Garlic!

This post came to my attention by way of Ms. Abigail Bradshaw, now thankfully of West Virginia. I believe that the post originates with Gateway Garlic Farms. There is some great advice below.

EAT WILD

Disappearing during the heat of the summer time, Allium vineale comes back every fall and virtually grows through mild winters into the subsequent spring. It is a very interesting species with an incredible taste . Found throughout the US, it is often labeled a noxious pest by Ag departments and farmers alike. Sadly it doesn't grow wild on my farm anymore and I have to go to other places to harvest it. I literally consumed it out of existence on my farm.

Many people in Missouri and Illinois erroneously call this wild onion. That's probably because of the heavy onion smell they get when they run their lawnmowers over it. In actuality this is a spicy wild garlic that I love to eat.

Eat your yard

"Today, I painted a picture of my mama, today is the day she died...."

The following comes from BoneWoman Outsider Art. Something is lost here by not having the two images below next to one another, but I think that the text and the juxtaposition of the images carries a well-constructed story of memories, love, loss, and development. I say "well-constructed" because this can be construction site-raw and hit like bricks. There is something blue-collar here and there is something that takes up our own construction of memories and loss and what we do with them. Intended or not, all of this poses questions for me of how to define art and how art carries time and life along.

Today, I painted a picture of my mama, today is the day she died. Lots of tears mixed with paint, I never stop missing her!

1972 - Riding in the front passenger seat in our yellow dodge dart sitting by my mama in her green lime checker polyester dress she made herself a white scarf tied around her head hiding the baldness underneath - chemo colon cancer she is dying rotting on the inside - I am the last born of eight children - 15 - it was a rare moment to ever have my mama to myself - it is cold the heat is blasting in the car it smells old and moldy we arrive to the shopping center - Piggly Wiggly - a sign with a pig wearing a white hat and apron a stripe red & white shirt smiling at us welcoming us to come on in but we do not we walk behind the store where a small record store is located - it is tiny barely five people can fit into the store - my mama had asked me what I wanted for my birthday - my mama had never asked me ever what I wanted for my birthday - I said I want the single of Roberta Flack the first time I have saw your face - we went into the store and there it was a black and red 45 vinyl slipped inside a plain white cover. Next to the single was the 33 - the full album First Take - A bright yellow album cover with Roberta seating on a piano stool her hands posed over the white keys looks like she playing in a smokey bar with her musicians to the side two orange lamps over her head she is wearing a black and white dress with a white scarf that looks like the one my mama has on her bald head. Roberta head is bowed as if she is praying to the piano. I so wanted the whole album but I will not ask because I know we cannot afford it.
We return to the car, it is cold, the wind chills my bones, I am holding on to this little white package for fear the wind will take it from me - we return home I run to my bedroom the one I share with my sister Dea - bunk beds I pull out our little record player from underneath the bed - looks like a red and white small suitcase. I flip the brass clasps - fling open the record player and gently place my 45 on the turntable lifting the needle and carefully carefully placing the needle on the record so as not to scratch this precious early birthday gift. Roberta comes to life her voice in my room all mine for that moment she sings
The first time ever I saw your face
I thought the sun rose in your eyes
And the moon and the stars were the gifts you gave
To the dark and the endless skies, my love
To the dark and the endless skies
And the first time ever I kissed your mouth
I felt the earth move in my hand
Like the trembling heart of a captive bird
That was there at my command, my love
That was there at my command, my love
And the first time ever I lay with you
I felt your heart so close to mine
And I knew our joy would fill the earth
And last 'til the end of time my love
And it would last 'til the end of time
The first time ever I saw your face
Your face, your face, your face
Mama is in the room next to mine, I can hear her grunting, pulling off the tight dingy white girdle, slipping out of her green polyester dress, the bra and then I hear the bed springs squeak and she is lying down in her bed.
Soon it will be time for me to go in and change the bandage that covers the oozing wound on her belly, where they removed a tumor the size of a grapefruit. She lays there and we both are listening to Roberta sing “The First time I saw your face" coming from my room. I cannot look at my mama because I know I will cry and we did not cry in front of each other in my house. All tears were hidden. Mama died two months later - January 17th -1973 Roberta Flack won a grammy award two months later 1973 for The First time I ever saw your face.

