Echoes of Appalachia

Thanksgiving always takes me back to my Granny’s old house in the mountains of Appalachia, in a little community called Spillcorn. A place where life was simple but not without its struggles. The mountain air in November had a bite to it, the kind of cold that settled into your bones, but there was warmth in that old house—warmth from the wood stove, from the food, and most of all, from the family gathered around the rough plank table my papaw had built with his own two rough hands.

The Nortons and the Gosnell’s—my mother’s people—were tough, hard-working folk. Their hands were calloused from years of labor in the fields, and their faces, weathered and worn from long days in the sun, carried the marks of those hard lives. They weren’t people who had much, but what they had was theirs, and it was enough. They didn’t trust outsiders, but among family, there was an unspoken bond of loyalty that ran deep. They had to be strong to survive in the back coves and hollows of Madison County, North Carolina, where life didn’t offer much comfort or luxury.

The smell of food cooked over firewood on a cold November day in Granny’s farmhouse is still as fresh in my memory as it was all those years ago. It wasn’t just the food—it was the love that went into it. Everything came from the land: the beans, the cornbread, the potatoes, and the greens. The meats were smoked or cured, and pies were made from fruits grown right outside the kitchen door. All of it cooked on a wood stove, and the air was thick with the earthy scent of firewood and food that had been lovingly prepared by hands that knew the hard work of the land. The photo’s below on the left was my great grandparents’ house and the one on the right was my granny’s old house.

But it wasn’t just about the food. It was about family, and the sense of belonging that filled that old farmhouse. On Thanksgiving, we didn’t just sit inside—we gathered around the fire that was built in the front yard, and we sat on the porch that overlooked the mountains, as the sun sank low behind the peaks. The air would grow colder as the night set in, but no one minded. We had each other. We had the warmth of the fire and the love that flowed as freely as the stories that were told.

The guitars and banjos would come out, and the music would fill the air, twining together with the stories of old. Granny would tell tales of her younger days, of hard times and good times, of growing up in those very mountains. My uncles and cousins would chime in with their own stories, laughter ringing out into the crisp night. It was there, around that fire, that we shared more than just food and stories—we shared a connection to each other.

It’s hard to think that all the generations are gone now. Papaw in 1973, granny left us in 1993, and since then, we’ve lost so many more—Aunt Sis in 2000, my mother in 2008, and others too. Now, my cousins and I are the ones who hold the mantle of our family’s legacy. We are the new matriarchs, the ones who carry the weight of tradition and history, and it’s strange, in a way, to be the ones who must pass those stories on now. But we do, just as our parents did before us. We still gather, still cook, still share those same stories, keeping alive the memories of those who came before us.

Thanksgiving has changed in some ways, but in so many others, it’s still the same. The house is gone, Granny’s old front porch is empty, and the fire no longer crackles in the yard, but the love, the stories, the music, and the food—they’re all still here in our hearts. And when we sit around our own tables now, it’s as if those who are gone are still with us, gathered around in spirit, smiling and laughing like they always did.

This Thanksgiving, I pray that each of you feels the warmth of family, the bond of tradition, and the love that can only come from those who have shared the tough days and the good days together. From my family to yours, I wish you a day full of gratitude, joy, and the kind of love that lasts through generations.

Happy Thanksgiving!

-Tim Carmichael