A Country Boy Can Surmise

Favorite Movies of 2011

2012-01-01T09:37:00.001-08:00

There are lots of films from this year that I haven't seen yet--The Girl With the Dragon Tattoo and Take Shelter, for two--but I did see quite a few, and here are my picks.

1. The Tree of Life. This is a love it or hate it movie. I loved it. I was sometimes frustrated by Sean Penn stumbling about the city, looking up at the sky for unknown reasons, but everything else in it--even the dinosaur scene!--is perfection. I can't remember the last time I saw anything so profoundly moving and beautiful. I love that it's nonlinear and image-driven and music-driven. What images, and what music. And I think it's incredibly brave to make a film that asks questions about God and grace and nature in a time when so many choose apathy and mindless entertainment over true thought. Favorite moment, among many many such moments: when the mother floats.

2. The Artist. Magical, and the production design is incredible. I love the dog-love-story, especially. And the scene where the actress slips her arm into the jacket of the man she's pining for is maybe my favorite movie moment of the year. And I especially loved the dance scenes. Go in knowing that the melodrama is intentional and you'll love it, too.

3. The Descendants. I'm usually not a huge Clooney fan but I really loved his performance, and especially that of Shailene Woodley, who plays his teenage daughter, giving the most realistic performance I've seen all year. I also loved seeing Hawaii as a place where people live instead of simply being shown the tourist version of it.

4. Beginners. This movie is sad and charming (Melanie Laurent!) and stars some of my favorite actors . The performances of the dog and of Christopher Plummer are worth the price alone. I love the way it looks at the complexities of parenthood and being someone's child.

5. The Rise of the Planet of the Apes. This was the biggest surprise of the year. I went into it for my daughters, thinking it would be a fun escape movie. But I found it to be a deeply moving, intelligent, and profound look at animal--and human--rights. And the special effects are pretty amazing, too.

6. Of Gods and Men. Another movie that not enough people saw is this French film based on the true story of a group of priests who choose to stay in the Algerian village with the community they have come to love despite their knowledge that they will certainly be killed by approaching fundamentalist terrorist. It's a brave movie that looks at what faith is and how fundamentalism distorts--and destroys--true belief. This is a quiet, slow movie that movies like a meditative prayer.

7. The Conspirator. One of the least-seen movies of the year is also one of the best. This fact-based story of Mary Surrat's role in the Lincoln assassination is just as timely now as it was when the real thing happened in 1865. Robert Redford directs and explores the way the government can distort the truth for their own gain and how guilt and innocence are more complex than they might appear. Robin Wright deserves and Oscar for her unflinching and deeply moving portrayal of Surrat.

8. Jane Eyre. I loved every brooding, shadowy, and decidedly British moment of this underrated film featuring incredible cinematography and great performances from Michael Fassbender and Mia Wasikowska.

9. Midnight in Paris. Woody Allen movies are either totally hit or miss for me but this is one of his best.

10. Hugo. Another Paris-set movie, and just as magical as Allen's. I loved the book and thought the movie was a beautiful adaptation.

And, in no random order, other films I loved this year:

Harry Potter and The Deathly Hallows Part II concludes my favorite film franchise ever, but my favorites of the lot are The Order of the Phoenix and Deathly Hallows Part I.

-Sarah's Key brings new life to a movie we think we've seen before.

-The Ides of March. Ryan Gosling is great, and I can't help but love that so much of it is set in Kentucky...could have been a truly great movie if released ten years ago, when it was more timely. Felt very dated.

-Crazy, Stupid Love. But why did none of the character react to situations the way people do in real life? That bothered me. But I still loved a lot about it, especially the actors, and the twist at the end.

-Contagion looks exploitive and manipulative in the trailer, but is actually moving and terrifying.

-Bridesmaids is laugh out loud funny, even if it is sometimes completely infantile and crude (do I need to see a woman defecate in the middle of the street in a wedding dress? No, but I couldn't help but laugh).

-Young Adult could have been great, but isn't. Charlize Theron, however, IS.

-Rio. My favorite animated feature of the year. Very, very funny and intelligent.

-Extremely Close and Incredibly Loud. A little pretentious but still moving and insightful.

-And my biggest guilty pleasure of the year: Paranormal Activity 3. I wasn't crazy about the first two. In fact, I thought they were boring and lame. But this one was genuinely scary, inventive, and smart. Don't judge me.

My Favorite Albums of 2011

2011-12-31T10:28:00.000-08:00

These are the albums I listened to most, in no real order. These are the records that are good for just about any situation, in particular the situations in which I most love music: while driving, writing, working, or dancing.

Helplessness Blues-Fleet Foxes. The stand-out here is "Bedouin Dress" but every single track is stellar.

Queen of the Minor Key-Eilen Jewell. One of the most underrated artists out there. "Santa Fe" is one of the best songs I've ever heard.

Circuital-My Morning Jacket. A masterpiece. My favorites: "Wonderful (The Way I Feel)", the title track, and "Black Metal." Layered, profound, and beautiful. If I was forced to pick the album of the year, this would be it.

In the Cool of the Day-Daniel Martin Moore. This album is like church in all the best ways. A sort of gospel record without any of the dogma, this is DMM at his smooth-voiced, tight-songwriting, and guitar-picking, piano-playing best.

Inclusions-Ben Sollee. Ben pushes the boundaries and takes his music down bright new avenues. Musically-brilliant and deeply moving. Warning: this video stars the incredibly cute Oliver Sollee.

Bella-Teddy Thompson. I probably listened to this album more than any other this year, especially the second half. That falsetto. Those string arrangements. Sigh.

Metals-Feist. Slower and more thoughtful than her last record, there are no foot-tapping hits here, just tight, perfect pieces of art.

The Cecil Sharp Project. One of my favorite artists, Caroline Herring, is a member of this group and so that's why I first knew about it, and I still think her tracks are the best, but the whole album is a journey into the heart of Appalachia, a man, and the way music shapes us as a people. Genius.

21-Adele. Without a doubt one of the best pop records in recent history. With this album Adele joins the handful of truly great vocalists, and whoever chose the songs should be given a special award for Songcatcher of the Year.

The Dreaming Fields-Matraca Berg. Elegant and elegiac. The title track is nearly equal to a Willa Cather book and in fact the whole album stands like a perfect short novel.

Sing It Loud-k.d. lang. I've always loved k.d lang's voice but only now has she created an entire wonderful album that I love listening to again and again. If you ever get the chance to hear her live, please do. I heard her in Nashville (at the Ryman, no less) this year and it was definitely one of the best concerts ever.

Torches-Foster the People. The best pop album of the year, full of hooks and great beats.

El Camino-The Black Keys. A sticker on the front reads "Play Loud." Great advice. If you can sit through this without dancing a little, then I don't understand you. Also: best video of the year.

The Mirror-Jill Andrews. This album by the former front-woman for The Everybodyfields didn't get the attention it deserved.

Born This Way-Lady Gaga. Okay, maybe the most overexposed record of 2011, but still one of the best. "You and I" and "Edge of Glory" are both perfect pop songs.

Rave On Buddy Holly-Various Artists. Best tribute album I've ever heard.

Little Bird-Kasey Chambers. Kasey never lets me down, and this is one of her best.

Drawing in the Dirt

2011-01-28T08:43:00.000-08:00

A couple of years ago, I was asked to give the homily for Evensong at St. Peter's Episcopal Church in Paris, Kentucky. I count it among my greatest honors to have been invited by my friend, The Reverend Donavan Cain to give this talk and am glad to share it with you here today.

Drawing In the Dirt

In one of my favorite novels, Gilead by Marilynne Robinson, her lead character, Ames, writes the following: “For me writing has always felt like praying…you feel you are with someone.”

I have never identified more with a line in a piece of literature, for writing has always been my strongest connection to God. Art has been my salvation. Truly, writing saved me.

I had a profound relationship with God from a very early age. On more than one occasion I was convinced that God was speaking to me. One time I remember very clearly: I was in my back yard, playing on my metal swing-set by myself. I spent lots of time alone, by choice, and not by choice. As I was swinging, a great wind tore down the valley, the kind of wind that turns out the pale side of leaves, that spreads a shiver out over everything in its path. I was certain that this was God passing through. And I heard Him speak to me: “I am here,” He said, plain as day, and I knew He was speaking to me, because in that moment, I needed someone there with me. I had felt very alone, but suddenly I felt as I was with someone.

Instead of telling someone this had happened, I went into the house and got out my little black and white composition book where I wrote down everything. I turned to a clean, smooth page and wrote: “March 30, 1981, God spoke to me today. In the wind. He said ‘I am here.’ I believe him.”

Lots of artists I know relate similar experiences. Perhaps some of us are artists because of our strict Christian upbringings, and our wildly creative minds led to these encounters. Perhaps as writers we were doing what writers and artists are supposed to do: hearing like an animal, seeing like a camera, feeling everything intensely. For this is the artists’ great responsibility, to listen, see, feel, smell, taste. To experience everything as intensely as possible, and then report our findings.

There are many beautiful instances of art being used in the Bible. Among my favorites are Exodus 15:20 when Miriam sings her song of celebration. The verse goes, “Then the prophet Miriam, Aaron’s sister, took a tambourine in her hand; and all the women went out after her with tambourines and with dancing.”

2 Samuel 6:14 tells us that David danced before the Lord with all his might.

But my very favorite is in John 8, when Jesus deals with the angry people by drawing in the dirt. Beginning with John 8:3 it goes: “The scribes and the Pharisees brought a woman who had been caught in adultery; and making her stand before all of them, ⁴they said to him, ‘Teacher, this woman was caught in the very act of committing adultery. ⁵Now in the law Moses commanded us to stone such women. Now what do you say?’ ⁶They said this to test him, so that they might have some charge to bring against him. Jesus bent down and wrote with his finger on the ground. ⁷When they kept on questioning him, he straightened up and said to them, ‘Let anyone among you who is without sin be the first to throw a stone at her.’ ⁸And once again he bent down and wrote on the ground. ⁹When they heard it, they went away, one by one, beginning with the elders; and Jesus was left alone with the woman standing before him. ¹⁰Jesus straightened up and said to her, ‘Woman, where are they? Has no one condemned you?’ ¹¹She said, ‘No one, sir.’ And Jesus said, ‘Neither do I condemn you. Go your way, and from now on do not sin again.’”

Christ’s drawing on the ground is one of the great mysteries of the Bible. Scholars have theorized over it for years: What did he draw on the ground? Or, what did he write on the ground? Why did he do this? What is the symbolism here? I am not sure, of course. But I like to think that Christ wrote in the dirt because the act of writing was a way of prayer for him. What I know for sure is that his drawing in the dirt--whether it was letters or pictures--was an act of art, just like Miriam’s song of celebration and David’s dancing. Just as the Song of Solomon and the Psalms are among the most amazing works of art to have ever been produced.

Another of my favorite writers, Willa Cather, who wrote masterpieces like My Antonia and O Pioneers! Once said “The prayers of all good people are good.” This quote is somewhat of a mystery, too, really. But when thought on, I believe that one thing Cather was saying is that anyone who strives to be good is thereby good. I also believe that one of the many functions of art is to make us better people. The act of making art makes us better people. The act of looking at, reading, hearing, or experiencing art has the potential to make us better.

Art, by illuminating the truth, sheds light on how we can be better people. Nearly everything I ever learned about being a better person, and more specifically a better Christian, I learned from books and poems. I am thinking of novels like The Color Purple, by Alice Walker, which taught me that the true path to God is to recognize Him and honor Him every single day. In that book the character Shug Avery says, “Everything want to be loved. Us sing and dance, make faces and give flower bouquets trying to be loved. People think pleasing God is all God cares about. But any fool living in the world can see He’s always trying to please us back.” When you walk through the world every single day noticing everything, you are honoring God. And that is what any artist must do to be a truly good artist. There is no way that an artist can walk through the day without seeing, hearing, feeling, smelling, tasting, and experiencing everything they can. It is not a great leap to make this a part of one’s religiosity or spirituality.

Often, nowadays, many Christians are taught that our job is to judge and then condemn everyone. Many do not hear the message of compassion. Sometimes I am confused by the modern state of Christianity and religion, period. Sometimes I question it's validity in the modern world. Sometimes I question everything, which is something I was not taught to do in my childhood church. "We are not to question God" was the refrain back then, or, somewhat more eloquently we were reminded that God moved "in mysterious ways" and we were not to wonder too much about His Great Mind.

So imagine the spiritual and religious breakthrough for me when I read the following poem by Mary Oliver, a poem I try to share with as many people as possible because I think it is a lesson in how to be a better person, a lesson in how to not judge, but to have compassion, to spread love instead of hatred, and most of all it is a lesson in loving ourselves, which so many of us have such a hard time doing because we have told that this is a selfish thing to do. This poem is “Wild Geese,” by Mary Oliver:

You do not have to be good

You do not have to walk on your knees

For a hundred miles through the desert praying

You only have to let the soft animal of your body

Love what it loves.

Tell me about despair, yours, and I will tell you mine.

Meanwhile the world goes on.

Meanwhile the sun and the clear pebbles of the rain

Are moving across the landscape,

Over the prairies and the deep trees,

The mountains and the rivers.

Meanwhile the wild geese, high in the clean blue sky

Are heading home again.

Whoever you are, no matter how lonely,

The world offers itself to your imagination,

Calls to you like the wild geese, harsh and exciting,

Over and over announcing your place

In the family of things.

I believe God shows up there, in the lines of that poem. A thing of so much beauty must surely possess him. What Oliver is saying, I believe, is that we don’t have to punish ourselves to be children of God, that in fact, God is love and He has his arms outstretched to all of us, not just a few. These are verses of kindness and compassion, and verses that remind us to look for God’s wisdom in every single thing, like the wild geese flying overhead.

Art teaches us to give thanks. Anne Lamott, the author of books like Traveling Mercies, Bird by Bird, and others, says that the two best poems she knows are “Please Please Please” and “Thank you thank you thank you.” I’ve used both of those prayers many, many times, and they are cleansing things.

On this night of evensong, let’s give thanks for all the art around us: the wonderful building we are in, the moving songs given by the choir, the perfect scriptures read by our beloved Donavan, the precise gray of the winter’s sky, the beauty of every single person gathered herein. With that in mind, a poem of thanks, by a Kentucky poet and a good man, Maurice Manning. His poem, Bucolic Number 76, in which the narrator refers to God as “Boss”:

Thank you for the leaf Boss

Thank you for the tree thank

You for the knife-edge wind

Thank you for the breath behind

The wind breath sweeter than

A horse’s sweet oat breath

Thank you Boss O thank you

For the yellow-belly sun for

The moon fatter than a tick

Thank you for the season

Thank you for the long-leg

Shadows Boss thank you

For paring down the day

Today for bossing all of it

Away except the fish-eye sky

O except the leaf that leapt

Into my hands thank you for

Two hands to make a cup

To hold the leaf Boss thank you

For the red bug riding on the leaf

That’s another poem that taught me the way to serve better, that taught me to give thanks. I will close with my favorite Bible verse, which I am sure many of you know: Galatians 6:9: "Let us not become weary in doing good, for at the proper time we will reap a harvest if we do not give up.” This is what I try to think of every morning when my feet hit the floor. I think about the bright possibility of a new day and how I can be of service. Not because I want to reap that harvest the verse speaks of, but because I think that’s why we’re here: to be good one another, to help one another, to work hard and laugh much, to love and love and love.

I believe God lives in everything. Not just churches and cathedrals. Not just in trees and leaves of grass and flowers. But even in—especially in—the leads of pencils, the lenses of cameras, the tips of paintbrushes, the pirouette of a ballerina, the rich alto of a singer, the curve of a sculptor’s cut, in books and poems and music. He made all of these things and made them a gift to us, so let us all go out into the world with the hope of giving back this gift.

My Favorite Movies of 2010

2011-01-08T19:53:00.000-08:00

Besides one, I can't decide the order of my favorites of the year, so here they are in no particular order. There are lots of movies I still want to see from 2010 (especially Toy Story 3, The Social Network, Let Me In, A Piece of Work, and others) that I'm sure will go on this list, but for now, these are my picks...

True Grit-I can decide that this is my favorite of the year. Based on one of my favorite novels, I thought this version perfectly captured the spirit of the book. I loved every single thing about it, but especially the score, the nuanced and subtle performance by Hallie Steinfeld, the cinematography, the trees, Little Blackie, and "the long ride" sequence that goes down in my list of my favorite movie moments. I was moved in every way by the whole movie.

Black Swan-Natalie Portman's performance is incredibly powerful and the look of the film causes me to think of overused adjectives like "beautiful". Since the visuals were so original, I was a little disappointed that the plot was so familiar (an overbearing, protective mother leads to a perfectionist child who teeters on the edge of self-destruction) but I forgave it because it was all so well-paced and never let up. By the end of the movie I realized that I hadn't been aware of anything else except what was on screen. Few movies can hold the attention like that. Plus I loved what all it said about being an artist.

The Kids Are All Right-I love that the movie that says the biggest and best things about family values is about a family that many would deem unconventional. And Annette Bening turns in one of the best performances I've ever witnessed. The scene where she sings Joni Mitchell's "All I Want" is heartbreaking and beautiful and lingers just long enough. Also: perfect ending!

Easy A-My favorite comedy of the year, for sure. It's laugh-out-loud funny, and it's one of the most moral movies I've ever seen, examining how the complexities of morality enlarge our view of God versus the way modern Christianity has simplified religion into something small. Really intelligent. And Emma Stone is awesome.

The Deathly Hallows-I thought this installation of Harry Potter was pretty perfect. My favorite is still The Order of the Phoenix but there was nothing to dislike about this. I especially appreciated the long passages of stillness and silence, two things rarely seen in blockbusters. Best of all about this movie, and the whole Potter franchise, is that nothing is ever dumbed down for the audience, which is also unusual for big hits. Hardly anybody in the movies is endearing as the three leads.

Inception-Everyone is talking about Black Swan being the most visually interesting movie of the year, but actually this one is. I'm still not sure I have it all figured out but what I like most about it is that the filmmakers DO and are not just trying to pull one over on me (unlike Tron...the people who made that can't possibly have any more idea what is happening than I did). I love all the attention to detail, beauty, and precise language. Plus it has Leonardo DiCaprio, Ellen Page, Marion Cotillard, AND Tom Hardy.

The Fighter-Some people I know who are great movie buffs were turned off by this one ("I've seen that movie before" was something two trusted friends said to me about it) but I absolutely loved it. I thought that more than anything it was a great sense of place film. I felt like I had been to that neighborhood, and I also felt like that neighborhood was my own. And it turned in some of the best performances of the year with Melissa Leo (everyone should know who she is...she can out-act just about anybody in the world). Plus Amy Adams and Christian Bale are Oscar-worthy, too. I think that instead of being a retread THE FIGHTER is actually a reinvention of the boxing movie genre, telling the story in a completely original and exhilarating way.

The Secret In Their Eyes-My favorite foreign-language film of the year, with a haunting score and a mind-blowing plot.

Helen-the least-seen movie on this list is also one of the year's absolute best. It's a shame it wasn't seen, because it showcases Ashley Judd's best performance ever as a woman desperately trying to claw her way out of depression. The movie is the best exploration of depression I've ever seen. It's very slow but that works in its favor. Judd should have had a shot at an Oscar nomination with this one.

The King’s Speech-Beautifully written and acted, with some of my favorite actors. Nothing mind-blowing or absolutely new, but an excellent look at determination, loyalty, and duty.

Winter’s Bone-My fellow Kentuckian Jennifer Lawrence gives a star-making performance. I especially loved the way the filmmakers used local people (especially that singing woman). This movie gives dignity to the place and its people, revealing the complexities of rural life while never shying away from the terrible aspects. Another one I loved everything about, and that last line is one to remember.

Top 21 Music of 2010

2010-12-28T21:48:00.001-08:00

There is so much good music happening today that I just cannot contain my list to a Top 10 or even a Top 20. I had to go with 21. And I love all of the albums so much that I couldn't rank them. So here they are in no particular order, all of them great pieces of art that gave me hours of listening pleasure. I’m sure I’ve forgotten some other great records, so feel free to point them out. But these were the ones that stuck with me the most, and I hope that you’ll check them out…

A perfect Sunday morning record. Patty Griffin’s voice is church.

Come Around Sundown-Kings of Leon

Here’s another one I loved to drive to. The songs “Back Down South” and “Mary” are just as good on the five hundredth play as the first, and I ought to know. Both of these are the kinds of songs that go on my permanent “to-write-to” playlist. In fact, "Back Down South" became one of the central songs on the soundtrack to the novel I'm working on, Evona Darling.

Infinite Arms-Band of Horses

This whole album is like a perfect summer evening. Lovely, and I reserve that word for only the loveliest of things.

Flamingo-Brandon Flowers

The songwriting. The music. The vocals. The background vocals. Did I mention the songwriting? “Hard Enough,” “Crossfire,” “Swallow It,”—hell, practically every song on here—are perfect little gems. “Playing With Fire” goes on my life’s soundtrack.

Crows-Allison Moorer

A perfect record. “Easy in the Summertime” is a perfect song (and my favorite song of the year), and it gives me cold chills every time I listen to it. Especially if you know Moorer’s family history. This is probably Moorer’s best album, and that’s saying a lot since she is one of the best singer-songwriters I know of.

Dear Companion-Ben Sollee and Daniel Martin Moore.

Yes, Ben and Daniel are friends of mine. Yes, I co-wrote the liner notes. But there is no denying that this is the most beautiful record of the year (and one tackling an important topic, too, without ever even hinting at becoming a polemic). The songwriting is top-notch, the picking is unparalleled (DMM can play a guitar the way a creek can make its music over old rocks; Ben Sollee is single-handedly revitalizing the cello’s place in the people’s music), and the album unfolds like a masterful novel.

God Willing and the Creek Don’t Rise-Ray LaMontagne and the Pariah Dogs

The best album to drive to this year, hands down. “OId Before Your Time” now takes its place as one of my favorite songs, ever. The other cuts are almost as good.

Sigh No More-Mumford and Sons

Released in England last year but in America in 2010, this one feels like the discovery of the year. The banjo never rocked harder, and those harmonies are flat-out great.

Self-Titled-Courtyard Hounds.

Another great driving album. I love Natalie Maines’s voice but was sort of glad to just hear the other two Dixie Chicks with their more laid-back groove. This is the perfect record for the lake or the beach. “Ain’t No Son” further proves them as the rebels they are.

Talkin to You Talking to Me-The Watson Twins

These Kentucky sisters can out-sing just about anybody, and these songs are arranged with intricate grace. Hands down the most underrated album of the year…everyone should know about the Watson Twins, and this should have been the album that made that happen. I especially love "Harpeth River" and "Modern Man".

Harlem River Blues-Justin Townes Earle

A tour of New York City through alt-country. The title track is perfection. That big chorus behind him especially kills me…they make me picture a big group standing on the banks of the river, as if witnessing a baptism. Lord, it’s good.

