Echoes of Appalachia

Santa on the Rails: Why the CSX Santa Train Keeps the Spirit of Appalachian Holidays Alive

November 25, 2025

The hills of central Appalachia welcomed a yearly burst of color, sound, and cheer as the CSX Santa Train made its celebrated run through the region on Saturday and was it ever something to see. Crowds lined the tracks from early morning, eager for a glimpse of Santa, the sparkle of holiday lights gliding across the rails, and the sense of unity that this train sparks every year. For many families, this rolling celebration marks the official start of the season, a moment filled with anticipation and heartfelt joy.

The CSX Santa Train has traveled its 110-mile route for more than eight decades. With each run, it reinforces the bond between communities that dot the mountain landscape. Generations have gathered along the tracks, waving from the same spots where parents, grandparents, and even great grandparents once stood. Santa himself summed it up warmly while speaking with riders, describing the powerful mix of ages that gather for this longtime family event. Families bring tiny infants wrapped in blankets, while elders in chairs or blankets of their own settle in to greet the train as it rumbles down the line. Every age group arrives with equal excitement, each person ready to welcome a tradition that feels both timeless and refreshingly vibrant every year.

Reporter Natalea Hillen rode aboard the train this weekend, witnessing scene after scene of delight. She described children sprinting toward the tracks with gloved hands raised high, hoping to catch toys tossed by Santa. Parents held little ones close and watched with shining eyes as characters in bright costumes waved from railcars. Each stop along the route erupted with applause and cheers, carrying across frosty valleys in bursts of festive energy.

The train’s origins stretch back to 1943, during a period when families across Appalachia faced hardship. Rail companies and community leaders partnered to deliver gifts to children in remote mountain towns, offering holiday cheer during a difficult era. Over time, the event grew from a simple distribution of presents into a cherished tradition. Today, the train remains a symbol of generosity, care, and enduring regional pride. Many who come to greet it express a profound sense of belonging. The train’s whistle echoes through valleys, awakening memories for older generations and creating fresh ones for children who will someday tell their own families about the year they first saw the Santa Train.

This year’s turnout reached into the hundreds at each stop. Families traveled from miles away, packing vehicles with blankets, thermoses, and eager children who could hardly contain their anticipation. Many waited for hours in chilly mountain air. Though the cold settled heavily across the ridges, warmth filled every gathering spot as neighbors shared stories, offered coffee or cocoa, and laughed together while they waited.

When the bright engines finally came into view, the atmosphere shifted in an instant. Children clapped and hopped in place. Adults raised their phones to capture the moment. Train workers leaned from railings with wide grins, waving and calling out greetings. As Santa stepped forward, cheers rose even higher. Toys flew through the crisp air into waiting hands, and laughter rippled across the crowds.

This event means more than toys or holiday lights. For many communities along the route, the Santa Train represents a bridge that connects remote mountain towns with a larger regional identity. Life in Appalachia carries a rhythm shaped by family ties, hard work, and close-knit neighborhoods. Though economic changes have affected the region over the decades, the spirit of unity remains powerful. The Santa Train amplifies that unity in a rare and memorable way. People from small hollows and ridge-top homes gather in groups, bringing their voices together in celebration.

Parents often describe the train as a gift of memory as much as a gift of toys. Many recount experiences from childhood when they stood in the same spots their children stand now. The continuity of the tradition strengthens family bonds. Each generation has something to pass down. Children grow up hearing stories about past Santa Trains, eventually adding their own stories to the growing tapestry of shared recollection.

Hillen noted that the sparkle in children’s eyes seemed to grow with each passing mile. Younger children pressed their faces to the railcar windows as they watched crowds unfold below. Older children engaged in excited commentary, arguing cheerfully about who might catch specific toys or which stop might have the biggest gathering. At several points, the train slowed so families could wave or call out messages of holiday cheer. The sense of connection traveled both directions. Riders felt the crowds’ energy, and the crowds felt the presence of the riders.

Volunteers and organizers work for months to prepare for this single day. Their efforts include selecting toys, packing them securely, coordinating stops, and partnering with local leaders across multiple counties. Volunteers often view the event as a highlight of their service year. Many have participated for decades. They speak with pride about the privilege of delivering happiness directly into children’s hands. The logistical challenges of running a 110-mile celebration never outweigh the emotional value they witness.

Santa himself offered reflections during the trip. He spoke warmly about the vast range of ages represented along the route. Tiny infants nestled in their parents’ arms, while elders wrapped in blankets waved from folding chairs. Families lined up along fences, near old rail stations, and on hillside clearings where the train could be seen from afar. Santa described the emotion he felt while tossing toys and greetings toward each cluster of people. He expressed gratitude for the longevity of the event, and for the families who return year after year.

That longevity stems from a deep respect for regional culture. Appalachia treasures traditions that emphasize family, storytelling, and shared experiences. The landscape itself encourages gatherings, with mountainsides and valleys forming natural spaces for people to come together. When the Santa Train winds through these spaces, it brings a sense of celebration that blends perfectly with the rhythm of the land. Each stop becomes a small festival, filled with smiles and anticipation.

Community leaders often emphasize the train’s influence on regional morale. The holiday season can bring challenges for families facing economic strain, health concerns, or seasonal hardships. Seeing a train filled with cheerful faces, gifts, and music can lift spirits profoundly. Many attendees speak of renewed hope during the event. They describe feeling valued and remembered, as though the train acknowledges the strength and resilience of their communities.

Children were the brightest stars of this year’s journey. Their excitement carried across each stop. Parents helped them climb small embankments or stand behind safety lines while they waited. As toys landed in their hands, children squealed with delight. Some hugged their new treasures instantly. Others turned to show siblings or cousins, eager to compare what each had received. These moments unfolded again and again along the entire route, forming a long ribbon of joy stretched across the mountains.

Conversations with families revealed deep appreciation for the event. One mother said she planned to bring her children every year as long as she could. An elderly grandfather recalled his first memory of the Santa Train in the 1950s, describing how he and his siblings ran through snow to reach the tracks in time. A local teacher explained how many of her students counted down the days each fall until the train arrived. Their excitement carried into classrooms, where children recounted stories from past years.

Each of these stories contributes to a larger regional narrative. The Santa Train reveals the heart of Appalachia through shared experience. It celebrates kindness, connection, and a holiday spirit that reaches far beyond presents. The journey highlights how traditions can uplift communities across generations. As the train moves along its route, it carries more than toys. It carries the memory of hundreds of past journeys, the laughter of families that have come and gone, and the hope of families that will continue to gather along the tracks.

As the final miles of this year’s route approached, riders reflected on the scenes they had witnessed. Hillen described feeling moved by the scale of the celebration. Each wave, shout, and smile reminded her of the influence of this yearly event. When the train ultimately slowed for its final stop, there was a sense of quiet accomplishment among the volunteers and staff. They had delivered holiday cheer across an entire region once again.

As long as families continue to gather and children continue to watch the horizon for the first sign of holiday colors on the rails, the CSX Santa Train will remain an enduring symbol of Appalachian spirit. It speaks to the power of continuity, generosity, and shared joy. Through changing times and shifting landscapes, one thing remains steady. When the Santa Train whistles through the mountains, Appalachia gathers with open arms, eager to celebrate together.

This year proved that the magic of the Santa Train continues to shine. Families arrived in large numbers. Volunteers worked with passion. Santa greeted thousands. Cheer traveled across 110 miles of rails, carried by laughter, music, and the resilient heart of a region that values tradition above all.

The CSX Santa Train will roll again next year, and families will be waiting on hillsides, along tracks, and near small stations with hearts filled with expectation. The holiday season in Appalachia would feel incomplete without this bright and cherished moment on the rails, and many already look forward to welcoming it once more.

