The Briar Philosopher - Reflections from the Hills

It is 6:45 Monday, April 27th, 2020. The rays of the setting sun are streaming through my window, illuminating the trails that time has etched on my reflection in the mirror. I am 56 years old now. That means that I left these hills forty-three years ago. It was the middle of my sophomore year at JCHS. We were moving to Berea and a better life, I was told. To say that I was dragged kicking and screaming would be an exaggeration in fact. But in my mind I kicked and screamed the whole way.

You see, I am a Jackson County girl. These hills and hollers raised me as much as any person ever did and I did not want to go. This was my home. But what do children know? Poverty was my normal. The thought of not being able to roam these ridges and valleys at will worried me more than the cold of winter in a three room shack.

Go I did, of course, as I had no choice and for 36 years I stayed gone. My life took me North, to the chillier climate of Indiana and then South to the warmer winds of Florida. It wasn’t until seven years ago that my mind and my heart put their foot(s) down and finally answered that call that never really left me, “Come HOME”!

Home I came and here I’ll stay until they “nail the lid down.” I am glad, ever so glad, to be home. What I feared about leaving turned out to be true. The world out there is a harsh place. What I didn’t expect, and was somewhat surprised by, about coming home was to find that the contagion of harshness has spread, even here.

I was thinking today of my youth. It also had its harsh aspects as any life in poverty has but there was also a softness to the people, an understanding, an acceptance, a respect that seems to be missing, even here, even now.

The memory that came to the front of my mind today was an old one, so old there must have been cobwebs in my minds eye. I distinctly remembered the old wood stove in Roy Combs Store (correct me if I’m wrong) in Sand Gap. I remember how warm it was in the winter. I remember the crackle of the fire and the smell of the warmth of heated cast iron. I also remember the men who would gather there to discuss things that mattered to them.

Anybody looking in from the outside would have smirked or grinned or thought, “how quaint”, “how ragged”, “how country.” Anybody looking in from the outside would not have seen these old (to me) men discussing the issues of the day as anything worth listening to. But one little girl found them endlessly fascinating. It was from them that I learned the softness that is true strength and the strength that need not be harsh.

These men, whose names I never knew, discussed all things; from crops to horses to politics to the weather. The little girl that I was loved to listen. It’s easy to be invisible when you’re young and poor and nobody ever shooed me away from eavesdropping on conversations. For that I am grateful.

I know I said that those men taught me softness. I know that doesn’t sound likely but here’s the how and the why of it.

I heard those men both agree and disagree. I heard laughter shared at the most recent joke or tall tale. I also heard the grumbles of disagreement and saw a face or two, from time to time, grow as cherry red as an old stove-pipe, so passionately did these men disagree.

One would have thought that they would never speak to one another again if not actually come to blows right there in the store. But that was not the case. A few weeks later I would here these very same men, men who, to a child’s mind hated one another, casually discuss who was going to help who get in the crops, butcher the hogs, build a shed, take a trip to Lexington to see a doctor.

You see, these men had their passions and their opinions and their thoughts about what was happening in the world around them. Not a one of them would have ever thought to deny another their right to an opinion. They would argue six ways from Sunday, and swear on things one ought not swear on, that the other was wrong and, what’s more, an idiot and possibly of questionable parentage. But what they would NOT do, not ever, not for all the gold in Fort Knox, was turn their backs on one another. They had learned in this life that cold shoulder makes a fine sandwich but not a very good community.

That was their softness. That is what I learned from these unlearned men. I learned that community is something deeper and of more importance than politics or denomination. I learned that people help one another and lean on one another and try their darndest to believe in one another whether any of them deserve it or not.

In these days of harsh disagreement, please let us remember our softness. Let us remember that we still have one another despite disagreement. Though those men had disagreements with one another they never had disdain for one another. They might hate and abhor everything you stood for on any given topic but that didn’t mean they wouldn’t help you get your ‘baccer” stripped while it was still in case.

When I left this place a more gentle wind was blowing. Please, let us return to that gentler time. Hate someone else’s politics if you will. And they may hate yours. But we will still give one another our dignity. Yes? We will still stand together in the warmth of our shared humanity. Yes? We will still call on one another when times get hard. Yes? And we will still answer. Yes? Please. Yes.