Lungs-Florence & The Machine

“Dog Days” is a perfect song, and to see her perform it is a thing of rare beauty. The best thing, though, is that this whole CD hangs in there with just as much strength and dark beauty.

A Friend of A Friend-David Rawlings Machine

The other half of Gillian Welch is one of America’s best modern songwriters. “I Hear Them All” alone could serve as proof of that, and “Bells of Harlem” spells it out in big neon lights. If you ever get a chance to see Rawlings and Welch live, please do it.

Brothers-The Black Keys

Best album for your next dance party, or your next drive, or your next writing session. This one made the Keys go mainstream (not that there’s anything wrong with that, maybe), so I’m hoping that won’t destroy their raw, fearless style. If it does at least we have their masterpiece in BROTHERS. This album also delivered the best video of the year, which you can watch here (although you have to watch an ad first, sorry):

Genuine Negro Jig-Caroline Chocolate Drops

The playing, the singing, the songcatching. This is the best old-time record of the year, which is particularly interesting since they make old-time sound completely new.

Have One On Me-Joanna Newsom

It took me awhile to understand the charms of Joanna Newsom but now I am fully under her spell. She rocks the harp the way Mumford & Sons rock the banjo, but with a whisper instead of a scream.

No Better Than This-John Mellencamp

Mellencamp is one of my all-time favorite artists, and no other rocker has better captured the complexity of being rural. This album is totally different from anything he’s ever done before (partly because it’s (brilliantly) recorded in mono). “Take Time to Dream” is one of his best songs, period.

Dare To be True-Chely Wright

Chely Wright is aggressive, brave, fearless, strong, and completely revealing in this collection of honesty.

Tears, Lies & Alibis-Shelby Lynne

This is Lynne’s best album since her big breakthrough (I Am Shelby Lynne). “Like a Fool” perfectly captures the confusion and wonder of falling in love and “Family Tree” is a rare –and welcomed—look at being angry at blood. As always, Lynne does her own thing, and her voice has never sounded better than on this CD.

Self-titled-The Secret Sisters

I have to mention this album, although I only truly love half of it. The original are GREAT, but I could have done without all of the covers. although their version of "I've Got a Feeling" is pretty swell. And for some reason T Bone Burnett, the producer, failed to put their best cover—their version of Cash’s “Big River” (with THE Jack White on guitar)—on the album. Love their harmonies and their songwriting.

You Are Not Alone-Mavis Staples

The other album I love to put on during a peaceful Sunday morning. The title track, written by Jeff Tweedy, is especially good, but Staples delivers each song like holy things, which they are.

Interpretations-Bettye LaVette

I fell in love with LaVette when she perform “Love Reign O’er Me” on last year’s Kennedy Center Honors of the Who, so I was very glad when a whole album grew out of that performance. These covers of classics from the British songbook do what covers SHOULD do—reinterpret them through the singer’s own style instead of simply recycling. LaVette puts her on spin on every track, from the Beatles’ under-known “The Word” to Led Zeppelin’s “All My Love.”

Love and Shame

2010-11-03T08:04:00.000-07:00

Lots of people have written to tell me that they are very disappointed in me for making my Facebook status “Silas House has never before been ashamed to be a Kentuckian” last night, when election results were coming in. I meant for my status to be intentionally inflammatory and hyperbolic, to properly express my disbelief that someone I find to be a laughable candidate could be elected. Perhaps it was a poor choice of words because now that I look deep into myself, I realize that I am not ashamed to be a Kentuckian.

But in that moment I was, and I cannot deny that. I am not ashamed to be a Kentuckian, but I am embarrassed (and yes, ashamed) that we put someone like Rand Paul into office. I am embarrassed that my state will be represented by Paul for the next SIX years.

I’m embarrassed because of things he has said like this: "I don't think anyone’s going to be missing a hill or two around here,” about mountaintop removal, an issue that is absolutely dividing the Appalachian people and leading to widespread suffering on many fronts. That is simplifying an issue that is near and dear to my heart, as people I know and love are suffering because of MTR (because of loss of jobs, pollution, fear, etc.).

I’m embarrassed because of his close-minded views on equality and education and taxation and so many other things.

I’m embarrassed that a man voted to represent my state is so ignorant of the state’s rich history that he said in a national magazine he had no idea why Harlan County is so famous (it’s because of the bloody coal wars of the 1920s, when Appalachians actually stood up for what they believed in and fought back against big company greed) and went onto say that he did, however, know why Hazard is well-known: because “it’s famous for, like, 'The Dukes of Hazzard'.” That TV show was set in Georgia, not Kentucky and Hazard, Kentucky is a place of dignity and beauty that shouldn’t be reduced by him to being known only because of a television show.

I’m embarrassed because he said this in relation to the Civil Rights Act: "I mean, if you don't trace your ancestry to northern Europe and you're really hungry, if you ask nicely, maybe they'll let you come in. I mean, these are things we can solve without laws and stuff." We actually elected someone who said that. Disgusting. Obviously we couldn’t solve those things without laws, which is why the laws were passed.

I could go on. But I don’t want to talk about all the reasons I’m embarrassed by Rand Paul.

I want to let you know that I believe a person can sometimes be ashamed or embarrassed of a place and also love it without missing a beat. In fact, sometimes I love the place for the same reasons I get frustrated at it. Love is complex. So is shame.

So perhaps I wrote a facebook status in a moment of emotion. And while I might have a second thought about it, I will not apologize for it. Because in that moment, I felt it, I believed it, and that is my right.

Some of you have written to say that as an artist I should keep my political beliefs to myself, to not mix politics and entertainment, to keep my beliefs mysterious so they don’t interfere with my writing. Some of you have written to tell me I should keep my “mouth shut” because it’s none of my business (it is), that I should "shut the hell up" (I won't), that I’ve gotten above my raising (I haven’t), and because I’m wrong (that’s your opinion).

Just because I write fiction doesn’t mean that I don’t have a right to my own opinion, to my own truth.

Lots of you have told me that I shouldn’t have said I was ashamed because I am a “representative of Kentucky.” I am humbled and honored that you think as much, but I also have to point out that a representative of a particular place would be doing that place a disservice by romanticizing it, or by only illuminating what is positive about it. Everywhere I go, I try to tell people that Kentucky is a COMPLEX place. Because people have one of two stereotypes about this place: they think it’s either “beautiful and simple” or “stupid and simple.” The thing you might notice there is that unequivocally ignorant people think that Kentucky is simple, that things move slowly here, that we are not as complex as other people. The thing I zoom in on is their perception of us being stupid and simple and slow. Because we are not a simple people. We’re complex, and that’s what I want people to know. Still, it would be wrong of me to go around saying that everything is perfect in Kentucky, because it’s not. But I believe that no matter where I go people can feel the love I have for this place and its people in the way I talk about it, the way I write about it.

I have been a published writer for almost ten years. In that time I’ve been accused of perpetuating stereotypes and breaking stereotypes. All I’ve ever tried to do is tell the truth about the one little postage-stamp-sized patch of Kentucky land that I know and love, the same piece of land that sometimes perplexes and frustrates me.

Kentucky is beautiful and wonderful because of its diversity and complexity, not in spite of it, and that’s why I wish we had a senator who was celebrating that. Which reminds me, someone last night pointed out that almost half of all Kentuckians—about 45%--voted against Paul. Which means that we are not as single-minded as people might think.

That’s something to be proud of.

End of Summer Music Playlist

2010-08-26T18:14:00.000-07:00

There is so much good music right now that it awaits us like a feast. Here are some of my current favorites. After the jump you'll find embedded videos of some of the songs. Let me know what songs you're listening to these days.

Playlist (in no particular order)

1. Old Before Your Time-Ray LaMontagne
2. Save Some Time To Dream-John Mellencamp
3. Wise Woman-Caroline Herring
4. Evening Kitchen-Band of Horses
5. Golden-My Morning Jacket
6. Sweet Marie-Daniel Martin Moore and Ben Sollee
7. Whispering Sea-Eilen Jewell
8. Holding On-David Gray
9. I Miss You-Courtyard Hounds
10. The Cave-Mumford & Sons
11. Kind-Cheyenne Marie
12. Still-Great Lake Swimmers
13. Smoking From Shooting-My Morning Jacket
14. Swept Away-Avett Brothers
15. Lantern-Josh Ritter
16. Broken-Chely Wright
17. Easy in the Summertime-Allison Moorer
18. Cindy Gal-Carolina Chocolate Drops
19. For the Summer-Ray LaMontagne
20. All Creatures Of Our God and King-Patty Griffin

Recommendations

2010-07-21T10:28:00.000-07:00

There are so many mediocre (or downright bad) books, movies, television, and music that it's sometimes hard to remember that there is so much great art being produced these days. So, a list of things I've enjoyed very much recently.

Books

Little Bee by Chris Cleave. This is the most powerful book that I've read in a long while. The plot is so intricate and wonderful that I hate to even describe it for fear of giving something away, so I'll describe it as being about a young Nigerian refugee who is living with a British journalist and the way their relationship is formed and how it blooms into a profound friendship. The novel is about much more than that, and opened my eyes to atrocities being committed around the world that I had absolutely no idea about. I loved Little Bee especially because it is that rare thing: a literary page-turner. The language is precise and beautiful and the pages fly by due to the feverish plot-driven pacing. I can't recommend this book highly enough, although I should tell you that it is not for the faint

-of-heart, despite its sunny cover.

Jonah's Gourd Vine by Zora Neale Hurston. I really did not think that any of Hurston's books could be as beautiful as Their Eyes Were Watching God, but this one comes very, very close. The life story of a man who tries hard to be good then falls victim to his own desires and makes a horrible mistake that marks him forever, this novel is almost Biblical in tone and rhythm (as the title suggests). With a cast of characters I will never forget and sense of place so palpable that I could feel the blistering Alabama sun on the top of my head while reading, Jonah's Gourd Vine is a book that I encourage everyone to read with a pen in hand so you can mark all the amazing passages. The book is full of dialect, which I love, but some people find it hard to read. Get beyond that and you'll find one of the most beautiful novels ever written.

Movies

Winter's Bone. I went into Winter's Bone with some hesitation. I knew that it was set in a rural place and that it involved "tough customers" as we call them, people who are involved in the drug trade and live way up in the head of the holler where they can see the enemy and the law coming. So, when you put rural people and the drug trade together in Hollywood, you usually end up with nothing more than stereotypes. Luckily this is an independent film, directed, written, and produced by people who understand the place and the people. In this movie the rural people refuse to be the victims, especially the main character, played with amazing strength and defiance by a Kentucky actress named Jennifer Lawrence, whose performance is already getting Oscar buzz. Besides the great performances and writing, what I loved most about the movie were perfect little details that showed up in the set design and costumes. There is a beautiful musical centerpiece in the film and it is all so real that it made me feel like I was right at home amongst people I had known all of my life. If you see one movie this summer, make it Winter's Bone. Also not for the faint of heart, and not a date or popcorn movie in any way...I tend to like dark stuff.

Television

People sometimes ask me why I love True Blood so much. Well, this season has tested my patience to say the least, yet I still cannot look away. What I love so much about True Blood is that it's about ethics, about doing the right thing. The second season was a constant look at faith and the nature of God. The profound nature of the show is sometimes hidden beneath--and always buffered by--the campiness that it offers. Often I think the show goes farther than I need it to (that whole head-twisting scene? I could've done without that) and I am downright tired of seeing the female characters constantly put in jeopardy but I am sticking with it because in the end it's about Sookie trying her best to be a good person and to protect everyone she loves. It's vulgar and over-the-top and too bloody, sure, but it's also intelligent and addictive. I can't look away (but I still like Big Love better).

Music

Besides the True Blood theme song, which I've posted above, here are some other songs I'm loving this summer. My most recent heavy-rotation playlist:

Albums:

Caroline Herring-Silver Apples of the Moon. This five song EP is a treasure, with a new favorite of mine, "China".

Mumford and Sons-Sigh No More. Every song is great.

Chely Wright-Lifted Off the Ground. This one has to be listened to from beginning to end to fully appreciate.

Sia-We Are Born. Pure pop, but pop done really really well. A great summertime record. Thanks to my daughter for introducing me to this.

Songs

"I Forget It's There"-Lay Low

"Hop High My Lulu Gal"-Dirk Powell

The Sufferings

2010-06-02T04:34:00.000-07:00

President Obama recently toured the Gulf to see firsthand the massive oil spill that has been plaguing us for more than a month now. He also convened a long press conference about the spill. We see coverage of the spill at the top of the news, often accompanied by a live shot of the oil pumping out into the ocean from a camera situated a mile below the surface.

I can’t imagine the president doing a flyover of a mountaintop removal site, or holding a press conference about it. And I’ve certainly never seen a mountain blown up on national television—not even once, much less every morning on the Today show.

Yet I would venture to say that mountaintop removal (MTR) is as devastating as the oil spill in the Gulf.

I don’t mean to compare suffering. What I’m saying is actually the opposite of comparison: they’re equally as bad, yet everyone is outraged about the spill while very few people even know about MTR.

Both the oil spill and MTR are environmental, cultural, economic, and health disasters. Both are devastating an entire way of life.

Every time someone says that more than 100 miles of shoreline has been affected by the oil spill, I want to shout that at least 1, 500 miles of waterways have been lost forever in Appalachia.

Every time I think about the spill I also think of the pollution pumping into our creeks and rivers by way of MTR. I think of all the people in the fishing industry whose jobs are threatened by the spill, and then of all the hard-working Appalachians who can’t find a good-paying job besides the mines because we live in a mono-economy created and fostered by the coal industry. I think of how the spill could affect the Gulf so badly that the region’s fishing industry could be wiped out. Immediately I think of how mountaintop removal is hurting all the industries in Appalachia, particularly timber and tourism. New economy doesn’t want to come into a place that has been turned into a war zone with pollution, constant blasting, and intimidation.

Recently a friend of mine pointed out that “we’re witnessing the death of the Gulf.” It’s a heartbreaking prospect, but one that seems true. As of this writing, we’ve been witnessing that for forty-four days. Our president recently said this about the spill: “Every day that this leak continues is an assault on the people…, their livelihoods, and the natural bounty that belongs to all of us.” Couldn’t he say the same about MTR, which assaults all that we have in common, namely the air and the water, as author and environmentalist Erik Reese has pointed out? We’ve been witnessing the death of the mountains for much, much longer. If you trace it back to when mountaintop removal started, about 30 years ago, that’d be 10, 950 days. A lot more than 44.

Most of the people who live on the Gulf are not wealthy. Those in the fishing industry are much like our underground miners: hard-working, determined, and very proud of their jobs. The big difference is that since the Gulf is not caught up in a mono-economy, we actually have fishermen on the news complaining about the oil companies. Here in Appalachia, miners fear they will lose their jobs and we’ve been taught by the industry that if we say anything at all against coal, we’re downright unpatriotic.

Sadly, the lack of outrage over MTR may boil down to images and quick definitions. It’s easy to turn the spill into a quick sound bite (Oil is pumping into the ocean) and not so easy to do the same with MTR, which is a much more complicated issue; for one thing, it’s hard to convince people that to be against MTR does not mean one is against miners. Most of the MTR opponents count miners as one of the reasons they’re in this fight to begin with.

And there is that dramatic, sickening image that is easily captured (the oil pumping into the ocean) and put on the morning news shows. A camera can’t quite capture the scope of MTR. Even seeing it in person can’t really do it justice. The only way one can truly take in the devastation is to do a fly-over, so the sheer magnitude of it can be realized. Which is another reason why Obama should do a fly-over of Appalachia, the same way he’s done in the Gulf.

The major difference between the spill and MTR is that the spill was a preventable accident, while MTR is not only intentional, but also sanctioned by our government. Those who are trying to stop it are being called things like “greeniacs,” “atheists,” and being compared to Osama Bin Laden by Massey CEO Don Blankenship. T-shirts sold at my local flea market encourage people to “Save a miner’s job: Shoot a tree-hugger.”

I appreciate the attention Obama is paying to the Oil Spill. I especially appreciate that he took time out of his press conference to talk about this being a wake-up call, a time to start thinking about renewable energy. It’s great to hear a president talk about that. I especially appreciate how much better this administration is on the issue than the last one was. We actually have an EPA that is doing something now, such as actually examining permits before rubber-stamping them.

That’s great, but it’s time to do more about it. Obama is doing a lot of great talk but it’s time to start walking the walk.

It’s time to start talking about sustainable jobs for miners who are losing theirs to machines on MTR sites. It’s time to try to salvage these devastated MTR sites into the only thing they’re really usable for now: wind farms. It’s time that legislators started talking to the president about the first renewable energy jobs going to miners.

Most of all, it’s time to see mountaintop removal as being as devastating an environmental disaster as the spill. Because it is.

Notes:

1. Even the coal industry’s own website shows that more than 30,000 miners jobs have been lost in Kentucky alone since the advent of MTR in the late 70s. http://www.coaleducation.org/ky_coal_facts/

2. Pulitzer Prize-winning author John McQuaid has written an excellent overview of how the new EPA has become more effective. http://politifi.com/news/Coal-Baron-Blankenship-Calls-Critics-And--402023.html

3. http://politifi.com/news/Coal-Baron-Blankenship-Calls-Critics-And--402023.html

4. For more on intimidation and the complexities of MTR, see this piece in the Washington Post: www.washingtonpost.com/wp-dyn/content/article/2008/04/19/AR2008041900941.html

5. For more on Erik Reese and the assault on the commons (air, water, mountains, etc.), go here: http://www.orionmagazine.org/index.php/articles/article/4809/

Best of 2009: My Picks

2010-01-04T07:02:00.000-08:00

Once again, I have two albums as my top album of the year because they are both so masterful that I cannot choose between them: Golden Apples of the Sun by Caroline Herring and Give Up the Ghost by Brandi Carlile. These are the two albums of 2009 that anyone who really loves great music (read: that which is most likely not on contemporary mainstream radio) must buy right now.

Last year Caroline Herring topped my list (in a tie with Ben Sollee’s Learning to Bend) with her album Lantana, a record that I believe to be as packed with as many keen observations about humanity and the Gothic South as the best of Flannery O’Connor or Lucinda Williams. The standout track on that album, “Paper Gown,” a modern murder ballad about Susan Smith, is among the best songs I’ve ever heard in my life. I didn’t think she’d ever be able to outdo herself, but then she goes and records the best album of 2009, and a modern masterpiece: Golden Apples of the Sun.

If there was any justice in this old world (and children, I hate to say it, but there just ain’t, not for true artists) everyone would know that Herring is one of the best contemporary American singer/songwriters. Golden Apples is an album in the true sense of the world: it begs to be listened to as a whole, in one sitting, and it’s magic every step of the way. I don’t know which to brag on first: the songwriting, or the singing, or the fact that Herring manages to pull the whole thing off with little more than her own voice and a couple of guitars (she’s on one, the producer—David “Goody” Goodrich--is on the other).

I always tell my writing students that every good piece of writing begins with both a mystery and a love story. And that every single sentence must be a poem. And that economy is the key to all good writing. And that every character has to have a secret. Herring is a masterful writer, and each of her songs are little mysteries and big love stories, economic and perfect, full of secrets and poetry.

Take a song like “Tales of the Islander,” wherein every single line is a mystery begging to be solved. Even if you don’t do your research and find out that it’s about Gulf Coast folk artist Walter Anderson, a brilliant, troubled artist who eventually left his family and sought out solitude on an island in the Gulf, you still know that it’s a song about the power and joy and pain of being an artist with such heightened senses that the birds call just to him “so deep.”

“The Dozens,” her powerful look at the continuing Civil Rights movement is especially timely and is garnering all kinds of praise. Once listened to, you’ll never get the beautiful melody out of your head. Another favorite of mine on the record is “Abuelita”, which resonates with me in particular because I, too, had a grandmother whose history and heritage had been denied to me. And there there is “A Little Bit of Mercy,” a song that manages to captures the very essence of hope in less than four minutes (and supplies a perfect tambourine that serves as a heartbeat for the song). And the best cover ever of “True Colors,” which was made famous by Cyndi Lauper but is made even more moving in Herring’s capable hands. And her take on “See See Rider” that brings out every bit of emotion in the song that you might have missed before. I could go on and on, and you see where I’m going here: the truth is that I love every single one of the songs on Golden Apples of the Sun (okay, I could have done without another cover of “Long Black Veil,” but her arrangement of it is so great that I’ll forgive it, and it’s grown on me). This is a record by an artist at the height of her game. One listen and you’ll know that Caroline Herring is the real deal, and she’s the singer-songwriter for this generation of people who appreciate real, unadulterated music.

Read my friend Marianne Worthington’s brilliant review of Golden Apples of the Sun in New Southerner, then check out Herring on “All Things Considered" and become a fan on facebook, where you can listen to some of her songs.

Something about the songs Brandi Carlile writes and/or records seem like the soundtrack of my life. It’s as if she and her songwriting partners, Phil and Tim Hanseroth, (affectionately known as “The Twins” by her devoted fans) can look in and see everything that matters. There are so many great songs on this album that I can’t even begin to articulate how much I love them. Each song is a gem that aches with joy and pain and everything in between. Let’s look at just a few of this collection of eleven songs:

“Dying Day” manages to capture longing. And that’s a hard, hard thing to capture. If the lyrics don’t kill you, the fiddle will.

“Dreams” starts with Brandi’s soft declaration of “I have dreams” and builds to a thundering, screaming declaration of someone ready to go out and start living instead of dreaming. The most beautiful song ever to which you’ll head-bang.

“That Year” is a mystery that will leave you reeling, one of the most heart-breaking songs you’ll ever hear, even before you figure it all out. Anyone who has ever regretted something will relate.

“Caroline” sounds like what it feels like to be in love. Again, a hard thing to capture. But she does it. I've heard that this song is actually about Brandi's niece, but I think it can be applied to love in any form.

“Oh Dear” is three voices and a ukulele. And it’s magic.

If you ever get the chance to see Brandi live, don't hesitate. Best live show I've ever seen, hands down.

The rest of my favorites of the year, in no particular order, some with anecdotes, some not, all highly recommended:

Scott Miller has written some of my favorite songs (“The Way,” "Angels Dwell," “For Jack Tymon,” “Ciderville Saturday Night,” “Dear Sarah,” “Highland County Boy,” I could go on and on) but he has flat outdone himself with two compositions on his latest record: “I’m Right Here My Love,” a duet with Patty Griffin is one of the most beautiful love dialogues I’ve ever heard, while “Appalachian Refugee” manages to zoom in on the very personal (the death of his wife’s father) and transcend that, becoming a defining song of the Appalachian people, tapping into emotions about our connection to this place and doing nothing short of articulating feelings that have only previously been properly articulated by people like Harriette Arnow, Loretta Lynn, James Still, and Lee Smith.

