In Photos: Appalachian Nightfall

The New Girl

A college friend of mine loved to proclaim "There's only two kinds of people in this world; the kind who like Loretta Lynn and the kind who don't."

Now, he was right, and I'm sure y'all don't have to guess twice to figure out which camp I fall into.  I love Miss Loretta. I grew up right down the road (well, about 30 miles if you prefer precision to folksiness) from Butcher Holler.  My granddaddy -- a pretty good bluegrass guitar player in his own right -- raised us to believe that Coal Miner's Daughter was one of the greatest films of all time.  And, in my estimation, Miss Loretta can do no wrong.

Well, last week, Miss Loretta went and did something that made me raise an eyebrow.  She came up on stage at the Opry and announced her choice for the star in the upcoming Coal Miner's Daughter musical.  It seems that the Queen herself hand-picked Zooey Deschanel to play the Loretta character on Broadway.  I feel disloyal, y'all. And conflicted.



Via Coal Miner's Daughter Broadway

The thing is, Zooey Deschanel really bugs me.  I know she has legions of fans. My little brother is a dyed-in-the-wool hipster and just loves her.  But, there's just something so...contrived... about Our Lady of the Perky Bangs.  The over-the-top way that she invites Siri in from the rain for some tomato soup and dancing is just too perfectly quirky.  It's just overkill, and I can't imagine her not adding the same smirk to wide-eyed country girl Loretta.  I really fear for Doolittle's baloney sandwiches, y'all. 

Now, back in 1979, Miss Loretta famously pulled Sissy Spacek on the Opry stage the same way, to announce the lead of the Coal Miner's Daughter film.  But, Sissy Spacek is a Texan by birth and a Virginian by choice.  Her name is Sissy, for goodness' sake.  She's not from a California acting family. And she knows how to intone words.

I guess I need to trust that Miss Loretta knows how to tell her own story.  I guess I need to remember that the Cult of Zooey is not all that different from my college friend's assessment of the Loretta Club.  We'll see.

Ashley Judd, Misogyny, and Me

Ashley Judd and I have a lot in common. She’s only a few years my senior, and she grew up about 80 miles north of my own Eastern Kentucky hometown.  We were both sorority girls in Lexington and are fanatic about the University of Kentucky’s basketball team.  Our paths overlap in that “we almost know each other” way that connects many Kentuckians: her great-aunt and uncle lived next door to my own great-aunt and uncle in a suburban Lexington neighborhood for decades, I know plenty of people who knew her in her UK Kappa days, her hometown is quite near my beau’s, etc.  I pride myself on being a Kentuckian, and Ashley Judd is one of the Commonwealth’s most famous daughters.  Needless to say, I’ve followed Ashley Judd’s career quite closely over the years.

When Ashley’s manifesto about women’s bodies and misogyny appeared on the Daily Beast Monday, I took notice.It was hard not to notice, to tell you the truth.My twitter stream and Facebook feed were filled with female friends applauding Ms. Judd. People forwarded me the link to the article again and again. As nearly everyone knows by now, Ashley Judd appeared on a Canadian talk show in March and her appearance was dissected by a number of entertainment media sources which cited her “puffy” appearance.Earlier this week, Ms. Judd took to the Daily Beast website to discuss the societal implications of the criticism she’d endured.  Now, I read the article with trepidation, for I’ve often found her writing and socio-political stances to be a bit grating. And, I have to say, I was exceptionally torn, both by the message she presented and by my own response. 

As I read the article, I found myself cheering Ms. Judd’s defense of herself and her looks.  It was a subject that hit painfully close to home.  A day earlier, at Easter dinner, I’d found myself cringing as some relatives clumsily and tactlessly “complimented” my recent weight loss.  I didn’t want to explain that I am coming off an emotionally difficult year, which had been capped off by a month-long bout with bronchitis and a week’s worth of debilitating stomach pain.  I didn’t want to acknowledge the tacit implication that I'd needed to lose some of the weight, nor did I want to deal with my grandmother’s admonition that I didn’t need to lose any more.  I tried to graciously shrug off those statements in the spirit of family and holiday, but they hurt my feelings.  As I read Ashley’s defense of her recent steroid treatment for a sinus infection, I empathized deeply.  Not only had I just felt the need to defend myself against weird back-handed compliments, I had also recently dealt with the “Wow, you look like shit” comments when receiving a similar drug regimen.  I didn’t need the added stress of external criticism, and I could certainly understand the points Ashley raised in her own defense.

