Heritage by James Still

I shall not leave these prisoning hills
Though they topple their barren heads to level earth
And the forests slide uprooted out of the sky.

Though the waters of Troublesome, of Trace Fork,
Of Sand Lick rise in a single body to glean the valleys,
To drown lush pennyroyal, to unravel rail fences;
Though the sun-ball breaks the ridges into dust
And burns its strength into the blistered rock

I cannot leave. I cannot go away.

Being of these hills, being one with the fox
Stealing into the shadows, one with the new-born foal,
The lumbering ox drawing green beech logs to mill,
One with the destined feet of man climbing and descending,

And one with death rising to bloom again, I cannot go.

Being of these hills I cannot pass beyond

I've displayed an autographed version of Heritage in my home for years. It's among my favorite passages of all time. Still chose to live out his life in a log cabin in Mousie, Kentucky on Troublsome Creek to which he refers in the passage. Mousie is also the birthplace of my Mother, Nova Hicks. Still was awarded the Pulitzer Prize for his novel, River of Earth and served as Kentucky's Poet Laureate. One simply cannot equate illiteracy to log cabins.

I hope you enjoyed reading Heritage here.

Peace,
Judy

Driving "Back Home" Today

Today I'm driving back home to East Kentucky. I need a few days to visit friends and family after this challenging semester and relocation to my loft apartment.

This will be a more leisurely trip than usual.There is a spot just beyond Winchester where the hills seem to rise out of the earth and the view is breathtaking. I have stopped at that spot for many years just to take in the majesty of the image. I always know I'm really driving down into the hills, not up the hills.

I'll ask my engineering friend, TM how the foothills really emerged from the belly of the earth. Erosion? Eruption? From driving this for many years, I know the counties are 20 miles across. I wonder if this is an actual fact of the old English/Irish land division, or if it's only marked that way on my route. When I pass the exit to Royalton, I always look to the right and think, way back there, across several hills, is David, my coal camp home.


My grandchildren are tolerant each time we pass Route 7 and I retell the story of walking over the "new road" to the head of the Licking River (at Royalton) to celebrate the end of school each year.We packed, in little brown paper bags.Vienna sausages, potted meat, crackers, peanut butter sandwiches, or whatever Mother had for us.

I repeat that Daniel spent his first winter in that region of David and wrote that it was "severe, and unfit for human habitation". Well I guess we proved him wrong by living out our entire childhoods in David in little company houses that lined the base of the hills up all three hollows.


The Licking River site was once engineered by GW's crew as a possible gateway to the west. I hope East Kentucky children are learning the richness of their history and heritage. They would heighten their perception of our land as one of beauty and promise. The promise is still there. It lies in the youth and their willingness to learn from those who have gone before. We are only hampered if we limit their dreaming and help them make those dreams come true.

I miss driving through the little towns and sometimes detour for a scenic route. I like to see Oil Springs, Crockett, Moon, West Liberty, Salyersville and all the "real" places that have been supplanted with By-Passes.

Remember the hometown drive ins, freezer freshes, and our favorite, "EAT" at Winchester. They had upside down banana splits and the best hotdogs and hamburgers. We always stopped there. Now, we choose from McDonalds, Arbys, Hardy's, etc. which now make all By-passes look and taste just alike.

"I cannot leave these prisoning hills...being one with this earth, I cannot go"

Paraphrased from James Still's Heritage.

The hills can look desolate and barren in the winter. Coal dust and poverty are part of the picture--just as it is everywhere.We need to figure out how the people can make money working in coal and still respect the land and the safety of the miners. I believe we're making progress.For more than 100 years, Coal has been the only hope for the East Kentucky economy.I worked in the Appalachian coalfields for 15 years, My father worked for 35 years underground, My nephews still go underground. It's scary to not draw a paycheck, especially at Christmastime. These miners are great men who deserve their pay. They don't need to "back in to pick up their pay".

Tomorrow I'll post a picture of the view of the emerging mountains and a copy of James Still's Heritage. Yes, I'm melancholy, I'm homesick, I'm going home today.

Peace,
Judy

Books are still Banned?

Why do we need to be reminded that censorship is still tolerated around the world? In the late 60s we began to hear of books that had been banned in the US during the 1940s. I bought a couple--The Awakening by Kate Chopin and Delta of Venus, a collection of erotica by Anais Nin.

