The Bard was raised out a little country road just a tad bit over 3 miles from the copper company across from the old white house where my Mamaw ran barefoot as a wee girl, at the foot of an apple orchard, all within the shadows of Big Frog Mountain. I grew up with folks who lived through the great war and the depression and heard stories of how they weren’t really sure when it was over cause being poor was just how life was. The struggle was simply consistent. I fell in love with the mountains, forests, and creeks early on and would wander them often instead of going to baseball practice (much to Daddy’s dismay). And while wandering the area and falling in love with the magic that these old mountains hold, I fell even more in love with its people. The old farts, the weird and unusual, the downtrodden, the farmers whose necks were as of old leather from years in the sun, the preacher’s, the congregations, the teachers, the miners, the mechanics…each of them had, and still have, a story to listen to. A story full of life and hardships, family, and love.
I repeated these stories to my own youngins as they wandered these same hills and hollers as children to hopefully instill the same love for both mountain magic and for the good folks who would happily open up a spot at their supper table.
Yes, these are our personal musings, but in reality, it’s just a collection of memories of all of those whose roots can be found buried in this rich magic mountain soil.