Echoes of Appalachia

In the hills and hollers of Appalachia, there is a season that never appears on any calendar. It is marked not by the weather but by the clink of Mason jars, the hiss of pressure cookers, and the scent of boiling vegetables drifting from every open window. Folks around here call it canning time, and for generations, it meant the difference between hunger and survival when snow blanketed the ground and gardens grew cold.

Back in the 1940s and earlier, life in Appalachia required self reliance, especially during winter. Grocery stores existed, but many families did not depend on them. Money ran short, and food security came from the soil. If you did not grow it, hunt it, or preserve it, you went without. Nearly every household had a garden, sometimes nothing more than a carved out patch on a hillside, and it was worked from the first thaw in spring until the last harvest of fall.

My own memories of those summers are woven tightly with the sounds and smells of home preservation. My mom, my granny, and my aunt would spend the hottest parts of the year filling pantry shelves with care. It was more than a routine; the art of canning had been passed down through generations in my family.

We raised all the staples ourselves: corn, tomatoes, beans, squash, cucumbers, okra, potatoes, onions, and more. In early spring, when ramps, wild Appalachian leeks, pushed through the forest floor, we gathered them by the basketful. My brother still carries on that tradition. Back then, everything had a use. Leaves, stalks, and roots were eaten fresh, dried, pickled, or packed into jars for the colder days ahead.

Green beans held a special place in this effort. Lord, I remember those beans. We did not put up a few jars here and there. No, we canned 365 jars of green beans every single summer. That is one for every day of the year. My granny used to say, “You might not know what tomorrow brings, but you will always have beans.” And we did. So many, in fact, that to this day, I cannot bring myself to eat another one. I have had more than enough for one lifetime.

Canning days were long and laborious. First came the picking, then hours of snapping beans by the bushel on the front porch or around the kitchen table. The women shared stories, laughter, and even tears while their hands moved without pause. Next came washing, salting, packing jars, and finally sealing. Then came the heat, standing over a sweltering stove in the middle of July, running the pressure canner late into the evening. The kitchen filled with steam and the aroma of vegetables that carried the comfort of security.

But it did not stop at vegetables. My family made jams and jellies from blackberries, wild strawberries, and elderberries. We canned peaches and apples, mixed up chow chow and tomato relish, pickled cucumbers and beets. If something could fit in a jar, it found its place in the pantry. We used no fancy equipment, only water baths, pressure cookers, and determination. No electricity, no air conditioning, just hard work and mountain knowhow.

Preserving food was no trendy activity. It was essential. Winters in these parts stretched long and harsh. Roads could become impassable for days or weeks. If someone went into town, it was usually for an emergency. So we lived off what we had. Meat came from hogs butchered in late fall or wild game. The root cellar held potatoes, onions, turnips, and carrots, carefully packed in straw lined bins to protect them from frost. Canned food lined the walls, a colorful reminder of summer’s work shining through the glass.

In the cold months, every meal reflected the efforts of the summer. A pot of beans, a skillet of cornbread, some fried potatoes, maybe a slice of peach pie from a jar. It was not fancy dining, but it was satisfying. There was pride in knowing that our survival came from our own hands.

Things have changed now. I no longer have a garden of my own. Life, time, and circumstance have made that difficult. But the tradition remains strong in my family. My brother has become a master of preservation in his own right. He grows everything he can, ramps, onions, potatoes, beans, squash, okra, and shares what he grows. My sister does the same. Every jar they hand me carries more than food. It is a reminder of our roots, of family, and of how mountain folks take care of one another.

There is something deeply comforting about cracking open a jar of home canned vegetables and tasting sunshine from a long passed summer. No store shelf can offer that. That flavor carries sweat, tradition, and love.

In an age of fast food and supermarket convenience, the craft of canning is slowly fading from the mainstream. But here in Appalachia, it remains strong, a quiet resistance against forgetting how ancestors survived, and a living tribute to the strength and spirit of those who came before us. My mom, granny, and aunt may have passed on, but each jar I open brings them back. I hear their voices, smell their kitchens, and feel their steady presence beside me.

Canning time always meant more than storing food. It was an act of hope. Hope that the harvest would last. That the jars would seal tight. That the cold would not hold on forever. And that spring would come again.

So, if you ever find yourself in these mountains when canning season rolls around, and you see rows of cooling jars on someone’s counter, know this: you are witnessing more than food preservation. You are seeing a family’s history and their faith one lid at a time.

-Tim Carmichael