Hardly anyone knows the record Sea of Tears by Eilen Jewell but everyone should. It’s definitely in my top five favorite albums of the year (although I’m not really ranking anything but the best one, and you see how that went, since I had to chose two as the best). Rooted deeply in a fever pitch moment of the rockabilly-meets-folk-meets-rock of the early 1960s andy yet fully contemporary, Sea of Tears is full of good songs and plays like a beautiful novel when played all the way through. This album is the underdog of the year, and I’m saddened it didn’t get more attention. It deserves it. Give her a listen when you can. My favorite tacks are "Rain Roll In," "Sea of Tears," "Shakin' All Over," and a great Loretta Lynn cover: "Darkest Day."

Dave Rawlings Machine-A Friend of A Friend. A couple years ago, some of my best friends and I rushed over to The Pour Haus (say it out loud), one of the best places in Louisville’s great working-class neighborhood, Germantown, when we heard through the rumor mill that Gillian Welch and David Rawlings were strolling around there (lots of whispered cell phone calls were being made about this…and doesn’t the mere fact that the Pour Haus’s clientele so easily recognized two of indie music’s most beloved singer-songwriters make you want to go to this bar?). About the time we got there Gillian and David had taken the stage with nothing more than their voices, their haunted faces, and two guitars. They played for the next two hours and it was total magic, a night that those gathered there still talk about with some amount of awe. For two hours no one moved, not even to buy another drink. In a bar. On a Saturday night. It was mesmerizing, and before long we realized that it was also different from what we were used to. Although Gillian Welch has always been a duo made up of Welch and her partner (on-stage and off), David Rawlings, Rawlings has usually supplied background vocals while Welch took the leads. That night he took the leads and she was there to lend her support. At the end of the show they announced themselves as the Dave Rawlings Machine and we knew that the operations of their duo had been switched. Little did we know that this album would soon follow. The best tracks on it are “The Bells Are Harlem” and “Sweet Tooth.”

Rosanne Cash-The List. Usually cover records are snorefests to me, but this is Rosanne, man! I especially love her and Rufus Wainwright doing “Silver Wings,” and her version of “Sea of Heartbreak” (with help from Springsteen) trumps the original.

Another record that flew completely under the radar is one of the year’s best: Your Heart Is A Glorious Machine by Sometymes Why is definitely worth checking out, especially “Aphrodisiholic” (seen here at my very favorite place to hear live music in NYC, Banjo Jim’s), definitely among my most-played songs of the year.

This summer I had the great pleasure of seeing my friend Ben Sollee playing at the Knoxville Botanical Gardens. I went to take my daughters to see him and had no inkling that his opening act, The Black Lillies, would become one of my favorite bands. And their album Whiskey Angel has become one of my favorites of the year, too. I love the sharp songwriting and the tight harmonies between Cruz Contreras and Leah Gardner. A couple people I trust most about music can’t seem to get on the Black Lillies bandwagon, so they may not be for everyone reading this, but I think they’re great. I especially love “Where the Black Lillies Grow,” “Cruel,” and “Little Darlin’”. Here they are at that Knoxville performance, competing against the masses of cicadas in the trees above them, but winning:

I loved the movie Once because it was a working class musical, something rare and special indeed. But I suppose the bigger reason I love it is because it featured Glen Hansard and Marketa Irglova, collectively known by their band name of The Swell Season. Their harmonies are perfection, and Strict Joy is full of them. Best tracks: “Low Rising,” “I Have Loved You Wrong,” and the haunting “Fantasy Man.”

Say what you want about Scarlett Johnnson’s vocals, but I think she sounds great on her collaboration with Pete Yorn on Break Up. This album is upbeat and rough and smooth, sad and pretty. I have played it over and over and over again. My favorite tracks are “Relator,” “Wear and Tear,” and especially “I Don’t Know What to Do.”

Somehow this album is the most fun of the year while also being serious.

Langhorne Slim’s “Be Set Free” is his best album to date and although I loved songs from previous year (“Worries” and “In the Moonlight”), this album provides his best song yet, “I Love You, But Goodbye.”

I love Jim James from My Morning Jacket, here called Yim Yames (as on his EP Tribute To), and he’s the best thing about Monsters of Folk, especially his lead vocal on “Dear God (Sincerely M.O.F.)”.

Seems like forever ago that it came out (it was way back in March 2009, and a lot has happened since then) but Buddy and Julie Miller’s Written in Chalk is still one of the best records of the year, and of their career. “Hush, Sorrow” is also one of their best songs, ever. They’re two of the nicest people in the business, and two of the best.

It seems like everyone I know really loved The Avett Brother’s I and Love and You, so I won’t say much about it except to say that I had the honor of working with the Avetts way back in 2001 when nobody knew who they were. My publicists at the time were amazing (hats off to you, Craig Popelars and Shelly Goodin, who not only worked very hard but also had excellent taste in music) and they often booked musical acts to play with me at booksignings while I was on the road. It worked really well because it drew in people that may not have come out to readings otherwise, and made for a good time. On that one tour I did gigs with people like Tift Merrit, Caitlin Cary (formerly of Whiskeytown), Tim O’Brien, and Scott Miller. One of my first booksignings was in Asheville, NC, at Malaprop’s, and The Avett Brothers played before my reading. They were very nice and gracious even though they had just that minute driven into North Carolina from a long trip out West. They were still figuring out who they were musically but there was no doubt that they already had a huge following (although lots of them were those faux-poor kids who sometimes hang out on the streets of Asheville with their self-torn Lucky jeans, unwashed hair, Birkenstocks, and sleeping bags rolled up on their backs. Note to them: it’s not cool to act poor if you’re not since there are plenty of real poor people in the world, so stop being jerks) and it was clear that they were budding musical geniuses who did something I had certainly never seen before: head-bang while playing banjoes. It was pretty awesome, I must say, and so is I and Love and You

Yes, I loved Neko Case’s Middle Cyclone. No, I don’t know what I want to say about it except that I have strange feelings about it: when I’m listening to it, I love it. When I’m not listening to it, I forget it exists. I don’t know what that means, but there you have it.

I wish that I could say Patty Loveless’s Mountain Soul II was as good as the first one, but the thing is that it’s just too bluegrassy for my taste (I love mountain music but am not so keen on bluegrass…sorry to although those bluegrass-lovers out there). However, Patty’s latest does supply the best song she’s ever written, the moving and powerful “Children of Abraham,” and a masterful reworking of the classic “Busted,” which can be seen as a commentary on the current state of coal-mining as well as the 60s version of it.

The soundtrack for the documentary Appalachia is really good, even if it isn’t one of my favorite albums of the year. But one of it’s tracks, “Susanna Gal,” by Clack Mountain (featuring the great, great vocals of Karly Dawn Higgins, whose voice is what these mountains sound like) is definitely one of my favorite recordings of the year.

I normally don’t put pop records on my list, just because they get enough attention as it is, but there were some great ones this year, and I’ll just mention the ones I love best. Regina Spektor’s Far is a meditation on God and religion, and it’s full of great songs, especially "Laughing With". I loved U2’ No Line on the Horizon, especially “White As Snow,” which is one of their best songs ever, as far as I’m concerned. Norah Jones hasn’t made a bad album as far as I’m concerned, but The Fall is among her best, especially the song “You’ve Ruined Me,” which has ruined me, it’s so good. And I know some of my friends are going to give me a hard time over this, but I just have to tell you that I can’t imagine what this year would have been like without The Music of Glee, so I’m going to go ahead and say that the albums Glee 1 and 2 were being continuously played at my house and in my car, mainly because they’re the two records that my daughters and I can always agree on. I love the show and it’s a lot of fun to introduce my girls to great pop songs of the olden days (and some contemporary ones I wouldn’t know otherwise) by way of these soundtracks. Our favorite ones to sing along with: “Don’t Rain On My Parade,” “Bust Your Windows,” and “Don’t Stop Believing.”

I’m sure there are some great ones I’ve forgotten, but these are the ones that come immediately to mind, so they must be my favorites. There’s you some good music to listen to. Even if you don’t go straight and buy it, at least give it a listen, and just think of all the great music coming soon, including Ben Sollee and Daniel Martin Moore’s amazing, important record Dear Companion, coming out in February and produced by Yim Yames. Be on the lookout.

Since we're on the subject of the Best of 2009, I'll go ahead and briefly mention my favorite movies of the year, too:

Up. The best movie of the year. No other film moved me so deeply or made me laugh so hard. No other film better understands dogs and old people, either. It's a beauty on every level.

Bright Star. Jane Campion's underlooked and intimate look at the love between Keats and Fanny Brawne is filmed like a poem. I loved every single thing about it.

The Last Station. This film, about the last days of Tolstoy, is funny and charming, lush and beautiful. Helen Mirren shines, as always, and Christopher Plummer is great, too, but the big surprise to me was James McAvoy, who has never been better.

Precious. Lots of people I know said they didn't want to see this because it looks like too much of a downer, but it is anything but. It's hard to watch, but full of hope.

Avatar. I'm still torn on some of the political undertones of the film but overall I thought it was a cinematic feast (I never thought I'd actually say a phrase like "cinematic feast" in all seriousness, but it was). And I give it extra points for being one of the few blockbusters ever that has garnered hours-long discussions.

Whip It. Drew Barrymore's directorial debut wasn't a huge hit but it was one of my favorites of the year. Funny and sweet, with a great message for young women (or anybody) about being your own hero. Also managed to portray rural America in a dignified way, which is something that is very rare for Hollywood movies.

Adventureland was funny and smart and reminded me of what it was like to be a teenager in the late 1980s. "Nice pipe, grandpa!"

I loved Sunshine Cleaning, especially the performances of Emily Blunt and Amy Adams, two of my favorite actresses.

State of Play was an insightful, timely look at the demise of the newspaper industry.

Harry Potter and the Half Blood Prince was beautifully filmed and the actors continue to make me endeared to the characters.

Nine. Not a great musical, and Daniel Day-Lewis didn't work for me, but all of the women are amazing, especially Sophia Loren, Penelope Cruz, Marion Cotillard, and Fergie. A totally enjoyable couple of hours, even if it won't stick with me forever.

Other movies from the year that look great, but that I haven't seen yet are An Education, Crazy Heart, Young Victoria, A Single Man, The Road, Broken Embraces, and The Hurt Locker. Most overrated movies of the year: Up in the Air (Vera Fermiga was great and some scenes (the whole Miami section of the movie was great) couldn't make up for a movie that was smarmy and not as smart as it thought it was) and Public Enemy (Marion Cotillard was the only good thing about that...how could the director of such a great movie as Manhunter turn the story of Dillinger into such a vulgar and uninteresting thing...my mind was boggled that it was just a bunch of men running around delighting in killing people; it was disgusting).

2009-12-01T17:36:00.000-08:00

The (Im)Perfect Word

Writers are always looking for the perfect word, the perfect sentence. Put a bunch of writers together for a little while and you’ll most likely hear one of them declare “I love that word” in response to something someone has uttered.

We are not normal (and don’t want to be); we actually discuss our favorite words. Mine is “gloaming”. A friend of mine prefers the word “Sabbath”. Another favors “diaphanous”. Writers are people who love words, plain and simple; that’s our craft, our job.

Of course it is the sound that draws us in first. How can a person not appreciate a word like “diaphanous” if they say it aloud? So yes, we pronounce these words audibly, savoring them like fine chocolates on our tongues. We roll them around in our mouths, feel them taking flight from our lips. Yet it is more than that. We even love the way words look. Take another perfect word for an example: Appalachia. Not only is it interesting to say (mostly because the way a person says it can tip you off to whether they are a native of the place or not—a true Central Appalachian says “App-uh-latch-uh” while non-natives or people from other parts of the mountain range usually say “App-uh-lay-chuh”) but it is also beautiful to see spelled out, and made even more beautiful because the shape of the word so perfectly captures what it is describing. Look at the steep mountainsides of those four As, the rolling hills atop those ps and the c and the h. Notice the straight-trunked trees of the l, the h, and the i, the perfectly-round dot of sun floating over the landscape (the dot on the i). The word looks like what it’s talking about. A word doesn’t get much more perfect than when it’s beautiful to say (whichever way you say it), interesting to look at, and exact in what it is explaining.

So, among a writer’s many, many responsibilities (illuminating an essential truth, entertaining and informing, preserving, telling a good story, capturing sense of place, etc.) there is that greatest responsibility: choosing the perfect words with which to tell your story and using these words to form perfect sentences that will lead to perfect paragraphs and scenes and eventually a perfect book. Of course there are very, very few perfect books, but as writers that is what we must strive for and I believe that some writers have achieved that (My Antonia by Willa Cather, The Color Purple by Alice Walker, Jude the Obscure by Thomas Hardy, To Kill a Mockingbird by Harper Lee, Home by Marilynne Robinson…I could name a few more). And it is definitely possible to create the perfect sentence and to choose the perfect word.

But what happens when the perfect word is one that you do not want to use?

This has happened to me a few times, but only in my latest book did it become particularly troubling to me. Thus, this missive.

In the past, it has only been the necessary, ugly words that have been bothersome: it, and, of, but, that, so…words that we absolutely must use, but don’t find particularly attractive. A few times I have been confronted with my own prudishness, too. I admit it: I have consciously tried to keep the f-bomb out of my novels, mostly because I believe that I shouldn’t write anything in my books that I wouldn’t say in front of my children, or my mother, or a total stranger.

I must go out on a limb here and confide that I do like the f-word, as words go. Sometimes it’s the absolute perfect word. But it’s also incredibly overused, to the point of having lost its power. Call me old-fashioned, but I think it’s a very vulgar word. It’s mostly that –ck at the end that makes it so simultaneously perfect and offensive. And while I might totally appreciate this word privately it’s not something I would ever say in front of just anyone; frankly I think it’s the height of tackiness to say this loudly in a public place, as so many people are want to do, or even quietly in front of someone I’ve just met. So, to make a long essay short, my point is that I’ve only used it in print once, and that was when I knew that I could not possibly be true to the character in the short story I was writing without using it. There was no getting past the fact that she would use that word. No way. The character was very drunk, very high on cocaine, she was very frustrated, and she insisted on saying that word in print. In other scenarios in my writing I had always suggested that the characters might be saying it off-screen or, more likely, I was dealing with characters that would have never uttered the word to begin with. So I had been able to very naturally avoid it while remaining true to my writing. But in this one story the woman had to say it. So I let her, and because I knew that it was absolutely right and true for that character, I wasn’t ashamed.

But now I have chosen a perfect word for a character of mine to utter, and I can’t seem to let go of the guilt. As I do whenever I can’t do anything else, whenever I am completely powerless and confused and don’t know what else to do, I have to write to try to make sense of the situation.

In my new novel, Eli the Good, which was published in September 2009, one of my characters, Edie, a tough, twelve year-old girl in 1976, addresses her 11 year-old male best friend, Eli, as a “retard” (the pronunciation is important (rë-tard) mainly because those two short syllables make it sound meaner). Eli has come out of his house early in the morning and is getting ready to jump on his bicycle when Edie, who is sitting in her adjoining back yard, hollers for him to come over. Eli, who is somewhat mesmerized by the beauty of the morning, pauses before responding, and stares at her. She asks him if he is coming or if he is going to just stand there and stare at her “like a retard.”

I really, really struggled with using that word. I went back and forth on it many times. I wanted Edie to address him some other way. I tried to get her to call him a dummy, or even a dumb-ass, or a dork. Not because these words mean the same thing as “retard” but because in her mind they do. But I knew Edie. I had lived with that character for years, in my head, and I knew that that is what she would call him. That’s just who she was. So after struggling with this one small little short word for months and months, I relented, let the character win, and I turned in the final manuscript with that word included.

I have regretted it ever since.

I know that people are going to write angry letters to me, accusing me of political correctness and self-censorship and such. But this is my struggle, and I believe it’s a struggle we should all have.

Words have power. Words mean something. Words live and breathe.

I regret it, however, because “retard” is one of the words I have absolutely forbidden my children to say. I also hate it when someone refers to something they consider bad or boring as being “gay” or when someone pronounces someone as being “trash.” I was raised in a trailer until I was almost nine years old, and nothing ever cut as deep as the time I overheard someone called “trailer trash.” Since their definition of trailer trash was anyone who lived or had lived in a trailer, then that was me, too. And my parents. And lots of people I know, respect, and love. Not trash. Human beings.

It is the carelessness with which these words are used that bothers me so profoundly. We must always think of the meaning and connotations of words before we spout them. Also, when someone uses a word like “retard” or “gay” or “trash” in this way, it changes the meaning of the word. It distorts the meaning into something cruel.

Take the word “retard”: its entire intention as a word—in Edie’s usage, and in the way most people use it nowadays, at least—is to insult, to negate, to imply superiority, to hurt.

That whole thing about sticks and stones breaking your bones but words never hurting you is wrong. I would argue that I’ve been far more hurt by words than by sticks and stones. And the main thing, of course, is that negative words usually lead to the sticks and stones. All wars are rooted in words to begin with, in arguments, in the careless dispensing of insults. I’d say it’s pretty rare that a fistfight is mute, or that a killing is preceded by silence. Yet words have the power to heal, too. Words make prayers and terms of endearment and declarations of love and peace.

As a writer, I realize the power of words. That’s part of my job. But it is also part of my job to listen to my characters, to know them so well that I know what they eat for breakfast every morning, that I know the contents of their purses and billfolds, that I know what words fit correctly in their mouths or not. Sometimes these characters do things I don’t want them to. In The Coal Tattoo, for example, I tried every way in the world to convince Anneth to not leave Matthew. I loved Matthew. But she didn’t. And they say things I don’t want them to.

Which brings me back to what Edie says in Eli the Good. The main reason it bothers me is because this book is being marketed as a young adult novel (which means it’s for everybody) and I certainly don’t want kids to think I’m condoning the use of that word. Usually I just take it for granted that readers know that the characters are the ones speaking; not me. But in this case, I can’t help thinking of some middle schooler thinking because a word is in print that makes it okay. It doesn’t. As much as I love words, I do not agree with all of them. I suppose it would be foolish of me to wish that some of them didn’t even exist, but secretly, I do wish that. Because then some sticks and stones might have been avoided.

Ultimately, however, a writer’s responsibility is to report the truth. Even in fiction. Especially in fiction. And as much as it pains me for that word to be in print, to know that that word is being used to damage and hurt people (and to stereotype an entire group of people), I still believe in words. All of them, even if I don’t agree with them all.

On Excuses, Excuses (and Sexton's Creek)

2009-09-14T15:13:00.000-07:00

Well, I fell a little bit short of my original challenge to discover something new everyday posts because I didn't make it the whole month. In fact, I only made just over half a month. I won't list the reasons why here, but let's just say life intervened, as it sometimes does. And here's a discovery I made (which I already knew, but had to be reinforced for me): sometimes life must take the driver's seat, even over your writing. The thing is, though, life doesn't know this, but no matter what is happening, the writing is still in high gear. Because even though I wasn't able to write those discovery posts everyday, the real-life problems I was having that was keeping me from posting were, in fact, teaching me more and more discoveries every single day. So I'm thankful for that. And if I learned one thing during my little exercise in trying to discover something new everyday (and posting it online) it is...well, it's two things: 1. You can discover something perfectly well without posting it online and 2. the discovery is all that matters. It's like that line in one of my favorite books of all time, Fair and Tender Ladies, by Lee Smith: "It was the writing that signified," the narrator, Ivy Rowe says, after she burns a bundle of letters she has written over the past century. Well, this time the discoveries signified.

Now I know I can at least post a new blog every month, and before this exercise I couldn't even do that. Thanks for listening.

During this post I did want to share a little piece of writing of mine. Here's a video of the song "Sexton's Creek," to which I wrote the lyrics and my boon companions Kate Larken and Jason Howard wrote the music. It's my favorite song that I've written or co-written because, like a good short story, I think it works on lots of different levels. The video was filmed by another boon companion, Denton Loving, at the Highlander Research and Education Center's 77th Anniversary Celebration. It was such an honor to speak there, where people like Rosa Parks learned to do civil disobedience and people like Myles Horton and Don West helped to light the fire of revolution and pride in Appalachia. Oh, and if you've never been to Sexton's Creek, in Clay County, Kentucky, then you've missed a little foretaste of glory. I hope you like it...

On Dogs (Discovery for 8.29.09)

2009-08-28T21:08:00.000-07:00

Good dogs are everything that humans hope to be, but never have quite achieved yet.

When I think back on all my good dogs I had when I was a boy, I can't help getting a little bit sad. There was Arky, a little obese weiner dog my aunt in Arkansas gave me. He thought he was a big, ferocious dog, and would bare his teeth to anyone who threatened me. He sat right beside me when I propped my back against a tree to read a summer afternoon away. There was Fala, a white spitz I named after FDR and Eleanor's trusty dog. Every day Fala trotted out to Hoskins' Grocery where my bus let me off. Everyone on the school bus crowded to one side so they could see him sitting there patiently awaiting my arrival. When the bus screeched to a halt there he'd wag his tail--three thumps on the ground behind him--then jump up to walk home with me.

Those were the two I had the longest, although there were others along the way. I miss them every single one.

And now I have other dogs, but my favorite of all is old Rufus, who is ten years old now, and showing his age in the way he's not running quite as fast anymore, in the slow way he arises in the mornings when I first step outside, in his wise brown eyes. He's the best of dogs because he always knows when you need him, and when you do, he'll sit right there and not move a muscle until he knows that you're done with being still. Then he will arise and even though he's old and tired he'll dance around a little to get you smiling. And once he knows he has done his job he'll zoom back off into the woods to rush rabbits out of the underbrush or mess with a groundhog. Sometimes he emerges from the woods completely covered in mud from rolling around in the shoals of God's Creek. Or covered in burrs from an overgrown pasture he's travelled through. Once he came back home with his butt full of buckshot. But he always comes when I whistle for him.

That's the main thing we can ask of those we depend on the most: to simply be there when we call. That's what Rufus always does. That's what the really good dogs always do. The thing is, dogs are so much more dependable that way. They're who we want to be.

On Opportunity to Start Anew (Discovery for 8/27/09)

2009-08-27T17:59:00.000-07:00

Every morning the whole world gives us the opportunity to start our lives anew.

That's what I kept thinking as I drove the winding roads of Eastern Kentucky yesterday as the land came

awake. A thin mist breathed out over on the hills and hollers. A white rind of moon in the struggling

shadows of first daylight. The sky burned purple and gray on the horizon. I passed through Big Hill, Morrill, Clover Bottom, Sand Gap, Gray Hawk, Mummie, Elias, Traveller's Rest, Levi, and other little communities. In each of these, the houses along the road were coming awake, too. Yellow rectangles of light in the windows. An occasional square of blue where a television flickered the morning news.

Best of all, the people stirred outside.

A woman sweeping her porch, her mind on something far, far away.

Two women sitting on a bench outside the Little Angels Daycare Center, smoking and laughing. One of them threw her head back to cackle out; the other slapped her knee.