As I read the Chopin book, I was reminded of Madam Bovary. I wondered why American publishers banned the story of an educated, talented woman who was driven to suicide because the social restraint she faced as the chattel of her husband was too much to bear. Isn't this what happened to Anna Karenina? Maybe Tolstoy's complex tapestry of turbulent, pre-revolutionary Russia was perceived more as literary than Chopin's brief novel. I got a similar message from both in regards to women. I loved the depth and character delineation by Tolstoy but eagerly and quickly lapped up Chopin's brief story. Maybe a "best seller" on the topic of disenfranchised women would have added fire to their nascent liberation movement in the US.

Look at the list below, created by my friend Jawahara Saidullah, herself a published author and advocate of banned book awareness. I'm pleased that I have read so many of the books on her list, while not knowing they were banned in other parts of the world.

In addition to Kite Runner, Dr. Zhivago, Bluest Eye, Catcher in the Rye, Why the Caged Bird Sings,(all shown on her banned book link) I've now read lady Chatterley's Lover at least 3 times. It was finally published in the US @1959 after a 30 year wait from its original publication. My high school friends and I underlined the "dirty parts" and passed the book around. My father saw me reading the book in the yard one day."Let me see what you're reading", he demanded, sounding a little perturbed. When I told him, he took the book from me in an unusual disciplinarian mode.

Later I learned the book had social meaning, so I read it again, digging more deeply into Lawrence's underlying message regarding social class restrictions. There were no dirty words in the book as we'd been told, or else I had become desensitized to sensual sexual references.Forbidden love is still a great topic and points to the problems lovers face when their attraction is socially unacceptable.

I learned that coal miners were distinctively lower class and could never rise above their dark and dirty destiny. Maybe the stigma followed the miners to America where coal camps were viewed by many as lower class, transient populations. Hmmm, maybe I'll read Lady Chatterley again.

The same social statements are visually and intellectually entertaining in the French movie of Chatterley and in the British movie, Miss Julia, both favorites of mine.

As children in Kentucky, we were allowed to read Anne Frank, though, and Alice in Wonderland. I was in grad school before I heard of the dangerous meaning hidden in the layers of the writing. Now we can read them with new interest to discover what dangerous messages the books send to other countries and cultures.

Jawahara wrote an excellent essay about why we should read banned books:

The following is from Jawahara Saidullah's website

What did you read during banned books week?
I had planned to read a banned book especially during banned book week but could not, for various reasons. So I decided to make a list of some banned books I've recently (or not so recently) read. These could have been banned in any country/organization. Here goes:

1. Satanic Verses: re-reading

2. The Jewel of Medina

3. The God of Small Things

4. Alice's Adventures in Wonderland

5. Animal Farm

6. Ismat Chughtai's 'Lihaf' (technically a short story but one of my faves)

7. The Diary of Anne Frank

8. The Da Vinci Code (technically not literature or even really a book, but heck it was banned in Lebanon)

9. Doctor Zhivago

10. The Grapes of Wrath

11. The Gulap Archipelego (started reading it, but now it sits staring balefully at my from my bedside table)

12. Lady Chatterly's Lover

13. Lajja

14. Lolita

15. 1984

16. The Kite Runner

But perhaps more important than a mere listing of books is the question: Why should we read banned books?

This is what I think.

The freedom to think, to read and to write whatever we want is to me a fundamental right. For, if there can be limits to what we can read, what else is left? Policing what we can and cannot read is like posting a cop in our brains. No matter how heinous, gruesome, or disturbing, the freedom of expression relies on the premise that we all need to defend each other's rights to expression despite our own discomforts with these expressions.

Unorthodox viewpoints, unpopular ways of looking at the world and its people creates a tension. A tension that makes us grow and explore and develop in new and unexepected ways. It is important to challenge the status quo, for it is in doing so that humanity develops.

This does not mean that we all have to agree. On the contrary. Instead it creates a free, equal, and open forum for discussion in which those for and against an idea can debate it in the marketplace of ideas.

Constraining thought in a free society points the way towards totalitarianism sometime down the road.

I have the right to read what I want to. You have the right not to. I cannot mandate that you must read what I decide. And you cannot tell me that I cannot read what I want to.

So, during this state of economic instability and the general malaise in the world, let us all put away our lists. Try to read at least one banned book a year. Make yourself heard by picking up a banned book and quietly proclaiming that you believe, truly believe in the freedom of thought and expression. And that, ultimately, you are fully prepared to debate this and all other thoughts you hold dear.

For nothing is sacrosanct. And ultimately, that makes every thought valuable enough to be debated openly, to be discussed honestly. And what better freedom of expression can there be.

