Growing Up in the Hills of Appalachia

I was raised on Pond Creek in the hills of Eastern Kentucky, where daylight happens early, like everywhere else, but the sun doesn’t actually show itself until sometime closer to noon.  By that time, the roosters up the “holler” have already quieted down, and the morning mist that hangs low on the creek has all but disappeared.  

I remember sitting outside our trailer, on a worn-out picnic table, dumping handfuls of fresh picked blackberries into a sugar-filled bowl of the cheapest cereal my parents could find at the local “Piggly Wiggly” store. I’d then use the back of my spoon to smash the berries until the milk turned a purple-pinkish color. Yeah, the good old days. 

I also remember hearing the N&W locomotive coming down the tracks, long before you’d ever see it, its whistle blowing at each crossing as it slowly wound its way through the tight-knit communities of the Appalachian Mountains. Always, the engineer would wave as he passed the trailer with the kid sitting outside on the picnic table, and I, in turn, would wave back until he and the engine were out of sight.  

I listen to the hard, steel wheels of the train clacking over the expanded seams in the rail, "catunkatunk-catunkatunk", as the coal laden cars, loaded at the mine’s tipple up the creek, rock back and forth heading for the yard in Williamson, WV.  I check over my shoulder to make sure Mom's not watching, and I sneak over to the driveway.

I grab a handful of gravels and run to the edge of the yard as I glance back at the trailer, one last time. All is good, I am ten years old, and the side of this train belongs to me. I begin to sling gravels at the N in N&W. It's hard to hit a moving target, but I've done this before. The gravels hit the steel plate, some near the N, some dead on, and others far from the target. It doesn't really matter to me, I'm throwing rocks at a train.

After a couple handfuls of gravels, I know to stop and wait for the caboose. Why? Because the man in that caboose will throw candy to me, out of the window, as long as he doesn't catch me throwing rocks at his train. Fair enough.

I find that these hills and valleys of Appalachia have a way of holding on to my soul, whether I want them to or not. Once touched by them and nurtured by them and raised by them, I can never escape their presense, no matter how far I run. They are a part of me forever, and they’ll always be home, no matter where I choose to live.