Some memories of Appalachia... [View all]

[kentuck]

A Paper Poke

Have you ever put a ‘mess of poke’ in a paper ‘poke’? I have always been fascinated by the origin of words in Appalachia ( the third syllable pronounced with a long ‘a’... Some may pronounce it differently?)

Nobody really knows where these words come from? They are probably half-part superstition and half-part tradition? Maybe it’s just another one of those ‘hen before the egg’ stories?

Before I was born, they came in with bulldozers and cut roads back into the mountains of East Jellico - near the top - on the East branch. There was a huge scar on the mountain where they had mined and dumped slate down the mountainside. That seemed to be the ideal place to go to ‘pick a mess of poke’.

The best time to get the ‘poke’ that was edible was very early spring, as soon as it came out of the ground. It would only be three or four inches high and would snap off like a stick of celery. The stalk was greenish-reddish-purplish in color.

Since it was a poisonous plant, it was necessary to boil it before it was edible. One recipe would then fry it up in some bacon grease - mixed with scrambled eggs. Not bad with pinto beans and cornbread. The old wives tale was that it would prevent you from getting sick or poisoned for a year .

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I remember exploring the mountains -- looking for whatever the world would offer -- knees on the damp ground, drinking from the mountain streams. Chewing on the tender tips of the young sassafras branches... Rubbing the large heart leaves together to get the sweet, haunting scent. Searching the shady mountainside for bloodroot, ginseng, mountain tea, yellowroot, and other herbs...

Wading in the cold, clear streams, you might find two or three different kinds of branch mint. Wild grapevines would grow a hundred feet into the tall poplars. Someone once said that if you cut the grapevine, the sap that would come out of the vine would make your hair grow long and shiny.

Exploring the mountains is still the most religious experience of my life. Sitting on a huge clump of soft, cushy moss felt like I was sitting in God’s easy chair, in the quietness and stillness where the most obvious sound was a soft breeze blowing thru the trees. Is there any seat more comfortable or more heavenly?

I recall the haunting sounds of the hoot owls breaking the silence of the nights. After supper, the families would sit on the front porches and reminisce about their days events. I retain the memory of the light-show before the symphony. As the evening shadows lengthened and the air cooled, the lightning bugs would rise slowly from the earth one at a time until there seemed to be as many fireflies as stars in the sky. Then the crickets, frogs, and other creatures would begin their meditative symphony.

And I remember going fishing with Mammaw. First, we would get the seasoned cane poles from above the porch rafters and check for hooks and sinkers and a good line. Then we would look for the ideal place to dig up some worms. Usually, it was off the side of the house where Mammaw would throw out her dish water. A little bit of dirt in a Clabber Girl baking powder can, and soon we had enough bait to fish all day.

With our cane poles and a can of worms, we would trek across the pastures and meadows until we found a good fishing hole. We were mindful of the colors that we wore because we had to cross the path of a couple of bulls out in the pasture and we did not wish them to see the color red.

I recall how Mammaw would take a dip of her Bruton snuff and spit on her hook just before she would throw some big lunker of a nightcrawler to his doom. She would set her line on the bottom with hopes of catching the biggest catfish on Greasy Creek. Usually, she was successful. She was the best fisherman I ever saw.

Sitting in silence and meditating on the water, sometimes it would seem that the land was moving and the creek was standing still. On those days when the sun was hot and the fishing was slow, we would walk up the creek to an old country store. There is no smell more memorable than the apples, peaches, bananas, and other fruits and vegetables in a country store. Before we would head back down to the creek, we would get a cold bottle of Pepsi~Cola. My first addiction, but so refreshing...

After a full day's fishing, we would pull our stringer of fish out of water, roll up the line on our cane poles, and head home for supper. Sometimes, the stringer would be so heavy to a little cotton-headed fellow like myself, that the tails of some of the fish would be dragging the ground. Neighbors along the way would compliment us on our catch. Once home, the fish would be cleaned and fried golden brown in the old cast iron skillet. Along with fried potatoes and corn bread, we had our supper, of which we were very grateful.