-Tim Carmichael
Holding On Through the Seasons- Memories of Handing Tobacco in Appalachia

November 23, 2025

Life in the Appalachian mountains created a rhythm shaped by the land, the weather, and the work that filled every season. Tobacco ruled that rhythm for many families, and mine lived inside that cycle from early spring through late fall. Handing tobacco stood at the final stretch of a long year of labor, and the memories from those cold days still rise with a clarity that time cannot dim. The scent of cured leaves, the bite of November air, and the sting of tobacco gum that clung to our fingers shaped my childhood in ways I still feel.

When the season reached its close, handing tobacco transformed into a kind of ritual. The fields had already surrendered their last leaves. The curing barns had stood tall through late summer and fall, full of rows of tobacco tied to sticks and hanging in the shadows. By the time we gathered to hand the leaves, they had dried and absorbed months of work and weather. Those final steps in the process always arrived with cold mornings that drained the warmth from our fingertips before we could settle into the rhythm of the day.

To beat the cold, we lit a kerosene heater and placed it near the work area. Its glow created a small circle of comfort inside the drafty barn. My hands would hover above the heater again and again, chasing every bit of warmth I could gather. The heater hissed softly, filling the air with a faint smell of fuel that mixed with the sweet heaviness of cured tobacco. We huddled around it at intervals, since handling the leaves chilled our hands until they felt stiff. A moment at the heater revived them enough to continue, although the sticky tobacco gum that coated our fingers collected dirt, heat, and every bit of effort we poured into those long days.

Tobacco gum formed a stubborn layer that stuck to skin like a badge earned through hours of labor. It sank into every crease and refused to release its hold. Washing it away required determination long after the work had ended for the day. We rubbed, scrubbed, and still carried traces of it across the next morning. Those brown stains held the proof of what we did, even when our hands tried to rest.

Handing tobacco created stacks of sorted leaves ready for bailing. Each leaf held its own weight, shape, and story from the fields. We pulled them from the sticks in bunches, smoothing them into piles arranged by quality. It felt like the most delicate stage of the year, since the warehouse inspectors would judge everything we presented. Any mistake or rough handling could lower the price for our entire crop.

Once the piles reached the right size, we turned to the tobacco baskets. These wide, flat baskets filled the barn floor, ready to receive the sorted leaves. We layered them carefully, pressing the leaves into tight bundles so the baskets could hold as much as possible. Each basket becoming a final product ready for market. As each bale took shape, I felt every minute of the season inside it. Every bale represented days spent cutting, hanging, tying, curing, tending, and worrying.

When the time came, we loaded the bales on the back of a truck and made the trip to the warehouse in Asheville. That journey felt like a strange mixture of hope and dread. The warehouse buzzed with farmers who had spent their entire year chasing a fair price. The place was filled with voices carrying the same anxieties and the same expectations. Rows of bales lined the floor, each marked with a number that determined its fate.

I remember my daddy’s reaction every time the grades came in. His face carried lines carved from years of labor and years of disappointment. After the inspectors made their decisions and assigned the price, he always shook his head with frustration. He said they gave us whatever figure suited them, far less than the true value of our effort. His voice carried a weight that came from knowing the family depended on every dollar earned from that crop. That money never felt like a reward. It served as a necessity for winter shoes, coats, and gifts for Christmas morning. We stretched it across months of cold weather, making every coin carry as much as possible.

Reaching that point each year created a sense of relief mixed with exhaustion. Everything began in early spring with the tobacco beds. We cleared the soil, spread the seed, covered the beds, and protected them from frost and pests. The tiny plants needed constant attention through those first weeks of fragile growth. Once the seedlings reached the right size, we transplanted them into the fields. Rows stretched wide, and the work shifted into a routine of weeding, hoeing, topping, and removing the suckers that grew between the leaves. Each step required time, strength, and energy that summer heat drained from every family member.

The fields demanded everything through June, July, and August. By the time the harvest arrived, our arms carried scratches from stalks and leaves. Our shirts smelled like the fields. Our days revolved around cutting the stalks, spearing them onto sticks, and hanging them in the curing barn. The barns held shadows, ladders, and the sound of leaves brushing against one another as they dried over several weeks. The hours inside the barn grew long, since each stick had to be placed high overhead. Sweat dripped from our foreheads in the heat of late summer and early fall. Then the cool weather arrived, and the barns shifted from suffocating heat to biting cold.

Once November rolled in, the end finally approached. Handing the tobacco signaled the closing chapter of the year’s work. While the season delivered a sense of pride, the process carried enough struggle to create strong feelings toward the crop. Those final chilly mornings near the kerosene heater reminded me of everything we endured to reach that moment.

After we delivered the bales to Asheville and returned home, the fields appeared bare. The barns turned silent for the first time since spring. We experienced a stretch of months where tobacco demanded nothing from us. That break felt like a breath we had waited to take since the first seeds touched the soil. The relief from that work shaped one of my clearest childhood realizations. I felt no longing for the next season. The break delivered a freedom that made its value undeniable.

Growing up in Appalachia created a strong sense of place, community, and resilience, although that tobacco work shaped a part of life I never hoped to repeat. Each year that cycle held my family inside a pattern of physical strain and financial uncertainty. Many families endured the same challenges and passed those experiences from one generation to the next. For some, the work created a sense of tradition. For others, it held a sense of duty. For me, it became a motivation to push myself toward an entirely different path.

Education created the doorway I aimed toward. I worked through school assignments with the memory of the fields behind me. I pushed through classes with the hope of reaching a future that offered choices far from barns filled with hanging leaves. Every hour spent handing tobacco made that dream clearer. I carried the determination to finish school and reach a life that created opportunities my childhood never provided.

The memory of that cycle still shapes my appreciation for the life I built. The fierce work ethic from those years remains a part of me. The long days taught me endurance. The cold mornings at the kerosene heater taught me perseverance. The frustration I witnessed in my daddy’s voice taught me the value of pursuing something more stable. Those memories rise every time I smell wood smoke, dried leaves, or chilly November air.

Although the tobacco fields created hardship, they also held moments of connection. Families gathered around the work, sharing stories, laughter, and determination. The neighbors who helped with cutting and hanging supported one another through every stage. Communities across Appalachia understood the weight of the harvest and rallied together to finish before the frost arrived. Even through the strain, a sense of shared effort shaped the culture of the region.

The cycle repeated each year with the same demands. The fields waited, the barns filled, and the warehouses held the final verdict on our work. That rhythm created stability through routines even though it created financial uncertainty at the same time. In those mountains, survival required creativity, grit, and commitment. Tobacco provided income when few alternatives existed, and families accepted the labor because survival required it.

Looking back, handing tobacco remains one of the clearest chapters of my childhood. The heater’s glow, the gum on my hands, the ache in my back, and the heavy bales delivered memories that remain vivid across the years. Although the work challenged me physically and emotionally, it shaped the strength that guided my choices. It pushed me to seek an education and carve a future different from the one I grew up in.

Every November still carries a faint echo of those days. The season’s shift reminds me of the long journey from tobacco beds to tobacco warehouses. The memory of that work will always stay a part of my story, even though my path carried me far from those barns and fields. Those experiences taught me resilience, determination, and appreciation for every opportunity that arrived later in life. Through all the hardship, the season gave us enough to make it through the winter, and the lessons it taught carried me through much more.

-Tim Carmichael
BWXT Rezoning Fight Raises Environmental Fears in one of Appalachia’s Small Towns

November 20, 2025

A proposal from BWX Technologies to rezone 128 acres near Jonesborough for a new uranium processing facility has triggered strong opposition from residents across Washington and Greene counties. The project would occupy the former Aerojet property, a site already burdened with a legacy of contamination, and would sit along Little Limestone Creek, a waterway that flows into the Nolichucky River. Since the Nolichucky supplies drinking water for Greeneville, the plan has raised alarm among community members who feel their region has already suffered enough from industrial decisions made far from the people who live with the consequences.