A man stretching beside his truck before he climbed into it to head off to work.

Children, sleepy-eyed, disgusted, waiting for the bus.

A group of men standing around a truck at the quarry entrance, passing around a packet of powdered donuts. Their shoulders were heavy with the prospect of their labor that lay ahead of them, their hands big and square-fingered.

Several good dogs: a yellow one trotting down the shoulder of the road as if on a determined path; a white spitz marking his territory; a beagle yawning on the concrete porch steps of her home; a long-legged black dog coming out of the kudzu-covered woods from a long night of carousing.

Along the way there were all kinds of little businesses and churches: The Frostyette Dairy Stand, The Lord Jesus Christ Bapticostal Church of God, Mack's Used Cars, the Bobcat Diner.

And along the way there were a million trees, blue in that space before full daylight. And wildflowers, still not completely awake, standing tall, bright in their purpleness and whiteness and yellowness. In all the dew-laden grasses there clicked the night bugs that didn't quite understand that day had arrived, their songs slowing, quieting.

Silver Creek, the South Fork of the Kentucky River, Spruce Fork, Brushy Creek. Water creeping along, and rushing along. Clear and wild, slow and coffee-with-cream-colored.

All of this, and so much more, stretching, awakening, opening eyes, hoping, hoping, hoping.

Every morning we get the chance to start our lives anew, and the world offers that to us like a prayer, every single day. That's why it's a comforting thing to drive the winding roads of Eastern Kentucky on an August morning when the night has been cool but the day promises to be hot, because it's so easy to discover all of that.

On Roadside Discoveries (Discoveries for 8/25/09 and 8.26.09)

2009-08-26T20:25:00.000-07:00

A homeplace, left to be devoured by the ironweed. Once, someone lived there. A family, maybe. They had lives and loves and sorrows and most of all, they had their own stories. In the cool of the day they'd sit on the porch and tell big tales and flies buzzed in the kitchen and the children ran down to the creek to play and a woman with weary eyes broke beans on the porch, so used to this work that her hands didn't even think about what they were doing. One of the children--the last one--left when he was eighteen and looked back at the little house and remembered all the good and the bad and everything in between. He had no idea that he'd never be back there, that he'd go off and forget who he was. He had no idea that someday nobody would remember any of them and the house would sink down and down and down until it had been completely overtaken by the wildflowers, the weeds. He had no idea that the only thing that kept the roof from taking flight was the gathered mass of their stories, an entity which survived, a poltergeist, hiding in the corners, warmed by the heat of tin on an misty August morning.

2. The book of Habakkuk is part of the Old

Testament and is only three chapters and

has three clear parts: A discussion

between God and the prophet,

an oracle of woe, and a psalm.

They call Habakkuk a minor prophet, but

Paul the Apostle admired his writing, and

used it, and spread the Word of it. Some

prophet in Irvine, Kentucky took it upon

him or herself (let's say it was a man, just for

the sake of brevity) to work hard on this sign.

I'd love to know what the builder thought while

he worked, while he latched those black letters to the

board. I'd like to know why he used a U instead

of YOU. I'd like to know what happened to

him that caused him to feel to strongly about

drinking. Maybe he had a good, thick testimony

when he stood up in church and curled his calloused

fingers over the rounded part on the back of the ash-wood

pews. Maybe one of the hands rose up into the air

as his voice grew in strength, telling how he used to be

an old drunk but then a stranger stopped and helped him

and made him see the Light and ever since then he had been

living that good old way and then the whole church might

have exploded in praise, the Sermon the Mount fans stopped

from their waving momentarily while the people cried out

their approval. The next day, I bet he went back to

work on the sign and felt that his hands were being

directed by God. And for all we knew, they were.

On Headaches (Discovery for 8/24/09)

2009-08-24T18:37:00.001-07:00

An especially terrible headache is as big and endless and dark as the ocean, stretched tight across the globe, middled by black white-capping waves that chop at the horizon, a largeness and darkness like death.

Eli the Good Reading

2009-08-21T08:27:00.001-07:00

The discovery blogs are temporarily on hold while Silas is briefly out of the country. In the meantime, a reading from ELI THE GOOD...(double click to watch full-screen)

On Dancing (Discovery for 8/19/09)

2009-08-19T20:26:00.000-07:00

Once you stop dancing, you die a little.

I used to dance all the time. In my early twenties, we were out at honkytonks every Saturday night. I ran around with all of my cousins back then. We never went anywhere without each other. Even when we weren’t at a bar or a club, we’d find a way to dance. If we were in a restaurant that had a jukebox loaded down with good songs, we’d get up and dance. Didn’t matter if there wasn’t a dance-floor. We’d lean our heads back, close our eyes, and listen only to the music. We danced on the lake bank, in our living rooms, on the wide front porches of our youth.

Once I settled down and had children, the only dancing I ever did was with a baby on my hip. Some of my favorite memories are of dancing with my daughters. I’d slow-dance them to sleep, drawing in that scent that can only be found at the nape of your daughter’s neck. When they got older, I fast-danced with them. We used to dance every single night, the music turned up as loud as it would go. I taught them how to clog. I taught them that the best dancing song in the entire world is “Hurts So Good” by Mellencamp. I taught them to not care what anyone thinks when they are dancing, to just listen to the music.

My girls are getting bigger now, so we don’t dance as much as we used to, and nowadays it’s more that they demand that I dance for them and they sit and hold their stomachs laughing as they make me dance to songs they think I probably won’t like. Tonight was like that. They made me dance to “Diva” by Beyonce, which is a song I would most likely never dance to unless someone was making me. But I did, for them. I closed my eyes, leaned my head back, tried my best to listen to the music. There wasn’t the same attachment to the music that I might have gotten from Mellencamp, but I found the beat, and went with it, much to the girls’ delight. They laughed until tears streamed. But I didn’t care.

The only real dancing I ever do these days is at the square dances that pop up occasionally around home, or more often, at writing workshops where I teach. Less than a month ago I was cutting a rug up at the Hindman Settlement School at a big square dance. Some of my best friends were there, so that made it even better. Square dancing is the most communal kind of dancing. You are forced to touch others, to speak to them, to learn the way they move and move with them. Square dancing makes you realize that you are all dancing together, working together, helping one another.

In some strange way, I remember every single person I ever danced with, whether it was at the Moose Lodge, the Maverick Club, the Cumberland Falls Square Dance, the Dixie Café, or any other. Most of them don’t remember me, but I recall them sometimes, all those strangers and lovers, all those people I spent four or five minutes of my life with during a great song. It’s a connecting thing, dancing.

I’m in my late 30s now, so some people might say that’s too old to be out dancing. But I don’t intend to stop anytime soon. In fact, I intend to do it even more. I’ll just close my eyes, listen to the music, not care what anyone thinks, and be a little more alive in the process.

On Books (Discovery for 8/18/09)

2009-08-18T20:19:00.001-07:00

I love books. I love reading them, but there is even more than that.

Touch. I love how cool the pages are when you first open them in the mornings. Or how warm the pages are if you’ve left it out in the car for awhile in the summer, like something baked the exact right length of time. The endpapers and the spine and the little letters that are sometimes imbedded in the cloth, a kind of Braille for book-lovers.

Smell. The new ones: people talk about a new-car scent all the time, but what I love even more is a new-book scent. They should make little deodorizers of that aroma to go under one’s car seats. And the old ones: they smell like history, and rain, and the skin of all the people who loved them before, and every room wherein they lived.

See. Yes, of course we see them when we read them, but I love seeing them on the bookshelves, too. Or lying about, covering every available surface, stacked on the stairs, on the nightstand, on the kitchen table, on the kitchen counter, on my desk, a haphazard pile beside my desk. I once had a guest room whose walls were completely lined with bookshelves full of my favorite books. My guests all said that they had the best sleep there, and inquired about the mattress. I told them it was the books. Now my dining room table is surrounded on three sides by bookshelves. They make any meal better by their very presence. They are the best décor, and multi-purpose at that.

Hear. Taste. I could go on with the other two senses, but that’s a whole different ballgame (because if you’re a true reader you can hear the stories even long after you’ve finished the book; and sometimes you can taste the tang of the ink, even if you don’t try), and besides, the touching, smelling, and seeing are enough. Books are enough to sustain us, period.

On Holiness (And Turtles) [Discovery for 8/17/09]

2009-08-18T14:42:00.000-07:00

Holiness shows itself when you are not watching for it.

Sunday, the Sabbath, the holiest day of seven holy days, I was in a car with several of my closest friends and my two daughters. Members of my given and chosen family. We had been to the top of the mountain to look out at three states. There, there, and there, we said. “Look at Kentucky, it’s the prettiest,” one of us said, laughing. “No, Virginia is,” said another. “On a clear day you can see North Carolina,” somebody else said, “and none of them can beat it.” Each state was completely the same from up there. Each state was completely different from up there. Each endless and green and lush with more mountains, rolling on and on and on, for ages. We spent a long while up at the pinnacle, talking, climbing rocks, studying trees. There were long bouts of silence. Family—especially the chosen kind—allows that between one another.

Then, coming down the mountain, there was a box turtle in the road. We had all been laughing and carrying on, but then, a silence stretched out in the car before we all said, in unison, as if amazed: “A turtle!”

I was struck by how mesmerized we all seemed by the turtle. It’s a common enough sight in Appalachia, to see them making slow but steady progress across the highway. But always so beautiful, so patient, that no matter how many times you see them, they seem like a holy thing. There he was with his yellow stripes, his blunt head that seemed to sniff at the air, his careful steps. Determined, small, tough. There was something about his curmudgeonly gait that made us all assume he was male.

And there was another, similar kind of holiness when someone said, “He’s almost across,” and another chimed in, “Yeah, he’ll make it,” and my daughter leaned forward, making sure. Because all of us knew that sometimes you have to pull over onto the side of the road and help a turtle across, to make sure it doesn’t get crushed, to make sure that a blessed thing stays alive in the world awhile longer. We had all done it at some point, had seen others do it. There are little acts of service and kindness that happen every day.

Not long ago I was on the Daniel Boone Parkway, where coal trucks quake by every five seconds, decorating the road with hard little bits of coal as they sizzle past. Yet a woman had stopped on the narrow shoulder to help a turtle across. A little girl, strapped into a car seat in the back, was crying and throwing her hands into the air. The woman was still wearing her uniform from working—probably a grimy, ten-hour shift—at the Huddle House restaurant over in Manchester. But despite all of this she had taken the time to stop and help the turtle across the road. She bent, picked him up with a cupped hand across his domed shell, scurried to the side of the road as another coal truck--load uncovered, mud flaps swinging--barreled toward her. The wind from the coal truck lifted her hair, caused her to shut her eyes against the grit that came in its wake. But then she put the turtle down--as gently as if she were placing an egg in its nest--and hurried back to her car.

I think acts like this are a kind of holiness. And in that moment with my people, I thought it a kind of holiness that we would all have the same thought, to take care of the turtle. And another kind of holiness that we didn’t have to explain that to one another. And another kind of holiness to live in a world made up of people who are mostly good, mostly trying to do the best they can, mostly trying to just move through this life without hurting others, mostly trying to help others.

A turtle is that way, too, I like to think. Maybe that's why so many of us have a deep attachment to them that we don't quite understand. And who knows what secret little acts of service he (or she) performs out there on the mountain when hidden among all the clandestine cover of the summer woods? Of this one thing I am certain: more holy things happen when we are not noticing than when we are. And that’s a great comfort.

On Sabbaths (Discovery 8/16/09)

2009-08-16T07:52:00.001-07:00

Sometimes all the church a person needs on the sabbath is to watch his daughters sleep.

On Bicycles (Discovery 8/15/09)

2009-08-16T07:48:00.001-07:00

(During the weekends the "discoveries" may often be much shorter because school is back in session and I don't want to spend too much of my time on the computer...instead I want to be with my daughters every chance I get, or be on the lake, or be sitting under a tree working on my new book. So, with that in mind, the blogs for this weekend are shorter, with promises of the weekday ones being longer. Also, don't forget to scroll down so you can follow my blog and receive notices each time there is a new post.)

On Bicycles (Discovery 8/15/09)

A bicycle is the only completely perfect vehicle, the only vehicle that allows us to be still and to be in motion at the same time.

On Beauty (Discovering 8/14/09)

2009-08-14T21:37:00.000-07:00

Beauty survives, no matter what.

My grandmother has Alzheimer’s. This evening, she didn’t recognize anyone but me, and then, five minutes after she knew me completely and totally, she was looking at me as if I were a stranger. She was studying me and she wouldn’t admit it, but she had forgotten who I was, too. She didn’t remember anything.

At one point she asked her age. My aunt, Sis, told her she was eighty-two.

“What month was I born?”

“March, honey,” Sis said.

“Yeah, I was. It was March,” Mamaw laughed. She closed her eyes and laughed like music, like a tinking piano. “They used to call me Windy Wanda, because I was born in March and I never hushed talking.”

“Yeah, they did,” Sis said. “I had plumb forgot that.”

Mamaw was lying in bed with the covers pulled up to her neck even though the pulsating heat of a late evening in August breathed against the windows. (Not long ago she would have been hoeing her garden this time of evening, even before the cool settled over the valley.) Her hair—so white it begs to be touched—was spread out all around her head. She looked like a queen.

Her eyes: small, brown. Her strong little Irish nose. The Cherokee cheekbones that belonged to her mother. Her hands: liver-spotted, long-fingered, still strong. All these things beautiful, but the real beauty was all over her, a light.

It wasn’t in her eyes or nose or cheekbones or shiny white hair. Her beauty washed out from her because she had been good to others, had worked like a dog every day of her life, because she had raised not only her own children but had taken in at least three others and treated them as her own, giving them equal amounts of money and adoration. She had once arisen at daylight, cooked a full breakfast, gathered eggs from her hens, canned thirty-two quarts of kraut in one day, loved and loved and loved. And she had been beautiful. She always will be.

On Green Eyes (Discovery 8/13/09)

2009-08-13T18:39:00.001-07:00

When describing a particularly beautiful green eye we are tempted to come up with some kind of smooth simile, like "green as river water" or "green as a redbud leaf" (both of which I've used in my novels to describe green eyes). But the fact is that there is nothing to compare to the beauty of a green eye because it is the perfection of green, a kind of green that transcends even the most brilliant things in the world such as rivers and leaves.

On Summertime (Discovery 8/12/09)

2009-08-12T20:50:00.000-07:00

What makes summertime the most magical and sets it apart the most from the other seasons is that every single day we are somehow aware of its passing. Every blessed day we have knowledge of the summer slipping away and whether we know it or not our bodies are filled with some strange mix of hope and dread for what lies ahead. As much as I love all the seasons there's something about summer that moves me to the core. I think it’s the way the mist slithers over the mountains like breath, as it did this morning. Or maybe it's having the company of cicadas—I am comforted by them every night as they remind me that someone else, something else, is there. Or fried green tomatoes. Or the freedom of swimming. It's hearing the nostalgic bounce of the basketball where the boys are playing down the road. The beauty of seeing people tap their fingers on the steering wheel to a loud radio while their arms are propped up on their open car windows. Perhaps it’s the way the gloaming stretches out longer and noisier in the summertime. No matter what it is, summer is fleeting, it’s always leaving us, it’s inching closer and closer to fall and winter, those two harbingers of change and death, and all the while the summer is actually the great big reminder of things moving on too quickly, the reminder that nothing gold can stay.

Discover Something New Everyday: The Challenge

2009-08-11T08:43:00.000-07:00

This is a story I've told many times before:

Writer James Still, the author of classics like River of Earth and The Wolfpen Poems, was in his early 90s when I, a boy in my mid-twenties who didn't know anything about anything, asked him a naive and earnest question: "How can I become a better writer?" Mr. Still thought about it for a long time, then looked just past me with his haunting eyes. "Discover something new everyday," he said.

I've made a conscious effort to try and do that ever since, and it's an exercise that has changed my life.

So, with that in mind, I'm going to try my best to post a new discovering here everyday for the next month. If I'm able to do it, I might try for another month, and another. I'm not always near a computer so if that's the case then I might miss a day or two. I'm not going to devote myself to it so much that it kills my own writing day, and I'm not going to let it take over my life a la Julie and Julia. But I am going to try my best to post a new discovery every day, and I hope that you will join me in doing the same. Even if you can't post a comment to my blog saying what you've discovered then you can do it for yourself. In a notebook, a journal, a wipe-off board, in your head.

The main thing is to discover, so that's what we're setting out to do.

silashouse.net/blog

2009-07-07T08:42:00.000-07:00

Silas House's blog can now be found at www.silashouse.net/blog . It will be updated regularly. Thanks for visiting.

The God of Bird's Nests

2009-02-18T08:18:00.000-08:00

"If you happen to come upon a bird's nest along the way, in any tree or on the ground, with young ones or eggs, and the mother sitting on the young or on the eggs, you shall not take the mother with the young."--Deuteronomy 22:6

This verse kept going through my head yesterday when we were at the state capitol in Frankfort, Kentucky, protesting against mountaintop removal, a form of coal mining that is devastating the mountains of America. There were about 800 of us there, united by a common goal: to save the mountains, and our waterways, which are being forever affected by the ravages of this irresponsible form of coal mining.

I don't know where the Bible verse came from...I don't even remember ever being taught this verse. But there it was, and it was a comfort throughout the day. While out there protesting it was empowering to see all those people standing up for what they believed in. Walking up the capitol steps holding that sign of protest (NOT ONE MORE MILE) while chanting with everyone else ("Whose mountains? Our mountains! Whose streams? Our streams! Whose future? Our future!") was a really moving thing.

Even more moving to me were the faces of all the people there who were fighting against Big Business and standing up for what is right.

Yes, Ashley Judd was there, and that's been widely publicized. But she was not there as the movie star Ashley Judd. She was there as a concerned citizen, a proud Appalachian, someone who always cares for the bird's nest. People like to criticize celebrities when they speak out. They say they don't want someone famous "telling them what to believe." But Judd was simply there voicing what she believes. And she believes in what she's saying. She gave her time to be there, paid her own way, asked for nothing in return. I introduced her as "a great light," as someone who "loves and loves and loves." She was there because she believes in protecting the environment and she believes in everyone being good to one another. This is a lesson the coal companies and the government and big business would be well-served to learn as well.

There were dozens of children (the youngest was so little she was strapped to her mother's chest), chanting into the bullhorn, holding their signs high above their heads. One teacher, Blossom Brosi, brought over a hundred students from Boyle County High School. That's the kind of teacher who becomes a hero to kids. There were college students, emboldened by the possibility of change. The oldest marcher, Marie Cassidy, is 96 years old. And I saw so many people who have fought tirelessly and bravely for years and years, now. They are not about to give up. Among them were people like Teri Blanton, Carl Shoupe, Jim Webb, Bev Futtrell, Sue Massek, George Brosi, Connie Brosi, and so many more.

But the person I want to pause to point out particularly is Patty Wallace, a woman from Louisa, Kentucky who has been fighting the coal industry for years. She once told me that she "ran down" a coal truck driver to thank him for driving safely when the companies so often force them to speed to keep up with production. A couple years ago, Patty was interviewed and said: "We may talk funny but our brains work. The coal company says we need more flatland, we need more Wal-Marts ... We're not stupid, but they keep telling us what we need. When they haul the coal out of Black Mountain, it's just like tearing out my heart."

Ironically, Wallace (pictured here, on the right) had a heart stint put in just a few days ago. But she was out there on the march yesterday. According to her friends, Wallace's heart rhythm was struggling. As we came up Capitol Avenue she grew tired, but she refused to stop. Police officers, stationed along the route, offered to drive her on up to the Capitol steps, but she refused. "I can rest while I walk," she said. She was determined to make her voice heard, to stand up for what she believed in, to give of herself to protect the water and the mountains.

Patty Wallace is a protector of bird's nests. And one of my heroes.

But it was a frustrating day, too. It was frustrating to see little children holding jars of polluted well water, polluted by coal companies who claim to be making our land a better place. It was frustrating to see people having to march to save their water, our most precious commodity. It's mind-boggling, like something out of a science fiction novel, that people would actually have to fight for that. It was even more frustrating to know that our governor refused to come out and hear our pleas, even though he did come out to greet coal mining officials on the front steps of the capitol less than a year ago.

What's even more frustrating is that Governor Beshear is a good man who has stood up to the industry in the past. His refusal to come greet us worries me that the industry has gotten through to him, too.

I think what Deut. 22:6 is saying is that we have to be kind to even the smallest creatures. I believe it means that we should be compassionate, and thoughtful, and responsible. And I believe that it means we should not be short-sighted or mean-hearted or greedy. To be good people, the verse says, we must all be protectors of bird's nests.

However, I believe that the Bible is a living thing and that its wisdom is only as good and thick as its readers allow it to be. People have been misconstruing the Bible for ages for their own benefit, and have done a great job of it, using it to hold up slavery, anti-suffrage, and intolerance.

I choose to seek the positive in the Bible. The light. The God I believe in is one of love and compassion, not wrath and jealousy. I believe in a God of Bird's Nests.

The God I believe in is not the one I grew up knowing, though. That was one group of people's God, a group that had molded and shaped the words of the Bible to mean what they wanted them to mean. That's not what I'm trying to do here. But I am turning to the Bible to seek knowledge and wisdom, to help me understand the ways of people and the world. And this is what I have taken from it. To me, finding something of light, something positive, is just as amazing as coming upon a perfect little bird's nest in a low branch. Like my friend and great poet Lisa Parker says of such nests: "It's all in how you carry 'em, brother."

Now that's the truth.

Years and years ago, the coal companies stumbled upon a rich, beautiful bird's nest called Appalachia. But instead of acting with responsibility and taking only what they needed, they took everything: the babies and the mother. The mishandled the nest. They plundered and robbed. They were short-sighted, not looking ahead to the future. Because if you take the mother and the babies, what do you do with the future, when you need more songbirds? You have nothing but an empty nest, tumbling away in the wind.

----

My pictures from the rally

Good article on the rally

To educate yourself about mountaintop removal

Best Music of 2008

2008-12-16T11:34:00.000-08:00

I never understand people who say “There’s just no good music these days.” Obviously they’re not looking in the right place, because there is a wealth of great music. The thing is that the vast majority of it is not being played on the radio, and certainly not on any of the cable music channels like MTV, VH1, or CMT.

My college roommate, with whom I have stayed in touch although we hardly ever see each other any more, was telling me the other day that he still listens to Nirvana, U2, and Pearl Jam all the time mainly because he hasn’t grown—musically, at least—since we left college way back in the Gulf War era. Now there’s not a thing wrong with any of those groups, but I quickly went about the business of educating him that there was another way, that there was too much great music out there, just waiting for a listen.