Now, I thought that Ashley's Daily Beast article was a little formal and academic for the pages of a political tabloid.  The use of “inter alia” is perhaps not fitted to The Daily Beast’s readership,  but I’m guilty of the same writing crimes.  When I feel defensive, or when I feel I’ve been challenged, I also tend to become verbose.  I sometimes cringe when I look back at some of my earlier published work; I was immediately reminded of this fact as I read Ashley’s article.  This is a woman who has been hurt by her critics in a very personal attack, I thought. She is smart and accomplished, and she wants to fire back with the tools at hand.  In her case, it’s a brand-new MPA from the Harvard K-School.  As always, Ashley Judd presented herself as a hyper-reality version of me.  It would make for a neat little story about the sisterhood and solidarity of Kentucky women if I ended this essay here, except for one small problem: I was one of the people who called Ashley “puffy.”

On March 17, as most of y’all know, the UK basketball team played a tough, tight game against Iowa State in the second round of the NCAA Tournament.  In a weekend fraught with upsets, the outcome seemed fairly dubious for a moment.  Nobody wanted to look away from the game for second.  And yet, there it was – a break in play coverage to interview our Most Famous Fan.  The truth is, I didn’t care what Ashley had to say about being in the Yum! Center, or about the team’s style of play.  I just wanted to watch the game.  As I recall, a crucial foul was not shown (y’all refresh my memory – it may have even been a technical?) because we were cutting to an interview with Ashley Judd.  In my frustration and anxiety about both the game itself and the manner in which it was being broadcast, I rashly posted an ugly, petty statement to my social media accounts:  “Nobody cares, Puffy Ashley.”  The following Monday, Ms. Judd would go on to the Canadian talk show appearance which sparked the controversy over her appearance.

Now, sports fans say a lot of ugly things in the moment.  The blessing and the curse of the Facebook Timeline format is that it easily allows you to go back and review your words. Around the time that I criticized Ms. Judd’s appearance, I also criticized sportscaster Bobby Knight for being a notorious blowhard with a vendetta against Kentucky; I’m sure that the General’s famous gin blossom worked its way into the conversation at some point.  It usually does. I similarly criticized Iowa State’s star player, Royce White, who was previously thrown off Minnesota’s team for an incident of theft and assault. As I review these statements, I’m not altogether convinced that I criticized Ms. Judd because I am guilty of covert misogyny, or that I was tacitly buying into the patriarchy (the aspersions that her article casts upon women who criticize other women’s looks).  I do know, however, that I am guilty of committing ad hominem attacks against Ms. Judd, Coach Knight, and Mr. White.  In the case of Ms. Judd and Coach Knight, they are celebrities whose attitudes and public statements often annoy me.  In the case of Mr. White, I was simply scared of his dominant style of play. 

When I said “Shut up, Puffy Ashley,” what I meant to say was “I don’t always enjoy your work as an entertainer and a celebrity.  I often find you grating and preachy.  I find you to be a bit of a know-it-all.”  I have long taken issue with Ms. Judd for the fact that her political stance on the Eastern Kentucky coal industry fails to account for the economic structure of our shared homeland.  I have often disdained her status as our basketball team’s Premier Fan, because it often seems she is only there when the cameras can focus on her the most*.  What I meant to say was, “You are a beautiful woman who is clearly having a rough day. Perhaps the camera shouldn’t rest upon you for so long.  Besides, there are tens of thousands of other blue-clad fans who’d gladly give an interview.” But I didn’t.  Instead, I went for a personal attack, which any first-year student of philosophy, politics, or law can point out as a cheap and lazy rhetorical device.  My own words were reprehensible, and I thank Ms. Judd for pointing this out to me.**

