We were all born mad as loons. Every last one of us. It’s in the blood, in our roots, in the very family portrait. You, too, whether you admit it or not. You’re as crazy as I am. All of our Mamas, yours and mine, related by blood or not, all as crazy as the last. You get it from her. From your Daddy, too. Crazy runs as deep as your coal black water and my granny’s red hair.
Our Appalachian ancestors were Western Europeans, for the most part, from Ireland and England and Scotland and Wales. These mountains called to them, same as they do you and me. And they brought their crazy with them, and passed it on down to us. We’re as mad as they were, and most of us likely don’t know it.
I was a child at Hythern Murphy’s funeral. Now ol’ Hythern had lived up in the side of Clinch Mountain all her life, never worked a proper job in all her born days, but she survived off the Mother Mountain just the same. She drank corn liquor in the evening and toted a pistol one of her boys gave her in her brassiere, and she died sitting there in her porch rocking chair one October evening as the crickets sang. She didn’t even know she was gone; that’s how fast the Hereafter came upon her. She was ninety-two years old.
At Hythern’s funeral, her daughters, who were old women themselves, placed their hands upon hers as she laid there in earthly repose at the funeral home. Kin folk came from neighboring hills and towns to pay their respects to ol’ Hythern and touch her cold hands. Other people showed up, too. Nobody in particular.
My granny was one of the nobodies. She’d heard tale of Hythern Murphy for years, even though she’d never laid eyes on her, and she said they were cousins somehow, from her Mama’s dead half sister’s side, and I watched as she went up there to the casket and took hold of Hythern’s dead hands.
It was old Irish, like Granny was. It was something she believed and knew, something in her blood, as stone crazy as the cold of Hythern Murphy’s hands. Those women, my granny too, believed the touch of the dead could cure their own afflictions. Their arthritis, their sour stomachs, their mind pains, their cancers, like the one Granny was told she had. Holding hands with a dead woman would bring a healing unto their bodies and undo the hastening of their own brands of demise.
The dead has already been blessed, Granny explained. And that night, she went home and read from her Bible and praised the Lord for her healing in advance.
Old Wives Tales… That’s what such things are called by the those who don’t believe, by those who don’t have them in their blood. Don’t open an umbrella in the house or you’ll have seven years’ bad luck. Step on a crack, break your Mama’s back. Four-leaf clovers bring good luck. Only pick up a coin if it’s heads side up. If a broken clock starts ticking again, the reaper is at the door…
Granny lived to be ninety-seven. Five years longer than Hythern Murphy.
I watched on as the elders laid hands on hers at her last gathering. The dead has already been blessed. I heard the old words echo in my mind. The Southern Baptists wailed and prayed up a storm and sang until the last Amen, and it was then that I realized it. We don’t have to touch dead hands to receive our healing. Her blood flows through my veins already. Always has. Always will. The healing, the believing, the crazy, is in the blood.
I know who and what flows through my veins. So did Hythern Murphy. And so do you. And we are all still mad as loons, whether we admit it or not. And because they have already been blessed, so have we.
And sometimes, things become true simply because we know and believe they are.
Loved this.. Thank you!
I’m Irish/Indian so redheads were prevalent in my family as well as brunettes. My mom lived til 95, she also talked strange english. (like yall come back – They fit all the time – on directions “just up the road a bit (when it was ten miles haha)We had a lot of biscuits and gravy for breakfast – My Daddy hunted and fished and raised chickens too – I cried when he cut their heads off, but I was first to eat a chicken leg… Oh and “up air” used a lot instead of up there – so many I remember. My mom babysit and did washings for others for a little money, She also made some of our clothes. Lots of kids made fun of me but I’m still here in the same hollow I was born and raised in and most of them are gone..
Love this. Made the crazy ScotsIrish blood in my veins rise up and cheer!
Anna, you bring out all the great stories, and memories I have heard all my life growing up in Western North Carolina..My father’s, Scott-Irish family, we was told came from over seas with a “pack on their back”, around the early 1800’s. It was said they worked from sun up to sun down and washed their dollars bills and would hang them on the clothes line to let them dry, with a shotgun on their lap…On my mothers side, her granny lived in the north Georgia Mountains. Granny was a mid-wife and lived to be 99 years of age. It was later written up in the towns local paper, when ask of her how many babies she had delivered ,she replied , that she ” had caught” over a thousand babies in her life time, the latest when she was eighty eight years young…I am so proud to be a descendant of these wonderful crazy people. You keep writing, you have a special gift! Love your stories!
