In the modern world, credit is a clinical, three-digit score controlled by a distant bank, an algorithm that doesn’t care if you need to eat or if you’re trying to stay warm through a hard winter. The cold truth of the modern economy is simple: if you don’t have capital, you don’t get credit. But forty years ago, along the winding curves of Route 72 in Clintwood, credit wasn’t calculated by a computer. It was kept in a paper ledger by men who knew your name, your family, and exactly when your grandma’s monthly check would arrive.

It’s 1977, a hot July morning in the small holler called Power’s Branch. I’ve had a breakfast of biscuits and gravy with a tall glass of milk, and my day has begun. I’ve had my Tonka trucks plowing through the coal pile, and now I have moved on to a large pile of dirt I dug up.

Grandpa comes to find me and asks if I want to go to the store with him. Of course I do. I jump into his old Ford pick-up and we head down the dirt road of the holler. It looks like a dust storm behind us on those hot days, but we are heading to Benny’s. Benny owned Vanover Supply, but no one called it that, it was just Benny’s. Once we reach the mouth of the holler, it’s a short two-mile drive around the curvy road leading to Darwin, where not only Benny’s is located but also Glenn’s Stanley Store.

Benny and Glenn both were very gracious and humble men. To the outside world, they were independent merchants running small-town storefronts. But to the families living along Route 72, they were something much larger: they were the quiet stabilizers of our daily lives.

Stepping through the door of Benny’s or Glenn’s was like stepping into a different climate altogether. The summer heat of Route 72 stayed outside, replaced by an interior that smelled distinctly of living: a rich, heavy blend of floor oil, coffee grounds, fresh sandwiches, and denim. Your boots immediately met weathered wooden floorboards, worn smooth in the walking paths and lightly dusted with clean sawdust to catch the mountain dirt.

The stores were packed from floor to ceiling with the needed items of our survival. At Benny’s, the walls held heavy work boots, thick leather gloves, and racks of rugged clothes built to withstand the thickets of Dickenson County. At Glenn’s, the shelves were lined with the staples that kept a household whole, blocks of sharp cheese, tubs of lard, and bags of flour. But the most important element wasn’t on the shelves. It was the immediate, genuine warmth of the smiles behind the counter. Benny and Glenn didn’t look at us as transactions or account numbers; they looked at us as neighbors, cousins and family. There was no rush, no corporate coldness, just a quiet, steady presence that let you know, before you even picked up a loaf of bread or a work shirt, that you were respected there.

But on this particular July morning, we hadn’t come to Benny’s or Glenn’s to add to the ledger. We were there to clear it. Grandma’s monthly check had arrived, and Grandpa was there to make good on the quiet promise that had kept our kitchen table full and our family clothed through the lean weeks. I watched as he stepped up to the counter, greeting Benny with a smile and a handshake. There was no paperwork mailed from a distant bank, just a worn paper ledger turned to our family’s page. Grandpa pulled the cash from his pocket, money earned through hard work and stretched by sacrifice, and paid the tab down to zero.

With the business concluded, the transaction shifted from necessity to a reward. Grandpa looked down at me, then over to the heavy iron chest cooler humming in the corner. “Go get you one, Sean,” he’d say. I’d slide back the heavy lid, reaching down to pull out a real Pepsi, the kind in the thick glass bottle. To this day, I swear soda tasted better out of those glass bottles. Standing there on the sawdust covered floors, popping the cap off and taking that first ice-cold sting of a real Pepsi. I didn’t understand the macro-economics of Appalachian survival. I just knew that we were squared up with the world, my grandpa’s word was golden, and for a kid in Power’s Branch, life was good.

The pride Grandpa felt when he handed that cash across the counter to Glenn or Benny went far deeper than the simple relief of being out of debt. In a community like Clintwood, clearing your tab was a vital act of family responsibility. It was a closed loop of survival. Benny and Glenn weren’t banks with endless reserves; they were independent merchants absorbing the financial weight of an entire area on a few sheets of paper. When Grandpa paid our bill down to zero, he wasn’t just squaring our family up with the world, he was ensuring that the ledger had room to carry the next family down the road whose kids needed shoes or whose shelves were bare two weeks before the next check.

This mutual rhythm created a profound, long-term stability that macro-economics completely fails to measure. By extending trust, the storekeepers kept families whole during their leanest months; by honoring that trust the moment the check arrived, the community kept the storekeepers alive. It was a decentralized, human-powered safety net that sustained Route 72 for generations. The long-term impact wasn’t found in a bank’s profit margins, but in the sheer resilience of a people who refused to let poverty strip them or their neighbors of their dignity.

We drove back up the dirt road into Power’s Branch that afternoon with a clean slate, the dust billowing behind the tailgate of the old Ford. I had a sticky, empty Pepsi bottle in my hand, and Grandpa had something much lighter: a cleared conscience. Looking back, those weekly and monthly interactions across the worn counters at Glenn’s and Benny’s weren’t just transactions; they were the quiet threads holding our community together.

Today, the country stores have largely given way to regional supermarkets and digital payment networks. We have traded the paper ledger for the immediate convenience of the swipe and the tap. But as we navigate an economy driven by faceless algorithms and rigid credit metrics, we lose the very thing that kept us whole: neighborly trust. Glenn and Benny didn’t just sell us food and clothes; they invested in our survival, proving that a community’s truest wealth is never found in a bank’s profit margins, but in the care we extend to one another when the weeks run lean. In the end, it wasn’t the money that saved us, but the quiet grace of good hearted men that refused to let us go hungry.