After the Iowa State game, UK’s star forward Terrence Jones tweeted an odd little anecdote.  It seems that Ashley Judd had been clowning around in the Locker Room with the team after the game.  Somehow, she made it out of the gym and halfway down I-65 with Terrence’s iPhone.  It seemed an odd little aside after a hard-won game, but a small contingent of the internet portrayed this in an ugly light.  I saw more than a few wink-and-nod tweets that asked why an older, beautiful, white woman had taken off with a young, handsome, athletic black man’s cell phone.  The implications were far-fetched and seamy.  And completely baseless.  To me, this portion of Ashleygate was the real story of objectification and misogyny.  It was barely removed from the Victorian implication that actresses were whores.  I thought of these ridiculous stories as I read Ashley’s article, and I was forced to compare them to my own gut reactions.  My immediate counterargument to the Daily Beast piece was that Ms. Judd has chosen a career as a Professional Pretty Person.  She once appeared on that wildly popular UK Hockey poster wearing nothing but a jersey. Wasn’t she inherently buying into the patriarchy through her very own life choices, essentially objectifying herself? Or was I, in effect, blaming the victim?

We live in a culture which commoditizes celebrity. We pick our favorites as though we were picking ice cream flavors.  We consider ourselves perfectly justified in critiquing the looks and lifestyle choices of people whom we’ll never meet.  We find it perfectly acceptable to criticize celebrities whose weight falls outside proscribed norms.  And, we expect them to take it.  While Ms. Judd’s defense of herself is far from perfect – it’s a little too patronizing and rhetoric-heavy for my tastes – it is a commendable step in starting a real dialogue about the issue of objectification.

I don’t find myself as moved by Ms. Judd’s missive as many of my fellow Kentucky women.  It wasn’t the “go-girl” manifesto that many of my friends experienced.  And yet, it made me think.  It made me think about how women discuss other women.  It made me think about how men discuss women.  And it will hopefully move us all to choose our description of others’ looks a little more carefully.  And for that, I am quite grateful.

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*I’m blatantly rooting for that cute little Josh Hopkins to take up the mantle of Most Famous Fan, but that’s another story for another day…

** I told you I get verbose when I’m defensive. Touché, Ashley.

Redbud and Dogwood Winter

When I was growing up in the mountains of Eastern Kentucky, I rolled my eyes at a lot of conventional mountain wisdom.  Some of that was, of course, the traditional child's prerogative; parents and grandparents simply can't know what they're talking about with their old-fashioned perspectives.  And, to this Muppets-and-Madonna-loving child of the '80s,  old-timey mountain traditions seemed a relic of a long-gone era. 

As an adult, I've had to rescind quite a bit of my know-it-all scorn. The twangy mountain music that my granddaddy played on his vintage Martin guitar sounds curiously like the hipster-standard Raconteurs and Avett Brothers tracks that fill my iPod.  My grandmother's Crisco-and-butter cooking turned out to be far healthier than the fake food revolution of my childhood.  And, so many pieces of folk wisdom -- the most embarrassing, "unscientific" observations of the natural world -- have turned out to be true.  I've been forced to eat my words time and again.  The most dramatic example is Redbud Winter and its close, usually later, cousin Dogwood Winter.  

 

Now, when I was a kid, I hated hearing about these supposed weather phenomena.  When the first warm spring rolled around, it should be warm and pretty and springy from then on.  Without fail, someone would note "Oh, it'll get cold again.  We haven't even had Redbud or Dogwood winter yet.  Don't put your coats away." That was surely just an old wives' tale.

Except, it wasn't.  Every spring, the pretty, delicate blooms on the flowering trees brings a dramatic cold snap.  This year was no different -- last week brought 85 degree days, then the redbuds and dogwoods started to peek out.  As I started to unpack my spring dresses and shorts, I immediately thought that I'd better leave out a few cold weather items, just in case.  Of course, redbud winter came a few short days later, bringing cold mornings and brisk days.  

I guess the old-timers are right after all.

{all photos were taken in my mom's Floyd County backyard over the past week or so...}

Giovanni's Pizza

Anybody who has spent any time in Eastern Kentucky has eaten plenty of Giovanni's pizza.  It just seems like there's always been a Giovanni's location in every town along U.S. Route 23.

