ࡱ> k Objbjz z .JbJb",FF8<J$P#jnuuu"""""""$$p'f"uuuuu" #u"u"`1HʞK*" #0P#'u&'' uuuuuuu""uuuP#uuuu'uuuuuuuuuFB : Appalachia and the Natural World: Language and Art in the Writing of Ann Pancake An Essay by Dr. Sylvia Bailey Shurbutt [T]here was either too much water or too little, the temperature too high or too low. Strange as this weather has been, people would say. . . . Lace believed the weather was linked to the rest of this mess (101). This mess is the dilemma faced by the Ricker See family in Ann Pancakes extraordinary novel Strange as this Weather Has Beenand as we see the slow disintegration of the environment and this family that has called their mountain cove home for generations, it is our own story as well. Above the Ricker See family, the mountain is being slowly mawed away, decimated by the giant machines that have taken the jobs of miners and desecrated the land and the mountain that has sustained themnow, with weakening holding ponds and a teetering geology, an uncertain but tangible threat to their very survival is eminent. Thus we see the point of this and other Pancake storiesthe inescapable connection between the natural world and the people who live on it and from it. The people and the land are the inseparable body politic where when the part is disadvantaged or abused, so goes the whole. This idea is at the heart of Ann Pancakes writing and a metaphor for the planet on which we attempt to live. It is further complicated by the several lenses through which Pancake examines the concept of natural, also at the center of Ann Pancakes writing and intersecting with the range of themes in her work, including issues of class, gender, family, corporate greed, stereotyping, and the nature of reality and morality in this flawed world in which we are assigned to operate. If Pancake raises our awareness about the myriad and multifaceted natural world around us, abused and used by the status quo bent on its manifest destiny to dominate and use the Earth at will, she equally shows us that those same forces of entitlement operate in the social sphere of unbridled Patriarchy. However, perhaps the most extraordinary thing about Ann Pancakes writing is that she communicates these ubiquitous moral issues without any intrusively didactic response in her prose. There is a personal story Pancake shares in an essay about her family that illustrates the concept of natural. The essay, Our Own Kind, is an apologia in some sense for her younger brother Sam, and to a degree for herself. The essay brings into question our understanding of the concept of natural and how it is interpreted by environmentalists, coal companies, religious fundamentalists, capitalists, as well as the working poor, and certainly anyone who strays off the beaten path. The story is an emblem for growing up in West Virginia and how the three oldest children in the Pancake familyAnn, Sam, and Catherine (Chet)do indeed march to a different drummer and, as it turns out, all become artists. Pancake shares the originality of these three oldest siblings of six, growing up as they did in a world of strict gender rules and conformity wielded by an inflexible Patriarchy that was the norm in the 1970s. She talks about little brother Sam whose pretend friend is a girl named Judy, while hers is Boogle, an imaginary friend of indeterminate gender. Sam, who will become a successful actor, has dreams of being Mary Poppins, and when they play, he dons a tea towel around his waist and a diaper draped over his head for hair, while Catherine and Ann are cowboys, hats and guns in tow. Pancakes mother is the no-nonsense disciplinarian in the family, while her social worker/minister father deals with the aberration that is Sam by removing himself from it (Our Own Kind). While public school is not without its issues and hardly a panacea for political correctness, Pancake notes that no one ever called [Sam] fag who was West Virginia. Indeed, she writes; That didnt happen until he went off to college [by people from elsewhere] Growing up in Summersville and Romney, West Virginia, Ann, Sam, and Catherine were compatriots in outside games and adventures, while the two older girls were barred from what Pancake called two of the three most valued activities for children growing up in Appalachia: church, hunting, and sportsthough by 7th grade, Pancake notes, basketball became available to Catherine and herself. By the time Ann was 13, she realized that Sams being more girl than me also meant she was more boy than him; and while she and Catherine were regularly called tomboys, there were uncomfortable labels to become associated with Sam as a boy. Pancake remembers: Makeup confuse[d] me, nail painting I [found] absurd, and [I was] only drawn to jewelry like the leather bracelets we engrave[d] with names during 4-H camp craft time. She recalls a compromise agreement with her mother to don a dress at least one day out of the week, and she promised never to wear her grandfathers boots to school. Pancake writes: Its not that I feel like a boy. I dont. But I dont feel like a girl, either. I just feel like myselfthat is, she feels natural. While the culture she grew up in allowed her far more leeway for expressing herself as a woman than it did for Sam to express himself as a man, it became clear to her that nonetheless everything male [was] superior, which of course was why the rules were so much more stringent and inflexible for Sam. This idea becomes crystal clear one wintry afternoon as the older children accompanied their father on a walk through the woods to learn the names of trees and tracks, of hollows, ridges, and river eddies. During the course of the walk, Sam and Ann, age 12 and 13 and now fairly evenly matched, have a series of knock down dueling moments on the ice and snow after Sam laughs at Ann who had fallen. Each rivaling sibling has gotcha moments by turn. As they finally thrash it out on the ice in a literal fight, Ann hears her father say