The Appalachian dialect is a fascinating and colorful form of speech that has been shaped by centuries of tradition, isolation, and cultural blending. This unique way of speaking reflects the history, resourcefulness, and humor of the people who call the mountains home. Below is a collection of common Appalachian slang words and phrases, along with their meanings.
Common Appalachian Words and Phrases
Holler – A valley or ravine, or to yell or shout. Example: “He lives down in the holler.”
Fixin’ / Afixing – Getting ready or planning to do something. Example: “I’m fixin’ to go to town.”
Poke – A bag or sack. Example: “Grandma sent me to the store with a poke full of eggs.”
Reckon – To suppose or think. Example: “I reckon it’ll rain soon.”
Fit as a fiddle – In good health or condition. Example: “Don’t worry about me, I’m fit as a fiddle.”
Fit to be tied – Very upset or angry. Example: “Daddy was fit to be tied when he saw the mess in the kitchen.”
Kyarn – Carrion; dead flesh, such as roadkill. Example: “Smells like kyarn out here.”
Flar – Flour. Example: “Mama’s bakin’ biscuits with some fresh flar.”
Foddershock – Cut corn stalks tied into tall bunches in the fall. Example: “We set up the foddershocks in the field yesterday.”
Gom-Mess – A term used for something messy or cluttered. Example: “This kitchen is a gom-mess!”
Reach me that – Hand me that. Example: “Reach me that salt, would ya?”
Toboggan – A knit cap. Example: “Better put your toboggan on; it’s cold outside.”
Other Interesting Appalachian Terms
Haint – A ghost or ill-meaning spirit. Example: “Better keep the windows shut, or the haints will come in.”
Booger – Mucus, dirt, or other debris that has dried and clumped together. Example: “That kid’s got a booger hangin’ from his nose.”
Booger Hollow – A notorious, dark, scary, remote place in the woods. Example: “You don’t wanna get caught in Booger Hollow after dark.”
Sallet – Salad, as in a poke-sallet, which refers to pokeweed rather than store-bought greens. Example: “Mama cooked up a mess of poke sallet for supper.”
Fistes – Fists. Example: “He balled up his fistes, ready to fight.”
Fiddlesticks – An exclamation of frustration or disbelief. Example: “Oh, fiddlesticks! I burned the cornbread.”
Fillin’ station – Gas station. Example: “We need to stop by the fillin’ station before headin’ home.”
Fetch – To bring. Example: “Go fetch me a bucket of water.”
Fling – To throw, or to have a romantic relationship. Example: “He had a fling with that girl from over yonder.”
Flustrated – A mix of flustered and frustrated. Example: “Mama gets flustrated when we track mud in the house.”
Foiled – Stopped or prevented. Example: “The rain foiled our plans for a picnic.”
Foller – Follow. Example: “Foller me down this path.”
Foller yer own lights – Do what you know is right. Example: “No matter what folks say, you best foller yer own lights.”
The Enduring Charm of Appalachian Speech
Appalachian dialect is about heritage, storytelling, life that values plain speech and deep-rooted traditions. While some of these phrases may fade with time, they continue to live on in the conversations of mountain folks, in old family stories, and in the rhythm of daily life. Next time you hear someone say they’re “fixin’ to” do something or reckon the weather’s gonna turn, you’ll know you’re hearing the echoes of generations past.
For generations, Appalachia thrived on self-sufficiency. Families worked the land, built their homes, and passed down traditions without much interference from the outside world. But times have changed. Globalization has reached deep into the hollers, bringing jobs, higher costs, and a wave of newcomers. Some see it as progress. Others see it as an invasion.
Jobs and Industry: Who Wins, Who Loses?
Coal was once the backbone of Appalachia, providing steady work for generations. But with cheaper energy sources and stricter environmental policies, coal jobs have vanished. New industries have moved in—factories, warehouses, and remote work opportunities—but many of these jobs pay less and offer fewer benefits. The loss of stable, well-paying jobs has left a lot of folks struggling to make ends meet.
Outsiders Driving Up Costs
Outsiders looking for a slice of mountain life have poured into Appalachia, buying up land and homes. That might sound like a good thing—until you see the price tags. Locals who once paid a fair price for land now find themselves priced out of their own communities. Short-term rentals have taken over, pushing families out in favor of tourists. What used to be quiet, tight-knit towns are now weekend getaways for people with money to burn.