BWXT wants to build a plant that converts depleted uranium into high purity material for defense applications. The company highlights economic benefits, including around 175 skilled jobs, along with modern environmental controls that it says will prevent any liquid discharge from entering the creek or surrounding waterways. For a rural Appalachian community where well-paying technical jobs are limited, these promises carry real weight.

Many residents view the proposal through the lens of the site’s troubled history. Aerojet once used the same property for depleted uranium work, leaving contamination in surrounding farmland. Reporting from WJHL along with Yahoo shows that state records and community accounts point to years of soil problems and uncertainty. Families still remember testing in fields and lingering questions about long term exposure. That memory shapes public reaction to BWXT’s request far more strongly than any promotional campaign from the company.

About forty acres of the land BWXT wants to rezone sit inside the Little Limestone Creek floodplain. This detail alone has become central to the debate. Floodplain building brings elevated risk, even for facilities designed to handle hazardous materials with modern engineering. Appalachian waterways rise quickly during heavy rain. Runoff from hillsides funnels down through narrow channels that can swell with almost no warning. If floodwaters ever reached work areas or storage zones of a uranium processing plant, even a small release could leave a long trail of sediment contamination, habitat disruption, and threats to public water supplies downstream.

Little Limestone Creek feeds directly into the Nolichucky River, where Greeneville draws drinking water. For residents, that connection feels immediate and personal. Many live close enough to the creek to watch it rise during storms. Many spent weekends fishing in the Nolichucky or raising livestock along its banks. In a region where waterways remain tied to agriculture, recreation, and household wells, the idea of expanding uranium related operations near a sensitive stream has created widespread concern.

Public frustration deepened when many residents said they received inadequate notice of the initial planning commission meeting. The meeting moved forward with limited community participation, and the short timing left people feeling excluded from decisions that could shape the region’s environmental health for generations. Once word spread, public meetings became crowded with residents voicing concerns about safety, water quality, and the continued arrival of heavy industry into their Appalachian communities.

This conflict reflects a larger history throughout Appalachia. For decades, companies seeking inexpensive land or communities with less political leverage have built industrial sites throughout the mountains without fully addressing environmental consequences. Coal mining, chemical work, waste storage facilities, and energy projects have left soil damage, polluted streams, and long battles over cleanup. Many rural Appalachian residents carry earned skepticism toward corporations that promise environmental protection while pursuing projects that bring high risk.

Opponents of the rezoning argue that Appalachia’s ecosystems remain too delicate to withstand another industrial footprint involving radioactive materials. Forested ridges and valleys around Jonesborough support diverse wildlife that depends on clean streams. The region’s limestone based groundwater system contains channels and voids that allow contaminants to travel unpredictably. A site already associated with uranium contamination raises intensified worry, especially if new operations begin above a floodplain connected to a regional drinking water supply.

Those speaking against the project say their opposition comes from a desire to protect their home rather than resist economic improvement. Many welcome good jobs, although they reject the idea that employment must come with risk to water quality or community health. Others note that Appalachian communities repeatedly become locations for projects that would face stronger resistance in wealthier or more politically influential areas.

BWXT states that the new facility would use advanced environmental controls. The company says its waste systems will ensure that no liquid discharge reaches Little Limestone Creek and that federal and state regulations will guide every phase of the project. While these assurances help reduce uncertainty for some people, they do not erase the weight of past harm for families who live next to the site. Many want independent studies, clear environmental plans, and long term monitoring before considering any form of acceptance.

The debate now centers on a question that appears in rural communities across the country. How can economic development move forward without threatening essential natural resources. Appalachia depends on healthy streams and rivers. They support farming, outdoor activity, and drinking water. They shape community identity and provide a sense of place. When a proposal carries the risk of altering those waters, opposition grows from a deep-rooted cultural and environmental connection.

As Washington County officials continue reviewing the rezoning request, residents are organizing with determination. Petition gatherings, informational meetings, community groups, and outreach to lawmakers have expanded rapidly. Those involved describe their efforts as a final protective wall for Little Limestone Creek, the Nolichucky River, and the generations that rely on both.

Whether the rezoning passes or fails, this struggle highlights a truth long recognized across Appalachia. Once a watershed suffers harm, recovery can take decades or centuries if recovery takes place at all. Many residents see that risk as too great to accept.

The future of the BWXT proposal will reveal how deeply local officials value the protection of Appalachian waterways and how strongly communities can shape decisions that define their land, their health, and their future.

-Tim Carmichael
High Costs for Appalachia- HR 1’s Impact on West Virginia and Neighboring States

November 19, 2025

If you scroll through social media or watch the news, you may see members of Congress and well-funded interest groups urging families across West Virginia and the wider Appalachian region to believe that the so-called Big Beautiful Bill, known as HR 1, will somehow strengthen our communities. Folks throughout these mountains understand a raw deal when we encounter one. This legislation strips health care access, weakens food assistance, and raises expenses for nearly every household while offering enormous tax breaks for wealthy individuals. With many Appalachian states facing some of the steepest program reductions, our towns and rural areas stand to absorb the earliest and harshest impacts.

Supporters of HR 1 promote claims of significant tax reductions for families across the region. Those claims collapse under scrutiny. Many of the tax changes they highlight already exist under current policy, and the averages they promote are heavily influenced by massive gains flowing to millionaires.

In West Virginia and across Appalachia, the lowest earning households are projected to face higher taxes compared with current levels. The median household would receive a cut far smaller than the average figure promoted by backers of the bill. Meanwhile, the highest earning households take home most of the advantage, with eighty percent flowing to the wealthiest ten percent. Once tariffs and other provisions are included, independent analysts forecast that by 2027 nearly every household in the country will face financial harm.

The most severe consequences reach far beyond taxes. To fund changes that reward the wealthy, Congress approved the deepest reductions to Medicaid and SNAP in our history. For West Virginia, this means more than fifty thousand residents losing health coverage and thirty-three thousand facing the loss of food assistance. Similar hardships threaten families in Kentucky, Tennessee, eastern Ohio, southwestern Virginia, and other Appalachian communities where wages run low and access to care already involves long drives and understaffed clinics. Seniors, veterans, parents, and individuals who worked for decades before encountering hardship all face disruptions to essential support.

These cuts spread economic strain throughout the region. Reduced federal support for health care and nutrition programs is expected to eliminate thousands of jobs as hospitals, clinics, grocery stores, pharmacies, and related employers absorb the financial hit. Experts foresee declines in wages and GDP, accompanied by a dramatic rise in the national debt.

Hospitals serving large Medicaid populations will experience fewer reimbursements and rising unpaid bills. This combination threatens layoffs, shrinking service availability, higher prices for private insurance, and even facility closures. A medical group in Virginia recently announced the shutdown of three clinics due to pressures created by the One Big Beautiful Bill and the realities it imposes on health care delivery. Similar closures could ripple across Appalachia, where many communities depend on only one hospital or one urgent care center.

Although members of Congress claim that communities have years to adjust, health care providers across the region are already facing difficult decisions, and several provisions begin immediately. The U.S. Department of Agriculture has instructed states to move forward with new SNAP restrictions. As a result, parents, veterans, and older individuals up to age sixty-four across West Virginia and neighboring Appalachian states will lose vital food assistance. Rising hunger will drive more families to food pantries that already struggle to meet demand with grocery prices climbing higher each month.

In January, state lawmakers across Appalachia will need to find resources within already-tight budgets to absorb federal Medicaid and SNAP expenses shifted onto the states. Combined with new tariffs included in the bill, everyday costs will rise even further, from food to household supplies, while paychecks lose purchasing power. Working families across the region will feel that pressure with particular intensity.

HR 1 arrives with promises of prosperity, although the reality for Appalachia looks far different. The legislation raises expenses, strips essential support, and channels its greatest rewards toward those with the highest incomes. Communities across West Virginia and throughout Appalachia deserve policies that strengthen families and foster opportunity rather than deepening hardship across our hills and valleys.