In my job as a writer, I travel all over the country, and everywhere I go people ask me things like who my favorite author is (too many to pick, but right now I’d have to say Thomas Hardy, Willa Cather, Lee Smith, Larry Brown, and Louise Erdrich) and what is my favorite song (I have to narrow this down to “Keep On the Sunnyside,” for its complexity and history, for the way it has always been a balm). Since I work for No Depression magazine as a contributing editor, it so happens that every December I get asked about my favorite albums of the year (or “records” as I like to call them, as do people “in the business,” since that’s what they are: recordings) by lots of different publications and groups and people on the street. And if there’s anything I love to talk about, it’s music. But picking a “best of” is hard, man. So instead of doing a top ten or top twenty, I’m just going to talk about my favorite records of the year without ranking them, except for my two favorite ones.

I tried and tried. I really did. But I just could not pick a top favorite record because two of them that were released this year served as constant companions to my ears. If there was any justice in this world (and I’ve pretty much accepted that there just isn’t, at least where art is concerned), then Caroline Herring and Ben Sollee would be among the best-known musicians in the country. I’ll talk at length only about those two artists, and then give the rest of my favorites with only brief comments. Links to performances and interviews are scattered throughout, so I hope you’ll click on those and learn more about these incredible acts.

Caroline Herring’s album Lantana, is an amazing piece of musical work in its songwriting, arrangements, production, and singing. It’s a complete pleasure. On Lantana, Herring is like Flannery O’Connor, Bobbie Gentry, Larry Brown, Loretta Lynn, Gillian Welch, and Lee Smith all rolled into one. The songs on the album all stand on their own as little gems but are also of a bigger whole that creates a landscape of sound and imagery so vivid that playing the album creates much the same effect as opening a great novel: we disappear into that world. Every single song on the album is a beauty, but the true masterpiece is “Paper Gown,” the story of South Carolina’s Susan Smith, who in 1994 drowned both her children by strapping them into their car seats and letting her car roll into John D. Long Lake. She blamed the crime on a black man but finally confessed to the local sheriff. Herring relates the crime in a startling, matter-of-fact manner, interspersing it with insights into Smith’s life (“Long ago I used to be a little girl on my daddy’s knee/dreams lie like diamond rings, babies, and pretty things”) that actually make us see her as a human being despite her monstrous crime. A lesser songwriter would have gone too far and tried to make us feel pity for Smith, or vilified her too much. Herring strikes the perfect balance by simply presenting a story about a person who did “a terrible thing,” as Smith says to the sheriff. Ultimately Smith winds up with “Jesus looking down/at me in this paper gown.” This modern murder ballad is a complete tour-de-force given to us by a driving banjo and Herring’s smooth-yet-never-sweet voice.

The rest of the album is nearly as phenomenal. There’s “Song for Fay,” based on the novel Fay by Larry Brown (one of his best, but also maybe the hardest to live through, especially if you have daughters) wherein an unloved girl travels across the South and warns “Don’t you try and stop me/’til I get where I’m going.” After listening to “Midnight on the Water” you’ll be hard-pressed to ever get that beautiful melody out of your head, or forget that subtle, mournful fiddle solo. “When I Lay My Burden Down” is definitely going on my list of songs to be played at my funeral with its refrain of “I’ll be flying in the darkness/I’ll ride the wind without a sound.” And many of you know that it takes a great song to show up on your funeral song list, now doesn’t it? I could go on and on about this artist, but I’ll sum it up by saying that this one album catapulted her to the top of my favorite musicians list, and I expect she’ll stay there from now on, especially now that I’ve discovered her other two fine albums Wellspring and Twilight. But Lantana is the true keeper, and I can’t recommend it highly enough.

How to See by Ben Sollee

Tied for first place is Learning to Bend by Ben Sollee. It’s not just that he’s also a proud Kentuckian, like myself. It’s not that he’s also involved in the fight against mountaintop removal, as am I. It’s just that this album is truly beautiful. Sollee starts it all off with “A Few Honest Words,” a blistering address to George W. Bush (watch the Obama remix here). Despite his blatant stabs at the troubles of the last few years (which also show up in songs like the sarcastic “Bury Me With My Car” and a perfect cover of Sam Cooke’s “A Change Is Gonna Come”), the album never becomes a polemic and each song feels like a character study in a book of tight short stories. I recently wrote a review of a live show Sollee did in which I expressed my amazement at his ability to make the cello a part of folk music. To my mind he single-handedly takes it out of the realm of the classical world and brings it to the people (and I know people are going to write in and say Yo Yo Ma already did that, but he popularized the cello by staying within the classical world; Nancy Blake is an amazing "folk cellist," too, but I don't know of anything of hers as "modern" as Sollee's). He can pluck the cello with tenderness, smooth the bow across the strings to pull out a mournful cry, or saw away at the instrument to release the screams that lie within. One day a friend of mine said about Sollee: “He can flat-out make that thang talk.” And that pretty much sums up Sollee’s efforts on the cello.

His singing is just as good. His voice’s tenderness is put on display in songs like "It's Not Impossible", “I Can’t”, “Bend” (one of my favorite tracks on the album, where he’s briefly joined by Abigail Washburn’s soaring vocals), “I Can’t”, and my favorite song on the record, “Built for This,” a song that absolutely tears me down with its lyrics, Sollee’s passionate delivery, and the cello’s harmonizing with its player. It’s an amazing song on all fronts and if you haven’t heard it, you’ve missed out on one of the best love songs to come down the road in a long while.

Learning to Bend may not show up on a lot of top ten lists this year, but that’s only because Sollee is just beginning to get the attention he deserves. He’s travelled all over the world with his music, but mostly as part of the Sparrow Quartet (with Washburn, Casey Driessen, and Bela Fleck). As great as those performers are, they can’t hold a candle to Sollee’s whole-package status as singer-songwriter-cellist-storyteller.

This is perhaps the thing that most joins Herring and Sollee, their abilities to tell a story. They don’t ever sing at you, they sing to you, for you, and they want to give something to you: a song, a story. I don’t know of two better gifts.

The rest of my list was too hard to rank, so I’m just going to offer them in no particular order:
19-Adele. A pop album wouldn’t normally go on my top fifty, much less my top ten, but this is pop music as it should be, with a whole slew of crowd-pleasing, excellently-produced and perfectly-sung songs. Adele is my new favorite singer, and she’s as fun to watch as she is to listen to. Don’t tell anyone, but I dance in the basement with my daughters to this album all the time. They love it as much as I do. Well, almost.

Coal-Kathy Mattea. I had the privilege of writing the press kit for Mattea’s Grammy-nominated album so I can tell you that not only is Mattea one of the best of the remaining traditional country singers, she’s also one of the best people I know, with a heart the size of her native West Virginia. Every song on here is a thing of rare beauty. When she sings songs like Billy Edd Wheeler's “The Coming of the Roads” you’ll feel like the song has been reborn anew. Other highlights include her covers of Jean Ritchie’s “Blue Diamond Mines” and Hazel Dickens’ “Black Lung.” Anyone who loves Appalachian music has to add this album to their collection.

A Piece of What You Need-Teddy Thompson. Thompson is one of my favorite singer-songwriters of all time, hands down. If you don’t know him, then go out and buy every single album he ever made (the best one being Separate Ways, in my opinion). A Piece of What You Need is not on par with his past two albums, but it’s still a great effort, especially with songs like “Can’t Sing Straight” and “In My Arms.”

Rattlin' Bones-Kasey Chambers & Shane Nicholson. There’s not a bad song on this album by one of my favorite couples. In Australia, Kasey Chambers is one of the most famous and beloved singers in the country. It’s a shame Americans don’t have taste as good as theirs. And her partner (musically and romantically) Shane Nicholson is pretty great, too. They harmonize together perfectly; listening to them sing is like listening to love made into a visceral thing.

Little Wild One-Joan Osborne. Another great Kentuckian, Joan Osborne never fails to sing every song with all of her might. In this paean to her adopted hometown of New York City, she gets all the emotions about that city out in the songs and makes one of her best albums.

Sleepless Nights-Patty Loveless. Another Kentuckian (is this a coincidence, or is it just that people from Kentucky know how to make a good record?). Patty Loveless is the most underrated singer in country music and she delivers some of the best classic country songs here. The standout is the title track, which she sings so perfectly with Vince Gill that you’ll have to shake your head in satisfaction.

Consolers of the Lonley-The Raconteurs. There is no doubt in my mind that Jack White is a damn genius. I said it. And the rest of this band is pretty damn smart, too, if you ask me. Some of the best songs of the year are on here: “Top Yourself,” “Many Shades of Black” (beautifully covered by Adele on a live track you can buy on iTunes), and “Old Enough” (a great new version with Ricky Skaggs and Ashley Monroe has just been released), among others.

Volume One-She and Him. I admit to having a thing for Zooey Deschanel ever since first seeing her in All The Real Girls, and even moreso after she stole the show from Will Ferrell in Elf. Once I heard her singing and songwriting on this album I was even more smitten. Often she sounds like Ronnie Spector (those drums on “I Was Made for You” will definitely remind you of “Be My Baby”) but occasionally she sounds like Rosemary Clooney (another Kentuckian), which makes me like her even more. She's joined by musician M. Ward who does a great job on production and arrangement. This album is pure fun and especially good for road trips and sing-alongs with your daughters.

Mockingbird-Allison Moorer. I do love the ever-classy Miss Moorer, too, and on this album she covers female songwriters, including June Carter ("Ring of Fire"),Gillian Welch (“Revelator”), Joni Mitchell (“Both Sides Now”), and her own sister, Shelby Lynne (“She Knows Where She Goes”). My favorite cut is the title track.

Tennessee Pusher-Old Crow Medicine Show. The highlight here is “Lift Him Up,” a cover of a Blind Alfred Reed song, but I also love the rest of the rowdy set like “Alabama High Test” and “Humdinger” ( which includes one of the best lines of the year: “if you’re not a right-winger then we’ll all have a humdinger”)

Real Animal-Alejandro Escovedo. Great all-around album, especially “Sensitive Boys,” which I’d count as one of Escovedo’s best.

All I Intended to Be-Emmylou Harris. You just can’t ever go wrong buying an album by Emmylou.

Hope for the Hopeless-Brett Drennen. My favorites are “Heaven” and “Ain’t Gonna Lose You.”

Simply Grand-Irma Thomas. Irma Thomas singing with some of the best modern pianists. Can’t beat it.

Life, Death, Love, and Freedom-John Mellencamp. I love that he keeps on keeping on. Mellencamp is underrated and has always stood up for what he believes in. That’s something to respect all in itself.

Gossip in the Grain-Ray Lamontagne. “You Are the Best Thing” is one of my favorite songs of the year for sure. I’m also loving “Meg White,” his ode to Meg of the White Stripes. When he sings “Meg White, you’re alright,” I couldn’t agree more. I’ve always defended her drum-playing skills against all of her critics. Others standouts on here are “Hey Me, Hey Mama” and “Let It Be Me.”

Vampire Weekend-Vampire Weekend. Two or three great little pop songs on here. I first saw them on Saturday Night Live and have liked them ever since, especially the way they join up horns and big strings with their electric guitars.

Little Honey-Lucinda Williams. Williams is starting to get on my nerves, so this wouldn’t go near the top of my favorites list. Whatever happened to great story-songs, Lu? Seems like on her last two or three albums she’s tried to be as sparse as possible with her lyrics and her lyricism has suffered in the wake of that. I’m still hoping she’ll go back to the songwriting perfection of albums like Sweet Old World and Car Wheels on a Gravel Road, but I’m not holding my breath. Fame has an ill effect on some people. Still, it was nice to see her being in love on this album. Best track: “Real Love.”

Just a Little Lovin'-Shelby Lynne. It seemed like a great idea: have Shelby Lynne cover Dusty Springfield. But it just went to prove that is awesome a talent as Lynne is, she's no match for Springfield. It might have helped if the songs had been arranged in such a way to shake the classics up a little bit, but for the most part they felt like note-for-note reinditions to me. The production is pretty great, though, so this one definitely makes my list although it hovers around at the bottom.

Mudcrutch-Mudcrutch-If Tom Petty’s on it then I’m going to like it. Especially “A Good Street”.

The Sparrow Quartet-The aforementioned Abigail Washburn, Ben Sollee, Bela Fleck, and Casey Driessen. My favorite: “Strange Things.”

Cardinology-Ryan Adams and the Cardinals. More of the same old thing for the most part, but I do love the song "Born Into A Light."

Still Crooked-Crooked Still. There are a couple of standout tracks on this album by the Massachusetts-based traditionalists.

So there you go. A whole big list of music to look for, to listen to. So if you’ve read this and you’ve checked them out you won’t have to say “there’s no good music out” for a long, long time. At least I hope so.

I'd like to hear what your favorites of the year are, too, so leave a comment and let me know.

A Poem for the New Day

2008-11-06T09:00:00.000-08:00

5 November 2008

Remember when we were little how we would lie up there
on that ridge and watch the clouds? We had been raised to feel guilty
about everything. Had been brought up to fear the Rapture.
We worried all the time about the possibility
of blasphemy, or that we would be possessed by the devil.

They did not tell us that we didn’t know anyone
who wasn’t just like us. They did not tell us that there
was a whole other world out there, and other kinds
of gods and fears and joys and songs to sing. We knew not what we
did. We could have never imagined a day like this, a day

a giant awakes from an eight year slumber, fists unclenched.
Bones popping as legs stretch. The giant says aloud, to no one,
to everyone: “Alright, it’s time to get out of this bed.
It’s time to get up and get started.” We could not have ever
thought the thrill of hope such an attainable thing, right

at our fingertips, a little bird that has lighted on our knee,
waiting and ready to be cupped up by our scarred hands.

--Silas House

State of Grace

2008-10-23T13:51:00.001-07:00

A note: I've named this essay "State of Grace," but these might be its alternate titles: Or, A New Kind of Book Review, Or, I ramble aimlessly for a few pages to try and articulate why I love the work of Marilynne Robinson so much.

I finished Home by Marilynne Robinson a couple weeks ago and I'm just now able to talk about it because I've been grieving the fact that I turned the last page. A bit dramatic, I suppose, but then again, how can anyone overstate the way it feels when a book moves you and changes you? There isn't enough hyperbole to do justice to that sensation. And the most amazing thing is that I've felt the same way about each of Robinson's three novels.

I was introduced to Robinson's writing late: I was in my early thirties before I ever read Housekeeping. It remains among my favorite books. I've never read another book that captured so accurately what it feels like to be different, to be weird, to be a writer. The book is not about being a writer, of course, but it is about being different. Even more than that, though, I think Housekeeping is about being yourself, and--most importantly--accepting yourself. Reading Housekeeping helped me to accept myself for who I am. It helped me to know that it's okay to be different, to stand apart, even to stand alone sometimes. I would have had a much easier life if I had read this book twenty years ago, but things come to us when they're meant to, I suppose. Suffice it to say that the book changed my life. And nothing better can be said of a book. Here's one of my favorite passages from Housekeeping, to give you an idea of her writing:

"To crave and to have are as like as a thing and its shadow. For when does a berry break upon the tongue as sweetly as when one longs to taste it, and when is the taste refracted into so many hues and savors of ripeness and earth, and when do our senses know anything so utterly as when we lack it? And here again is foreshadowing -- the world will be made whole. For to wish for a hand on one's hair is all but to feel it. So whatever we may lose, very craving gives it back to us again. Though we dream and hardly know it, longing, like an angel, fosters us, smooths our hair, and brings us wild strawberries."

I don't know about you, but I always sigh a little bit after reading that. For the beauty of it. But maybe out of a bit of envy, too.

I read Gilead as soon as it came out and fell in love with it, too. I never was able to decide which I loved most: Housekeeping or Gilead. And I still don't know. They're very different books, although they're very similar in that they celebrate individuality, compassion, kindness, aloneness. Gilead is like a long, wonderful prayer. I've always had a fondness for epistolary novels (among my other favorite ones: Fair and Tender Ladies by Lee Smith and The Color Purple by Alice Walker) but Gilead is different in that it is one single letter being written over a long period of time, from an aged preacher to his seven year-old son, whom he has fathered late in life. The preacher, John Ames, fears that he won't live long enough to tell the son everything he wants to, so he starts the letter in the hopes of doing that. Real life intervenes, however, and Ames ends up telling the boy more about what is happening during the writing of the letters than memories or lessons learned. But Ames is always imparting wisdom to his son, and to the reader.

It's hard to say exactly why we love a book. It's one thing to enjoy a book, or to like it, but every once in a while we love books. I tend to think that we cross over into loving a book because we feel we know its characters, and John Ames remains very real to me today, years after I read that novel. He feels like an old friend who taught me many lessons. His voice was so authoritative, so vivid, that I will never forget it. Witness my favorite passage:

"For me writing has always felt like praying, even when I wasn't writing prayers, as I was often enough. You feel that you are with someone. I feel I am with you now, whatever that can mean, considering that you're only a little fellow now and when you're a man you might find these letters of no interest. Or they might never reach you, for any number of reasons. Well, but how deeply I regret any sadness you have suffered and how grateful I in anticipation of any good you have enjoyed. That is to say, I pray for you. And there's an intimacy in it. That's the truth."

John Ames is sort of like Atticus Finch in that he becomes everyone's ideal father while you're reading Gilead. But what makes him more interesting than being perfect is that he reveals his doubts and fears and faults to us. He becomes a human being there on the page, one with a beating heart. We grieve for him when he's sad and we feel happy when we're reading about him experiencing joy. Also what Robinson has done above is so efficiently capture that basic, fundamental thing that every parent wishes for their child (well, not every parent, but every parent should): that they never suffer, that they are happy. The most important thing, of course, is that every single line of the book is infused with emotion. This is what every writer--and every reader--should know: that a book is only as good as its emotion. This is a rule of thumb that has gotten lost in a lot of modern literature.

This is what I love most about Robinson's work, that she allows emotion to stand in every sentence. That's something that a lot of modern writers--especially the acclaimed ones--refuse to do. They think that everything has to be cynical, dark, desolate, gritty, graphic. Editors nowadays will say "It's too soft," or "it's not hard enough," or "it doesn't have enough edge." Well, not everyone has edge. My characters rarely do. They're not out being fierce and wild in the faddish way. They're being fierce and wild in their strength, in their hard work, in their love for one another, in their honesty. I think that's what most readers want: characters they can relate to, characters who experience the joys and fears that they do. That's why it's even more amazing that Robinson's novels have been so universally acclaimed. Not only are they quiet and poetic and weird and emotional, they're also about country people (gasp)!!! So the rules of modern literature would normally dictate that this kind of book not be taken seriously.

Add to the list of reasons why it's shocking Robinson gets read that the books--especially Gilead--are very much about Christianity, and religion, and theology, and faith, and doubt. Not exactly subjects that the literati likes to read or write about, unless they're making fun of them. That is not to say that it is a Christian novel, or that it is something that only Christians will be interested in. I'm not sure Robinson intended it this way, but reading that book helped me to understand better how to be the Christian that I wanted and needed to be. Not the Christian that some preacher or my parents or some politician told me I had to be. I am someone who has struggled for twenty-some years with understanding my own faith, my own beliefs. Most of my own writing has been an effort in trying to figure out what I believe and how I believe it. And reading Gilead helped me to understand that better. It helped to show me that true Christianity isn't about judgement and exclusion. It's about compassion and inclusion. Other books and people have helped to show me that, too. But no other book besides The Color Purple and Jude the Obscure has more shaped who I am from a religious or spiritual standpoint. I was raised to think that holiness was not smoking, not cussing, not going to the movie theatre, wearing the right clothes. But then I began to think, and see, differently, and here is a passage in Gilead that helped me to see more clearly what real holiness is:

"I love the prairie! So often I have seen the dawn come and the light flood over the land and everything turn radiant at once, that word “good” so affirmed in my soul that I am amazed I should be allowed to witness such a thing. . . . I’ll pray that you grow up a brave man in a brave country. I’ll pray that you find a way to be useful. I'll pray, and then I’ll sleep."

It may be simple-minded of me to have to read something like that to fully grasp my own definition of holiness, but that's the power of great books. Often our favorite books are shaped by what is happening in our lives. This one came at the right moment, when I needed it the most, when I was on the edge of losing any kind of faith at all. And this passage, somehow, saved me.

Arguably, one of the major themes in Gilead is racism. But I believe Robinson was using racism as a representative for all kinds of injustice and intolerance and evil. Although racism is still a subtle theme in Home, I believe the main theme is kindness, which naturally goes hand in hand with Christianity (the right kind of Christianity, at least) and racism (that being the opposite of kindness). Racism, then, is the impetus for the main theme, which is holiness.

That theme tumbles over into Home, Robinson's third and most recent novel, which has just been named as a finalist for the National Book Award.

And a lesson was learned in Home, too. Home reminded me that the only way we can better ourselves is by being kind to others, no matter how low we are ourselves. It is important that we not only recognize our own suffering, but see that of others and recognize it as being of more importance than our own. Again and again throughout Home we see characters being kind to each other, often at great expense or sacrifice to themselves. Home is told through the point of view of Glory Boughton, the daughter of Reverend Robert Boughton, who is in his last years, and the sister of Jack Boughton, the black sheep of the family. It is a sort of companion novel to Gilead (it takes place in roughly the same time as that novel and the characters show up in each book, but the focus is on different people and you don't have to read one to get the other) illuminating a minor character from that novel. That character is Glory, and she feels like a sinner, a failure, a disappointment, to herself and others. And she knows about being alone. And about being lonely. No other book I've ever read captures this more tenderly, or more accurately. To combat her lonesome existence she decides to be kind to others instead of striking out at them. You've heard people say that true courage is being afraid, but going forward anyway. Then it must be that true kindness is when you feel so bad you want to be mean, but you're kind anyway.

I love Glory for many reasons. Because she has that true kindness. Because she is reading The Dollmaker (one of my favorite books) during the novel. Because she appreciates sitting on the porch and watching the evening come in. But most of all because of the way she deals with aloneness and loneliness. As a writer, I am used to loneliness. Sometimes we writers are lonely when surrounded by others, even others that we cherish. It is our nature, and we couldn't be good writers otherwise. So that may be another reason I loved Home so much. These are characters who understand aloneness and loneliness (two very different things, the first sometimes desirable, the latter never wanted). My favorite passage in Home is a strange one, but I think it's so perfect it aches:

"She toasted two pieces of bread and ate them dry because she dreaded the sound she might make spreading butter on them. Then she went up to her room. Never had it entered her mind that their household could contain so desolate a silence."

I've been there. I've imagined the sound of that scraping knife. But I don't believe I could have ever articulated it so perfectly. Anyone who wants to learn more about writing would be well-advised to study that simple little paragraph. Look at the perfectly chosen nouns and verbs, the simple words strung together in such a way that they become elegant. The rhythm, so present and alive you could tap your foot to it. Most of all, the mood of the sentences, the way they establish an atmosphere and draw you in and make you a part of the novel and the characters and the scenario.

