There is life here. Real life. Nothing from a novel or a memory or a postcard. It is nearly June, and the mountains are alive. Up in the holler, where we all have recollections buried, treasures and heartaches alike, you can hear the breath and essence of this sacred place. Honest and clean air, a hundred years old, whistles through the canopies of ancient hickory and cedar trees that are even older than the breeze.
Now just up the dirt road there, on the right, is Old Man Mundy’s place, still standing after all this time, tin roof rusted and porch falling in. The Old Man has been gone for twenty years, but it’s still his place. That willow tree in the side yard there was the very one that his boy hung himself in, that sorrowful Johnny Mundy, and to this day, nobody knows why he up and removed himself from this world. Some souls are poisoned with things the blessed of us can’t understand.
And on up in the holler, around the bend of the creek, where legions of Monarch butterflies light in the shine on the bank atop the slickness of the rocks, the place where the wildflowers lean toward the everlasting sun, is where Papaw used to take us fishing. We caught redeye and bluegill and made him take them off our hooks and throw them back in. This was real, memory or dream or not. Real life. And if you listen, beyond the breeze through the ancient trees, you can still hear Papaw’s chuckling and, perhaps, even detect the scent of the cherry tobacco he carried in his pocket.
But there’s a reunion here today, no proper invitation required. We ain’t formal folks, and we prefer it that way. We’ve known each other for years. For a lifetime. And what’s left of it. See, we don’t take this life for granted. We know that we’ll be dead a lot longer than we ever were alive. And that’s just the way things are here. You know it to be true.
Up in the holler, on down the old road, the old homeplace sets back against the pastel of the rising ridge, all bright and beckoning in the afternoon shine, and Big Ruby is grilling up short ribs over charcoal and hickory and Mama has a pig roasting in the ground, scarlet coals glowing above, and even though Papaw is gone on to the great yonder, he can smell the goodness, too. His lilt of a chuckle still glides on the sweet breeze, like a song you know better than a hymn. It’s like that in the holler, you know. Yes, you know. And the cousins stand out in the yard, drinking their tea and homemade blackberry wine, and telling tales that everybody hopes ain’t true, about how somebody saw the ghost of Johnny Mundy the other day, still swinging from that willow tree.
Up in the holler, beyond where the trucks can go, are untouched caves and an old mine shaft, and it’s been told that’s where the body of Riley Sheets still lies, his bones still dressed in the same clothes he wore the day he messed with that Whited girl, and her brothers did swiftly away with him, never to be a nuisance again to any good and sweet Appalachian sister. And on up in the holler, beyond the shaft, where the briers and rhododendron are so thick and wild that nobody could ever get beyond, there are mountain panthers, black as midnight, and their screams can be heard after the darkness of the evening sets in, foreboding a warning to the lot of us when they’ve been spooked by something meaner than they are. There is not a dark anywhere like this. It is deep and endless, just like the ocean that Mamaw has never seen.
Now God might vacation in Florida, but he lives here. And you can bet your last dollar that wherever God lives, the Devil makes his rounds. We have our share of loss and sorrowfulness to prove it. Ask Johnny Mundy, if you ever see him. But for now, the feast awaits us, courtesy of Big Ruby and the girls. And we will partake until our sides beg for mercy and still want more. That’s how good it is. And we will listen to the sincere and God-fearing thankfulness of Mamaw’s blessing echo off the ridge, and then to the mountain, and then into eternity, and back to us again.
The cousins make a fire out in the yard, and play their guitars and sing louder than the whirring crickets as the sun drops behind the ridge, and Mamaw takes off her gingham apron and dances the flatfoot out in the yard, barefoot, and she looks toward Heaven. She will be there soon, and we know it. She does, too. But it’s just fine with her. That’s where Papaw is.
Just down from the old homeplace, the kids gather in a ruckus of a gaggle down by the creek, and look down yonder to the willow tree in Old Man Mundy’s lonely and dark yard, waiting patiently, as we’ve all been taught to do. They see nothing.
Beyond the fire, on up in the holler, back where none of us can pass, the shrill scream of a black mountain panther sounds, all miserable and foreboding. We know what it means. It is unmistakable. And we know, beyond the shadows that those ancient trees cast, that we are not alone.
This is real life. And up in the holler, in the days before June, we can testify that everything lasts forever here. However long that is. None of us are forgotten. Not Papaw or poor Johnny Mundy. Or Mamaw, Big Ruby, or you. Not in the holler. And when our last summer comes, we will simply lean, like the wildflowers, right by the legion of Monarchs where Papaw waits for us to fish with him again, toward the everlasting sun.