-Tim Carmichael
My Appalachian Granny Always Said “If you Know how to Make Gravy and Biscuits you will never go hungry”

November 17, 2025

When I was 10 years old my granny taught me how to make biscuits and gravy. The picture above is a pan of biscuits that I made, and if I had a dime for every biscuit I have made over the years, I would be a very rich man. Thinking back on those early mornings in her kitchen always fills me with a warm mix of gratitude, and comfort.

Granny believed that cooking created a kind of steady confidence. She said a person who could stir a silky gravy, fold tender dough, and feed a household held a skill that carried through every challenge. She never spoke in fancy phrases, though. Her strength lived in actions: rising before sunrise, lighting her old cast iron stove, and singing gospel hymns while her hands shaped each biscuit with loving care. I remember watching her fingers, lined with decades of work, move through motions that felt both simple and magical at the same time.

Her recipe traveled through our family like a treasured tale. While she stood over the counter, she would talk about the first time she learned the craft. She learned from her own grandmother, who learned from hers, and through that chain I gained a piece of history much bigger than myself. That gentle passing of culinary wisdom sparked a curiosity in me that carried far beyond our kitchen. I wondered where biscuits came from long before they reached our family table. I wanted to understand how a food so comforting across the American South gained such a deep foothold in households around the world.

Tracing the Roots of the Biscuit

The story of the biscuit stretches through centuries of human experience. Early forms appeared across many cultures, long before modern ovens existed. Travelers, soldiers, sailors, traders, and farmers all relied on durable baked goods made from simple ingredients. These early biscuits were firm, dry, and created for survival rather than delicate flavor. They needed to keep for weeks, even months, without crumbling or spoiling. People carried them on ships, packed them in pouches, and used them as vital nourishment through long journeys.

The English word “biscuit” grew from a phrase meaning “twice baked.” Bakers prepared a dough, baked it once, then dried it thoroughly in a second heating. This created a food that endured through harsh conditions. These early forms were far from the tender, flaky treats we enjoy today. Sailors in particular depended on them. They called them “sea biscuits” or “hard tack,” and although they were tough as wood, they kept crews alive across oceans. When families migrated across continents, they brought their baking traditions along, gradually shaping new versions through local ingredients and cultural customs.

In time, softer styles of biscuits emerged as home kitchens flourished and ingredients like refined flour, rendered fat, and chemical leavening agents became common. The rise of these ingredients transformed biscuits from survival rations into tender comforts. European settlers in America adopted and adapted biscuit recipes using freshly milled flour, animal fat, and regional dairy products. Enslaved cooks across the American South refined the method even further, creating techniques that influenced countless households and shaped Southern cuisine into something deeply woven with memory, creativity, and resilience.

Biscuits in American Homes

By the nineteenth century, biscuits held a firm place in American kitchens. Families relied on them because they were affordable, filling, and adaptable. Farm families often needed meals that could be prepared early and served to large groups. Biscuits met every need: quick enough for busy mornings, hearty enough for long workdays, and delicious enough for special gatherings.

Chemical leavening revolutionized biscuit making. Ingredients such as baking powder allowed dough to rise with ease, producing the soft interior and delicate layers people adore today. Home cooks across every region experimented, sharing tips across town gatherings, church socials, and family reunions. Through each exchange, the biscuit evolved into something both accessible and deeply personal.

In the American South, biscuits developed an identity rich with heritage. Cooks shaped dough with experienced hands, pressing it gently to preserve airy layers. Kitchens echoed with the rhythm of flour dusting across wooden boards and pans warming on cast iron. Variations appeared everywhere: drop biscuits, layered styles, enriched versions made with cultured milk, and savory blends featuring herbs or cured meat. Families guarded their favorites while celebrating the creativity of neighbors.

A Tradition of Gravy

Gravy joined biscuits long before I arrived on this earth, and the pair grew into a culinary emblem across the region. Gravy stretched resources, transformed simple meals into satisfying feasts, and brought households together at tables filled with laughter and conversation. On early farms, cooks saved rendered drippings from meats, seasoned them with skill, and whisked them into smooth sauces that poured over warm biscuits like silk.

Granny had her own way of making gravy. She used a heavy skillet, always warmed to the right temperature, and stirred with a slow, steady motion. She never measured anything with gadgets. Her fingers served as her most reliable guide. She added flour with a practiced motion, added rich liquid in careful increments, and stirred until the mixture thickened into something comforting as a hug after a long day.

Food historians often describe gravy as a resourceful creation, made from whatever households had available. Families used the drippings from smoked pork, roasted poultry, or pan-fried sausage. Thick, creamy versions gained fame across rural communities, especially among families who needed filling morning meals before heading into fields or workshops. Through time, gravy evolved into many regional varieties while remaining a companion to biscuits, forming a partnership that feels eternal.

My Journey Through Years of Biscuit Making

My own biscuit-making journey started with Granny’s strong hands guiding mine. The first dough I helped mix came together unevenly, yet she smiled as if it were a masterpiece. She said every batch carried a lesson. Through the years I learned to feel when the dough reached the right texture. I learned how much pressure to use when folding layers. I learned that temperature mattered, timing mattered, and intention mattered most of all.

Cooking with her gave me more than food. It gave me stories, confidence, and a way to carry her memory through every kitchen I ever stepped into. Every time I pull a pan from the oven, I feel her presence beside me. I can almost hear her humming, see her smile, and sense her pride. Those memories flavor each biscuit more powerfully than any ingredient.

Over decades of making biscuits, I have shared them with friends, neighbors, coworkers, and family. I carried trays to gatherings, delivered warm batches to people who needed comfort, and used them as a bridge to share heritage with those unfamiliar with Southern traditions. Through every experience, I realized Granny had gifted me more than a recipe. She gave me a skill that nourishes hearts as much as it feeds stomachs.

A Shared Legacy

The history of biscuits stretches far across time, shaped by countless hands from ancient travelers to modern cooks. My place in that lineage feels small, yet deeply cherished. Every pan I pull from the oven connects me to a chain that began long before me and will continue long after. Biscuits hold stories within their layers: stories of survival, resilience, creativity, and community.

Granny’s wisdom echoes through my life with comforting clarity. She believed that knowing how to create nourishing meals ensured security, confidence, and the ability to care for others. Through biscuits and gravy, she taught me patience, resourcefulness, and joy in simple acts that brighten everyday life.

So when I look at the pan in the picture above, I see far more than baked dough. I see years of practice, love, memory, and heritage. And I hear her voice reminding me that as long as I can shape dough and stir gravy, I carry a timeless gift, one that brings warmth to every table I approach.

-Tim Carmichael
Appalachia and Why Data Center’s Don’t Belong here and the Debate in Mason County Kentucky

November 15, 2025

A major proposal in Mason County in Kentucky has drawn attention across Appalachia as residents, local officials, and regional observers try to understand what a massive data center would mean for the land and for the people who have cared for it through many generations. A Fortune one hundred company has expressed interest in building a hyperscale data center on Big Pond Pike, with plans that involve hundreds of permanent positions and more than one thousand temporary construction roles. Many community members feel a mixture of anticipation and apprehension while weighing possible gains against possible harms. This energetic public conversation offers a vivid look at the challenge many rural regions face when large corporations arrive with large scale projects.

To understand the stakes of the debate, one must understand what data centers actually do. Modern digital life flows through physical servers that occupy enormous buildings. Every email, every streamed film, every online purchase, every work file saved to cloud storage must pass through machines that operate continuously. These servers rely on steady electricity and sophisticated cooling systems, since the heat they produce can cause serious equipment failure if unmanaged. As global data use rises each year, the scale of these facilities grows as well.

Energy use is central to the environmental concerns many residents of Mason County have raised. A hyperscale data center consumes electricity around the clock and places significant demand on a regional grid. Large loads can press existing infrastructure to its limits and encourage utility companies to expand transmission facilities across the countryside. Rural landscapes often see new towers and lines stretching across fields that once stood untouched. When electricity providers must fund major upgrades, costs can reach consumers in subtle ways. Residents worry that this project could eventually influence long term pricing or strain systems during extreme weather.