in an emotionless voice, Hit her head against the post, which Sam obliges with alacrity. Stunned but without righteous indignation, Ann hears her father say, She wont be fighting you again (Our Own Kind). Pancake writes about the incident matter-of-factly without any bitterness toward her brother. She recalls that even now, thirty-five years later, I feel more surprised about his telling Sam to do it than I register injustice or brutality. She remembers that her real surprise was that our fatherpassive, self-containedhas never before so explicitly stepped in. She even affirms, Im not surprised once he got involved, he took the boys sideeven if that boy was one he held at a distance all his lifebecause convention deemed it natural that he would. Natural, too, the roles he assigned us: conquering male, victimized female. The unfairness, the brutality of the sibling event didnt faze Pancake because the natural order of things was exactly what Sam and I had already learned to give the slip. After she picked herself up, stumbled over to the dogs for sympathy and a brief moment of feeling sorry for herself, she and Sam returned to being themselves and continuing the process, as she writes, of making themselves into our own kind of boy, our own kind of girlthe lesson of her fathers making having lasted not much longer than the ringing in Anns head. When the ice in the river broke two weeks later, Sam and Ann were back to being confidants, with Ann allowed to sleep in his room on Fridays, the two talking into the night and being whomever they would. Pancake concludes this homily of home life: Our father takes a nap. Our mother stirs the chili. Catherine pounds a basketball. Laura comforts a doll. . . . [and] Sam pores through his movie star books. Sam would go on to live in Los Angeles, become an actor, and find a place and a profession where he can be any kind of man he chooses. While Ann will be less certain, she writes, and live in ten different places in my twenties and thirties, lov[ing] both men and women. However, what she also learns growing up in rural West Virginia, beyond these hard moments of social instruction, is how to feel dogs, water, sky, trees, beating in time with what moves behind. How its only when I find that rhythm in myself that I reach my realest me (Our Own Kind). Growing Up in Rural West Virginia Finding that rhythm in herself took a long and winding road from birth in Richmond, Virginia, on February 19, 1963, to traveling the world, living on the West Coast, and finally coming back to settle in West Virginia, where both mother, Robin Leckie Pancake, and father, Joseph Samuel Pancake, were born and raisedher mother in Huntington, her family from Cabell, Lincoln and Wayne Counties. Pancakes fathers family went back generations in Hampshire County where the family worked a farm. It was while Joe Pancake was attending Union theological Seminary in 1961, that he met and married Robin in Richmond, and where their oldest child Ann was born two years later. A Presbyterian minister, Joe Pancake served two congregations in Hopewell, Virginia, and then moved the family to Summerville, West Virginia, where he also was minister. This was coal country, and her father had the temerity to preach sermons against strip mining, which Pancake told Robert Gipe in an interview, took some guts. When Ann was eight, the family returned home to Mill Meadow, in agricultural Hampshire County in the Eastern Panhandle of West Virginia. By this time, Joe had become a social worker, while Robin taught art in the public schools. Raising their children near Romney, close to the family farm that had been in the Pancake family since the early 1800s, Joe and Robin saw that their childrens lives were filled with outside games, treks into nature, and, with only one TV channel, books to inspire young imaginations to run free. However, in her essay Tough, Pancake also writes about the day to day living as an Appalachian child growing up in the 1970s. We got beat on regularly, she writes, at school and at home. She says, they all worked, and I dont mean dusting. We chopped wood, we put in and weeded and harvested enormous gardens; then we helped can; we made hay (233). She remembers that where she grew up, heat was spotty. She adds, It was just always cold. . . . Thats the kind of tough they made us. The durable kind, not the fighting kind (233-34). Toughness in much of West Virginia, she recalls, was deeply bound up with class, with poverty. Its hard to outline, much less make an outsider feel the economics of back home, especially in the time Im speaking of, the midseventies. So difficult to convey the pervasiveness of lack, a culture so saturated with lack that the absence turned inside out and became a presence, and the lack shaped all of us, even those of us, like me, who were middle class by local standards. The easiest way to explain to a nonnative the class structure back home is this: anybody upper-class where I grew up would be considered middle-class in regular white America. The middle class where I grew up would be considered working class outside. Through a mainstream lens, the working class back home would be seen as poverty-stricken. And then there were our homegrown poor . . . a level of poverty Id only see in Third World countries. (234) Hampshire County, Pancake remembers, was a place where children were raised with a few middle-class opportunities and most middle-class expectations in a culture that was working class, and the toughness that was instilled in children like her was with the expectation of absolutely nothing unless we worked to death for it (237). It was the kind of tough [that made us] put up with rather than the durable kind, and she asserts: The limitations my toughness has imposed on the way I have relationships, she writes, were defining and life-altering (241). Despite both parents being college educated, it was Pancakes identity as Appalachian that instilled a sense of