POLLEN 2017

Founded in 2009, Grow Appalachia is a partnership between David Cooke, Director of Berea College’s Appalachian Fund, and John Paul DeJoria, entrepreneur and philanthropist. We are guided by a basic mission—to help as many Appalachian families grow as much of their own food as possible. To accomplish this, we provide financial and technical assistance to regional community organizations, which then recruit locals to participate in community and home gardens. In 2009, Grow Appalachia had only five of these partner sites. Today, that number has grown to 32, all spread throughout six states in Central Appalachia. Thanks to this grassroots approach, our big family has been able to harvest over 2,9,000,000 total pounds of healthy, organic food, while reaching more than 4,000 unique families. For more information, please visit our website at https://growappalachia.berea.edu.

Berea CollegeCPO 2122

101 Chestnut StreetBerea, KY 40403 (859) 985 3687

EDITORS Alix Burke and Holly Korb

All rights to the featured works are retained by their respective authors. Any reproduction must first be cleared with them. Rights to the Pollen online magazine and its brand are retained by Berea College’s Grow Appalachia program.

The stories and poetry contained within this issue of Pollen are works of fiction. While many of the featured works are inspired by real events, they have each been transformed by the imaginations of their respective authors. Any resemblance to actual happenings, places, or people living or dead is ultimately coincidental. Our thanks to Laura Johnston for allowing us to use her photograph, “Okra”, for the cover of this year’s issue.

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LETTER FROM THE EDITOR

Editing Pollen this year was a chilly gift, like our Appalachian winter of 2016 that never came, like a snowball splat dripping down the back of your neck.

It was chilly, because I know it’s my last year editing the journal, as my VISTA term ends at the end of July and I won’t be remaining with Grow Appalachia. This Pollen is Holly’s last, as well, as she moves on to other paths of life.

It was a gift, because each piece we selected was real, quality work. There were pieces that made us cry, broke our hearts, made us laugh out loud with joy, and made us sigh: “oh, that’s a good one.”

And in the literal sense of the experience, I couldn’t help but notice how many submissions featured snow and winter, either in photography or literary and poetic imagery.

Here’s the magic—not every piece submitted made the cut. But every person who submitted pieces was published. It’s not every day a review crew gets that kind of actual, powerful ‘stuff’ with every set of entries they read.

Don’t be mistaken; our selections are not participation trophies. The folks who submitted to Pollen this year are valuable to their craft. To those who submitted, we implore you: do not stop what you’re doing—whether or not Pollen continues. To those who have faithfully followed each Pollen publication, thank you for taking part in this celebration of food, of Appalachia, and of Appalachian poets, photogra-phers, and writers.

We are grateful for the opportunity to have read and reviewed your work and to share it with our Grow Appalachia family and beyond.

With thanks to John Robinson for allowing us to use the title of one of his submis-sions in our editor’s note, I leave you with this:

“Writing is Sometimes Like Watching a Bucket Filled with Rainwater, Drip Slowly Through a Hair-line Crack on an Apple Seed Buried in Earth on the First Day of Spring”

Grow Appalachia Communications and Foodlorist VISTA

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Digging Potatoes .... Jim Minick 5

Pigs .... Laura Johnston 6

The Reality of Improvements .... Shane Fields 7

Bee Flower .... Laura Johnston 8

Solace .... Heather Dent 9

The Duke .... Amelia Johnson 10

C.B. Featherly .... Bonnie Gay De Heart 11

Jean’s Pickles .... Sandi Keaton-Wilson 13

Eggplant .... Laura Johnston 14

Hiking Up Switchbacks .... Daniel Stevenson 15

This is My Home .... Shane Fields 16

The Loneliest Day .... Edward Karshner 17

Creeper .... Janice Harris 20

Rose of Sharon .... Laura Johnston 21

Stream .... John Timothy Robinson 22

Mountain Trillium .... Amelia Johnson 23

For Opal Harris .... Janice Harris 24

About the Contributors .... 25

CONTENTS

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DIGGING POTATOES Jim Minick

(Note: This poem originally appeared in the author’s book, “Burning Heaven”)

We grub for orbs of light: Kennebecs, Pontiacs, Yukon Golds,earth eggs perfect in their potatoeness.