Culture: Preserved or Packaged for Tourists?
Appalachian culture is strong, built on music, storytelling, and deep-rooted traditions. But globalization has changed how it’s shared. On one hand, more people are discovering bluegrass, traditional crafts, and mountain remedies. On the other, some of these traditions are being watered down and repackaged for tourists. Younger generations, bombarded by outside influences, are drifting away from the old ways, leaving elders to wonder if their heritage will survive.
Changing Communities: A Struggle for Identity
With more outsiders moving in and young people moving out, small Appalachian towns are changing fast. Wealthy newcomers bring new businesses, but often ones that cater to tourists rather than locals. Gentrification is turning once-affordable areas into expensive playgrounds for the well-off. The sense of community, where neighbors looked out for one another, is fading as people with no roots in the area reshape it to fit their own desires.
The Land: A Battleground Between Growth and Preservation
Coal may be fading, but other industries are still taking their toll on the land. Developers carve up mountainsides for new housing, and increased tourism puts pressure on fragile ecosystems. Some areas have seen positive changes, like cleaner rivers and the return of wildlife, but at the same time, unchecked growth threatens to strip Appalachia of its natural beauty.
What’s Next for Appalachia?
Globalization isn’t going anywhere. Appalachia will have to adapt, but at what cost? If the region can find a way to welcome change while protecting its culture, land, and people, there’s hope. But if outside interests keep pushing locals out, Appalachia risks losing the very things that make it special. The question is: Who gets to decide its future—the people who built it or the ones moving in?
Before Cold Mountain was known to the world through literature and film, it was home to those who faced the mountain’s challenges and carved a life out of its steep slopes, dense forests, and harsh winters. These early settlers, primarily Scots-Irish immigrants, arrived in the late 1700s, seeking land and a chance to build a life, though they found themselves in a landscape that was anything but forgiving.
For these pioneers, Cold Mountain presented both an opportunity and a daunting challenge. The mountain was remote, and getting there was no simple task. Few roads wound through the dense woods, and the treacherous terrain made travel slow and dangerous. For most of the year, the weather made the mountain almost inaccessible, and many families would go months without seeing another soul outside their immediate circle. Cold Mountain wasn’t an easy place to settle, but for those who made it their home, it offered the promise of freedom and self-sufficiency.
Life on Cold Mountain was a constant struggle against nature’s harshness. Farming wasn’t easy—many of the slopes were steep and difficult to work, but the settlers grew what they could: corn, beans, and potatoes. The cold mountain air and the limited growing season made every harvest an important one. Hunting and fishing became vital to the settlers’ survival, and the forests provided not only food but timber for building homes and fuel for the fire. As tough as life was, the settlers were resourceful, finding ways to make do with what they had.
The settlers of Cold Mountain were also skilled in using the land’s natural resources for medicine. Herbs, roots, and plants like ginseng were gathered and used to treat illness and injuries. These plants were often traded or sold in nearby towns, providing some income. The settlers’ knowledge of the plants around them became a lifeline, passed down through generations, a testament to their ability to adapt to their surroundings.
With few neighbors and limited contact with the outside world, the settlers relied heavily on each other. They helped each other build homes, raise barns, and hunt for food. The isolation bred a strong sense of community and self-reliance, as the settlers knew they could depend on one another when needed. There was no town sheriff or lawman to enforce rules, so they created their own systems of order, governed by respect and a shared understanding of survival.
The winters on Cold Mountain were unforgiving. Snow could blanket the ground for months, and the cold could freeze the pipes in their homes, leaving families with little more than the warmth of the hearth to see them through. Yet even in the face of these harsh conditions, the settlers pushed on, making sure their homes were stocked with firewood, food, and whatever else they could gather before the snow began to fall.
Despite the grueling challenges, these settlers persevered, building lives on the high slopes of Cold Mountain. They raised families, worked the land, and passed down their knowledge to the next generation. They lived with a deep sense of pride, knowing that every meal, every house they built, and every day they survived was their own doing.
Their legacy lives on, not just in the places they built and the stories they passed down, but in the descendants who still live in the hills surrounding Cold Mountain. Though many of the old ways have faded with time, the spirit of those early settlers remains a part of the Appalachian culture, a reminder of the strength, determination, and hard work that defined the people of Cold Mountain.
