaming at the cow, calling it stupid, and telling it how it was a worthless animal that didn’t have sense God gave a goose. He swarped for a good ten minutes at the beast who calmly continued to graze on the green grass.<br /><br />After he calmed down, Jack knew the only thing he could do was try to clean the cow in the stream. He soon found the task to be nigh on to impossible. You see, the dried and matted pine resin just repelled the water, and the cow wouldn’t allow him to try and brush the hardened beads of it out of her hair. He did manage, however, to get most of the pine needles out of the mess. <br /><br />The thoughts of all that lost money weighed heavy on his mind as he made his way back into town. This time, rather than parading through the streets trying to make a sale, Jack decided to approach the attorney to see if the Fifty Dollar offer that had made the day before was still good. As he walked into the office, the attorney quickly recognized him and bade him a good morning. He half-jokingly asked Jack, “So young man, are you here to settle up on a land deal that you have made with all the money you surely derived from the sale of that fine cow.” <br /><br />“No sir,” replied Jack, “I came to see if your offer of Fifty dollars still stands.” <br /><br />The attorney looked upon Jack, quite puzzled, “But young man, what has changed between yesterday and today? Surely the cow didn’t lose value overnight. Perhaps we should take a look at the beast to see if there is a problem.” Jack assured him that it was the same cow that he looked at yesterday, but told him they had spent the night camped out by yonder creek, so she might not look as fresh as she did yesterday, but indeed it was still the same animal. The attorney said he’d like to take another look if he was to pay fifty dollars for a milk cow. Jack reluctantly took him to the cow, which had been tied out back of the office. <br /><br />“What is this!” exclaimed the attorney.<br /><br />“Why it is my fine cow that you looked at yesterday,” Jack calmly replied.<br /><br />“But what is this…” the attorney inquired, touching the gummy substance that was matted in the cow’s hair. <br /><br />“Nothing more than some pine resin,” said Jack. “She bedded down under a pine tree last night and it must have dripped down on her as she slept.”<br /><br />“But her shine, it is gone. What happened to your beautiful cow’s sheen?”<br /><br />Jack didn’t have an answer, but the attorney quickly figured it out. “Young man,” he said, “it appears that you have tried to take me for a fool. This cow has no shine to her coat, it appears you were trying to make her appear more vigorous than she really is. Furthermore, it appears you are trying to take advantage of a stranger to this land. I’m sorry young man, but I will not be doing business with you, and I can only offer you some advice, never come to me asking me a favor for I will not be so kind at our next meeting. Good day to you.”<br /><br />Jack was dumfounded. He still felt he had done nothing wrong, he was merely trying to make the cow look her best so she could fetch a better price. He thought the attorney was just overreacting so he decided to call upon the storekeeper to set about making a deal.<br /><br />Jack made his way to the back of the store, and tied the cow in an out of the way area. He entered the store, whereupon he was immediately greeted by the storekeeper, “Good morning young man, did you ever pawn that played out milk cow off onto anybody?” <br /><br />Incredulously, Jack responded, “What do you mean, sir, my cow is a vision of vim and vigor.”<br /><br />“Young man, I’ve seen every trick in the book come through here, although I must admit, yesterday was the first time I have ever seen someone fool enough to rub pine resin into the coat of a milk cow. My guess is you never sold the cow yesterday and this morning you found all that resin balled up in little pellets? Am I close?”<br /><br />“Well sir…,” Jack stammered, until deciding to come clean, “Yes sir, but I didn’t mean no harm by it, I was just trying to fetch a good price for our cow because mama told me to try and get as much out of it as I could.”<br /><br />“So you’re mama put you up to doing it?”<br /><br />“No sir. Mama don’t know nothing about what I did. That is all on me. She just meant for me to not get taken advantage of.”<br /><br />“But it was alright for you to take advantage of others,” questioned the storekeeper.<br /><br />“I didn’t mean nothing by it, I swear I didn’t.”<br /><br />“Young man, I knew that you were trying to put one over on some unsuspecting victim yesterday when you turned down my offer of twenty dollars cash or thirty dollars in goods. Around here that is a fortune to get for a cow. I offered you that amount because I admired your initiative. I just never knew how greedy you were until you declined my offer,” the storekeeper chided him.<br /><br />“I’m awful sorry about that, sir. I do apologize.” Having taken enough of this tongue-lashing, Jack decided it was best if he just left, “Now, if you’ll excuse me, I guess I’d better be heading back home.”<br /><br />“Hold up, young man,” interrupted the storekeeper, “Did you come in here to try and sell me the cow, again.”<br /><br />“I did, sir, and again, I apologize, but I can tell you are no longer interested in buying the cow.”<br /><br />“Then let that be a lesson to you. Twice you tried to take advantage of me, and twice I forgave you.” The storekeeper continued, “Now young man, if you are through trying to take advantage of me, then I really am interested in buying that cow.”<br /><br />“Really, sir,” Jack questioned, “For the thirty dollars in goods?”<br /><br />“No boy, that was yesterday’s price. Let’s go have a look at the cow and we’ll try and settle upon a fair price.” As they were walking out to see the cow, the storekeeper asked Jack how many siblings he had. <br /><br />“Four,” answered Jack, “but I’m the oldest.” <br /><br />“Let’s see then. Five youngins and selling the family milk cow. Things must be pretty hard for your family,” the storekeeper commented.<br /><br />“Yes sir, they have been since my paw died. Mama didn’t want to sell our cow but we need other things worse, I reckon,” Jack confessed.<br /><br />“That’s mighty noble of her. I’ll tell you what, I’m not going to buy your cow, but I would like to accompany you back home to meet your mother.”<br /><br />Jack didn’t know what to say except, “it’s a far piece, it’ll take the better part of the day.”<br /><br />“Well then young man, just let me tell my assistant and we will be on our way.”<br /><br />That evening when Jack arrived back home with the cow in hand, his mama looked very forlorn and defeated about his returning without any foodstuffs. He was only beginning to tell her about his trip when she saw the strange man coming through the yard gate. <br /><br />“Jack, who is that?” his mama asked.<br /><br />“Mama, this is the storekeeper for in town. He said he wanted to talk to you about something. He wouldn’t tell me even though I told him I was the man of the house.”<br /><br />“Ma’am,” The storekeeper formally greeted her. “Might I have a word with you,” she nodded to the affirmative and invited him in to share the meager meal she had prepared for Jack.<br /><br />Jack was just sure the storekeeper was going to tell mama about what he had done, and he knew she would be so ashamed of him and she’d probably wear him out with a cornstalk. It seemed like hours before the storekeeper came out of the house, when they did all Jack heard was the storekeeper telling his mother to send Jack down to the store tomorrow.<br /><br />Jack also heard his mother tell the storekeeper that he was welcome to stay the night, but the storekeeper declined, saying he’d best on his way before more daylight was lost.<br /><br />After the storekeeper left, Jack asked his mother what they had been talking about, and what was meant by the storekeeper telling her t send him to the store tomorrow.<br /><br />“Well Jack. Never underestimate the kindness of strangers. That kind man just offered to buy all the butter, cheese and eggs we can supply him with, and he is offering us good prices for them, too. He said he knows how hard it must be for us, because his mama brought him up without a Daddy and he remembers how they went without food many a day. He’s offered to give us an advance that will cover our corn and salt and whatever else we need, and he said as long as we treat him fairly, he will treat us fairly.”<br /><br />She didn’t mention anything about his deceitful plans in trying to sell the cow. Jack reckoned it was his punishment that he had to carry the guilt around inside of him. When he thought of it, he had to excuse himself for a few moments by saying he’d better go check on the cow. He didn’t know what to think about the opportunity that had just presented itself to his family, all Jack knew was he had certainly learned a valuable lesson over the past two days.Matthew Burnshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02625103538582649633noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8234215772753915781.post-3906306900177153772010-04-22T13:23:00.005-04:002010-04-23T10:41:40.990-04:00West Virginia: Land of Tomatoes?It's getting to be that time of year again. Time to be getting your tomato plants out into your garden. It seems that everyone I know has a few varieties that they swear by and plant year after year. Many people prefer to buy their plants every year from local greenhouses, since that is often the most convenient way for them to do it, however, many "tomato purists" prefer to grow their own plants from seed, especially if they have their own tomato secrets.<br /><br />The flavor of a tomato will vary greatly based on variety and soil. So if you grow an Old German tomato in Cabell County, WV, it will likely taste somewhat different than one grown in Pendleton County, WV. Not better or worse, just different. <br /><br />With all of the recent interest and popularity of heirloom tomatoes, I thought I'd do a little research on West Virginia Heirloom tomatoes. I was aware of a few varieties of West Virginia Heirloom tomatoes before starting this research, after all, my family has long sworn by the merits of West Virginia Centennial tomatoes because of their resistance to blight, and for flavor, nothing can even begin to come close to the Old German. Regardless of the variety you choose for your garden, remember, heirloom varieties are usually more flavorful and unique than hybrid varieties commonly found in greenhouses of the region. <br /><br />I recall that my granddad always grew Early Girl tomatoes (a hybrid) because they ripened the earliest in the season, but he would always back up his Early Girl's with a more flavorful variety, usually Old German's. It was always sight (and sometimes a smell) to behold when visiting his house in the late summer heat. Nobody I knew had air conditioning then, so we would all gather on the front porch. Incidentally, this was also the location where Granddad would store all of his ripe tomatoes. He had a huge shelf at the end of the porch, right beside of the porch swing, where he would place nearly ripened tomatoes. In the late afternoon, the yellow jackets would be attracted to the sweet smell of the ripe tomatoes, and it seems we were always swatting them away. Nobody ever did anything about removing the tomatoes from the front porch, so I suppose dealing with the yellow jackets was all part of the experience of tomato time at granddad's house.<br /><br />I asked my granddad one time, why did he pick the tomatoes when they were nearly ripe and sit them up to ripen, when he could just as easily let them ripen on the vine. Chickens, he said. Chickens will peck a ripe tomato faster than a flea will jump on a dog's back. So to protect his tomatoes, he would always pick them, and sit them on the porch shelf to complete the ripening process. Fencing the garden to keep out the chickens was unheard of, this was just how things were done. Then you had personal preferences coming into play, some of the family liked firm, tart tomatoes, so they would choose from the bounty, the newest specimens, as they were still not quite fully ripe. These tended to be firmer. Other family members preferred "mooshy 'maters", those were the quite often, over-ripened individuals that were almost ready for the slop bucket. Many days, i'd see my mother make herself a mooshy 'mater sandwich and watch the juice drip from her elbows. The tomatoes would be that juicy and ripe. When the tomatoes became over ripe, even past the "mooshy 'mater" stage, they would end up in one of the slop buckets around the corner of the house. Every morning and evening, my granddad would inspect his bounty and pick out the worst of the lot, and off they'd go to the hogs. I should also mention that the tomatoes on the porch were also home canned and put up for winter, but as anyone who grows tomatoes will know, when you are blessed with a bounty of tomatoes, they will cover you up. <br /><br />No matter where you live, and whether you prefer hard, meaty tomatoes or mooshy 'maters, I urge you to consider planting a couple of varieties of West Virginia Heirloom tomatoes in your garden this year. I'll think you'll be happy you did. <br /><br />Below is a list that I have compiled of West Virginia Heirloom Tomato Varieties, it is not a complete list, and if you know of others, please let me know. To obtain any of these varieties, a simple google search will locate a retailer who will be happy to hook you up, and remember, if you save a few of your West Virginia Heirloom tomato seeds after this growing season, you can plant them again next year. Who knows, perhaps someday, you will have developed an heirloom variety of your own.