Thank you, again for your stories. I love reading them.
Loved this!
Miranda, if you are still reading replies, we have a great connection – three grandfathers (several greats back) on my grandmother’s side were “over the mountain men” at Battle of King’s Mountain! So proud of that “crazy” heritage!!
-Dolores
Anna Wess, I love this piece of writing because you’ve put into words what I know, but don’t ever say except when I’m talking to my own kin people – my family is, each and everyone of us, a half a bobble out of plumb. My kin has been here in these hollers and hills since the early 1700s and I’m awfully proud to have their blood running through my veins.
Keep on writing, Anna.
I feel that spirit and connection that you write about. I love reading the comments from folks on here as well.
A proud bunch we are!!!
This gave me chills. Please keep writing.
I love reading what you write. I live up a hollow in West Virginia and your stories bring back the memory of my grandma Herrald and how she spoke the old language like “yonder and the such”. Please keep writing.
My Granny passed Mother’s Day, last Sunday. 95 years old. From Gaillia County Ohio. “Down in the hills” as we say now.
Her kids: 77, 75, 73, 71, & 64. Born at home, all of ’em. Didn’t drive or have a paying job until she was 55, cause grandpa died. An amazing woman from crazy blood and gave me mine! Never prouder than when I read your words. Thanks for sharing with all of us. We feel it, as you do, flowing in our veins!
Absolutely love your musings. They paint powerful pictures. Thank you.
Still crazy after all these years too! Both my Grannies made it well into their 90’s too. Thanks for sharing and keep the home fires burning, too much wisdom has already been lost!
Your writtings are water to my soul! My Fathers family was from Council, Va. And I remember trips there as a child. They would sit and tell stories late into the night about hangings and haints and such! It always fascinated my. Somehow I feel your story is mine!
Yep, I have the crazy blood. And I think I am the only one of my cousins that have realized it, embraced it. I just wish I.had found it earlier, as my health forbids me from doing things I want to do. But I’m still here. And happy as a loon.
My Mamaw passed away recently (November) and when I read the words “Her blood flows through my veins already. Always has. Always will.” it made me so happy to be reminded of this, Thank You.
Momma, my grandmother lived to the age of 99. Her mother, other momma who was blind, rocked in that chair on the porch, as did momma…
How blessed I am to have crazy in my blood!
I too am an old mtn. woman, trying to learn lost ways from the older of our community before it’s long gone. I hope I’m not too late and will carry on our heritage. We are a proud people because we’ve lived through hard times and learned what we needed to do, when we needed it. Thank you for your stories, takes me back, through trials and tears. Keep the blood line flowing. Your mtn. sister.
Thank you, sister Pam.
Granny raised me..backwoods WVa..never read words that speak to me like this..never thought I would. I’m in the city now. Work as an herbalist ..trying to share the old ways..so they won’t be lost..so nice to see yr well worn path. Many thanks.
Enjoyed your writing just now for the first time. Thank you for the joy.
You’re writing has touched my very soul. I have read three of your posts this morning and long to read more. Thank you for your sharing these words with us.
This brings thoughts and memories of my Granny. She was not a mountain woman. She was born and raised in rural Alabama, but she was just as strong and resilient as you describe your family. She learned to make due with what she had growing up. She lived through the Great Depression. She survived the loss of her first child at birth then cried and prayed with me when I lost my one of my own. You are so right that we don’t need to touch the dead hands to receive healing- her blood flows through me and I, too, am strong (I just need to be reminded sometimes).
Wonderful memories. Thank you.
My family came here to America in the early 1700s. A little later my ScotsIrish ancestor from down the road from here was so crazy he led a bunch of his friends and neighbors up a big hill to fight the most organized war machine on the planet. Everyone told him he was crazy. He should wait until his big brother got back and then follow him. But he was crazy enough to ignore the reasonable and he went off, half cocked, to Kings Mountain, before his brother and the other “over mountain” men came. Fortune favors the brave. And the crazy.
Thank you so very much for reminding me of my story with yours.
So much enjoyed this sweet little jewel. Left me hungry for more!
Deb
Thank you and more to come, I hope!
…you keep writin. I’ll keep readin.
Kat