What’s better than an evening at the Carter Family Fold?

Okay. Nothing. Nothing is better than an evening at the Carter Family Fold, but finding an adorable Carter Family postcard in your mailbox has to be a close second. This mailable art-piece is part of a quirky country legends collection that’s coming up on its quarter century anniversary.

“I started doing the country calendar about 22 years ago,” said Chicago artist Heather McAdams, referring to her popular country calendar that shares the same art as her postcards, “And it just caught on like a wild-fire.”

The daughter of a Cumberland Maryland native, Heather was raised in Northern Virginia and remembers frequent childhood trips to the mountains. While she admits that she didn’t get bit by the country music bug until later in life, she says that she feels like she’s being true to her roots. “I will always be a Virginia girl,” she said with pride.

Fittingly, Heather has featured a bunch of Appalachian artists, including Dolly, Tammy, and Doc Watson, alongside other country legends like Conway Twitty, Minnie Pearl and, of course, the ultimate crossover artist, Elvis.

Want to get your hands on these classic creations?

If you happen to be in Baltimore you can buy them at The American Visionary Art Museum gift shop. (That’s where I got mine!) They’re also for sale at the Old Town School of Folk Music in Chicago. Heather says that everybody else is welcome to email her at heathermcadams at hotmail.com. She’ll get back to you right away with pricing and pics.

So which of these country classic postcards is your favorite? Know someone who’d be thrilled to find one in his or her mailbox?

You can’t live in the Appalachians without having a favorite hiking trail…or ten. This Saturday, June 1, 2013 presents the perfect opportunity to celebrate yours. National Trails Day, led by the American Hiking Society, has inspired trail-themed activities all across the region.

In Shenandoah National Park, you’ll find ranger-led hikes, demonstrations, and presentations throughout the day as part of the Beyond the Trailhead event at the Byrd Visitor Center, mile 51 on Skyline Drive.

Continuing its seventeen year tradition, Great Smoky Mountain National Park will host Appalachian Trail Work Day, a day of volunteering in the park. You can help clean and replace water bars, rehabilitate steps and turnpikes, and maintain sections of the Appalachian Trail. The work day concludes with a barbecue picnic at Metcalf Bottoms Picnic Area.

State parks across the region will offer all kinds of events, including hiking, birding, historic tours, games, volunteer opportunities ranging from trail repair to building a butterfly habitat, pontoon cruises, cave tours, wildflower watches, and more. Whatever you like to do outdoors, there is bound to be something to fit your interests. Check these park Websites for events near you–West Virginia State Parks, Kentucky State Parks, Georgia State Parks, Virginia State Parks, and Tennessee State Parks–or search the national map of activities on the American Hiking Society Website.

And tell us about your favorite spots. What trails do you think are worth celebrating?

When you first see a cranky, you can’t help but smile. These scrolling creations are the ultimate in unplugged entertainment. Designed by old-time musicians Anna Roberts-Gevalt and Elizabeth Laprelle, they depict scenes from songs, usually ballads. The images are sewn or drawn onto fabric, which runs between two scrolls with soft light projected behind them. But, somehow, a technical description just doesn’t do these little art pieces justice. Here, take a look.

See, crankies are a little bit of magic. They bring old-time music to life and delight audiences in a way that no CGI-creation ever could. Anna–of the Southwest Virginia performing duo known simply as Anna and Elizabeth–talked with me this weekend about what makes crankies so special and how you can make one all your own.

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 TR: Anna, thanks so much for taking the time to chat. First, let me ask, what inspired you to start making crankies?

Anna: We get really excited about stories. Whether they are stories in ballads or stories about musicians. We ask What’s the context of this old music and where did it come from? That’s really hard to say to an audience, so we turned to visuals on the stage. Crankies were inspired by the idea of helping our audience get into the music.

TR: That’s great. So do you pick your songs thinking “this would make a great cranky” or do you have an image in mind and go from there?

Anna: It’s been a little of both. For instance, with “The Lost Gander,” we wanted to do a song that we could definitely show to kids. Well, a lot of ballads have murders, so that eliminated them. Then we heard “The Lost Gander.” Hearing that tune hit the spark for both of us.

