Now I was always advised that silence is golden, and I’d be best off in the end to keep my mouth shut and my thoughts to myself and behave like a lady, lest I be thought a wild woman. Well, I’ve been thinking on that good ol’ advice, and I’ve come to my own conclusions.
Winter falls hard here. It comes while we’re sleeping, like a thief in the night, and steals the blues from the heavens and the greens from the cedars, leaving a black and white silent film of a world. We’ve seen this old flick before, and we know how it ends. It all reminds me of the Mother Mountain in her current gray steel and silent reverie. She’s absolute and raw and real, like that old black and white film. She tells it like it is. She wears that silent gray like a cloak of honor and stays still for months on end. Nothing worth sowing grows from her soil in these dark days. The technicolor blues and golden yellows of our summertime youth and playground days are hidden beyond the layers of clouds and holiday bills, and we long for the return of warmth and her winsome yellows.
But we can only stay silent for so long, Mama.
It’s a particular outfit that I recollect, a pale yellow ensemble of cotton stretch pants with a matching top, little black pinstripes and all. Now I was proud of that outfit, and truth be told, I didn’t have others like it. It was a hand-me-down from one of the church girls that was more fortunate than I had ever been, and it fit my blossoming thirteen year-old frame like a regular glove. Eighth Grade girls can be cruel, and I’ll never forget the day when a schoolmate, a fortunate girl with a big brick house and a big perm asked me why I wore that yellow outfit almost everyday, and didn’t I know that people notice. And good Lord, your shoes don’t even match. Are you poor?
Well, I suppose I’d never considered that other folks paid attention to what clothes I wore, much less the bright pink jelly shoes that had already seen a summer or two. Maybe three. But they did. Oh, yes, they did. But silence was golden then, too, as I’d been told, as golden as my yellow outfit, and I said nothing despite my embarrassment.
But yes, we were poor. Appalachian poor, indeed, which is a sight worse than any other poor in this great country. We were poor to the point of that good ol’ yellow government cheese I’m reminiscing on, and how, despite the poverty of my youth and Daddy being laid off from the coal mines and us having nothing to show for his years of labor and strife but a modest mobile home and a small piece of Appalachian ground, that cheese made us feel regal and blessed when we’d slice off a slab and make grilled government cheese sandwiches, which we’d cut gingerly into four small squares. They last longer that way, you know.
And the cornbread, too. Golden yellow from the cornmeal, all grainy and good and even more wonderful with that good yellow cow butter, the real deal, churned from scratch by one of the Pentecostal church ladies that donated to our family when the Kroger or Acme didn’t trust Daddy’s checks anymore. We’d have gladly paid with food stamps, if we had them, but Daddy had worked too much and stayed golden silent for too long and the numbers never added up. We got nothing for free, despite that yellow outfit. I paid for it with the cruel comments from my Eighth Grade peers. And not a dab of that good butter was wasted. Waste not, want not.
And Lord help us if we didn’t eat what Mama put on our plates. Have mercy. Throwing away a piece of a fried golden tater or turning up your nose at the third bowl of soup beans for the week would see you in the bed with an empty and ungrateful stomach. If you’re hungry enough, you’ll eat it, Mama would say. And eat it, we did. Even if it was beef liver and onions, or sauerkraut and wieners, or another bowl of soup beans, or fried fatback and turnip greens. As I recollect it, I never knew the splendor of pizza, or a fast food hamburger, or a carbonated beverage until I was old enough to buy them myself. No, never.
But that Appalachian ground allowed us garden vegetables in the Virginia shine and yellow months of summer, and we’d eat cucumbers and tomatoes and bell peppers raw and warm, rain-washed and perfect. Yellow summer squash, too. Rhubarb and sweet strawberries and a grove of wild grapes, too. And golden honey from Granny’s hive, ambrosial and warm and gifted from Nature herself, and regular heaven on bites of her biscuits, yellow-crusted tops and all. Yellow like the siding on the new house Daddy and Mama were able to build, thanks to the boom of the coal industry in the late 1980s. Yellow like the April dandelions that prove Life lives here, thank you very much, and plenty of them to afford a Spring tonic to wake up your Winter bones.
Oh yes, if you’re hungry enough, you’ll eat it.
