If I ever have a daughter I'd want to name her Appalachia. I wouldn't, because she'd get made fun of and now that the Martin's have an Apple, everyone would think I'm jumping on the bandwagon.
My grandmother came from Appalachia. She was born in West Virginia but along with rest of her very large family settled in Tazewell, Virginia. Her name was Opal. She hated it and when she met my grandfather during World War II and agreed to marry him she decided her name would be Katherine. She was spunky but she was equally sensitive. She didn't have mother and she had a hole in her heart that she never completely managed to fill. She cried easily but she laughed a lot. I miss her. Not in an every day kind of way, but in a quiet way. It's sometimes when I see my son laugh I'll think, oh she would have loved you.
When I was young my family didn't have much money so our vacations usually consisted of long car trips through the mountains to stay with her family. She would always pack fried chicken and we'd eat baked beans out of a can. We'd swim in the same Holiday Inn pool every year and we'd drink warm 7Up out of bottles. We'd stay with cousins and sisters and friends. We'd avoid our Uncle Charlie because his drawl was so thick and the hunk of tobacco packed in his cheek was so large that we couldn't understand a word he was saying. He would sit on the porch, getting stoned drunk on moonshine with my grandpa while my grandma and all the women folk would circulate in a tiny kitchen, hands on hips, clucking and covering every inch of space, but never in each others way. The noise would be constant, cousins I hadn't met or didn't remember would be playing the piano or chasing each other and spread would be enormous. Mouth watering meals seasoned with skill, recreated from memory and history and with enough bacon grease from a jar in the back of the fridge to give a horse a coronary. We'd sleep soundly in the fresh mountain air, the sound of a train whistle in the distant background, wake up and start all over again.
At the time of these trips, especially as a teen, there I would be, a big jerk, my family perched along the side of some scenic mountain view or another and I would be holding a sign that would say 'Are we having fun yet?' I wish I knew. I had no idea that one day this would be gone forever. Fast food restaurants and subdivisions have replaced pastures. Back roads have been carved into two lane highways. The mom and pop stores like my aunt's basement fabric shop have been eliminated by the discount chains. I couldn't recreate those trips, those days, that life for my child even if I wanted to.
So it is with my grandmother. She was the treasure, the throw back to a time that is no longer. I wonder sometimes if I will be fortunate enough to meet my grandchildren and in doing so, have an appreciation for her and a longing for her that I never had before I was a mother. I never knew I should have asked her what I should know about raising a family or fighting sadness or how to be married to the same man for fifty years, and still love him. I didn't cherish her while I had the chance. I didn't call her as much as I should. I didn't write down her stories, even though I always meant to.
I don't feel this often or sense this about others I have lost but I sense at times that she is still with me or visiting me or hanging around to see how things are going. I've thought about contacting a medium or a psychic just to ask the question- is there anyone else here? I won't. If she's near and I can feel her, that's enough for now. I hope she's laughing along with us.