There's lots more where that passage comes from, too. I wish I could tell you the last three paragraphs because they're among the best passages I've read in literature, ever. But I won't spoil the book for you by doing so, although it's tempting.

I haven't gotten too specific about any of these novels because I don't want to give any of the plots away. Some people say that Robinson's novels are slow and boring. I admit that it took me a few tries to get into Housekeeping. And that Gilead occasionally dragged just a little bit. But I was never bored; there was always too much beauty just around the corner, and I knew it was waiting for me. To my mind, Robinson's novels are meditations, prayers, praises. A dear friend of mine said that reading Home was "like being in a state of grace." This is true, and I believe the same can be said of all three of Robinson's novels. If you haven't read them, prepare yourself for a revelation.

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Check out this beautifully-written review of Home by my friend Aimee Zaring

Some good interviews with Marilynne Robinson:

Powell's Books Interview

Religion and Ethics Interview

NPR Interview

First, Rethink

2008-09-18T08:55:00.001-07:00

I’m by no means a perfect environmentalist. I’m still driving a vehicle that uses too much gas. I still automatically reach for the light switch even when I don’t absolutely need it. I still love to load up and go for road trips even when I don’t have to. I’m an American, and we Americans love our independence, even if that means driving a big old truck all by ourselves to the post office one mile away instead of walking or riding our bicycle.

But I’m trying my best to become better on all these counts, and to me that’s the main thing all of us should do if we want to be part of the movement to be conservationists and to be better stewards of the land.

One thing that I am really proud of is that I’ve become an avid recycler. The biggest factor in this process has been that a regional recycling center was recently opened at my county seat. Lots of people just don’t have a recycler close by. But if you do, I encourage you to start recycling. It’ll make you feel better.

Our recycling center doesn’t do pick up, so once a week I load all of our cardboard, plastic, glass, and paper up and take it to the recycling center that sits just outside the town of London, Kentucky. London is a small town that would like to think of itself as a big town, and for the most part I’m often disappointed in the town’s lack of attention to the arts and backward attitude about anything that doesn’t involve sports or beauty pageants. I’ve been openly critical of the town’s practices in the past and have taken the heat for my views. A terrible city vs. county attitude exists here, as it does in most small towns across the nation, and it’s a constant thorn for me, an avowed ruralist. But when I go to the recycling center I’m always proud of the inhabitants of my county.

Some people grumbled that there was no sense in putting a major recycling center in a place that is not more populated than ours (our county is one of the fastest growing in Eastern Kentucky, with almost 53,000 people) and where more than 21% live below the poverty line (since elitists always assume that poor people would never be conscientious enough to care about the environment).

But our recycling center is a great example of how people will do the right thing when given a chance. Every time I’m there, cars are lined up to bring in their milk jugs, Mountain Dew boxes and pickle jars. The recycling center stays so busy that the crew can hardly keep up.

People ask me why I bother to recycle. Some of them seem outright offended by the notion of recycling, as if it’s a slap in the face to their way of life. I tell them, simply enough, that I recycle because it’s one of the best ways to be a good steward. They have two responses to this: 1. recycling really doesn’t help the environment and 2. Why should we be stewards of the land, anyway? Both these notion bear examination:

First of all, that whole “recycling doesn’t help the environment” idea is nonsensical. This line of thought is legitimized by a famous and controversial New York Times article published more than 12 years ago called “Recycling is Garbage” . Although author John Tierney’s assertions—which were overwhelmingly based on his opinion, and not facts—were quickly refuted by two noted scholars, Richard A. Denison, Ph. D. and John F. Ruston , the damage had already been done. The anti-recyclers now had the ammunition of a New York Times piece to back them up. I’ll leave it to Denison and Ruston to disprove Tierney’s misguided theories with solid statistics and will instead fall back on the same thing Tierney used: my opinion. And in my opinion, it’s just crazy to think recycling doesn’t work.

And what works even better is reusing, which I always try to do before recycling. Everyone always makes fun of me because at my daughters’ birthday parties, I often reuse the plates. It never fails that I will find several of the decorative paper plates that have been barely used. One has held a few potato chips. Another has just been the holder for the discarded cake candles. When I find these lying about, I wipe them out and put them up for reuse instead of just throwing them away. I don’t see a thing in the world wrong with that, but lots of people in my family have a good laugh out of it, calling me a tree hugger or, more often, a tightwad. I reuse food containers, jars, bubble wrap, newspaper (they make for the best window-cleaning, serve as great wrapping paper, are great packing material when I run out of bubble wrap to reuse) and even manuscript paper that has already been used. All typing paper can be used twice. There’s absolutely no reason to throw it away or even to send it to the recycler unless you’ve used both sides of it. People have now gotten used to getting letters from me that are typed on paper that has already been used on one side. I simply add a P.S. that says something like “Excuse my stationary and ignore the writing on the other side. Just reusing before you recycle it so it can be used as many times as possible.” If anyone is offended by that, then tough.

So there’s just no way that recycling isn’t good for the environment. Yes, it may take some water and energy to recycle, but not as much as it does to create something from scratch. Recent studies have proven that it’s even better for the environment to buy a used fuel efficient vehicle than it is to buy a new hybrid. Although the hybrid will save a lot of gas, it takes many years for it to catch up when you factor in how much energy will be used to create a new hybrid when there is already a perfectly good used and fuel-efficient car that has already been created. That’s another example of recycling. I’ve gone so far as to go on the record with Publisher’s Weekly that I don’t object to used book stores, mainly because re-reading of books saves trees (in fairness, most publishers use paper that come straight from tree farms where trees are grown for the express purpose of providing paper for books, but recycling books still relaxes the burden of pressure on our forests) and also because I love a good buy as much as anybody else and used book stores are my favorite stores of all (Robie and Robie in Berea, Kentucky being the best one, with McKay’s in Knoxville a close second (except that McKay’s employees are sorely lacking in customer service).

The second question (Why should we be stewards of the land, anyway?) is even more interesting and disturbing, not to mention ridiculous and frustrating. This is also the most important thing I’ll say herein. We should be stewards of the land because there’s just no way around the fact that as human beings we should live by the Golden Rule, the rule of reciprocity that shows up in every major religion and value system. I identify as a Christian, although my beliefs wouldn’t jibe with a lot of Christians whose views are seen as the “norm” (Sarah Palin, for example, who I’ve come to truly fear…when you start banning books and killing polar bears…well, I’m just done with you). As a Christian—nay, just as a human being—I feel a responsibility to do unto others as I would have them do unto me. I don’t see how a person can believe that and not also be a steward of the land. How can we abuse the earth and not harm ourselves—and, more importantly, others—in some way? We have a responsibility to be good to one another, and to the earth. That’s all there is to it, and no one will ever change my mind about that. It’s one of my fundamental beliefs, if not the fundamental belief I have that drives everything else.

This is not to say that you can’t be a good person—or a good Christian, or Muslim, or Hindu, or whatever—unless you recycle. It just means that I can’t in good faith not try my best to be a steward for the land, since I believe that God lives in everything. While believing that, I also believe that God is most apparent in trees, and mountains, and children, and birds, and, well, in everything. God is not just some spirit in the sky. He lives in it all. So when I do harm, I lash out against Him.

I don’t mean for this to turn into a religious discussion but I suppose the thing that eats at me more than anything else is that so many people who criticize the way I choose to be a Christian are the same people who claim that their Christianity is one that chooses to believe that global warming is a myth (Palin, again), that there’s no use in recycling or reusing or being a steward of the land because the Rapture is coming any day now anyway. I’ve even had some of these Christians tell me that to suggest we should take care of each other (universal health care) is a socialist idea and that all socialism is Communism. When we say “Communism” we’re usually thinking of the Soviet and Chinese school of Communism, so that’s what I’m referring to here. (An aside: As a child raised in the 80s, when we were all terrified the nuclear bomb would drop any day (the movie The Day After sure didn’t make me sleep any better at night), one of the major insults we could hurl at someone else was to call them a Communist.) But socialism and Communism are two completely different things, with socialism paying much more attention to human rights (and taxes). If Socialism means that we take care of each other, then I’m all for it. Why shouldn’t we? Maybe that’s why we were put here to begin with, to see if we’d succeed in taking care of one another, of if we’d fail miserably and just end up killing one another. With nuclear bombs. Or self-imposed global warming.

My point is that recycling is part of the process of doing unto others as you would have them do unto you. It’s about being a true conservative in that you actually want to conserve something, not that you want to be a conservative in the modern definition, which would mean that you want to teach abstinence-only sex ed, deny people equal rights, and put lipstick on pit bulls. Or something.

When I go to the recycling center, I feel like I’m doing something to help. And I love seeing others who are doing something to help, too. All these people silently making their small sacrifices. They take the time and make the effort to recycle. Not because they’re being paid to do so. Not because anyone will appreciate it (as a matter of fact, lots of people will outright accuse them of being—gasp—“liberals,” an insult that carries almost the same weight as being called a “Communist” in the Age of Palin). They do it simply because they believe in the Golden Rule. Because they don’t like to waste. Because they believe in true conservation.

And for the record, people of all classes show up at the recycling center, all of them with the common goal of doing something to help in mind. When my cousin, a self-proclaimed “true Christian” (i.e., one who doesn’t smoke, drink, or curse but judges everyone) tells me how much he’s doing for Jesus, I ask him why he doesn’t recycle for him, then.

I’m still working on becoming a better environmentalist. Slowly, I’m simplifying. I’m not using as much energy as I used to. I’m not using as much gas as I once did. I’m reusing and recycling even more. I’ve even started riding my bicycle to the post office. Most of all, I’m trying to be more aware of how every single thing I do affects others, and the earth. That’s the first step to making a change for the positive, I think, and so if we can all just do that—be conscious—then we’ve made the first, biggest step of all.

This Is Not Nowhere

2008-08-20T08:58:00.000-07:00

When I was a child, I thought the ridge above my house was the center of the universe, the middle of everything. It might as well have been, as I had all that I needed there: trees, a creek, the sky, a pasture. Here I could run as fast as I wanted, or holler at the top of my lungs, go to sleep with my good dog Fala as a pillow, even pee outside. Basically, I could do all the things I could not do at home.

As far as that goes, my little town had everything I needed, too. People who loved me, my school, the Laurel River, which supplied us with endless enjoyment (swimming, skipping rocks, ice-skating), my Aunt Dot's store, which was well-supplied with plenty of candy and pop, and so on. Occasionally we needed to go to Knoxville or Lexington, but usually only when someone was nigh death and had to be shipped off to one of the hospitals there. We cared nothing for malls or fancy restaurants or things of that nature. As far as I was concerned the only reason to go to the city at all was because they had a better bookstore. I could take it or leave it.

Going into the city was a major thing when I was little. Always in early November my mother and aunts would plan an excursion to the city for Christmas shopping. This was a trip that was planned with the discussion and maneuvers that might befall a major expedition into some uncharted land. Directions had to be given over and over, coolers had to be packed full of Pepsi so they wouldn't have to spend extra money while on the road, oil had to be changed, tires rotated. Aunt Sis had to have a proper supply of Winstons and her pistol had to be cleaned and filled with new bullets in case they broke down on the side of the road. My sister had to have a new outfit for going into the city. My mother had to have her hair done before leaving. You get the picture.

As I got older, going to the city became only slightly more important, but only when Tom Petty or Dwight Yoakam were playing a concert there, or when a forbidden trip to the liquor store (our county--and most of the region--is dry) seemed necessary. The interstate had been improved so the city wasn't as far away now. When we wanted to go, the city was only ninety minutes away and if it had been farther we would have been alright, too.

All these thoughts ran through my mind when I was visiting a university (which I won't name) not too long ago. At this school, I talked a lot about my own writing and naturally, since I am from Appalachia, the issue of stereotypes came up. I spent a long time talking about the way we all have stereotypes, how we country people have preconceived notions about city dwellers just as badly as they do about us, and so on. I told the audience that I've encountered every kind of insult because of my roots, and especially because of my accent, which apparently gives people the right to treat me like I'm a dullard. I told them I had heard all the lame jokes about being barefoot, illiterate, having an out-house, making moonshine, yadda yadda yadda, blah blah blah. My God, I get tired of talking about it.

Despite going on about this for at least an hour, during the time I spent signing books afterward, two separate people referred to the place I was from as being "the middle of nowhere." Not my town specifically, but places in Appalachia. My immediate thought was to agree that some towns in the mountains were pretty far off the beaten path. But then I thought about how it had taken me such a long time to get to this university because it was off the beaten path, too, not near any major interstates or any other major towns. Because this city had a fairly large population, however, its residents never thought of it as being in the middle of nowhere. Because they were a city. They had Red Lobsters and Borders and a Panera. Whoopty-doo.

I'm being facetious now.

The thing is, Appalachia is not nowhere. Wherever you go, there you are, goes the old saying. When I am in New York City, I am in the place that people apparently think of as the Center of Everything, the opposite of the Middle of Nowhere. True, there is wonderful art and music and parks and food and all sorts of things in New York City. It must be said that it’s a real place, too, not just the stereotype we think of, but a place full of people with lives of their own. But not all of the people I love most are there. Isn't that really what makes a place the Middle of the World, the Center of Everything, the most important place?

Still, it has to be more than even that. It has to be, because even though the great majority of people I love happen to be concentrated in Appalachia, it is also a fact that many of my very heartstrings live outside the region. If my children grow up and leave this place, does it make the place any less special? Of course not. So it must be even more than just the people that makes Appalachia so special to me. It has to be the spirit that informs this place, this land. Without the land I love, the place that is a part of me, I am nowhere. If I am not in the woods that I know like the back of my hand, am I not truly lost?

The Middle of Nowhere is the opposite of wherever you think the Center of Everything is. And for all those people who like to refer to Appalachia as "the Middle of Nowhere," I give you this: for millions of people, this is the place we grew up, the place where we have had struggles and hardships, joys and triumphs. It's the place where our people are buried, where our children were born, where we've sweated and bled and have loved and loved and loved. This is not Nowhere. This is home.

A Conscious Heart

2008-05-16T19:34:00.000-07:00

The following is the text from Silas House's speech "A Conscious Heart" which was given at the Appalachian Studies Association Conference in Huntington, West Virginia on March 29, 2008. There have been so many requests for the speech that we've decided to post it here. The speech will be published in the next issue of The Journal of Appalachian Studies. For permission to use the speech please email TgMedia Publicity at tgmedia@bellsouth.net .

A Conscious Heart
Appalachian Studies Association Conference
Keynote Address

I cannot, in good conscience, speak at a conference of Appalachian Studies with a theme of “the road ahead” and not talk about mountaintop removal and how it threatens our future, although it’s a topic that we’ve all been hearing discussed over and over again lately. In glancing over the conference program, I see mountaintop removal listed many times. But it is something that so threatens the heart of who we are as a people and a place that it really cannot be talked about enough. And I hope that tonight I can talk about it in a new way. We all know about mountaintop removal and what a threat it is to the future of Appalachia. So I’m not going to stand up here and talk about that. But I do want to talk about some reasons why I believe mountaintop removal exists.

The big misconception about mountaintop removal is that it’s an environmental issue. Well, of course it is, but more importantly, it’s a cultural issue. So let’s take into account that we already know about the environmental devastation caused by mountaintop removal and not talk about that. Instead, let’s talk about the way it threatens this place we all know and love. I want to look at the way mountaintop removal threatens our storytelling tradition, and our pride. We talk a lot these days about “a sustainable economy.” But what about being a sustainable people, a sustainable culture? Those things are just as important. And I think the real thing we ought to be exploring is why something as horrific as mountaintop removal can happen in the United States of America.

When 1,200 protestors against mountaintop removal marched on the state capitol of Kentucky this past Valentine’s Day it wasn’t mentioned on one single television news station in the state and was only referenced in a two line Associated Press photo caption in the largest paper serving the region. When, less than a month later, about 1,300 coal miners marched on the state capitol to protest a ban on polluting streams, every news station and newspaper gave them coverage.

Something is rotten in the state of Appalachia.

Mountaintop removal isn’t going to end anytime soon. We’re an energy-hungry nation, a selfish country that won’t even look into ways to reduce the use of gas and electricity. Our government won’t explore things like mass transit or wind and solar technology because they say Americans don’t want that. And frankly I’m not one of those people who call for the end of the coal industry. That’s just not realistic to me. But I do believe that we can fight for coal mining to be done in a more responsible and respectful way. We can fight for this and win, too. There is the possibility of making that happen. People in other parts of the country don’t allow things like this to happen, and we can stand up and make it stop, too. We can make sure that our streams are protected, that our people are protected.

There is just no excuse in this world for a sludge impoundment holding billions of gallons of toxic coal sludge to be located just above the Marsh Fork Elementary School in Raleigh County, West Virginia. Where else in America could this happen but Appalachia? Would people in Massachusetts or California or Montana allow this? No. So why do we? Things like that make me want to just give up. When I think of those children in that school, being put in danger like that everyday…well, it’s almost too much. It’s enough to make you lose faith in your country. But then, the next second, something else kicks in and knowledge like that makes me want to fight harder.

One thing I love in particular about Jean Ritchie’s song “Black Waters” is her line “If I had ten million or thereabouts/I’d buy Perry County/and run them all out.” I’d love to be able to do that, too, and I know many of you agree with that sentiment, but in the meantime we have to find a way to protect what we have. So we have to find out where the problem starts and begin there.

I believe I know the most terrible thing we are facing today in this region, and it’s something that many of you witness each day. Apathy. Apathy is killing Appalachia, and as thinking, conscious people who are gathered here to discuss the road ahead for Appalachia, it’s up to us to stop it. To get at mountaintop removal we first have to stamp out apathy. With that said, I believe this is a nationwide problem, but it’s more dangerous to us in these mountains than to most people. Now I’m about to say something that I don’t like to say, something that I don’t like to know, but it must be said: mountaintop removal is able to exist because not enough Appalachians are speaking out against it. More of us have to take action or accept that we’re being inactive.

One of my heroes is Eleanor Roosevelt, so I’ll quote her twice tonight. Something she said long ago seems to apply so well here that I’d be remiss to not mention it. She once said, “So much attention is paid to the aggressive sins, such as violence and cruelty and greed…that too little attention is paid to the passive sins, such as apathy and laziness, which in the long run can have a more devastating effect.”

Apathy is a sin. And I believe that the politicians and the lobbyists and all those people working against the regular, working people of the world rely on apathy. If the people just sit by and let anything happen, that leaves someone else in control.

I could be the curmudgeonly English professor and stand up here and tell you that it’s the young people’s fault, that students don’t work hard enough these days, that they don’t care enough. But I’m going to stand here and tell you that Americans on the whole don’t care enough and don’t work hard enough. Yes, people are busy today. Yes, people are just doing the best they can to get by. They’re just trying to take care of themselves and their kids and their parents and do the best they can. Most of all, though, people feel powerless. While I think those excuses are not good enough reasons to just sit down and do nothing, I also think they are valid and real, and tonight I want to talk just a little bit about the reasons why.

A reporter recently put me on the spot by asking me why Appalachians continued to elect politicians who didn’t represent their interests properly, politicians who sold them out to King Coal, who didn’t create sustainable economic plans, who didn’t make the region better. That was a hard question to answer because the answer is so complex and I believe the reporter had a point. I think that Appalachians, once such a proud, strong people, are still strong, but as a whole group of people we are not as defiant as we once were because we’ve been told for so long that we’re no good that we’ve started to believe it.

The 100 years of brainwashing has started to take hold.

For decades now, for more than a century, actually, we’ve been told that we should be good patriots and accept that we’re the sacrificial ground for the rest of the nation’s energy resources. We’ve been told that if we were good Appalachians we’d be quiet and not say anything when our land is destroyed. “Don’t complain,” the environmental industries have said. I’m not just talking about coal. I’m talking about the gas companies and the timber business and the TVA and the government and every damn one of them who chose profit over morality, wealth over integrity. “Don’t complain,” they’ve said, “Or you’re not a good Appalachian, not a good American.”

This is not too different from the current state of being in America, where one’s patriotism is questioned if he or she speaks out against the war or against the president.

I don’t know about you, but this is not what I want to teach my children. I want them to know that a true patriot always speaks out, asks questions, thinks for herself. And a true Appalachian always fights back, asks questions, doesn’t back down. But when you are told over and over to not ask questions, that it’s “the Lord’s will”, that we have to destroy the place we love in order to keep the lights on, and you couple that with the fact that so many of us are struggling just to put food on the table and keep our children dressed and out of trouble. When you add that kind of thinking to the fact that people are just doing the best they can to survive, well, they start to believe it’s true. They start to believe that they shouldn’t speak up. That they shouldn’t fight back.

And that leads to not caring, to apathy, to being the living dead, because when you walk around not thinking, just accepting everything the way it is, you’re not completely alive. We have a responsibility in this life to have conscious hearts, to be aware, to be thinking beings. Otherwise it’ll all go to hell in a handbasket.

I don’t have statistics and facts to prove my point. All I have is insights that I have gained from talking to people all over this region. Over the last seven years, since my first book was published, I’ve been all over these mountains, to every little town library and university and independent bookstore that I know of. I’ve talked to book clubs and interviewed activists and gone to community meetings and met people all over this country. When I say “country” I’m saying it in the Appalachian way, meaning this region. The greatest blessing of my career as a writer is having the opportunity to meet so many people and hear their stories, to realize that every single person I’ve ever met has a story that deserves to be told, to be heard. In meeting all those people, I can tell you that they provide the best statistics of all when they bemoan the lack of willingness to fight back, the lessening amounts of people who are will to speak up for what they believe in, when they tell me that people would rather they be quiet.

On her latest album, one of our greatest songwriters, Lucinda Williams, wrote, and sings: “My words choose knowledge over politics/You can’t kill my words, they know no bounds.”

We have to believe this. We have to realize the power of words and harness them to fight things like injustice and apathy. I have had students before who just did not want to learn, who were in college simply to get their degree so they could get a good-paying job. While on the road once, I visited a teaching college and asked a classroom full of elementary education majors why they wanted to be teachers. Out of the fifteen of them, ten said they wanted to be a teacher because they’d have the summer off. Only five, a third of them, said some variation on the fact that they wanted to put something positive out into the world, wanted to help educate children, wanted to make a difference. Leaving that classroom, I felt like throwing up.

If we let people leave our classrooms or our homes or wherever we encounter them with that attitude, then we have failed them. As a professor, I believe that my responsibility is not only to share knowledge with others, but also to make them care about learning, to make them understand that there is nothing that will give them more power than knowledge: words, science, art. As a father and a son and an Appalachian and an American, I have that same responsibility.

In one of my favorite poems, “Open Fire Poster,” Hindi poet (the self-proclaimed "poet of the peasantry") Alokdhanwa writes: “This is not a poem/this is a call to open fire/that all those who use the pen/are getting from all those who work the plow.” I believe we have to make our daily lives an open fire poster, a call to arm ourselves with knowledge, a call to arms for other Appalachians to stand up and speak out for what they believe in.

