It is very noticeable that a lot of traditional Appalachian practices have waned, and some have almost disappeared completely. These old cultural traditions are being lost on new generations. Many of us no longer know how to can our own food or plant by the signs. Few still observe long held superstitions, such as “death comes in threes” and “dreaming of bees is a sign of good luck.”

I have observed it in my own children, who have little to no interest in learning the beliefs and skills of our forefathers.

The world at large is becoming more homogenous thanks to the widespread use of the internet. Information is literally at your fingertips, and exchanges with folks from different areas of the country and even the world are common. My son has friendships with people from Peru, New Zealand and the UK. They routinely discuss the geopolitical impact of the War in Ukraine or the upcoming US presidential election on world events.

That would have been unthinkable in my day. The closest I would have come to a similar experience would have been to put a message in a bottle, throw it in the Clinch River and hope it floated all the way to Ecuador.

I see all these rapid changes and think how different my childhood was from my parents. Then how much their childhoods differed from their parents, and so on. Very few people want to be drastically different from their peers, so some of this “Appalachian assimilation” is inevitable.

Television and social media define social norms these days. Today’s youth are all exposed to the same music and entertainment. Whoever gets the most “likes” and clicks sets the cultural pace.

It is odd to me that in a world where everyone is trying to stand out and get noticed, the more everyone acts the same. Few people have the fortitude to be unapologetically different.

My question is: what can, or even should, we do to preserve our culture? Change isn’t necessarily bad, but I don’t relish the thought of Appalachians becoming the new Mohicans.

The best answer I can come up with is that we need to make a renewed commitment to value and appreciate these traditions. The way we talk, the way we dress, and even our core values are worth preserving and passing down. It starts with us.

I had the worst time getting to sleep last night. We’ve been having strange weather with wild swings between cool and hot. This night was warm, so I flipped on my ceiling fan to cool off.

I tossed and turned in the twilight between sleep and wake. The rhythmic slapping of the fan spinning round and round put me in something of a hypnotic trance. I’d read some of William Faulkner’s “The Sound and the Fury” earlier to wind down. The last thing I read before going to bed was a small section in the book about fishing, so I guess it stuck in my head.

I tossed and turned, looking for peace, trying to get the sound of the fan off my mind. I have a weird way of remembering events. At least I think it is weird. Almost exactly like you see in the movies and television, it is as if clouds part as my memories slowly come into view.

It felt like a dream, but it was a vivid memory of the first time I remember going fishing. I must have been around five or six years old. My dad had taken my older brother, Billy, and me to go fishing along the riverbank. The memory started just as our car pulled in to park.

We got out as Dad retrieved the fishing poles, tackle box, and bait. Billy is four years older than me, so Dad let him carry the bait. I remember noticing it looked a lot like the small tubs mom used to make green onion dip. Instead of the delicious concoction I loved to dip corn chips in, this container had earthworms – nowhere near as appetizing.

I was having a grand old time sliding down the hillside like a surfer riding a nice wave until Dad hollered out to us, “Watch out for snakes!” Now, that was some sound advice, but I am not good at clearing the thought of a snake encounter from my mind. This was when I first discovered I suffer from snake paranoia. I spent a fair portion of my day watching the entire circle around me as if I were on guard duty.

We were fishing where an old dam used to be. It was quite a hotspot for fishermen, and we encountered several along the way. Only one of these folks stood out to me, some old coot in overalls that had just given up on his day at the river. He was headed up the hill as we were headed down. His body language told the story of dejection at not catching any fish. His face was a bright red and sweaty, and he squinted his beady eyes from the sun. Dad called him by name, a name that now escapes me, and asked how his luck had been. The old fella reached up to his well-worn fishing cap, which he tugged up and down as he shook his head from side to side in defeat. He muttered with a big chaw of tobacco planted in his jaw, “Not a d@mn bite, Bill.” Well, I’m no fan of random cussing even these days, but back then you rarely heard men let a swear loose around women or children. I was a little thrown off by this crusty old codger. He went on his way, so we continued down the hill.

We finally set up in a spot that must have been popular with folks fishing. It was a bare mound of earth from all the foot traffic trampling it. A crushed tub of bait and a couple of empty bottles of Coke were lying around the area. We set up camp and prepared for the big day.

