My Appalachian Home

“Young man, can you tell me how far it is to Bud Johnson’s store?” The foreigner asked.

“Why it ain’t very fur a’tal sir, jest go down this here road til’ ye get to Old Johnson’s Branch road. Turn on that road and foller it over the hill a couple of miles. Jest keep a- goin’ on that road and when ye get to the top of the hill ye’ll see the store come in view jest around the bend.” The young boy replied.

That is an example of the Kentucky Hills language. Appalachian speech you might say. A place where legends are rich and the land is even richer in superstitious and prideful people. 

A place where the best place in the whole wide world is to be sitting on your own front porch and watching as night falls. Where the sound of crickets is better than a whole symphony of musical instruments and the call of the whip-o-will brings a sense of joy to your life after a long hard day of work in the fields.  

My home place on Parksville Knob was a place where my ancestors long ago arrived and started cutting their way through the red clay to plant tobacco crops and run a few head of cows for family use and to sell their milk and homemade butter to the town dwellers. Large gardens were raised to feed even larger families.

We have often been classified as being “Kentucky Hillbillies.” That can be a very hurtful title to label a person, but I have come to realize that it is only those who do not know the rare beauty of these Kentucky hills that spew out these unkind names… They do not know of the rich heritage we came from. They arrived here on boats from such places as Ireland, Scotland, and England, to settle in these hills and hollows bringing with them the knowledge of something far greater than book learning, although they brought some of that, as well.

Kentucky people were raised proud. It has been only in the last few years that some of our younger generation just like those of every state in our fair country, who have decided it is better to ask for Government handouts than it is use the money earned from the sweat of their brow to house and feed their families. Americans in general have lost their pride and dignity. Not just the “Kentucky Hillbilly.”

I am a descendant from the Scotch-Irish and I am proud of my heritage. We also have a bit of Cherokee in us, which makes me even more proud of where I came from.

I would like to invite you to come to our hills, sit on the banks of a creek and toss in a fishing line. Rest in the shade of a tall elm tree and listen to the birds sing or the distant call of a rooster as he tosses back and his head and crows. A reminder from him to anyone that hears his call that he is a true Appalachian rooster and proud of his heritage.