In the last posting I described living on the cusp between Appalachia and the power brokers of the nation’s capital. Although my rural neighbors did not grow up in the heart of Appalachia, they are far closer to that culture than folks who live only a dozen miles east of here. I will describe a few of the qualities I have observed in the last quarter century of living here.
The roots of my neighbors burrow deeply into this land. It’s not easy for this vagabond hermit (who has resided in half a dozen states) to relate to those who live in the same locale where their ancestors settled. Many in this community have traveled no more than a day’s journey away. Since their formal education level is limited, their knowledge base tends to be very local and commonsensical, rather than cosmopolitan and broad. They have taught me that there is a significant difference between having a formal education and being intelligent—a point usually missed by “sophisticated” mainstream folks, who often label someone who’s not savvy about the urbane world as ignorant.
In contrast, I often find my neighbors quite savvy—they have a solid understanding of how to lead a successful life in their environment and they shrewdly conduct their business with each other and with outsiders. In my first few years here I sometimes found myself on the short end of a bargain with one of them—not quite knowing how I got maneuvered there. Even though I felt bested in a bargain, I never felt cheated. It seemed more a case of one of them deciding to teach me a lesson for my own development or to ensure that I’d treat them with appropriate respect in the future. They also understand that, in a small community, you will face your neighbor tomorrow, so it doesn’t make sense to treat them too badly.
People who live in a culture that teaches them to strive for more status and power (read D.C. again) tend to demean more laid-back cultures. Similarly, people who live a more easy-going lifestyle see the frenetic activity of urban power people as ridiculous and stressful. I have found my neighbors to be relaxed folks who are open and friendly. There’s always time to stop and chat. In fact, it’s a higher priority than rushing off to do business. When I first moved out here I was taken aback when I’d come upon two pickup trucks pausing side by side on a back road, the drivers engaged in conversation—and continuing to yak for a few minutes after I pulled up behind one of them. It took me awhile to shake off my metropolitan impatience and not be bothered.
Another related custom I very much appreciated when I became a resident was to have the driver of an oncoming vehicle—especially pickups—wave at me as we passed. On these occasions you usually get a “one-finger” wave, wherein an index finger on the steering wheel gets lifted and wobbled in greeting. When I first moved here I drove a beloved old Fiat convertible. I would get an occasional wave, but just as many curious stares. When I sold the car and got my own pickup, however, the frequency of the waves dramatically increased. I even sometimes felt mistaken for a native!
I’ve never regretted leaving the fast-paced city life and the lucrative job it gave me, to live on the eastern edge of Appalachia. It felt like coming home.
Tuesday, March 30, 2010
Sunday, March 28, 2010
Wednesday, March 24, 2010
Appa-LATCH-ee-yuh—Part 1
For about three decades I have lived on the cusp between two dramatically different cultures. An hour and a half to the east is Washington, D.C and 90 minutes to the west is the heartland of Appalachia. To the east, the powerful; to the west, the manipulated. Towards the coast, the money; towards the mountains, poverty. To one side, chic; to the other, hick.
These two cultures have little in common and are even rather suspicious of each other. Since those in power control both the recording of history and the current news, Appalachian culture has had a reputation in the media for being poor, ignorant, and violent. Occupying the middle ground, I can be a little more objective and have a different perspective. Furthermore, I once lived in the D.C. area, so I got fairly familiar with that urban culture—familiar enough to have fled it 25 years ago (so maybe I’m not that objective).
Appalachia covers parts of as many as 13 states and extends over the southern range of the Appalachian Mountains—which run from northern Georgia to Newfoundland. The heart of Appalachia is usually considered to be eastern Tennessee and Kentucky, southwest Virginia, and all of West Virginia. I live on the western slope of the Shenandoah Valley, just to the east of Appalachia.
The Appalachian Mountains acquired their name from the Spaniards, who sent expeditions into America’s interior from Florida in the 16th century. They encountered an Indian tribe in northern Florida that they called Apalachee and later ascribed to the territory farther north.