One way we can do this is to better promote regional pride. I believe that the only way we can make Appalachia a better place and to fight something as big as mountaintop removal and the reasons it exists is to do two things. 1. To fight apathy. and 2. to make our children proud to be where they’re from.

I am a writer because I grew up in a family of storytellers, of working people and I bet many of you did, as well. I lived on a one-mile stretch of road where I was either kin to everyone or knew them so well that we might as well have been kin. My family always ate together. On Mondays everyone came to our house. On Tuesday we went to my aunt Sis’s, on Wednesday to my uncle Sam’s, and so on. Mine was a boisterous family who talked loud, lived loud. This was how we spoke to each other: in a big way. We did everything in a big, hard way. My people danced hard, sang hard, fought hard, loved harder. Many of them lived hard; others worshipped hard. At each meal there were rolls of laughter that fell out onto the yard, drifted to our neighbors. They told stories with all their might. Stories, stories, stories told around the table. Singing. We always sang when we cleaned up the kitchen. My mother and sister at the sink, washing dishes and swaying back and forth to whatever was on the little plastic radio that stood on the counter. They’d sing Loretta Lynn or Tanya Tucker or, more likely, gospel songs by the Singing Cook Family or the McKameys. And then, later, out on the porch and the yard where everyone sat or played, there were more tales. When someone was asked how things were at work, they were never answered with “Just fine,” or “Alright.” They were always answered with an epic, a big long story full of exaggerations and well-timed pauses and bouts of laughter. Stories, sentences, words.

We talked as if our lives depended on it.

Now I see that our lives have always depended on stories, on telling stories, on hearing the stories of others. On words. For the longest time, that was all that mountain people had. Now we have satellite dishes and the internet and Gameboys and interstates and we’ve traded our stories for those things. In the process we’ve also traded our families, our friends, our heritage, our history, our mountains, our way of life.

I thought about my family’s storytelling abilities a lot when I went away to college and encountered my first really aggressive attacks because of the way I talked. I thought about it even more when I went on book tour and people felt free to make fun of my speech patterns right to my face. The more “liberal” these people proclaimed themselves, the more apt they were to put down my people. Those who were on the constant defense about ethnic slurs and such were perfectly happy to negate my own ethnic identity, that of an Appalachian. When being judged based on my dialect, I thought about the way my family had all loved words so much, and now we were being accused of not using them properly, not because we were grammatically incorrect, but just because we had an accent. It didn’t matter how good my grammar was—and I assure you it was far better than that of the people who talked “proper”—I was still the hick, the hillbilly, the brier, the dummy, the ignorant one. I was country come to town and apparently I was there to entertain people.

Only two months ago I was in Florida, at one of the country’s most prestigious literary conferences, and I was seated at a table with people from all over the country. As soon as I opened my mouth, it started. “Can you please pass the butter?” I asked, perfectly innocent. The whole table fell silent, forks and knives frozen in mid-air, mouths slightly ajar, eyes bulging a little. Then, the laughter began: uneasy, unsure, delighted, as if I was a surprise, someone supplied by the festival to be seated at their table to provide entertainment. And then, the bravest, stupidest one at the table said, “Can you say that again?” and collapsed in laughter. Not sure what was happening—although it had happened dozens of times before—I did repeat myself. But as soon as they all laughed again, I knew.

I had been culturally profiled.

And because of the way I pronounced “butter” I was deemed not as smart as them. These people were from Off. You all know where Off is. Anywhere that is not Appalachia. But I am here to tell you that it’s not just people from Off who do this. I have encountered just as much of this within the region, by people who were born and raised here. And these most likely were not bad people. They were just ignorant and entitled, raised to believe that it was okay to question someone’s intelligence because of their dialect or their geography or social standing. Because it all comes down to the fact that everyone thinks that everyone in Appalachia is poor. And poor people never, ever matter.

I am here to say this, above all else: things like mountaintop removal exist because we allow people to negate us.

How can we question why mountaintop removal is able to occur in this place if we also stand by and allow people to put us down this way? I always respond to encounters like I’ve just told you about by being as polite as possible, but also by being firm and letting the perpetrators know that they’re showing their own ignorance, that they’re being insulting.

Language is political.

In elementary school I had teachers who told us we not only had to speak proper grammar but we had to pronounce things properly. I remember one teacher telling us to watch the evening news and try to talk the way the newscasters did, because they talked “right.” But I loved language and individuality too much for that. Somehow, even as a child, I knew that to consciously change the way I talked would be to give up a little bit of myself. And I refused to do it. It felt like being ethnically cleansed.

“I talk this way for a reason,” Lee Smith once said. “It’s a political decision.”

Now I want to point out that I’m NOT saying you have to talk a particular way to be a real Appalachian. But I do believe that you can’t put down others for talking that way or sit by while this happens. I believe we should promote good grammar and not try to decide how things are supposed to be pronounced within a culture that is partly defined by its speech patterns. Our dialect is part of our culture and if we let that be taken away from us, we’ve given up a chunk of our souls.

But even people who do change their speech patterns—consciously or unconsciously—are still judged based on where they’re from. Unless you go around hiding your entire identity, careful to not let anyone know where you’re from, people are going to know you’re Appalachian. And whether they admit it or not, people are going to judge you based on that.

Since becoming a professor, I’ve been judged many times simply because I’m from the mountains. Not realizing what a close friend of mine she was talking to, a former colleague of mine said: “Be careful of Silas House. He’s from Appa-lay-chee-uh. They’re all fundamentalist Christians down there.” By the way, I don’t mean to make fun of the way SHE talks, but that’s how she pronounced Appalachia, which, and somehow that’s important to point out. Because of where I was from I was—in her and many other people’s eyes—a homophobe, a racist, a religious fanatic, a misogynist. I was that thing she had always feared: a redneck. A hillbilly. There are people all over the world who truly believe that we are all rapists with banjoes. This woman knew where I was from based only on the way I talked and for that reason she believed she knew who I was, not understanding that every single person in Appalachia is an individual, and that most of the stereotypes she had been fed all her life were incorrect or at least grossly exaggerated.

Someone who once heard me speak at a conference wrote on a blog about me: “I bet he’s never picked up a Thomas Hardy book in his life.”

Since I was a country boy turned teacher this person did not think it possible that I knew plenty about Hardy. She did not know—nor would she have believed—that I had been obsessed with Hardy for the past two years and had been reading everything by him I could find. And she did not even realize the irony of her mentioning Hardy since he suffered the same sort of prejudice when his books became a success and he was invited into the “Polite Society” of Victorian England. According to the new biography on Hardy written by Claire Tomalin: “Hardy could not help seeing that his most deeply rooted attachments were to people who were hardly taken seriously in the world he aspired to enter. At best (his family members) were seen as quaint and picturesque (by the upper class), at worst as simpletons or clowns. True, his parents were a cut above the shepherds and laborers, and were urging him on proud of his progress; it did not make it any less awkward for him as he (was encouraged to) advance away from them in speech and habits.”

Hardy eventually overcame these problems because he believed in himself and his heritage. He went onto write novels that actually not only dared to feature rural main characters but also to make these rural characters intelligent—sometimes even more intelligent than the elite upper crust living in London. It is widely known that Hardy’s books were controversial because of his attacks of hypocrisy and religion, but I believe that they were also controversial because they allowed rural people of the lower class to be smarter than those of the upper class. Often in his novels the lower class—take Tess Durbeyfield, for instance—are more noble, moral, and intelligent than those of the upper class—say her rich cousin, Alec D’Urberville, who mistreats her. It was one thing of outrage for a female character to have sexual feelings, yes. But it was quite another, bigger thing of outrage for that same sexual, dignified female being to also be rural. Hardy’s people were England’s equivalents of Appalachians. It’s not unlike today’s publishing world, where a literary character isn’t worth a damn if he’s not from New York. Regionalism is just another caste system, and when dealing with Appalachia, a perfectly acceptable and politically correct one.

Now I am not saying that we ought not be able to laugh at ourselves—how else does a culture survive?—but I refuse to let others laugh at us. I won’t have it.

Over and over again in the academic world I see self-hate occurring. I can’t tell you how many times that I’ve seen people at Appalachian schools want to rub out the Appalachianess of the school. They don’t want to talk about being Appalachian. I’ve had many Appalachian schools ask me to come speak at convocation and commencement and usually they want me to talk about this place and our heritage. But twice I’ve been told to not talk about Appalachia. “We want this school to have international significance,” one administrator told me. I thought to myself, “Well bull.” Since I had not been told this in advance and been giving the chance to refuse speaking at all, I went ahead and said my piece about the region anyway, adding in a few lines about how Appalachia is just an internationally important as any place else in the world, since we are all part of a global community, no matter where we are from. And believe me, the administrator looked like he had just sucked a lemon. I didn’t care.

As Appalachians, this is of the utmost importance. We ask ourselves why Appalachia remains poverty-stricken, why people keep electing politicians who allow the coal companies to run rampant, acting like spoiled little boys who have to have their way. We ask why our children leave the mountains, why once thriving communities are turning into ghost towns. We ask why the nation continues to look at us as lower, lesser, as invisible people.

Because we allow ourselves to be treated as such.

Which leads me to my second Eleanor Roosevelt quote of the night. She said: “No one can make you inferior without your consent.”

We have to stop feeling inferior. We have to instill regional pride in our children.

I know I’m preaching to the choir here. You wouldn’t be here if you weren’t conscious, thinking people who care about this place. But it’s always good to be reminded.

That’s why, if you travel the winding mountain roads of Appalachia come summer, when the blackberries hang heavy on the vines, you’ll find tent revivals here and there on the side of the road. Because people need reminding of all things, whether it’s religion or politics or passion. Anytime thinking people can come together to trade ideas about being better teachers, it’s a tent revival in its own right.

I believe that while teaching, or singing, or writing, or being a scientist or a mining engineer or whatever we may be, we can simultaneously teach social responsibility, which is something that many of our students are in dire need of learning about. So many of our students today have been raised with things so good that they simply can’t believe this good life had to be fought for with tooth and nail by generations before them.

In one class a group of young women told me that The Color Purple wasn’t believable because a woman could never be as trapped by a man as Celie is by Mister, that women had never had it that bad. This was a group of young women who didn’t even understand the struggle that women had gone through, that they still go through. They didn’t even know about suffrage. To them, this was something that had happened ages ago, something that didn’t concern them at all. I had assigned this book in a Southern Lit class to talk about the beauty of Walker’s Pulitzer Prize-winning novel, but ended up not only discussing that, but also the history of women’s rights, about the women who came before them who fought for equal rights. It was unbelievable that these grown women hadn’t heard about this in-depth until they came to college. Why hadn’t they learned this in high school? Elementary school? And even worse, why hadn’t their parents taught them as much instead of relying on teachers to do it for them? We have to stop relying on teachers and television to raise our children for us.

In one of my writing classes, we were talking about empathy in writing and talk somehow turned to the Iraq War. Several students expressed their disbelief that Iraqi children were suffering during the then daily bombings of Baghdad. To them, the war was not much more real than a videogame. It was, after all, happening “a million miles away.” The next week I arranged for my class met in Student Services, where we helped to make up care packages for Iraqi children attending school. One student was livid, telling me this had nothing to do with writing. I told him that he couldn’t possibly be a good writer if he didn’t understand that there were other human beings in the world besides himself.

Let’s look at a poem by the great James Still that can help illustrate this point.

Death of a Fox

Last night I ran a fox over
A sudden brilliant flash of gold,
a setting sun of gilded fur
appeared in my car’s beam
and then the fatal thump.
I asked the fox to forgive me.
He spat as he died.I asked God to forgive me.
I don’t believe He will.
Is there no pardon anywhere?

In an interview conducted forty years after this poem was written, Mr. Still said “What happens in Afghanistan, happens to me.” That’s really what he’s saying in this poem, too—that what happens to the fox, happens to me, to you, that we’re all connected, that if we continue to ignore the beauty of the fox, we ignore the beauty of our own humanity.

I have only been actively involved in the fight against Mountaintop Removal since 2005. People ask me why I care so much. They tell me that I’m wasting my time, that big industry cannot be fought, that King Coal will always rule in the mountains. I reply by saying that yes, big industry cannot be fought with an attitude like that, that King Coal will always rule so long as we allow it to. And while I have never tried to talk my own students or children into marching in protest with me, I hope to give them an example of social responsibility by the way I look at literature and by the way I treat them, by standing up for what I believe in. When I say this, I am not so much talking about the large scale acts of protest like singing at the capitol or carrying a sign. I’m talking about being proud of where I’m from. I’m talking about practicing what I preach by reusing and recycling and conserving energy as much as I possibly can. I’m by no means perfect, and don’t claim to be. I still drive a truck that uses too much gas, but I’m unable, for various reasons, to switch vehicles right now. This isn’t a good enough excuse. But I’m trying my best, I’m doing all I can to live an environmentally-conscious life. That’s all we can do. The biggest thing of all is having a conscious heart, being aware of how our actions affect others and our place.

I’ve been to community meetings, to rallies, to the state capitol. I’ve written editorials and tried to find every way I can to be more active in this fight. But ultimately I’ve found that the best way is to let people tell their own stories. So, with my coeditor Jason Howard, I’ve been working on a book for the last year. The book is called Something’s Rising, and it’s a collection of oral histories of Appalachians who are fighting mountaintop removal. It also includes features about the people who are doing the oral histories. Included are people like Judy Bonds, Jean Ritchie, Jack Spadaro, Denise Giardina, Kathy Mattea, and five others, including a former deep miner, a council-member of a coal town where his views against mountaintop removal are not popular, a preacher who is teaching that all Christians should be against mountaintop removal, a nurse practitioner who is bravely organizing her whole creek to fight back. Over and over again, these people told us that they believed mountaintop removal was happening for two reasons: because people in Appalachia feel powerless and because of apathy. These two things are connected.

Before I close, I’d like to read you an excerpt from Jean Ritchie’s oral history. Now I think that Jean Ritchie is just about as close to a saint as anyone I’ve ever been in the same room with, and everything she says is golden to me, but she gets it exactly right in this excerpt:
“Well, I’m against not saying anything. I think we have to make people more aware of what’s happening. The reason more people are not doing anything, I imagine, is because they think they can’t win. They think, ‘well, that’s the way the world’s changing.’ And that’s the way the coal companies want them to think. They say ‘Ah, we’re bringing you stores and commerce and such; what do you want with this old country way?’ And people believe that. And it’s easier for them to not say anything. I think people just think it’s a monumental thing, that they won’t make any difference. They think they’re small and this is large and they think they’re not going to get anywhere, that they’ll just be beating their heads against a stone wall.”
I love the simplicity of her first sentence there: “I’m against not saying anything.” That’s a really powerful sentence. Like her songwriting, it’s subtle and blunt at the same time, completely succinctly.

We must be against not saying anything. We must have conscious hearts, be aware of every action, be proud of the tough stock from which we come. To win this battle against mountaintop removal we must first win the battle against ourselves and our own urges to thinking we are powerless. We are not.

We come from people like the Widow Combs, a 64 year old woman who laid down in front of bulldozers to stop the strip mining by broadform deed on her Knott County farm in 1965. She was carried off to jail, but she made her point. We come from people like Nellie Woolum, a retired postmaster who went to her local officials over and over again, telling them that the coal company would end up destroying Ages Holler by building shoddy sludge dams. She was right; the resulting slurry spill wrecked dozens of homes and killed Woolum in her own home. She’ll be remembered for fighting back, for speaking up. We come from people like my grandfather, Johnny Shepherd, who lost his leg in a roof fall in the Leslie County mines but after only six months of recuperation, decided to go back underground and mine coal for 20 more years. Because he believed in his job, he believed in working hard, in never giving up. We come from the hundreds of men and women who fought at the Battle of Blair Mountain, despite being bombed by United States Army planes armed with bombs, the only time in history our nation dropped bombs on its own people. They fought because they believed in something and were willing to stand up for it.

We come from people who people who were the first people in these mountains, the Cherokees, Shawnees, the Crow, the Mingo. We come from the tough Scots-Irish who came to settle it next, and the Italians and Germans who worked like dogs to make their way in the world and the black men and women who were brought here on ships to be slaves and later sent here on trains to work for half-scale down in the mines. We are from the more than 38 nationalities that worked at one single coal mine in Lynch, Kentucky. We are a true melting pot of strong peoples, a culture of immigrants, all joining strengths to become Appalachians, and in the past we haven’t backed down, so this time we can’t back down either.

This is what we have to teach our children. That they can’t afford to be apathetic. That they have to have conscious hearts so they can carry on our culture, so that there is actually a culture left for them to carry on.

On God's Creek

2008-02-17T13:23:00.000-08:00

The older I get, the more I want to stay in my little writer’s shack beside God’s Creek. Down there I can see nothing but woods on one side and the steep field on the other, where the only sounds in winter are those of the woodpecker who, early of the morning, drills and prods the huge, dead oak which stands like a gray monument across the creek, and the sound of the hickory branches that tap against my tin roof when an icy breeze moves through. If I stop typing and moving and shut down completely, tuning myself into the world, there are more sounds, of course. Far back in the woods, the crunch of leaves (a squirrel, most likely; a fox, I hope). The longing bark of a lonesome dog, way over the ridge. The bubble of the spring-fed God’s Creek, quiet in wintertime, especially the winter after our worst drought, but living now at least: moving, whispering. The barely discernable—but there, yes, there—creak of the floorboards under my weight, the almost-lost complaints of the walls, which tire of standing night and day, on and on. The soft rub of wood as two redbirds play among the tree branches, flitting hither and yon, pausing occasionally to call out to one another. These are winter birds, survivors, tough customers. I only see males back here along God’s Creek, a red you can only find in nature. Beneath all of this, the hum of beetles and crickets and worms that make up the most important machinery of the world.

I want to stay here in this cocoon of books (cue “I Am A Rock”: I have my books and my poetry to protect me) and not have to face the real world, the modern world, a world where people admire wealth over dignity, where talking nonstop about nothing is considered more admirable than studied silence, where your allegiance to your country is questioned if you ask too many questions about certain things, like the war or the coal industry or even the Ten Commandments, for God’s sake.

In my writing shack I don’t have to think about the latest school shooting (and by the way, how many shootings will it take before we impose some kind of stricter waiting periods on weapons and ammunition?) or that I have literally hundreds of emails that need a reply or that my beautiful but completely insane dog Riley has just pulled at least two dozen muddy sticks out of the creek and is right now in the process of leaving them all scattered about the back yard in varying states of gnawed, slimy decomposition. Instead, I can listen to the silence, peer out at the trees and the hint of low, gray sky behind them. I can soak up the vibes of those crowding in around me—Arnow, Cather, Erdrich, Hardy, Maxwell, Millay, Oliver, Stegner, Still, Walker—so close I can almost feel their literary breath on my neck. That breath smells like the inside of a book, of course, one of the best smells ever, right up there with woodsmoke, a pot of new coffee, pinto beans bubbling on the stove, a ripe strawberry, a baby’s head.

But to disappear into this book-created bliss, to drift off into this ecstasy of good words completely, abandoning all interaction with the outside world would be a mistake. As a writer—nay, as a human being—I need to have this place of solitude that I’ve created for myself in my writer’s shack. I need stillness and quietude in my life. But my responsibility as a writer is to also think about those school shootings, because part of my job is to try to understand—and articulate—the way human beings operate. And my responsibility is to study the movements of my crazy, beloved dog, because part of my job is to describe those things in a cinematic, interesting way. And yes, the modern responsibility is to even answer those emails. Because I’m a full-time writer. And part of that means I also have to be a businessperson some of the time. It’s a necessary part of the job. Some writers hesitate to refer to their writing as work, or as a job. But just because it’s something I love and crave doesn’t also mean that it’s not my job. It’s my work. People often say about their jobs, “It’s what I do for a living.” I’ve always found that to be a beautiful phrase.

What I do for a living.

And it certainly applies to being a writer, because writing not only pays my bills but it’s also something that I would die without. If I didn’t have some way to get all my thoughts and fears and joys out onto the page, I’d implode.

Although we are people of solitude, writers cannot be hermits. We have to steel ourselves and go out into the world whether we like it or not. Otherwise we wouldn’t have a thing to write about. There are only so many essays and books one person can write about the woods and the sounds of all the little live things. Those things deserve to have as much written about them as possible, but we also have to write about the problems of humanity, not just the joys of the forest. And to understand one we have to touch the other.

So we must be responsible and face the world even though, as writers, we usually don’t want to. We would rather be with a select group of trusted friends and family who understand us (those few, beloved souls), or those only other things that we feel understand us: music, books, the act of writing. And that is why I wanted to build this writer’s shack here by God’s Creek last year.

It has made all the difference.

I built the shack with my father. Actually, he built it. I just helped, just did what he told me to. I had to learn how to handle a hammer (The lower down the more swing. This is the most important rule of hammering. Ever.) when my family and friends all gathered together and built my house nine years ago. But I’ve never really mastered it, and I certainly don’t know how to make things square or how to get things in plum or any other number of carpentry terms that I don’t even know. Still, I enjoyed every swing as I drove those nails into the wood. Each pound of the hammer was one second closer to words being pounded out here on the banks of this creek, too.

The writer’s shack is twelve feet by twelve feet. Not even as big as most people’s bedrooms. But plenty big enough for my needs. I wanted the whole structure to be made completely of wood and light, so where there is not wood paneling and planks there are windows and glass doors, letting in the sky, the woods. Sitting here feels like being inside a hollow tree where I can spy outside.

My glass patio doors—on the eastern wall—face the woods, where I have an evergreen view since there is a small grove of hemlocks just across the creek. In the mornings, for a long while after sunrise, the sky behind them is lit with every good variation of pink and yellow. These doors open onto my small porch, which holds two rockers. This is where I enter and exit. It is also where my dogs Rufus (noble, fierce) and Riley (the aforementioned insane and beautiful) lie the entire time I am writing. They stretch out, keep guard, sometimes nod off, look at me quizzically when I holler out at some great realization about my current novel, or curse at the laptop for doing something inexplicable and spiteful.

On the northern wall is my picture window, which looks directly out onto a dogwood that is like magic in the springtime. To the west is the front door (never used), wood with a glass center. Beyond it is the first real slope of Slate Ridge, this piece of land I’ve known since childhood, this good rise of earth. Down this hill I have ridden sleds on both snow and deep leaves, rolled with arms crossed, smoked my first and last entire cigarettes (17 years apart—savoring the last one much more than the first), had my first kiss (if every kiss was as full of hope as that first one, I imagine we’d all flit about like those redbirds), thought through many a problem. And so on. In the evenings there is only the hint of red above this rise as it is too high up for me to see the sunset on the other side. Since the shack sets down in a little hollow, the gloaming starts there first. Down by the creek the night seeps in, a quilt of gray being eased up over the land. In wintertime this is the quietest part of the day, but in warm weather it will be the noisiest. However, that noise will be the best kind there is: cicadas, crickets, frogs, whippoorwills, katydids, peepers. Their songs usher in the darkness with prayer, and these exaltations are at their loudest (most joyous) down by the creek, on all sides of my little writing shack.

