I am Appalachia

I am a child, barefoot and free, running through green cornfields on a hot July day.

I am the white flour, hand-prints on my mother's apron.

I am the wild morning glory, dipped in early morning mountain mist.

I am Orphie, and Bertha, and Esba, mountain women, strong, caring, worn.

I am the plow that tills the earth, the seeds planted for fall harvest.

I am the old men, shouting in glory, sitting in a small church, 'the Amen Corner'.

I am Appalachia, the song of my forebears, the shadow of my heritage.

I am faded photographs, lost and forgotten in a dusty dresser drawer.

Thanksgiving ditty

The turkey bird is on the table
The feast about to begin
Jesus lord, I'm so glad it's done
Cooking should be a sin.

The potato's mashed, the gravy mixed
The celery and carrot sticks
The cranberry sauce and stuffing too
This time the tatties don't taste like glue.

The yams are sweet, with marshmallow fluff
The rolls, the salad, and a bunch more stuff
I hope they like this celebration
Me, I'm looking for rest and salvation.

Enjoy your Thanksgiving Day
But don't work yourself into a frazzle
It will all be over within the hour
The yearly meal prepared to dazzle

Even great Aunt Myrtle that hates everything....