TR: So how do you make the crankies?

Anna: I saw one six years ago, and that was my only exposure to it, and I was like I’m going to make one. There’s the frame part–a box with two dowels. We pick which song or ballad is inspiring us, then decide whether we want it to be quilted or more like shadow puppets. Elizabeth lives in this giant farmhouse with long hallways, and we roll the fabric out. Then we spend a month or two sewing.

TR: Wow. That’s a really long time.

Anna: It’s kind of why people have fallen in love with them. People who like music also get excited about things that are handmade. It represents, like, a hundred hours of a person’s life.

TR: So when you dim the lights and turn the cranky, what’s the audience reaction like?

Anna: It’s so fun! It turns adults into children. Not everyone is mesmerized by the fiddle the way I am, but everyone is mesmerized by the cranky. You look out and you see open eyes and open mouths, and we’ve been able to perform in a lot of different spaces. We went to this cookout in Louisiana and did a cranky for the ladies making potato salad in the kitchen. We can do it on the street. People stop and look at it. And yet it works on a stage or in a living room. It’s this portable kind of magic.

TR: You say that part of your mission is to inspire people to make art in their own homes. Do you ever teach people to make their own crankies?

Anna: We do! We do workshops. You can make teeny, tiny crankies, like the size of a matchbox or teabox. With kids, we have them make a giant cranky together. We tell them you’re going to do this part of the story and you’re going to do that part. For us, the cranky comes from this idea that anyone can make one, and it doesn’t have to go with music. You can tell a story about your family or make a birthday card cranky.

TR: And people can find upcoming workshops in your list of tour dates online. Anna, thanks so much for telling us all about cranks and for bringing them to life.

Anna: You’re welcome.

Mountain girls make their own way in the world. As a rule, they aren’t the delicate type. They’re happy to wade through a creek or dig in a yard. They appreciate a good find, an arrowhead or a turtle shell, as much as any boy.

But they also know the value of sitting with their grannies, working a puzzle and smelling lemon pound cake. At least Ellen Apple, today’s guest blogger, did. She spent half her childhood adventuring along Southwest Virginia streams and the other half sneaking to her granny’s cabin, where she learned that sausage is good with popcorn and that there’s no better gift than a finished puzzle under glass.

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Granny lived in the cabin here on our home place. That cabin likely was the first permanent shelter here, leastwise as far as I can tell. Now that ain’t to say that Indians weren’t here first off. Fact is, I feel fairly sure they was here. When we was little, we was always findin’ signs from them. Arrowheads was so commonplace I knowed some folks that has as many as a pickle crock would hold.

There are a few good places to find arrowheads. Along side creek beds where maybe hunters would set up for the night, in the fresh turned fields in the early spring, and the caves up on the ridge. Those caves always give me the willies, so I never spent too much time lingering in ‘em and I never did go no further in than the sun could find me. I ain’t skeered of the dark, and I ain’t skeered of no haints but I do carry what my daddy would call a healthy respect for both.

That cabin is a place that holds many a good memory for me ‘cause I used to be sneakin’ off there so much to sit with my granny. She had this ole potbelly stove in the front room, and even in the summertime she was more likely than not to be burnin’ a few lumps of coal or a pile of kindlin’, just so as she could fry some sausage and pop up a pan of popcorn in the grease. Her front room always seemed to smell of popcorn and sausage, and the kitchen was likely to be smelling of lemon pound cake.

Now my granny was never one to sit plumb idle, and there was a whole passel of things she kept at hand to keep ol’ Scratch from making use of her on this Earth. She was a fair hand at needlework, and liked to crochet as well. She had an endless thirst for learnin’ and always had a book or two with a page dog-eared for to mark her place. Now her choice in what to read was an education in itself. She could find a recipe in any magazine, and clipped them all out to try later. Whether she did is still up for debate, I think she done most of that fancy cookin’ in her own head. She liked books ‘bout other parts, like the old west days and over in other lands. She had books ‘bout healin’ too, and kept her notes in there. She was a right fair hand at roots and plants. Lord, she poured the Sassyfrass tea down us in the wet months. And I reckon we ate enough liver and greens that none of us could ever have weak blood.