<br /><br /><strong>West Virginia Heirloom Tomato Varieties:</strong><br /> <br /><em>1884<br /><br />Akers WV<br /><br />Armenian<br /><br />Belgium<br /><br />Big Sandy<br /><br />Bilder<br /><br />Bowers<br /><br />Cindy's West Virginia<br /><br />Cornish<br /><br />Cosner<br /><br />Dr. Suds Capon Bridge<br /><br />Germaid Red<br /><br />Gallo Plum<br /><br />Giant Syrian<br /><br />Golden Ponderosa<br /><br />Hillbilly<br /><br />Homer Fike's Yellow Oxheart<br /><br />Irish Pink<br /><br />Kellogg’s Breakfast (there is some dissent on whether this is actually a WV Heirloom, but we’ll claim it as one of our own).<br /><br />Mortgage Lifter <br /><br />Mountaineer Mystery<br /><br />Mountain Princess<br /><br />Old German<br /><br />Paw Paw<br /><br />Striped German<br /><br />Tappy’s Finest<br /><br />Toensfeldt <br /><br />Transparent <br /><br />Watermelon Pink<br /><br />West Virginia <br /><br />West Virginia 63<br /><br />West Virginia Centennial<br /><br />West Virginia Penitentiary<br /><br />West Virginia Straw<br /><br />West Virginia Yellow<br /><br />Yellow Cookie</em><br /><br />So which West Virginia Heirloom varieties would you like to try this year? Have you tried any of them in the past? What were your experiences with them? <br /><br />I'd better end this post quickly, suddlenly i'm feeling the need for a great big "mooshy 'mater" sandwich fresh from granddad's front porch.Matthew Burnshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02625103538582649633noreply@blogger.com9tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8234215772753915781.post-25717430196507326142010-04-08T13:17:00.002-04:002010-04-10T10:41:11.939-04:00Hope in the Redbud TreesI was looking at the blooming redbud trees up on the mountain<br />And eating what was left of my chocolate Easter rabbit,<br />When mama came running out of the kitchen door, hollering about how<br />There was something going on down at the mine.<br /><br />Mawmaw jumped in the car, and drove us down to the mine.<br />She kept repeating over and over, “My baby, my baby...”<br />I ran after mama and mawmaw as they made their way to a crowd,<br />Who were gathered near the mine gates. <br /><br />Some woman in a loud, white Pontiac pulled up.<br />Her radio was playing a Patsy Cline song.<br />Tears had cut through the make-up on her face.<br />She carried with her a picture of her husband, who was in the mine.<br /><br />Some miners came around, telling how there was an explosion,<br />They just shook their heads, and said it was bad. Real bad. <br />Mama began to pray aloud, and the crowd hushed with bowed heads.<br />I just watched the mine and waited for Daddy to come out.<br /><br />More people gathered around. Rumors ran wild.<br />The air was tense; strangers cried on each other’s shoulders.<br />Fire trucks and rescue squads arrived, some from places I’d never heard of.<br />But no news from the company ever came around.<br /><br />The news people came with their lights and big camera’s.<br />They were trying to interview people for the evening news. <br />They were looking for answers, just like everybody else.<br />With melted chocolate covered hands, I waved to them.<br /><br />A preacher went over to the camera people,<br />He asked them to leave the families alone for awhile,<br />On TV, he asked viewers for pray for the miners and their families.<br />The news people went away, out to the road, and stopped people to talk to.<br /><br />Word came around that seven men were dead.<br />More were trapped inside. Nobody knew exactly who or how many.<br />Everybody waited for news and for the company to update them,<br />And they clung to hope as the evening slipped into night.<br /><br />Some men from a rescue squad came over.<br />Many of them were crying, but more of them were trying not to cry.<br />They shared some of the names of the dead they’d seen on a list.<br />The names of the dead went through the crowd, repeated from every lip.<br /><br />When the names reached mama, she let loose a cutting scream,<br />And mawmaw fell to the ground and sat there holding her head in her hands.<br />With forced strength, mama whispered to me, “Baby, your daddy went with Jesus.” <br />Through my tears, I saw the blooming redbud trees up on the mountain.Matthew Burnshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02625103538582649633noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8234215772753915781.post-83895008281008510982010-02-25T11:57:00.008-05:002010-02-25T15:17:11.244-05:00A Look Back at Bee Tree Creek<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhxW5pa9MJm2VVSHsk-F530t_i0e-o8sYYxKAcnMOWxZKvQsaNsOMR-zMJ_glOYBbMJMZI4OZRjmTTdQS5Cg1mNyFQz1Ma_WdtDZQUENgS1RwAsN-2McBsOvRcYNWHTSKHHHqrmTB7HGgc6/s1600-h/Samuel+Paris+McKinney.jpg"><img style="WIDTH: 315px; HEIGHT: 359px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5442226612810823458" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhxW5pa9MJm2VVSHsk-F530t_i0e-o8sYYxKAcnMOWxZKvQsaNsOMR-zMJ_glOYBbMJMZI4OZRjmTTdQS5Cg1mNyFQz1Ma_WdtDZQUENgS1RwAsN-2McBsOvRcYNWHTSKHHHqrmTB7HGgc6/s400/Samuel+Paris+McKinney.jpg" /></a><br /><em>Samuel Paris McKinney (1822-1898)<br /></em><br /><br />The following story is about my wife Shirley's great-great-great grandfather. This story has been handed down for several generations, and was shared with me. Now I am sharing it with you.<br /><br />Samuel Paris McKinney was born in 1822, and he lived most of his life in the rugged, wild mountains of Wyoming County, West Virginia. He received a land grant on Barker's Ridge where he made his home, but more often than not, could be found near his favorite hunting spot on Bee Tree Creek (which borders present day Wyoming and Raleigh counties). In Samuel Paris' days, there weren't many people in the Bee Tree Creek area and the hunting was excellent, perhaps even the best in the region. It was also considered so wild of an area that many men avoided it. People told tales of ferocious animals, evil spirits and even wild Indian hold-outs when speaking of the area. The tales grew even more frightening when they spoke of the great laurel thicket, a defining feature of the area. Samuel Paris liked it when he heard these stories; to him as long as people were afraid of the area it would remain wild and free of settlement. Taking advantage of the situation, he was often alone when he hunted, trapped and spent a great deal of time along Bee Tree Creek even though his official home was on Barker's Ridge, several miles away.<br /><br />When Samuel Paris hunted, he carried with him a pack bag typical of men of the time. By his side was a mountain rifle and a tomahawk. His rifle was so long that many men found it nearly impossible to hold because the barrel was so long. There were newer rifles available to him, but his daddy had given him his rifle and it was a good rifle so he saw no need to "upgrade". He was known to be quite fearless in his exploits, taking chances that many deemed unnecessary but to him they were just everyday actions of living. Samuel Paris was known throughout the region as one of the first to raise hunting dogs, and his dogs were considered to be among the best bred and most well-trained in the region. Men would come from miles around to trade or buy a pup off of him, and it soon came to pass that having a good hunting dog by your side was essential to every hunting man in the area.<br /><br />One time over on Bee Tree Creek, Samuel Paris had his favorite dog with him, and it wasn't too long until the dog picked up the trail of a great bear. When the bear realized it was being trailed, it broke into a full run right into the great laurel thicket. He had trained his dogs never to go into a laurel thicket after a bear because more often than not that action was a death sentence on the dog and quite often the man, too. But this time and against all its training, his favorite dog found a low trail and went into the laurel thicket after the bear.<br /><br />Since this was his favorite dog, Samuel Paris saw no other option besides to go in after the dog. If it hadn't been his favorite dog, he probably would have just made camp and hoped the dog returned out of the thicket, but he just couldn't wait and hope when it came to his favorite dog. So against his better judgement he entered the laurel thicket after the dog. He planned on just retrieving the dog and getting out as quickly as possible, and his decision was justified after he entered the thicket. The laurel grew so thick that he was forced to crawl in many places, and seldom was there an area where a man could even stand upright. He was about a hundred yards into the laurel thicket when he located the dog, but soon realized that simply retrieving it wasn't an option. You see, the great bear had the dog penned up in a corner between two vertical cliffs on Bee Tree Creek, and was slowly closing in on it.<br /><br />At this point, Samuel Paris was crawling along through the thicket as quickly as he could manage, trying to get to an open area where he could raise his gun. As it was, there was no chance of getting off a shot at the bear since he was practically dragging the rifle alongside of his body. He finally made his way into Bee Tree Creek, where the flowing water offered a slight opening in the laurel. But as he raised his rifle to shoot the bear, the bear had moved in so close to the trapped dog that it was impossible to get a shot at it for fear of hitting the dog.<br /><br />Quick thinking coupled with the inherent and passionate bravery of a mountain Scotsman, Samuel Paris McKinney instantly came upon a plan. Without a moment's hesitation, he pulled out the tomahawk from his belt, ran up to the bear and grabbed the great beast by the hair on the nape of its neck, quickly and deftly swung the tomahawk once and split the bear's skull wide open, killing it instantly. For years afterward, stories were recounted about how Samuel Paris McKinney had killed a bear with only a tomahawk and in the process had saved his favorite hunting dog, all without getting so much as a single scratch on him.<br /><br />In the years following this account, progress inevitably took its toll upon the region, and the great laurel thicket was cut down and the area along Bee Tree Creek was settled. Later, coal mines dotted the landscape. As the area grew in population, Samuel Paris began to stay on his land high up on Barker's Ridge, and in his last days raised and sold hunting dogs to make a living. Men would come from miles around to buy his dogs and hear him regale his tales of yesteryear. The time of the rugged mountaineer had come to an end and those times were now found only in story form. And oh what great stories Samuel Paris McKinney told.Matthew Burnshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02625103538582649633noreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8234215772753915781.post-56597424360899946982010-02-10T15:16:00.009-05:002010-02-19T12:33:02.527-05:00Times Up On PinchgutThe wind come a-whippin' around the corner of the house last night about midnight with such ferocity that it brought to mind the time me and Vern Cassell was coon huntin' up on Pinchgut. Pinchgut, you ask? Well Pinchgut was a holler that was so steep that the only way to get to the head of it was to go right up the crick bed or else you'll give out. It was up on the mountain from where we lived and it was so steep that nobody could ever farm anything up in there. It was almost too rough to even hunt in, and most people avoided it like the plague.