The beauty within us and around us

The first photograph below is of a pottery maker in either New Mexico or Arizona in 1908. The photograph itself captures something dear and touching in the woman's expression and in her work. We can tell from the photograph that there is a history present and at work in her and in her pottery, and an intelligence and focus that informs what she has made. I also see something of sadness, and perhaps regret, in her face. Am I imposing this or is the center of this sadness or regret in the object, in herself, or in the act of being photographed?

This second photograph was taken by Allen Edmonds in Dandridge, Tennessee this morning. I took it from the Appalachian Americans Facebook page. I think that most of us would drive by an old barn in the fog in the morning on our way to work or running errands without paying much attention. But slow down for a minute. That fog and that barn have stories. Where do they come from? What are they doing there at the moment when you're passing by? The beauty here is not just in the fog and in the barn, but in your place and their places in a story. If you don't know that story you're free to make something up. Make your story as beautiful and as meaningful as you can and maybe pass it on to someone else if you have the opportunity.

This third photograph was also taken in East Tennessee this morning. It comes from Kerwin Cornett. I think that it speaks for itself. Who, after all, can speak for a flower?

To see more in this series on this blog, please click on the "Beauty" tag.

The beauty within us and around us---some sketches by Ms. Debra Lynn Kimball

These sketches were done by Debra Lynn Kimball. She is a retiree living in West Virginia and doe some great art work. These sketches depict Christ in the mines watching over mine workers. I think that most people who go underground for work pray some, and many mine workers will tell you that they either
depend on God's protection or have been saved from disasters underground by divine intervention or know people who have been. There can be a spirituality attached to the work, and I think that Ms. Kimball's great sketch work captures some of that.

I want to offer one more thought here. I'm one of those people who loves mine workers and mining communities, but that does not mean that I love the coal industry and do not want to see needed economic and political transitions take place. That said, I want to ask people who don't think much about the mine workers and their communities, and those who do think about them through the lenses of stereotypes, to consider that no one is going to give up on work that they pray over and have a spiritual attachment to without something better and safer and guaranteed and that they can take ownership of in the same ways that mine workers feel ownership and control of their work.

This is part of a blog series on the beautiful things around us and within us. I enjoy doing these posts more than many others. To see other posts in this series, please hit the "Beauty" tag on this post. Thanks!

Finding Black Louisiana Folk Artist Clementine Hunter

Wash Day by Clementine Hunter, 1980. Taken from WikiArt. 

I don't know much about art and artists, but I do want to learn more about the Black Louisiana Folk Artist Clementine Hunter. It seems tragic to me that I could live into my late 60s and never learn about her or see her work. This art is a living example of the kind of beauty that I try to get out on this blog. 

I have the Black Southern Belle and the Glitter Gallery pages to thank for brining Clementine Hunter to my attention. The Gallery provided this brief introduction to Hunter and her work and the photograph below.

Remembering Our great Louisiana Folk Artist Clementine Hunter who passed away January 1, 1988 at the age 102. She was a self-taught African-American artist from the Cane River region of Louisiana. She was born on Hidden Hill Plantation, known today as Little Eva Plantation, said to be the inspiration for Uncle Tom's Cabin. She was the granddaughter of a slave and worked as a farm hand. She was never taught to read or write. In her mid Fifties, she began painting using paint brushes left by an Artist that visited Melrose Plantation where she lived and worked. Hunter's new lifestyle of artwork depicted plantation life in the early 20th Century documenting a bygone era. She first sold her paintings for as little as 25 cents. By the end of her life, her work was being displayed and exhibited in museums and sold by art dealers for thousands of dollars. Hunter was granted an honorary Doctor of Fine Arts degree by Northwestern State University of Louisiana in 1986. Today her artwork appears in museums and private collections all over the world and sells into the hundreds of thousands of dollars for some of her most treasured paintings. Thank you Clementine Hunter. You Inspired Us.

