Echoes of Appalachia

Growing up in the Appalachian Mountains, we didn’t have much. My family lived below the poverty line, and my mother did everything she could to provide for us. She worked long hours, stretched every penny, and made sure we had a roof over our heads, food on the table, and the lights kept on. But there was one thing that often went missing—things that children need to feel like they belong. Clothes, shoes, toys, the little things that make a child feel special. It wasn’t that my mother didn’t want to give us those things, it was just that there wasn’t always enough to go around.

But Christmas was different. Every year, my mother would take us to a place called “Opportunity House,” a community effort fueled by the kindness of strangers who donated new clothes, toys, and other gifts for families like ours. I can still remember the warmth of that building, the buzz of excitement in the air, and the feeling of hope rising in my chest every time we arrived. The building was full of new clothes—things we could choose for ourselves. It was a lifeline for us, and I always felt so grateful as we walked in.

At the Opportunity House, we were allowed to pick out three shirts and three pairs of pants. To many, this might sound simple, but for us, it was everything. It was a chance to wear something that wasn’t a hand-me-down, something that fit just right. We weren’t used to that kind of luxury, and it meant the world to us. After choosing our clothes, they would load us onto a bus and take us to Downtown Asheville, where we’d get a new pair of shoes. I remember one year, when I was about 9 years old, I got a pair of cowboy boots. I loved those boots and wore them until the soles finally gave out. They weren’t just shoes to me; they were a symbol of pride. They made me feel like a “big boy,” like I could stand a little taller. I walked with a little more confidence in those boots, and I wore them with so much pride—until there was nothing left of them but the memories.

This routine, this tradition, became a part of our lives every Christmas. We always looked forward to it, and every year I think back on the generosity of the people who made it all possible. These weren’t just donations of clothes and shoes. They were gifts of dignity, of hope, of love. They made us feel like we mattered.

I’ll never forget the faces of the people who volunteered their time to make these things happen. They never knew what it meant to us, but they helped in ways they could never understand. My mother, too, never forgot the kindness we had received. After she found work in a shoe factory in Hot Springs, NC, she made sure to give back every year. She would donate clothes to the Opportunity House, a small but meaningful gesture of gratitude. She knew firsthand what it felt like to struggle, and she wanted to make sure others had a chance to experience the same generosity that had touched our lives. She always said, “They helped us when we had nothing, and I’ll never forget that.”

But it wasn’t just the clothes and shoes that left a lasting impression on me. I also remember another act of kindness that came to our little community of Spillcorn every year, just before Christmas. A truck with a camper on it would drive through, filled with boxes of food to be distributed to families in need. The truck bed, hidden beneath the camper, was full of boxes—each one packed with ham, cans of vegetables, pies, apples, oranges, and nuts. It wasn’t just food—it was a lifeline, a way for families like ours to enjoy a Christmas meal.

I can still hear my mother’s voice whenever she saw that truck coming down the road. “Here comes some good-hearted people,” she’d say, with a smile that told me she was so grateful. I would run to the door, excited to see what was inside the box, knowing that it would help fill our table for Christmas dinner. Those boxes weren’t just filled with food—they were filled with love.

And every time I think about it, I am reminded of the power of a simple act of kindness. It doesn’t have to be grand or expensive to make a difference. For us, it wasn’t about getting the latest toys or the best clothes. It was about knowing that someone cared enough to give. The generosity of strangers gave us more than just a meal or a new outfit; it gave us dignity, pride, and a sense of belonging. Those moments are etched in my heart forever.

As I grew older, things started to change for our family. My mother’s hard work in the shoe factory allowed us to live a little more comfortably, but she never forgot what others had done for us. And as I grew into adulthood, I knew I had to give back. I now live in Tennessee, and every chance I get, I try to help my little community in the same way I was helped. There are still children and families here in the Appalachian Mountains who go without, who don’t always have the things they need to feel like they belong. I want to make sure that no child ever has to feel left out, especially at Christmas.

If you have a few extra dollars this holiday season, I encourage you to think about those in need. A pair of socks, a toy, a warm coat—these things matter more than we realize. You never know what it could mean to a child, to a family. One day, they’ll grow up, and they’ll remember the kindness that was shown to them. They’ll carry it with them, and just like me, they’ll pass it on.

I will never forget those good-hearted people who gave to our family. I’ll never forget the truck with the camper on it, or the cowboy boots I wore until the soles came off. The people who gave freely and without hesitation changed our lives, and I’ll be forever grateful. Until the day I take my last breath, I will continue to give, continue to honor their generosity, and continue to teach others the power of kindness.

Christmas is a time of love, and love doesn’t come with a price tag. It comes from the heart. And the spirit of giving doesn’t have to stop with the holidays. It’s something we can carry with us every day. As long as we keep that kindness alive, it will never be forgotten.

-Tim Carmichael