Finally, it was time to get down to the business of fishing. Dad worked up the poles. He put on the sinkers and hooks. I was curiously taking it all in. Then it was time to bait the hooks. He opened up the tub of earthworms and yanked out a wiggly worm. He stuck it on the hook as the thing started squirming every which way. Dad arched back with the pole, then snapped his wrist forward as the worm sailed through the air halfway across the river before plunging into the water with a small splash. The whole process didn’t look too hard so I was anxious for my turn.

Billy went next. He wasn’t quite as good as Dad but he still managed to get off a decent cast.

Finally, it was my turn. Dad put on the hook and sinker. He then said, “Grab a worm.” This command threw me off, “Uh, you want me to grab the worm? Uh, ok, I guess.” I gingerly stuck a couple of fingers in the tub slowly fishing around (no pun intended) for one of the buried worms. I finally got a hold of one and yanked it out. It quickly wiggled out of my hand and fell to the ground. I scooped it back up and handed it to Dad. In hindsight, I think he intended for me to bait my own hook, but I am guessing he saw my struggles with getting the worm out and figured there was a pretty fair chance I’d stab myself with the hook.

I didn’t fare much better with casting. Dad showed me the technique of pushing the button on my fishing pole and letting it go at just the right time. It sounded simple and he made it look easy. Unfortunately, it was not so for me. My first attempt went about as poor as it could go. I let go of the button late so the fishing line just snapped like a whip. It made a clanging sound, then swung back and forth in the air. I bet the poor worm was just hoping to be put out of its misery at this point. It was an embarrassing failure, to say the least.

The second cast wasn’t much better. I let go closer to the right time but the worm just dropped straight down at my feet. I guess the worm probably died from the abuse long before it ever hit the water. It was a humbling experience as a child. Seeing that I had a long way to go in my casting, Dad held my hand and pushed the button on the third attempt. Thankfully for my flagging self-esteem, this time worked.

Here is where I learned another valuable lesson about fishing: patience. Being a rookie, I thought the fish would jump right on the hook for me, quick and easy. That was not the case. Nothing happened for a longggggg time. For a little boy, it was painfully boring. Excruciatingly boring. I held the pole as long as I could stand it, but I eventually laid it down and moved on to other activities.

I picked up the tub of worms and shook it to watch them move around for entertainment. I poked the worms with a stick to get some more action going. I lured an ant into walking on the stick. It was like a lumberjack navigating a log. As you can imagine, that got old real quick.

My mind wandered off every which way. Five minutes felt like five hours to me. I eventually forgot to even check my pole for action.

After I’d long since given up on catching any fish, I heard Dad quietly say, “Shane, I think you got a bite.” Sure enough, I saw my line move a tiny bit in the water. Dad picked up the pole and slowly pulled out a bit of the line to check the tension. He said, “Yeah, one is nibbling on it.” He let me hold the line so I could feel it. Sure enough, I felt a small jerk on it. He told me to wait, so I sat there with my little heart racing a mile a minute with excitement. Finally, the fish made its run, and Dad helped me give the pole a big yank. Then he started reeling it in as fast as he could make that lever spin. It got to the edge of the riverbank before he handed the pole to me to finish reeling it in.

I could barely hold the pole up, but I kept up the fight. I finally got it up to where we were standing and marveled at the creature frantically flopping back and forth before my eyes. It was my very first fish. I quickly grew an affection for him. Nothing could ever replace it.

It felt like a Great White Shark to me but ended up just being one of the infamous Redeyes that are so aplenty around the area. I was actually happy to hear that they weren’t good for eating. Dad took the hook out and released it back into the water as it swam merrily away. I was glad my new friend was going to live to see another day.

It was about that time that I snapped out of my dreamlike state. I felt a lot more at peace than I had earlier. I rolled over with a little smile on my face and a warm heart, then quickly found that sleep I’d been searching for.

There is just something about reliving those good days from time to time. You never really know what your best days are until they become memories.

I realized last week that I need to get my financial situation under control. It started with finally working up a budget, and the reality that I had a balance on a couple of credit cards was sobering. I decided to attack those credit cards with a vengeance to get them to a zero balance. Nothing was off the table. In fact, if I make it to midnight, it will be 3 full days since I have gone out and spent a dime. No eating out; no gas; no shopping; no groceries…nada. I’ve sold stuff on eBay for as little as $0.99 just to round up money.