Bar none, her favorite thing to do whilst she sat around eatin’ popcorn and sausage was to work on picture puzzles. She had her a special table just for her puzzles. They was a lip all the way ‘round that table, and she had her a big ole’ piece of wallboard that was just a mite bigger than that table what she would keep it covered up with. She had took a length of feedsack cloth and crocheted her a pretty trim all around the edges and she would keep that wallboard covered with that cloth most days. My idea is that any dust that dared get in her cabin was kept off the puzzle this way, and she was able to keep nosy pitchers out of her business as well.

Those picture puzzles were a sight to behold, big ones that has 1000 pieces and more. When she finished one she was particular proud of, she would glue it all together and put it in a real pretty picture frame with glass and hang it, or give it to somebody. I promise you, anyone what was gifted with one of those picture puzzles felt they was right special in my granny’s heart. Most of them was pictures like we had in our schoolbooks. Bridges and buildings and mountains in far off places.

Sometimes I think mayhap Granny was so fond of those picture puzzles ‘cause while she was concentratin’ so fierce on that picture, getting it all put in the proper order, she in her head was travelling to those far off places. No matter how her soul wanted to fly to far off places, time and money and the way life played out for us kept her feet planted here on this land. As much as the beckoning can call us up to the highest points, this air and the dirt we walk keeps us here as sure as if we were a crop planted in the ground.

When my granny passed I was powerful sad. I cried, and could not rest nor sit still. My momma and daddy were my momma and daddy but my granny was special to me in a way that is even these years later hard to put to words. Being raised in the mountains, we are by need close to life and death. We learn to see the way life comes and leaves as being a necessary thing, like breathing or eating or sleeping. It was a fact in my head, and one I had felt, but never ever like that when my granny passed.

Her wake was held at the home place, and she was laid out in her front room. Folks from all over came to pay their respects, for she was loved and known all over these parts. When the time came, I could not bring myself to look full on her face. I did not want my last sight of her to be when she was without breath in her lungs and a smile on her face. Her burying was done here at the home place as well. We have a plot set aside for our people, not far from the creek and where the wind whispers through the weeping willow on a sunny day. The grave markers are carved from those glacier rocks up on the mountain, and the menfolk of the family keeps a good fence up. That way the hogs and sheep and cows don’t graze over the grave plots.

It had been a season since granny had left me, and I reckon I had moped about and drug my feet to the point my momma and daddy were downright exasperated with me. I was outside meandering about, trying to act as though I had more chores to see to. I had slopped the hogs, and scattered scratch for the chickens. The eggs had been gathered and the cows had gone up the side of the hill and would not be back until my daddy sicced the dog to fetch ‘em when it was time to milk. My hand found the holey stone I had tucked in my pocket, and I decided this would be a right fine time to visit the top of my knobby hill.

I had all intentions of meandering up to that special place where Mother and I had our talks, it is true. But my wandering feet took me around the other side of the house, down past the spring house and towards the creek. Now our creek is special, for it begins here on our land, water just rising up out of the rocks and dancing down over the limestone. The creek begins as a fresh water spring, and it is the coldest, sweetest water known to man or woman in these parts. I reckon we could sell it to make money if we were so minded. My daddy had pipes laid, and we have water to the house that comes from that spring. Of course, these days we are all hooked up with The Water Project. I had a mind to tell you today of The Water Project, but if I start on that path I will get all riled up and I have no thought of being riled up when I am in a mood to be tellin’ you about my granny. That tale will have to be told another day.

No, I meandered myself right over towards that fresh water spring, and the place where the water pooled so deep and cool. Have you ever sat and sunk your toes into the soft mud in the bed of a creek? It is like unto velvet, or the soft fur of a pet rabbit. The minnows dart away, and the skippers and tadpoles make themselves scarce as well. We have salamanders in these parts that are the prettiest dark red color, like blood, and crawdads and turtles and garter snakes, all of which I have played with at the creek. I was always careful to play past where my daddy had laid that water pipe, so as to not muddy the water that my momma used to cook and wash our clothes.