less than and other. She remembers hearing her father for the first time on the radio and thinking how strong their accents were (Gipe 172), never mind that the Appalachian dialect is more archaic and conservative than incorrect, at least from a historical linguistic point of view. This was only the beginning of the slow but steady communication from the larger world that they were hicks, outside the pale of average middle-class sensibilities and separate from the rest of America. That feeling of being an outsider, on the fringe, has been the singular impetus for many a young Appalachians hunger to get away from the disdain and disrespect associated with their heritage and the cultural roots that gave them a sense of shamebut roots that would also bring them back at some point in time. Indeed, getting away was something Pancake accomplished as soon as she graduated from WVU, summa cum laude in 1985. With degree in hand and hardly a comparable job after graduation (waiting tables or a management position at Wendys while she waited for a boyfriend to graduate), Pancake launched herself on the first of several teaching abroad adventures, first to Japan where she experienced the ultimate culture shock. She told Jeffrey Williams in an interview published in Studies in the Novel in 2023, that this great adventure changed her life profoundlynot the least of which was the utter confusion and dismay of being in a culture halfway around the world so profoundly different from her own. While teaching English as a Second Language, Pancake met and married an older man from California,Brad Comann, who loved to travel and was, as she, teaching ESL. The two worked for a year in Japan before returning to the US and moving to Albuquerque, where they stayed for another year, after which Pancake followed her spouse to Samoa where he had secured another ESL job, as would she once there. The Samoan teaching stint would in its own way be propitious, as it would provide fodder for scholarship and her Masters thesis. After a year in the South Pacific, they returned to the US, and Pancake focused on getting a Masters degree at Chapel Hill (1992), writing her thesis on Samoan literature, specifically on the work of Albert Wendt from a postcolonial point of view, the principles of which would feed her understanding later as she began to discern and write about Appalachia suffering a similar kind of colonial exploitation. Pancake spoke to historian E. James West about the experience of working in American Samoa and how it clarified her understanding of exploitation in Appalachia: In American Samoa, I lived for the first time in a place that had been colonized by the United States. I became acutely aware of colonization in the South Pacific and also more aware of the relationship between the US and other countries, the way American exerts power over other countries and exploits them. . . . As I came to recognize the class discrepancies within the US and realized how little economic and political power Appalachia had, I saw the relationship between Appalachia and exploited non-Western countries. After this, Pancake and her spouse took a year-long teaching gig in Thailand, before returning to the US, this time to Washington State, where her spouse taught in a community college in Seattle, and Pancake began working on her Ph.D. at the University of Washington, in their theory program (1993-1998). She told Jeffrey Williams that she had the great good fortune to have a course with Hazard Adams, author of Critical Theory Since Plato, and she became fascinated with cross-racial class relationships. She had begun reading feminist critics actually while in North CarolinaToril Moi, Kristev and Cixousand at the same time she was reading and studying critical theory, she was writing fiction, stories like Sister. At UW, she threw herself into feminist theory, not so much to write it as to allow it to inform her fiction writing, and she began to regularly publish fiction in a range of journalsthe creative writing serving as a necessary respite or break from the intensity of scholarly writing in graduate school. When Pancake finished and began to contemplate a university position, interviewing for teaching jobs in 1998, it was actually her creative writing that she found would secure her a position and pay the bills. She told Jeffrey Williams, that when she attended MLA she had two interviews for literary jobs and eight or nine for creative writing jobs. So thats the path I went (105)though it is clear that creative composition was far more gratifying than the scholarly. With her academic training in criticism and her practical experience in writing fiction, Pancake told Williams she then had to figure out how to teach creative writing (105)and that would be through using a lot of literature, talking about craft, and workshopping stories in progress. It was a solid approachdifferent from the MFA route that many creative writers take, but one that has served the likes of Ron Rash, Denise Giardina, and herself well. Pancakes first published collection, Given Ground (2000), were stories generally she had been working on for years, one Sisters started in 1987. However, she had a practical reason for publication of the collection at this point in her career, specifically to enhance her chances at tenure. She shared her thoughts with James West about the award-winning collection: I needed to publish a book for tenure. I put into it every story Id written that seemed finished enough, and then received feedback from a few friends. I jettisoned one story, then wrote Redneck Boys to complete the book. Half of the stories had been published in literary journals already, so that was a kind of confirmation that they were solid enough to put into the collection. Many of the stories are bleak in tone, all evoke a brilliant style that evinces a genuine gift for language, and taken together the stories in Given Ground reveal an extraordinary and unique