Echoes of Appalachia

Growing up in Appalachia, there were certain customs that might seem strange to outsiders, but to us, they were just a part of life. One of the most poignant traditions in our mountain community was sitting up with the dead, a practice that goes beyond what people might think of as “creepy” or unsettling. For us, it was a sacred act of love, respect, and connection.

This tradition of sitting up with the dead is rooted in Appalachian history, and it was once common in many rural communities across the country. It was especially prevalent in the 19th and early 20th centuries, before the widespread use of funeral homes. In those days, when someone passed away, it was often the responsibility of family and neighbors to care for the body. The deceased would typically be brought home, where they would be laid out for viewing, and loved ones would keep watch over them in the days leading up to the burial. This act of sitting with the dead was seen as a way to honor the person’s life, show respect, and ensure they weren’t left alone in their final hours. In a time without modern embalming or refrigeration, it was also practical—keeping the body in the home allowed the family to make sure it was cared for until burial.

Many old traditions surrounded this time of mourning. People would cover mirrors with cloth, as it was believed that a spirit could use the looking glass as a portal to return. It was a way to keep them from coming back and possibly disturbing the living. Flowers were also placed around the body to mask the smell as decomposition set in. But beyond the practical, there was a strong belief that the deceased should never be left alone until burial. It was said that evil spirits could attack the body if it wasn’t watched over. This belief made sitting up with the dead not just a tradition, but a necessity in some ways, to protect the soul and honor the departed.

I remember when my Papaw Norton passed away, the whole house transformed into a gathering place. He had been brought back to his home, just like many others in our family before him. My family didn’t call a funeral home to take him away. No, he was brought to the house where people could come and say their goodbyes, share memories, and help comfort my Granny. The living room, where his coffin sat in the corner, became a space for community and remembrance.

People from all around came, some bringing food, others simply sitting with us. Coffee was made around the clock, the scent of it mixing with the flowers that surrounded Papaw. The whole house was filled with the smell of fresh blooms, their petals adding a soft layer to the atmosphere. At night, it was never quiet. Folks came and went, some sitting quietly, others telling stories, reminiscing about the times they’d shared with him. There were no words to describe the feeling of watching over Papaw in those hours. It wasn’t eerie. It was more of a deep, comforting presence.

Papaw was dressed in his best overalls, the ones he’d always worn while working outside, looking like himself one last time. The lights above his coffin shone with a warm rose-colored glow, creating a soft ambiance. Granny, who had made a blanket especially for him, covered him with it gently. I can still picture her, sitting quietly, and I remember her hands brushing the blanket over him. That blanket wasn’t just fabric—it was woven with her love and care.

Those three days were full of people singing in that old Appalachian way, the sound of voices rising together in harmony. There was always something about the way we sang that night, slow and steady, like the rhythm of our hearts. It wasn’t just a ritual; it was a way to honor someone who had meant so much to us.

Sitting up with the dead was a time of watching over those who’d passed, making sure they were never alone as they made their journey from this world to the next. For us, it wasn’t about fear or sadness—it was about being there for our loved ones in their final moments. We didn’t find it creepy. We found it meaningful. It was a privilege to help guide them through the night until they were finally laid to rest.

When the days of mourning were over, and the coffin was carried out of the house for the last time, there was always a sense of peace. It wasn’t about letting go; it was about making sure that they knew they were loved, cared for, and never alone, even in death.

Looking back, I’m grateful for those nights spent sitting up with the dead. Those moments of quiet reflection, shared stories, and community togetherness shaped me in ways I can’t fully explain. It’s a tradition that might seem odd to some, but for me, it’s a cherished memory I carry with me, one I’ll always hold close to my heart.

-Tim Carmichael