Two Stories From Journey Of A Mountain Woman

One of my favorite daily readings comers from the Journey of a Mountain Woman Facebook page. The woman who writes the stories or accounts on that page writes from her heart and from her experiences. it is often tough reading, but it almost always instructive and is often redeeming. Some people from the Appalachian mountains rite only with nostalgia or sentimentality or anger, but this writer writes with truth and can tell a story that sweeps in different points of view. If she had a book out I would buy copies and give them out to my friends and ask you to do the same. She has never answered the messages that I have sent asking if I could repost something so I'm going to post two of her recent entries and hope that she will be okay with that. If you're on Facebook please "like" her.

Here we go.

When I was about eight daddy sent me to the store to buy some nails. Back then they were loose and in a wooden barrel and sold by the pound, half pound or however many you needed. By the time I got out of the holler I had forgotten what size he said so I winged it. Size 51 penny nails, I told the store keeper, Claude Blair. He was a wonderful man and if his lips quivered a bit when I said that, I didn’t think much about it. He told me”I’m all out of that size but I have some I think will work.” There were several old men sitting around on sacks of feed and they all got a coughing spell at the same time. when I got home I told daddy that they were all out of 51 penny nails but he sent some that he thought would work. Daddy smiled and said” that will work fine.’’Later when I went into the store again and the same old men were there and a couple of others also. One spoke up and said “that was a plumb good joke your pa got on you with the nails. Your daddy is a sight.” The other men looked a bit uncomfortable. “What joke?” He said and suddenly I knew. I had asked for the wrong size nails. Daddy took the blame for it. Just another one of his jokes. He never once mentioned it even when some of the men told him that he shouldn’t have done that to me. But daddy and I knew and it raised my love for him a few notches.---December 26

The food is on the stove cooking, the lights are twinkling on my tree, the great grand is napping and I'm trying to warm my feet with a cat in my lap aggravating me. I was thinking as usual. Lately several people have told me that their spouses have not forgiven them for things they have done even though they have tried to change. They have tried to bring God into their hearts and be better people. My daddy was a kind and gentle person to me. He was a lot of fun...most of the time. I loved him dearly and I always will. I'm going to tell you all a story of forgiveness beyond imaging. I was in a store one day while visiting my mother. She and I were together. Suddenly the woman in front of us fell and somehow became tangled in a cart. Her daughter was screaming and no help. I looked at my mama and told her, find someone to call an ambulance. She might have had a heart attack! Mama stood there glued to the spot, her eyes filled with tears. I can't! She told me. By this time others had come to help. I took mama outside and helped her into the car. Soon my husband and uncle had found us and we headed home. Mama told this story "I never told anybody, not even family," she said in a soft voice. "It all hit me when I saw Her again! My husband cheated on me. With that woman. He caught Syphilis from her. I was pregnant. He was really sick and had to go in the hospital for weeks. He was very sick when I found out that I had it. I couldn't go into the hospital. I had three young children. One just two years old. The doctor treated me at home and I told nobody. When the baby was born she was perfect, even though she was early. She had beautiful skin, not wrinkled and she seldom cried. She lived five days. Our old Dr told me after she died that he knew she would but he prayed anyway. Only he, my husband and me knowed why she died. I had syphilis, so did she. We had no pictures so the photographer from Cumberland took a picture of her after she died so my husband could see her. He was still in the hospital. It was hard for me to forgive him. I wouldnt let him come home until I was sure I could put the past into the past. He stayed with his maw for several months ànd after a while and a lot of praying I let him come home. I talked to the old Dr about it and he told me, 'now Lizzie, if you can't let it go and truly forgive him, then you shouldn't let him come back. You can't have a relationship when things, even terrible things, aren't forgiven.' I forgave him and went on to have that one last baby." She said, "I never saw the woman again until today I suspect it will take a whole lot of of prayers to forgive her." Honestly I'm not sure I could have forgiven that but I would not have allowed him into my life if I had been my mother, but if not I would not be here today. I was the last child. But she said she never mentioned it to him again. She never forgot her little children though and I saw her tears when we visited their graves, and I witnessed horrible heartbreak. I am in the process of writing a book about those days and I was not sure if I should include this story or tell it to anyone but today I felt I should write about it ànd about forgiveness. My Christmas message is that forgiveness is the hardest thing we can possibly do and if we can't forgive that person then we shouldn't allow them back into our lives, for forgiveness is not forgiveness if you keep reminding them of their fall from grace. It's not easy, never easy to truly forgive! I hope you all can forgive me for this heartbreaking story on Christmas. (Christmas snow two years ago)--December 25