It hasn’t been easy, but it has been super rewarding. I paid both cards to zero yesterday, and it was the best feeling I have had in a long time.

I’ve really exhausted almost all of my groceries. I just ate a peanut butter sandwich made up of the two heels that were left in the bag. Now I am no fan of a heel of bread but you’d be surprised what you will do to save money.

While I was eating that heel sandwich, it reminded me of an old saying I heard from my mom, who said she got it from my grandmother. It goes “poor people have poor ways.”

I guess there’s two ways to look at that old saying. One cynical interpretation would be that poor people have habits that make/keep them poor. There’s probably some truth to that.

Another more optimistic take (and the one I am subscribing to) is that poor people are thrifty and make the most of what they have without wasting.

The reason I choose this more positive version is for people like my uncle. He was quite wealthy but was notorious for reusing coffee grounds to stretch the coffee out. He could well afford the finest coffee in the land, but had a life habit of recycling the coffee. Growing up without money led him to see it as a waste to not reuse them.

I remember when I was a youngster that we would add a little water into our hair spray bottle after every use to stretch it out as far as it would go. I vividly remember unscrewing the lid and holding the bottle under the tiny stream of water that filled it back up, then giving it a shake to mix it up for next time. Over time, we found the perfect water to hairspray level that balanced it out to where it would give enough hold without being too watered down. It probably ended up saving us $2 every 3-4 months.

I am proud and happy to have been able to pay off my credit cards because they truly are a tool of the devil…or banks, which is pretty much the same thing. It also has been fun to be thriftier, so I am fixing to head to the kitchen now to make that oatmeal I have that is a couple months past the expiration date.

Who doesn’t enjoy a nice holiday filled with fireworks? I know I sure do. Seeing the sky light up in a panorama of colors is a thrill that never gets old. We all get transformed into little kids while we look up toward the heavens. The thunderous sound of the explosions adds to the spectacle. Sorry, I got carried away for a minute.

The Fourth of July, in particular, is a wondrous day of celebrating our freedom. There are cookouts, going to the lake, vacations, beer-drinking, going to the pool, family get-togethers, outdoor concerts, and any number of other ways people celebrate. As nice as these things are, it all leads up to fireworks. Those are the undercard but the fireworks are the main event, to use boxing terminology.

One of my strongest memories from childhood was back in the days of lawless home fireworks. Younger people may not remember this, but back in the day, almost anything went with fireworks. It felt like being in downtown Fallujah during the Iraq War, with explosions surrounding you in every direction.

I was but a wee lad back then and one year we watched a great little neighborhood fireworks display, nothing particularly different about it. Back then, various neighbors would set off fireworks and firecrackers scattered over around an hour or so, then everything would calm down around bedtime. That year seemed no different as my brother and I hopped into bed after all the action died down.

Lo-and-behold, about the time I fell asleep, a house-shaking, deafening, make-your-heart-stop explosion went off right above our heads. It literally took my breath as I rose up in bed and instantly made sure my heart was right with God, in case I was about to meet my demise. Dad and Mom rushed into the room frantically and we all were shook (literally and metaphorically) by this jarring event. I thought someone had hit us with a hand grenade.

Dad went outside to investigate and determined that some bratty punk had apparently lobbed a Cherry Bomb onto our roof. I am sure they got a great laugh about it, but they took about 5 years off my life in the process. Ok, I am being a little dramatic, but I did alter my ability to fall asleep for the next week or so.

I guess that must have been a common problem back then, as it wasn’t long after this that Cherry Bombs were outlawed in Virginia. Despite all I went through that night, I was kinda sad to hear that they were made illegal. It got so tame for a while that the slight popping of bottle rockets and crackling of firecrackers were all you would hear in the neighborhood. It was just a little pathetic, honestly.

I mean, the Fourth of July is all about freedom, yet they took away the thrill and excitement of potential danger. Who hasn’t heard stories of someone losing an eye or maybe a couple of fingers from holding a firework when it exploded? Horror stories of wayward bottle rockets going in the direction of an innocent bystander were commonplace.