Cooling demands form another pressing issue. Data centers generate massive quantities of heat and therefore require complex cooling systems. Some rely on air based systems, while others employ evaporative methods that require immense volumes of water. In many regions, data centers have consumed millions of gallons on high demand days. Mason County includes farmland, small towns, and dispersed households that share limited water resources. The prospect of a facility that draws heavily from these supplies creates unease. Appalachian communities have seen how fragile water systems can be during droughts or emergencies, and many residents want to avoid any situation that could threaten access to safe and abundant water.

Land transformation plays a significant role in the debate as well. Extensive acreage must be cleared for buildings, roads, security perimeters, and electrical infrastructure. Appalachia holds ecosystems of remarkable richness. Hills, ridges, wetlands, and wooded hollows shelter countless species that depend on steady habitat conditions. When forests disappear or soil is disrupted, water patterns shift. Flood risk can rise in low lying communities, tree cover can decline, and wildlife may face challenges finding food or shelter. Mason County residents often speak of the land with deep affection. Many families trace their history in the region through centuries, and landscapes carry cultural memory that cannot be replaced. A massive industrial structure can change the character of a place forever.

Quality of life concerns extend beyond environmental factors. A data center may operate more quietly than factories, yet the constant hum of cooling systems, lighting that shines through the night, and increased vehicle traffic all influence daily living. Rural life often includes a strong sense of peace at dusk, dark skies that reveal constellations, and gentle ambient sounds of fields and forests. Industrial lighting can diminish the view of the night sky. Mechanical noise can echo across valleys. Residents who cherish the serenity of the region fear that their sense of place could shift in ways they never expected.

Given these concerns, many people ask why Appalachia has become such a popular destination for data center development. Several forces drive this trend. The first involves land costs. Large corporations building hyperscale structures require extensive acreage, and Appalachian counties often offer land at far more affordable prices than urban areas. Companies can acquire vast parcels without the complications of crowded city environments.

Another factor involves local economic aspirations. Many Appalachian counties have faced job losses, declining extractive industries, and population outmigration. Leaders often seek opportunities that could bring stability and growth. When a powerful corporation arrives with a proposal that includes hundreds of positions, local officials may view it as a route toward economic revival. The hope for new income streams can carry great weight during discussions.

State level incentives also shape these choices. Kentucky has pursued technology related industries in an effort to strengthen and diversify its economy. Incentives and favorable permitting processes attract interest from corporations searching for long term sites for digital infrastructure. When a corporation considers multiple states, such incentives can influence the final decision. Mason County then becomes part of a broader statewide strategy that stretches across the Appalachian region.

Geography also matters. Many parts of Appalachia experience low seismic activity. Stable ground reduces risk for delicate servers. Combined with access to regional electrical lines and open space for building, these geological conditions help create an appealing destination for data center projects.

Although these factors make the region attractive to corporations, they heighten the need for thoughtful and informed community participation. Residents understand that economic promises often sound compelling in the early stages of negotiation. They also understand that long term outcomes can look different once construction ends. For example, permanent positions at data centers frequently require advanced technical training. Local residents may need extensive education programs to compete for these roles. Without strong agreements that prioritize local hiring and skill development, many of the highest paid positions could go to workers from outside the region.

This reality shapes concerns about fairness and sustainability. A community could experience significant disruption through land clearing, noise, water use, and rising electrical demand while receiving far fewer lasting benefits than originally anticipated. This possibility motivates many Mason County residents to speak up, attend meetings, review documents, and request transparent information. The upcoming county fiscal court meeting on November twelve offers another chance for residents to present questions and insights that can guide the decision making process.

Residents also recognize that Appalachia holds immense cultural and ecological value. Mountains, valleys, creeks, hayfields, and wooded hillsides create a distinctive environment that shapes identity, family traditions, and community life. People gather on porches to watch evening light settle over the ridges. Children grow up exploring forests. Elders share stories rooted deeply in the land. Many fear that industrial scale development could erode these characteristics. Large data centers often bring uniform buildings that replace the organic shapes of the landscape. Although progress and investment matter, many residents feel strongly that these qualities deserve protection.

The effort to defend community interests encourages civic engagement. Residents can influence outcomes when they organize, research, and speak collectively. Coalitions of farmers, educators, retirees, students, and local business owners can request environmental studies that examine potential harm to waterways, wildlife, and forests. They can advocate for agreements that require energy efficiency practices, water conservation systems, emergency preparedness plans, and strong protections for residents who live closest to the site. They can insist on accountability measures that ensure the company fulfills its commitments.

This kind of participation strengthens democratic processes. It also reminds corporate representatives that rural communities possess deep knowledge of their land and deserve respect. Many Appalachian regions have experienced exploitation during previous eras of industrial activity. People have learned the importance of vigilance and collective action. Through community meetings, public statements, and local organizing, residents ensure that the future of their land reflects their own priorities.

The debate in Mason County demonstrates that Appalachia stands at a crucial crossroads. Digital infrastructure continues to expand worldwide, and companies remain eager to establish facilities in places with available land and supportive state policies. Rural regions across the country face similar pressures, though Appalachia carries unique ecological, cultural, and historical qualities that intensify concern.

Mason County residents, by raising their voices and examining every detail of the proposal, show how a community can guide conversations that affect its future. Economic growth holds value, and many hope for greater opportunity in the region. At the same time, the land carries meaning that cannot be measured in dollars. The streams, fields, and quiet evenings remain central to the Appalachian experience. When people fight to protect these treasures, they affirm the worth of their heritage and the importance of safeguarding it for future generations.

Through careful reflection and persistent engagement, Mason County continues to shape the direction of this debate. Whether the data center moves forward or takes another form, the community’s commitment to speaking openly and thoughtfully reveals the enduring strength of Appalachian identity.

-Tim Carmichael
Kentucky Pastor’s Compassionate Act During Viral Church Test Captures Worldwide Praise

November 14, 2025

The Appalachian region has seen a surge of online attention due to a heartfelt exchange between a Kentucky pastor and a TikTok creator who sought to explore how faith communities handle urgent pleas for aid. This story centers on Pastor Johnny Dunbar of Heritage Hope Church of God in Somerset Kentucky, whose gentle response to an unexpected phone call has inspired audiences across continents.

TikTok influencer Nikalie Monroe began an informal experiment across the Bible Belt, phoning faith centers with a fabricated tale involving a parent in crisis and a hungry infant. Her aim involved exploring how churches react when placed in a high-pressure moment where empathy, service, and practice collide. Many institutions guided her toward charities or agencies, while some placed conditions on help such as participation in programs or membership requirements. Her recordings illustrate a wide range of approaches to need, forming a mosaic of community dynamics across the region.

During this series of calls Monroe reached Heritage Hope Church of God, where Pastor Dunbar answered with calm focus. As Monroe delivered her story, the pastor listened carefully then offered assistance without hesitation. He asked for the formula brand so he could acquire it himself, expressing heartfelt concern for the infant’s welfare. Monroe’s recording highlights a tone filled with authentic care, which struck viewers as a rare expression of grace during a challenging era for many families.

The video spread rapidly, capturing attention across TikTok, Instagram, Facebook, and media platforms that follow Appalachian culture. Viewers responded with admiration for the pastor’s willingness to step forward during what he believed was a moment of crisis. Comments praised his spirit of service while sharing memories of similar acts of aid from local leaders throughout the region.

As the clip gained reach, support for the church arrived from viewers who felt moved by the pastor’s sincerity. Messages of gratitude filled the church’s social media pages, while monetary gifts and supplies flowed in with hopes of strengthening community outreach. Many donors cited the desire to uplift a congregation that demonstrated living faith through direct action. Pastor Dunbar later expressed humility and surprise at the reaction, sharing that his response reflected the teachings he strives to follow every day.