When European colonists first settled the eastern seaboard they considered the Appalachian Mountains to be a forbidding barrier to the west, which contained equally forbidding savages. These flatlanders from Europe were happy to stick near the coast and stay clear of the wild and wooly mountains. As more Europeans migrated to America, however, they began to press westward into those mountains. Most of them still feared the hills, but the Scots Irish among them were already quite at home in mountains and they happily settled in “them thar hills.” (Interestingly, the mountains of Great Britain from whence they came were once the very northern tip of the Appalachian range, 350 million years ago, when America and Europe were joined. So, in a way, these folks were simply moving down their own mountain range.)
The Scots Irish had previously been regarded in Great Britain as a lower class people, so we can see the seeds of modern-day American prejudice against the people of Appalachia. These Scots Irish folks were rugged, self-sufficient people. Mountain people have always had more autonomy than flatlanders. They know they live in remote areas, far from “civilization,” and that’s just fine with them. Their mountainous land has always been regarded as less desirable and accessible than coastal land, so mountaineers have experienced fewer intrusions. Many an invading army has met its match in attempting to attack mountain people (think of Afghanistan).
As the European immigrants settled into their Appalachian Mountains, their culture deviated more and more from Americans to the east—and often that was just fine by them. The friction between the two cultures occasionally broke out in conflict, as issues of taxes and governance arose. The lowlanders dominated state legislatures and hogged an unfair proportion of tax money. By the early 1800s many areas of Appalachia were agitating for secession. In fact, before the Civil War, Tennessee state senator Andrew Johnson (later US president) initiated legislation to create the state of Frankland, which would have covered eastern Tennessee, as well as parts of Virginia, North Carolina, Georgia, and Alabama. When the Civil War began, the western part of Virginia did break away, later to become the heart of Appalachia.
In the last 150 years the reputation of Appalachia has not improved in the minds of most Americans. Despite the fact that the region is rich in natural resources (coal and wood), those assets have been removed by outside robber barons, who used the area’s cheap labor, but allowed few of the economic benefits to be enjoyed by residents. As a result, the economic and educational divide between Appalachia and the rest of the country has inexorably widened. Roosevelt’s New Deal initiatives brought attention to the region, as well as some improvements, but the people of Appalachia still lag behind, and the stereotypical viewpoint of Americans remains.
Some qualities of my near-Appalachian neighbors next time…
These two cultures have little in common and are even rather suspicious of each other. Since those in power control both the recording of history and the current news, Appalachian culture has had a reputation in the media for being poor, ignorant, and violent. Occupying the middle ground, I can be a little more objective and have a different perspective. Furthermore, I once lived in the D.C. area, so I got fairly familiar with that urban culture—familiar enough to have fled it 25 years ago (so maybe I’m not that objective).
Appalachia covers parts of as many as 13 states and extends over the southern range of the Appalachian Mountains—which run from northern Georgia to Newfoundland. The heart of Appalachia is usually considered to be eastern Tennessee and Kentucky, southwest Virginia, and all of West Virginia. I live on the western slope of the Shenandoah Valley, just to the east of Appalachia.
The Appalachian Mountains acquired their name from the Spaniards, who sent expeditions into America’s interior from Florida in the 16th century. They encountered an Indian tribe in northern Florida that they called Apalachee and later ascribed to the territory farther north.
When European colonists first settled the eastern seaboard they considered the Appalachian Mountains to be a forbidding barrier to the west, which contained equally forbidding savages. These flatlanders from Europe were happy to stick near the coast and stay clear of the wild and wooly mountains. As more Europeans migrated to America, however, they began to press westward into those mountains. Most of them still feared the hills, but the Scots Irish among them were already quite at home in mountains and they happily settled in “them thar hills.” (Interestingly, the mountains of Great Britain from whence they came were once the very northern tip of the Appalachian range, 350 million years ago, when America and Europe were joined. So, in a way, these folks were simply moving down their own mountain range.)
The Scots Irish had previously been regarded in Great Britain as a lower class people, so we can see the seeds of modern-day American prejudice against the people of Appalachia. These Scots Irish folks were rugged, self-sufficient people. Mountain people have always had more autonomy than flatlanders. They know they live in remote areas, far from “civilization,” and that’s just fine with them. Their mountainous land has always been regarded as less desirable and accessible than coastal land, so mountaineers have experienced fewer intrusions. Many an invading army has met its match in attempting to attack mountain people (think of Afghanistan).