The story of Cold Mountain’s early settlers is one of resilience in the face of adversity. They didn’t just survive—they made a life, turning a rugged and often inhospitable mountain into a home. The hardships they endured, the work they put in, and the tight-knit communities they formed shaped not only the history of Cold Mountain but the character of the people who lived there for generations
The backroads of Mason County don’t forgive careless drivers. They twist through the Appalachian foothills like scars, past abandoned farms and rusted-out trailers where the kudzu grows unnaturally thick. Locals call this stretch between Gallipolis and Point Pleasant “the TNT area” – not just for the old munitions factory, but for what happens to people who linger after dark. The kind of place where dogs vanish without barking, where headlights sometimes catch two red points floating six feet off the ground. Where something watches from the tree line with wings too large for any bird native to these woods.
The first official sighting came on November 15, 1966. Two young couples – the Mallette’s and the Scarberry’s – parked near the TNT plant’s gate around midnight. What they described to Deputy Millard Halstead would become the blueprint for every Mothman account to follow: a gray, humanoid figure standing nearly seven feet tall, with glowing red eyes set deep in a featureless head. When it spread its wings – later estimated at 10 feet across – the creature emitted a high-frequency sound that made their fillings ache. It pursued their Chevy at speeds exceeding 100 mph, keeping pace without visible effort until they crossed into city limits.
Within 48 hours, construction worker Newell Partridge reported his German Shepherd howling at something unseen in the fields behind his home. When Partridge stepped outside with a flashlight, the beam illuminated two red circles shining back from the tree line. His dog charged toward them and never returned.
The sightings escalated through December. Waitress Faye Dewitt saw it perched on the roof of the Mason County Courthouse, wings folded like a fallen angel. Firefighter Paul Yoder encountered it standing in the middle of Route 62 at 3 AM, its eyes reflecting his headlights like a deer’s – except deer don’t stand seven feet tall at the shoulder. The creature’s appearances followed an eerie pattern: electrical disturbances preceded each encounter, with televisions displaying sudden static and car radios emitting garbled transmissions.
Credit: Smithsonian Institution
Then came the bridge.
On December 15, 1967 – exactly thirteen months after the first sighting – Point Pleasant’s Silver Bridge collapsed during evening rush hour. Forty-six cars plunged into the freezing Ohio River. Investigators would later determine a single eyebar in the suspension chain failed, but survivors who’d seen the Mothman knew better. Multiple witnesses reported the creature circling the bridge’s towers in the weeks before the disaster. Toll collector William Needham swore something large and dark flew parallel to the bridge moments before the collapse.
After the tragedy, sightings ceased for nearly thirty years. But in Appalachia, some stories won’t stay buried.
In 2003, a group of urban explorers investigating the TNT bunkers captured infrared footage of something moving through the concrete tunnels – something that shouldn’t fit in spaces barely four feet high. The thermal imaging showed a humanoid shape with a core body temperature reading 20 degrees colder than its surroundings.
The most recent encounter occurred last October. High school teacher Mark Davis was hunting near McClintic Wildlife Station when his GPS malfunctioned. He describes following a trail of broken branches to a clearing where the trees formed a perfect circle. In the center stood a figure “like a man made of television static,” its outline constantly shifting. When it turned, Davis saw the eyes – “not just red, but the exact color of brake lights reflected in rain.” He fired three rounds from his .30-06. The creature didn’t flinch. It simply unfolded wings that made no sound as they displaced the air, and was gone.
Scientists from Ohio State University claim the sightings can be explained by sandhill cranes or barred owls. The Shawnee tell a different story. Their oral histories speak of a flying spirit called “Owlman” that appears before great tragedies. Tribal elder Joseph Rainwater insists the creature isn’t malicious – “it’s a crossing guard between worlds, and we’re the ones who keep ignoring the stop sign.”
Tonight, as you drive Route 2 along the Ohio River, watch for sudden radio static. Note when your headlights catch movement just beyond the treeline. And if your engine stalls near the old TNT plant, don’t get out to investigate the tapping on your roof. Because in Point Pleasant, everyone knows the rules:
It started with a dusty box in the attic after my granny had passed away.