The video’s journey across platforms opened a broader conversation regarding the role of Appalachian churches in community care. Faith centers across this region frequently serve as hubs for meals, clothing drives, shelter initiatives, recovery programs, and fellowship during economic hardship. Monroe’s experiment sparked reflection on how these institutions engage with sudden requests, especially from individuals outside regular attendance. Many viewers emphasized that compassion in action holds deep value in a world where many feel unseen.

Somerset Kentucky holds a long tradition of close community ties. Residents often describe a shared culture shaped by mountain resilience, family loyalty, and a spirit of hospitality. Heritage Hope Church of God reflects these values through outreach programs and volunteer efforts that aim to uplift families in strain. Supporters of the congregation expressed that the pastor’s response mirrored the identity of their town and region, a place where many believe service reflects strength.

The viral spotlight also encouraged faith leaders across Appalachia to discuss how they manage requests for emergency aid. Some churches consider resource allocation vital due to limited funds, leading them to partner with specialized charities. Others emphasize personal involvement, striving to respond in ways that affirm dignity. Monroe’s project highlighted these complexities, reminding audiences that every congregation faces unique circumstances.

Media outlets covering the story have offered commentary on the digital age’s influence on perception of spiritual practice. With the prevalence of social media, a single moment can define impressions of entire communities. Viewers across the globe witness snapshots of culture that shape understanding of regions they have never visited. This particular video introduced many to Appalachian kindness framed through a single phone call that carried no expectation of recognition.

Pastor Dunbar’s interaction also encouraged dialogue regarding leadership in faith. Scholars, clergy, and community organizers have shared reflections on the importance of readiness to act when confronted with distress. They describe this readiness as an ethic that transcends doctrinal differences, appealing to shared human experience. Commentators across the region noted that Monroe’s project, while unconventional, opened an avenue for meaningful engagement between secular audiences and religious communities.

Heritage Hope Church of God has long focused on outreach, providing meals, spiritual guidance, and connection for individuals navigating hardship. Congregants often describe their fellowship as welcoming and supportive. Following the viral wave, volunteers organized distribution of donated supplies, expressing amazement at the generosity flowing in from across the world. Many donors wrote heartfelt messages explaining that they felt encouraged by witnessing compassion expressed without hesitation.

Visitors to the church’s pages frequently mentioned the search for authentic expressions of care in a period filled with uncertainty, economic strain, and anxiety. The video served as a reminder that simple choices carry significant influence. Pastors across Kentucky remarked that this moment showed how small acts of kindness can resonate far beyond their origin, creating a ripple that shapes public understanding of faith practice.

Monroe herself expressed gratitude for the conversation sparked by her experiment. She shared that her intention involved shining light on how communities respond when confronted with immediate household needs such as infant care. Her project illuminated gaps in assistance infrastructure while showcasing leaders like Pastor Dunbar who strive to meet needs directly. Her follow up content frequently praises the outpouring of support encouraged by his response.

The global reaction includes voices from Europe, Asia, Africa, and South America. Many commented on shared experiences with local faith centers and charitable groups in their own regions. They highlighted the universal relevance of compassion and the value of leaders who prioritize empathy. Pastors from various countries even reached out to Heritage Hope Church of God expressing solidarity and encouragement.

Individuals within Appalachia relate closely to themes shown in the video. The region experiences challenges involving employment, childcare costs, and access to essentials. Community aid networks often serve as lifelines for families. Many residents hope the video inspires continued support for programs that address household needs. Local advocates emphasized that compassion thrives in Appalachia and deserves recognition across media platforms.

The wave of attention also raised questions concerning digital portrayals of rural communities. Scholars in Appalachian studies note that the region often appears through limited stereotypes, ranging from economic hardship to cultural misconceptions. This story offered a refreshing perspective by highlighting resilience, kindness, and leadership. Commentators urged media outlets to continue sharing stories that reflect the diversity of Appalachian life.

Pastor Dunbar’s response continues to circulate in forums centered on ethics, community development, and faith leadership. Many describe it as a model for compassionate engagement. Leaders in seminaries and training programs referenced the video during discussions regarding pastoral care, using it as an example of attentiveness and willingness to assist during urgent crises.

Heritage Hope Church of God plans to continue outreach efforts strengthened by new resources. Congregants share excitement for future projects such as extended food programs, supply drives, and support for families experiencing difficulty. Volunteers express deep appreciation for strangers across the globe who felt moved to participate. This connection reflects a sense of unity formed through shared desire to ease suffering.

Viewers who encountered the video frequently commented on a longing for examples of sincerity. Digital platforms sometimes amplify conflict, which leaves audiences eager for narratives that highlight positive action. This moment between pastor and caller provided a reminder that true service often begins with a simple choice to help when approached with a plea.

As this story continues spreading across social media, it invites reflection on the power of individual actions within larger communities. Faith traditions across the world emphasize care for families, infants, and vulnerable individuals. Pastor Dunbar’s decision to step forward during that phone call revived these teachings for millions who watched. The influence of his response echoes across regions far beyond Somerset.

In communities across Appalachia families, volunteers, and leaders engage daily in acts that uplift households in distress. This viral story brings attention to that enduring spirit. It celebrates empathy expressed through action and underscores the significance of listening with an open heart.

Through this moment of digital visibility, Somerset Kentucky gained recognition as a place where compassion thrives. Heritage Hope Church of God stands as an example of service grounded in love for community. The global reaction affirms that audiences everywhere search for stories reminding them of shared humanity. Pastor Dunbar’s response offered precisely that, encouraging renewed focus on kindness throughout Appalachia and beyond.

-Tim Carmichael
Appalachia Churches Face Scrutiny After Viral TikTok Shows Refusal to Help Hungry Mother

November 12, 2025

Across social media, a Kentucky woman’s voice has ignited one of the most emotional debates of the year. Her phone calls to churches across the United States have placed faith, compassion, and poverty under the same spotlight. The woman, named Nikalie Monroe, began posting videos on TikTok in which she poses as a mother who cannot afford baby formula for her two-month-old child. Her request is simple and desperate: “My baby has not eaten.”

The responses she records vary widely. Some churches offer to help and even promise to bring supplies. Others decline, give phone numbers for other organizations, or refer her to lengthy forms that require waiting for approval. The videos have traveled across platforms and reached millions of viewers. Each call raises a single question about how willing churches are to provide immediate help when someone pleads for it.

Monroe began her project from her home in Kentucky, a state deeply tied to the Appalachian region. Her series now includes dozens of calls to churches in small mountain towns, coal country communities, and larger southern cities. She introduces herself as a struggling mother who cannot afford baby formula and asks if the church can help. Each video follows the same rhythm. The phone rings. A pastor, secretary, or volunteer answers. Monroe explains her story with a trembling voice. Listeners hear a moment of silence, then a decision. Some voices show concern and ask for an address to deliver help. Others sound apologetic while explaining that assistance programs require applications or scheduled interviews.

In more than forty documented calls, Monroe has said that only about ten offered to help immediately. Those few positive responses often came from small, local congregations with limited resources. Larger churches, including well-known ones, tended to require paperwork or verification. Millions of people have watched these clips and drawn their own conclusions. Some applaud Monroe for holding faith institutions accountable. Others believe she is unfairly testing organizations that already face financial strain. Regardless of opinion, the project has opened a powerful discussion about faith in action and the meaning of charity in modern America.

For generations, churches across Appalachia have served as the heartbeat of community life. In small towns stretching through Kentucky, West Virginia, Tennessee, and Virginia, the church is often the center of both faith and survival. Families gather there for food drives, clothing donations, and emotional support. When jobs vanish or medical bills pile up, the church becomes a place of refuge. The region’s deep history of poverty shapes its relationship with faith. Many communities face limited access to grocery stores, healthcare, and transportation. Formula shortages, high food prices, and unemployment still affect daily life. Monroe’s experiment touches a nerve because it portrays a reality that many Appalachian families recognize. A mother in need can easily fall through the cracks. Her calls reveal how compassion sometimes meets barriers created by rules, policies, and lack of flexibility. Churches may wish to help yet become entangled in systems designed for structure rather than speed. In an emergency, delay can feel like refusal. For a hungry child, delay can mean suffering.

