John

Kicking around in rural Appalachia is a treat. It requires a different mindset, especially for Yankees. If you’re in a hurry, go to New Jersey. They expect that, and you’ll fit right in.  Sorry, New Jersey.

There are significant problems in rural communities; school systems failing (thank you, No Child Left Behind), crushing poverty, a deep suspicion of outsiders, and lack of decent health care, preventative or otherwise.  Mortality rates are higher, obesity rates are higher, and unemployment hits rural areas hardest, because often a single employer will dominate an area.  When they pull out, it’s like a neutron bomb.

If these problems are so bad, you might ask why it’s a treat for me to explore these little communities.

It’s because of people like Ron.

St. John’s Mill is the oldest continually-running family business in Tennessee, spinning millstones since 1778.  Founder Jeremiah Dungan passed it to his heirs until 1866, when a great-nephew, George W. St. John, purchased the mill and carried on the family tradition.  The mill is now run by Ron and his wife, George’s great-granddaughter. Still in the family.

Anyway…the Mill. Well, if they don’t have it, you don’t need it. The prices for all feed goes on this board. That’s what it costs until something changes (the price of grain, molasses, or what-have-you).  You can get half a dozen different chicken feeds, mixed depending on whether you’re growing meat, feeding hatchlings, laying hens or roosters.  Yes, one just for roosters.  Probably had Cialis in it.

I imagine OSHA would have been dismayed to find a couple of yahoos like us walking around a working mill.  Ron just said, “Watch yer haid out there, okay?” and turned us loose to walk around and take pictures.  They had been making sweet feed for horses (oats, corn and molasses mostly) and there was a big pile of it on the floor in front of the bag filler.  I picked up a handful and gave it a squeeze — it was a granola bar for horses.  Wife 1.1 asked me what it was, I took a mouthful and said “sweet feed.”  It was as good as any granola bar I have ever had.  Ruth (my local friend who took us to the mill) declined an offer for a bit, as did Wife 1.1.

The mill was certified for producing goods for human consumption until just a few years ago.  This bite of horse feed was my protest of civil disobedience against the Bureau of People Who Think They Know Better who, though no one had been sick from anything produced at the mill in the last two centuries, thought it might be best to be cautious. It’s no wonder rural people distrust government. I would too.

The best part of the visit to the mill was John.  He worked at the mill for 27 years, hurt his leg and wasn’t able to work there anymore, but I suppose he doesn’t have much to do, so he shows up to just be around his friends. Ron likes him and allows him to hang around, which I think is massively cool, since his life obviously revolves around being at work, even if he isn’t working there.

When I started taking pictures, John came over and tugged on my sleeve.  Lemmshowyasumpthun. He lead me to an old timberframe joint that used wooden pegs whittled out of hickory. Thatswhatwasusedfernailstwerentnonailsthen. John talked in one long word for each sentence. It took a few sentences to tune my ear to his particular, rural Tennessee dialect.

When I asked John to take his picture, he sat down on a pile of sack of feed.  No smile.  I said, “Hey John, are you happy?”

YessuhIam.

“Do me a favor and tell your face, will ya?

John’s face split into a grin as he chuckled, and I held down the shutter, 9 pictures in just a few seconds.

This was the best one.

Respectfully submitted,

Canoelover