I say bring back the Cherry Bombs and the old roman candles that were capable of blasting you to kingdom come. Freedom isn’t free. If a few people lose a digit or an eye every year, that is the collateral damage sacrifice for the entertainment of millions of the rest of us. Plus, those make for some great stories, right?

Ok, I really got carried away there. Yeah, I guess they make laws for people like me to save us from ourselves, dadgumit. Oh well, at least I have the memories.

Hope everyone has a happy (and, most importantly, safe) Fourth!

I have been blessed with being both Appalachian and Southern and I wouldn’t trade either of those identities for all the maple syrup in Vermont, and I am a big fan of maple syrup, so that’s saying something coming from me. More complicated, I often get asked if I am a hillbilly. In fact, in one of our last Real Appalachia YouTube videos, Melody asked me if I consider myself to be a hillbilly. Being a hillbilly isn’t necessarily an automatic distinction you’re born into, so I had to ask myself – what is a hillbilly? How does one qualify to be a hillbilly?

I decided to get to the bottom of this question, once and for all. The first place I went for answers? Google, of course. Wouldn’t ya just know, Google had plenty of answers. The first answer I went to described a hillbilly this way:

“If you refer to someone as a hillbilly, you are saying in a fairly rude way that you think they are uneducated and unsophisticated because they come from the countryside.” (collinsdictionary.com)

A second website offered this:

“There is no shortage of hillbilly images in American popular culture. Whether a barefoot, rifle-toting, moonshine-swigging, bearded man staring out from a floppy hat or a toothless granny in homespun sitting at a spinning wheel and peering suspiciously at strangers from the front porch of a dilapidated mountain cabin, the hillbilly, in all his manifestations, is instantly recognizable.” (encyclopediaofarkansas.net)

I don’t really like either of those definitions very much. I don’t see anything about either of those descriptions that I would say are positive or flattering.

Now, having said that, I do qualify as a hillbilly under some of their qualifications. I would consider myself unsophisticated. I just looked up and down at myself sitting here at my laptop writing this piece and I see that my clothes don’t match and my t-shirt is just a little bit too snug for my belly. I would say that alone could qualify me as unsophisticated so I won’t waste any more time on that one. I do, however, have a college degree so I wouldn’t say I am totally uneducated.

As for the second description, I am not much on going barefoot personally. I think that goes back to my mom instilling a fear of tetanus in me at a young age. I was afraid of stepping on a rusty nail and then developing lockjaw or “tha lockjaw” as I would more than likely have said it. So, going barefoot is a big no for me. Strike one.

Rifle-toting? Yes, I have toted a rifle plenty of times in my life. I had a pretty nice rifle collection at one time, but a good old-timey divorce caused that collection to go up in smoke. I am not bitter though. I still have a few pistols I have accumulated over the years since the loss of my rifles. I do occasionally miss my .303 British Enfield, it was the cheapest rifle I had, but it was deadly accurate. Oh well, my eyesight ain’t what it used to be anyways so I need to just let it all go and move on with life. I will just leave it at saying I would definitely tote a rifle if I could afford one but those things are pretty dadgum expensive these days.

Bearded? Well, I most certainly have facial hair and, try as I may, it doesn’t grow out to a full “Duck Dynasty” beard that I would love to have. Sadly, at a certain point mine is so splotchy and patchy that a body might think I have the red mange. As much as the red mange ain’t a good look for dogs, it looks even worse on the human male face. I speak from experience.

Floppy hat? Oddly enough, I just bought a floppy straw hat that I absolutely love so I can check this box wholeheartedly.

I am not a woman nor a grandmother, nor do I identify as one or whatever you need to say to cover yourself these days so I will move along…

I absolutely do peer suspiciously at strangers from my front porch and you should too. It is a dangerous world out here. I miss the good old days when you could leave your door open and all you had to worry about was getting tetanus from stepping on a rusty nail, but those days are sadly long gone. Why, these days you might even have a stranger pull up into your yard and dump out a box of rusty nails just to try to get you.

I prefer to call my house a modest little home on a small patch of land instead of a dilapidated mountain cabin, but to each their own.

In the end, Google ended up not being a whole lot of help. After I total all my points up, it appears I am sitting at about 50-60% hillbilly according to their definitions. I have never heard of someone being a half-bred hillbilly and I wouldn’t settle for that anyways. I am more of an all-or-nothing type of fella. I need to find more proof that I am a hillbilly…but how and where?