<br /><br />It was almost midnight, as I recall, and was gettin' down in the fall of the year and me and Vern was out coon huntin'. We'd only been out for a few minutes when we heard the dogs and knew they was on the trail of a coon. We took up the ridge after them, figgering they'd go out toward the spring and the persimmon grove. It wasn't long after being on their trail that we seen they was headin' up into Pinchgut. We knew we was in for a time right then and there, but we also knowed that if we didn't go in after the dogs that Ol' Mag, the lead hound, would stay on the trail until she dropped dead right in her tracks. They wasn't no callin' her off the trail once she was on it, either. Well, we started up into Pinchgut, making our way through the laurel thickets and acrosst downed tree's, until we got right near the head of the holler. We stopped for a minute and listened for the dogs, and wouldn't you know it, halfway up the hillside stood Ol' Mag and the rest of the dogs baying at a big oak tree. We knew they had something treed and we knew we had to try and get up there to them, or else they'd stay there until they barked themselves hoarse or something worse. <br /><br />Well, me and Vern started up the hillside, grabbing onto saplings to make our way, and having to stop ever so often to catch our breath. That hill was so steep that at one point we noticed we was climbing down the hill but still having to hang onto the saplings to keep us from falling off of it. After about an hour or so, we finally come up on Ol' Mag, and she looked at us like we'd abandoned her because it took us so long to get up there to her. But all was forgiven, all the way around, when we seen what Ol' Mag had treed a big she-coon, she must have been about 50 pounds if it was an ounce, and it had its 8 twenty pound pups with it. Vern got the monkey trembles, he was so excited at the prospect of all that coon, that he lost his balance and took to falling up and down the hillside. He caught hisself about 50 yards down. He told me that I'd better go ahead and shoot 'em down since he didn't think he could make it all the way back up to the tree. So I up and shoot, and dang if that wasn't the steepest tree I'd ever seen, 'cause my shot just went up halfway and got lost, and come peppering back down on me. I tried again and the same thing happened. Then I took to studying on the situation and figgered the easiest way to get the ol' she-coon and her pups out of the tree was to cut the tree. I reckoned I'd chop down that big oak tree and send it ball hootin' down into the holler where we'd collect the coons. I had my hatchet for just the occassion, and I soon set to work gnawing at that tree like a beaver. <br /><br />About halfway through chopping it down, Vern hollered up the hill at me and asked me if I heard that. I stopped and listened and heard one of the most God-Awful sounds a-comin up the ridge, sounded like Beezlebub hisself a-comin. Then we seen it, it was a white mass of wind a-tearin' out trees and stumps and lifting up leaves and swirlin' them around like you ain't never seen. Me and Vern figgered it was one of them tornadeys like we'd heard about from out west. People had been sayin' that so many people had been going west that the tornadeys was being pushed out of that country and had nowheres else to go but to come back east. Yessiree, it was one of the tornadeys and it was snow white and it was a-bearin' down on us. When that thing got to the mouth of Pinchgut, it cut up in the holler, right along the same route that me and Vern had took earlier. Well, that Ol' tornadey soon figured out that it made a big mistake because the hillsides up in Pinchgut was too steep for it to climb so it stayed right in the crickbed. It made it up to the head of the holler and then it spotted us and took to comin' at us like a banshee on the warpath. <br /><br />Vern braced for it, but I took to hacking at that tree like nobody's business, and just in time I hollered "TIMBER" and watched that old oak tree fall square on top of that ol' charging tornadey. Yessirree, it killed it deader that 4 O'clock, it did. Thing of it is when that tornadey got kilt, it dropped all that dirt and all those rocks that it had been haulin' inside of it, and it filled in the whole of Pinchgut, I mean to tell you that ol' tornadey quit blowing just like somebody put a warshtub over it. By the time it got done filling up Pinchgut, poor ol' Vern was standing knee deep in prime Kansas cropland. <br /><br />We was so dumbfounded by this that we had nearly forgot about the ol' she-coon and her pups, but I heard a rustlin' in the leaves and there she stood, grinnin' at me like a kid at a carnival. She knew as well as I knew that after what we had been through together, there wasn't no way neither me or Vern was gonna hurt her, so I just says to her, "Ol' Mother, you'd better get. Ain't nobody here gonna harm you." I do believe that ol' she-coon was dancin' a jig as she walked with her pups out on that new plowed dirt that we got from the dead tornadey, she only stopped to pick up a giant ear of corn, courtesy of some unknown Kansas farmer. <br /><br />Now you might ask, what ever happened to Ol' Mag? Well, I was saddened to see her get buried in the aftermath of the dead tornadey, but you know what, about a week later she dug her way up out of that holler, up through all that loose dirt, and took out on the trail of that ol' she-coon. I ain't seen her since, but I reckon she's still somewhere up on the mountain trailin' that ol' coon 'cause Ol' Mag never was a dog to give up the trail. <br /><br />Now that was something, I ain't never seen nothin' like it since but I reckon that wind last night come close to it. Good thing I built me a nice sturdy house out of good oak, or else I'd likely have been tryin' to hang onto the side of Pinchgut holler again instead of sittin' in here by the fire in a fine house on the best farm in Pendleton County.Matthew Burnshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02625103538582649633noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8234215772753915781.post-18685731968980807402010-01-21T12:06:00.007-05:002010-01-23T15:06:09.694-05:00Winter Sets In<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhRAVYMMzTs9ls38rof9exzYOd90wdLxE9-r35ervnDiB9YU2xvGcKBe8wISkEv9onQ03JgwXG2JwvHK9naRqgGMiphkE9wJVuB82UUpKP7Sh_bvn6efJLnB4d-h0ZOhP6qSE30cBH7ijkz/s1600-h/dismal.jpg"><img style="WIDTH: 400px; HEIGHT: 300px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5429241688302325602" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhRAVYMMzTs9ls38rof9exzYOd90wdLxE9-r35ervnDiB9YU2xvGcKBe8wISkEv9onQ03JgwXG2JwvHK9naRqgGMiphkE9wJVuB82UUpKP7Sh_bvn6efJLnB4d-h0ZOhP6qSE30cBH7ijkz/s400/dismal.jpg" /></a><br /><br /><br />The slate gray abyss presses down upon <br />my mountain home,<br /><br />It forces an uneasy feeling upon us<br />And causes Maw to snip at us.<br /><br /><em>“Was you born in a barn?”<br /><br />“Don’t track in that mud!”<br /><br />“Deed in God, ain’t you got a lick of sense?”</em><br /><br />My wisecracking brother can’t help himself and responds:<br /><br /><em>“I don’t know, Maw, was I?”<br /><br />“If they ain’t no tracks, how will it find its way back outside?”<br /><br />“I reckon not, why do you keep asking?”</em><br /><br />A glance out the kitchen window confirms<br />what is already known. The cold spell isn't letting up.<br /><br /><em>“I sure wish this ol’ weather would break,”</em> Maw says, <br />as she returns to kneading her bread dough.Matthew Burnshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02625103538582649633noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8234215772753915781.post-52962417676002035762010-01-13T10:52:00.007-05:002010-01-15T12:23:19.439-05:00Camp ChaseToday finds me thinking about my gr-gr-gr-gr-grandfather, Joseph Lantz, and the horrors he must have witnessed and was subjected to while in the Confederate Service. He was a Captain in the North Fork Militia,and was in active during the Battle of Riverton.<br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhU-csKVfgDKw_UpxXKtinHu1QAAEAQrAxGriWLonJ3rzSrcIDqNLRipGTR_8XUT4KZk-zimqujx7SkxXcUEsnvd0dHUsQkcSiws5ZB0n7-ZABxyUzPwdT_zBgJiyLnA6P7PJKohBNiQhfU/s1600-h/Joseph_Lantz__Jr.jpg"></a><br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgCNZ1jK55TGhh2D7DWxL5yG37a638EXi7sTGnDBL5mX8JMxf5orGZdhffgZD63JK4Uxe5rFG-LZb9KTGeCAYf2mE83lvOZEl8K_pOG433bUzdfj_6i_RowyPFPC-AmdyIli8MVS-rVZK76/s1600-h/battle+of+riverton.bmp"><img style="WIDTH: 433px; HEIGHT: 326px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5426253405973422994" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgCNZ1jK55TGhh2D7DWxL5yG37a638EXi7sTGnDBL5mX8JMxf5orGZdhffgZD63JK4Uxe5rFG-LZb9KTGeCAYf2mE83lvOZEl8K_pOG433bUzdfj_6i_RowyPFPC-AmdyIli8MVS-rVZK76/s400/battle+of+riverton.bmp" /></a><br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiFhZ1wporLvndh1krCVBEIuoXxGf7npkrhSDHy9_Nbpw8o8_8q7jxWBVlKGBdyb5CbuNNlrEKBuk0dZ_t3b5gSzkh6z3yf6KLTOwkH03sawjyrGPhzYyM1cuZRYxU0hoMPVz-lXs7_X7Ez/s1600-h/battle+of+riverton1.bmp"><img style="WIDTH: 300px; HEIGHT: 400px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5426253401657089970" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiFhZ1wporLvndh1krCVBEIuoXxGf7npkrhSDHy9_Nbpw8o8_8q7jxWBVlKGBdyb5CbuNNlrEKBuk0dZ_t3b5gSzkh6z3yf6KLTOwkH03sawjyrGPhzYyM1cuZRYxU0hoMPVz-lXs7_X7Ez/s400/battle+of+riverton1.bmp" /></a><br /><span style="font-size:85%;">The Battle of Riverton site.</span><br /><br />Captured near the end of the War Between the States (or as some of us were brought up hearing, "The War of Northern Aggression") my grandfather was held prisoner in Camp Chase Prison in Ohio. What pure hell this must have been for him and his companions. Camp Chase Prison was opened in May 1861 and remained open throughout the War. It was located about 4 miles from Columbus, Ohio. The prison held a large population of men from the mountains of West Virginia. For these men, their world must have been turned upside down. Not only were they prisoners, but they were prisoners in a foreign land. To these men of the rugged mountains, I’m sure Camp Chase was like a foreign country. Even today, when I am out of my mountains, I feel a great unease and get the feeling that if only I could get back into the mountains, then all would be right with the world. How these men must have gazed and wished for the mountains that they knew lay far to the East.<br /><br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhU-csKVfgDKw_UpxXKtinHu1QAAEAQrAxGriWLonJ3rzSrcIDqNLRipGTR_8XUT4KZk-zimqujx7SkxXcUEsnvd0dHUsQkcSiws5ZB0n7-ZABxyUzPwdT_zBgJiyLnA6P7PJKohBNiQhfU/s1600-h/Joseph_Lantz__Jr.jpg"><img style="WIDTH: 272px; HEIGHT: 400px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5426253413572673922" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhU-csKVfgDKw_UpxXKtinHu1QAAEAQrAxGriWLonJ3rzSrcIDqNLRipGTR_8XUT4KZk-zimqujx7SkxXcUEsnvd0dHUsQkcSiws5ZB0n7-ZABxyUzPwdT_zBgJiyLnA6P7PJKohBNiQhfU/s400/Joseph_Lantz__Jr.jpg" /></a><br /><span style="font-size:85%;">My gr-gr-gr-gr-grandfather, Joseph Lantz.</span><br /><br />Growing up, I heard stories from the older folks about the living conditions at Camp Chase Prison. Of course, they had heard these stories from their elders, and theirs before them. A few former prisoners from Pendleton County described Camp Chase prison as a big mud hole. They said the water was dirty and the food was wormy. They told of how the men would sit around and tell stories of home and what they were going to go when the War was over. I recall hearing a story about how one man in Camp Chase prison had made a pet out of a big rat, and one time the rations were so scarce that a bunch of his cohorts killed the rat and made soup out of it.<br /><br />One of the best Camp Chase prison recollections, to me, was recorded by the <a href="http://www.amazon.com/Traditions-West-Virginia-Family-Friends/dp/B000005YVS">Hammons Family </a>titled, “Camp Chase”. At the beginning of the track, Burl Hammons talks about stories that he grew up hearing about Camp Chase. He talked of how the men were mistreated at the Yankee prison and how the prisoners simply wanted to go home, so much so that it consumed them. The story continues with how the Yankee captain liked fiddle music and told his Confederate captives whichever man played him the best fiddle tune, he would set that man free. If this is a true story, can you imagine how much heart and soul went into this fiddle contest, these men would have been playing for their very lives. As the contest progressed, one man played a tune that absolutely floored the Yankee captain, because it was just that good. For all the people who like fiddle music, they know how the fiddle puts lyrics right into the tune and that the tune tells the story. Well, after the contest, the Yankee captain lived up to his word and gave the man his freedom, but before the man left the captain asked, “What was the name of that fiddle tune?” to which the man replied, “It’s a tune that I came up with, and the name of it is “Camp Chase!” I don’t know of the Hammons story is true, but I do know that I can’t listen to the tune, “Camp Chase” without hearing the suffering of the prisoners, and hearing the hopes of freedom and home that these men held so dear. I can sympathize with these men who longed for the mountains for Camp Chase would have been both a physical and mental Hell for them.<br /><br />I’m sure my grandfather tried for the rest of his life to forget Camp Chase, but at least he got to return home to his beloved Germany Valley after the War. So many prisoners died at Camp Chase and are buried there.<br /><br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhB3e6YEYArcc_1OTP4SDY0RRylQqkmHpz_EE1aW2Rs3IzEgXOXiJYE_jSwklvxJI4loLPr0ZcM3ubm1SuZDHNVzQOZehJCX8WtwzuYW4Dkfc9xfC25dun4h_WPq5nNSTW_2urPEh78kl_E/s1600-h/camp+chase+cemetery.jpg"><img style="WIDTH: 300px; HEIGHT: 225px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5426253397628698274" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhB3e6YEYArcc_1OTP4SDY0RRylQqkmHpz_EE1aW2Rs3IzEgXOXiJYE_jSwklvxJI4loLPr0ZcM3ubm1SuZDHNVzQOZehJCX8WtwzuYW4Dkfc9xfC25dun4h_WPq5nNSTW_2urPEh78kl_E/s400/camp+chase+cemetery.jpg" /></a><br /><span style="font-size:85%;">Camp Chase Cemetery. Courtesy of </span><a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Camp_Chase"><span style="font-size:85%;">Wikipedia</span></a><span style="font-size:85%;">.