The Appalachia, specifically Kentucky, that I knew in my childhood is fading fast. People were different back then, more down to earth and practical. That doesn't mean they were or are lacking compassion; the opposite is true. The proof is in the music and arts made popular by their ease of use on front porches, where swatting summer mosquitoes and singing off key while frogs sang all night out at the pond was the usual evening entertainment. Cold ice tea, beer, fried chicken, and biscuits. Home. To remember is to carry forward the battle, a blended culture based on story telling. A region respecting the art of bards.
There are few songs in Appalachian music to rival the bittersweet beauty of Put My Little Shoes Away. In the song, a dying child asks its mother to put away its most treasured belongings, a pair of little shoes. "Give them all my toys, Mother, but put my little shoes away..." It's tragic and vivid. It cries out to our heritage, the strength of generations of immigrants, poverty and struggle versus hard work and honest profit.
From time to time, fragments of the past float up in my brain, creating voices where none existed, almost as if time and experience have created spirits that refuse to lie down and rest. When that happens, I have to let it flow. Open the valve, let it flow. Otherwise, the pain of silence is unbearable.
The following is what became of one such inner episode:
Momma says I shouldn't talk to strangers, but you're a neighbor, so it should be ah'ight. Them's right purty flow'rs you got there; I bet my granny would like 'em. She grows all kinds o' flow'rs. Momma says hit's a waste o' time, a waste of good sleepin' hours. Momma's at work down at the rest'rant right now.
Yesterday hit rained, I know. Got a lot o' mud puddles in th' road. I like to ride my bike through 'em, but Momma gits mad when I git m' good clothes dirty. She says she reckons warshin' clothes hain't a good pass-time when you're tired.
Lookee, I got me a candy-bar. Momma just got the food-stamps; they call that "SNAP Benefits" now, she said, but hit's the same thing. 'Long 'bout the end of the month, won't be no candy, cause the money and the food stamps done run out. So's I make 'em last, the two candy-bars I git. Got a Pay-Day so there wouldn't be choc'late to melt in my pockets. Purty smart, eh? Well, I miss the choc'late. But not as much as I like the sweet lastin'.
Yessum, I know that, an' I brush my teeth. When Momma can get some toothpaste. Some of the bristles is gone outta m' toothbrush, but I still use it. Hain't got 'nother'n. Just the one. But it still works. Momma says soap an' soda's about all she can handle paying for, an' toilet paper. Gotta have gas t' git t' work, an' hit's precious to buy. Can't waste ary dollar on frippery, Granny says. Momma says 'yes ma'am'.
Momma sleeps a lot. I gots a key to the house, see? Granny sleeps a lot too; she says she's just restin' her eyes. Granny's supposed to watch me, but I wake her up before Momma gits home and we sit an' eat sammidges in front of the TV with ice-tea. Gotta knock that dang cat outta the way, ever' time. Sits on the footstool and scratches them fleas like hit was a preacher poundin' on the pulpit a-Sunday. Granny calls 'at cat names, then tells me not to say 'em. Not fair, I call it.
Yesterday I helped weed the garden an' pulled up some plants I wasn't s'posed to. That's where 'at bruise come from. Momma said she's sorry, just so tired she can't think straight. Worrit, I reckon, 'bout Granny an' me an' the 'lectric bill. We all gotta drain on Momma. I split out a pair of jeans an' ripped a shirt last month when some kid called me a welfare bastard, whatever that is, an' I pounded his head some. Momma was still upset over bein' woke up by the school an' replacin' my clothes, so the garden thing hurt more. I didn't mean to harm, hit just happened while the sweat was runnin' in my eyes. Reckon the bruise'll heal. Usually does.
Well, I gotta run now. 'Bout time to feed Granny an' git me a bolony sammidge too. Momma'll be home soon. Work t' do. 'Bye, now.
.......................................
This is a work of fiction (social commentary, a story told by a storyteller) based on composite fact, told in the voice of a child living in the hills of Appalachia, dealing with the problems of his youth as has every one of his ancestors has done before him. Times change, problems remain, yet the people endure and adapt as they must, and go on.
Copyright: author R.L.M.Tipton (Home page http://songoftheraincrow.blogspot.com)
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