Wolf Moon and another poem by Mary Oliver

Wolf Moon

Now is the season of hungry mice, cold rabbits,
lean owls hunkering with their lamp-eyes
in the leafless lanes in the needled dark;
now is the season when the kittle fox
comes to town in the blue valley of early morning;
now is the season of iron rivers, bloody crossings,
flaring winds, birds frozen in their tents of weeds,
their music spent and blown like smoke to the stone of the sky;
now is the season of the hunter Death;
with his belt of knives, his black snowshoes,
he means to cleanse the earth of fat;
his gray shadows are out and running – under
the moon, the pines, down snow-filled trails they carry
the red whips of their music, their footfalls quick as hammers,
from cabin to cabin, from bed to bed, from dreamer to dreamer.

The beauty within us and around us

I saw this picture posted on the Appalachian Americans Facebook page the other day and asked Mr. James Dunaway if I could please post it and he kindly said that its okay. This is another example of what I'm talking about on this blog when I post about the beauty within us and around us. Mr. Dunaway says that this is "More of my wife’s work, the church gives them to charity" and he has been good about posting pictures of his wife's work. In a later message Mr. Dunaway told me that "We are Cumberland Presbyterian. But she does this we a group of ladies at the local Baptist Church, they quit, sew, crochet & knit for our Lord Jesus Christ." Not only this is beautiful and well-done work, but it serves a social purpose and connects people to one another all around. Our creativity works best and reaches its greatest meaning when it supports others and connects us to one another and---really no small matter---when it helps those who need the help most. In my world we call that solidarity.

The beauty within us and around us

I try to post something on this blog about every day that shows a bit of the beautiful and meaningful things that folks create. These things don't need to be artsy or crafty or look like something you will see in a magazine. In fact, I'm always asking people to look around for the things that we make that won't make it into those kinds of spaces. I think that we have family and friends who are capable of doing more and better than that and that their work represents us in ways that factory-produced or high-end work won't.

Today I feel blessed because we have something from Terry E. Poff from somewhere in Appalachia whose work gets directly to my point here. Terry wrote:

I wanted to share my Christmas project. My 90 year old dad passed away several months ago. When I was going through his things I just couldn’t throw out his bibbed overalls. I got this idea to make every family member an ornament using the denim and attaching costume jewelry that belongs to my mom and grandma. I used old skeleton keys from my grandfather and any other little mementos that I could sew on. I took some of my mom’s pearls and put them on the little trees. It’s been a fun project and helped with the grieving process. Have a good holiday season y’all!!!!

Some of the beauty within us and around us

Linoleum block print Winter Solstice decorations made by M.L. Stephens.

 

Some of the beauty within us and around us...

 Hats made by M.L. Stephens to be given away

Ceramic art by Lena Skvortsova (b. 1970, Moscow)

Title: 100 years from now

Flour Sack Clothing

For a few weeks now I have been posting pictures of beautiful homemade items on this blog. Some of them are things that we pass by or don't think about much, but they do make our world more beautiful and are often gestures of love. Many of them would not be taken seriously as art by art critics, but I do believe that they are art and that many of the objects you have seen here are made by people with creativity and inspiration running through their veins.