Don't wait for the next banned books week. Read a banned book.
Posted by Jawahara Saidullah at 6:09 AM

December Memories

Dear Reader,
It's December 9 and I'm thinking of winter in David,Kentucky, my Appalachian Coal Camp home. By now we would have exchanged names for gifts at school with a price limit of 50 cents. Mother always tried to buy something fun for us to give--like a wind-up toy or a good rubber ball, for example. She complained if we got a box of chocolate covered cherries.

The Company Store would have filled the upstairs area with all kinds of Christmas toys. Virgil Warrix, Ruth Burchett, Grace Moore,Clayton Wills, not to mention the store staff, the PECCO office staff, and Lily Price, the post-master (we weren't pc back then), and George, the butcher probably purely dreaded time of year. The oiled hardwood steps went straight up beside the butcher shop so George would have heard every step and all our excited shouts.

Miners' wives could shop there and "charge it". The charge would be taken out of the miner's next check. Daddy hated this because sometimes, more often than not, he'd "go in the hole". His check would be Zero. We dreaded payday because we also charged Bobby Pins, Kotex, Lucky Star filler paper (everyone saved Lucky Stars), writing tablets, pop, and sometimes, lunch at the fountain. They made the best chili and hot dogs. later in life, I've decided that it was wrapping the hot-dogs in waxed paper that gave them that special taste. Of course other days, we walked home to a lunch of cheese sandwiches, fried bologna sandwiches,or canned pork and beans. We loved the fountain and the few times a month we dared go in and say "charge it".

We wrote lists for Santa and sent them up the stove pipe chimney on the Warm Morning. I asked for stuff like diamond rings, gowns, watches, and whatever doll was the big name that year. One year it was bride dolls. I never got these requests, but Mother always managed to get us something. Once we were past the age of "believing' we didn't get special gifts. Maybe one little thing was wrapped for us. We always could count on Oranges, Apples, Walnuts, Saw-log peppermint candy, horehound candy for Daddy, and a coconut to share. Daddy told us the coconut milk was "monkey pee".
The nuts weren't hulled, of course and we could never find a hammer, so we got heavy rocks from outside and cracked the nuts right on the living room floor. Mother said there were nut hulls and orange peels everywhere. We enjoyed the Christmas goodies.

I'm getting ahead of myself.

Mother always decorated the porch for Christmas. She'd go into the hills in Mid-December and cut pine branches to nail all around the front door and the front porch banister. She worked really hard at this and we had to help her. One year blue lights were all the rage and Mother got some--probably "charged" them.We loved those blue lights, too. There was no electrical outlet on the porch, so Mother ran the cord through the living room window. She never won the annual prize, but we voted for her anyway.

She put pine branches around the living room bookshelf--a luxury item the Company carpenters built into some of the houses. We were proud of that amenity too. Our time-payment World Book encyclopedias were displayed prominently.
We read every word in them, cut out pictures for school reports and Mother never said a word. I, of course, protected the encyclopedias I bought for my children and I'm quite sure didn't read them as voraciously as the 6 Bussey children.

One year she learned to make candles by whipping heated paraffin wax and mixing in gold or silver glitter. She made all shapes and sizes by molding them into cups, glasses, tin cans, milk cartons, and anything else she could find. She kept the house messed up but found she really enjoyed creating things. She would place these beautiful, glittery candles throughout the pine decor and we were always wondering what she would do next.

Nights were cold in December. Ice would freeze on the inside of the windows. There were no storm windows in those days. We had heavy quilts to keep us warm and usually a sibling or two helping warm up the bed. Mother hung a quilt between the dining room and living room at night to divert most of the heat in the direction of the bedrooms. There was no heat in any of the rooms except the living room. There sat a Warm Morning Coal stove taking up an entire corner, but leaving enough room so that we could sit--all six of us, I guess--up against the wall behind it. That corner was warmer than anywhere in the house and we liked to put on our socks and shoes there. Sometimes Mother handed us a plate of cornbread and gravy to eat back there, sometimes a biscuit.

Mother would arise about 4AM, stoke up the fire, take down the quilt barrier and stoke up the laundry stove in the kitchen. The laundry stove heated our water and she managed to get it a little warm before we got up. She'd make Daddy's lunch, brew their coffee by pouring boiling water into the wonderful old drip-o-later (I still use one, and find some quiet time for her writing and a cigarette before waking us up.In grade school, we walked to school with a headscarf on, but our bangs would freeze. In high school, the bus ran at 7 AM--always before daylight. We got to Prestonsburg about 7:30-7:45 and waited at the Black Cat drive in for classes to start around 8:30. These mornings are memorable. The boys with money played the jukebox, if we spent a dime on a coke, we only had 15 cents left and couldn't afford to eat in the cafeteria. We had to make hard decisions. We were the first to arrive at PHS and the last to leave--rarely getting home before 5 Pm, when it was already dark in the winter.

