Well, HOWDY! Come on in!
Make yourself right at home.
Fortunately mountain hospitality needs no formal invitation, so drag up a chair, cock up your feet, and feel free to help yourself to a tall, ice-cold glass of sweet tea as I share mountain experiences and the many colorful people that have shaped my life.
A pasture is a feeding place that sprouts green morsels of nourishment for hungry creatures and provides rest in shady green groves near rippling waters. My pasture is the portion of the beautiful Appalachian Mountains located in North Georgia.
Old timers say the name “Appalachia” means “People of the Other Side” and derived from the Apalachee Indians living here before the Spaniards arrived. The meaning both describes and defines my people well. The secret of the mountains in all their majestic power and calm uniqueness lives within Appalachian people who abide in green pastures.
There is a fascination here that holds rich and poor, strong and weak captive, not with chains and fetters but by an almost touchable solace that affords many visitors an escape from urban rat races.
I wrote It’s Not My Mountain Anymore to share with you a vanished lifestyle that I once knew and loved as a child reared in a humble mountain home with a loving farm family. The mountains I once knew are not the same. Inevitable changes both to the landscape and its inhabitants clash harshly with cherished memories of a passing era I long to recover.
Beautiful mountain scenes are now disrupted with elite housing, streetlights, increased traffic and paved roads. The great mountain ridge that overlooks what was once my close-knit family community on Kelly’s Creek is now a high-dollar development. Across the road and in plain view are eight rental trailers housing strangers speaking strange dialects. Nights are no longer reserved as a time of peace and rest. Continual traffic breaks the still of the night with loud mufflers and blasting radios . We don’t know our neighbor anymore.
Dad once said, “Th’ time will come, when you’ll have t’ lock your barn at night.” That time has come.
Chiefly, I wrote the book to place an account in the hands of our young grandsons, that they may know the ways of our ancestors. They too, are planted by the crystal waters of Kelly’s Creek. May they hang on with both hands to things that really matter, like faith, family inheritance and friends.
Our famous and beloved Foxfire Magazine and over a dozen books are a chief recorder of our vanishing mountain culture, preserving the memories of a way of life that is a living part of our collective American heritage. The books have sold over nine million copies-not too bad for a bunch of high school young’uns with hillbilly written all over us. I was supremely blessed to have been a part of Foxfire’s early years, and I want to share with you the inspiration that it gave to many bored and straying teenage minds and the lasting impact it has had on my life.
Along with my family and friends, we’re honored to share mountain reality with you. It’s a journey filled with appreciation, humor, love and loss. Thanks for your support.
“What a VOICE! I felt you captured the rhythm of the mountains with resonant sensitivity.”…Andrea Robinson, Random House Editor
“Some books are the real deal, this is one of them.”…Gwen Mansini, VA
“A gripping memoir and fascinating perspectives.”…Art Menius, director of Applalshop, KY
“A book full of passion, soul and powerful writings.”…Appalachian Voice Magazine
“I cherish my copy.”…Earl Hamner, creator of The Waltons series
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Mail check or money order payable to Barbara Woodall in the amount of $20.00 (includes shipping/handling & sales tax to:
It’s Not My Mountain Anymore
1410 Crusher Run
Rabun Gap, GA 30568