The Heart of Appalachia

Growing up in the heart of Appalachia, I didn’t see poverty, and didn’t understand why the world laughed at us. Outsiders defined our language as back woods and ignorant, yet to our ears, we spoke in syllables of kindness, love, and familiarity. A hand shake was proof of your honesty; a wave of the hand on a two-lane, dirt road said “howdy,” even if you didn’t know them.

After a long day underground, face covered in coal soot, a miner could expect a hot meal of pinto beans, fried potatoes, and cornbread, slathered with honey or homemade apple butter.

I grew up going to church twice on Sundays, and Wednesday night prayer meeting. Hymn singing and testimony time were a natural response to our simple way of living, thankful to the God who provided for and sustained us. Neighbors talked over fences, taking a quick respite from hanging laundry on the clothesline, children and meal preparation the most common topic.

Multiple generations slept under the same roof on feather ticks made from yard chickens, snuggled under quilts made of hand-me-down dresses. Nothing was wasted in the homes of Appalachia.

Memorial Day Weekend was a sacred holiday to honor deceased family members. It was a special time of visiting the cemetery, placing flowers on loved ones' graves, and of course picture taking. A picnic sometimes followed, a time of reuniting with those who lived out of state. Oh, how I long for one more gathering with parents, cousins, aunts, uncles, and grandparents, whose graves I now decorate.

Sunday afternoons were made for driving country roads. Weathered barns with Mail Pouch Tobacco painted on the side lined the highway, along with corn fields and vegetable gardens. Families gathered on the porch swatting flies while children played in the yard. Stories abound on those sacred Sundays, no television in sight. It was a tradition, a time of catching up, connecting with your people.

The world sees poverty, I see wealth that money can’t buy. The world sees ignorance, I see wisdom beyond reproach. The world identifies us as the butt of their jokes, somehow invoking permission to humiliate us. 

I identify Appalachia as the breeding ground of humble, hard-working, family centered people who understand the value of relationships over things, a culture tethered to their roots, yet free to fly far and wide, secure in the knowledge that home is truly where the heart is.

A Tribute of Love

      We mark time by the events in our lives. Weddings, deaths, births, and graduations are the benchmarks of living. Some events are so cataclysmic that our before’s and after’s are worlds apart. For me, the death of my mother when I was fifteen was the first major before and after in my short life. Everything from that point on was measured by that loss. There was a period of time I felt no one else’s pain or suffering. The worst thing I could imagine had happened to me, and I simply felt nothing.

 

     Other milestones in my life include leaving West Virginia and moving to South Carolina, adopting my children, moving from the coast of South Carolina to the upstate, and the different homes we lived in along the way. The year my dad lived with us, and his subsequent death, were defining moments. I changed in ways I never thought possible during that time. 

 

     The most recent marker in my life has its first anniversary on September 30,^, 2020. My dear cousin and friend, Ruth, went to heaven after a very short illness. Our family was shocked and grief stricken at her passing. She was the connection to my maternal family. Ruth was loved deeply by everyone who knew her, as witnessed by the standing room only crowd at her home church who wept at the realization she was gone. The story of her sickness and death on our lips as if to say, “How did this happen?”

   

    She was young and young at heart in the very best of ways. Her husband, children, grandchildren and extended family and friends loved her beyond words. She earned respect and honor as the Proverbs 31 woman exemplified. Her friendships spanned sixty plus years, an amazing quality in this day and time of throwing people away when they no longer meet our expectations. 

Sisters, Alice and Ruth

     The quality I loved about her most was her ability to love unconditionally. She was my go-to person. She listened to the details of my deepest wounds and fears when my world was falling apart, not just once, but twice. When my mom died, I gravitated to her kindness and loving arms. When my marriage was in deep trouble and I was going through a breakdown, she’s the one I ran to. She comforted me and shared godly wisdom with no condemnation. We laughed together and cried together and reminisced about our family until the late hours of the night. She made my visits an occasion with the best food, surrounded by her girls, and then later her granddaughters. Her husband, Emil, ventured into the dining room every little bit, smiling and shaking his head at our laughter and conversation. I will never forget those visits and the love that filled every nook and cranny of her home.

 

     My heart aches for her family. Our loss was palpable at the recent wedding of one of her granddaughters. Her picture adorned a memory table, her presence felt among us. Her husband, children, grandchildren, and great-granddaughter are in my thoughts and prayers as they mark the date of their before and after. We have the blessed hope of seeing her again one day, along with the rest of our family who have already entered glory. 

 

     Ruth, you were loved as well as you loved. The light dimmed in our world when you left, but the life you lived will never dim in our memories. Until we meet again…

What Does Your Home Say?