</span><br /><br />Here's a Youtube video of Betty Vornbrock doing a great version of "Camp Chase".<br /><br /><object width="445" height="364"><param name="movie" value="http://www.youtube.com/v/CM2AgHU0_So&hl=en_US&fs=1&rel=0&border=1"></param><param name="allowFullScreen" value="true"></param><param name="allowscriptaccess" value="always"></param><embed src="http://www.youtube.com/v/CM2AgHU0_So&hl=en_US&fs=1&rel=0&border=1" type="application/x-shockwave-flash" allowscriptaccess="always" allowfullscreen="true" width="445" height="364"></embed></object>Matthew Burnshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02625103538582649633noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8234215772753915781.post-64773162032077754412010-01-08T10:34:00.003-05:002010-01-08T10:47:01.594-05:00Wintertime Realization<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi-Ny86xBULqmxffcgZZAhskwW_ySukFINv3vlIPB0CFB2lodi3cmjosAtrS2ljIVb46AIo3wNinrzpIXFuBdZX7xEZgSoevYaBmBOjiqhHSVZTjZRYGlqH19L5OheCLj_hhsppmtG3h3gS/s1600-h/christmas+2.bmp"><img style="WIDTH: 400px; HEIGHT: 300px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5424394382992130242" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi-Ny86xBULqmxffcgZZAhskwW_ySukFINv3vlIPB0CFB2lodi3cmjosAtrS2ljIVb46AIo3wNinrzpIXFuBdZX7xEZgSoevYaBmBOjiqhHSVZTjZRYGlqH19L5OheCLj_hhsppmtG3h3gS/s400/christmas+2.bmp" /></a><br /><div><span style="font-size:78%;">Germany Valley, Pendleton County, WV. Photo courtesy of R. Jason Burns.</span></div><div></div><div><br /><br /><span style="font-size:130%;">"These Dark & Dreary Days" </span></div><div><span style="font-size:85%;">by Matthew Burns</span></div><div><span style="font-size:130%;"></span> </div><div><span style="font-size:130%;"><br />These dark, dreary days of winter,<br />Press down upon my soul,<br />And leach the life from me,<br />Like a succubus in the night.<br /><br />Once I was like a seed in the ground,<br />Waiting, germinating, hopeful.<br />But the bitter, lifeless days have surrounded me.<br />And cloaked me with their siphoning darkness.<br /><br />The light on my path is extinguished.<br />I realize now with maudlin clarity,<br />It was these dark, dreary days of winter,<br />That incubated my soul.</span></div>Matthew Burnshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02625103538582649633noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8234215772753915781.post-13402664289194510832009-12-30T15:52:00.004-05:002009-12-30T15:59:35.901-05:00Wordless Wednesday<div align="center"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg8EN0K2Hm2KIHiMLPjwmvRl6Rig7n66aePgoqbzQ7miDqeyDUCoCEYkJJZJ15OuLGgJcTKpx6AUyesp4eJB3ZXiS6ZfeG_lfdAhlg0OGmDKEwLgpqnXgckTf6gzKcjeB3OFKPsCLOGktNT/s1600-h/grainhouse.jpg"><img style="WIDTH: 300px; HEIGHT: 400px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5421135820837548994" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg8EN0K2Hm2KIHiMLPjwmvRl6Rig7n66aePgoqbzQ7miDqeyDUCoCEYkJJZJ15OuLGgJcTKpx6AUyesp4eJB3ZXiS6ZfeG_lfdAhlg0OGmDKEwLgpqnXgckTf6gzKcjeB3OFKPsCLOGktNT/s400/grainhouse.jpg" /></a><br /><br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhB6d1-qfAa5wGB7h4JP8OuH3qVUYEhSpFzAlXNCnvsDVKJ3qq5CWLOs7AA2w67XrLw3lai3_QVmD67JBkYTjsF6vcAVvXMxIekFhsuLwBQYD34Ep1o2vRJRQNjkxr_jAkHanHKQdnZTrv6/s1600-h/valley.jpg"><img style="WIDTH: 400px; HEIGHT: 300px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5421135812174110082" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhB6d1-qfAa5wGB7h4JP8OuH3qVUYEhSpFzAlXNCnvsDVKJ3qq5CWLOs7AA2w67XrLw3lai3_QVmD67JBkYTjsF6vcAVvXMxIekFhsuLwBQYD34Ep1o2vRJRQNjkxr_jAkHanHKQdnZTrv6/s400/valley.jpg" /></a><br /><br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj0IpCKzf_TZFudDWwTCzeV535xNW9h3Dn5AjqPWxIGYG1s51WBDg7e3_SLM4x_6ERhOL6nIj6_86MHQIm7pMebjXkWn2Arsk57QJUa2PVn3Y9ZHvShA-YNxM_vEmjxiyOxAiknMexpaKN5/s1600-h/rocks+mountain.jpg"><img style="WIDTH: 400px; HEIGHT: 300px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5421135812512407730" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj0IpCKzf_TZFudDWwTCzeV535xNW9h3Dn5AjqPWxIGYG1s51WBDg7e3_SLM4x_6ERhOL6nIj6_86MHQIm7pMebjXkWn2Arsk57QJUa2PVn3Y9ZHvShA-YNxM_vEmjxiyOxAiknMexpaKN5/s400/rocks+mountain.jpg" /></a><br /><br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjWJkjiQywKscn8E4WjXUaHuboGghmzMg4PD3jS7TQl07_246nVUiXgVkEN6qf_fjyQMATMgwL8vR_I5rOt6qBFViEGKfxcBqaTpWDCq2taWiQ-vaAM1b9sqjR94MRf0v9i4-A-y_WRdhcP/s1600-h/germany+valley.jpg"><img style="WIDTH: 400px; HEIGHT: 300px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5421135808371578418" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjWJkjiQywKscn8E4WjXUaHuboGghmzMg4PD3jS7TQl07_246nVUiXgVkEN6qf_fjyQMATMgwL8vR_I5rOt6qBFViEGKfxcBqaTpWDCq2taWiQ-vaAM1b9sqjR94MRf0v9i4-A-y_WRdhcP/s400/germany+valley.jpg" /></a><br /><br /><br /></div><div align="center"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg-wvDFU9snQwV3xMB8Hw9nNLQzcXjtln-av9W30fC0yEpC3akP7rhjy37qzrZKe-Z_7X61S_b2A_yBHKa6VCjr3TScLCIuxqOruTbZSa_pU5LbHXh4SsRRAqR99EoFGvoQm1BevKvq1I_s/s1600-h/evening.jpg"><img style="WIDTH: 400px; HEIGHT: 300px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5421135804626296930" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg-wvDFU9snQwV3xMB8Hw9nNLQzcXjtln-av9W30fC0yEpC3akP7rhjy37qzrZKe-Z_7X61S_b2A_yBHKa6VCjr3TScLCIuxqOruTbZSa_pU5LbHXh4SsRRAqR99EoFGvoQm1BevKvq1I_s/s400/evening.jpg" /></a><br /></div>Matthew Burnshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02625103538582649633noreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8234215772753915781.post-31410722012546584172009-12-18T14:25:00.008-05:002009-12-21T09:35:41.099-05:00Diet Pepsi or Pepsi Cola?<p style="MARGIN: 0in 0in 0pt" class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family:Times New Roman;"></span></p><p style="MARGIN: 0in 0in 0pt" class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family:Times New Roman;"></span></p><p style="MARGIN: 0in 0in 0pt" class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family:Times New Roman;font-size:130%;">“Diet Pepsi or Pepsi Cola”, Grandmaw Ev hollered as she saw our truck pull into her driveway.</span></p><br /><p style="MARGIN: 0in 0in 0pt" class="MsoNormal"><?xml:namespace prefix = o ns = "urn:schemas-microsoft-com:office:office" /><o:p><span style="font-family:Times New Roman;font-size:130%;"></span></o:p></p><p style="MARGIN: 0in 0in 0pt" class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family:Times New Roman;font-size:130%;">All of us kids hollered back, “Pepsi Cola!"</span></p><p style="MARGIN: 0in 0in 0pt" class="MsoNormal"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjpHtFjJ41Lmw89T8f5cKARY93A6_c1rtldlbSBnp61KLLB9H2zc9xRmbmbqQNREBawgMgnndbqPX0vBqutlULNGCi9IVgHkl89V0GPyLsvT1aymCvu9mAqyN3yadeadC933xhO40Jua5cL/s1600-h/Opie_Thompson_and_Eva_Lena_Lawrence.jpg"><img style="WIDTH: 309px; HEIGHT: 400px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5416662810024339314" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjpHtFjJ41Lmw89T8f5cKARY93A6_c1rtldlbSBnp61KLLB9H2zc9xRmbmbqQNREBawgMgnndbqPX0vBqutlULNGCi9IVgHkl89V0GPyLsvT1aymCvu9mAqyN3yadeadC933xhO40Jua5cL/s400/Opie_Thompson_and_Eva_Lena_Lawrence.jpg" /></a><br /><o:p><span style="font-family:Times New Roman;font-size:78%;">Granddad Opie and Grandmaw Ev</span></o:p></p><br /><br /><p style="MARGIN: 0in 0in 0pt" class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family:Times New Roman;font-size:130%;">I remember we used to go visit Grandmaw Ev quite often when I was a kid. Her real name was Eva Lena, but everyone called her “Ev”. She was really my great-grandmother, but since her daughter (my grandmaw) died when I was really little, Grandmaw Ev became my only Grandmother on that side of my family.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>I remember her as being really loud.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>Grandmaw Ev only had one volume to her voice, gentle talk or whispering were not in her repertoire.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>It didn’t matter if she saw you in a crowd of a hundred people, she’d holler out at you at the top of her lungs and come and discuss some recent event that she just had to tell you about.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>People said that’s where we Burns kids got our big mouths, that when we got to going, we were <i>almost</i> as loud as Grandmaw Ev!<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>In retrospect, I don’t reckon we were any more or any less loud than any other passel of kids, unless you count the fact that most times, people heard us coming long before that saw us.</span></p><span style="font-size:130%;"><br /></span><br /><p style="MARGIN: 0in 0in 0pt" class="MsoNormal"><o:p><span style="font-family:Times New Roman;font-size:130%;"></span></o:p></p><p style="MARGIN: 0in 0in 0pt" class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family:Times New Roman;"><span style="font-size:130%;">I suspect that’s how Grandmaw Ev knew we were coming, she heard us coming up the ridge long before we wound our way around the mountain road to her house.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>She always made sure she had pop to give us, and she was a Pepsi drinker.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>I remember how she used to look at the bottles of Pepsi Cola and say, “I have sugar so bad the doctor won’t let me drink real Pepsi anymore, that’s why I have diet.”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>Even at my young age, I found this funny since Grandmaw Ev would say this while drinking a Diet Pepsi and eating a big piece of chocolate pie.<br /><br /><span style="mso-spacerun: yes"></span></span></span></p><span style="font-size:130%;"></span><br /><p style="MARGIN: 0in 0in 0pt" class="MsoNormal"><o:p><span style="font-family:Times New Roman;font-size:130%;"></span></o:p></p><p style="MARGIN: 0in 0in 0pt" class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family:Times New Roman;font-size:130%;"></span></p><p style="MARGIN: 0in 0in 0pt" class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family:Times New Roman;"><span style="font-size:130%;">My Dad lived with Grandmaw Ev and Granddad Opie up until he was 10 years old.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>That’s when Granddad Opie died from an accident while working on the State Road Commission.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>So my Dad had a special place in Grandmaw Ev’s heart, and since I was his child, I reckon I got some special attention from her as well.<br /></span><br /></p></span><p style="MARGIN: 0in 0in 0pt" class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family:Times New Roman;"></span></p><p style="MARGIN: 0in 0in 0pt" class="MsoNormal"><o:p><span style="font-family:Times New Roman;"></span></o:p></p><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjJuKxhLG3kNrmpK7yC41pzvmNaZGCZMwtz0I6T3uADbY_xL4HNrHXqFmJ4ZmgJX7KOjb01ajkrnWTOq0tLNHGvovZyL75EvGMN1OWGVNNG5lpWXUj_gjeVfevNCgRcm74I-DWGh0caveiA/s1600-h/grnadmaw+henry.bmp"><img style="WIDTH: 272px; HEIGHT: 400px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5416662813570190818" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjJuKxhLG3kNrmpK7yC41pzvmNaZGCZMwtz0I6T3uADbY_xL4HNrHXqFmJ4ZmgJX7KOjb01ajkrnWTOq0tLNHGvovZyL75EvGMN1OWGVNNG5lpWXUj_gjeVfevNCgRcm74I-DWGh0caveiA/s400/grnadmaw+henry.bmp" /></a><br /><span style="font-size:78%;">Grandmaw Henry</span><br /><br /><p style="MARGIN: 0in 0in 0pt" class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family:Times New Roman;"><br /><span style="font-size:130%;">I remember one Christmas, it was right after my Grandmaw Henry died (Grandmaw Henry was Grandmaw Ev’s daughter), we went to visit Grandmaw Ev.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>I can still remember as plain as day us pulling up in that old truck and seeing Grandmaw Ev standing there in an old cotton dress with her hands on her hips and hollering, “Well, if it ain’t the Burns family. Diet Pepsi or Pepsi Cola?”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>It was never, “Hello” or “How do you do?” it was Grandmaw Ev’s way to just cut right to the meat of the matter with “Diet Pepsi or Pepsi Cola?” </span></span></p><span style="font-size:130%;"><br /></span><br /><p style="MARGIN: 0in 0in 0pt" class="MsoNormal"><o:p><span style="font-family:Times New Roman;font-size:130%;"></span></o:p></p><p style="MARGIN: 0in 0in 0pt" class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family:Times New Roman;font-size:130%;">I recall as we got out of the truck bed (yes, even in the wintertime, we traveled in the truck bed) she gave all of us kids a hug and a kiss, and told us to go on into the kitchen and get us something to eat.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>I suspect Grandmaw Ev knew we were coming for a visit, but I don’t know that for sure.