Giovanni's is known for big ol' pizzas that feed a crowd, making them a favorite for birthday parties and sporting events.  Their pizza buffet is a lunchtime staple in most everybody's hometown, offering all-you-can-eat breadsticks, pizza and pasta.  

Giovanni's sandwiches are a perennial favorite as well.  The stromboli sandwich (a steak hoagie with pizza sauce and cheese) and the Big Red (steak hoagie with cheese and red French dressing) are classic menu items.

My hometown Giovanni's location, in the little town of Martin, holds monthly fundraisers for the Jordan Light Foundation, a local charity (its offices are quite literally next door to the Giovanni's) that provides financial and spiritual support for families facing a medical crisis. It's always a good excuse to indulge!

Have y'all tried Giovanni's Pizza?

In Photos: Snow Day

This weekend, I had the good fortune to be visiting my parents in the mountains when we got ourselves a good, old-fashioned Snow Day. 

Snowflakes.

Now, even though both of my parents are retired from our county school system, the promise of a Snow Day still connotes a day of fun -- an escape from everyday worries and routines.

Sophie didn't see what all the fuss was about.

The old joke goes that Southerners storm the grocery store whenever even a hint of snow is in the forecast.  I find that we Kentuckians do fall into this pattern, even though snow isn't a rare occurrence for Kentucky winters.  I certainly saw a guy buying three gallons of milk  at my hometown grocery store on Saturday afternoon, and briefly wondered if he had himself a neat little speculation/profit scheme.

This weekend, we got four beautiful inches of snow, which might be a joke to my friends in Chicago or a blizzard to my friends in Atlanta.  Here, it was just enough to celebrate!

Do y'all still love Snow Days?

Where I'm From.

iPad, Guinness and holler.

This afternoon, I went outside to walk my dogs. As I looked down at my outfit -- an Under Armour base layer, faded jeans, well-worn rain boots and my fiance's cast-off winter jacket -- I realized that I could be geared up for many places. Dressed for muck, and with a bottle of Guinness in my hand, I looked every bit the Scots-Irish girl that my genealogy chart would present. I could be in my mother's family's native County Quinn, or I could be on a horse farm in my beloved Central Kentucky, or I could be dressed for countless outdoorsy places other than my parents' Eastern Kentucky home, where I'm visiting for a few days. In fact, the beer made my hometown less likely, as I'm from the kind of town where any alcohol is suspect, let alone a lady drinking on a weeknight. 

Max explores a creek,.

I've always had a complicated relationship with my Appalachian heritage. Now, I find that most people I know tend to fully embrace or summarily reject their mountain roots. Neither path has ever felt quite right for me, though. There are certainly times when I wonder what it would have been like if I'd spent my formative years on the Upper East Side, or in a subdivision, or dozens of other places. There are other times when I'm overcome by the beauty of the place where I was raised -- times when it seems that I am really seeing a creek or a tree for the very first time. Most of the time, though, I've come to realize that I was born to that particular little plot of earth not by fortune -- be it good or bad -- but sheerly by fate. It's not something I love or hate; it simply just is. 

My grandparents, father and aunt, Easter 1957.

I've recently undertaken the archiving of my father's family's photographs. As eight decades of Watsons have come to life from yellowed, often-crumbling photos, the Appalachian landscape has emerged alongside them. Rocky hills in the background. Farmhouses. Tall, majestic pine trees and their scrub brethren. As central a character to our family history as any ancestor. 

I grew up here.

 Maybe that very familiarity has led to the complexities in my relationship with my homeland. Perhaps that is why I feel perfectly entitled to cringe a little when James Still's lost manuscript is reviewed in the Oxford American (I've always secretly considered Still's work to be the worst form of hillbilly-gothic). Maybe it is akin to a familial relationship. And, like most complex family relationships, maybe that is why I can be completely flummoxed by "the way we do things around here", then nearly moved to tears by the beauty of the rocky stream at the back of my parents' land only minutes later. The trite old saying goes that you don't pick your family. And, in a very real way, for good or for ill, I suppose that don't pick your homeland either.