Appalachian Holler
Living off the grid for over two years has made me see how quickly my footprint presses into the earth, creating marks that trace my daily life. I see it too, in mountain Appalachian hollers. A worn path made by animals led pasture to pasture. Family movement, demanded or desired, an old man's rubber heals striking the ground, boots burdened with red mud. Attracted to the holler visually, I paint the worn line of pathways, the layers of hillside patterns, the straight-up drives shimmying their way to a desolate home barricaded by mountain laurel. I am attracted to the teetering wooden houses formed by one's own hand,clad with tin and secured with roof top tires. I am moved by the stories of generations abiding in one place. Though I am an observer of the Appalachian Holler, I feel akin. Though my husband and I are a single generation upon our soil, our rhythms of collecting rainwater, scooping sawdust, cradling compost buckets, chopping and stacking cords of firewood are the beginning of our own carved out ground.
