My husband, imported from the Midwest, corrects me every time I call them stove eyes—he calls them burners—but we’re not cooking on gas and we’re in the South, my South, and I’ve always heard them called eyes and continue to do so. I grab a large-mouthed funnel, place it in a wide-mouthed jar, and . . . Continue Reading
They were once so much more than an entry to a house, a place to display plants, deposit muddy shoes, and greet people. Their usage was year-round, utilizing a quilt, and relying on the sun, for cold winter days . . . Continue Reading
The commander’s desk rattled; his military knick-knacks crashed to the floor. I watched, fascinated, as a crack widened on the opposite wall and the parking lot undulated outside the ground-level window . . . Continue Reading
. . . around two thousand armed miners stealthily advanced to the Tennessee Coal Mine stockade. Hidden from sight, they sent three men to inform Colonel Sevier, commander of the militia, of their demand for the convicts’ removal. When the Colonel tried to capture one of the three men, that man gave a signal and “at once the two thousand miners sprang to their feet and marched . . . “Continue Reading
Standing on the edge of the road and looking up and down the hill, there really was no road. Just debris and rubble, with no viable means of transportation. Many of the buildings on either side of the road were damaged. No water in sight. To me, it looked like a war zone. The street had been . . . Continue Reading
The state of Tennessee condemned the Elkmont summer cabins asserting eminent domain over the use of the land. Summer families fought back, and a deal was struck. They could stay if . . . Continue Reading
Annabel was tough, and she did not take prisoners. No excuses for failure to complete assignments were accepted. If a person was still drawing breath into their body, had blood coursing through their veins, and was still warm, they had darn well better have done their homework, or a browbeating ensued. She required book reports every two weeks. I remember vividly . . . Continue Reading
I keep Great-Aunt Bonnie’s sewing box tucked away in a closet. Mama gave it to me long ago after Bonnie died. It isn’t really a box at all, but a big Christmas cookie tin . . . Continue Reading
Oak Ridge. These words always had an enigmatic, almost magical sound to my ears. I couldn’t imagine what my father found so fascinating about this place. More fascinating than nature walks in the woods. More fascinating than teaching biology at the university. So fascinating that he would give up theContinue Reading
What possible connection could world-renowned, Russian-born pianist, composer, and performer Sergei Rachmaninoff have with Appalachia? Well, a concert, of course. But not just any concert—his last concert. Earlier this year, the UT Symphony Orchestra commemorated the 80th anniversary of that performance with a concert. Rachmaninoff was a fascinating individual andContinue Reading