Someone recently recalled for me how many people of my parent's generation wore clothing made from flour sacks. I know that some people hated those clothes and didn't even want to talk about them in the 1980s and 1990s. But some other people do have a kinder view of the clothing and what it signified. These folks attach family stories and stories of love to their memories of flour sack clothing.

“THE FLOUR SACK” by Colleen B. Hubert

IN THAT LONG AGO TIME WHEN THINGS WERE SAVED,
WHEN ROADS WERE GRAVELED AND BARRELS WERE STAVED,
WHEN WORN-OUT CLOTHING WAS USED AS RAGS,
AND THERE WERE NO PLASTIC WRAP OR BAGS,
AND THE WELL AND THE PUMP WERE WAY OUT BACK,
A VERSITILE ITEM, WAS THE FLOUR SACK.

PILLSBURY'S BEST, MOTHER'S AND GOLD MEDAL, TOO
STAMPED THEIR NAMES PROUDLY IN PURPLE AND BLUE.
THE STRING SEWN ON TOP WAS PULLED AND KEPT;
THE FLOUR EMPTIED AND SPILLS WERE SWEPT.
THE BAG WAS FOLDED AND STORED IN A SACK
THAT DURABLE, PRACTICAL FLOUR SACK.

THE SACK COULD BE FILLED WITH FEATHERS AND DOWN,
FOR A PILLOW, OR T'WOULD MAKE A NICE SLEEPING GOWN.
IT COULD CARRY A BOOK AND BE A SCHOOL BAG,
OR BECOME A MAIL SACK SLUNG OVER A NAG.
IT MADE A VERY CONVENIENT PACK,
THAT ADAPTABLE, COTTON FLOUR SACK.

BLEACHED AND SEWN, IT WAS DUTIFULLY WORN
AS BIBS, DIAPERS, OR KERCHIEF ADORNED.
IT WAS MADE INTO SKIRTS, BLOUSES AND SLIPS.
AND MOM BRAIDED RUGS FROM ONE HUNDRED STRIPS
SHE MADE RUFFLED CURTAINS FOR THE HOUSE OR SHACK,
FROM THAT HUMBLE BUT TREASURED FLOUR SACK!

AS A STRAINER FOR MILK OR APPLE JUICE,
TO WAVE MEN IN, IT WAS A VERY GOOD USE,
AS A SLING FOR A SPRAINED WRIST OR A BREAK,
TO HELP MOTHER ROLL UP A JELLY CAKE,
AS A WINDOW SHADE OR TO STUFF A CRACK,
WE USED A STURDY, COMMON FLOUR SACK!

AS DISH TOWELS, EMBROIDERED OR NOT,
THEY COVERED UP DOUGH, HELPED PASS PANS SO HOT,
TIED UP DISHES FOR NEIGHBORS IN NEED,
AND FOR MEN OUT IN THE FIELD TO SEED.
THEY DRIED DISHES FROM PAN, NOT RACK
THAT ABSORBENT, HANDY FLOUR SACK!

WE POLISHED AND CLEANED STOVE AND TABLE,
SCOURED AND SCRUBBED FROM CELLAR TO GABLE,
WE DUSTED THE BUREAU AND OAK BED POST,
MADE COSTUMES FOR OCTOBER (A SCARY GHOST)
AND A PARACHUTE FOR A CAT NAMED JACK.
FROM THAT LOWLY, USEFUL OLD FLOUR SACK!

SO NOW MY FRIENDS, WHEN THEY ASK YOU
AS CURIOUS YOUNGSTERS OFTEN DO,
"BEFORE PLASTIC WRAP, ELMERS GLUE
AND PAPER TOWELS, WHAT DID YOU DO?"
TELL THEM LOUDLY AND WITH PRIDE DON'T LACK,
"GRANDMOTHER HAD THAT WONDERFUL FLOUR SACK!"

*Pictured- All of the dresses were made from Flour Sacks.

Some of the beauty we create

This is part of an on-going series showing some of the things that folks create on their own that make our world more beautiful and more interesting. We have gotten so caught in buying things that we're forgetting to encourage the creative spirit within us and give our thanks to the people around us who make the journey we're on more beautiful.