We examine each spud predicting futures—“Home fries,” for a warty one, “A mountain of mashed,” for the next.

We work down these rows of dying plants,work down winter crate by crate, work down the dusky dark of day.

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Laura Johnston

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PIGS

folks always complained about that roadhow dangerous it was to walk onhow dirty the dust made the cardshow the rain would wash it outabout the gravels kicking up

so they had a meeting

and a couple of summers aftertrucks rolled into townand paved over it

funds were raisedand a sidewalk poured

now no one complains about that roadseems most folks take the long way rounddown Jackson Hollowthe only dirt roadleft in the county

THE REALITY OF IMPROVEMENTSShane Fields

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BEE FLOWER

Laura Johnston

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Sometimes I prefer the company of birds.I may not understand their languageBut they speak to me.

They sayBreathe.

They sayBeauty exists.

They sayYou are going to be okay.

SOLACEHeather Dent

THE DUKE

Amelia Johnson

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C.B. FEATHERLYBonnie Gay De Hart

C.B. Featherly, perched way up high,Observed Mrs. Wren as she flew by.

Twigs, grass and hair held in her beak,Carefully positioned for her eggs to keep.

The nest now is finished soon to fill,With small speckled eggs in the tree on the hill.

Away she did fly one more meal to indulge,Before coming home to sit on the bulge.

C.B. Featherly swooped down from above,Laid her egg gently in the nest made with love,

Swiftly left before Mrs. Wren did returnTo sit on the egg, with her own, that she turned.

Before long, Mr. Wren, proud Papa was he,Came back to the nest on the hill in the tree,

“My time to sit, you get a fat worm,You've sat long enough, now I'll take my turn.”

One after another they sat on the nest,While C.B. Featherly flitted about or took a rest.

“How smart of me,” she said with a sigh,“The building of nests is for wrens, not I.”

The chicks, they did hatch one after another,Three small, one large, all chirping for Mother.To keep this crew fed was quite a large chore,

The big one was hungry, he always wanted more.

“That's my boy,” Papa said with a glee,“It won't be long and he'll leave this tree.He takes after my side, for I had a brother

As big as he, bigger than Father or Mother.”

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Wise Hooter Owl sat in the crook of the tree,Observing the drama of which he did see.

From building the nest through raising the young,He saw the whole matter as it was done.

“Cow Bird Featherly swooped down from above,Laid her egg knowing you would raise it with love.

To covet is wrong, she doesn't do that,She left you her egg to sit on and hatch.”

“You've fed him, raised him and taught him to fly,Surrogate parents esteemed very high,

While C.B. Featherly, a scoundrel indeed,Flits through the air, ignoring her seed.”

“She desired a nanny and you filled the bill,While she mated with others that dined on the hill.

Observe other nests and you will findThey each have one large chick of another kind.”

“We love our large chick, he's one of us now,Though compared to our family he looks like a cow.”

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Like peridot and topaz,gems in a Mason jar,cleaned crystalas a mountain streamflowing free from yesterday’s rock...these jewels, handledby a craft master,grown and cutto glisten, to beckon,tempting me to take.I know their value ~the tender sacrificepoured from the heartinto a glass container.She, a diamond personified,reached into pantry,presented without grudgethis treasure she shared.I hold and taste friendshipin the form of cauliflower,carrot, cucumber, and onionin spiced vinegar, sweet as nectarto sop with worthy bread.This bounty, fit for a banquet,tastes worthy of a last supper.Her last jar, now mine!