I have neglected to mention the southern wall of the building. I have intentionally not put a window on this side because I want my desk to face that way. The trees and sky and hillside are all too good to look at while I’m writing. I don’t want them to catch my eye behind the laptop screen. But I do want them within such easy reach that they can be seen by a slight turn of my head, by a shift of my eyes. Instead, there is nothing but this wall of wood. Upon it I have three treasured paintings (on the left, a redbird by Ray Harm; in the middle an old print of Cumberland Gap; on the right, the Spider Bridge over Troublesome Creek in Hindman, Kentucky, one of my favorite places on earth, painted by my friend Ruth Antle). Below them are collages of my own strange making, and they change nearly everyday. There are postcards, scraps of paper with notes for the new novel on them, a picture of Cate Blanchett ripped out of a magazine, a copy of the poem “Trees” by Merwin, several drawings by my daughters, who are, at 12 and 9, drawing all the time.

These are views I can control. I can remove them if they become distracting. I put things there that are not as likely to have action going on (as often happens with trees, for instance, with things like changing colors and breezes and birds and squirrels) but that are comforting to me.

I should say, for my father’s sake if not mine, that this little building is not really a shack in the way we normally think. When people say shack, most often the first thought is of a small house in disrepair, perhaps adorned by a hound dog on the front porch (or a granny-woman with a pipe in her mouth). This goes all the way back to where the work comes from, which is the rural English colloquialism “shackly,” which meant “rickety.”

But actually, Webster’s defines shack this way: “A room or similar enclosed structure for a particular person or use.”

This seems the perfect definition for a little house that was built particularly for me, and for my work. And I also call it my shack in tribute to my late friend Larry Brown, who built his own little writer’s shack on the banks of the pond he had known and loved and fished in all of his life. Nearing the end of his building that shack, Larry encouraged me to build one for myself. “A writer needs a place he can go to,” he said. “It’ll make ye a better writer, bro.”

I know how blessed I am to have this writer’s shack, this room of one’s own. I worked for a long while, setting some money here and there aside to have it. But in hindsight, I see that I have always created a room of my own, no matter my circumstances. At first, when I was a child and teenager, it was in my incredibly messy room, hunched over my little blue and red Royal typewriter. Later, when rooming with two messy boys in college, it was the small couch in the corner of our living room, whose décor was mostly empty Natural Light and Papa John’s pizza boxes. As a young newlywed with a new baby, living in a 14 x 70 trailer, I wrote in my daughter’s unused nursery (unused because we moved her cradle in right beside our bed and then didn’t even use it, planting her as close to us as possible) on a huge computer whose CPU sat on a diaper changing table and whose screen sat propped atop boxes of Huggies. Later, the screen porch of my house in warm weather, a table by the gas-log-fireplace in the wintertime. And finally, my own little shack there in the woods, by God’s Creek.

As writers, we have to find this place for ourselves. It will present itself. It doesn’t have to be like anyone else’s writing space, so don’t look to me or other writers for advice on that. Like writing, it has to be your own creation. Finding it will help you to find your voice, will help you to escape when the realities are so heavy and so much that the best thing you can do is to write about them, to understand them better, to find light in all the darkness.

Being Still

2007-12-13T07:26:00.000-08:00

I was a child of the woods. Growing up in Eastern Kentucky in the late 70s and early 80s, I was allowed to roam wherever I pleased.

My childhood best friend, Donna, and I spent most of our time on the high ridge that overlooked the little town of Lily. Atop this ridge was a clearing, enclosed on all four sides by thick woods. Spread out below us was the elementary school we attended, the winding Laurel River, the Lily Holiness Church, the Lily Baptist Church, Hoskins’ Grocery, the big sprawling nastiness of the coal mine. Also in our eye-range were about fifty homes, all of them populated by people were either kin to or knew well enough to consider them kin. We studied the homes, imagining what was going on inside each one. Often we guessed, plotting out elaborate soap operas for each household that were, in hindsight, most likely not too far from the truth. Or we lay back in the clover and watched for shapes in the clouds. More than once we were sure we had seen a UFO, and twice meteorites. Donna was prone to see falling stars in the dimming of the day, just as she was always able to spot a four-leafed clover without even having to look for one. Some people possess such talents naturally; they’re born that way.

Down in the woods on the far side of the ridge from our houses were the big woods. Here there lived stoic hickories and oaks, kind and good-natured dogwoods and redbuds, and comforting beech and poplar trees. There were also a thousand song birds, lots of squirrels, lizards, chipmunks, beetles, worms, centipedes, and all manners of little live things that went about their various jobs and joys and sadnesses without paying much attention at all to us.

Most of all there lived in those woods the little body of water known as God’s Creek, the good little stream that provided us with so many hours of entertainment. The creek’s banks were crowded with ivy and ferns and moss, all of which always seemed to be damp and cool, even on the hottest days. There were high banks in some places, a big pool bottomed with limestone that was perfect to sit in when we needed cooling off, a narrow stretch where we built a bridge, a wide place where we built a dam.

These woods were also occupied by various items of great curiosity. Often we found empty whisky bottles or crushed Budweiser cans, always situated close to where someone had built a little fire. There was the old hog lot that sat right in the middle of the forest, not far from where shoots of jonquils made their ways up through the brown leaves in the early spring. It took us a long time to figure out that this was an old house-seat, that people had actually lived here ages ago (probably fifty years before). We were children and therefore sure that the world really hadn’t existed much without us, despite what the Bible or the history books said. Best of all there were two Model T car-hulls in the forest, both riddled by bullet holes. We made up elaborate stories about these cars. They had belonged to Bonnie and Clyde. They had belonged to moonshiners. Perhaps there had been a road nearby and these cars had been in a fierce gun battle and had both plummeted off the road and into these woods, never to be found by search parties. The bodies had rotted away to nothing in the cabs of the cars.

We played with the cars, jumped the creek, waded, climbed trees, gathered rocks, collected leaves, dug for lost treasure, played Vietnam War, played Iran Hostages, played Olympics. We made up stories and told them to each other, spent long periods trying to read each other’s minds or having staring contests. Donna always won.

But most of all, amazingly, we were still.

I recall long bouts of lying up there on that ridge, listening to the wind moving down the field. Or sitting in the woods, listening to how simultaneously quiet and loud a place of trees can be. Below the silence there are the sounds that people forget about: birdcall, the creak of wood, scampering in leaves, the bubble of a spring that has popped up unnoticed. There is so much beauty that goes on in hiding. All the world is a secret.

Donna and I were strange little children. We were not what you would call normal, I suppose, which is why I grew up to be a writer, and Donna grew up to be a social worker. We both grew up to be what you might call artists. As I said, I’m a writer (and a musician) and Donna does the most artful thing of all in her job: she helps people, and often in very creative ways. Besides that, she’s a great painter and often her emails are better written than most short stories you’ll find in the New Yorker these days.

After those passages of stillness that we both found at some point in the day, we would eventually meet back up and talk. Looking back, it seems to me that our serious talks were most often about God, and religion. It’s easy to guess why: we were both Pentecostal children confused because we were actually feeling something of the spirit down there in the woods even though we felt pretty miserable in the church-house (maybe because we were going three or four times a week).

Donna, nine months my senior (a fact I hated then and am very pleased by nowadays), was years wiser than me. I once remember asking her if it was enough to just believe in God. Such a question bordered on blasphemy to my mind. After all, I was raised in a church that discouraged any sort of questioning of God and religion at all. But I swallowed hard and turned to her and said it: “Do you think that maybe that’s all it takes to get into Heaven, to just believe?”

Donna thought about it a long time, chewing on a piece of grass and looking concerned. “No,” she said, after much thought. “That’d be too easy. And life is never, ever easy.”

She was twelve at this time.

All of the above would lead one to believe that Donna and I were living blessed lives. Looking back on our childhoods, we can sometimes present it that way. But, like most people, our lives were complex, full of both joys and sorrows. I won’t speak for Donna here, but I can say that for myself, there was much in my young life that lay in contrast to the lazy days I spent up on the ridge. I was the son of a Vietnam vet who had not yet admitted to himself that he was suffering from post traumatic stress disorder. My mother’s brother had recently been murdered and this had marked my entire family—and me—forever, but was especially fresh when I was a child. I could go on. In short, the ridge, the trees, the sky, they were all balms that I needed, that I hadn’t been able find in the God that I was being told about in the Pentecostal church. But I was aware of something, some greater force than me—the feeling was undeniable—when I opened myself up to listen, to watch, to be still.

It took us a long while to figure out who we were, especially in the spiritual department. But we always knew that we were artists. And any kind of art is fostered by being still. By trees and creeks and skies, yes. By communities and stores and churches and schools, yes. But most of all by stillness.

This is something I am constantly trying to remind myself. We’re not a people who find it easy to be still. In fact, we’re taught that it’s downright bad to be still for even a minute. We always have to be working or watching or talking or moving.

When I was an even more naïve writer than I am today, back when I was in my early twenties, I attended the Appalachian Writers Workshop in Hindman, Kentucky, where I met one of the all-time great writers, James Still, author of River of Earth, From the Mountain From the Valley, and many other treasures. Mr. Still was gruff in that charming way with which only very old men (he was in his early 90s at the time) can get away, but I knew that I had to be aggressive if I wanted to be a writer, so I asked him if he could tell me one thing to do that would make me a better writer, what would it be. He studied on this for a moment and never let his eyes light on my face, but directed his voice to me when he finally replied: “Discover something new everyday.”

Ten syllables. Four words. One sentence. Yet this simple collection of words changed my life. I still don’t ask questions unless I want to hear the answer, and that day I was prepared to take whatever advice Mr. Still offered. So, from that day forward, I did as told. I looked at the world through new eyes, challenging myself to discover something new every single day, to look at the world in a way that no one else had before, to study something: a person, a tree, an egg, a discarded gravel of chewing gum—no matter what, I would take in everything around me.

Naturally it was not possible to properly do this without learning how to be still. And the way to do that is to just make yourself stop.

The act of becoming still, of discovering something new everyday was given as advice to a writer. But I applied it to not only my life, but also to my writing. It is not too far off from one of my favorite Bible verses: “Be still and know that I am God.” (Psalm 46:10). Whenever the preacher mentioned this verse—in between hacking yells about fire and brimstone—I didn’t get it. But when I’m looking at the world like a writer, like someone who has taken the time to pause for just long enough to see and hear and feel the world around me, I am able to see the beauty of this world, and of living, far better than the pain both those things possess.

In her beautiful book Gilead, Marilynne Robinson writes: “For me writing has always felt like praying…you feel that you are with someone.” (page 19). Obviously I could not agree more. In another favorite book of mine, The Color Purple by Alice Walker, her character Shug Avery says: “Everything wanna be loved. Us sing and dance, and holla just wanting to be loved. Look at them trees. Notice how the trees do everything people do to get attention... except walk?...Oh, yeah, this field feels like singing!”

It occurs to me that artists—writers, painters, musicians, anyone who observes and then creates because of the keen insights gained by their observations—all do what they do because they want to be loved, too. I don’t mean that they want widespread critical acclaim, or to be worshipped by throngs of adoring fans. I mean that many writers I know write as a way of prayer, as a way of thanks, as a way to become a child of God, in whatever shape that Being is for each person. I believe that many artists’ basic desire is to create something beautiful for the mere act of doing just that.

As a child, I was lucky to be among those singing fields, to see those trees doing everything they could to get noticed. I was lucky to have a friend like Donna, who allowed me to be still and was quiet with me as often as she was jabbering nonstop. I was lucky to be a child of the woods, where I learned about all the most important things. Listening, watching, feeling, those are the things that are of the most essential. Once we forget to do those things, we’ve lost ourselves.

So that is one of the responsibilities of the writer, to listen, to watch, to feel, and to remind the reader of the importance of doing the same. And in return, this writer arises from his desk every time feeling as if he has been to a good church. And those are hard to come by these days.

Writing Stores

2007-10-25T08:21:00.000-07:00

I’ve been thinking a lot about stores lately. About stores and the way they make writers. Just about every writer I know of has a store of some kind in their past. Lee Smith—the Patron Saint of Southern Writers—often talks about the influence of growing up in her father’s five and dime in downtown Grundy, Virginia. Pamela Duncan talks about growing up listening to her grandmother, who was a wonderful store in her own right. Lots of Southern writers will tell you about grandmothers or Mamas or aunts being stores that taught them how to tell a story. One of my favorite writers, Thomas Hardy, soaked up much of the knowledge he would later use in his writing by attending the many square dances where his fiddler-father and uncles performed almost every week. Willa Cather’s most beautiful novels are the ones that were most heavily influenced by the store she lived in, a store populated by sad and beautiful immigrant women who would become the basis for such strong characters as Alexandra in O Pioneers! and the title heroine of My Antonia.

I had so many stores I’ve had to sit down and make a list of all of them, and it’s been near impossible to figure out which was the most important.

First, there was the literal store I grew up in, my aunt’s little jottemdown store that served the tiny community of Fariston, Kentucky. Dot’s Grocery. If you don’t know what a jottemdown grocery is, that’s the kind of store you never, ever see any more. It was called a jottemdown grocery because on the counter there always laid a big, ragged, spiral notebook. At Dot’s, it was usually one from the Dollar General, bought twenty for a dollar at the start of the school year, more than likely with a red cover. Each page was headed by the name of a local community member. When they’d come in and get their groceries, Dot would figure up their tally and then they’d turn to their page and jot down the amount they owed her, which would be paid whenever their paycheck came in. Jottemdown. That’s what everybody called such stores back then, which really wasn’t so long ago. This was in the 70s and 80s, before WalMart took over America, back when a widow woman like my aunt could start her a little store in a little bitty house close to the road with a few candy bars, cigarettes, a good cold pop cooler, and actually see it grow.

Lots of people never paid off their credit at Dot’s Grocery, but every day they offered their stories, which I was always eager to hear. I loved to be in Dot’s Grocery with the big Stokermatic stove that got so hot it sometimes glowed red and the shelves and shelves of diapers and canned soup and Zagnuts and the big, terrifying, gold-framed picture of the blonde-headed Jesus looking down on us with longing in his sad blue eyes, as if he too wanted to be part of the conversation. Here I learned about Mamie Spurlock’s kidney problems and Lester Conley’s many inabilities and Hy—short for Hyacinth—Shepherd’s affair with Vestal Stacy, who just so happened to be the preacher at the Holiness church where she was the choir leader.

But I learned more than just gossip: I learned about kindness when my aunt Dot grew sorry for poor mothers and gave them gallons of milk, erasing their marks in the notebook after they had left. I learned about boundaries when aunt Dot would run the same girls off if they had figured out she was kind-hearted and started to take advantage of her. I learned, by studying her in moments of silence, about being blue, which is something she went through her whole life, and is something people rarely talk about these days. In Dot’s moments of blueness I learned about silence—the nit nit of that red plastic clock that hang behind the register—even though she hardly ever stopped talking when she was in a good mood.

People in my family rarely stopped talking. We were raised to believe that it was impolite to let a silence fall. We told stories to survive. One of the few places in the world we ever hushed up—and rarely even there—was another store I grew up in: the Lily Holiness Church, where I spent two or three nights a week and every Sunday morning of the first seventeen years of my life. My brain and soul have the scars to prove it.

Despite how it messed me up to be raised going to church so much, I have accepted that that store was integral to my becoming a writer, and to my becoming a person. Here I learned how to observe, how to memorize, how to study people properly, and from different angles. There is not much formality in the Holiness church (one of its true qualities), so I was often allowed to stretch out beneath the pews, where I could closely—and unbeknownst to anyone else—study the lower parts of people. You can learn a whole lot about people from studying them only from the knee down. Some people never polished their shoes, for instance. Some people polished their shoes to a fare-thee-well. Some people come to church with mud caked on their shoes.

These are important details to writers.

The most fun was to be beneath the pews when everyone started “shouting,” which is when they would holler out and dance in place and speak in tongues. I laid there and imagined an earthquake had come, or that God was holding the floor at opposite corners and bending it up and down to have his way with his Children. Sometimes I would doze off and awake to silence—very rarely, but sometimes, usually only when someone had just finished speaking in tongues and was waiting for the translation—and I would be assured that the Rapture had come and I had been the only one Left Behind. When this happened I always raised up too quickly, knocking my brains out on the hard underwood of the pew, the hit plomping out into the quiet of the church like a baseball being struck by a fast bat.

I learned the power of music and the hugeness of words was reinforced to me every single time someone would get up to testify and poetry would mysteriously fall out of their mouths. These were good, hard-working people who didn’t have much else but going to church, and when they stood up to give their testimony, well, it could make a believer out of anybody.

As a Holiness boy, I did everything with the other church members. We went to Mammoth Cave together. We ate together at least once a week. We sought each other out at the junior high, desperate to find companions that would not cuss nor talk about sex all day long. We went roller skating together on Gospel Night, all of us wearing our matching t-shirts that said HOLY ROLLERS on the back while we skated to the Singing Cooke Family or the McKameys. And all the time all of these people were telling stories, using words in a beautiful way.

The most important store, however, was my own family. We Southern writers tend to always go back to them, sooner or later. They’re all the material we’ll ever need.

My family was—is—loud and fiery. They grow tender as easily as they grow angry. And they know how to tell a story. They exaggerate, they zoom in on the perfect detail, they establish a rhythm. These are three of the most important thing a writer can learn.

There was my Uncle Dave, who was also an accomplished quilter, taught by his mother during an especially bad winter when they couldn’t get outside to work on anything else. But he was an even more accomplished story-teller. He told epics. Often family gatherings turned into a listening session when Dave would hold court, everyone gathered near while he kept us on the edges of our seats, either telling a ghost story or a funny story or some adventure he had had at some point. My favorite was the one about him riding a mule in the house just to scare his mother.

“She was cutting a big hen up to fry,” he’d start out. “I believe it was Christmas. Or Thanksgiving one. I don’t remember which. But she was hard at it, son, cutting that hen up, and I rode that old mule in real easy, real slow, gentle as you please, and got him right up behind her and all at once she felt his breath on her neck and she turned around—real real slow—and then she was eye to eye with that big old nasty mule and she just throwed that hen right up in the air and run out of the house.” He went into a fit of laughter, and through his glee, puffed out the rest: “And. That. Little woman. Never was afraid. Of nothing. But that liked to scared her. To death.”

I knew that one was too good to pass up; I used it in my first novel and received dozens of letters about that scene alone.

He sang little songs:

Oh, I had me a little chicken and she wouldn't lay nary egg
I took and poured me some hot water up and down her leg.
And the poor little hen hollered and the poor little hen begged,
But then the poor little chicken laid a hard-boiled egg.

He had dozens of those.

There was, most of all, my aunt, Sis, who always had a Winston planted firmly between her teeth. Sis loved music better than anyone I have ever known. She must have had ten thousand record albums, which I was assigned to keep in alphabetical order even though she never put them back where they belonged. Sis was ten years older than my mother and had taken on the position of grandmother in my life. I stayed with her as much as possible—often to escape going to church—but mostly because she let me do whatever I wanted. With Sis I could set up and watch the Late Movie, or Johnny Carson, or reruns of “The George Allen Show.” She’d make chocolate fudge at midnight, let me drink coffee, had me read articles out of her True Story magazines to her while she rested her eyes with a washcloth across her forehead, the blue smoke of the Winston twirling between us.

Sis did not have great judgment, bless her heart. She took me to see The Exorcist when I was four, for God’s sake. But her bad judgment was my great fortune, because every Saturday she and I went “yard-saling,” her favorite and most oft-used verb. And on these yard sale and flea market trips, she let me buy any book that I wanted. She had bought me a guitar in the hopes that I might become the next Eddie Rabbit, but when that didn’t pan out she realized that I might not have the desire to be a country singer but I sure had the determination to be a writer. So she bought me books. One of those books was Peyton Place, by Grace Metalious, which I found at the bottom of a greasy cardboard box at the flea market.

“Aye Lord, that’s a good’n right there now, I tell ye,” she said, talking around her cigarette, squinting at the cover of the book through the smoke. “I read that when it first come out, twenty year ago. It was a scandal, that book was. You’ll love it.”

I was nine.

So, that day she bought me two of the most important gifts anyone has ever given me: a tattered paperback of Peyton Place, and a ginormous Royal typewriter, which was solid metal. The typewriter was as big and brown as a small tank; it must have weighed two hundred pounds. Sis, the man who had sold it to us, and I had to carry it to the car. But I ended up writing the first draft of my first novel on it.

Even though Peyton Place was considered incredibly dirty when it first came out in the 1950s, there is no denying the beauty of the prose in that book. Its influence can be found in all of my descriptive writing and also in the ways I try to get at the operations of a small town’s heart. In a way, I’ve always been trying to write a book that Sis will love as much.

There was also Mamaw, who always sprinkled new colloquialisms into her tales. Among my favorites was when she told me the story of my grandfather coming to the boarding school where she was a student to whisk her away on a date against the schoolmarm’s wishes. Mamaw sat on the couch, wrapped in a sweater and hunched over the heat register in the floor even though it was June outside, and said: “I stood up there on the big high porch and seen him down there on his little horse,” she said. “That mountain was steep as a calf’s face but buddy he just rode right up there and got me. I wrapped my arms around his waist and never did look back.”

I could go on and on. Those are only three of the storytellers—or store-keepers—that I was lucky enough to hear throughout my childhood. And what made this store—the family store, you might say, if you choose to be as corny as me—so particularly wonderful was that it was always populated by loads and loads of people. There was always a big bunch of people in my house, streaming in and out at all hours, staying for supper, staying the night, staying for a week or two sometimes. And they all told stories, they all used language in a specific, beautiful way that I just absolutely soaked up.

I have an image of myself as a child that I have more than likely made up. But it probably happened at one point. Sometimes I see myself as a little boy--perhaps eight year old--standing in the middle of the living room, which is absolutely filled with every person in my family, all of whom are caught up in the act of telling a story. Some of them rear back and laugh, slapping their knees, probably laughing at their own jokes. Some dot Kleenex to their eyes, upset by their stories. Others are so caught up in telling their stories that they barely pause to breath or check to see if anyone is listening to anymore. A murmur that rises to a roar that threatens to blow the roof right off my childhood home’s house. The power of words, rising and rising.

That’s what is always present at these stores we writers remember, whether that store was the family or the church or a real little jottemdown store: words. Sentences. Stories. Language.

We survive because of stories. We live to tell our tale, to hear a tale told, to be part of a tale that is in the process of happening, just so it can be told later. People might think we Southerners are all ignorant and illiterate but secretly we’re all obsessed with words. I’m thankful for that, because otherwise I wouldn’t get to do what I love for a living. So every book I write is for the people who made me, the stories that made me. For the words.