These Christmas stockings were made by a friend of mine who lives in Georgia. She wrote, "Started in July. Couldn't tell you how many kids I have made them for. Everyone is different and I do them all by hand. I think I have only made the same one twice. They come in a kit by Bucilla and I get the kits from different places but mostly Amazon. Maybe some of your blogger's will want to try them. Usually takes me 2-3 weeks for one, depending on how intricate they are."

I like the colors and the themes and I like that each one has someone's name on it. And I really like that my friend is thinking about making these way ahead of Christmas.

There was the Festival of the Mountain Masters held in Harlan, Kentucky today. I wish that I had been there. Here is an inspiring video made at the festival:

The beauty around us---continuing our series

I have been trying to highlight some of the beautiful and creative work done by folks since this blog began, but just lately I have been stepping that up. Please scroll back a bit to see more.

This is a garnet and freshwater pearl and sterling silver necklace made by Eve Dedek in Oregon:

A scarf and hat made by M.L. Stephens in Salem, Oregon and intended

 for houseless friends.

Tin Man from Roderfield, West Virginia and now in Salem, Oregon

"Create in me a clean heart" spotted on a wall in Northfork, West Virginia today.

The beautiful things that people make--part of a series on this blog

 These are cut and polished rocks set in glass made by the daughter of a friend of mine.

This is the banner painted by Caroline Leigh O'Brien this year for the Nye Beach Banner Project. These are hung out on the streets of Nye Beach, Oregon from June to late October and auctioned in early November. The money is used to support the arts in the community for children. The first thing to go in in school budget cuts are the art programs and this helps fill that gap for the Newport community.

Made with love by a friend near you

Yesterday I did two posts on how people express love and beauty and turn these into verbs. One post is here and it comes from a woman who lives in Southwest Virginia. She shows a lot of heart and soul and puts lots of good energy into her family. The other one is here and comes from several different sources.

Today's post comes from a friend in Maine who has taken some tough losses lately. Please keep him and those around him in your good thoughts and prayers. Some folks turn to creating things with their grief.

 Let's honor and encourage our instinctive creativity in ourselves and in one another.

Some of the art and beauty in our lives

The following photos come from the Appalachian Americans Facebook page. Many people in the coalfields have special creative abilities. They can make something beautiful and interesting out of scrap. Lots of people in the coalfields are collectors and I've been in homes and workshops that are small museums. All of that and some folks are just beautiful in their love and respect for one another. Check in with some of my posts about Virginia Lee Photography. This artistic work and the preserving of history reinforces long memories. I'm sure that someone has written a book about all of this by now.

 

“The camera is an instrument that teaches people how to see without a camera.”---Dorothea Lange

Well, here I go again. I have said it before: a person can talk day and night on something they know nothing about, but ask that person to talk about something that they do know and they will run out of talk in about 15 minutes. That and I always say that experts are just people far from home. If the people that you grew up around heard you advertising as being an expert, they would just die laughing. Here I am going on.

Now, on May 4, 2022 I did two posts here about art and photography in Appalachia. They are titled "Never lose an opportunity of seeing anything beautiful, for beauty is God's handwriting---Parts One and Two.” They were not particularly well written or profound. My point in writing those posts was to talk about painting and photography, and about some painters and photographers as people who not only document or record life as it changes, but also as people who we informally appoint to tell us and others more about ourselves and our experiences. They become our representatives to a larger world.

Every time you turn on the radio or the tv you hear someone talking from a particular place and a particular viewpoint that is shaped by their experiences and who they’re representing. I’ll wager you that in a day of listening to the mainstream tv or radio you won’t hear any working-class people telling our stories the way we tell them or would like them to be told. It’s not the fault of the media; their sponsors and their mindset don’t allow for us to be much more than consumers or victims or rough people. We know that we’re more and better than that, but sorting that out is hard if we don’t have the means to do that.