talent. The collection won the Katherine Bakeless Nason Literary Publication Prize for 2000, and Middlebury College Press became Pancakes first publisher. Pancake admits that the collection is not an easy book. She told James West that the subject matter is dark. However, she adds, Ive come to understand that its not ever going to reach a broad audience, but those readers it does reach, it reaches deeply, and thats fine with me. An Intuitive Style: Given Ground (2001) While Jeffrey Williams has said that Pancake writes a contemporary form of social realism, and that is certainly true for Given Ground, this first collection of stories is more an Appalachian tone poem with theme and variationswith the narrative taking a back seat to mood, language, and style. Pancake has often said that she writes intuitively. She told Jim Minick that she hears her characters voices: They arrive distinct. I hear the voices in my head, then I capture in writing what I hearI might hear five pages, or I might only hear five linesand then I take what was given to me to create a draft. She sometimes writes as many as ten to fourteen drafts, and Pancake doesnt like to talk about work in progress nor does she ask for feedback, in large part so I can hold tight to my own vision without interference (Minick 2). She is also willing, indeed enthusiastic, to take risks in her writing, admitting that if she didnt take risks, she would get bored with the process (3). Purely in terms of her use of language (and similar to the master prose and poetry stylists of the Eighteenth Century like Pope and Swift), she uses purposeful repetitions, unusual linguistic juxtapositions, and balanced lines like chiasmus (balanced repetitions) and zeugma (yoking together the literal and figurative). These characteristics are all present in the strangely wonderful story Jolo, a story about a character who escapes death by walking through fire as a child. Jolo attempts to recapture the miracle a decade later with his friend Connie. Pancake begins the tale with a linguistic rhapsody: Moving through the weed smells, all the different green smells, single, then symphonic, single, then symphonic, the river low and mucky, a fertile rotty smell, low low dog days August smell (23). The perfectly balanced lines at the beginning are echoed at the end: Jolo. Say it. Say Jolo. Jolo, Jolo boy (23, 45). The language evokes an almost trancelike state, which must be accorded to the violent ending. The lives of these characters are beyond bleak with little hope for their dull and fragmented lives except through the limitless boundaries of delusion. For Jolo, his life has never measured up to that single dramatic moment of conflagration a decade prior when a propensity for playing with matches caused the four-year-olds house to go up in flames: . . . aunt Ruby Nickelson charging into the opposite side to rescue her own son, Bony (now known by his pulpit name, Little Pastor Dan). Jolos abandoned baby brother, a black thing curled in a burned-up bed, as his mother flees through a nearby window, and Jolo himself stumbles through a wall of fire, all on his own, his charred body garnering him the name Jolo and a legend. He has had other penultimate moments in his life, such as when the cat crept under his covers and started to draw his breath out of his mouth, nearly suffocating him (26-27), but nothing to rival his fame from flame. Jolo tells Connie that its not that something is trying to kill him, but that hed just never been full-born. Says a part of him was left on some earlier other side and keeps trying to pull him back with it (27). Now, the marked and deluded Jolo enlists the drab and plain Connie as his partnerConnie a fleshy premonition no one wants to acknowledge, prematurely middle-aged even by the yardstick of a place where middle age can strike in ones twenties. . . . And still, Jolo, that summer, chooses her (25). Jolo is not to be eclipsed by his cousin Little Pastor Dan, the child evangelist who also survived the house fire and by the grace of God delivered. A series of summer fires tests the mettle of allcertainly, Jolo, who cannot now abide his terrible ordinariness (44)the antidote for which is to be found in the dramatic ending of the story. The story has a narrative brilliance similar to that of Flannery OConnor; and like OConnors characters, Pancakes are authentic and genuine, if misguided and grotesque. Sister is an equal match for Joloexploring the winter the narrator says she was witched (65). The characters in all these tales are often hopeless (Bait), landless (Ghostless), eclipsed by the outsiders who have built fine homes on their land (Crow Season), baffled by the lack of opportunity they have and as anxious to leave as they are to return (Getting Wood), too often called up for some sorry task others wont do such as serving in Americas failed wars (Dirt), victims of flood and other disasters (Wappatomaka), or scapegoat for the ills and doubts of a nation that must have its cheap energy, disposable workers, and someone or something else to other and disdain. Redneck Boys, written especially for the volume, is in a sense a preface to dilemma Lace will face in Strange as this Weather Has Been, confronting those who covet the land and the temptations that she and her family face as a commodity for exploitation. All of these characters are tied directly to the landscape that is home, and the light they encounter is just as often dimmed by this place called home. Listen to the opening lines of Cash Crop: 1897: The sun makes a short trip in the short sky over their place. Buries its head in the mountain, tunnels all night under that hill, their hollow, two more ridges. Comes back up out of the earth. Its journey is a long way under rough ground (120)and that rough ground a metaphor for the shadowland that Appalachians both ache to escape and long to return to. And yet, despite the bleakness of their lives, the black comedy and often hopeless