I learned that lesson too hard. A plentiful handful of us are still eating, even when we’re full and tired. We’ve put up with more than we can digest, simply because we were hungry at the time, and because silence is golden, girl. You know what I’m talking about. Oh, yes. You’re silent when you want to scream. You learned that lesson too hard, as I did. As Granny did, too. If you start it, you finish it. You made your bed, now lie in it. And you might go to bed every night, full and fed up to the gills, and pray to God to wipe away the leftovers on your plate, for you weren’t as hungry as you once thought. Yes, you know what I mean. Food ain’t the only thing that’ll fill you up. We’ve seen the ending of that black and white film too many times.
Take a lesson from our dear Mother Mountain. She gets tired of that gray cloak, and then she shakes it off and becomes a wild woman, naked and shining golden and loud. I’m here to tell you that you don’t have to eat it if you ain’t hungry, girl. You might have asked for it. You just may have heaped a second helping of it on your plate. You may still be having it for dessert, even if it ain’t sweet anymore or soothing to your palate. Even when you’re no longer hungry. Even when you ain’t sweet anymore, neither.
I’d rather starve than eat another pone of cornbread and another bean, I’d tell Mama. I’m tired of lettuce and bacon grease and onions and this yellow government cheese, no matter how regal and good it is, and people looking at me like I’m nobody, like I’m just another pitiful mouth in another Appalachian holler.
I grew tired of watching that same black and white film. I grew tired of expectations and promises and those godforsaken beans. I grew tired of being silent. I was full as a tick. But alas, I’m not hungry anymore. Lord, no. Too many years and seasons worth of beans and liver and things that sustain only for the time at hand and not for the time to come. Oh, yes, girl. You can be nourished and still not healthy. Fed and still not full. Throw those scraps out. Somebody else can use them, and you know it’s true. One girl’s trash is another girl’s treasure. Another girl’s yellow outfit.
Long gone are the days of that modest mobile home and the garden cucumbers and tomatoes, and that glorious government cheese. But I’d wear that yellow outfit again if I could, and those pink jelly shoes, too. I’d wear them everyday, for as long as I felt like it. I’d make government cheese grilled sandwiches and make a poor girl feel regal again. I’d suck the yellow marrow out of those days, had I known they’d be gone soon enough. I’d punch that girl with the big brick house and big perm in her fat mouth, and ask her if it hurt, and inform her that her blood was the same color as mine.
Oh, yes. We know how this movie ends. And beyond the recollections of mean girls and hunger, the golden yellow awaits us. Once again the Mother Mountain will rise up from her long sleep and shake off the gray. And so will you. And she’ll spread out a feast of yellow sunrises and garden vegetables and wisdom and warmth. We can wait a bit longer. Yes, you can wait, as those yellow-winged Monarch butterflies swarm in your belly. Our summertime youth and playground days are hidden beyond the layers of clouds and holiday bills.
No, ma’am. Silence is not golden. Golden is the lightening that cuts a path through the heavens and hollers like a panther, and says without an ounce of doubt, I am alive, poor and soup beans or not. I am reborn again and again. You might play me again next year, but I’ll always come back, just like that old movie with the ending you already know. Golden is that regal cheese, the sweet butter, the hand-me-down-outfit, the very yellow sunshine that sustains us during that predictable black and white film and the soon to bloom dandelions.
I’ll say it once more: silence is not golden.
I am a wild woman, bright yellow and roaring like the Spring lightening. Listen for it, girl. Throw out those scraps. That Spring tonic will bloom soon, yellow and proud.
And if you’re hungry enough, you’ll eat it.
Your writings make me think of a song, “Killing Me Softly”. Isn’t it odd how one seems to find that their hardships in life have been shared by others as they age?
“They were the best of times, they were the worst of times…”
Wonderful!!!
I stumbled on this today–so graphic and true. Beautiful writing. Did you ever publish a book?
I just found you a few days ago,I’m blown away I feel like I’m right there feeling every emotion ,and hearing every word from my childhood and youth.im from Oklahoma but I know poor.
A second cousin linked “Don’t tell’em about the lights” on facebook. I was so intrigued by your story and writing that I clicked to see your other blogs and this popped up. My name being Golden, I felt immediately that it was written for me and after reading still fill the same. I grew up in southeastern Ky in perhaps more dire circumstances than you describe. So, your writing brought back many memories. I remember being so hungry at times that I’d sneak a spoonful of soupbeans before they were done. When we first started getting commodities, I had never had cheese and didn’t particularly like it but soon learned to love it.
So amazing!
Beautifully written, Anna. I loved reading this!