As I sat there with my toes curled in the mud, contemplating on things as I was prone to do – more than my momma thought was “good for me” whatever that meant – my big toe ran across something that felt different. I worked at it for a few minutes using my toes then reached down into that icy cold water and pulled out a pretty. Now I was not exactly expecting to find a pretty this day, and certainly not in the fresh water spring pool there just up above where those family grave plots laid.

An almost in one piece shell of a turtle. Now a turtle, the shell is a wonder to behold. The natives tell us their understanding of how all life came to be here on this earth by using the turtle, saying turtle carries the world on his back, the mountains and the rivers are seen in the pattern of the shell. As I sat there on a rock, running my finger over and around the grooves of that piece of shell I thought of how much a turtle shell brings to mind those picture puzzles granny was always a working on in the cabin. She carried us in a way, I reckon, just like that big turtle that Great Spirit made carries this whole world.

Granny is gone, but we still have pieces of her. We are pieces of her. There are so many folks what loved her, and she was always feeding and healing people, and did enjoy making us laugh when it was a time laughing was okay. Even now, her body down there in that grave, she is still with us. I truly do believe that.

So anyways, I rinsed that piece of turtle shell off real good and took it to granny’s grave plot and nestled it in beside that piece of limestone my daddy had carved her name into and then took and polished it up right pretty. A pretty for my granny, to always be there when I want to go take a look and remember her and all she undertook on herself when she tried teaching me.

We are all making a picture puzzle in this life, just by the way we live and the people we see and love and sometimes have ill feelings towards. It is up to us to keep that picture pretty, and I have no need to tell you how to do that, now do I? Folks is not turtles, and though it may feel that way at times they are not toting the whole cares of the whole world on their back like that turtle.

I sit from time to time and talk with my granny, mostly when I have knots in my mind because she was a right good hand at untying those mind knots. Mother and granny and my holey stone are all parts of my own picture puzzle. I leave her pretties as well, and I make sure to take her a wild violet when they come out.

When I can’t find anything nice to say about DC–and there are those days–I tell people that it’s a great city to escape. Within a two hour drive, we have funky towns like Baltimore and Richmond; the broad, crab-filled waters of the Chesapeake Bay; and, of course, the hills and hollers of my homeland.

With all these options, it’s sometimes tough to pick a getaway. (I know–such a first world problem.) But when it came to our anniversary weekend, we knew exactly where we wanted to go.

Ryan and I had been to Shepherdstown just once together. It was four years back, but ever since, we’ve talked about meandering through West Virginia’s oldest town and an outstanding pancake breakfast we had there.

We thought our fifth anniversary was the perfect excuse to go back, and I figured that, since a historic university all but defines the town, we’d find a slew of B&B and rental cottage options.

Click. Click. Click. 

It’s amazing how quickly you can discover you’re wrong these days. A Web search revealed that people who own houses in this charming hamlet have little interest in renting them to come-and-go weekenders, and there’s just one B&B. It was fully booked.

A Potomac View from the C&O Canal.

While shaking my fist at the town’s property owners, I expanded my search and, within minutes, was glad I did. Just four miles away, the Antietam Guest House, an 1856 beauty named after the nearby battlefield, was ready and waiting.

When we pulled into the house’s lot, the first thing I noticed was that it backed against a cow pasture. This wouldn’t be so unusual, except that it was also just one block from the town’s main street. You can’t find a better balance of town and country, I’d say.

We entered through the house’s back door and inside, discovered charm galore. The transom over the front door was filled with old, brightly colored glass. A stone outcropping, presumably a natural part of the landscape, defined one wall of the finished basement. And at the top of the steep Victorian stairs, waited an intimate sitting area full of local books.

Crab cake at Captain Bender’s.

It was tempting to wile the entire weekend at Antietam Guest House, but we had a town to explore…two actually. Over the course of the next few days we kept the four miles between Sharpsburg and Shepherdstown hot, running back and forth, holding our noses when we passed what we believed to be a pig farm, stopping at an estate sale, and finding new favorites places that we’re excited to share with you. If you’ve been to either of these towns, we hope you’ll to tell us your favorites too!