absurdity of so many characters in these tales, the reader is captivated by these interior landscapes that parallel the exterior world from which the characters operate. Echoes of Keats are not misplaced in a story like Tall Grass for example, as the season of mists and gathering swallows approaches a landscape now used up and past its prime: Frost smoking mysterious off petrified grass, the grass, she sees, in clumps thrown forward like women with fresh-washed hair, forward thrown in clumps (Tall Grass 62). As the orchards give out and the pickers are used up and thrown away, the land goes now for fine homes of people from elsewhere, and there is no redress beyond the richness of language that records the plight of this given ground. Strange as this Weather Has Been (2007) The seed or donne for Strange as this Weather Has Been came from an event in Pancakes life that involved her sibling Catherine (Chet). Pancakes marriage had been shelved, and she eagerly channeled her energy into teaching, activism, research and writing. When Catherine asked her to help with a documentary film she was shooting about mountaintop removal (MTR) in their home state of West Virginia, Ann of course said yes. She records this apocryphal time in an essay for the Georgia Review called Creative Responses to World Unraveling: The Artist in the 21st Century. Never overtly didactic but always political, Pancake writes about the power of story to address issues without falling into polemic, which, she says, can shatter the world the writer has so painstakingly constructed and unravel the readers suspension of disbelief (406). Thinking she would likely have an essay to result from the experience with her film-making sibling, the piece evolved into a short story, and finally she could see no other venue than a novel for what she hoped to accomplish in terms of scope, character, and addressing the issue of mountaintop removal which had obliterated millions of acres of mountains that would never regenerate. What she aimed for with the piece was to create a sustained relationship between audience and subject, and only a novel could provide that kind of reader engagement (408). Ann and Catherine began their work in July 2000. They had a new digital camera and found themselves deep in the coalfields of West Virginia, having fallen in with a local activist named Judy Bonds, who had become a grass-roots organizer in the MTR community. Judy had been compelled to get involved after her grandson held up a dead fish one day from the creek that runs through her property. She was promptly fired from her job at Pizza Hut for speaking out against the mining company, and from that point on, Judy Bonds determined not just to speak out but to allow her life to be, as Thoreau had said in Civil Disobedience, a counter friction in the machine. Judy carried Catherine and Ann up Seng Creek to speak with a family that had been washed out after a series of flash floods from their home below an MTR mine. Meeting this family and others, who lived in fear of the wastewater lake above them used for processing coal, utterly transformed Pancakes life; and a few weeks after the event, she writes: I heard in my head the voice of a fictional fourteen-year-old who lived under the mountaintop mine. . . . I realized that what I was writing wasnt a short story but a novelwhich Id never written before, never thought Id ever write . . . [but this had to be] a novel that tackled head-on a complicated and controversial political issue (406). When she finished with the book seven years later, Pancake was aware of the minefields through which she had trod. She writes in the Georgia Review about the seed for the novel: I will probably reach a smaller audience than a journalist, a scientist, a charismatic public speaker, or a grassroots organizer, but fiction writing is what I do best (407-08). Strange as this Weather Has Been would win the Weatherford Award (2007), the year after Catherine had won the Paul Robeson Documentary Film Award (2006) for Black Diamonds. Three years prior to that the activist and model for Lace See, Judy Bonds, won the $125,000 International Goldman Prize (2003) for her environmental activism and grassroots leadership in the anti-mountaintop removal movement in the West Virginia coalfields. Four years after the books publication, Pancake received word that Judy Bonds had died at age fifty-eight from brain cancer, likely from the polyacrylamide cancer-causing agent found in the creek water on her property, a chemical used to process coal (Pancake Creative Responses 411). It goes without saying that Pancakes novel has received an array of critical attention, all insightful and illuminating. Among those is Katherine Ledfords Stories of Place: Appalachian Literature as Locus of Environment and Social Justice (2017), which makes the connection between social and environmental justice as a cornerstone of the story. Matt Wanat connects the work of Wendell Berry and Pancake in his essay Dislocation, Dismemberment, Dystopia: From Cyberpunk to the Fiction of Berry and Pancake (2015). Wanat shows how the exploitation and dismemberment of bodies and the dislocation and colonization of places deemed marginal by the industrial economy inform the work of both Berry and Pancake (1). Stefania Staniscias The Vanishing Landscape of the Southern West Virginia Coalfields (2022) uses Pancakes book as qualitative content analysis for her scientific assertions about fourteen coalfields of West Virginia that were part of her study; the background information concerning the history of coal and MTR in the region is particularly cogent in this essay. Sara Villamarin-Freires Discursive Constructions of Waste and Slow Violence in Ann Pancakes Strange as the Weather Has Been (2022) offers a deconstruction of the industrys justification for its destructive environmental practices by promoting modernization in a region historically defined by its assumed economic and