I live in a rural community in Ontario, Canada. With 7 children in the family, we grew up poor on a farm but always had lots of love. As a pensioner and a widow, I still struggle with finances but I always remember my childhood and am still grateful for what I have. I still accept used clothing and try to help others as much as I can. Thank you, Anna, for bringing back so many precious memories and making me feel humble again as this has been a tough winter for me.
I always love how you tell my life (to most degrees), so strange and awesome that we share memories. You make me feel proud, and humble, grateful ..and tearful. “THANK YOU” ..Becky Sue (Becca now) Born Lick Log WVa, at present Toledo, OH via the “hillbilly highway”.. I-71 N, many, many moons ago
Absolutely beautiful – so many memories flooded my mind š thank you
LOVE THE STORIES
You must publish a book!
Thank you Anna. Me too. Even that 4th bowl of soup beans.
Jean Good
UVaās College at Wise
1 College Ave.
Wise VA 24293
276-328-0209 Voice
276-376-1026 Fax
Jlg5u@uvawise.edu
āInjustice anywhere is a threat to justice everywhere.ā
~Martin Luther King, Jr.
Your writing is just simply brilliant. I can taste the soup beans and cornbread and the cheese and pickle sandwiches.
Oh dear Anna please put all your writings together in a book. Or do that AND write a book. And please soon as we never know when our time will come.
I would buy your book and insist that my friends do also.
Thank you for your words.
Deidre
I saved this story to read on just the right day. Today is that day! It is the day when we are gifted with a crazy February thaw with a blue sky so high and clear I can’t even imagine its end! It’s a day to make me think all things are possible.
Although silence can teach us a lot it is, as you say, not always golden. SO important to raise our voices – in story, song, prayer, awe, and protest! Let’s join our voices in wildness and wisdom, in golden light and black and white, realizing the common threads that hold us together whether we’re from Appalachia, the north woods of Michigan or the sands of coast or desert. Thank you, Anna! Life beckons.
Anna, you sing to my heart.
I been there. You are a beautiful storyteller.
Such elegant prose, it just rolls.
While not a mountain girl of any sort, unless you talk base of Greens, we heard the same thing! Eat what you’re given or go to bed. I think the message is universal:
Shut up and put up.
I’m not silent either! Happily
Love your story, you have a gift, it reminds me of my up bringing
Oh there you are š I actually went looking for you last week. Thank you for another great post. I so look forward to them.
LADIES HAVE GREAT MINDS ALSO I’M MARRIED TO ANOTHER HILLBILLY SHE HAS NO MINDBECAUSE SHE KEEPS GIVING ME A PIECE OF IT LOL
That’s funny because I live way up on Vancouver island, Canada and I’m sure my husband has a hearing problem because I swear he doesn’t listen to a dam thing I say! š
CAN’TCOUNT THE TIMES I’VE HEARD THAT
Such beauty in your writings, I do so enjoy . I tend to go back and read again on those days in my solitude , bringing forth my own memories . Your stories have so much life ,fill the heart and add imagine and wonder. Thank You…
god how true was raised the same way in a coal camp RODA VA. LOVED THE CHEESE AND STILL LOVE SOUP BEANS CORNBREAD AND TATTERS
Love this piece. It brings me back to north-east Pennsylvania where I grew up.
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I have been reading you for a while, Anna. Your writing is so beautiful, so lyrical. I too would love it if you wrote a book.
I have never been so comfortable among words so descriptive of my own childhood. I was the oldest, so no hand me downs for me. We seemed to float ever so slightly above poverty with Mom and Dad working constantly to assure those soup beans on the table.
I remember wearing an outfit in 7th grade my Mother had handmade. It was a mint green striped blouse with mint green checkered skirt. I became painfully aware it did not match, even though nowadays those may go well together We always had some new clothes at the beginning of the school year. We were fortunate as I look back and remember my sister and I able to wear the same size in high school.
Many Summers were spent working very hard in huge gardens, and I would wash canning jars in a tub in the yard. We picked wild strawberries and wild salads, and oh how I miss those glorious days! Tell me more, as I hunger for stories of my mountains. The hard work and non processed food will probably add years to our lives. Thank you.