The videos highlight a larger question for religious organizations about their mission when someone calls for help in real time. Monroe’s experiment shows two very different types of responses. Some churches prioritize immediacy and treat each call as a human emergency. Others emphasize procedure, seeking documentation before offering aid. Both approaches have purpose, yet the public reaction favors the first. Viewers respond emotionally to kindness that moves quickly. In one call that gained significant attention, a small Appalachian church immediately promised to find baby formula that same day. The pastor’s voice carried warmth and conviction as he said, “We will figure something out.” That moment became a symbol of hope within the series. By contrast, some large churches required Monroe to submit online forms or wait for scheduled assistance. Viewers criticized those responses as cold or disconnected. The difference between the two types of replies became a powerful reflection of the gap between spiritual values and institutional practices.

Monroe’s project resonates for several reasons. It connects to national conversations about poverty, parenting, and responsibility. Her fictional scenario mirrors real situations faced by countless parents who struggle to feed their children. The simplicity of her videos also contributes to their impact. Each call unfolds without dramatic editing or background music. There is only a phone line, a human voice, and a decision. The raw honesty of those moments forces viewers to confront their own sense of compassion. Many commenters express frustration, saying that faith should translate into action. Others note that large churches often have the financial means to help immediately. The videos have become both a critique of religious institutions and a call for renewed empathy.

The attention surrounding Monroe’s videos has prompted several churches to issue statements. Some pastors explained that they follow structured procedures to prevent fraud and to distribute aid fairly. They say such systems protect the congregation’s resources and ensure that real families in need receive sustainable help. Other leaders have admitted that the videos served as a wake-up call. They expressed gratitude for the reminder that compassion should move faster than paperwork. One Kentucky pastor said the experience inspired his church to create a small emergency fund to handle immediate needs without delay. Larger institutions have highlighted their extensive charitable programs, which often operate through food banks and community partnerships. They emphasize that while they may appear unhelpful in individual calls, they serve thousands through organized outreach every year. Still, Monroe’s project suggests that many viewers expect direct, human responses rather than institutional explanations. The emotional weight of hearing a mother plead for help often outweighs the logic of administrative policy.

The broader message emerging from Monroe’s experiment centers on the meaning of compassion. Real compassion involves action without hesitation. When someone calls in distress, kindness begins with listening and responding. Appalachian communities have long embodied that spirit. Families share resources, repair each other’s homes, and check on neighbors during harsh winters. Churches once formed the backbone of that generosity. Monroe’s work challenges congregations to reconnect with that tradition. Her project also sheds light on how modern life has changed the way institutions operate. As society becomes more digital, communication between people and organizations grows less personal. Many churches now handle assistance through email or websites rather than direct conversation. Monroe’s calls remind audiences that sometimes empathy requires a human voice more than an online form.

TikTok has turned Monroe’s experiment into a movement. The platform allows her to reach millions of people instantly, creating public dialogue around charity and authenticity. Her videos transform private interactions into collective lessons about humanity. Each clip reveals how an individual or institution reacts when confronted with real or imagined need. That exposure has encouraged others to perform similar tests, calling local churches and charities to see how they respond. The trend reflects a growing desire for transparency among organizations that claim to serve the vulnerable. Social media often fuels controversy, yet it can also spark positive change. In this case, Monroe’s viral reach has inspired donations, volunteer efforts, and discussions about reforming aid systems within faith-based groups.

The focus on Appalachian churches gives this story particular depth. The region carries both a reputation for hardship and a legacy of strong faith. Monroe’s calls highlight the tension between those two forces. Some communities respond with immediate compassion, proving that generosity thrives even in areas with limited resources. Others struggle with structure, revealing how bureaucracy can overshadow the spirit of service. For many Appalachians, the series has become personal. Residents see in those calls a reflection of their own communities and values. They are reminded that the strength of faith lies not in the size of a building or the reach of a budget, but in the willingness to act with love when someone needs help. Faith leaders across the region are using the moment to review their own systems and renew their commitment to service. Some have begun creating rapid response plans to provide emergency aid before any formal review process begins.

Monroe’s goal has always been awareness rather than humiliation. She hopes her videos encourage churches and individuals alike to recognize how often people in crisis encounter barriers instead of compassion. Her experiment mirrors the experiences of many parents who face hunger, eviction, or loss with limited support. Since the series gained popularity, viewers have organized donation drives for baby formula and food. Others have joined local outreach programs or given to shelters in their towns. The viral attention has turned empathy into tangible action. Monroe has expressed gratitude for the positive outcomes, saying she wants to remind people that caring for others should never depend on paperwork or status. Her work has become a bridge between online activism and real community service.

At its core, the story of Monroe’s experiment is about rediscovering compassion in daily life. In many Appalachian towns, an old saying carries deep meaning: “When a neighbor knocks, you open the door.” Her series challenges churches and individuals to live by that principle once again. Compassion begins with listening, continues with belief, and ends with action. Procedure and policy have value, yet the human heart should lead the way. Appalachia’s history of faith and resilience shows that communities thrive when people respond to need with generosity rather than caution. Monroe’s work serves as a reminder that the truest form of religion lives through action. Across Kentucky, West Virginia, and beyond, her phone calls echo a single lesson that reaches far beyond TikTok. Faith is measured through kindness, and kindness begins with the courage to answer when someone calls for help.

-Tim Carmichael
Cades Cove, Tennessee- A Valley Steeped in History and Heritage

November 11, 2025

Tucked within the Great Smoky Mountains of eastern Tennessee, Cades Cove remains one of the most beloved and historically rich valleys in the United States. Once a hunting ground for the Cherokee people and later a thriving farming community for early settlers, this mountain valley carries the story of centuries within its rolling fields and weathered cabins.

Long before European settlers arrived, the Cherokee called this place Tsiyahi, meaning “place of the river otter.” The name reflected the abundance of wildlife and the natural harmony of the valley. Archaeological evidence suggests that people lived in or traveled through the area as far back as 6500 BC. The Cherokee used the land for hunting deer, bear, and small game, and the surrounding forests provided plants used for medicine and food. Though they built no permanent villages here, the cove held deep spiritual and practical importance. The name Cades Cove is believed to have come from Chief Kade, a Cherokee leader who traded with early settlers and helped maintain relations between his people and the newcomers.

The arrival of settlers in the early nineteenth century transformed the valley. Around 1818, John Oliver and his wife, Lurena, became the first to clear the land and build a cabin. They came seeking fertile soil and a new beginning in the wilderness. Life in the cove was difficult. Winters were harsh, isolation was constant, and everything had to be built by hand. Yet the Olivers endured, and their cabin still stands today as one of the oldest surviving structures in the Great Smoky Mountains National Park.

By 1821, more families began to move into the valley. They brought tools, livestock, and determination. Each family cleared small plots for farming and worked from sunrise to sunset. Corn, wheat, and vegetables grew in the rich mountain soil. Livestock grazed in meadows bordered by split rail fences. The settlers built barns for hay and feed, smokehouses for preserving meat, and corn cribs for their harvests. By 1850, the population of Cades Cove had grown to 685 residents.

Among the most notable families were the Tiptons, Gregorys, and Olivers, each leaving behind a legacy that still shapes the character of the cove. Their craftsmanship and perseverance are reflected in the log homes and mills that remain standing. Neighbors depended on one another for survival. They shared labor, tools, and food, and worked side by side during harvest season. Life revolved around faith, family, and the land that sustained them.