JEAN’S PICKLESSandi Keaton-Wilson

EGGPLANTLaura Johnston

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HIKING UP SWITCHBACKSDaniel Stevenson

hiking up switchbacks atthe end of the daypitch black and gusting

trees shudder as I walkunder besidethe woodsdipping to a creek

I come to the flatsand pause on fractal crackedpavement and tiltmy head upwards

Orange light casting spreadslike movie theatrebutter microwavepackets of pop corn

Orienting me and I you us we themproves more and morejarring

Who will pay me to write poetry and studysilent momentslike these

I feel the chillof pavement thru my socksstepping out at midniteto get my beer

When I talk on the phoneI pace around my houseand stomp the mole trailsin my yard

ponder spectral arrangementpinpoint coordinateskeep the windows openand listen

cicadas in the tall oak treeshummingbirds and my honey beessing and hum their sweet lullabiesand bid me rest and close my eyeson my porch in a gentle breezea crow calls hidden by green leavesin chorus chirp some chickadeesit’s here that I now realizethis is my homeI’ve seen the world and sailed the seasI’ve danced with Aborigineslived in Brazilian paradisebut my heart in truth warns my mindthe glamour of the world deceivesthis is my home.

THIS IS MY HOMEShane Fields

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THE LONELIEST DAYEdward Karshner(Note: The following is an excerpt from the original text)

She had never been able to understand why he wanted to move back here to “BFE.” A place with no Starbucks. A place where Walmart and Dol-lar General were the two shopping destinations. She saw it as a place of unemployment and poverty. A place with more land than people. A place empty, undefined and dangerous.

He couldn’t explain either, at least not in the concrete, rational terms she demanded. He tried to tell her it was a feeling. Even tried to tell her, using that New Age stuff she was in to. He talked of “vibes” and “past life expe-riences” affecting the present. Angus floated the idea that it was a call to return to himself and the very roots of his existence. It was a peculiar pull to go home to who he was and stay that way. Angus explained that des-tiny can’t be compromised and eventually the time will come when you have to enter the dark forest and you have to do it alone.

He gave her credit for trying. She wanted to make them work and even went as far as to stay at the cabin for a week. One afternoon, Angus went into the woods with his brothers to cut firewood. She stayed behind with his youngest brother’s wife. The “Boys” came back with a truck full of fire wood and a couple of squirrels for stew. They took to the front porch, skinning the squirrels by cutting a slit in the scruff and digging their fingers between skin and flesh. Then, a hard pull, like stripping off a wet bathing suit, to separate pelt from meat. The meat went into a pot of salt water and the pelts on newspaper to be scraped and dried later.

“That’s the way it was, I hear,” Angus’s older brother Robbie B. said. He wiped his nose with the back of his hand—his fingers stained with blood. “Weren’t no Kroger. No money neither. Had a big garden on the flat land at Kountz Creek. They had to hunt for protein. Wasn’t no deer up in them hollas, then. Ate squirrel and rabbit. Can you imagine what they would a thought gittin’ a deer, back then? Why, they would ate good all winter.”

Robbie B. dropped the last squirrel in the pot. “That’s the way it is. Like it says in the Good Book. If you dress and keep Creation, well, she’ll dress and keep you.”

After dinner, she took Angus aside and said, “I just can’t do this. It isn’t me.”

They sat at the kitchen table, eyes down, speaking to their hands wrapped around his grandmother’s McCoy coffee mugs.

“You don’t understand how difficult this is for me,” she said. “I am the only one who doesn’t belong. I don’t talk like you. I don’t have the same history or share the connection you have to this place. No matter how hard I try or how welcoming people are, I will always be on the outside. I will never belong here.”

Angus stared into his coffee for a long time. He hated the dark, shimmering reflection he saw. His hair had gotten long, the ridiculous beard he had grown. There was an ache deep in his belly that wasn’t shame but more a feeling of being twisted inside out—wondering, now, if he had become a ghost trapped in the flow between was, is, and should be.

He took a deep breath, unsure what to say, but the words found themselves, riding out easily on an exhalation, undoing a knot he was only vaguely aware of at night when he didn’t sleep. “Now you know how I feel every day of my life. Every day since I left and every day before I come back.”

That was the answer she accepted.