social backwardness. This article likewise debunks the preconception that the Appalachian people are passive victims and willing conspirators in the exploitation of their region (133). This essay further counters the prejudice against poor whites which is part of the propaganda utilized by industry to destroy both the landscape and lives of Appalachians (134). The two most interesting concepts in this essay are 1) the idea that Appalachia functions as internal colony where land itself bears the burden of environmental degradation and unstable employment so that urban centers can reap benefits of the peoples sacrifice and 2) that such places as Appalachia are for all intents and purposes sacrifice zones which dont count and therefore can be poisoned, drained, or otherwise destroyed, for the supposed greater good of economic progress (135). Finally, among the most interesting critical approaches to Strange as this Weather Has Been is Heather Housers Knowledge Work and the Commons in Barbara Kingsolvers and Ann Pancakes Appalachia (2017). Houser offers feminist readings of Strange as this Weather Has Been and Flight Behavior, with both books ultimately signaling hope through the paradoxical idea that loss and alienation are ultimately productive. Houser is perceptive enough to see the impact of Pancakes narrative strategies, with alternating chapters of Lace See and her daughter Bants first-person narration against MTR, as opposed to the third-person narrations of Laces other children, neighbors and relatives (97)point of view being key to the success of the book, as the complex points of view reflect the complexity of the issue. The purpose of using the multiple focus point of view in her novel, with six narrators as opposed to one omniscient narrator, is to ultimately engage readers through empathy. Protagonists Lace and her daughter Bant are two of three first-person narrators, while the third-person narratives come from Laces two sons, the machine crazed Corey and gentle Dane, as well as Mrs. Taylors son Avery, who is a code-switcher at home in both the outside world and as an Appalachian insider. There is another first-person narrator, the wise and insightful Uncle Mogey, whose mystical understanding of the mountain offers Lace more than mere instruction about its nourishing bounty. Uncle Mogey, who carries the scar of the mountain from the kettle or petrified log that dropped from the roof of the mine onto his shoulder and ended his work as a miner, can see directly into the soul of the mountain. Mogey offers a counterpoint to the patriarchal view of people like Pastor Dick who tries to assure him, Mogey, God gave man the earth and its natural resources for our own use. We are its caretakers, and we have dominion over it (168). For Mogey, the natural world is like the wounded buck they track into the Ribs while hunting. Mogey feels deeply for and identifies with the buck. Mogey understands the spirit of the mountain and is thus at peace and in sympathy with the natural world. I know people not from here probably dont understand our feeling for these hills, Mogey says. Our mountains are not like Western ones, those jagged awesome ones. . . . In the West, the mountains are mostly horizon. We live in our mountains. Its not just the tops, but the sides that hold us. . . . This is God. . . . This is me. This, all this, is me (173). It is Mogey who leads Lace back into the world again when her hopes and plans are dashed and her life forever determined after returning from her freshman year at the university in Morgantown, smitten as she was with the beautiful boy Jimmy Make and then finding herself pregnant. Lace had already absorbed the idea that her place is more backwards than anywhere in America and anybody worth much will get out soon as they can, and that doesnt come only from the outside (3). Lace thinks to herself: I was the first Ricker, the first See to go to college, and now I disappointed my family three ways: first, by getting pregnant; second, by dropping out; and third, by refusing to marry Jimmy Make (87). Will and Fate are at crosshairs throughout the tale, with Fate edging out what little agency Lace has. Still, she figures, The baby I had no choice aboutyou dont around here . . . but the marriage, that I could decide (87). Eventually, Jimmy Makes persistence and devotion will win Lace, but they are and will always be a world apart. Jimmy Make, the miner, the man child, sees little reason to thwart or fight the company, and if the mountain must be moved to find the coal to light the cities, so be it. Eventually Lace is nudged out of her guilty funk and follows her mother and Mogey up the mountain to forage. You can live off these hills, her mother used to say, Everything was put in them for a reason (94). When Lace climbs the yet unravished Cherryboy, on an April morning to look for ramps, molly moochers, morels, Shawnee lettuce, woolly britches, and poke, she also finds healing. One afternoon on the mountain, she asks herself: What is it? What makes us feel for our hills like we do? . . . The chunging of cicadas around me, the under-burr of the other insects. Something small twisting through the always dead leaves. . . . I did know youd have to come up in these hills to understand what I meant. Growing up shouldered in them, them forever around your ribs, your hips, how they hold you, sit astraddle, giving you always, for good or for bad, the sense of being held. (99) However, the land that holds these Appalachians and sustains them is also unforgiving when betrayed and destroyed, as Bant articulates as she is drawn into her mother Laces activism; and it is Bant who muses about the groaning and suffering of the land and the industrial abuse which is the source for this mess, where there is either too much water or too little, the temperature too high or too low. Strange as the weather has been (101). Bant secures a job painting the rooming house for scabs the company has