Call Of Appalachia: Sounds Of A Disappearing Generation

Saturday night I listened to Dr. Ralph Stanley and the Clinch Mountain Boys at Chicago Symphony Center. The old style bluegrass reminded me of time spent with my grandmother. A Kentucky native, the musical genre was no doubt a common part of her environment.

The Man, The Legend, The Voice

A thin, short, 84-year-old man in a white hat singing with a nasal tone brought my attention to a disappearing generation and way of life. He intoned “O Death” at the request of the audience, a song included on the soundtrack to the movie “O Brother, Where Art Thou?” With his band members standing off to the side out of the spotlight, his a cappella voice was chilling and distinct as it carried across the room.

It was the same sound I remember hearing when my grandmother went about her chores as I spent my childhood years in her company. At the time I had no idea that there was a style of music known for the nasal tonal quality – I just knew that this was how my grandmother sounded when she sang softly to herself. Like Dr. Stanley, the songs often centered on religious topics and were often hymns.

The Generation That Survived World Wars And The Depression

Dr. Stanley’s first church experience came at the age of four, he said. His mother rode a horse while he walked alongside for the three miles it took to get to the Baptist church. The minister would sing out the lines of the hymn and the congregation would sing it back in a call and response necessitated by the lack of funds to make hymnals available to all of the congregants. He sang one of those hymns, “Amazing Grace”
and I could hear my grandmother’s voice rise up in my mind almost singing in unison from the homestead in my memories.

The generation of Dr. Stanley and my grandmother, particularly for folk from the Appalachian areas where poverty has always been prevalent, seem to have an appreciation for things that my generation have taken as commonplace and ordinary. They also have a way of saying things, phrases, that tie them to an older way of life.

Why It Was Heartbreaking And Hopeful At The Same Time

The sounds of my childhood and a grandmother who I cherish in all of her 92 years filled me with a joy of being reconnected with something I can truly claim as my heritage. Yet, the rural Appalachian way of life is losing its predominance. It is disappearing. The moments I can treasure will not be the same ones that Kimber will have the opportunity to experience as a youth. Her grandmother will likely not sing to her the hymns and bluegrass sounds of her own childhood. And her great-grandmother will likely not be around for the larger duration of her life.

Appalachians are a unique lot with strong ties to the land. The bloodlines will be there for Kimber, but will that be enough to give her the roots of her ancestry? Will she spend time on the property that we have owned for generations and feel the same tug I can recognize when I stand on its soil? Will the inhalation that fills my lungs with West Virginian air and settles my soul with peace be available to her? Will she shun it or embrace it? Will she be able to wrap her tiny hands around the depth of place without the presence of someone like my grandmother connecting her to it?

What Grounds Me And Keeps Me Going

I believe that we have geographic predispositions: places that we are naturally inclined to feel at home at in the world. For me, Chicago has a cultural experience that I undeniably appreciate. It is truly an amazing city. But, it is flat and I am a mountaineer. I don’t feel at home unless the rolling mountains are wrapping me in their embrace. My ultimate return to my “home among the hills”
keeps me going while my frequent visits ground me and remind me where I came from and prevent me from losing sense of who I am.

Can that sense of place be taught or does it come from being born into a land that fills the spaces around you and inside your heart and mind? Who is responsible for giving that sense of place to Kimber? How do I offer to her what feels like a constant conflict within myself: the openness of a modern city with the safety, but sometimes closed nature, of the rural place that has claimed us?

Tribute To An Aunt: Olga Ratliff

Despite the pending arrival of a number of babies this year, other lives complete their final chapters. Today my great Aunt Olga completed this portion of her journey and passed away surrounded by loved ones. I’d like to give a little space tonight to a few memories and pay tribute to the life of an aunt who is indelibly linked with my West Virginia childhood.

Long Distance Relations and Homesickness

I struggle with the approximately 500-600 miles of distance that separates me from my home state and the family members who live within its borders.  Over the last five years, death has come often enough that we’ve moved from distant stranger to frequent acquaintance. No matter how prepared I think I’ve become for the specter that passes us from this life to the next, I ultimately find myself surprised at how different moments of grief feel for each death.

The first thing that fills my head when notified of the loss of a loved one is whether I will be able to make it back home for the funeral. Logistics. Death equals travel plans, initially. If I can travel home my time fills with arrangements and permits a pause between the emotions I put on reserve until an “appropriate time” arrives on my scheduling block. If I cannot travel home, guilt creeps in. And John Denver.

Yes, for some reason the verse from “Country Roads” fills my head and leaves a trail of guilty tears and swollen eyelids: “Driving down the road I get a feeling that I should have been home yesterday, yesterday…” Is the geographical distance between me and my relations worth the heartache it sometimes brings? How vital is the proximity of me to my family to personal contentment?

The Funny Stories That Make Up My Memories

If you asked me about my Aunt Olga, the first thing I would probably mention would be her pecan pie. Without question, the best you will ever sample in your lifetime. One year I ate so much of it that I became completely ill and couldn’t touch a piece of it for years. I often think to myself “I ought to get her pecan pie recipe and see if I can duplicate it.” And each year, I don’t get around to asking.

Beyond her pie making skills, the sound of her laughter in my memory gives me a slight smile. If ever there were a happier pair, my aunt and uncle were always laughing and joking when my brother and I would visit. They would tease us with offers of chewing tobacco that our shy selves would ardently shake our head against. While the chewing tobacco offers eventually faded, their humor and smiling eyes never did.

Even in her last years during illness someone would find something to smile or laugh about. I think laughter is just something that side of the family has genetically wired in their DNA. At a family function, Olga made her way towards my brother with her four-pronged-rubber-footed cane. My dad, Lori (who was recently engaged to my brother), and I watched from a distance as the scene played out. Olga picked up her cane and gave it a firm push into my brother’s rear. He turned from the plate of food he was preparing to find Olga ready with a question.

“Are you married yet?”

My brother gave one of his famous smirks and said, “No, not yet.”

With Lori in perfect position to hear and Olga unaware that he was engaged she said, “Good! You stay away from those women!”  At which point my dad doubled over in laughter, I giggled while putting my arm around my soon-to-be sister-in-law, and my brother broke into a rare smile.

Celebrations Of A Life Well Lived

I will not be able to attend this funeral. I’m certain that there will be stories filled with humor and love celebrating a life that was well lived. The devotion to religion, family, and community will be on full display through the narratives that will fill the service and the fellowship afterwards. Food will no doubt be present, Olga’s daughters flavoring their dishes with a similar but unique seasoning that will recall their mother’s cooking heritage.

I will question whether I belong in an urban environment where the barrier between close knit family connections is high and wide. I will wonder if my absence will hurt anyone’s feelings. I will spend that time thinking about my personal memories, my tears and laughter mingling in solitary moments where I can neither hold to those grieving nor be held by those who knew the woman, the aunt, whose life and laughter meant so much to each of us.