I wasn’t searching for anything in particular that day — just sifting through the past, trying to make sense of the clutter. The farmhouse felt like a time capsule, packed with relics from lives I barely understood. I pulled back a moth-eaten quilt, and what I saw stopped me cold. Rusted copper coils. A dented kettle. A strange tangle of tubes and jars. As the summer heat pressed through the roof, I knelt there, dust motes swirling in the slanted light. My fingers traced the worn metal of the kettle. My great-grandfather’s name was etched into the side.
At that moment, the muttered family stories became real.
It was part of a moonshine still.
I had heard rumors about him over the years — stories of late-night runs down winding mountain roads, headlights off, a trunk packed with mason jars. Tales of clear liquid that burned going down but warmed you from the inside. A secret recipe guarded like gold. A knack for “making trouble” during Prohibition. But those stories had always felt like folklore — distant, half-believed. Now, with the proof in my hands, the past had weight.
The Still That Told Two Stories
Finding my great-grandfathers still was like uncovering a piece of history. Finding my daddy’s still, on the other hand — well, that was different.
When I was ten, my daddy brought me into his secret world. We never spoke about it outside the family. I never mentioned it to friends or teachers. But I was part of it.
I remember those cool autumn mornings, my fingers aching from shelling corn. Kernels piled high in buckets before we put them into a burlap sack and soaked them in the creek. I carried sacks of sugar up the mountain, my small shoulders straining under the weight. Daddy walked ahead, his boots crunching on pine needles and leaves.
I can still smell the fermenting mash, hear the bubbling still, feel that mix of pride and fear as Daddy checked the first run. His slow, satisfied nod told me everything I needed to know — the batch was good.
It was grueling work. But it was thrilling, too. I was part of something bigger, something secret and important. Daddy swore me to silence. His calloused hand rested on my shoulder; his eyes filled with the wary wisdom of generations who had learned to distrust outsiders. I kept that promise for decades. Until now.
The History in the Stills
Moonshining wasn’t just a way to make quick cash during Prohibition — it was survival. Before I understood taxes or government regulations, I knew this was how mountain families endured. When the outside world offered only hardship, we found our own way.
My great-grandfather wasn’t just a bootlegger. He was a craftsman. A chemist. A rebel. In the 1920s, the country went dry, and many families went hungry. He risked everything to provide for his own. His operation wasn’t just about alcohol — it was defiance. In our hills, he became a legend. His moonshine was so smooth that revenuers kept it for themselves rather than pouring it out.
By the 1950s, my daddy took up the family trade. The stakes had changed. He wasn’t running from federal agents or trying to make a name for himself. He was doing what generations before him had done — turning corn into cash when the fields didn’t yield enough. Every jar sold meant another month with the lights on, another pair of shoes when mine had worn through.
After my attic discovery, I dug deeper into our family’s past. I found old letters and photographs tucked into cigar boxes and between the pages of a Bible. Scribbled notes detailed deliveries under new moons. Faded photos captured men standing beside their makeshift distilleries. Farm equipment sales records masked transactions that told of midnight runs and close calls with the law. It was dangerous work, but it demanded resourcefulness and grit.
The Recipe That Started It All
Inside the wooden box with my great-grandfather’s still was a small, leather-bound notebook. The pages, yellowed and fragile, held a carefully recorded recipe. The ingredients were simple — corn, sugar, cold spring water, yeast. But the instructions were exact. Every step was detailed, from fermentation to distillation.
The margins were filled with notes — how weather affected the mash, adjustments for different corn varieties, warnings against cutting corners. This wasn’t just a recipe. It was a blueprint for survival. A piece of family history, passed down not through words, but through the quiet legacy of those who had come before me.
A Still Like No Other
I’ve searched for pictures of a still like my daddy’s, but they don’t exist. His setup was unique, a testament to his backwoods ingenuity.
Twelve wooden barrels for mash, buried in the earth with only their tops showing through the ferns. A metal drum, blackened by fire, held the water. Three wooden barrels stood in the clearing like sentinels, connected by a complex web of tubes. At the heart of it all was an upright metal barrel with a copper coil running through it. This was where the transformation happened — where raw ingredients became liquid fire.