brought in to replace striking miners, as giant machines gradually replace them. Bant is well-versed in the running argument Lace and Jimmy Make have about the MTR. Evil, Lace called it. All of it. Calculated evil. Jimmy Maked roll his eyes. Its not evil, hed say. How can a woman bright as you are be so goddamned backwards? Its just greed and they-dont-give-a-damn. Its money, Lace would answer, Greed and money and they-dont-give-a-damn are evil (102). Bant gets caught by a company guard on the day she climbs the mountain to attempt to see for herself exactly what is going on above them, waiting ominously for the next rain or explosion that will loosen the under-fabric of Yellowroot Mountain slowly being ripped apart. Bant is stopped by a guard, the company not wishing the community to see or know what they are doing above the community. Feeling little threaten from what he sees as just a girl, the guard answers Bants question, So whatre you doing up in here? His answer is the standard company justification used the past hundred years to justify whatever mayhem they make: [M]en got to feed their families. When Bant pushes back against his mantra, he tells her, Coals all we got around here . . . And when were done, well clean er up. Pile it back on and smooth and grass it up. Itll look nicer than before we started (106). Bant is incredulous, just as was Mrs. Parker, whom her brother Dane works for, who knows first-hand that pulling apart the land wont stand. As Lace becomes more involved in her community activism, and as her daughter follows her example, Lace thinks that the hardest thing of all about living through this, hasnt been the blasting or the dust or the flooding or the fires or how they broke the community. Its looking up there each morning, at a landscape you had around you every day of your life. And seeing your horizon gone (309). Eventually, Bant will get to the top of Yellowroot to see its utter and complete devastation, the land no better now than a moonscape and the dangerous holding ponds an ill omen. To get there, she must barter her body to boyfriend R. L., who agrees to take her up if she agree to put up. Im just fifteen, Bant tells him, when R. L. sets up the barter. So what, he responds. I was doing it at twelve. Despite Bants fear that she will repeat Laces mistake, she must know what is happening to her family living in the shadow of the mountain. This poignant association between the human and the natural world, the bartering of the body, the mutual abuse and suffering of the natural and human worlds is at the core of Strange as this Weather Has Been. Mrs. Parker certainly understands that mutual abuse and suffering. She experienced the tragedy of Buffalo Creek first-hand back in 1972; and on a day when blasting on Yellowroot rocks the house, her memory is jogged along with the foundation of her home. She tells Dane the vivid story of the February 72 rains loosening the earthworks of the dam that held back the millions of gallons of sludge and poisoned water in the unstable pond the company constructed above the community, all to come roiling through into the holler destroying thousands of homes and 125 Logan County lives in its wake. Declared an act of God by the Pittston Coal Company, the people of WV nonetheless sued for $100 million, with a settlement coming to just a million determined only a few days before Governor Arch Moore stepped down from office. While lawyers donated to a fund to rebuild a community center, it was never built. In a separate $13.5 million civil suit filed by the 625 survivors, the courts awarded what amounted to $13,000 to each complainant, as compensation for loss of their family members and property. It is an old story, retold again and againacts of God! However, the memory that is emblazoned in Mrs. Parkers consciousness is as vivid as if it were yesterday. When she retells to Dane her account of the Buffalo Creek flood, the boy is only made to feel more anxious, struggling as he is with both his fear of the mountain and his personal fear of being different and not fitting into the communitys notion of gender norms. Jimmy Make sighs as he looks at his oldest sons growing strangely shaped. Hips, waist, thighs, swelling to a bigness without any length, and his body not bothering to grow at all above his waist. . . . Leaving Dane. Strangely woman-shaped. . . . The brain as out-of-proportion to his upper body as his upper body is to his lower body (110-11). Jimmy Makes second son has none of these issuesCorey being brash, cocky, and enamored with machines, just as is his dad. Coreys parts match (112), Jimmy Make thinks. Bant muses about her father and brother Corey, recalling Laces explaining these child men who make so many of family decisions and toe the company line: They never have to grow up . . . because the women always take care of them, first their mothers, then their wives, and then they die (133). Bant also thinks about Laces words, Everybody around here is raised to take it and take it, . . . to put up with it. The men take it from the industry and the government, and then they take that out on the women . . . because the men never have to grow up (133). The machines they love, with their oversized tires and souped-up engines give them a sense of power they dont necessarily have in their daily lives. Bant, whose clarity of understanding becomes the readers, sees the appeal that these machines have for her father and younger brother Corey: I knew again what the truck meant to Jimmy, what the speedwagon did to Corey, why Tommy and B-bo and David ran around with motorcycles in their mouths. I remembered, the glory of forgetting and that stun of blind power that came with that gut-urgent go. The rush the boys would feel when they hit those snake ditches, with a startle. Even if you were looking for them, they were a startle when you hit them, writes Pancake in the charged chiasmus of her balanced line (156-57)her syntax emphasizing