Religion was at the heart of the community. In 1827, residents gathered to organize the Primitive Baptist Church, which became both a spiritual and social center for the settlers. The land for the church was donated by William Tipton, whose generosity provided a permanent gathering place for worship. The small white building still stands in the valley, surrounded by weathered gravestones that tell the story of generations past. The services were simple, often filled with hymn singing and sermons that spoke of endurance, faith, and gratitude.

As the population grew, other churches were established, including the Missionary Baptist Church and the Methodist Church. These buildings were more than places of worship. They served as meeting halls, schools, and safe havens in times of hardship. When crops failed or illness spread, families came together within those walls to pray, share food, and find comfort. The churches were also where news traveled fastest, where young couples met, and where community life took shape.

Education was another cornerstone of Cades Cove life. Early schoolhouses were built near the churches or on land donated by settlers. Children walked for miles each morning to attend class. Lessons focused on reading, writing, and arithmetic, and the teachers were often residents of the cove who had received more formal schooling elsewhere. Although the terms were short and interrupted by planting and harvest seasons, education was valued deeply. Parents wanted their children to read the Bible, keep accounts, and contribute to the community’s growth.

By the middle of the nineteenth century, the valley had become a well-established farming community. The Civil War brought hardship and division, as it did across much of Appalachia. Some residents supported the Union while others sympathized with the Confederacy, and tensions sometimes turned violent. Despite these struggles, the people of Cades Cove endured and eventually returned to the steady rhythm of rural life once peace was restored.

Through the late nineteenth and early twentieth centuries, the cove remained largely self-sufficient. Families produced nearly everything they needed. Mills ground corn and wheat into meal and flour. Blacksmiths forged tools and shoed horses. Every household tended a garden, kept livestock, and traded goods with neighbors. The sense of independence was strong, and many families rarely left the valley except to visit nearby towns for supplies or to sell produce.

Change arrived in the 1920s when plans were announced to create the Great Smoky Mountains National Park. Government officials began purchasing land across the region, including Cades Cove, to preserve the area’s natural beauty and cultural history. For residents who had farmed the same land for generations, the decision was painful. Some sold their land willingly, seeing an opportunity for progress. Others resisted, unwilling to give up the farms their families had built with their own hands.

By the late 1930s, nearly all residents had left. Some were granted lifetime leases allowing them to remain until their passing. The last family to live in the cove full time was the Caughron family, who stayed until 1999. Kermit Caughron, the final resident, maintained a small home and kept bees, continuing traditions that had defined the valley for over a century. His departure marked the end of an era, closing the chapter on the cove’s living community but preserving its memory for future generations.

Today, Cades Cove is one of the most visited areas in the Great Smoky Mountains National Park. Millions of people travel the eleven mile loop road each year to walk through the historic sites and experience the quiet beauty of the valley. The John Oliver Cabin, the Primitive Baptist Church, and the Cable Mill are among the most popular stops. Each structure stands as a monument to the lives of the people who once worked and worshiped there. Deer graze in the open meadows, and black bears are sometimes seen wandering through the woods near the old homesteads.

Visitors often describe a feeling of connection when they step into the cove. The sound of wind in the trees and the gentle sound of streams create an atmosphere of peace that feels unchanged by time. Early morning mist settles over the fields, and for a moment the past seems close enough to touch. The land holds its stories quietly, through weathered wood, worn paths, and the enduring spirit of the people who once called it home.

Cades Cove remains a place of reflection and remembrance. It honors the Cherokee who first knew it as Tsiyahi, the settlers who carved out a community through perseverance and faith, and the generations who worked to preserve its legacy. The valley stands today not only as a destination for travelers but as a living history lesson about the strength of the human spirit and the enduring bond between people and the land.

For those who visit, Cades Cove offers more than scenery. It offers a glimpse into the heart of Appalachia, where faith, labor, and community once defined daily life. The fields that once echoed with the sounds of plows and hymns now carry only the voices of nature, yet the sense of belonging remains. Every fence post, every cabin beam, and every church pew tells the same quiet story of a valley that endures, a people who remembered, and a history that still lives in the mountain air.

-Tim Carmichael
’Tis the Season for Apple Stack Cake in Appalachia: A Holiday Tradition

November 10, 2025
The Heart of Appalachian Holidays

Autumn in the Appalachian hills brings crisp air, blazing leaves, and apples hanging heavy on the trees. Kitchens come alive with the smell of cinnamon, apples, and warm kitchens. Among these traditions, Apple Stack Cake holds a special place. This layered dessert filled with spiced apples has been a favorite in Appalachian homes for generations, especially during Thanksgiving and Christmas.

History of Apple Stack Cake in Appalachia

Apple Stack Cake has roots deep in mountain kitchens. Families across Kentucky, Tennessee, West Virginia, North Carolina and surrounding states treasured this dessert for its simplicity and rich flavor. Thin layers of cake are stacked high with spiced apple filling, creating a dessert that lasts and softens over time.

Long ago, guests at weddings would sometimes bring a layer of cake, stacking them into one towering cake. Others trace the recipe to practical mountain cooking, where flour, apples, and molasses were staples. Dried apples, sorghum, and lard formed the base of the cake, producing firm yet tender layers that softened as they absorbed the spiced apple filling.

Why Apple Stack Cake Belongs on Holiday Tables

In my granny’s kitchen, Thanksgiving meant a table full of turkey, mashed potatoes, green beans, and Apple Stack Cake standing tall at the center. Christmas brought a similar warmth. Apples harvested in the fall, dried or turned into a sauce, waited patiently for cold months. The cake carried the orchard harvest into the heart of the home, each layer reflecting tradition, each bite filled with spice and mountain flavor.

Making Apple Stack Cake requires care. The dough is firm, rolled thin, and baked until ready. The apple filling simmers slowly with sugar, cinnamon, ginger, and nutmeg. Layers are stacked one by one, then the cake rests, softening and allowing flavors to meld. The aroma fills the kitchen, the hallway, the living room, and the house feels like home.

Granny’s Apple Stack Cake Recipe

Cake Layers
4½ cups all-purpose flour
½ cup granulated sugar
1 teaspoon baking soda
1 teaspoon baking powder
1 teaspoon salt
½ cup sorghum syrup or molasses
½ cup buttermilk plus a little extra if needed
⅓ cup vegetable shortening or lard
1 large egg

Apple Filling
Apples, peeled and chopped or dried apples rehydrated until tender
Brown sugar, cinnamon, ginger, and nutmeg to taste
Water to cook the apples until thick, about one hour
Optional apple butter

Method
Preheat the oven to 350 degrees. Grease and flour five 9-inch cake pans or bake in batches. Mix dry ingredients in a large bowl. In another bowl, beat together molasses, buttermilk, shortening, and egg. Combine with dry ingredients, adding extra buttermilk if needed.

Divide dough into five portions, press into pans to form thin layers, prick with a fork, and bake about fifteen minutes until firm. While layers bake, cook apples with sugar and spices until thick. Mash lightly or leave chunky.

Stack layers with apple filling, cover, and let rest at room temperature for 24–48 hours so the layers soften. Dust with powdered sugar before serving.

Tips from Granny’s Kitchen
- Choose firm, slightly tart apples for texture and flavor.
- Allow the cake to rest; this helps flavors meld and layers soften.
- Warm the kitchen slightly to make spreading the filling easier.
- Make the cake ahead of time to free up holiday hours for family and stories.
Memories in Every Slice

Slicing into Apple Stack Cake means slicing into memory. Each forkful carries orchard harvests, kitchens filled with chatter, and hands pressing dough and spreading apples. Holiday tables often include turkey, stuffing, and pies, and Apple Stack Cake stands quietly proud among them. Conversations spark about layers, fillings, and family traditions. Someone takes a bite, closes their eyes, and remembers.

During the holidays, when leaves are turning and the air smells of wood smoke and apples, make this cake. Let it rest, let it soften, and fill the house with warmth. Each slice carries the spirit of your granny, her love for the holidays, and the joy of being home.

-Tim Carmichael