One of my favorite Christmas movies is the 1994 version of Miracle on 34^thStreet. The movie centers on the Santa Claus hired by Cole’s, the fictional department store that sponsors the yearly parade in New York City on Thanksgiving Day, and a little girl who must be convinced that Santa Claus is real. Near the end of the movie the main characters arrive at a charming house in the country. Susan Walker, the six-year-old daughter of Cole's director of special events, runs inside to find a perfectly decorated home, complete with a tree covered in beautiful ornaments and tinsel, and Christmas presents stacked eye level. Her mother tells her this is their new home as her eyes sparkle with delight. The house exudes warmth and the façade of a perfect life.

     

My all-time favorite movie and its house is quite the opposite. Beaches was showing in theatres in January, 1989. We were in Charleston, South Carolina waiting for our daughter who was arriving on a plane from Guatemala making our family complete. Due to a delay, we had several hours before her appearance. The title of this movie beckoned us inside unaware of the emotional wave about to hit. While the movie has a poignant ending, the friendship between the two main characters is sacrificial and faithful. The two friends retreat to a beach house as one of them prepares to die. This house is my vision of the perfect beach setting. The one-story cottage with wraparound porches draws me into the story, leaving me with the desire to sit, and breathe in life, even as death is lurking. Simple furnishings convey a laid back, homey feel.

     

My choice in home atmosphere will always be simple living rather than magazine worthy perfection. Natural hardwood floors that forgive footprints cast a golden glow. Long, bare windows invite sunshine to brighten the interior on cold, winter days. Spring breezes wafting through open windows are more appealing to me than heavily draped windows. 

My desire is that guests are greeted by the luscious scent of freshly baked scones and flowers that remind you of your grandma’s garden. A warm greeting will be remembered more than the first impression of a perfect room.

The table decorations may be lovely, but is there lively conversation where you feel known and loved? Listening has more value than fussing with details in the kitchen, though details prepared beforehand speak volumes.

What is the temperature of your home and I don’t mean the degree you set your thermostat? Is it calm and peaceful or loud and stressful? Our home has been all these conditions at one time or another, but I strive for calm and peaceful.

If your children are still living in the home, are they comfortable inviting friends over? Is your home the “go to place,” or is it too much work hosting young people? 

I can tell you from experience, my children won’t remember how the house looked, but they remember how our home made them feel. In a culture where children are often stressed over cultural issues and the need to fit in, home should be a sanctuary from a troubled world.

Are you present with your family members? Huddled together in the same room, each one’s attention buried in some form of technology is not being present. Conversation that involves listening and sharing communicates your presence, your availability. 

We need to extend grace to one another and remove the superficial tone of the perfect house or life. The Biblical story of Mary and Martha sitting at Jesus’ feet is as current today as it was 2,000 years ago. Martha complained that Mary was lazy, and she was left to do all the work. Each of us can claim being Martha's or Mary's in a busy world.

Jesus said, “Mary has chosen the better thing.”

I want to choose the better thing as well. In a world of busyness and the lust for perfection, I want to choose simplicity that breeds joy and freedom. I want my home to say, “Welcome, I’m happy you’re here.”

The two houses mentioned in the beginning are very different from one another in both style and temperature. The Miracle on 34^thStreet house was a catalog home, decorated to sell Christmas. Life was make-believe until the new owners moved in. The Beaches house was filled with love, friendship, joy, pain, and grief. 

Isn’t that what makes a house a home? The normal rhythms of life ebb and flow; seasons of pain and sorrow are followed by exuberant joy. As life happens, the good, and not so good, be sensitive to the atmosphere you allow. Pay attention to the subtle hints of your family and adjust the temperature to one of comfort and joy. It will cost you little in dollars, but the result is priceless.

Nostalgia Takes Me Home

     This was written for my series on Home. I submitted it to a writing contest, so the format is a little different. I hope this takes you to the place in your mind where home resides.

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At the mention of the word “home” mental pictures come into focus without prompting. Each of us has roots that inform the way we view the world, and in particular, the little corner of the world we inhabit.

     When I’m feeling nostalgic, the word home transports me back in time to a little town in West Virginia. My roots were firmly planted in The Mountain State. The little grocery store at the end of the street was my destination on hot, summer days. Slipping in the back door, bare feet inching along on the cool, concrete floor, I’d make my way to the ice cream cooler. Orange push-ups were my favorite, as I searched through the familiar treats awaiting my taste buds.

     The pictures running through my mind reveal a little girl, hair flying in the wind, as she pedals her bicycle up and down the street she called home. I don’t remember being afraid of much back then, life was ideal. 

     I remember a lush, green hillside with a copper headstone, the name etched in raised letters telling of beginnings and endings. For many years there was a single name, and then my dad’s name joined hers. Nostalgia and longing for what once was beckons me to this quiet hillside. These people were my home of origin.

     My picture wouldn’t be complete without the memory of going to a little house on Second Street in West Madison. The most wonderful woman and her husband live there, and loved me well. Her hugs enveloped me, her hospitality taught me how to extend grace. I learned the meaning of unconditional love through experience, not preaching.