As I sit here typing and looking around the room, I see I have not one but two moonshine jugs on display for decorations. I may or may not (but definitely do) have hidden away a mason jar filled with a clear liquid that is great for remedying the symptoms of a cold. I have pictures of a coal tipple and another of an old barn hanging on my walls. I am still not totally satisfied that I qualify to be a hillbilly. I have two Bibles in my living room and I read somewhere that hillbillies are God-fearing, so that is a plus for me.

In my kitchen, I have a drawer totally dedicated to holding my bags from Walmart and Dollar General that I use to line my bathroom waste basket and to use as my lunchbox for work. On a side note, I prefer to use the Dollar General bags for toting food and drinks. It seems to be more durable and has that nice yellow color to it that is more eye-catching.

I have two half gallon glass jugs that used to hold blackberry cider. You don’t get nice glass jugs everyday, so I plan on reusing them someday. It is just that someday hasn’t come in the last 5+ years I have had them.

I have a bottle of apple cider vinegar because it is good for literally everything. Everybody needs some apple cider vinegar in their kitchen, just trust me on that one. 90% of the worlds ailments would be cured if everyone had a bottle of apple cider vinegar and a bottle of hydrogen peroxide.

Three of my four chairs at the kitchen table match. The other one kinda looks like the other three, so I am good with it. It takes a pretty discerning eye to notice the one had some different design to it, but the color is pretty darn close. The oddball one happens to be my daughter’s favorite chair because it is smooth and doesn’t have little knobs that raise up and bump her legs. All in all, that worked out pretty good for me.

I have a metal “Moon Pie” sign hanging in my kitchen as well.

I have a quart of apple butter in a mason jar that is getting pretty low. Man, I kick myself for not getting one more quart, but I was thought I could stretch this one out a little bit further. I should have known I am powerless to stop myself from eating apple butter so that one is on me.

I have an empty bottle of Mothman root beer for decorations. I am not sure if that makes me a hillbilly or just weird.

I have an oil lantern filled and ready to go sitting right beside my sink, just in case the power goes out and the batteries in my flashlight happen to go dead too. You can’t be too prepared for generating light.

I have a picture of Jesus that I used to see in my Sunday school when I was a little boy, but I can’t figure out where to hang it and, also, am not sure if hanging Jesus in the kitchen is disrespectful or if I should put it in a more prominent place.

Anyways, I will rest my case now. I think I have proven my hillbilly credentials at this point. Oh, sure, I could go to my bedrooms and my garage and say what is in them, but I think that would just be showing off at this point, I have proven enough. I sure don’t want to be accused of being a showboat about my hillbilly heritage.

I guess I said allllllllll that to say this. There really isn’t a test you can pass or a bloodline that makes you a hillbilly. Hillbilly is where the heart is and my heart is in the hills. If that makes me unsophisticated and uneducated then I guess that’s ok too, just leave me and my shoes-wearin’, half-bearded, pistol-packin’, floppy hat-lovin’ self alone or I guess I will stare at you suspiciously from the front porch of my modest home…ya hear?

I went to get a haircut this evening, which I don’t suppose is big news to anyone including me but it still inspired me to write so I am going with it. Since I have moved from my hometown, I have got into the habit of going to what I call a “chop shop” or, basically, one of the high-volume retail salons that get you in and out in about 15 minutes. I have fallen into the trap of going to them because they’re pretty quick and easy but the experience always leaves me a little cold. I can’t help but contrast that with the good ol’ days of yore when I went to my hometown barber at Don’s Barber Shop.

Every time I go to get my haircut these days, without exception, the ol’ gal (they’ve always been gals so far) asks me if I have ever been there before so I explain that I have and dutifully give them my phone number so they can pull up my account. Now, I have been there 10 times or more since I have moved to town and yet they never ever know me from the man on the moon.

The gal cutting my hair this time read the notes on my account, then asked me, “It looks like we’ve been doing a number 4 and scissor-cutting the top, does that sound right?” All I could think was “I don’t know a number 4 from a number 200, lady, I must have missed the lesson that came after learning what number 1 and number 2 was during potty training. Let’s just go with what you’ve got there.” Instead, I politely responded, “Yeah, I think that is right” and let her go to work on lopping off a couple inches.

