Echoes of Appalachia

Growing up in Appalachia, people often misunderstood us. To some, we were seen as backwoods, uneducated, or just plain strange. They called us “hillbillies” and other names, thinking they knew who we were. But they didn’t know what life was really like. Sure, we didn’t have the modern conveniences that many people take for granted, but what we had was something different — something that made us strong, close-knit, and proud of who we were.

Every morning, we woke up to the sun rising over the mountains, and there was nothing like it. The view from our porch stretched for miles — green hills, endless sky, and a peace that you can’t find in the city. In the evenings, we’d sit outside and watch fireflies light up the fields below. Those tiny flashes of light in the dark were like magic, a simple beauty that people who live fast often miss.

Life in the hills wasn’t easy, but it was good. We didn’t have fancy stores or the latest gadgets. We didn’t have running water inside the house, either. Instead, we carried it from the creek or the well, bucket by bucket. It wasn’t always convenient, but it kept us busy, and it taught us to appreciate the little things. There was a certain satisfaction in having that water after a long day of work, even if it was just to wash up or cook dinner. You never really think about water until you have to get it yourself, and once you’ve had to carry it, you don’t take it for granted.

We didn’t get our food from the store. We grew it ourselves — beans, corn, tomatoes, potatoes. We spent hours in the garden, tending to what we’d planted. We raised our own meat — chickens, pigs, cows. It took time, sure, but it was worth it. We knew where our food came from. We saw it grow from seed, or we helped raise it ourselves. It wasn’t just about putting food on the table. It was about being able to provide for ourselves, about knowing we could take care of what we needed.

As kids, we didn’t have video games or the internet to entertain us. Our playground was the outdoors — climbing trees, swimming in creeks, building forts from rocks and logs. We had the freedom to run and explore without worrying about a screen or a schedule. We spent our days outside, living in the moment. And when we were tired from playing, we went home to a hot meal and a bed where we could rest and do it all again tomorrow. That kind of freedom, that kind of joy — it’s hard to find today, and we didn’t even realize how lucky we were to have it.

Sure, we worked hard. But there was something special about it. It wasn’t the kind of work that made you feel drained at the end of the day. It was the kind of work that gave you pride. When you spent a day in the fields, you didn’t feel like you were working for someone else. You were working for yourself, for your family. Every task — whether it was hauling firewood, picking beans, or fixing a fence — had a purpose. There was always a goal, and when that goal was met, you could sit back and know you had done it with your own hands.

And we took care of each other. If someone needed help, we were there. Whether it was a neighbor who needed help with their crops or a friend who was having a tough time, we all pitched in. There was a sense of community that you don’t always find in other places. People looked out for each other, not because they had to, but because that’s what you did. We shared what we had, and we made sure that no one was left behind.

People who call us names don’t see that. They don’t understand the strength it takes to live this way, to make do with what you have and still find joy in it. They don’t see that there’s a freedom in this kind of life — a freedom that’s rare. We didn’t have everything the world tells us we need to be happy. But we had what mattered. We had each other, we had our mountains, and we had the satisfaction of knowing that we worked for what we had.

They can call us hillbillies, but to us, it’s just a word. It doesn’t define us. It’s part of who we are, but it doesn’t tell the full story. We’re proud of where we come from, proud of the lessons we learned and the life we had. It was a life that was simple, but it was also full of meaning.

If you want to call us names, call us lucky. We were lucky to grow up in a place that gave us a life most people can’t even imagine. We may not have had all the luxuries, but we had something more — our mountains, our families, and a life that shaped us into who we are today. And that’s something no one can take away.

-Tim Carmichael