On quiet nights, the sweet scent of mash drifted on the wind. But Daddy’s spot was remote, hidden deep in a holler. Thick brush and towering trees kept it secret. No one stumbled upon it by accident.
People came from all over for his moonshine. Californians in shiny cars, Texans with slow drawls, New Yorkers with fast talk and city clothes. They knew his shine was different — pure, smooth, free from the harsh bite of bad cuts. They spoke in code, handed over cash, and left with mason jars wrapped in newspaper, tucked away in false-bottomed suitcases.
What It Taught Me
The stills taught me more than the mechanics of making moonshine. They revealed my family’s resilience, the values that shaped us. Life isn’t always about playing by the rules. It’s about survival, and it’s about carrying on traditions that don’t fit neatly into society’s expectations.
It made me think about our stories — the ones we tell openly, the ones we keep quiet. Every family has its secrets. Moments of pride and moments of shame. A moral code that doesn’t always match the laws of the land. These stories, spoken or not, define us.
My daddy lived to be 92. When he died, he took with him the knowledge of a nearly lost craft. Now, I want his story told. Not to glorify illegal acts, but to honor the man. To honor a life shaped by necessity, ingenuity, and a deep sense of responsibility. He worked hard. He provided. He did what needed to be done — just like the generations before him.
A New Chapter
Today, I share these stories not to romanticize the past, but to preserve a piece of American folk history. I document the spirit that runs through my veins — the same spirit that sustained Appalachian families when the economy failed them.
Finding those stills changed how I see my family. It reminded me that history isn’t just in textbooks about presidents and wars. It’s in our attics, in our memories, in the skills passed down across generations. It’s in the stories whispered on porches. It’s as real as copper coils and corn mash. As powerful as moonshine and memory.
So, here’s to the rebels, and the risk-takers who came before us — the ones who found a way to survive against the odds. Their stories deserve to be remembered. Understood in context. And sometimes, honored with a raised glass.
In the Appalachian Mountains, there are stories of strange things that happen on the darkest nights when the moon is full. One such tale, told quietly around campfires and shared among the oldest in the region, is about the Moonlit Stag—a creature of such rarity and mystery that some doubt it exists at all.
The tale begins with Old Man Clayton, a seasoned hunter who lived in a small holler not far from the heart of the mountains. Clayton wasn’t one to be easily frightened by stories. He knew the woods well, having spent decades hunting game and exploring the deepest parts of the forest. He had heard the legends about the Moonlit Stag, but he brushed them off as superstition—nothing more than fanciful tales meant to spook children or keep folks from straying too far from home.
One crisp autumn evening, as the full moon rose high and the wind began to shift, Clayton decided to set out for one of his usual hunting grounds. He packed his rifle, a knife, and some provisions, and set off into the woods, eager for the quiet and solitude of the night.
The air was still as he walked deeper into the forest, the moonlight casting long shadows on the ground. Clayton’s boots crunched softly on the leaves beneath him, and all around, the night felt thick with silence. But there was something different this time. The further he ventured, the more the woods seemed unfamiliar, as if the trees themselves were closing in around him. He had been to these parts many times before, but tonight, the land felt foreign, almost alive.
As Clayton pushed on, a sudden movement caught his eye. At the edge of a clearing, he saw a figure standing still among the trees. It was a stag—a magnificent creature, much larger than any he had ever seen before. Its fur gleamed silver under the moonlight, and its antlers were long and twisted, like ancient branches reaching out from the earth itself. The stag was watching him with eyes that seemed to glow, as if lit by a fire from within.
Clayton’s breath caught in his throat. He had never seen an animal like this before. Some say the Moonlit Stag appears only on nights when the moon is full, and it is said that those who see it are chosen to learn the secrets of the land. The stag didn’t move, but it didn’t seem to fear Clayton either. It stood there, its gaze unwavering.
After a long silence, the stag slowly turned and walked deeper into the woods. Clayton, curious and inexplicably drawn to the creature, decided to follow. He moved silently through the trees, careful not to lose sight of the animal as it led him deeper into the night.
The further Clayton walked, the more the woods changed. The trees grew taller, their trunks thick with age. The ground became uneven, and the shadows seemed to stretch longer. It was as though the forest itself had transformed into something more ancient, more primal. Clayton had hunted in these woods his entire life, but tonight, it felt as though he was venturing into another world.