So, December is reminding me of cold days, cold house, childhood fun, hard work, Mother's creativity, and "going in the hole"

Thanks for letting me share these thoughts this morning.

All that's left is life,
Peace,
Judy
build.

Dear Reader,

I finally found the writing I referred to last week. The writer is Dumal, not DuMaurier as I first said.

Rene Dumal is known for his spiritual search that involves true "seeing", real "seeing", objective "seeing. I have read his book, Mount Analogue, and was reminded by my brother Rodney, of his commentary on how reaching a summit might affect one's view of the world. I'd like to share Dumal's The Mountain Top with you.

The Mountain Top

When one has been to a mountain top

One has only to come down again

So why bother in the first place?

Just this....

One climbs...One sees

One descends...One sees no longer

But one has seen

There is an art of conducting oneself

in the lower regions

By the memory of what one saw higher up Rene Dumal

I think Dumal he uses the metaphor of the mountain to illustrate that when we experience higher or "finer" impressions we can use those--if we work at it-- to more honestly live in the world but not be constantly led by the world. We can serve something higher--if we have truly seen and truly remember.

I'd like to hear from you,
Peace,
Judy

This back-view photo from Pattie Clark Mollette of David seems appropriate since I've been discussing our hillside yards recently. Pattie still lives in David and looks out into the winter wonderland created by trees bushes and grapevines, and of course utility cables. These are the hills we played in from daylight to dark and, with enough snow would sleighride all hours of the night. The boys would burn tires for heat and light and we'd pile on their backs and fly down the icy slopes all the way to the Company Store..or into the creek. Socks served as gloves for most of us. Then we'd get so cold we'd run home and hold our hands and feet too near the Warm Morning Heater and then we'd itch forever.Thanks for the memories, Pattie, and for sharing your beautiful view. I wish I were there with you right now!
Peace,
Judy

The Walk, a Poem by My Mother, Nova Hicks Bussey, 1958

The picture on the right is a view of the David coal camp from the hills
I took a walk this morning, in the early morning breeze
A rabbit crossed my path; I heard the squirrels in the trees.

I like to walk in the morning and relieve my worried mind--
To look at nature around me, hoping a new treasure I'd find.

This morning my mind and heart were troubled. From my face, I wiped a tear.
I wanted to keep going so far up the mountain feeling God was near.

I stopped to pluck a daisy. Memories of my youth came back to me,
Telling fortunes with this beautiful flower sitting under an old, old tree.

I walked up the mountain. Sumac was low and crowded too.
Wild grapes were hanging all around, I stopped to pick a few.

I saw a snake sleeping peacefully, I moved on without any fear.
This was his kingdom and his castle, I had no right to interfere.

I stood admiring drift wood in the small mountain stream,
Scenery so beautiful, it would be any artist's dream.

My mind became less worried because exhaustion had overcome me.
I came to an opening and sat down on the soft grass, under a tall oak tree.

I sat there wondering how much further I had to go.
The path seemed to get more narrow but I'd make it if I took it slow.

I prayed as I walked the narrow path because it had become difficult to see.
I looked to see a huge rock looming, high over me.

Through a clearing I could see the top of the mountain,
It seemed to touch a bright blue sky.

Briars scratched my legs and arms, it didn't hurt.
I had to make it and I'd try.

The rest of the path was rocky, but soon I reached my goal.
I flung myself on the ground sobbing to the depths of my soul.

Rain came beating down on my face, and the wind began to blow.
I said," God, will my life always be filled with fear and hate? Please, God, I have to know".

I saw the trees bending to and fro, their leaves almost covering me.
I wiped the rain from my eyes, then I saw this small tree, unknown to me.

It was taking a beating, but its leaves were hanging on
While the leaves of the oak were on the ground. The oaks, so tall and strong.

The rain stopped as suddenly as it had begun.
I looked at that little tree (and it seemed to me, I grinned)

I said to myself,"Why, that little tree could be me."
I'd manage to hold my own because the strongest really are weak.

I started back towards home. I looked up and smiled into heaven.
It seemed to be quiet and peaceful as I went back down.
Written by Nova Hicks Bussey, 1958