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Today is a tough day for those of us that don’t have a mother. It reminds us of what we no longer have and for some what they never had. I can’t imagine a life of never knowing my mother. It is strange and foreign to me, but there are a lot of people who never knew their mother.

Proverbs 31 is referred to as the Ruby Wife Chapter in the Bible. To me it is the Ruby Mother chapter. That was my mother. She worked day and night to care for us. I couldn’t see it as a child, but after having my own children I could see it. My heart goes out to all mothers who put in the long hours every day to care for their entire family.

Today is a hard day. I want my mother to still be here, I want to be able to call her and see her. But I can’t. So what do I do? What do any of us do on this day? We think about women who have been important to our lives. For some, that’s all they have known.

In the Bible, when Jesus was dying on the cross, John 19:26-27 he appointed John, his disciple, to be the son of his mother, and Mary to be his mother. However in Mark 6:3 we see that Jesus had brothers and sisters. Why wouldn’t Jesus leave the care of his mother to one of his biological siblings?

In my opinion it is because of how special she was to him and to God, and how mothers should be to us all. In Mark 6:3 we see that Jesus did have brothers and sisters but they despised him. Jesus wanted someone to care for his mother that loved him and would HONOR her as the mother of the Messiah.

Mother’s Day isn’t about just honoring your mother one day out of the year, it is about honoring her for a lifetime and taking that honor for her seriously, as Christ did on the cross. It was so important to him, that just before he died, while in horrible pain, he remembered his mother, and made sure she was cared for the rest of her days. That’s a true Mother’s Day.

Mother’s Day is more about honor than it is gifts. It’s an honor that we should carry all year long. And I can attest that I took my mother for granted and when she passed away suddenly, I felt the pain of not honoring her. It still haunts me. What I wouldn’t give to do it over again.

If we take nothing else from this difficult day, let it be the resolve to honor our mothers and mother figures, not just today, but for a lifetime. That enduring commitment, as Christ exemplified on the cross, is the true meaning of Mother’s Day. It is the greatest gift we can give to their memory and their legacy.

Sean.

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As I sit here writing this, my dad is in a nursing home, passing away. We got the call on Friday, it could be a few days, weeks or even months but he is in the final stages of life. Don’t judge me harshly for not rushing to his side, dad and I have had a complicated relationship.

The last time I saw him was at Christmas. He spent the time talking with one of my daughters about horses and would ask me, repeatedly, about one of my sisters. One moment he would recognize me and then when a tear would start in his eye, I guess the knowledge of who I was disappeared.

At times he would remember who Mom was and then forget she passed on years before. His body, like his mind, has withered away. He is no longer the strong, fiery preacher running the mountain roads going to various churches or visiting with the members of his congregation.

His memories are distorted, fading in and out like signals on an old radio. One moment clear, then static. The beautiful music, gone. I watched as my grandfather went through this very same thing. Its a tough thing to witness. The people you love forgetting who you are is painful for both. I can see that he wants to remember.

But the past creeps in. I’ve never truly forgiven Dad for not being involved in my life. He never came to a football practice, or game for that matter. He instead either chose the television or his congregation over me and our family.

It seemed, as a child, that no matter what I did or how good I was at something, it was never good enough to get his attention or for him to want to spend time with me. He was well liked in the community but I grew to despise him.

Years later when I was an adult he would try and build a relationship with me. It was too late. I had too much hatred for him built up. Then when Mom passed away, Dad went into a wheelchair to be pushed around the hospital that day. He never came out of it. There was nothing physically wrong with his legs. I hated him even more for giving up.

He wanted to be waited on hand and foot, and wouldn’t even take care of himself. Eventually over the years, his body deteriorated to where he couldn’t take care of himself. That’s when he went into the nursing home and until Christmas was the last time I saw him.

Writing this is extremely hard on me, it’s the hardest thing I have had to write in a long time. Writing about Mom is easy, the beautiful memories just flow onto the page almost without thinking. Writing about Dad brings up a lot of anger and resentment that I had to work through.

Getting this far has taken several weeks, since then I have gone to see him and I am going back again today. I made the two and half hour drive down and all the while angry memories would come up. All the times I wanted him to be around and he wasn’t.

I pulled up to the nursing home and just sat in my car for a few more minutes, suppressing my anger. As I sat there a scripture crossed my mind,

1 Corinthians 13:11

“When I was a child, I spoke as a child, I understood as a child; but when I became a man, I put away childish things.”

Then the Lord flooded my memories for all the times that Dad was there for me and out of anger I chose to ignore those times. He worked every day to provide for us. For an entire year, he would drive 20 minutes out of his way to come pick me up for work and then take me home in the afternoons. We worked on the same horse farm and he was my supervisor.

We spent a lot of time together during that year. I did get to know him better. I did get to see how proud he was of the work that I was doing on the farm and how quickly I was gaining the trust of the managers and veterinarians.

After I had moved away and would come back for a visit he would change the channel on the TV to a football game because he knew I loved football. But I would choose to stay in the kitchen with Mom and visit with her.

Initially I hadn’t planned on staying long at the nursing home, a quick hello and then leaving. But instead I gave all of that anger and resentment to the Lord. I let it pass. Now it was just me and Dad. We visited for a good long time. His memories would fade, he would forget I was there then he would be surprised to see me.

An open wound is now healing, my memories are no longer distorted and I have only the Lord to thank for that. Dad’s time to be at peace will be here soon enough but until then, I will go and visit every chance I get.

Sean

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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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