Appalachian Beachcombing

Bottles and pans found nearby

Bottles and pans found nearby

Living in these mountains, near old homesteads, and sadly where folks dumped their trash for generations, in the hollers or limestone caverns, I have found a pastime I call Appalachian beachcombing. It is a skill honed, from just noticing how many odd treasures could be found where and when. Especially after hard rains near the creeks, and around the areas water comes pouring off the mountain, across backroads, and down steep places, they are waiting. I learned where the best spots were for bottles, old pots, and odd metal parts, ( I admit to especially loving the sun/star burst shaped gears). Sometimes you need to dig a bit, but there very well may be something that wasn’t visible, or even there a month before. 

Sadly, there are still those that think nothing about throwing trash from their cars windows. Bud light cans just go in a horse feed bags for recycling and other un-recyclable stuff ends up in my own trash. It is older items that pique my interest. The cobalt blue bottle barely surfacing from the ground, or an old bent enamel pot upside down in the water are the treasures I seek. The pans find a new life, filled w/ succulents, the bottles rest with others in my kitchen window. On these walks, I also appreciate how nature has made beauty and art with the juxtaposition of rusty old mattress coils, or sculpturesque car fenders. They almost seem to enjoy their new life away from the hands of man, with greenbriers and grapevine creating interest around them.

Winter hunting is best, as a glint, or odd shape is easier to spot without the green cover of warmer seasons. Often I find a jar that has made its own lovely terrarium of mosses, leaves, and grasses. I leave them behind now. I learned they do not flourish at home, but are happier in the woodsy environment. Sometimes I go check on them, to see what is new in their little ecosystem. Perhaps my greatest find years ago was an old bent washtub, now placed in front of the house. Each May I fill that repurposed container with flowers, so it always sits there to greet us beside the stone path as we walk to the door. I wonder about its history, who used it, how was it purposed? And, even more —what are the stories of the mountain folks that touched all the pieces I have collected over the last 20 years. 

A salt shaker

A salt shaker

The rock batter on the property boundary and the creek behind us offer many stones for use on the farm. This is also part of beach combing—finding just the right stones for what is needed. The borders to flowerbeds, paths, and gravestones where the beloved pets rest up on the hill— all come from these places, adding their natural beauty anywhere they rest. I remember the gathering of the rocks we used to build the fire pit every time we sit there, and enjoy the process all over again. More recently the patio off the front porch was a project. I am no stone mason, but feeling the weight, shape, and energy of the stones, and working with them was meaningful. When sitting in the porch swing most mornings, I look across those stones placed lovingly in the ground. We worked with those we chose — their shape, size, and the mosaic like pattern, but it was those mountain rocks that decided how it would be. Now they are settled into their new space beneath the pussy willow tree. 

Old washtub looking at the patio beneath the pussy willow

Old washtub looking at the patio beneath the pussy willow

That tree, and the trumpet vine beside the shed, were two of the first plantings I made here on the farm. The grandmother of a student, my first year in West Virginia brought in pussy willow for my classroom. I rooted and planted it that summer. Now it provides shade over the patio stones.Today is another perfect summer day. The dogs sleeping at my feet will be more than happy to go Appalachian beachcombing with me this afternoon. One never knows where the trail leads, though I have a few places in mind. But being a wanderer/stalker means you go where you are called. There are secret spots that seem to often ask for my presence. Gifts await. I will pay attention, noticing the details with mouse-like vision among the grand whole of this big world. 

An old roller skate and a part of a coffee percolator

An old roller skate and a part of a coffee percolator