Dear, amazing Anna, I found your blog a coupla years ago and have returned frequently for more of your stories. How I love them! I am a product of eastern Kentucky, and oh how your words resonate with my soul. I have been asked to do a class on salves and medicinal teas for the NPS and would dearly love to share a few of these stories, as the emphasis of my class is actually on the cultural aspect of Appalachian folk medicine. I’ve chosen 8, some of which I may save for a program in June which focuses on the ‘ways of the mountain woman’. May I gave your permission to print a few copies of those? IF that is, my granddaughter can help me find a way to put them in a printable format, haha? I honestly feel that they’d add so much to the class and make the attendees realize what a rich cultural background they have to draw on and be proud of.
Of course, and much obliged!
Thank you SO much! Mind if I get back to you and let you know how these gems were received(gratefully and wonderfully, I’m sure)?
Where can I get these books! I absolutely want them.
Ms Wess;
This was my first exposure to your writings and it was a memorable one. Beautifully crafted and authentic
in tone, it was a joyful read.
I am sitting on the bank, taking in the smells of the food, & just listening to everyone as they eat & talk. Yes, I am there in the holler with yal.
I love reading your blog I hope to see you publish some books
Hi Anna, I feel at times; far removed from my youth in mountains and hollers you write about. When I return, a lot of the good things come pouring back. The edge has worn off the not so good things and all seems right with the world. Reading your stories are as good as a visit back home, thank you for that. You are Greatness.
I truly love reading your material, I was born and raised in Morehead, Kentucky, your stories takes me back to simpler times, thank you!
I grew up in a West Virginia holler and your story brings back many sweet memories. I’ve always thought there was a little holler mud singing through my veins. Must have come from somewhere between my bare childhood toes. Love your stories Anna. They always strike a deep chord. Can’t wait for the next one.
Love your stories! You are blessed with the gift. My husband and I are retiring to the mountains of North Carolina and no question, Gods Spirit dwells in those hills. Your stories remind me of the childhood I yearned for, thank you!
sitting here crying remembering Papaw and Mamaw and my Dad ,i live in a Mud Creek Williamsburg Ky, on their old home place, i came back here because my Dad was dying with cancer,we didn’t know if he had 6 months or 6 years he made it ten,,I was blessed once out hunting squirrel for a Black Panther to come running out in the path i was walking on, scared me silly but i took off running after him i thought i was loosing it,LOL but i also saw on a really snowy day out on a 4 wheel ride a rabbit that stood about 22-24 inches on his rump,, people would think i was crazy but i had a witness to both events my husband was with me both times, i Love these mountains but there is good and bad in EVERYTHING! Loved this story i needed a cry,,not bad tears just from SWEET memories!
This one made my heart smile and my eyes weep.
Enjoyed this. First time to read your blog, but hopefully will not be my last. I am from Fitch Branch Holler in Eastern Kentucky. Been away for 54 years and still miss it. Appalachia wants me to come home again. Hopefully soon to visit.
Thank you, Phyllis. Never too late for a visit. 🙂
My family came from a holler like that 170 years ago in Little pine, pawpaw branch, Madison county, North Carolina.
I have often wondered what life was like for them from 1830 thru the civil war. Your stories are taking me back. Thank you so much.
A half century plus, but feels like yesterday you are a very talented story
Teller. Thank you for sharing .
Thank you very much. 🙂
Anna Wess writes about life and home. Her life, her home. But it is my home, too. If you read what she writes, you may just find your home as well. But beware, her words can create such longing for home, for lost people and places, that it hurts. And a haunting pain will stay with you long after you have finished reading.
But no matter; however painful, I promise you will want to read more — because Anna KNOWS; she UNDERSTANDS.
Thank you, Ken. I think you must know and understand, too. 🙂
I too live up a holler. I’m just waiting, in my porch swing, for you to come visit and share another amazing story.
You, my dear, are an extremely talented and brilliant story teller. I’m from those hollers and valleys as well. Cradled and sheltered by the trees and shadows, protected and watched over by ghosts past.
It’s good of you to say, and thank you. 🙂
Love this story..
If you come out of the holler before I get there save me a mess of that hog.
Up in the Holler…..just beautiful! Your stories bring so much peace to us mountain dwellers!
Thank you so much, Debbie.
This was so awesome! I live in one of those Appalachian hollers to this day, was born and raised right here, I had the mountains and hills, caves and valleys to play in. I’ve always thought of this as Gods country as well. And so truly stated that the hills and mountains are alive and well, sheltering their children like doting parents. There just truly is no place like it that I have ever found.
Thank you. Sincerely. 🙂 See you by the creek.