The Appalachian Life

I am reading a book by Deany Brady entitled "An Appalachian Childhood". It is a collection of her memories of being born and raised in the backwoods of Appalachia, dirt poor but well loved.

Some of the things she says reminds me of my life - even now. For instance, she explains that dinner is what most call lunch and supper is what some call dinner. Still that way at my house.

Another thing she talks about is the youngest child is called "the baby" until another baby arrives. That was always true in my family. In fact, my nephew was "the baby" until he was six years old and my niece and my daughter arrived within three months of each other. If we had a family gathering, they might be called "the babies", but usually they were referred to by name so as not to confuse everyone.

She talks about "pilot snakes". That rang a vague bell and Husband says he remembers snakes being called that. But we didn't know what kind of snake that was. So I looked it up. I'm  no clearer than before. Some sites say it is another name for copperheads. Others say it is a chicken snake or a rat snake, and they got the name "pilot" because they made way, or piloted a way, for poisonous snakes to come in.

Mrs. Brady is a few years older than my mother. We spoke on the telephone, revealing that she remembers my mother in school. Mother remembered her and her sister, too.

 My mother's family was far from rich, but they were much better off financially than Mrs. Brady's family. As far as I know, my mother never went hungry or without clothes and shoes. They lived in fairly decent dwellings, and I believe, as an only child, she was a bit spoiled. Mrs. Brady's childhood was one that many people envision when talking bout the "old" Appalachia - severe poverty and struggle.

When I spoke as a guest author at a book club, with the book discussion surrounding my book, "Out on a Limb of the Family Tree", someone pointed out I didn't mention this terrible poverty in my book. I did, but not overtly, because my family did not suffer in this way.

You really do  have to write what you know.

Mrs. Brady lives in San Francisco with her daughter. I haven't finished the book, but it will be interesting to find out how she got from here to there.

When Times Was Hard

I mentioned the other day about being the guest author at a book club. Most of the comments about my book were complimentary, which, of course, I lapped up like a thirsty dog.

One lady, who was very complimentary otherwise, said the one thing she noticed that she thought odd about the book was I did not represent the repressive poverty that one "always associates with Appalachia."

This made me think, which I need to do a lot more.

We discussed this, and I mentioned that I did talk about it briefly, but that it was also seen through the eyes of a child.

Early on, when Missouri is reflecting on her life, she remembers how she and her husband had fed and kept up her sister and her family because the husband had lost his job at the sawmill and they didn't have a big enough garden, etc.

But I think the scene that illustrates poverty through the eyes of a child is reminiscing about old Aunt Dulcy Gardner who was 93 when Missouri (who is 87 in 1997) and Kizzie, Missouri's sister, were children. Dulcy remembered the Civil War. Dulcy was a great story teller, and Missouri and Kizzie loved to hear her tell tales.

Poverty as seen through the eyes of a child from "Out on a Limb of the Family Tree":

A few times when Dulcy would feel 'poorly', Missouri and Kizzie would be taken to her house to spend the night. Dulcy's house was not much bigger than their smoke house, and it was magical to the girls because of this. The front porch had a plank  nailed between the two posts and laid flat, so Dulcy could put her pots of flowers on it in the summer; bright spots among the little unpainted shack. The house had two rooms: the front room was her sitting room and bedroom. There was a large rock fireplace that dominated this room, (in fact, the fireplace still stood to this day) and her bed sat catty-cornered across from it. Dulcy had hung a quilt on each wall to frame the little bed; and she told the children this helped warm the walls in the winter so she wouldn't freeze. There was a night table, two straight chairs for company, and an ancient rocker that had come from 'across the pond'.

The other room was the kitchen, and it held a wood cook stove. The table was five feet long, made of large oak planks, and this was what was 'made up' for a bed for the girls when they spent the night. Much giggling occurred about them sleeping on the kitchen table. And there was always at least one cat to curl up at their feet to sleep. So winter nights were always toasty. Summer nights were torture, and they usually drug the table out on the porch to sleep there, trying to catch a breeze, for Dulcy was old and cold all the time. No one could stand being in her house for more than a few minutes but Dulcy when the weather turned warm.

I think most people today would believe they lived in poverty if they had to live where and  how Dulcy lived. And maybe Dulcy knew she was poor. But the children saw it quite differently.

I've heard people say, "I was poor as a kid, but I didn't know it."

It's true I did not address the hardscrabble poverty that is so popular in Appalachian fiction. It's touched on in the book in other places, but not much.

It just wasn't my story to tell.