     That girl grew up, married, and left home, ventured to another small town in West Virginia where she established her own home. Young and ready for a new life, that little town became her home for the next six years. This was the place where sheep, goats, and horses meandered down to the little log cabin we lived in. The tiny kitchen, perfect for two, is where I honed my skill of baking pies, making the dough from scratch. This was also the place where the nursery sat empty, except for the cat that delivered her kittens in the closet…six times.

     The next move took us away from our beloved West Virginia to a state that is as beautiful, yet different, in a thousand ways. Our feet were planted in the sandy soil on the coast of South Carolina for several years. The sound of children’s laughter was a gift through adoption, and home took on new meaning. The simplicity and complexity of being a mom nurtured my heart in a way as never before. My desire to make home a place of comfort and security was overwhelming, yet I embraced my role and treasured the years of child rearing and homemaking.

     The in-between years of launching children from the nest were rocky. I didn’t know how to make a home without them coming through the door at the end of the day. Eventually, I adjusted, but not without pain and soul searching. It took many years to settle my anxious heart. 

     As I’ve grown older, home has become the place I stretch my weary self at the end of the day. It’s the place my hands dig in moist soil, planting flowers that make my heart smile. It’s the place where my favorite seat in the house is a rocking chair on the porch overlooking a sloping front yard. The view of the sun setting paints a picture in my mind of perfection. My kitchen is the place I prepare meals, roll out dough for piecrusts, and brew steaming pots of tea. The kitchen is the heart of our home where we gather for conversation, the breaking of bread, and the studying of the Word.

     Life is in constant transition, rife with stress, and the daily calling each of us must answer. Having a place to sink into the love and warmth of family gives strength for each new day.

     The address of our home has changed through the years, yet the timeless feeling of love, security, and homey comfort lives on. The people you surround yourself with have the power to evoke strong emotional connections that draw you into a cocoon of being home.

     At the heart of this fifty-something woman is where that little girl still resides, the little one reaching into the freezer for ice cream, content with simple pleasures. May she always reach for the simple gifts of family, faith, and home, knowing everything is a gift from God.

Home for the New Year

A new year always means a fresh start for me. I love cracking open a new planner; each month a possibility for new experiences, coffee dates, small group nights, celebrations, ministry opportunities, and even medical appointments. My planners are a record of my history in the making. I often return to past years and am reminded of special events I’ve been blessed to experience. It helps keep me humble and thankful for the life God has granted.

For the last several years I’ve chosen a word or theme to focus upon. Last year was all about simplifying, and I plan to continue the process. As I’ve pondered the new year, I keep coming back to “Home.” I tried to dodge this one because it seemed too obvious, but the word won’t leave my thoughts. I decided to stop fighting, and see where it leads.

My thoughts of home run deep. As I pondered what to write, it occurred to me that I needed to trace my feelings about home, and logically, the place to return was my foundation. As children, we form many impressions and habits that continue throughout our lives.

My home of origin was with my parents and younger brother. I have warm, sentimental feelings about a little house on First Street in my hometown of Madison. It’s the place I felt safest in my growing up years. After leaving the security of this little nest, life took many dark detours. The structure wasn’t as important as the simple, loving, and protected sense of being “home.” My life as an adult has centered on capturing that sense of love and security. 

As a child of the sixties and seventies, my life was simple, and predictable. Our world revolved around the church and school events. Summers were for long days of playing outside, cookouts with neighbors, church camp, housework, and lots of reading. During the school year, life involved sports, cheerleading, church activities, and lots of reading. I don’t remember having much homework in the elementary years. 

Home was about family. It was that one place where I was known and accepted; the bedroom I cleaned every Saturday morning, and the rhythm of meals with our family of four every evening. It was the every-other-Thursday nights of eating at Canturbury’s Restaurant; ordering the same thing for years…cubed steak, homemade french fries, and applesauce. It included the regular visits we made to Ma Bailey’s, and Papa and Aunt Phyllis’ house at least once a month, after church on Sunday. They each lived an hour away in Logan County. My introverted self thrived in this small world. 

There was a period of several years when home, as I knew it, disappeared. Losing the structure and security of my parents left me struggling emotionally and physically, and left an imprint on my heart. Because of my early struggles, home came to mean something much deeper as the years passed. 

When I became a parent at twenty-seven years of age, I wanted to create a stable home for my family. I understood too well the affects of not providing love and security to my children. It wasn’t always easy, and many sacrifices were made, but I’m thankful for the years of our home life. We made many memories I’ll forever cherish.

I’m thankful for parents who lived out their faith in front of me, giving me a foundation to secure my life in Christ. Without that beginning, I wouldn’t have known what to reach for. Never underestimate the value of giving your children stability with heavy doses of unconditional love. When the storms of life come, and they do for everyone, they will have something to cling to; a home base to return to when life becomes too hard. 

I’m not sure where this will go for the remainder of 2019, but I want to begin a conversation. As Dr. Dobson said in his long-running radio program, “Turn your heart toward home.” I look forward to the journey.