I think mothers are angels in physical form. At least, mine was. Her work ethic, love and sense of humor made her a treasure you wanted to be around. One of her quirks was that late at night, after the work day was over, dinner was done, and the dishes were washed and put away, she would sit down at the corner of the sofa and get out one of the many novels she loved.

She would tuck her legs up, rest the book on her knees, and hold it with her right hand. Once she was lost in the story, her left hand would go to the back of her head and start twisting her hair. Round and round she twisted it the entire time she was reading. By the time she was ready for bed, a curl had formed in just that one area of her black hair.

Reading was a simple pleasure for her after a long day of caring for her family, like her mother before her. Appalachian women had simple pleasures because life wasn’t simple. They had grit because life was, and still is, hard in the mountains, requiring strong people to survive in rocky ground.

Without fail, Mom was the first one up every morning. She would rise early to brew coffee and sit in silence before the day began. As she sipped on her coffee, she would lay out our clothes and, in the winter, warm them up on the old wood stove.

Then she would fix a simple breakfast for us on school days, most likely toast and cereal, but in the winter, if school was out, it would be a lavish breakfast of biscuits and gravy, bacon, eggs, and apple butter. Most of the time, the salty smell of the bacon would wake me before I had to get up. I would walk into the kitchen still half asleep, and Mom would slip me a piece of the bacon as I sat down at the table.

Her day was far from over. After breakfast was done, it was time to clean the kitchen. Next, wash and dry clothes and clean up the mess we kids had made. Somehow, she would find time to go visit her mother who lived just down the hill from us. Then it was back to the house and time for more work: homework for the kids, sporting events, dinner and bed-time.

From spring through the fall, there was always the garden that needed as much attention as us kids. Spring planting, summer weeding, and fall gathering, which included canning. Mom never stopped. Later in life, she would get a “job” outside of the house but still had the same amount of work at home, just eight hours less to get it done. She was like most mountain women, tough and full of “Grit,” as we say.

In all of this hardship, it never turned my mother sour. She was always laughing, smiling, and loving on other people especially on Wednesday night and Sundays. How she found time for church is beyond me, but after her and dad got saved, it was just as important to be in church as it was for any other chore that had to be done for survival.

Mom never wanted to be a pastor’s wife, but she is the best one God ever created. She channeled the same tireless work ethic she showed at home into serving the people at church. She would pray for others in the church, crying over their hardships, even as she was cooking. She would sneak food into their cars in the church parking lot so they didn’t know who it came from.

And she was a hugger. She would hug everyone at church, and I would see how they would light up with joy after her hugs. She was full of “grace” and love and she gave it in abundance to those she knew. I saw her weep with people who had lost a loved one, she rejoiced with them at the news of a baby being born, and in all of that, not one ounce of regret or anger showed through all the hardship of living in the mountains.

In all of the various hardships we face, love requires both ‘Grit and Grace’, not just for our own families, but to those that we interact with on a regular basis.

Although I used my mother as an example, this is a testament that the mountain women’s lives are a living sermon, proving that the toughest ground can bear the sweetest fruit. Their example calls us today to be as tough as the rocky ground and as tender as a rose petal. In every trial, may we find our own measure of Grit and Grace, and carry their light forward.

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If you’ve spent any time in the hollers or on the ridges of Appalachia, you know that our history isn’t just found in old family Bibles or genealogy charts. It’s written in the dry-stone walls that still stand on abandoned hillsides, tucked away in the “Haint Blue” paint on a porch ceiling, and echoed in a dialect that hasn’t changed in a hundred years.

The Deep Seam is a new section of our newsletter dedicated to the heritage, the mysticism, and—most importantly—the unshakable strength of the Appalachian people.

Beyond the Family Tree

While I love a good family story, The Deep Seam isn’t just about who we are related to; it’s about the spirit we all inherited. In this section, we are going to dive into the stories that define the “Grit and Grace” of this region:

• The Invisible Architects: Honoring the craftsmanship of the people who built civilizations out of “vertical” land.

• The Granny Women: Exploring the resourcefulness of the matriarchs who healed communities with what grew in the soil.

• The Language of the Hills: Discovering the resilience found in our unique mountain speech.

• Signs & Superstitions: From planting by the moon to the “haint” lore that keeps our traditions alive.

Why “The Deep Seam”?

In a coal mine, the deep seam is where the most valuable, untouched resources are found. It requires a bit more effort to get to, but the reward is worth the work. That’s what I want to do here: dig a little deeper than the stereotypes you see on the news and find the real, enduring heart of our home.

I’m glad you’re here to walk these ridges with me. Grab a seat on the porch, and let’s see what we can find.

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