The stag led him up a steep slope, past towering pines and old oaks, until they reached a small plateau. There, in the center of a wide clearing, was a circle of ancient stones—large rocks arranged in a perfect ring, weathered by time. Clayton had never seen this place before, though it felt familiar, as if it had always been there, waiting for him.
The stag stepped into the circle of stones and paused, turning to face Clayton. The air around them grew still. Clayton’s heart beat faster as he took a hesitant step forward. He felt something stir inside him, a feeling that he couldn’t quite explain. It was as if the mountain itself was watching, waiting.
And then, in a moment that felt both like an eternity and the blink of an eye, the stag let out a cry. It wasn’t a sound of fear or aggression, but a song—ancient and haunting, filled with a power that Clayton could feel in his bones. The cry echoed through the mountains, carried on the wind. It was the kind of sound that made the hairs on the back of his neck stand up, the kind of cry that seemed to resonate with the land itself.
As the cry rang out, Clayton felt a strange warmth spread through him, as though the earth beneath his feet had come alive. It was a sense of connection—not just to the land, but to something older, something greater. The stag’s eyes glowed brighter, and for a brief moment, Clayton felt as though he could understand the language of the mountain, as though the forest itself was speaking directly to him.
The stag turned, disappearing into the shadows, vanishing into the night as quickly as it had come. Clayton stood there, in the center of the stone circle, his mind racing. What had just happened? He had always been a practical man, a hunter who relied on his senses and instincts. But what he had just witnessed didn’t fit into the world he knew. The stag had shown him something—something deeper than he could grasp.
When Clayton made his way back to his cabin that night, he didn’t feel the same. He had always hunted with precision, but now, there was a sense of reverence that had entered his heart. The land was no longer just a place to be used—it was a living, breathing entity, full of stories and secrets, waiting for those who dared listen.
From that night on, Clayton never hunted the same way again. He never took from the land without acknowledging it, without understanding that there was more to the forest than just what could be caught and consumed. The Moonlit Stag had shown him a different way to see the world—a way to walk more gently on the earth, with respect for the unseen forces that shaped it.
And so, the legend of the Moonlit Stag lives on, not just as a story told around fires, but as a reminder to those who listen—there are things in the woods that can never be understood, but can only be felt. The land is full of mysteries, and sometimes, it’s best to let the land guide you, rather than the other way around.
Nearly six months after Hurricane Helene’s catastrophic path through western North Carolina and East Tennessee, not a single home has been officially rebuilt in the hardest-hit areas, highlighting the sluggish pace of long-term recovery despite billions in promised federal aid.
The Federal Emergency Management Agency (FEMA) has distributed $402.5 million to over 157,000 families across North Carolina for immediate relief needs like temporary housing, rental assistance, and initial debris removal. This funding has primarily addressed urgent short-term needs rather than permanent rebuilding solutions.
However, the substantial funding required for comprehensive rebuilding efforts remains caught in bureaucratic limbo. In January, the Department of Housing and Urban Development (HUD) announced an allocation of $1.4 billion in disaster recovery funds to North Carolina for housing reconstruction, infrastructure repair, and affordable housing development.
A separate $225 million block grant earmarked for Asheville during the final days of the Biden administration now faces uncertainty under the Trump administration, which has demanded the city modify its implementation plan. The administration specifically objected to a proposed small-business program that would prioritize minority- and women-owned businesses, threatening to withhold the funds unless changes are made.
In Tennessee, six counties bore the brunt of Helene’s wrath: Washington, Carter, Unicoi, Johnson, Greene, and Cocke. The mountain communities in these areas face particular challenges due to their remote locations and the extensive damage to critical infrastructure.
Tennessee recently announced a state-level supplemental recovery program allocating $50 million to bridge gaps in federal funding, particularly for homeowners without flood insurance who don’t qualify for certain federal programs.
Transportation infrastructure continues to see incremental progress. On March 1, Interstate 40 reopened near the Pigeon River Gorge in North Carolina, restoring a vital transportation link that had been severed since the hurricane. The reopening required extensive engineering work to stabilize mountainsides and rebuild completely washed-out sections of the highway. On Friday, March 14, the Tennessee Department of Transportation (TDOT) announced the reopening of State Route 81 in Washington and Unicoi counties, another critical connection for rural communities that had been impassable for months.