Let me tell you right here and right now, in all my 20+ years of patronage Don never had to ask me if I’d been there before or if he’d used a number 4 the last time. Why, he even knew my family going back decades and he always gave me the exact same haircut for 20 years with no questions asked. No muss, no fuss, just good conversation and consistency. Nothing fancy was needed nor expected.

Speaking of conversation, the lady barber put me through the same questions I’d been subjected to the last ten times I’ve been there: ”Where do you work?…Do you have any kids?” It felt like we were out on a blind date…it always does.

Don knew my kids by name, where I went to church, a good portion of my family tree and just about anything a person could ever want to know about somebody.

In all fairness, I have to say that throughout history women have had the reputation for gossiping but I can tell you that I got more town news, speculation, and goings on in Don’s Barber Shop than I ever got anywhere else. For anyone wanting the scoop on what’s happening in town or the world, go check out a barber shop filled with men someday.  

The chop shop makes everything sooooo easy, you can check in online and show up just in time to hit an open chair. They get right to work on you and send you on your merry way lickety-split. You really can’t beat their turnaround time.

At Don’s, it was always on a first-come-first-served basis and you really never knew who might be in line with you, friend or foe. It could either be the highlight of your day by seeing an old friend or it could make for some awkward silence and exchanges if someone you had beef with happened to be there or even a combination of the two. You might get lucky and weight five minutes or you might hit a busy time and wait an hour. There was a little bit of excitement about finding out what hand you would draw when you get there.

I wish I could make it back home to the barber shop, I would make that trade in a New York Minute. There’s no question that the retail salons are quick and convenient…but you will never convince me that they are progress.

I have never and will never consider myself to be a cat person. I have the feeling my cat would never consider himself to be a person cat so I guess that makes us even in that regard.

My daughter really wanted a pet and, well, she bosses me around even though she is 5 years old so getting a cat was a foregone conclusion. I fancy myself more of a dog person but they are so dependent that it just wouldn’t fit my current lifestyle, so I was left to choose between getting a cat or risking the disapproval and tears of the prettiest blonde-haired, blue-eyed girl I’ve ever known. You can figure out how easy that decision was for me to make. We got a cat.

We decided to adopt one from a local rescue shelter that was advertising they were overflowing with cats in need of a good home, so we headed out to make our (actually, let me be honest – her) choice. Now, once again, I will go on record that I am not a cat fella but she did pick out a pretty cute cat given our options.

We sat down to fill out the adoption paperwork and they asked “Ok, what’s its name going to be?” Before I could open my mouth with an opinion, my daughter says “School Bus.” This is where I finally put my foot down and told her flatly, “We can’t have a cat named School Bus, that’s just not a good name for a cat.” Instead, I made the executive decision that his name would be “Giddyup-oom-poppa-oom-poppa-meow-meow.” In all fairness to me, I had just seen the Oak Ridge Boys in concert so their song Elvira was fresh on my mind. Granted, that isn’t much of an excuse but it is what I cling to.

Also, it gave me a cheap thrill to think that one day someone at the veterinarian’s office would have to call out for “Giddyup-oom-poppa-oom-poppa-meow-meow Simmons? Giddyup-oom-poppa-oom-poppa-meow-meow Simmons?”  Yes, in hindsight our cat would be named School Bus if I could live life all over again. Long story (and name) short, we nicknamed him G, although sometimes we call him G Man, G Star, and, more recently, Geepers.

Thus began my life with a cat named G.

I would describe our relationship as a marriage of inconvenience.

He is constantly under my feet no matter where I step and, too many times to count, he has made me dance like Mr. Bojangles to avoid stepping on him. He seems displeased with the general speed in which I refill his food and water bowls, so he feels the need to be right at my heels to prod me along.

I’d rather clean out my toilet, do dishes by hand, clean out my gutters, and hand scrub my floors than have to change his litter. For his part, he can’t wait to “christen” the new litter once it has been changed.

Every so often, we will lock eyes in a tense icy stare that would put you in the mind of Clint Eastwood versus Eli Wallach in “The Good, the Bad and the Ugly.” You’d think we were about to draw on each other in a gunfight.