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>In any case, she had her kitchen table plumb full of cakes and cookies and pies, and bottles upon bottles of Diet Pepsi and Pepsi Cola. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes"></span>After talking outside for a few minutes with my Granddad, my Dad and my Mom, Grandmaw Ev came into the kitchen and she had tears in her eyes.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>All of us kids looked at her, kind of puzzled-like and wondering what was the matter, but she reassured us by saying it was just because she was so happy to see us all.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>I reckon it was probably more like she really missed her daughter Bunny, as this would have been the first Christmas since she had passed away.</span></p><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgRP5UirGSgrGFX97RbCr8QAcx4_pE04FKnvRd10CW48pMUfuHDXiNdTJSv5MpVsOkNq4ZRml-lpyKyDkNLZSq7tHFv2tS738HenpGiRkhSRaC0e7HSfD-uU1cvTqKpP4HCrKJO62omnfVQ/s1600-h/christmas+2.bmp"><img style="WIDTH: 400px; HEIGHT: 300px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5416662799875272418" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgRP5UirGSgrGFX97RbCr8QAcx4_pE04FKnvRd10CW48pMUfuHDXiNdTJSv5MpVsOkNq4ZRml-lpyKyDkNLZSq7tHFv2tS738HenpGiRkhSRaC0e7HSfD-uU1cvTqKpP4HCrKJO62omnfVQ/s400/christmas+2.bmp" /></a><br /><span style="font-size:78%;">Winter in Germany Valley<br /><br /></span><span style="font-size:78%;"></span><p style="MARGIN: 0in 0in 0pt" class="MsoNormal"><o:p><span style="font-family:Times New Roman;"></span></o:p></p><br /><br /><p style="MARGIN: 0in 0in 0pt" class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family:Times New Roman;"><span style="font-size:130%;">All of us kids were really laying our ears back eating all of those cakes and pies and cookies that Grandmaw Ev had made, and we had all had at least two big bottles of Pepsi by then, when Grandmaw asked us all to come into the living room.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>We did, of course, and I remember Grandmaw Ev grabbed me up and carried me in since I was the youngest.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>In the living room, around her little cedar Christmas tree with the handmade ornaments, she had a gift for each of us.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>Well, we thought we had all died and went to heaven, because even though Grandmaw Ev was so nice to us, she had never gotten us anything for Christmas before this.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>I now know she probably didn’t get gifts for her grandchildren because there were simply so many of them and you couldn’t very well get one something and not all of the others.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span></span></span></p><span style="font-size:130%;"><br /></span><br /><p style="MARGIN: 0in 0in 0pt" class="MsoNormal"><o:p><span style="font-family:Times New Roman;font-size:130%;"></span></o:p></p><p style="MARGIN: 0in 0in 0pt" class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family:Times New Roman;"><span style="font-size:130%;">Grandmaw Ev went to the presents and picked them up one by one and handed them out to each of us kids, telling us to wait until everyone had their present before opening them.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>Soon, all of the presents were handed out and she gave us the go-ahead to tear into them, and soon our vision was obscured by a massive cloud of floating paper and ribbons.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span></span></span></p><span style="font-size:130%;"><br /></span><br /><p style="MARGIN: 0in 0in 0pt" class="MsoNormal"><o:p><span style="font-family:Times New Roman;font-size:130%;"></span></o:p></p><p style="MARGIN: 0in 0in 0pt" class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family:Times New Roman;font-size:130%;">To our surprise, in each of the packages was a little bag of loose candy.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>Various flavors of hardtack, peanut brittle, circus peanuts, little caramels with cream in the middle, filled candies and the like filled each bag.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>Even I understood what this meant, this wasn’t meant to be just a bag of candy, it was Grandmaw Ev’s way of reminding us that my Grandmaw Henry was still with us. You see, every year for as long as any of us could remember, Grandmaw Henry would go down to Rig, West Virginia, at Dick Riggleman’s store and she would buy all different types of loose Christmas candies to give to the kids as a gift.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>That wasn’t part of her gift, that was her whole gift, and everyone loved it.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>And this year, even thought it was our first Christmas since Grandmaw Henry had passed away, Grandmaw Ev’s thoughtfulness reminded us that Grandmaw Henry would never truly be gone from us as long as we remembered her.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>Looking back, that little sack of candy may have been the best Christmas gift that I ever received, and to think of it still reminds me of the kindness and love that Grandmaw Ev had for all of us kids.</span></p><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjaUpPbuTz6m4dcY67vjnfQ5wsvz6_kzlK4rjI2q5CnLBlhWr7hzZGrvUVkf79heM6lSnVrz-slFYI7iFEyftzbA5nHOGrmqi_BpfUSne0quR6ruS5guCo_QeWASnIPoH5ChQ6tYesA9l2t/s1600-h/christmas+2008.bmp"><img style="WIDTH: 400px; HEIGHT: 300px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5416662803730396194" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjaUpPbuTz6m4dcY67vjnfQ5wsvz6_kzlK4rjI2q5CnLBlhWr7hzZGrvUVkf79heM6lSnVrz-slFYI7iFEyftzbA5nHOGrmqi_BpfUSne0quR6ruS5guCo_QeWASnIPoH5ChQ6tYesA9l2t/s400/christmas+2008.bmp" /></a><br /><p style="MARGIN: 0in 0in 0pt" class="MsoNormal"><o:p><span style="font-family:Times New Roman;"></span></o:p></p><span style="font-size:78%;">Christmas Day at the Burns household.<br /></span><br /><br /><p style="MARGIN: 0in 0in 0pt" class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family:Times New Roman;font-size:130%;">So this Christmas, I wish you and yours the very best of the best, and I hope you will take a few moments to ponder on the past and count your blessings.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>I, for one, will be remembering Grandmaw Henry, Grandmaw Ev and all of those who have passed on since them, and when the family is gathered together on Christmas Day, I just may rekindle more memories by shouting, “Diet Pepsi or Pepsi Cola”?</span></p>Matthew Burnshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02625103538582649633noreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8234215772753915781.post-28581258567430877052009-12-08T12:40:00.005-05:002009-12-08T14:44:02.913-05:00Review: "Beyond The Grave" by Granny SueSeldom does excellence get captured on a CD. However, I recently had the extreme pleasure and delight to come across such a recording. It is titled, "<em>Beyond The Grave: Ghost Stories and Ballads from the Mountains</em>" by Susanna "<a href="http://grannysu.blogspot.com/">Granny Sue</a>" Holstein.<br /><br /><br /><img style="TEXT-ALIGN: center; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 400px; DISPLAY: block; HEIGHT: 390px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5412921879504177970" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjp0hICQbNxPpnLlQQdPsCt2cnjBnmm78a1Sdiy8Lq-VMXXJD6oRUMCfQKbtSDY4kdJNm8xsUJeyYnlipPzmtB2gHPZCHnXnUGVkCzaCdHuKeHhqqiYz560dI3HgLAr6gIeQ1QQq-gQL8j3/s400/granny+sue+cd" /><br /><br /><br />From start to finish, this CD held my attention and I sat on the edge of my seat waiting for what would next transpire. I wanted to coin this CD as "raw perfection", but there is nothing raw about it. It is simply perfection. The recording quality is excellent, Granny Sue's voice is excellent, and this is obviously a masterful collection of stories and ballads as told by the master.<br /><br />The depth of this recording is outstanding. The gentle, soothing voice of Granny Sue immediately transported me across time and space to my granddad's house, when storytelling of this caliber was commonplace. Sadly, many of the old-timey storytellers of my youth are gone, and with them many of the stories they kept alive with each retelling. I am grateful to have found a recording that captures that mountain excellence that I had long thought was lost.<br /><br />From the opening story of "Wizard Clipp" to a soulful acapella version of the Appalachian power ballad, "Pretty Polly", Granny Sue keeps listeners spellbound. As she works through "The Holly River Ghost" and on into "Sidna Davis", you become one with the stories and, I assure you, you will be hanging on every word. This wonderful CD closes with a version of "The Greenbrier Ghost", perhaps the most famous of all West Virginia ghost stories, that will draw you in so completely that you will begin to believe that Zona Shue is the girl next door.<br /><br />The Appalachian Storytelling on this CD is second to none, the traditional mountain ballads are sublime. One can clearly tell after listening to this offering that Granny Sue has spent countless hours honing her craft and forging into existence a powerful recording which captures the true essence of Appalachia. I cannot say enough nice things about this masterpiece.<br /><br />At the very reasonable price of $14.95 (shipping included), I urge everyone to take advantage of this exquisite work of art.<br /><br />I highly recommend it to the readers of this blog, it is quite simply Appalachian Storytelling at its best.<br /><br />Visit <a href="http://storytellingstore.blogspot.com/">Granny Sue's Storytelling Store </a>for ordering information, you'll be glad you did.<br /><br /><a href="http://storytellingstore.blogspot.com/">http://storytellingstore.blogspot.com/</a>Matthew Burnshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02625103538582649633noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8234215772753915781.post-69631476289049507642009-11-20T09:24:00.004-05:002009-11-20T10:02:30.678-05:00Walking with DadEvery year about this time, I head for the mountain for a week with my family and doing a little hunting. My Dad and I traipse all over the old farm where I grew up, supposedly looking for our furred quarry. Often times we just look over the old place and remember.<br /><br /><img style="TEXT-ALIGN: center; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 400px; DISPLAY: block; HEIGHT: 300px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5406192364908746082" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgpKjDp8eyORP_cGqXdob9LcnBsiPnUnFroUImTQdJKLUGguIQCVYTIdZbVaTQQXccSgWIyhC4WuS7LWjk5Yx6V7nGAYxVf94maFzCfVfDSNEZE8FyYp9j-xzNQKrFbph5KnZA0pyObdabh/s400/house.bmp" /><br /><br />We inevitably work our way over to the far corner of the farm, where the crows alight in the tree's and notify all creatures great and small of our presence there. We don't mind, we like the crows and watch their antics with awe. The far corner of the farm is the most inaccessible part of the property, and it is here that unwary passersby report strange happenings. People witness everything from Ol' Fon, the goat man, to catching a fleeting glimpse of a mountain lion. Dad and I usually see sign of the big, lumbering bear which makes its home in this part of the farm.<br /><br /><p><img style="TEXT-ALIGN: center; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 400px; DISPLAY: block; HEIGHT: 300px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5406192362873987346" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjWWPRtpHc7-DWTDvMxCdI_mcZgqnepYLr5OkfQPPxqOcmPqXOmpQdVzdLBa2BDgfesSAKahrn9PU4poJQngcc46s0H2GS2wAbtAaiExJVok3XEZu-bilLzsgWSE23njOTSq-UAnAmyufnV/s400/valley.bmp" /></p><p>To get to the far corner of the farm, we walk through the enormous open fields, long ago cleared of rocks. These rocks were hand-picked by countless hands. Gigantic piles of rocks can be found at regular intervals throughout the fields. We remember our great-grandfathers, Fon Lawrence and Alfred Kile, who worked this land. We know that their hands toiled this farm into prosperity. It is good to remember.<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi9Y7jHaQZ5vAzxAln1yQLwcU9S-nO44fAFBxgjS8w4ZWLwpvLLA7uPGC8zpgm7w3mshyphenhyphenHa8y-1miECTuSZbBDXlh9YT4sfjOAF2IypCpTMDW39IwaBF_F5VyugKEJau6yvSyE3509SvnWZ/s1600/old+orchard.bmp"><img style="TEXT-ALIGN: center; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 300px; DISPLAY: block; HEIGHT: 400px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5406192356097071826" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi9Y7jHaQZ5vAzxAln1yQLwcU9S-nO44fAFBxgjS8w4ZWLwpvLLA7uPGC8zpgm7w3mshyphenhyphenHa8y-1miECTuSZbBDXlh9YT4sfjOAF2IypCpTMDW39IwaBF_F5VyugKEJau6yvSyE3509SvnWZ/s400/old+orchard.bmp" /></a><br /><br />In between the fields there is a low place, an almost holler that hasn't quite made it there. In this sheltered spot, an apple orchard was planted generations ago. Here, the fierce mountain winds don't reach, and it is noticably warmer than on the hilltops on each side of the almost holler. The apple orchard still produces though it has been years since it has been tended to, only now the deer and other wildlife enjoy the harvest. We still find a few late season heritage apples still clinging to the tree, which we pick and eat. The apple have a wonderful flavor and we comment how these apple taste so much better than those old hybrid things that we are forced to purchase in the grocery store these days. We recall some of the old ways and try to remember more.