Appalachian Heritage

We humans have a tendency to yearn for the light, for the coming of spring, and for the more visible phase of growth that all things express in coming to be. As any gardener knows, the bulbs that contain the beautiful flowers of spring and summer—daffodils, irises, tulips, gladiolas—cannot bloom until they have endured a period of cold. Held in the dark earth during the frigid winter months, they undergo internal adjustments and changes invisible to our eyes, as they are fully engaged in the process of preparing to be born. So many of the greatest mysteries of life begin this way, with a powerful urge for growth enclosed in a small, dark space.

But springtime will soon be here! And once again we may feel a renewal of hope in the ground, the air, and in our spirits.

The earliest spring flower, the coltsfoot, which gets its common name from its shape, appears along roadsides and banks in Appalachia. This tiny flower has a cheery yellow blossom that resembles a dandelion. It pops through the muddy soil and blooms long before any leaves appear on it. My Granny Brock and Grandma Saylor gathered the leaves when they matured later on in May, and used them for herbal medicine. Coltsfoot has been used for centuries as a respiratory remedy. Interestingly, the Latin name for this flower, "Tussilago Farfar" derives from their word for cough. The large mucilage content probably accounts for its medicinal properties. It is found in commercial cough preparations, but the leaves are also sometimes used to prepare teas and salves and sometimes even smoked.

Spring peepers (wood frogs) are one of the first announcers of spring. The old folk used to say that if the spring peepers holler in March they will be looking through glass (ice) in April. They also said they had seen the frogs freeze in solid chunks of ice and thaw out when warm weather came. I remember once we lived in a log house sitting on the edge of a meadow surrounded on three sides by wooded [End Page 76] hills, with our house sitting on a little slope on the fourth side. It was exciting to hear the first spring peepers.

Nowadays we seldom get to smell the burning off of a garden, except perhaps out in the countryside. But what memories the wood smoke evokes!

No matter how cold the weather might be outside, there came a certain day when Father, with our help, began preparing the garden. I remember cleaning the garden, or clearing new ground for corn, when there would be alternate snow showers and sunshine, and always the wind blowing cold. We raked and gathered up accumulated debris from last year's crop and lighted a bonfire to which we added dry cornstalks, dead weeds, and blown dried leaves. Smoke from the burning made a powerful spring incense.

In the mountains there were some people who planted their potatoes on March 17, even if it was through swirling snowflakes, because St. Patrick's Day was a traditional potato-planting day in the old country. Father waited until the 100th day of the year (April 10) to put out his potatoes. I don't know what special significance he attached to that day.

We called the white potatoes "Irish" potatoes and, along with dried beans, they composed the backbone of our diet. Perhaps because of our Scotch-Irish inheritance, we had an inborn love for potatoes. But then good country grub has always included beans and potatoes.

We ate potatoes for almost every meal, fixed in a variety of ways. When we had them for breakfast they would be chopped fine and fried to eat with our eggs and hot biscuits. Sunday dinners often featured a huge bowl of fluffy mashed potatoes, and through the week we ate them boiled, fried, baked and creamed. Sometimes Mama sliced boiled potatoes and browned them in bacon grease or butter until they were nice and crispy.

Our favorite potato dish was the tiny new potato that we "graveled" out with a fork early in the season, and Mama creamed with a white sauce (some people called this dish "potato gravy"). It goes without saying that the rich whole milk and real butter she used added to the wonderful flavor.

Usually by that time of year we had plenty of garden lettuce and green onions, which Mama would wilt with a mixture of hot bacon [End Page 77] grease, a pinch of sugar, and a teaspoon or two of vinegar. We called this wilted lettuce. In North Carolina they speak of it as "killed lettuce." Of course, pouring hot bacon grease over the lettuce and chopped green onion mixture is bound to kill it!

Sometimes for a picnic we packed Mama's iron skillet and a few potatoes. I think there is nothing in the world half so good as potatoes fried in an iron skillet over a campfire, accompanied by boiled coffee, of course.

Another sign of spring in my childhood was one for which we children could hardly wait—going barefoot—always too soon according to Mama. I remember playing on top of Big Rock or Little Knob, places where Mama did not usually go, and slipping off my shoes to go barefoot in the sunshine, even though it would still be chilly in shady places.

When springtime came, and the days got warm, our hens got broody and tried to hide their nests in fence corners, under rocks, or in hollow trees, and often it was my assigned task to keep up with them, to find their nests and bring home the eggs before the hens began sitting on them for a hatching.

I loved being outdoors when spring arrived and spent the hours between daylight and dark working and playing in the sunshine and cool winds. It seems to me now that those were some of the most delightful times of my life. [End Page 78]