That’s why the painters, photographers, singers and bands, poets and writers, carvers and whittlers, cooks, storytellers, six-time-mommas who still tell bedtime stories, and so many other creative people who come from the working-class are so important. If you can find something of yourself in their work you might be on the way to sorting out your life essentials---where you came from, where you want to go, how you want to get there, and who is coming along with you. This helps people break out of their bad sides and start getting along with others, and who knows where that will stop once it takes off?

If you know where you have been and you get a vision of where you want to go, you’re more likely than not to start loving the people around you. Most of us want for others what we want for ourselves most of the time and you can’t care for yourself without caring for others. Life doesn’t work that way. You’re more likely to put down that bottle or that joint or the meth because, well, at some point it’s either that or it’s your future and it's either that or the people who care for you.

I tried to make the point in my May 4 post that I think that Kristen Kennedy, the woman who does the photography at Virginia Lee Photography in southwestern Virginia, is one of those people who helps us sort ourselves out. Her work gives me a good push on most days because I can see myself or people who I come from in her work. You can catch up with Virginia Lee Photography on Facebook, and if you live in Central Appalachia, I hope that you will make an appointment with her and get some photography done.

But how is she documenting people, and what does her work have to say to us? Some things are subtle. You have to let them sink in over time. A photograph is usually something more than a picture. The person or place that you see when you look at a photograph is held there at a particular moment. Yesterday they were different, tomorrow they will be different. It’s good to ask yourself how they happened to get there and where they’re headed. Ask yourself those questions, too.

I’m going to focus here on Appalachia, big and diverse as it is, and certain rural areas. You can be Appalachian and be in Northeastern Pennsylvania or in parts of Alabama. You can live in a holler or a patch or in a city. You can use yellow, white, or blue cornmeal. Your family’s roots can be in any part of the world. My grandmother would say that labels are only good for cans of soup.

Once, not so long ago, we looked a lot like this:

We were mostly poor, and many of our people were undernourished. Our families lived in rural areas, coal patches and hollers, “across the tracks” in towns and cities, in segregated and “ethnic” neighborhoods. 

And many of our families lived in homes that looked like this:

And when we look at the Virginia Lee photography this is some of what we see:

Now, what changed? How is it that, with all of our troubles, many of us look healthier and happier today then we used to? Some of it is color photography. Some of it is that today people smile in the camera. Some of it is that people go to Virginia Lee Photography to have a happy occasion photographed. But it’s also true---and this is central for me---that between those old times and today lots of people stuck together, showed love to one another, and made positive change by protesting, going on strike, and fighting for better living conditions.

Freedom is a continuing struggle, but we have had victories. Most kids in the United States don’t go to work in the mines and factories now. We have mine safety laws. We have seen times in this country when we had majorities or near-majorities of people who believed in peace, civil rights, union rights, and policies that put people ahead of profits. Appalachia and many rural areas were key to those movements.

From the film "Harlan County, USA"

From the film "Harlan County, USA"

Please take another look at some of the work done by Kristen Kennedy with what you have read above in mind.

The sentimental person within me says that this love and joy did indeed fall from the skies. But another voice tells me to take a minute and reflect. Do you see an evolution here or cause-and-effect? Where do you see the evolution and the change? I see it in the means of doing photography itself and in the very bodies and faces in the photographs, but I also see it in the development of real human feelings. The protests and the movements for change have expressed something good in people, but they also helped those feelings to find expression. The proof that these movements succeeded to some extent is in the smiles that you see here and in the faith needed to have a child or graduate from school today. And Kristen Kennedy is there to capture that love and joy and represent us.

Sources:  The photographs here and other work done by Kristen Kennedy can be seen at the Virginia Lee website and on the Virginia Lee Facebook page. Some of the photographs above come from my family album. Most of the photographs here have ended up on my desktop over the years and come from sources that I can't trace. Mr. Bob Wilson and the Appalachian Americans, Scenic Harlan County, and Forgotten Coalfields of Appalachia Facebook pages are good sources. One of my best and favorite sources is the Pine Mountain Settlement School Collections. If you are fortunate to find the work of Marat Moore anywhere, snap it up.