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Footnotes

Footnotes Footnotes Glennis Redmond Where does history go when it hasn't been tended? I say it grows wild amongst the Periwinkle, the Turkey-foot fern and my mind. There it is right along side my heavy heart like that mass of stones left on a hill the only remnants left of the Kingdom speaking of mountain royalty, King Robert and Queen Louella leased for ten cents a day by a Civil War widow, named Serpta. Their rule over 200 acres of chopping, hauling and toting. I understand this urgency the need of self-appointment. I hear it in the restless wind on the ridge or are those ancestral voices crying out about the uneasy quilt stitch heresay of their lives being left to myth and lore? Where does history go when it dies? When corn cribs and makeshift houses no longer riddle the mountain slopes and forty years of hands culling Comfrey into a healing balm along with Gospel Songs cease. This silent edge is where I live filled with heartache remembering history and where it goes without a foothold. http://www.deepdyve.com/assets/images/DeepDyve-Logo-lg.png Appalachian Review University of North Carolina Press

Footnotes

Redmond, Glennis.
Appalachian Review , Volume 36 (3) – Sep 28, 2008
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Publisher
University of North Carolina Press
Copyright
Copyright © 2008 Berea College
ISSN
1940-5081
Publisher site
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Abstract

Footnotes Glennis Redmond Where does history go when it hasn't been tended? I say it grows wild amongst the Periwinkle, the Turkey-foot fern and my mind. There it is right along side my heavy heart like that mass of stones left on a hill the only remnants left of the Kingdom speaking of mountain royalty, King Robert and Queen Louella leased for ten cents a day by a Civil War widow, named Serpta. Their rule over 200 acres of chopping, hauling and toting. I understand this urgency the need of self-appointment. I hear it in the restless wind on the ridge or are those ancestral voices crying out about the uneasy quilt stitch heresay of their lives being left to myth and lore? Where does history go when it dies? When corn cribs and makeshift houses no longer riddle the mountain slopes and forty years of hands culling Comfrey into a healing balm along with Gospel Songs cease. This silent edge is where I live filled with heartache remembering history and where it goes without a foothold.

Journal

Appalachian Review – University of North Carolina Press

Published: Sep 28, 2008

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