We had warning. A dangerous blizzard sweeps across the eastern United States. Be prepared. The young man stacks firewood on my porch and in the barn. I fill up jugs and a bucket with water in case of a power outage. Pull out candles and battery lanterns. The storm rolls in after midnight. Snow mixed with sleet and frozen rain. The temperature drops and keeps dropping. In the morning, still sleety and snowing. Yet, tree limbs and cedars are not fluffy with snow. The snow, it seems, viewed from my window, not all that pretty, … Continue reading After the Blizzard by Trudy Hale →
Among rural Piedmont foothills, coves of the gentle Blue Ridge Mountains, is where I live. There is no incorporated town in the county; the courthouse town has but a few hundred residents. As internet access reaches into the remotest corners and the local newspaper sees its circulation numbers dwindle, it is fortunate that an online Facebook group has been set-up as a community bulletin board. No substitute for Moose Lodge dances, a church chitterling dinner or a Fourth of July parade, but the group serves to disseminate information, both of a general and a particular … Continue reading Reaching Out by Fred Wilbur →
Catherine Pritchard Childress is the 2nd place winner of Streetlight’s 2022 Essay/Memoir Contest Offering food as a form of comfort for those in mourning is as much a part of my Appalachian upbringing as Vacation Bible School and dinner on the grounds. Where there is death there will be cream soup casseroles and fried chicken, jugs of sweet tea and deli trays. Condolences unaccompanied by a Pyrex dish (name written on masking tape and secured to the bottom) or a lidded Rubbermaid container (“Honey, I don’t need it back”) are lacking—or so we’ve been raised … Continue reading Pandemic Casserole by Catherine Pritchard Childress →
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