<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiFPZV5Ngkc09tZgJLf_qJekxNr6u7iz3x9MpuSFfGpuUVPmEem66GMzTqk4ztirgx9Df8HDdLc9z6RflSd4cIkr5tViMPvqmTKTZ-bcjQ4M08xps0k5_WH93HZ0PsOsP6MRTABKl_AWhN7/s1600/log.bmp"><img style="TEXT-ALIGN: center; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 400px; DISPLAY: block; HEIGHT: 300px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5406192347606017730" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiFPZV5Ngkc09tZgJLf_qJekxNr6u7iz3x9MpuSFfGpuUVPmEem66GMzTqk4ztirgx9Df8HDdLc9z6RflSd4cIkr5tViMPvqmTKTZ-bcjQ4M08xps0k5_WH93HZ0PsOsP6MRTABKl_AWhN7/s400/log.bmp" /></a><br /><br />Further up on the mountain, in the highest meadows, just below the jutting out of the North Mountain rocks, there is a little glen too far above the frost line to produce agriculturally but still fertile. It is here that the tree's grow to enormous heights, and it gives the impression that you are walking through forests of yesteryear, before they were logged off to fill the coffers of some far-off corporation. Probably only the inaccessibility of these forest giants saved them from the axe. They are quite a sight to see, some of these behemoths would take 7 or 8 men, linking hands with arms outstretched, to reach around them. Dad and I talk about what a terrific crash this forest giant must have made when it fell to the ground. We wonder if it was old age or a great storm that brought down this King from his forest crown. It must have been huge, because the tree's around it still haven't managed to reach the size of other tree's nearby, undoubtedly their growth was suppressed by the massive crown of the giant. We try to remember when all of the forest in these hills rivaled these remnants of history. <br /><br /><img style="TEXT-ALIGN: center; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 300px; DISPLAY: block; HEIGHT: 400px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5406192344060149026" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiUonApx1L4A3tGwDYLcluVyvYchykSP17D2frZse8s6hZlTQ9TT_0V_tt4Pawy1g9DSgtMpZtl-DMnLYf0xFaPuBUaLSZstIG0jQleuAgwffa2sZc4y0UaxXW7aH3FEwOu8wzRnG8V02bP/s400/stump.bmp" /><br /><br />Finally, as we start to walk off the mountain, we see this lone tree stump in a grown over meadow. Apparently cut down a few years back, this hollow stump is now the home of a tree gnome. What? You don't believe in tree gnomes? haven't you heard, the hills of my home are magical! All we have to do is remember.Matthew Burnshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02625103538582649633noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8234215772753915781.post-5925946185165151172009-10-28T10:45:00.003-04:002009-10-28T10:54:43.096-04:00One Day in OctoberI took a walk in the woods...<br /><br /><img style="TEXT-ALIGN: center; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 400px; DISPLAY: block; HEIGHT: 266px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5397662820907961714" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj5AM1i0Lp1wqOQlBocXiGnXKPfsu98N-ss8fglnhNwYeY33exKByrIrQpxr3srU-3P1xNfsEAe9bEo1b-is3KR3nAxAJf6nTrfar-zMTurhfyuXPWqGzJXAdK8xWZedzHhqKwGIsdNMXwh/s400/100_1958.JPG" /><br /><br /><div><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh4TzzLYP6b3YrCUoDyHrcAI0UZ2vVEfuM6NbPz67ymNTXWq1AYCArs8nJ8nPnLN5yiWn2auD6mAuAhMucU1DcurCqy9EnNdKE6pll47QgMGJQuf562JEN_DIGn-JmJUd7zYnCOv0RItk4g/s1600-h/100_1961.JPG"><img style="TEXT-ALIGN: center; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 400px; DISPLAY: block; HEIGHT: 266px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5397662813981857298" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh4TzzLYP6b3YrCUoDyHrcAI0UZ2vVEfuM6NbPz67ymNTXWq1AYCArs8nJ8nPnLN5yiWn2auD6mAuAhMucU1DcurCqy9EnNdKE6pll47QgMGJQuf562JEN_DIGn-JmJUd7zYnCOv0RItk4g/s400/100_1961.JPG" /></a><br /><br /><div><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgxPjHDYIxw1s5ftDpdyLy_zWvxUrF4GctASDYdDiIDza2Y5-kO5C4QsNHcKE78Q7VyfF5cZDCzvpoPPLSS4jpWcv_D-hr13ROXp4hWKN5T2o4zvQZgbGLqpdiCtXp3-cpzYJ7OITy6JVh3/s1600-h/100_1965.JPG"><img style="TEXT-ALIGN: center; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 266px; DISPLAY: block; HEIGHT: 400px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5397662808055715858" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgxPjHDYIxw1s5ftDpdyLy_zWvxUrF4GctASDYdDiIDza2Y5-kO5C4QsNHcKE78Q7VyfF5cZDCzvpoPPLSS4jpWcv_D-hr13ROXp4hWKN5T2o4zvQZgbGLqpdiCtXp3-cpzYJ7OITy6JVh3/s400/100_1965.JPG" /></a><br /><br /><div><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjw4pYG0bK5Tk7kEPy7N8lDRVO14DN-c6npqWCkE_1EHjiqHs6mFBK7oA-9BYFBaGT3IVBAgbrAVeDhwH4OBVPvm0QiEECCz9EOI6FrlEsWHRLu1mE-85aPdJfojywMGZsj_lsb2NrQKN7h/s1600-h/100_1966.JPG"><img style="TEXT-ALIGN: center; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 266px; DISPLAY: block; HEIGHT: 400px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5397662804251029234" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjw4pYG0bK5Tk7kEPy7N8lDRVO14DN-c6npqWCkE_1EHjiqHs6mFBK7oA-9BYFBaGT3IVBAgbrAVeDhwH4OBVPvm0QiEECCz9EOI6FrlEsWHRLu1mE-85aPdJfojywMGZsj_lsb2NrQKN7h/s400/100_1966.JPG" /></a><br /><br /><div><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjQiohXGj9XMHvd75G8z5zEOMfE3bxDnOO-VLQ_AXqg-7J23bj8mghFUnw3KmACWp-azKuywCxwX4C-aXavLud49-aNsNtObjV_VT9U5BU_3ub4VCzaN4KNdXaN5W7lOUKkOFDrXj-aolvN/s1600-h/100_1969.JPG"><img style="TEXT-ALIGN: center; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 266px; DISPLAY: block; HEIGHT: 400px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5397662799214446978" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjQiohXGj9XMHvd75G8z5zEOMfE3bxDnOO-VLQ_AXqg-7J23bj8mghFUnw3KmACWp-azKuywCxwX4C-aXavLud49-aNsNtObjV_VT9U5BU_3ub4VCzaN4KNdXaN5W7lOUKkOFDrXj-aolvN/s400/100_1969.JPG" /></a><br />And I wished you were there with me.</div></div></div></div>Matthew Burnshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02625103538582649633noreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8234215772753915781.post-82672497381181117982009-10-19T15:27:00.007-04:002009-10-20T20:30:32.117-04:00The First SnowThough every year it comes back anew,<br />And wears out its welcome all too soon.<br /><br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhL18UUebtd57oCS5KWLZpzXlCzpFi3Fv3xsLyMkKWU-g9dyDRt5Z2rAkvN68j7aKAgWaYjhlc50D4bGWqbb1vU1mMt49BK9D3jfZmk74wu6Xso73p41uPM-RRY3vXsONk-deFr0owpn7ep/s1600-h/8535_554657321761_164002639_32521088_7626213_n.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5394395300507828002" style="WIDTH: 301px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 400px" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhL18UUebtd57oCS5KWLZpzXlCzpFi3Fv3xsLyMkKWU-g9dyDRt5Z2rAkvN68j7aKAgWaYjhlc50D4bGWqbb1vU1mMt49BK9D3jfZmk74wu6Xso73p41uPM-RRY3vXsONk-deFr0owpn7ep/s400/8535_554657321761_164002639_32521088_7626213_n.jpg" border="0" /></a><br /><br />Something magical begins to take place<br />That rekindles memories across time and across space.<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi3I3zVCbs0ZOPiqksv63mHmqWTPIti3XECQGA9TMD3R1VVFv4a88Fvs7o6AO_OpRWEZ-tiwotdD2x6GhzcnPMkF9ywClXOxttlpI-wH_BRR0l5v7VvjkADMeyRPZDauEfUvgwyMnNbPPvW/s1600-h/6933_184175981139_735206139_4348262_477808_n.jpg"></a><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjdIuoYpRZrx9gNTu4eCb-vICPMrUyt-Gv8WmwNu5MVlDCsfohCBF6paHBb4ExxPyXbDsZuBAHGXyiYUIyrCAKZMY72M6vFPX5Qecbx5rhCKqi1_0kO3glmDp9cs6yiTSqkG7UtXYkqbQWQ/s1600-h/8535_554657351701_164002639_32521093_8037527_n.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5394395302138500434" style="WIDTH: 400px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 301px" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjdIuoYpRZrx9gNTu4eCb-vICPMrUyt-Gv8WmwNu5MVlDCsfohCBF6paHBb4ExxPyXbDsZuBAHGXyiYUIyrCAKZMY72M6vFPX5Qecbx5rhCKqi1_0kO3glmDp9cs6yiTSqkG7UtXYkqbQWQ/s400/8535_554657351701_164002639_32521093_8037527_n.jpg" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><br />There's nothing like it so far as I know,<br />That wondrous sight of the very first snow!<br /><br /><br /><div></div><div><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEik-Bv2qdJNHHauQN-iYl80UVcf5P9wOgQX8_eX5IUgJsyA13-v3Cfglv_Uds8pcG2rHuEuj7iNmtf_oM6yWnxB8IT7PLuQhPGFHiTijJnoMMgCAieLFUEUR6TJ0fK5gIVpegch-opI8lxR/s1600-h/6933_184176031139_735206139_4348266_6046423_n.jpg"></a><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgQM9Xr0a8gH3DGMwcGRuJQme9LVtKAXW3yquILASFQlTva0i11xb8AYhlTVfyGnXyucKL5WMP8xj_DAPizaEu1lWYqSWO1uPSrItfMYZLfhraVMxNga1uLKg1P3DDEPednykq2u-1EEKfF/s1600-h/8535_554657336731_164002639_32521091_4034654_n.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5394399498075114850" style="WIDTH: 400px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 301px" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgQM9Xr0a8gH3DGMwcGRuJQme9LVtKAXW3yquILASFQlTva0i11xb8AYhlTVfyGnXyucKL5WMP8xj_DAPizaEu1lWYqSWO1uPSrItfMYZLfhraVMxNga1uLKg1P3DDEPednykq2u-1EEKfF/s400/8535_554657336731_164002639_32521091_4034654_n.jpg" border="0" /></a><br />===================================</div><br /><div><br /><span style="font-size:78%;">Special thanks to Cousin Heather for sharing these photo's with us.<br /></span><br /></div><br /><div></div>Matthew Burnshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02625103538582649633noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8234215772753915781.post-90737316606141073892009-10-15T14:09:00.006-04:002009-10-15T18:49:16.770-04:00The School Halloween PartyI remember growing up, we always had a Halloween Party at school every year. It was always held on the Friday before Halloween. The school was Kindergarten through 12th grade, all in one building. The party started around noon and parents and the community were welcome and it always drew a big crowd. Prizes were given for the best costume, the scariest, the funniest, the prettiest, etc. It was quite the honor for students to win a prize at the annual Halloween Party, and us kids usually went out of our way to come up with a good costume so we could win. There was also lots of food to eat (cakes, cookies. etc.) and lots of candy. The community really came together to celebrate the occassion.<br /><br />The Burns kids usually won for our costumes, primarily because Mom would help us make them. She told us we won because we had homemade costumes. I'm sure this was just her way of re-assuring us that our costumes were as good as everyone else's, who usually had store-bought costumes. Mom would let us decide what we wanted to dress up as for Halloween, and then she'd give us idea's on how to make that costume the best it could be.<br /><br />I especially remember one year, I was probably in 2nd grade, and I couldn't make up my mind what to be for Halloween. I wanted to go scary, but the year before I was a vampire, and I didn't want to repeat that one two years in a row (although I made a fairly decent vampire).<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiajrZwlXEfgkAK2xujSbDNRjCJVHzk9gjtGu-g3r_Po81B7gcO7SAmxXDYFMXHTgw7fifIIV_RAyj6GhFCQMHB940rbVfnwf2tQ4Q5Q_g6L9KlObnWHm9ainHKTXvACjHGKRXbDFA5bVfu/s1600-h/Matthew+Halloween+19900001.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5392903670383496594" style="WIDTH: 400px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 318px" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiajrZwlXEfgkAK2xujSbDNRjCJVHzk9gjtGu-g3r_Po81B7gcO7SAmxXDYFMXHTgw7fifIIV_RAyj6GhFCQMHB940rbVfnwf2tQ4Q5Q_g6L9KlObnWHm9ainHKTXvACjHGKRXbDFA5bVfu/s400/Matthew+Halloween+19900001.jpg" border="0" /></a><br /><span style="font-size:78%;">Me as a vampire, a few year after this story took place.</span><br /><br />My aunts told me to dress up like some movie star, primarily because they were all in love with Don Johnson and whatever the flavor of the month happened to be at that time. My Uncle Tom wanted me to be a motorcycle driver, because he was going through that phase and for some reason constantly watched "Any Which Way You Can" on our old disc player. Everyone I asked for help with coming up with an idea seemed to give me idea's that I just didn't care for.