Sometimes, that’s just the way it is. People’s lives come together for a brief moment like the confluence of the Ohio, the Allegheny, and the Monongahela Rivers in Pittsburgh only to diverge again—each going its own way to find a new name and purpose.

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Angus bolted upright, wide awake, into the gloaming that seeped into his cabin like the cold. Rubbing his head, he paced the dusty cabin floor until the netherworld of sleep flaked away from his brain like an old skin. It was still early by most standards. He would get dressed and go into town. Shoot some pool with Danny and the gang, drink some cheap beer, maybe order some of those greasy, little fried shrimp they served in green, plastic baskets lined with wax paper.

Looking out the window, Angus saw the trail his Dad had showed him. The trail that went to his grandfather’s place, his “Shady Grove.” Pap would go there after working all day in the sawmill to shake the world from his back. He died there years before Angus was born. Now, in the soft reverie of moonlight, he could see the old man, hands shoved deep in the pockets of his denim dungarees, walking backward down the trail. Smiling all the way to eternity.

Angus put on his boots, jeans, and Carhartt. Grabbing his shoulder bag, man and dogs once more headed out into the forest. The bright clamors of day had given way to the hushed whispers of night. Even the sound of their footsteps on the organic forest floor evaporated into the darkness, as they found their way over roots and rocks. The moon settled in its place, casting long shadows they followed like a compass needle to the clearing.

Using dried pine cones and sticks he kept under a tarp, Angus started a small fire that was soon blazing orange, reaching for the tops of the pine trees planted in the 30s by the WPA. He eased back on a log, enjoying the tingling sensation as the fire warmed him from the soles of his feet to the tip of his nose. From his jacket pocket, Angus pulled out a flask of bourbon. He tipped the booze in a toast, then, from his shoulder bag, he took out his clean moccasins and tossed them into the fire. Blue.

She had once said that blue was a cool color—why then is it the hottest part of the flame?

CREEPER Janice Harris

Stillness reigns in shades of greenverdant growth encompassing rolling hill and fertile plain.Fence row, the old wellhouse,weathered barn concealedby nature’s exuberance.To the horizon, uniformityof vine, of hue, of creeping evolution.Demarcation of blue sky and green coverthe only divergence.Arms propped on the upper rail of the sagging pigpen,the old farmer stands immobile,tendrils trailing from his elbows,victim of his own slow pace.The time has come.Kudzu rules the world!!

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ROSE OF SHARON

Laura Johnston

This streammeanders like a seedthat grew from wheregrub worms live.

Why not begin down here?

In this course,reaching up from a curlof pith,eventual,this green standingof lifeemblazoned in the sun.

STREAMJohn Timothy Robinson

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MOUNTAIN TRILLIUM

Amelia Johnson

Janice HarrisFOR OPAL HARRIS

Remarried late in life,you left your sunswept hillside for the shadows of the mountain.Encased in gloom you sat as prisonerunending hourswithered, dying, soul-starvedin the hill’s twilight.With new resolve you did what you had to do to save yourself andreturned to the family acresalone, satisfied to know the touch of the breeze instead of a man’s hand...to be consoled at night by the moon’s hovering face,to live out your daysin dappled sunlight.

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John Timothy Robinson is a traditional citizen and graduate of the Marshall University Creative Writing program in Huntington, West Virginia with a Regent’s Degree. He has an interest in Critical Theory of poetry and American Formalism. John is also a twelve-year educator for Mason County Schools in Mason County, WV. He strives for a poetics similar to Donald Hall, Maxine Kumin, James Wright, Louis Simpson, Gallway Kinnell and Robert Bly though enjoys learning from intrinsic poets and their theories in the critical writings of Denise Levertov, Robert Creeley, Louis Zukofsky, William Carlos Williams and Richard Kostelanetz. John is currently working on a creative dissertation in contemporary poetry, though outside the university environment.

