Appalachian Winter Pam Shingler Ask most any Appalachian what season sets the heart's sap to running, what time of year in these tight-knit hills brings a lilt to the twang, and he'll probably shuffle his feet a little, fold his arms in a self-hug, and wax mushy over one of three. If he chooses spring, he'll talk about the myriad of greens that vie for attention on the hills, the new leaves and all of the possibilities between yellow and blue, dappled with purple redbud and white sarvis. Ifanother mountaineer opts for fall, she might rave over the violence of the red spectrum, flush against a blinding blue sky. From lemon to gold, from cerise to orange, the palette is passionate and portentous. Those who prefer summer cite the season's sensual bombardment: the scent of honeysuckle and wild rose, the sound of doves and bluebirds , the taste of tomatoes and blackberries, the sight of daylilies and daisies, the touch of bare feet on soft grass, the feeling of rightness. Hardly anyone, whether born or brought on, likes winter in the hills. On gray days, there is an absence of color. Snow and ice cripple movement . Roadside ditches and creek banks double as wastebaskets for vending machines and fast food restaurants. The kaleidoscope muddies, the passion wanes, the touch bristles. Perhaps I am the exception. Winter to me is the most sublime season in Appalachia. Of course, I relish the beauties of the other seasons. I'm a sucker for spring's enticements. I warm up to summer's opulence. I marvel at autumn's vibrance. But still I savor the openness, the truth, yes, even the duplicity of winter. I have always liked looking at old photos of mountain ancestors. Appalachian Gothic—Great-Grandpa with one hand on his shotgun and the other on big-bellied Mammaw's shoulder. The winter hills are akin to those sepia-toned photos. The colors are not what we think of when we say color. The sky, often as not, is off-white. The trees wear the sameness of brown. The crags are dark gray or dull army green. It's the black and white that is neither black nor white, but rather gradations of gray, which, Fm inclined to argue, is the true essence of life. A native ofPaintsville, Kentucky, Pam Shingler now serves as developmental director for the David School in Floyd County, Kentucky, and lives at Williamsport in rural Johnson County. 12 It is in this picture that I see the hills as they really are. Not the erose, blanketed outline that tree foliage lends, but the stark reality. The hills reveal themselves like a shaved head, where you see all the bumps and rolls, the highs and lows, the dips and protrusions. The trees, then, are hairy stubble, erratically grown. Or better, consider the hills as a rock wall, the stones settled to unevenness with the passage of time, ancient, perhaps noble. The trees standing on the wall are sentries, guarding within and without. Or perhaps they're Indian warriors, some ancestors, some enemies, some both. They encircle the wagons, their arms upstretched and full of arrows, sharing a few months of strength and glory before the masks of leaves go on. Nude like this, the hills show us what they're made of. It is in winter that the true face of the hills is displayed. We can see the rock formations , sometimes large like natural Stonehenges, shoved up by a mysterious undertow or set to teeter by a meticulous Creator. Sometimes they appear to have been carefully stacked by a band of ancient builders. Other times they jut out ofthe side ofthe hill, forming cliffs and shallow caves to shelter bobcats, painters (as the old folks say), and, once again as before, lone, roving bears. The old hills, barren of color, give up their illusions and reveal their shapes, like snowflakes no two alike. Colored by spring, summer, and fall, they appear to merge into a single wavy line on the horizon, a neverending , cushioned roller coaster. The clarity of separateness is apparent in wintertime. The circle, it turns out, includes not...
Read full abstract