I look at him sometimes and think “you’re fat and lazy.” He looks at me sometimes and I can tell he is thinking “you’re fat and lazy.” Unfortunately, we are both right. It is actually what finally bonded us.

We have come to a silent agreement where he will lay on my lap and nap while I lean back in the recliner watching TV. It works out perfectly for both of us because he can sleep in peace and I have an excuse to not get out of my chair and do anything productive, I just think to myself “I better not move and bother the poor ol’ fella while he rests.”

I am not a cat person and he is not a person cat but we’ve managed to somehow make it work. Why, I think we are even role models for others for how to get past differences to make peace. In fact, I can even make it rhyme “Be like me and G.” Maybe, just maybe, if the Democrats and Republicans read this story then there will be hope in this world.

Well, it is a Monday so who couldn’t use a quick pick-me-up in the form of a catchy song? We like to keep our Melody Mondays balanced with music from all genres and eras, but this one might take the metaphorical cake. This week features a little tune by the name of “The Unknown Stuntman” by the pride of Middlesboro, Kentucky – Lee Majors. Yes, you may know it as the theme from the television show The Fall Guy and, yes, I am seriously posting this.

Now, I am known near and far as Lee Majors biggest fan but I found the backstory to the song to be interesting as well. Two of the co-writers on the song, Glen Larson and David Somerville, had both been in a vocal group known as The Four Preps – but they weren’t in the band at the same time. Larson left to pursue a career in television – he went on to develop several popular shows of the era including Battlestar Galactica, Knight Rider, and Magnum P.I. – and was replaced in the band by Somerville.

For his part, Dave Somerville would go on to fame as a member of another popular vocal group known as The Diamonds. The Diamonds had a smash hit with “Little Darlin'” that spent eight weeks at #2 on the charts – they were kept out of the top spot by the one and only Elvis Presley. The song would end the year 1957 as the third best selling single of the year despite never making it to #1 on the charts.

Flash forward, Dave Somerville composed a song to be pitched for a television show about an unknown stuntman – which wasn’t The Fall Guy and wasn’t picked up by the network. A year later, Somerville brought the song to the attention of Glen Larson who, oddly enough, had an idea for a television show about a stuntman. The two pitched the show and song to ABC and the network agreed to consider picking up the program.

Lee Majors was chosen to star in the pilot (he had previously worked with Larson on The Six Million Dollar Man) and the decision was made to have him sing the song himself, rather than farm it out to a more accomplished singer. The end result was the iconic version of “The Unknown Stuntman” that we know and love (or hate, in some cases) today. The Fall Guy would go on to be a hit show and the theme song became very popular, they even released an extended version for radio airplay but it didn’t make a lot of noise on the charts.

“The Unknown Stuntman” is consistently listed on charts of best/most recognizable television theme songs, mainly powered by the lyrics “I’m not the kind to kiss and tell but I’ve been seen with Farrah” (an obvious tongue-in-cheek reference to Majors marriage to Farrah Fawcett) and “when I wind up in the hay, it’s only hay, hey-hey.”

Almost as unforgettable as those lyrics is the image of Lee Majors portraying Colt Seavers smoking a cigar in a bathtub while playing with a rubber duckie. On the show, Majors’ character Colt Seavers was a Hollywood stuntman who also did side work as a bounty hunter. The show aired from 1981-1986 but the theme song lives on to today.

One piece of local history worth checking out is the Jackson Ferry Shot Tower located in Wythe County off the Ft. Chiswell exit. The tower began construction in the 1700s just after the end of the Revolutionary War and was used to make lead shot for use in the firearms of the day. The tower itself is 75 feet tall and has a shaft inside it that drops down another 75 feet close to the shore of the New River. The shot was made by taking firewood and lead to the top of the tower where there was a furnace that melted down the lead. The molten lead was then poured through a sifter that allowed the desired shot size to drop through.

As the led fell the 150 feet the resistance created by the fall would round it into shape and cool it off enough to keep form when it hit the bottom. At the bottom of the shaft was an awaiting kettle full of water into which the lead would plunge and finish cooling off into the hardened lead shot. This finished product would then be sold to merchants, traders, hunters, etc. for use in their firearms. The Jackson Ferry Shot Tower is one of only a handful still standing and is located right here in the good ol’ Appalachian Mountains.