Jim Minick is the author of five books, including Fire Is Your Water, a debut novel released Spring 2017. His memoir, The Blueberry Years, won of the Best Nonfiction Book of the Year from the Southern Independent Booksellers Association. His honors include the Jean Ritchie Fellowship in Appalachian Writing, and the Fred Chappell Fellowship at University of North Carolina-Greensboro. His work has appeared in many publications including Poets & Writers, Oxford American, Shenandoah, Orion, San Francisco Chronicle, Encyclopedia of Appalachia, Conversations with Wendell Berry, Appalachian Journal, and The Sun. Currently, he is Assistant Professor at Augusta University and Core Faculty in Converse College’s MFA program.

Heather Dent, born in Mesa, Arizona and raised in Southern Utah, has made Berea, KY her home the past 10 years. She is a Program Assistant for Berea College working in both the Appalachian Center and Office of Diversity and Inclusion. She is a strong advocate for connecting kids with nature and is the founder of The Outdoor Adventure Club, a weekly group for kids ages 3-10, who meets on Saturdays to do various activities designed to encourage: a love and appreciation for nature, creativity, and self-reliance.

ABOUT THE CONTRIBUTORS

Edward Karshner was born in Ross County, Ohio. He is proud to represent eight generations of Karshners from the Salt Creek Valley of Southeast Appalachia Ohio. He firmly believes that the best time and place in the universe is Fall in the Hocking Hills, that the best baseball is the Chillicothe Paints, and the Circleville Pumpkin Show is not only “The Greatest Free Show on Earth” but the “Greatest” PERIOD. Karshner is an Associate Professor of English at Robert Morris University and lives in Oberlin, Ohio with his wife, their two children, and a mixed breed dog named Carlos.

Shane Fields is 39, and lives on his small family farm in Eastern Kentucky. His heritage goes back many generations in the foothills of the Appalachian Mountains, rooted deep in an understanding of sustainable farming, family, friends and faith. While he has had many opportunities to travel through his service in the U.S. Navy, he felt the call of home and came back to Greenup County. He has been published in “Pollen” 2016 and in an online magazine, “A Columnist With a View.”

Janice Harris lives in Somerset, Kentucky. She is a graduate of Berea College and has a master’s degree from Eastern Kentucky University. She is a member of the Pulaski Writers’ Alliance and has been published in their anthologies, as well as Kudzu, The Notebook, Pegasus, and other collections.

Amelia Johnson, of Virgie, KY helps run a small family farm. She believes in the importance of understanding our Appalachian history and getting back to the basics of life. When she’s not crafting, or in the kitchen with a new recipe, she’s out exploring the mountains of Eastern KY with her dogs.

Sandi Keaton-Wilson lives and writes in Somerset, Ky. Currently, she moderates Pulaski Writers’ Alliance and is working on a book collection of her previously published work and new prose and poetry pieces. A lover of nature, she also finds writing and reading her second nature, and gives God the glory in all.

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Laura Johnston—a twenty-one year resident of southern Appalachia—is a staff member and graduate student at Appalachian State University, where she is pursuing a Master of Arts in Appalachian Studies with a Concentration in Sustainability in Appalachia. Laura is focusing her graduate research on sustainable food in Appalachia, and—beyond her scholarly research—she also works with the relatively newly formed collaborative AppalFRESH (Appalachian Food Research for Equity, Sustainability, and Health) at Appalachian State University. Laura’s hobbies include photography and gardening, as well as spending time outdoors with her family in the beautiful Blue Ridge mountains.

Daniel Stevenson is a musician, writer, and outdoor enthusiast. He is a native of Elizabeth City, NC and attended Appalachian State University, where he studied Creative Writing. He currently lives in Boone, NC and works in the outdoor recreation industry. In his free time, he enjoys climbing, surfing, and a range of other outdoor activities. He also plays and sings in his band, Unaka Prong.

Bonnie Gay De Hart lives in Pulaski County Kentucky on a small farm with her husband, Michael, three horses, four dogs and seven cats, all were gifts from God. She is Compiler, Author and illustrator of THE KING IS COMING, printed in color and black and white and offered through Amazon and WestBow Press under the last name of Patterson. Her poetry and short essays can be read on www.christianswriting.com.

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POLLEN | 2017

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