As the European immigrants settled into their Appalachian Mountains, their culture deviated more and more from Americans to the east—and often that was just fine by them. The friction between the two cultures occasionally broke out in conflict, as issues of taxes and governance arose. The lowlanders dominated state legislatures and hogged an unfair proportion of tax money. By the early 1800s many areas of Appalachia were agitating for secession. In fact, before the Civil War, Tennessee state senator Andrew Johnson (later US president) initiated legislation to create the state of Frankland, which would have covered eastern Tennessee, as well as parts of Virginia, North Carolina, Georgia, and Alabama. When the Civil War began, the western part of Virginia did break away, later to become the heart of Appalachia.
In the last 150 years the reputation of Appalachia has not improved in the minds of most Americans. Despite the fact that the region is rich in natural resources (coal and wood), those assets have been removed by outside robber barons, who used the area’s cheap labor, but allowed few of the economic benefits to be enjoyed by residents. As a result, the economic and educational divide between Appalachia and the rest of the country has inexorably widened. Roosevelt’s New Deal initiatives brought attention to the region, as well as some improvements, but the people of Appalachia still lag behind, and the stereotypical viewpoint of Americans remains.
Some qualities of my near-Appalachian neighbors next time…
Sunday, March 21, 2010
Thursday, March 18, 2010
Phirst Phoebe
After such a trying winter we are thirsty around here for any small sign of spring. We’ve always craved the advent of spring, but this winter left us especially parched for precursors of the renewal of life. We had a record-breaking snowfall this winter, and then it was followed by a persistent cold period, so the white stuff lingered far longer than usual. Even a decently warm day felt chilling, with all that snow around.
By this time of year we are usually taking our first tentative steps in the garden—slogging through muddy walkways and scoping out the first plantings. But not this year. The garden did not cast off its blanket of snow until just a few days ago and the soil is still too frozen or soggy to even think of plunging a shovel into it.
Confined to the house far more than we’d like at this time of year, we’ve been unable to monitor those early spring awakenings that we always hunger for. Normally, if we walk the grounds in late winter and glance through the bare branches of trees, we usually can begin to detect the most subtle change in color: a hint of red or the slightest change from charcoal brown to burgundy. No green yet, but something stirs deep within (the soil or your soul), because you know it’s coming soon.
Another hint is the tentative calls of the year-round resident birds. The Carolina wren might set off in January, but that’s no indicator of spring. It’s the titmice who become the initial heralds of the verdant season. It’s startling to hear one of them spit out a quick, uncertain call in early/mid February—as if he didn’t really mean it… just couldn’t contain himself.
Then there’s an increasing bird chorus in the next couple of weeks. On sunny late-February days they really get into their warm-up act. Even cardinals and chickadees—other year-round residents—pick up on the enthusiasm and begin singing. I wonder what stimulates them. The lengthening of day? A flush of extra sunshine? A zest for spring? A knowledge about the coming season that I lack?
These are all hints of spring, and all are welcome. But I’m not sure I can trust a resident titmouse any more than I can trust my own wishful spring-feverish desires. What is more trustworthy, however, is the first sounds of returning migrating birds. I saw a flock of Canada geese headed north a few days ago, but the deal was sealed this morning, when we heard the first returning phoebe. No mistaking that exuberant call: “FEE-bee FEE-bee, I’m back. Whew! I’m tired. Where are the bugs?”
By this time of year we are usually taking our first tentative steps in the garden—slogging through muddy walkways and scoping out the first plantings. But not this year. The garden did not cast off its blanket of snow until just a few days ago and the soil is still too frozen or soggy to even think of plunging a shovel into it.
Confined to the house far more than we’d like at this time of year, we’ve been unable to monitor those early spring awakenings that we always hunger for. Normally, if we walk the grounds in late winter and glance through the bare branches of trees, we usually can begin to detect the most subtle change in color: a hint of red or the slightest change from charcoal brown to burgundy. No green yet, but something stirs deep within (the soil or your soul), because you know it’s coming soon.