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Captain Bender’s Tavern: Our first night started with an hour and a half drive from DC, and we didn’t feel like getting back behind the wheel. For dinner, we walked through sleepy Sharpsburg to a local eatery, picked largely because I liked the old-time sign out front. Inside, the bar was quiet, a few locals talked low at their tables, and as it turned out, the sign was the most interesting part of the decor. We settled in an understated dining room, sure they had bourbon and Coke. Beyond that, our expectations were low.

Mecklenburg Inn.

We ordered clam chowder to start. After living for eight years in Boston, I know a little about this dish. If it’s too soupy, it’s broth not chowder. If it’s short on clams, then you just feel cheated. Imagine my surprise when a mug of thick chowder landed in front of me with clams literally poking from the top. It was pipping hot and seasoned with something I still can’t place–Old Bay maybe. Whatever it was, it gave the chowder just the perfect bite, a new flavor and something I never experienced in New England. This followed by more surprises–perfectly fried pickle chips, a crab crake with a lot more crab than filler, and crispy, golden onion rings. All told, it was an easy, tasty inaugural meal.

Nutter’s Ice Cream: A block away from Bender’s Tavern, we stumbled across the local ice cream parlor. Like Bender’s, there was zero pretense at Nutter’s, just good ice cream and happy locals eating it. After plates filled with deep fried goodness, I figured some light peach yogurt was the way to go. Though guilt free, it was creamy and really peachy, and the “small” scoop was big enough to go in the freezer and last for two nights.

Mecklenburg Inn: Best known for its live music and nighttime scene, we stopped at Mecklenburg Inn (affectionately known as The Meck) for lunch one sunny afternoon. It was quiet at mid-day, and, at points, we had its picture perfect back patio all to ourselves. Our basic bar food–grilled cheese for Ryan and a hot dog for me–couldn’t have tasted better than it did in our garden nook, surrounded by an array of plants and big trees. The largest of them, in the far back, had a two-seater swing hanging from a massive limb. While we didn’t make it back after dark, I imagine this is the perfect spot to snuggle with your honey, a beer in hand and live bluegrass wafting through the leaves.

Trestle over the Potomac.

C & O Canal: Did I mention that the Potomac River runs alongside Shepherdstown? Wide and slow flowing, it defines the line between West Virginia and Maryland, and it’s bordered by another channel, the now dry C&O Canal. Opened in 1831, this 184 mile waterway was constructed between Washington, DC and Cumberland, Maryland to transport goods upstream. Today, the canal is a national park. A flat, even trail runs along the old towpath, which mules walked while pulling specially outfitted boats. Thankfully, all we had to pull was our dog. From time to time Beasley tried to chase squirrels down into the dry canal bed. Otherwise, it was a tranquil walk. From the path, we had a great view of the river. Old bridge pilings and languid trees gave my inner-shutterbug plenty to shoot.

Four Seasons Books: Shepherdstown has dozens of charming shops. You can find  everything from honey made down the road to fly fishing gear to dust pans fashioned from old license plates. (Yes, you read that right.) Perhaps my favorite of these offbeat stores is Four Seasons Books. It has two stories of new and used finds, along with an outstanding magazine selection. Ryan and I spent a solid hour perusing its shelves and could have easily lingered for two more. I walked out with a copy of Crapalachia, which you might remember sparked great discussion on The Revivalist a while back.

Blue Moon Cafe: After lunch at Mecklenburg Inn, we figured we’d already hit the pinnacle in patios. Imagine our surprise when we spotted the natural creek that runs through the patio at Blue Moon Cafe. Walled on both sides, the water gurgles past diners as they enjoy locally brewed beer and great eats. We took our pup with us, and the waitress was quick to bring him his own water bowl. He lapped away while we enjoyed a hot-but-not-too-hot buffalo chicken wrap and moist, flavorful meatloaf that would even get your mama’s seal of approval.

The patio at Blue Moon Cafe.

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Right now, ramps are hotter than poppa bear’s porridge. You can’t walk into a farmer’s market or restaurant without catching a whiff of their pungent delights. This is good for our taste buds–mine do a little dance with every rampy bite–but not so good for the plants themselves.

Ramps season 2013 is one for the books. Festivals have sprouted up faster than ramp shoots, ramp recipes are being traded like baseball cards, and the media must be smoking ramp leaves. The New York Times alone has published nine ramp-themed articles in the last two weeks.