Historic flooding in Asheville’s River Arts District destroyed dozens of artists’ studios and galleries, dealing a significant blow to the region’s cultural economy. Community organizations have established emergency grant programs for affected artists, but these provide only minimal support compared to the losses sustained.
The sluggish pace of recovery mirrors patterns seen after other major disasters, where immediate relief arrives relatively quickly but long-term rebuilding funds can take years to fully materialize. After Hurricane Maria hit Puerto Rico in 2017, some communities waited more than four years before significant rebuilding projects began.
As mountain communities enter the spring season, concerns about additional rainfall on unstable slopes have emergency management officials on high alert. Several areas remain under geologic monitoring due to the risk of landslides, further complicating rebuilding efforts in certain neighborhoods.
What’s most troubling for residents is that political fights are delaying their recovery. While roads are being fixed, thousands of families still have no permanent homes to return to. The storm hit everyone equally, but the recovery seems to depend on political decisions made hundreds of miles away. Six months later, storm victims are still waiting in temporary housing while officials argue over how money should be spent. It shouldn’t take this long to start rebuilding people’s lives after a disaster.
St. Patrick’s Day in Appalachia: A Celebration of Scots-Irish Heritage
In the heart of Appalachia, St. Patrick’s Day is more than a global celebration of Irish culture—it’s a deeply personal reflection of a shared heritage that has shaped the region for centuries. Many families here trace their lineage back to Ireland, but the story is more layered than that. Appalachia was heavily settled by Scots-Irish immigrants, a group whose customs, beliefs, and traditions have left an indelible mark on the cultural fabric of the region.
This isn’t just a history lesson; it’s a living, breathing part of Appalachian identity. The Scots-Irish influence is woven into the everyday lives of its people, from the music that fills the air to the stories told around kitchen tables. St. Patrick’s Day, often seen as a purely Irish holiday, takes on a unique significance here, where the blending of Scottish and Irish heritage has created something entirely its own.
Music is perhaps the most enduring link between Appalachia and its Celtic past. The ballads sung on front porches, the lively tunes played on fiddles and banjos—these sounds are direct descendants of the musical traditions brought over from the British Isles. On St. Patrick’s Day, these melodies take center stage, serving as a reminder of the region’s deep connection to its roots. It’s not just about Irish music; it’s about the Scots-Irish legacy that has shaped Appalachian culture for generations.
The holiday also highlights the cultural distinctions within Appalachian communities. For some, St. Patrick’s Day is a time to wear green, enjoy traditional Irish dishes like corned beef and cabbage, and raise a glass in celebration. For others, particularly those with Scottish Protestant ancestry, the day might include wearing orange to honor King William of Orange, a figure central to Scots-Irish history. Many families use the occasion to celebrate both sides of their heritage, acknowledging the complex and intertwined histories of Scotland and Ireland.
But St. Patrick’s Day in Appalachia is about more than symbols or festive meals. It’s a time to remember the people who carved out lives in these rugged mountains, bringing with them the traditions that still define the region. The holiday becomes an opportunity for storytelling, music-making, and community gatherings—a chance to honor the collective heritage that binds these communities together.
In towns and hollers across Appalachia, St. Patrick’s Day often features lively music sessions, with fiddles and banjos playing the fast-paced rhythms of reels and jigs that echo the sounds of Ireland and Scotland. Shared meals, sometimes accompanied by homemade refreshments, bring people together in celebration. These traditions, passed down through generations, are a testament to the enduring influence of Celtic culture in Appalachia.
What makes St. Patrick’s Day in Appalachia so special is its ability to transcend the commercialized version of the holiday. Here, it’s not just about shamrocks and green beer; it’s about connection—to the past, to each other, and to the cultural roots that continue to shape the region. The Scots-Irish immigrants who settled these mountains may have left their homelands behind, but their legacy lives on in the music, stories, and traditions that define Appalachian life.
So this St. Patrick’s Day, as you raise a glass or tap your foot to a fiddle tune, take a moment to remember the Scots-Irish ancestors who helped build these communities. Their influence is everywhere, from the songs we sing to the stories we tell. And if you forget to wear green, well, you’ve been warned—pinches are coming your way.
