Memories of Muscadine

Thoughts about a dying culture and a forgotten part of America.

Dirt road, bumpy dusty drive.

They are all the same, carved by years of tire tracks; 

deep ruts cut down once a year smoothed over only for a day.

I pull over to let a coal truck pass -

one of the few remaining remnants of a time long past, 

when the people in these hills could still find work.

Now all they have is their pride, 

and bits of family land, not already sold away.

When I was a child we picked blackberries and muscadine here, 

the vines, woven through the barbed wire fence that lined the road. 

The bushes are gone now, smothered by tangled briars and kudzu.

I pull off the dirt road and drive up the winding mountain highway -

two lanes now, just barely; 

blasted from the earth the scars are ever present in the rock cliffs.

Down below the mountain valleys are dark green with a purple hue in the dusk.

The mountain mist is rising, burying me in the Cumberland.

Dented mailboxes point to what life is left.

Gravel driveways and rusty trailers replace the old wood-framed houses.

A few are still standing, their tin roofs collapsed, 

porches fallen with no more stories to tell.

My family, like so many others, have mostly moved on.

The ones that are left are strangers I hardly know.

I only drive up this way now for funerals.

Soon they will all be gone.

Author's Note

A little different route for me. Not sure about the title, if you have nay suggestions I would love to hear them.

Reviews

[Workvio]

I am uncertain as to how to review this piece, James ... I recently read an introductory chapter that you had posted, which I see now it appears you've removed ... Regardless, that chapter was well written and full of potential to generate a really interesting and readable novel, or even story of greater length ... That said, I do not consider my self a poet, per say, in that I dabble in penning poetry, but stories are where my heart lies ... This piece opens up like the first paragraph to a novel, or short story, that literally sucks the reader into a writer's world where his heart is poured out to page in rich tapestry of artistically painted images of sights and sounds and smells that make it impossible for that reader to put it down until he has read that very last line and word concluding a novel or story that he, the reader, will never forget, in spending days afterward contemplating upon thoughts of how your pen took him to a place he will likely never see himself, to experience and taste all your eyes have seen and all your life has tasted of a time that is fast fading away, but will never leave the safe haven sanctuary of your heart and mind ... Am I saying you are not a poet? ... Hell no! ... I am saying that I think you are a story writer or novelist that writes very poetically in a way that captivates your readers ... Perhaps, you should tell this story of this special time and place in your life in more detail as a story, or novel ... Just my take on what I enjoyed ...

[James]

Marvin, thank you, for your kind words and honest critique. I don't really consider myself a poet either, more of a storyteller trying to find his voice. I am glad you enjoyed this and thank you again for taking the time to write such an in-depth review. As far as my friend Hugh Gibson goes, I took him down to give him some more work. I thought about your review and email concerning the story and decided to give it another look.

[Kathy Van Kurin]

'Memories of Muscadine'
James,
To read the essence of what you remember and what is now leaves it's image in this piece. As I went along with you down the road I wondered what else might of been lurking in the past and what were the further memories you had. This piece was something that is important as it is a reference to who and how you came to be. This is an important part of who we are. This read like a narrative, a story perhaps? Anyway stories are wonderful especially ones that lend light to others about the past as we all come from somewhere and can take an example from someone else's life and apply it to our own.
Bless you.
Kathy

[barleygirl]

This is a powerfully poignant set of observations! I love every carefully selected word that conveys so much, but without being all flowery, just humble writing to match the humbleness of the scene. The title is awesome with alliteration & then expanded perfectly later, with the blackberry picking which is only a memory becuz of the invasive kudzu. The 3rd stanza stands out for its stark but realistic word tapestry of any such poor & abandoned region (lots around here, too) . . . tin roof caving in is such a memorable image. As Lydia so aptly stated, we can't go home again. Nothing in this world & in this life is ever going to be the same. That's why it's so important to immortalize things in our writings, as you've done with palpable feelings of sorrow & regret.

[James]

Thank you, for this review, I am glad you liked it. Every time I go it's a little more depressed, but I still want to come back. The funny thing is that when I wrote this I was sitting on the beach.

Thanks, again,

[Shimmerbliss/CAF]

This is one of my favorites of yours so far! You have taken me there with you with such imagery that I can feel your bittersweet memories and the stark reality of the changes. I suppose we have all been back to places where our memories seem to be torn down, or so different that they seem as if they are a different place entirely. The line "I only drive up this way now for funerals.
Soon they will all be gone." strikes me with impact as I have just had a similar thought lately.
As they say, "the only thing certain is change", but it can make a heart heavy when long gone and then returning to find everything so different. Love this.

[James]

Wow, thank you, so much. You got it perfectly. Each time I go back it is a little more grown over, a little more depressed, but I still want it to be the same. The last time was for my father's funeral, I guess that's where that last line came from. I'm really glad you liked it.

[Shimmerbliss/CAF]

I'm sorry to hear that you have lost your father. Your return there for the funeral must have been all the more saddening.

[James]

It was a few years ago, but thank you.

[Lydia Shutter]

How sad, but true. You can't go home again, James. Although grandfathers, fathers, and sons all did the same work for generations, times are changing and some of the work done for generations is not pertinent in our world today. Farming is done by computerized machines now. Poignant that so many are gone....I can identify with that. We return to the old neighborhoods for funerals....and soon those will be over as well. We have our memories and our photos.....and we must tell our children and grandchildren about how it used to be. A very good write. The imagery was wonderful. Lydi**

[James]

Thank you, Lydia, It's true we can never go home. I've been gone so long I am a total stranger, that city boy who went to college and doesn't belong anymore. But, I still love the mountains and never miss a chance to go back, even though each trip is a little more bittersweet than the last.
I'm glad you enjoyed it.

[jacob erin-cilberto]

my sister lives up in Deep Gap...way up there in the mountains...a different kind of life.

but this poem also reminds me of Vermont...the farmers back in the 50's...dairy a thriving business...now the farms are still there...but the sons of the fathers, continuing the tradition, really battle to get by...

life is so different today.

[James]

Yes, it is, so very different. I'm originally from Kentucky and my family worked in the mines or grew tobacco, both nearly gone now.

It's funny you should mention Deep Gap, I went to college at Appalachian State, undergrad and graduate school. I'm sure your sister knows it.

[jacob erin-cilberto]

my sister went there....we don't talk much...but yes, she graduated from there, and then got a degree from NC...