While the rest of the world is catching up with our longstanding ramp obsession, Asheville food-writer and today’s guest blogger Mackensy Lunsford is hunkering down. She’s busy sterilizing Ball jars and pickling her favorite odiferous root.

Come the end of ramp season, Mackensy won’t be suffering from withdrawal like all those newbies. She’ll still be stinking up her kitchen with ramps and eggs, ramp bread, and, perhaps her favorite, ramp fried hash browns.

Want a secret ramp stash for yourself?

Keep reading and find out how Mackensy pickles her own.

Already have a favorite way to preserve ramps?

Leave a comment and tell us all about it.

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Smokehouse master Allan Benton — he of the famed bacon and country hams — is fond of saying “Tax Day is ramp day.”

Ramps, the wild mascot of Appalachian spring, are coming into their pungent finest in early April. The distinctive odor of the wild allium is almost impossible to describe, but once you’re familiar with it, it becomes unmistakable.

Here in Asheville, North Carolina, ramps are still abundant (but, sadly, on their way out). Fresh at farmers markets, local chefs are starting to put up the spring’s harvest in Ball jars, so they’ll be ready for ready for summer omelets and winter cheese plates.

Ramps can even be found at random local music festivals. At the All Go West Festival in West Asheville last weekend, a chef from a very casual restaurant topped pork belly sliders with whole ramp leaves and sold them to the crowd with almost zero fanfare.

No advertising was required — you could smell what he was up to from 20 yards away.

If you’re lucky enough to get a hold of fresh ramps by the bunch, know that the leaves don’t require — or deserve, for that matter — excessive tampering. Treat them as garlicky, yet tender, herbs. Separate them from the stem and sauté them simply, serving them on the side of seared trout.

Or, roast whole, fresh-dug fingerling potatoes with de-stemmed shiitakes in a skillet with a knob of butter, fresh thyme and salt in an oven preheated at about 375 degrees. Just as soon as the potatoes start to soften, add the chopped leaves and toss occasionally.

Or, simply cook chopped leaves in an omelet stuffed with goat cheese and fresh herbs. While we’re on the subject of breakfast, shredded potatoes, pressed into a skillet to make a 10-inch cake of hash browns, are begging to be layered with chopped ramp leaves and seasoned with truffle salt.

All of these ideas may leave the observant home cook to wonder what to do with the leftover stems. Do what Asheville chefs do and preserve them for use throughout the year. Though the season for ramps is fleeting, pickles last much longer.

Try pickled ramps in dirty Appalachian martinis or as part of a pungent kimchi. They’re also delightful on sandwiches or in springtime salads (particularly when countered with berries and fresh goat cheese).

Simple Pickled Ramps
(with a nod to David Chang)

Makes about 1 quart, and will pickle approximately 1 pound of ramp stems. Multiply according to pickling needs.

Basic brine

1 cup water

½ cup rice wine vinegar

6 tablespoons sugar

2.5 teaspoons kosher salt

Flavorings (be creative)

Peppercorns

Bay leaves

Red pepper flakes

Dill seed

Juniper berry

Sterilize Ball jar(s) according to canning instructions. Place a pinch of each flavoring into jar(s). Pack thoroughly washed ramp stems into each jar. Bring brine to a boil and pour over ramp stems. Screw top on tightly and let cool. Keep refrigerated.

Alternately, use the same recipe, but substitute radishes for up to ¾ of the ramps in each jar.

Not many folks remember Billy C. Clark, an Appalachian writer who churned out eight popular books during the 1950s and 60s. His autobiography A Long Row to Hoe was named to Time Magazine’s Best Books of 1960, and he was a favorite of New York publishing houses at the time.

It’s easy to see why. Clark was raised dirt poor during The Great Depression. His family lived in a ramshackle house, affectionately called “The Leaning Tower,” in Catlettsburg, Kentucky. The town presses right up against the Ohio River, and as a boy, Clark spent his days on the river’s banks, dropping lines for bass and setting traps to catch mink and muskrat. He claimed to be living on his own by age eleven. It sounds far-fetched, but he said that he occupied the upper floor of the local courthouse building, where he dried animal skins by hanging them from the courthouse clock.