Another hint is the tentative calls of the year-round resident birds. The Carolina wren might set off in January, but that’s no indicator of spring. It’s the titmice who become the initial heralds of the verdant season. It’s startling to hear one of them spit out a quick, uncertain call in early/mid February—as if he didn’t really mean it… just couldn’t contain himself.
Then there’s an increasing bird chorus in the next couple of weeks. On sunny late-February days they really get into their warm-up act. Even cardinals and chickadees—other year-round residents—pick up on the enthusiasm and begin singing. I wonder what stimulates them. The lengthening of day? A flush of extra sunshine? A zest for spring? A knowledge about the coming season that I lack?
These are all hints of spring, and all are welcome. But I’m not sure I can trust a resident titmouse any more than I can trust my own wishful spring-feverish desires. What is more trustworthy, however, is the first sounds of returning migrating birds. I saw a flock of Canada geese headed north a few days ago, but the deal was sealed this morning, when we heard the first returning phoebe. No mistaking that exuberant call: “FEE-bee FEE-bee, I’m back. Whew! I’m tired. Where are the bugs?”
Tuesday, March 16, 2010
Saturday, March 13, 2010
The Swine Crew—Part 2
My spouse augmented the novice ranks, carefully slicing meat from fat. The all-male swine crew graciously accepted her. It helped that we had known several of the guys for a couple of decades and the fact that she arrived early, carved diligently, and left late. (She got repeated compliments on how hard she worked.) About the only dampening impact she might have had on them was a little toning down of their language, but that did them no harm. I could have helped them relax a little, if I’d given them a few samples of the imaginative expletives she often releases around me.
She reports that, besides random gossip, the talk around the cutting table consisted primarily of the guys trading their various experiences of the ways of handling the pig processing job, or sharing stories from past adventures. Like fish stories, in which the whopper that was caught grew another inch with each narrative, memorable hogs of bygone days have grown heavier with each telling of the tale.
The stories continued the next day, when I joined the crew. Half of them hovered around the boiling kettles, thankful for the heat on a cold February morning, and the other half surrounded a sheet of plywood, seasoning chunks of meat that then got stuffed into the sausage grinder. Rather than regard me as the oddball who stayed home while his mate joined them the day before, they saw me as a fresh target for their slaughtering tales. I was a little concerned that they’d tell me to go inside and help the women prepare lunch. (They were making roast beef sandwiches—using supermarket industrial beef.)
The second day’s main activity was boiling down the goodies in those large cast-iron kettles. The lard rendering is pretty straightforward: the previous day’s chunks of fat are heated in one kettle, carefully stirring so as not to burn it, and then pouring into an old pillowcase (used as a filter) and finally squeezed in a lard press. The bits of cooked skin and meat left in the pillowcase are dumped out and munched on throughout the day, as “cracklin’s.”
The second kettle holds all the scraps (the making of scrapple!) not used for other purposes—head, heart, liver, tongue, bones, and such other offal stuff. It’s boiled until it’s mushy “puddin’ meat,” at which point all the chunks are sifted out of the boiler and placed on a table. Folks gather round and finger through the morsels, removing all gristle and pieces of bone. This is an important step, since some of those old folks can’t afford to have a tooth broken when they bite down on a chunk of scrapple.
To the pot of broth, in the meantime, a mixture of flour and cornmeal is slowly stirred in, along with a blend of seasonings. There is a little more banter at this point, over how much seasoning is just right, but again the participants yield to the taste buds of the host. At this point either scrapple or panhaus is made. These are ways of not wasting much of anything, that German and Dutch immigrants brought to the Mid-Atlantic states. Panhaus (a good German word, also spelled ponhaus, pannhaus, panhas, and pannaus) is that mixture of broth, grains, and seasoning—ladled into small pans. Scrapple is the same mixture, back into to which has been added the bits of puddin’ meat, after passing them through a grinder. When the panhaus or scrapple mush sets up, it is usually sliced and pan fried.