<br /><br />When the annual Halloween Party was growing close (only a week away), there had been some commotion at school. My Aunt Aim had gotten into a fight with another girl and Mom and my granddad had to go into school to meet with the principal about it. Well, we Burns' have always been clannish and when one of us were in trouble, all of us were in trouble. When the time of the appointment came around, and we knew Mom and my Granddad were at the principal's office, all of us kids just walked out of class and right into the school office where the secretary was located. We were all going to attest that the fight was not my Aunt Aim's fault. Of course, all of our teachers were right behind us. Me, always being the mouthy one, and because I was the pet pig, said to my teacher when she kept telling me to return to my classroom or face the consequences, "Why don't you go somewhere where somebody wants to see you." Well that just threw the fat in the fire. That teacher started yelling at me, but my Aunt Tam quickly came to my rescue. She told my teacher, "He ain't a damn dog and you aint gonna talk to him like one." Well that just further infuriated the teacher, to the point where she was so mad that she was shaking. The school secretary knew us and how we were really good kids at heart, and knew that we were all there simply to take up for our Aunt Aim, told the teacher, "Why don't you go on back to your classroom and I'll have the principal take care of this." Well that got the teachers off our backs, and the secretary told us to have a seat until the meeting was over. Well, we didn't wait, we all barged into the meeting in the principals office and all started telling how that other girl was always picking on my Aunt Aim and how the other girl threw the first punch, and it wasn't my Aunt Aim's fault that she had "cleaned up on the girl who's mouth overloaded her ass". (Those were my Aunt Tam's exact words...we found out long before that you couldn't get in trouble for cussing in the principals office). Well, Aunt Aim was exonerated but the rest of us got sent home for the day so the teachers could cool off a bit, which was fine with us because we had all planned on returning home with Mom and my granddad anyway. What we didn't figure on though was the teachers that we had ticked off were also the costume judges at the Halloween Party!<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi52_TF7H2Xyam0m4PDa3SoMnIeWcui3IgMUixG6GXEq147ww8_wIyqYsx400ED0_W7X4lN_UD9dGvS20ZPJol0_kBJ2slZucPq3cATdKGT7pz5-0HsgzCcVE9EEpjXRre8euAwZuKX3vwB/s1600-h/Matthew+Jason+Dad.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5392903674573453330" style="WIDTH: 400px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 302px" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi52_TF7H2Xyam0m4PDa3SoMnIeWcui3IgMUixG6GXEq147ww8_wIyqYsx400ED0_W7X4lN_UD9dGvS20ZPJol0_kBJ2slZucPq3cATdKGT7pz5-0HsgzCcVE9EEpjXRre8euAwZuKX3vwB/s400/Matthew+Jason+Dad.jpg" border="0" /></a><br /><span style="font-size:78%;">Me, my brother and Dad, about the time this story took place. As you can see by our dirty shirts, "We played hard."</span><br /><br />But it wasn't long before one of us did think of this, and we all figured we wouldn't win anything at the Party. Especially considering word got around that the teachers had made their brags that none of us would win anything at the Halloween Party. When we went home and told everyone, we were all in a huff. Then, my granddad struck on a great idea. Mind you he wasn't much of a provider, but he did know how to get things accomplished when times called for it. He came up with a plan to scare them into letting us win. His plan involved scaring, but not necessarily threatening, the principal who lived just down the mountain from us. The principal loved to ride his horses out on the road every evening around 6 O'clock, and we all knew that. Furthermore, my granddad remembered how the principal's horses were scared of his loud truck (it really was a rattletrap), so much so, that the principal had asked my Granddad a few weeks before if he would turn off the motor of his truck when he passed them along the road, so that the horses wouldn't get so frightened by the truck. But, now that all of us kids were facing some culpability for our wayward actions, all bets were off. That evening around 6 O'clock, my granddad took a drive down the road, and sure enough, there was the principal riding along on his ol' skittish mare. Seizing the opportunity, my granddad raced alongside of him, revved the engine of the old truck and that mare took off like a bullet. Granddad said she took to bucking and kicking and that the principal eventually ended up laying in the side ditch. Granddad stopped and helped him up, and said to the principal, "It'd be a real shame if my kids and grandkids don't get a fair shake at that Halloween Party next week." The principal agreed that it would be, but nothing else was said between them.<br /><br />As the party neared, I had fianlly decided on a french clown costume, Mom sewed me up one out of spare cloth, and she came to school and painted my face before the judging. Oh, but the teachers gave us all some drop-dead, dirty looks, but it was obvious to everyone with a set of eyes that the Burns kids really did have the best costumes of anyone there. We overheard the teachers (judges) talking amongst themselves and several of them were still not going to allow us to win anything over what we had done the week prior to the party. Then the principal walked over to the judges, and whispered something to them. My teacher got so mad that she stormed off and refused to take part in the judging, but when the winners were announced, every last one of us Burns kids won some sort of prize!<br /><br />As I recall, the prize for winning was a goodie bag and bragging rights. We all looked like cats who swallowed the proverbial canary when we lined up for photographs. Soon after being announced winners, Mom said it'd probably be best if we all "got out of Dodge" so we loaded up into the back of granddad's old pickup truck and made our way back up the mountain. I can still remember my granddad saying to me as we walked by the group of judges as we were leaving, "I reckon we showed them, didn't we Hackey?"<br /><br />Whew! It's no wonder I was meaner than a striped-eyed snake!Matthew Burnshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02625103538582649633noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8234215772753915781.post-53371013301764484852009-10-06T13:21:00.007-04:002009-10-06T14:02:37.843-04:00The Eighth Circle of Hell<strong>This post is vastly different than my usual posts, but I feel compelled to tell about my experiences this past weekend. This post isn't fun, homespun or quaint, this post is about a great tragedy that is currently happening in our mountains.<br /></strong><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgdfzRvz4ml6Lppbo-4M274GQnhPdLc-6pH3gKELNWHnwDjXh-CA1ej-qalUYnbC3W7zFIF0T3BP-PsaaW15nQDJq9KAGkP8YSuc9nBRdCPl0oh7pS7he2tLGfwXa4QbhYMdl3-lZyWhzez/s1600-h/Matthew+Burns+(60).JPG"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5389539839300301330" style="WIDTH: 400px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 300px" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgdfzRvz4ml6Lppbo-4M274GQnhPdLc-6pH3gKELNWHnwDjXh-CA1ej-qalUYnbC3W7zFIF0T3BP-PsaaW15nQDJq9KAGkP8YSuc9nBRdCPl0oh7pS7he2tLGfwXa4QbhYMdl3-lZyWhzez/s400/Matthew+Burns+(60).JPG" border="0" /></a><div><span style="font-size:78%;">Photo by Matthew Burns</span><br /><br />I have been to the Eighth Circle of Hell and have returned to tell the tale. Just as Dante’s “Inferno” detailed the conscious fraud and treachery in the Eighth Circle of Hell, those same vices could be used to describe the Eighth Circle of Hell that I visited this past weekend. In case any of you are wondering, the Eighth Circle of Hell is not a place of mythology; rather, it is located just outside of the modern-day community of Sarah Ann, West Virginia.<br /><br /></div><div>But one can clearly recognize the community of Sarah Ann was not always this way. It is readily apparent that it was once a nice little community full of people who cared about each other and the land. It is also a historical location, as it was home of the Hatfield Family of Hatfield-McCoy Feud fame. The patriarch of the Hatfield family, Devil Anse Hatfield, is buried in the family cemetery nearby. But decades of fraud and treachery by a roughshod coal industry has laid Sarah Ann low. Sarah Ann is a prime example of the lost potential of a people and community that must forever remain a black eye upon the coal industry as a reminder of its inherent deceptiveness! <br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgUXgV-vRevnyoThP3IanOoDRZoDEqCO45Kt9QhWcO9ukYNvY7xqQvZsFyVCOrRteO4Fy9QLuErvae1eR3R2I5TXc72DuYvJ-0C0zHqvaz8H04nmuYKZ-dH8XHufQtStP97olovtj5MwFE3/s1600-h/acid+mine+drainage.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5389542880822861186" style="WIDTH: 400px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 300px" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgUXgV-vRevnyoThP3IanOoDRZoDEqCO45Kt9QhWcO9ukYNvY7xqQvZsFyVCOrRteO4Fy9QLuErvae1eR3R2I5TXc72DuYvJ-0C0zHqvaz8H04nmuYKZ-dH8XHufQtStP97olovtj5MwFE3/s400/acid+mine+drainage.jpg" border="0" /></a><br /><span style="font-size:78%;">Photo by Denny Tyler.</span></div><div> </div><div><br />As my wife and I were driving down Route 44 through Logan County on our way to Iaeger in McDowell County, I witnessed poverty like I had never before seen. Everywhere there were remnants of a once thriving economy that had long since vanished. Crumbing homes with broken windows, horrible roads crisscrossed by abandoned rail lines, and countless boarded up stores and businesses. I couldn’t help but notice the irony. Around every bend in the road there was another coal facility, just bulging with the wealth of the mountains. How could this be? How could there be so much obvious wealth in one place with so very little of that wealth benefitting the very location from which it was being exploited? Then, I looked up on the ridgelines and mountaintops that surrounded the roadway, and I saw the problem…mountaintop removal.<br /><br /></div><div> </div><div><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiKQdvVsv7udYUfJmCRtYvhsPiryIcSowdzaTUVyednBcIl1xf3rIV58hwE1N-bOc0mRs-A6-RS5S_giYRIhyphenhyphen0jASpV9cFRT-yDbtoQzhj4QsW0AAGb6BbH2kpiZuILiO_mEAG_PBD38rch/s1600-h/Schumate+Hollow+5.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5389539862038559362" style="WIDTH: 400px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 300px" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiKQdvVsv7udYUfJmCRtYvhsPiryIcSowdzaTUVyednBcIl1xf3rIV58hwE1N-bOc0mRs-A6-RS5S_giYRIhyphenhyphen0jASpV9cFRT-yDbtoQzhj4QsW0AAGb6BbH2kpiZuILiO_mEAG_PBD38rch/s400/Schumate+Hollow+5.jpg" border="0" /></a></div><div><span style="font-size:78%;">Photo by Denny Tyler<br /></span></div><div><br />While the mines that pervade the area are producing as much coal as ever, these mines no longer require manpower to extract the coal. Though the current stock prices of coal companies indicate that the industry is booming (despite what we hear on the news), it is in fact, a jobless coal boom. Only the coal companies are making any money off of the coal these days, and the people of the coalfields are once again left out in the cold. The people of the southern coalfields are not the types to just sit around and wait for a hand-out, and on our trip you could tell that the people we encountered were hardworking people who have simply fell on hard times. But with only ONE option for employment, where do these people go when that option is no longer available?<br /><br /></div><div> </div><div><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi7PDgpL4pSwrY2cH_27DiURl7lpN7Xe2MrNW75JL1h4I9vcUCDMK4eZNT30ogSaMfIORpxwpUBKN1odScwKvOa2WDqhvRtv1PhtYCH_JIfq8jkIs0zadcYV_lCX63aClQfwFPRu3TNcijF/s1600-h/Denny+Tyler+Jupiter4.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5389542882771361058" style="WIDTH: 400px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 300px" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi7PDgpL4pSwrY2cH_27DiURl7lpN7Xe2MrNW75JL1h4I9vcUCDMK4eZNT30ogSaMfIORpxwpUBKN1odScwKvOa2WDqhvRtv1PhtYCH_JIfq8jkIs0zadcYV_lCX63aClQfwFPRu3TNcijF/s400/Denny+Tyler+Jupiter4.jpg" border="0" /></a><br /><span style="font-size:78%;">Photo by Denny Tyler</span></div><div> </div><div><br />The “lucky” few who do manage to find a job on these large equipment intensive mine sites are still faced with the no-win situation of destroying their communities in order to work there. Just as was the case 100 years ago, when the UMW was trying to organize coalfield workers, coal was not then, nor is it now, a friend to southern WV! Whenever I see a bumper sticker that reads, “Friends of Coal,” I want to ask the person driving the vehicle, “Do you by any chance remember Cabin Creek? Paint Creek? Matewan? Blair Mountain?” Now, I don’t know about you, but I tend to reserve my friendship for people who deserve it, and I typically don’t befriend inanimate minerals. I can’t help but wonder if the whole Friends of Coal campaign is merely a means of mass communication among the ignorant? Obviously the people who carry this message are ignorant of their history, their heritage and their future!<br /><br /></div><div> </div><div><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjGGKrkLcFjWvoUMRutXpYJDFWI4RX-ZlPHMg_GTTSgWXr_s54Sf6-flgL4hd4Z6vr3BPfhMVZ1ehwtjpLlRN6JQ_iBkRrhf1FC9YJxsB2WFv5iIT1ifqVnRNEaJsw6_ObLep3QCHxsjx6d/s1600-h/ed8.