Vol. 86, February 6th, 2024 Published a day early online
Appalachian Studies
“Josh, want to host a series of talks about Appalachia?”
Uh, yeah!
There was only a slight problem. I’m no expert. I grew up in the suburbs, don’t play the banjo, and the last time any relative made moonshine, it was in style the first time. But a trip to the mountains always felt like a homecoming. “God’s country” they’d say, and I’d agree.
So I dove into the books and stories and talked to some people and researched the geology of the ancient cliffs.
At a talk, after sharing secondhand tales about circus elephants a-loose in Floyd county and the rudiments of distillation, something funny happened. People shared their stories.
“I don’t know what this all means” I said at one point. “But it’s interesting.”
“It’s like a tapestry…a quilt” a lady told me.
So we’ve been starting to weave, to stitch together.
“Why don’t we make a little almanac, with stories, words, recipes, and gardening tips?” someone suggested.
What a lovely idea. If you have some to share, send them along. And if you know where a good story is, go find it, playing the part of interviewer and collector, and send that along. (That’s what I do.) We can all be preservationists with this project.
What fun!
Looking west from the side of Hawksbill Mountain, Shenandoah National Park
Book of the Week: The Foxfire Book
(Eliot Wiggington, 1972)
This bestseller brought Appalachian folklore and craft to the wider world, and sparked a series.
“Oh no, he bought Park Place!”
The board game Monopoly hits stores this day, 1935. Sibling rivalries would never be the same.
Quote of the Week
“Reading isn’t good for a ballplayer. Not good for his eyes. If my eyes went bad even a little bit I couldn’t hit home runs. So I gave up
reading.”–Babe Ruth
Happy Birthday, Babe Ruth
Born 1895 in Baltimore, MD, “The Bambino” remains an American legend. He would be 129 today.
Send Your Mountain Tales
Have some to share? We’re gathering scraps and threads of stories and life in the mountains: PO Box 783, Rustburg, VA 24588 or email Joshurban@protonmail.com
Letters from Josh
(A weekly update from Josh Urban’s adventures on the farm and in the city. #172)
Appearing in the Altavista Journal and other papers
“Bread Alone”
Howdy, folks, and welcome back to the show! Thanks for the responses to last week's piece On Purpose. In case you missed it, I'm 38, and work with a lot of senior citizens. Something that puzzles all of us is: what's our purpose, and what gives us meaning, especially as we get older?
Now, this sounds like the grown-folks version of a Rubik's cube, a thought to fiddle with when the insurance company puts the call on hold for an hour. Who cares?
But at second glance, from what I can tell: most of us. We want to matter, to have a thing we do, a cake we're famous for, a knack for helping. That's easy when we're healthy and productive. But what happens when we break a leg, or get fired, or retire? It's easy to feel useless. (Not the same as being useless, mind you. Of course you're valuable. We're tackling the feeling today. )
Oh, sometimes I get glum about it, but it's that old adage: It always could be worse. Take Viktor Frankl, the brilliant young doctor imprisoned in a Nazi concentration camp. He started thinking about “the big stuff”, under the harshest conditions. Viktor lost everything, even his family. But he somehow survived, and wrote Man's Search for Meaning. He said meaning is found in three ways: “(1.) by creating a work or doing a deed; (2) by experiencing something or encountering someone; (3), the attitude we take toward unavoidable suffering.” (What a book. What a guy.)
Psychologist Jordan Peterson has his own take on it: Meaning is found in the voluntary acceptance of responsibility. (You know, “pick up the heavy thing.”)
I worked in a nursing home during the COVID lockdown. The bravery of the old folks changed me. (I wrote a book about it called Cities on a Hill.) Many residents, stuck in their rooms, would offer snacks or a soda whenever I'd stop by on my rounds. The ability to offer something, even as small as a knockoff cola, meant the world. It made them human again, with a shred of dignity.
The government gave out plenty of (your) money during that time, but people proved yet again that “Man shall not live by bread alone” (Matthew 4:4 KJV.) Free cash doesn't buy happiness. To the contrary–it seemed to weaken, to rob of responsibility, leaving misery as a lousy consolation prize.
Caged birds rarely sing.
Another elderly friend would get so discouraged after she saw the doctor. “My foot hurts, my back hurts, I don't feel right, but doc says it's just my age, that there's nothing I can do about it.” She'd wave her hand, dismissively, defeated, yet look at me questioningly. Was there something she could do? She didn't want to be helpless, flattened by the steamroller of time. Who does?
If you're holding your paper right now, eyes wide, thinking “Dude...what are you drinking?...” my apologies. (A pot of coffee is the answer.) This topic is “out there”, but I hope it's useful to you, no matter your age. It seems to be in the air lately, and it would be a shame to ignore someone hurting. I hate walking by someone in need.
What are your thoughts? Do you recognize any tiny sparks of meaning in your day, or a way to snag a little bit of extra responsibility? Or maybe it has nothing to do with doing anything. I don't know, but it's a curious thing. Let's keep thinking, out on this limb. Maybe we'll get somewhere. And by the way, thanks for reading. I hope this makes your day better. As my mother would say, know that you matter.
Catch you on the flip side,
Josh
Send letters and decaf to P.O. Box 783, Rustburg, VA 24588 or say hello on X @RealJoshUrban