True or not, Clark paints a picture of a wild life that still shines some eighty years later. His tales are folksy, full of adventurous boys and loyal hounds. They’ve drawn comparisons to Mark Twain, which is fair. Both authors write about children running the riverbanks, but Clark’s world veers toward the gritty. There are cockfights, bootleggers, and the constant threat of floods. While his characters have a kind of pioneer pride, they are also tinged with a real-life bitterness that Twain didn’t touch.

Sadly, Clark’s books fell out of print for almost twenty years. It created a gap in his legacy that has yet to be filled, but, thanks to the Jesse Stuart Foundation, you can buy them again. This regional publisher secured rights to the books in the 1990s, and they can now be found in The Foundation’s shop and on Amazon.

And below, you can sample Clark’s writing. The story “The Used-To-Be-Dog” was recently published in the literary magazine Appalachian Heritage. It’s about the strange way a bowlegged dog; a big, mean fox; and a can of carbide came together.

I’m not spoiling a thing to tell you that it reads like a tall tale, and who knows, maybe it was inspired by one. Maybe somewhere along the banks of the Ohio, there was an old man who crossed feist with ferret and told a boy this strange story. In a town that lets an eleven year old hang animal hides from the courthouse clock, I wouldn’t rule anything out.

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THE USED-TO-BE DOG

By Billy C. Clark

This time of year, you can’t skip a rock in the North Carolina mountains without accidentally hitting a musician or music venue. The region is chock full of bluegrass nights and music festivals, front porch bands and big name acts.

If you’ve ever felt a little lost trying to pick between them, then you’re in luck. The new book Blue Ridge Music Trails of North Carolina makes it easy to discover the best in North Carolina mountain music.

It starts by breaking the state’s western side into six distinct regions. Within each, it emphasizes local flavor. You can learn about the best music hubs; find maps and driving directions; and read profiles of prominent musicians from the area, like Doc Watson and Nina Simone. The guide even has a companion CD that cross references with the book, so you can connect more than twenty tunes to the areas where they originated.

Written by documentarian and folklorist Fred C. Fussell, Blue Ridge Music Trails of North Carolina is the product of a new collaboration between The Blue Ridge National Heritage Area Partnership and North Carolina Arts Council. The two organizations have launched an initiative that shares a name with the book–Blue Ridge Music Trails of North Carolina–to promote traditional music from the Tar Heel State.

Next Saturday, folks from across the region and around the world will make their way to the Star City of the South. Roanoke, Virginia plays host to the Foot Levelers Blue Ridge Marathon, which has been ranked among the most grueling race courses in the world.

The Weather Channel named it number eight in its listing of the “World’s 15 Toughest Marathons.” Wenger says it’s one of the 7 hardest in the world. The race even bills itself as “America’s Toughest Road Marathon,” and it’s no hollow boast. With more than 7,200 feet of elevation change over its 26.2 miles, the course is challenging to even the most experienced runner.

Former American Marathon record holder Bill Rodgers has run the race. He said it’s “a destination race.” He called it challenging and beautiful, adding, “That’s a great combination.”

The race starts in downtown Roanoke. Runners weave their way through historic neighborhoods and then traverse the side of Mill Mountain. From there, full marathoners continue along the Blue Ridge Parkway to Roanoke Mountain. Coming back, they pass the soaring local landmark, Mill Mountain Star. Half marathoners have a shorter but still challenging course. All participants experience breathtaking mountain views and all are invited to finish the race with a little culture. They receive free admission to the Taubman Museum, Roanoke’s premiere art space, which is adjacent to the race’s start and finish lines.

If you’re like me, your joints aren’t up for a half mile run, much less mention 26 miles, and that’s okay. Organizers have created a special Web section for spectactors, who play an important role too. “Running a marathon may seem like a solitary, even lonely, accomplishment,” explains the race’s site, “But it really rests upon the aid of friends, family, and a bunch of complete strangers.”

Check out the below video for some of the course’s beautiful views and challenging stretches. And let us know what you think. Ever run a marathon? Are you more likely to do one with mountain views?