I’ve tried a few bites of scrapple. It’s not bad, even kinda tasty, but like the visions of chickens running through my head, my appetite for scrapple or panhaus wilts when I think about what parts of the hog it contains. One of the running jokes at the slaughtering party is about the tongue—which is fished out of the broth just before making scrapple. It’s laid on the table and the participants cut off a slice, dip it in salt and pepper, and savor its delicate flavor. One fellow, however, can’t quite bring himself to try a taste, saying that he can’t take the thought of where that tongue once was. That man speaks my mind!
I am grateful for our neighbors’ offerings of food and their invitation to join their swine crew. They have taught me that close at hand there are healthy carnivorous alternatives to industrial meat. We have been introduced to a few of their time-honored traditions of preparing basic ingredients for hearty meals. We’ve enjoyed participating in social activities that help contribute to a healthy community. And thanks to my spouse’s good work with the guys, we end up with a few quarts of beautiful lard and several pounds of scrumptious sausage. She even shares her bounty with me—providing I help with the dishes.
She reports that, besides random gossip, the talk around the cutting table consisted primarily of the guys trading their various experiences of the ways of handling the pig processing job, or sharing stories from past adventures. Like fish stories, in which the whopper that was caught grew another inch with each narrative, memorable hogs of bygone days have grown heavier with each telling of the tale.
The stories continued the next day, when I joined the crew. Half of them hovered around the boiling kettles, thankful for the heat on a cold February morning, and the other half surrounded a sheet of plywood, seasoning chunks of meat that then got stuffed into the sausage grinder. Rather than regard me as the oddball who stayed home while his mate joined them the day before, they saw me as a fresh target for their slaughtering tales. I was a little concerned that they’d tell me to go inside and help the women prepare lunch. (They were making roast beef sandwiches—using supermarket industrial beef.)
The second day’s main activity was boiling down the goodies in those large cast-iron kettles. The lard rendering is pretty straightforward: the previous day’s chunks of fat are heated in one kettle, carefully stirring so as not to burn it, and then pouring into an old pillowcase (used as a filter) and finally squeezed in a lard press. The bits of cooked skin and meat left in the pillowcase are dumped out and munched on throughout the day, as “cracklin’s.”
The second kettle holds all the scraps (the making of scrapple!) not used for other purposes—head, heart, liver, tongue, bones, and such other offal stuff. It’s boiled until it’s mushy “puddin’ meat,” at which point all the chunks are sifted out of the boiler and placed on a table. Folks gather round and finger through the morsels, removing all gristle and pieces of bone. This is an important step, since some of those old folks can’t afford to have a tooth broken when they bite down on a chunk of scrapple.
To the pot of broth, in the meantime, a mixture of flour and cornmeal is slowly stirred in, along with a blend of seasonings. There is a little more banter at this point, over how much seasoning is just right, but again the participants yield to the taste buds of the host. At this point either scrapple or panhaus is made. These are ways of not wasting much of anything, that German and Dutch immigrants brought to the Mid-Atlantic states. Panhaus (a good German word, also spelled ponhaus, pannhaus, panhas, and pannaus) is that mixture of broth, grains, and seasoning—ladled into small pans. Scrapple is the same mixture, back into to which has been added the bits of puddin’ meat, after passing them through a grinder. When the panhaus or scrapple mush sets up, it is usually sliced and pan fried.
I’ve tried a few bites of scrapple. It’s not bad, even kinda tasty, but like the visions of chickens running through my head, my appetite for scrapple or panhaus wilts when I think about what parts of the hog it contains. One of the running jokes at the slaughtering party is about the tongue—which is fished out of the broth just before making scrapple. It’s laid on the table and the participants cut off a slice, dip it in salt and pepper, and savor its delicate flavor. One fellow, however, can’t quite bring himself to try a taste, saying that he can’t take the thought of where that tongue once was. That man speaks my mind!
I am grateful for our neighbors’ offerings of food and their invitation to join their swine crew. They have taught me that close at hand there are healthy carnivorous alternatives to industrial meat. We have been introduced to a few of their time-honored traditions of preparing basic ingredients for hearty meals. We’ve enjoyed participating in social activities that help contribute to a healthy community. And thanks to my spouse’s good work with the guys, we end up with a few quarts of beautiful lard and several pounds of scrumptious sausage. She even shares her bounty with me—providing I help with the dishes.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