So many good memories to remember from your post. Grew up in a different area west in TN, but my mother was raised in the twenties – thirties on a sharecropper’s plot and so our food followed the same pattern of home gardens & some commodities or recipes derived from her mother. Have a friend who let it slip that she didn’t like white chili because she didn’t like white beans. Knew she grew up in a home a bit above mine although we do have other things in common. Miss my Mama’s white beans, pinto beans, black eyed peas, crowder peas… all field crops. Wilted salad greens, cornbread with butter & in milk with green onions, potatoes every way possible. My mother could take the cheapest cut of roast & feed a king with it, not to mention the ‘left-overs’ soup after the first two meals off that chunk of meat. I am sure I would be living longer in the future if I had kept eating that way. Most of my hand-me-downs came from the two upper scale cousins, so my mother could alter anything [I was smallest & shortest], but she was never much for sewing. Thank you again for taking me back in time to simpler and better life.
I’m waiting on your book too. Love your cousin, Linda. š
Beautiful, beautiful..I don’t know what else to say but thank you…
I hope you put all this in a book. I would gladly buy it. I love your work.
My childhood.
Thank you, Anna. I read everything you write, but this is the one I’ve been waiting for. In all of the uncertainty and anxiety of our current circumstances, this is comforting and reassuring. I needed this. Yes, it is a gift.
Thanks so much for your support, Ken.
Reblogged this on Searching for the Baldridge Tree and commented:
Anna’s gift is that she somehow writes stories about your life. Even if you don’t know what “government cheese” is, she taps into your memories and you recognize yourself in her tales.
This one is something quite special. If you look deeply, past the beauty of her imagery, you will discover universal meaning that speaks to any place or time — but most especially to your here and your now.
Wow! Very good read….Everything you write just really brings back and puts to words my childhood and upbringing. Thank you!
I grew up on those mountains and they call me every day. If I didn’t have responsibilities here, I would go. Thank you Anna for bringing the mountains to my memory.
You always take me home. I’ve missed you. Waiting on that book.
You are a divine storyteller. Good to have you back. You’ve been missed
Another memory brought back to the front of my mind, I grew up in the mountains of Appalachia and although my father worked for the state of West Virginia as a conservation officer there in the southern part of the state we never had all that we desired or wanted, money was the xtremely tight back in those early years ( early 50’s ), we did wear hand me downs and in the summer most often bought from second hand stores, WE had a huge garden and kept cows, chickens and maybe a pig every once in a while.
In that my dad worked for the state he and the other officers were charged with transporting commodities back into those coal camps where they were passed out, one thing that saved our family was the fact that any left over ( which usually wasn’t very much ) was given to the officers, we got big cans of peanut butter, chopped ham, beans,rice,powdered milk and above all was that huge block of cheese and some other stuff, and like you we never BUT NEVER threw anything away or told our parents that we didn’t want or like a particular food, WE ATE what ever was put before us and gave thanks for it because mom and dad always us “be thankful for there’s others in worse shape than you ” !!
Succinct and sublime as usual. Thank you.
Welcome back, and many blessings! Suzanne Cahill
Sent from my iPad
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Oh Anna, you write so beautifully of the mountains that I love with all my heart. I grew up wearing hand me downs and eating soup beans. My mother made the most delicious cornbread. She would forage for greens in the spring too. I would give anything to eat those meals again. Thanks Nancy
Thank you Anna! I really needed to read this. This Winter is taking more out of me than most, with my best friend of 14 years dying unexpectedly. I miss my furry black friend called Jack, and I long for warm sun and pussycat cuddles.
Bless you and your kitty, I’ve been there.
Thank you Anna! I really needed to read this. This Winter is taking more out of me than most, with my best friend of 14 years dying unexpectedly. I miss my furry black friend called Jack, and I long for warm sun and pussycat cuddles.
Beautiful….you brought back so many memories of days in a three room elementary school. My family was fortunate enough to not be poor, but many of my sweet friends were. My parents knew hardship growing up and taught us to always be kind….we were and I’m so glad we listened. I learned a lot from friends who didn’t have much….the true value of things and what’s important in life. I never once thought about saying anything negative about their clothes or their home. I miss those childhood days…
Another great one
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Beautiful words flow like poetry. I’m out in these mountains alone with my animals and I am definitely ready for some yellow. I’m going into the wintertime stage of my life and tired of looking at the black and white outside. I am ready for spring again!
Beautiful! Please, please, please write a book or record your writing on cd’s!! I love your memories, wisdom and granny magic. I can taste the wild greens, soup beans, cornbread, wilted lettuce and salt pork. I can see and share your yellow outfit for I had one as well. And I could never fill up the hollow space in my stomach no matter how many beans and taters we had.
Brilliant, as always!
Your stories make my heart sing and cry at the same time. Thank you