A native of Ashe County, North Carolina, born in 1916, Ola Belle Reed grew into one of the most authentic voices in Appalachian folk music. While she may not have achieved mainstream fame, Reed’s impact on American roots music continues to resonate today.
Growing up among the Blue Ridge Mountains, Reed was immersed in the musical traditions that defined her community. The Campbells, her family, were locally celebrated musicians, and young Ola Belle absorbed the centuries-old ballads, hymns, and instrumentals that surrounded her daily life. When economic necessity during the Great Depression pushed her family to Maryland, she brought these musical traditions with her, becoming a custodian of mountain culture far from its source.
Reed stood apart from her contemporaries through her dual mastery as vocalist and instrumentalist. She perfected the clawhammer banjo technique, a demanding style that creates the distinctive rhythmic backbone of traditional Appalachian music. Her singing—powerful and unadorned—conveyed genuine emotion whether performing time-honored songs or her original compositions.
“High On a Mountain,” among her most beloved works, distills Reed’s artistic essence. The song captures the melancholy nostalgia of mountain people separated from their homeland—a sentiment that struck deep with countless Appalachians who ventured north seeking better economic prospects. Through lyrics like “High on a mountain, wind blowing free / Thinking about the days that used to be,” Reed gave voice to the collective yearning of a displaced community.
“I Have Endured” similarly speaks to the tenacity needed to weather hardship. Reed’s direct examination of struggle reflected her lived experiences during the Depression and the cultural dislocation of Appalachian people. Her songs offered no romantic gloss on poverty but celebrated the dignity and persistence of those facing such trials.
Reed’s influence extended beyond recordings through her performances at New River Ranch and Sunset Park, significant country music venues in Maryland. There, alongside her brother Alex, she established the New River Boys and Girls, a band that became a fixture in the region. For more than twenty years, their weekly radio appearances brought mountain music to appreciative audiences.
The folk revival of the 1960s finally brought wider recognition to Reed’s artistry. Festival performances introduced her to urban listeners eager for authentic American roots music. Scholars and enthusiasts recognized in Reed a direct connection to the earliest American folk traditions, many tracing back to the British Isles.
Though fame was never her pursuit, Reed’s influence permeated folk and country music circles. Artists including Marty Stuart and Del McCoury acknowledge her as an inspiration, while her songs continue to be interpreted by musicians seeking connection with Appalachian musical heritage.
Reed’s contributions transcend her music, encompassing her role as a cultural guardian. When many traditional art forms faced extinction under modernization’s pressure, she steadfastly preserved the musical practices of her mountain heritage. Her dedication to authenticity provides a compelling counterpoint to the commercialized country music that emerged mid-century.
At her passing in 2002 at 85, Reed left not just recordings but a living tradition carried forward by those she touched directly and indirectly. Her work stands as more than entertainment—it’s a cultural testament to Appalachian life, values, and creative expression.
In today’s world, where novelty often overshadows tradition, Ola Belle Reed’s music affirms the lasting power of cultural roots. Her songs travel across generations, preserving mountain voices through time. As she sang in “I’ve Endured”: “I’ve worked for the rich, I’ve lived with the poor; Lord, I’ve seen many a heartache, there’ll be many more; I’ve lived, loved and sorrowed, been to success’s door; I’ve endured, I’ve endured.”
The mountains stand, their silence deep, As winter’s frost begins to sleep. Redbuds burst in fiery hue, A purple-pink to light the view.
Through last year’s leaves, the trillium rise, While bloodroot lifts its tender prize. The birds return with songs so sweet, To wake the world from slumber’s seat.
The dogwood spreads its cross of white, A beacon in the morning light. Black bears now roam the greening hills, As creeks swell full with snowmelt’s spills.
The water tumbles, smooths the stone, Its ancient music softly grown. On porches warmed by sun’s embrace, Children laugh, their coats displace.
Elders till the soil with care, By moon and bird, they plant with prayer. The scent of ramps fills every glen, A promise of the earth again.
Fiddle tunes, like sap, now flow, Through yards once buried deep in snow. Neighbors gather, hearts alight, As spring returns to end the night.
The mountains breathe, their pause is brief, A moment’s calm, a sigh of relief. Before the rush of summer’s flame, They hold this balance, pure and tame.
Echoes of Appalachia 