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5389539855335997922" style="WIDTH: 400px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 300px" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjGGKrkLcFjWvoUMRutXpYJDFWI4RX-ZlPHMg_GTTSgWXr_s54Sf6-flgL4hd4Z6vr3BPfhMVZ1ehwtjpLlRN6JQ_iBkRrhf1FC9YJxsB2WFv5iIT1ifqVnRNEaJsw6_ObLep3QCHxsjx6d/s400/ed8.jpg" border="0" /></a></div><div><span style="font-size:78%;">Photo by Denny Tyler<br /></span></div><div><br />However, like many who are opposed to MTR, I am not diametrically opposed to coal mining. In fact, I realize that it is a fact of life in the monoeconomies of the central Appalachian coalfields and that, in fact, it would be immoral to stop all coal mining in central Appalachia. Still, I will say it just makes good sense to obtain the coal from underground and not by mountaintop removal methods. There is a readily available workforce just waiting to again be employed by the coal industry. If Coal really is good for West Virginia, as the industry and the bought-politicans readily tout, then the mining of coal should be conducted in such a way as to maximize the employment of West Virginians. Only in this manner will coal revenue truly increase the tax base and improve the standard of living for the average West Virginian.<br /></div><div><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgyHOg9JDmjvy4d2nPjWaJsoXM8a9kkTlzKnregwsRbRt1lrXZr7_TovDobaT8cPTRDeRB2nKn_cK97n2GlqLbWh_DCkArComL5K9Wq3LZ_0D9T_IJIZlfYvi1XJRTvRUh4doKNdSRv_UEZ/s1600-h/Denny+Tyler+(2).jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5389542892207148226" style="WIDTH: 400px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 300px" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgyHOg9JDmjvy4d2nPjWaJsoXM8a9kkTlzKnregwsRbRt1lrXZr7_TovDobaT8cPTRDeRB2nKn_cK97n2GlqLbWh_DCkArComL5K9Wq3LZ_0D9T_IJIZlfYvi1XJRTvRUh4doKNdSRv_UEZ/s400/Denny+Tyler+(2).jpg" border="0" /></a><br /><span style="font-size:78%;">Photo by Denny Tyler</span></div><div> </div><div><br />You might ask, “But what can be done?” “Is it fair to judge the situation at face value?” Is it fair to say, “If you don’t like it, then leave” as so many coal industry advocates spout? I ask you this, why should someone have to leave their ancestral home simply so that someone else can draw a paycheck from its destruction? Only in central Appalachia can the victim be made out to be the villain! Why should corporate interests be given superiority over the value of human life and individual property rights? I recently heard someone say, “We don’t live where you mine coal, you mine coal where we live. We were here first.” That statement is so very true. A real mountaineer will recognize the problem and fight to make it better instead of cutting and running, like the perpetrators of MTR do.<br /></div><div><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi0arNqNdePPvkUOWL-QfGSbgwcIZ1rBB2646IZLiFnGLvgpTiJXMUMCXk7MKW19ZK4S55O_Q81Z9Xq6QE4r0LUrNger30zt0W1i9tdz46JQUHft1Lthvtp9Y-Xk9jhqGwhzlWa336tiAcV/s1600-h/clay+branch+flowering.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5389539844090094610" style="WIDTH: 400px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 300px" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi0arNqNdePPvkUOWL-QfGSbgwcIZ1rBB2646IZLiFnGLvgpTiJXMUMCXk7MKW19ZK4S55O_Q81Z9Xq6QE4r0LUrNger30zt0W1i9tdz46JQUHft1Lthvtp9Y-Xk9jhqGwhzlWa336tiAcV/s400/clay+branch+flowering.jpg" border="0" /></a></div><div><span style="font-size:78%;">Photo by Denny Tyler<br /></span></div><div><br />The majority of problems currently associated with mountaintop removal are clearly human rights issues, as it is chock full of violations on that front. So why do so many see mountaintop removal only as an environmental problem? Is it because it is hard to paint human rights violations when they primarily involve poor, white families, or is it simply because it is easier to villainize “environmental extremists”? If it is the former, that white people are not poor, or cannot be discriminated against, then I invite you to visit the southern West Virginia communities that I visited this weekend. You see, the social justice issues in the coalfields are not racially motivated, but rather, they are based on simple economics. We’re poor, so we don’t matter. Yes, class warfare is alive and well in the central Appalachian coalfields.<br /><br />But all is not hopeless, I did see a few glimmers of hope on my trip through the coalfields. For example, in Gilbert, West Virginia, I saw a few brave citizens trying their best to break the stranglehold of the monoeconomy perpetrated by the coal industry by taking up the banner of tourism. These people were trying their best to cater to the influx of visitors to the Hatfield/McCoy Trail. In spite of all the efforts there, I see one big catch-22, a community cannot have a tourism industry when mountaintop removal is destroying the very thing these people are coming to visit…the mountains. Now I know the claims, that the Hatfield/McCoy trail is partially built on old strip mines and without the coal industry leaving this abandoned mine land to the state, the trail system would not be possible. That is a faulty argument and is the equivalent of saying that Coca-Cola wouldn’t exist without obese people to drink it! There is already more than enough abandoned strip mines in southern West Virginia to have 100 Hatfield/McCoy trails.<br /><br />After my visit to the coalfields, the bottom line of the matter is the residents of these communities desperately need roads, and they need them yesterday. I know we’ve all heard the line from, “O Brother, Where Art Thou?” where George Clooney comments that the little town he was in was a geographical oddity because it was 2 weeks from anywhere. Well, many of these little communities share that geographical oddity because they are 2 hours from anywhere. A successful community has a solid infrastructure. Good roads are the cornerstone of this infrastructure. For businesses to excel, there must be a good tranpsortation system. While these tourism entrepreneurs in Gilbert are laying the foundations and hedging their bets that a new day is dawning in the coalfields, it is up to the rest of us to demand that funds be allocated to advancing the economic conditions of the coalfields. Without good roads and the economic diversification that comes with them, these citizens of the southern West Virginia coalfields will remain virtual slaves and a captive workforce for the coal industry that continues to use fewer and fewer workers.<br /><br /></div><div> </div><div><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEglEMy42CK9l48uzBtJMUVg_bpE4sOJ3jh2-0zgSXtlD2cCBvkcYZ41TJzChwJ3e6M7VruP9ht3_fdAPJtuZueXigbllGZSOfvEuP-l4Uqy6kfYlUm5ZXYs7FNw54ttfnopn8jLhZlVdCCk/s1600-h/Denny+Tyler+24.JPG"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5389539852732318770" style="WIDTH: 400px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 300px" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEglEMy42CK9l48uzBtJMUVg_bpE4sOJ3jh2-0zgSXtlD2cCBvkcYZ41TJzChwJ3e6M7VruP9ht3_fdAPJtuZueXigbllGZSOfvEuP-l4Uqy6kfYlUm5ZXYs7FNw54ttfnopn8jLhZlVdCCk/s400/Denny+Tyler+24.JPG" border="0" /></a></div><div><span style="font-size:78%;">Photo by Denny Tyler</span></div><div><br />But don’t be mistaken. These are not a broken people, and to realize this one but has to look into the eyes of the children. For too long, these areas have remained forgotten and the people written off as lost causes. The children tell a different story. These kids truly are the hope of the future, but they must be encouraged when they are young. The inquisitiveness and intelligence of these children rival any in the nation, but without nurturing these hopes will die. There is a stark difference between the hopes and dreams of children in the coalfields and the twenty-somethings that remain in this area. I have seen this firsthand, and it made me wonder what went on in that space of time to completely eradicate that optimism? Could it be the 130+ years of oppression wrought by the coal industry? Continually being told (and shown) that you and your land are good for nothing except coal mining, and then being told that you need to keep your mouth shut if your opinions differ from those of the coal industry, has to take its toll on any human psyche. For far too long, the people of the central Appalachian coalfields have been America’s forgotten people. It is shameful that the very people who have sacrificed the most (and continue to sacrifice) for the prosperity of the United States, have received so very little.<br /><br />Still, the seeds of oppression have sprouted into the flower of discontent, and the southern West Virginia coalfields now finds itself at a crossroads. No longer will it depend on a one resource economy. No longer will it rely on corporate politicians. No longer will its citizens sit idly by and watch their heritage be destroyed for the benefit of some faraway place. No longer will we accept being second-class citizens. Standing with us at this crossroads are the spirits of mountaineers long since passed; from Simon Kenton and Daniel Boone; to Michael Stoner and Mitchell Clay; from Devil Anse and Smilin’ Sid Hatfield; to Mother Jones and Governor William C. Marland. Their presence strengthens and unites us, and they root us in the knowledge that we are as much a part of this rugged land as the coal that is being ripped from the mountaintops. <br /><br /></div><div><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhDtsx8QIj5Y9WbmkTTNi7rfrwaF-qNKU7rV7bmrkVe1n64k8L6ZRjw0CaPwQdVtBx39XJ0i4DPJH5gX_QkP7SDXU6bPriGKfJZuqKMOQSxKEkT-Jmk6nPnyWuopkghKjWeaGKVE83M70Ct/s1600-h/scenic2-edwight.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5389542899406157410" style="WIDTH: 400px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 300px" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhDtsx8QIj5Y9WbmkTTNi7rfrwaF-qNKU7rV7bmrkVe1n64k8L6ZRjw0CaPwQdVtBx39XJ0i4DPJH5gX_QkP7SDXU6bPriGKfJZuqKMOQSxKEkT-Jmk6nPnyWuopkghKjWeaGKVE83M70Ct/s400/scenic2-edwight.jpg" border="0" /></a><br /><span style="font-size:78%;">Photo by Denny Tyler<br /></span><br />Let’s stand together on this issue of economic diversification in the coalfields and demand better of our elected officials. No matter where you are from, contact your elected officials by email or letter, better yet call them and tell them your mind! If they continue to refuse to address this grave injustice, then I ask you to join me in actively campaigning against them (regardless of political party) in the next election. The coalfields are at a critical point in its history, and a changing of the guard may be just what is needed to save the coalfields from the coal industry.<br /></div><div><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh3q1V83rzQLegX4huJBCjno0T7jQf6V7eq5ZVKfxbRPftNuSopK4sJVghR7PV2nZRP98NnVwyfLB41mxurxM5hpz0CQuRAHbeMIc0S_G4MsQRD_d0cNevyI8z7YmOMy2WPLbfTl1LCK6Ti/s1600-h/Vivian+Stockman+(500).jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5389543254015023010" style="WIDTH: 400px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 254px" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh3q1V83rzQLegX4huJBCjno0T7jQf6V7eq5ZVKfxbRPftNuSopK4sJVghR7PV2nZRP98NnVwyfLB41mxurxM5hpz0CQuRAHbeMIc0S_G4MsQRD_d0cNevyI8z7YmOMy2WPLbfTl1LCK6Ti/s400/Vivian+Stockman+(500).jpg" border="0" /></a><br /></div><span style="font-size:78%;">Photo by Vivian Stockman</span>Matthew Burnshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02625103538582649633noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8234215772753915781.post-91255757532814523462009-10-01T10:48:00.003-04:002009-10-01T11:02:26.338-04:00Come Visit October<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhGWz2bXdAiEVe-NumuTF4Fp973VL6x-kF7g8amPxDWiGk-HPJSqe3cwS-5XuH_9AudnOuPUaLyEojD4XGDP1F4naIp-9lQqzQ04vezmVvpNyQBU2pSn6-CUcoAYMMZNsrLQiK_XLatC8Ml/s1600-h/fall+trip+2007.jpg"><img style="cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhGWz2bXdAiEVe-NumuTF4Fp973VL6x-kF7g8amPxDWiGk-HPJSqe3cwS-5XuH_9AudnOuPUaLyEojD4XGDP1F4naIp-9lQqzQ04vezmVvpNyQBU2pSn6-CUcoAYMMZNsrLQiK_XLatC8Ml/s400/fall+trip+2007.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5387646436310510162" /></a><br /><br /><strong>"October"</strong> by West Virginia poet, Grace Yoke White, from her 1953 book "Unhoarded Gold".<br /><br />What does it matter if my house is not swept,<br />Or my beds placed to air in a hygenic way?<br />For in through my window a birdcall crept,<br />And a red-throated songster hopped near to say:<br /><br />"Come, share the joy of the fine autumn weather;<br />The goldenrod gleams near bypaths and roadways;<br />While tall, flaming asters, like purple heather,<br />Keep time as they nod at the birds through the day."<br /><br />Come stand 'neath the trees, let the leaves drift around you--<br />The red and the brown, the crimson and gold;<br />Come, roam out of doors, in the sun and the dew;<br />Come, forget that time passes, that days will grow cold.<br /><br />Come out in the sun and the soft autumn moon;<br />Let's enjoy the bright days and nights as they pass;<br />Come, gather the beauties that fade all too soon;<br />Come out in the open while the season lasts.Matthew Burnshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02625103538582649633noreply@blogger.com5