document my Appalachian experience in photographs

I grew up atop the Cumberland Plateau, which we always referred to as “the mountain.” Now, I live among more technically accurate mountains and am humbled by them…whenever I stop long enough to notice them. There’s something spiritual about mountains.

I’ve only recently become a fan of mountain music (i.e., pre-bluegrass, heavy on the fiddle, banjo and ballad), but it’s very haunting. Some have called this music the new punk. My mother has a fiddle made by my great-grandfather. I can only assume that the fields and hollows back home were filled with this type of music at one time.

My upbringing included Sunday mornings in a Methodist church with a congregation of less than 30, hymns accompanied with accordion, guitar and piano, a boxy little Sunday school room that smelled like paste and crayons. Ah, and I remember the Christmas plays in an overheated and overcrowded sanctuary. Afterwards, an unconvincing Santa Claus handed out paper sacks full of oranges, apples and walnuts.

When I was growing up, we always had a 2-3 acre vegetable garden. It was at my grandparents’ place, but it was considered an extended family effort. At harvest time, cousins, aunts and uncles would be on hand to load potatoes, sweet potatoes and corn and carry them to the cellar.

Clogs my arteries just looking at it.

I remember a lot of deep thinking during my high school years, sitting out in my dad’s hayfield at night. The sweet scent of the new rolls, the crickets, the fireflies. I remember the humid nights that would make my t-shirt cling to my chest, and how the hay mingled with my sweat and made my arms itch.

...I rebuke thee.

“I am haunted by waters”—Norman Maclean

This creek is in a natural area in my hometown. It’s within shouting distance of my elementary school.

Spots like this were common destinations for school field trips, Cub Scout outings, etc. when I was growing up. During my college years, I worked summers maintaining trails here.

I love this house. It’s on my cycling route. I’m pretty sure nobody’s living there.

I’ve grown up around coal mining. My grandfather was a miner all his life, and I still have family involved in the mining industry. “Strip mining” is a practice that’s destructive, but it’s very much a part of Appalachia. It results in compacted soils covered with fescue, lespedeza and a few scrubby trees. The only thing this land is good for afterwards is some livestock grazing or a playground for ATVs. I spent considerable time playing on and around a “strip pit” when I was growing up.