Last Look at Appalachia

I planned for a half-day free time while in the Knoxville area in December, but it did not prove enough time in this beautiful place.


I spent a full afternoon at the Museum of Appalachia, leaving just enough time to get lost en route to the airport. (And Kelly was not with me to help me find my way -- I should mention here that navigation is another of her many skills!)

The musem features reconstructed buildings ranging from a country store that would make our friend Elaine weep for the antiques:


... to a schoolhouse, church, and farm outbuildings:


... to homesteads, which in their time may not have been as elegantly decked out for Christmas as this:


Coming from a province that, like Appalachia, has a history of deep poverty and indebted labour (though not slavery), and is both celebrated and ridiculed for the "colourful" culture that is a legacy of that history, I was drawn to the Museum's collection of folk art and artifacts.

This was the first such display that I saw and it made me miss Kelly's dad in a visceral way.

"Thousands of productive and outstanding citizens, including several doctors, descended from pioneer George Burkhart who reportedly raised his family in this hollow tree."

Dick would have loved that. I can almost hear him chuckling. He would also have liked the collection of roadside Jesus signs:

Not to mention the final verdict:

I don't know where these dogs ended up. I suppose it depends on who or what they spent their lives hunting.

Just like in Newfoundland, music (however you might make it) is a hugely important part of Appalachia's cultural identity. The day I was at the museum, it was full of local musicians including this guy who played a washtub bass.

And the museum itself was full of homemade instruments, everything from guitars to autoharps, and these two banjos made from a hubcab and a ham can.

This little quartet played sweet, sweet bluegrass.

Look at the dulcimers hanging on the wall behind these guys. There were dozens more.

This old guy picking banjo was my favorite. There was a young boy playing fiddle and autoharp with him. Anything the little boy suggested the old guy could play. It didn't quite work the other way, and I had the sense the little boy was being groomed by his parents to be the next great thing on the American roots music scene. It was a little disturbing.

I met the old guy on the way out thanked him for his music. He told me to be sure to come back next year (this was a special "Christmas in Appalachia" day at the Museum). I wish I could!

I'd spend a little more time with the turkeys* ...

and the sheep.

And I'd go back to Highlander ...

with its snowy fields and cows in the mist

its apple trees

little houses in the woods

black walnuts

birds on the wing

activists with tummies full of biscuits and gravy, soaking up the history:

and confusing fall warblers.**

*Or, as the truth may be, guineafowl. One really should check one's books.

**Or, as the truth may be, goldfinches. One really should trust one's gut, rather than one's wishful thinking.