Note: this story is part of a series called “The Bitter Winter: Surviving and Healing Appalachia. For context and the full collection of stories, check out this page.

You know, they say that the Appalachian Mountains are older than dirt. My people didn’t know that. You see, they thought they were the dirt. They planted themselves deep in the land and let Spring’s bounty be birthed through them.

Even when I was growing up, which wasn’t so long ago, people still lived off the land. Some more than others, of course. I, for example, was not gifted the gift of the green thumb. All I was good for was snappin’ beans, shuckin’ corn, and wrappin’ the meat that was hunted or butchered. But I played my part in things, just the same.

People of the Dirt

My dad’s people were truly people of the dirt. They settled some land at the end of a holler that would later be named after them, and they made it their own. They lived in a shack while they built the house they would raise their kids in and immediately set to making use of the land. I don’t like to call them ‘farmers’, though. That just doesn’t fit right.

They did not strip the land and turn her into a factory.

Like most people in the area, they grew what they needed and thanked the land for her blessings.

Every fall, the ladies would gather in the kitchen and can things up. You see, they understood the importance of stretching things out and learned to ‘make do’ (out of necessity, of course).

A Legacy of Healing

My grandpa gave his life to that land and then died right there in the house he built with his bare hands. It was an untimely death, and sudden too.

I never met him, but I’ve heard plenty of stories about him. He was a faith healer and a herbalist and for a long time, he was the only medicine man in the area. They said he would be called at all hours of the night to help the sick and weary. He was the type of man, I’m told, that would drop groceries off on the front steps of anyone who had fallen upon hard times.

My favorite stories of him are the ones of him (allegedly) casting out demons. Most notably, the time he saved the soul of the warlock who lived in the wizard house at the end of my Short Granny’s holler.

For the most part, when things died they stayed right where they were. Wild animals in the woods, mostly. But my grandpa was no exception to the rule. He died but did not stay dead. For the longest time, his spirit was still alive and well in the house and land that he built.

And that warlock? Well, he’s still alive, too…but only in my heart and soul. You’ll learn more about him, later.

The Cycle of Rot and Regeneration

The point is that people in those areas understood the importance of rot and the role it plays in keeping the soil fertile enough to produce herbs for healing, produce for eating, and flowers bright enough to make it all worthwhile in the end.

I remember pie pans strewn across my grandma’s kitchen counters. She was always collecting very specific ingredients for plants in need. Now, I didn’t pay attention much so I can’t really tell you what those ingredients were or how she used them to create rich soil. What I do know is that woman could grow virtually anything. She took pride in it, too. For all her meanness, at least she gave that gift to the land.

In this way, death was given a purpose. Things to rot were not off-putting or gross. It was understood to be the way of things. In fact, it was revered to be a powerful tool and cornerstone of survival.

It’s the cycle of rot to regeneration…and here’s the thing. It happens, no matter what. We usually don’t pay it much mind, but it’s always there. It’s constantly tearing us down and building us back up.

The Darkness of Rot

I guess it makes sense to shy away from it. Death is death and although it breeds light, it’s still chaotic and painful. To understand that, you don’t have to look much further than my momma’s family.

They settled some land on the back of a mountain, just off the banks of an ancient river. Terry, WV used to be an old mining town. Now, if you don’t know much about those mining towns, I’ll tell you this. There is nothing sadder than an abandoned coal mine.

…and my grandpa—who had lived through WWII and was a retired coal miner—well, I guess you can say he was consumed by that sadness. It put a darkness in him that made him an awful man. There are stories about him that have no place in these stories, but they’re there.

They live on as warnings for what happens when we don’t control the rot…when we try to ignore the shadows or ‘drink them away’. You see, the shadows grew so dark inside of my grandfather that they spilled out of him. In some ways, they still hang over the heads of my matriarchal bloodline, today.

What I can tell you is that Terry Road was FULL of death. It just kind of hung around the place…it still does, even to this day.

Connection with Spirit

I think that’s where my connection with spirit comes from. There are plenty of stories of my great grandma’s haunted house and how she seemed to know how to ‘keep the spirits in line’. In fact, legend has it that each room had its own designated spirit. There was one room, for example, that didn’t ‘like’ men. There are plenty of stories where men went in and came out white as a ghost. What happened in there is between them and God, I guess. I sure would like to know those stories, though.

I think that’s why winter gives us time to pause. Shoot, even the sun stops moving for a few days after the darkest night of the year. For me, that pause symbolizes reflection. It’s Mother Earth’s way of telling us to make our own metaphorical pie pans—that way we can sort through the death that the previous year has laid at our feet.

It’s an opportunity to decide what can be reused and what should be left to rot. If we do this exceptionally well, the soil will be ripe and ready for revival in the coming Spring.

Strength and Survival

Of course, it’s hard to achieve all of this without a healthy dose of strength. I’m proud to say that’s something that my people have in spades. It was hard-earned, too. You see—survival and strength go hand in hand. With each triumph, we harden. And so the next storm is easier to bear.

Our next story will be just about that. It’s the story of the journey the Cailleach takes through the cold of winter to deliver the flame that will become the spark of Spring’s renewal.

That story, titled “Birth’s Blizzards, and Biscuits” is the next story in our series.