the obsession with the machines that brings tragedy and destruction to both the mountain and this mountain family. Corey covets the four-wheeler of his friend Seth, who owes him a ride and Corey aims to collect. When Seth and his family are away at Myrtle Beach, Corey and his shadow Tommy break into the shed where the machine is stored to claim their ride. Away they fly toward the snake ditches on the mountaintop removal site, to have literally the ride of their life. Dane spies them flee with the four-wheeler, follows, and sees but cannot stop the horror. They head for the concrete spillway between the two holding ponds, to afford the best thrill for a ride. First depositing to the side his little brother Tommy, angry at losing his ride, Corey takes a run down the spillway, and an instant before he touches the poison looking pond, he leans into the machine and jerks the front wheels, his face set serious as cast iron. Then it happens (342). The machine flips over into the pond, resting atop CoreyDane is unable to move, Tommy is screaming, and Jimmy Make arrives too late. This tragedy severs the tenuous thread that holds this Appalachian family together. Jimmy Make will leave with Dane and Tommy for North Carolina, and whatever opportunity he can find there, while Lace and Bant remain to finish the fight for the mountainnever to give up, even if it is only their failure to leave that proves a gadfly on the back of the company. As the book closes, and the mountain is destroyed along with an Appalachian family, Uncle Mogey tells Bant: Ive learned something about times like these. In times like these, you have to grow big enough inside to hold both the loss and the hope (356-57). Me and My Daddy Listen to Bob Marley (2015) Hope and loss are singular themes in Pancakes next collection of stories and novellas, taking its title from the final story Me and My Daddy Listen to Bob Marley. Robert Gipe, one of the early reviewers of the collection, wrote that Pancake continues her fearless trek through the beauty and pain of both the inner and outer world of her characters. Language flows through her, clean, fresh, primeval, buoying and battering her readers, shocking them with its cold clarity, bathing them in its warmth and purity (132 Appalachian Journal Review). Gipe goes on to say about the vivid language in which she casts each story: Every page brings fresh affirmation of Pancakes status as the queen of verbs (130). Pancake told James West that she had originally wanted to call the book Bone Dowser, with the title coming from a story in the collection called The Following, but her publisher told her they would sell more books with the title Me and My Daddy Listen to Bob Marley. While Pancake agreed that the change was right, the original title gives us insight into the creation of these stories, indeed insight into the crux of all Pancakes fine prosefor as she strips life clean to its core, to the bone, she reveals insights, epiphanies and memorable characters with heart-breakingly rich language that stays with us long after the book has been set aside. The collection is framed by the two most important stories, In Such Light and Me and My Daddy Listen to Bob Marley. In between are stories that reveal the essence of Pancakes talent: her ability to follow a family tragedy through the simple perceptions of a child as in Mousekill, the clarity with which she narrates company greed that uses up its workers and casts them aside as easily as shoving off the guts of a mountain into valleys and streams as in Arsonists, or the way she portrays a story like Dog Song, that is essentially a metaphor for the perceptions and disdain outsiders have for Appalachians. In this latter story, the protagonist Matley is different but not bad, certainly not no-count. Still, he is viewed as a freak, a nuisance, and the butt of jokes by outsiders who build their fine homes on the sides of the mountain, by the leaf-lookers who ride the train in the fall, and by many who live in the community. Matley collects all the lost and unwanted mongrels on the ridge, and when the residents of new mountainside community Oaken Acre Estates complain, the dogs begin mysteriously to disappear. Matley becomes obsessed with discovering what is happening to his dogs, mad to hear their song, and he advertises for them as he awaits their return, pining in his Winnebago, all that is left from the flood of 85. Most in the community are glad the doggy eye-sore is gone, but in truth it is Matley who is the eyesore: Matley . . . understands he is blighted landscape. He is disruption of scenery. Understands he is the last one left, and nothing but a sight. A sight. Sight, wheel on rail click it on home, Sight. Sight. Sight (143). There are echoes of James Joyce in this and other stories in the collection, in terms of the power and cadence of Pancakes language, and nothing like such prose can be found among her contemporary Appalachian writers. Two signal stories are The Following and Sab, both giving the reader insight into Pancakes work as a writer and her devotion to style and language. In The Following the speaker stops to take a path in the woodher bone following and attempt to understand are a metaphor for Pancakes prose: Id felt it as soon as I stepped out of the car. The knowing that was not mind-knowing, that had been the single knowing I could remember before this other knowing had arrived six months before. The new knowing came through my chest. . . . Uncharged euphoria. Ecstasy without edge (155). As the speaker follows the wooded path, her knowing accumulates-her understanding a slow gathering of insights from the natural world that she is part of. The setting for her walk reminiscent of Hawks Nest and the New River Gorge: Mountains brooding, embracing. Radiant. Suffocant. I could see white water no wider than my two fingers in the gorge hundreds of feet under me, and between me and that river, two buzzards tilting . . . . Railroad tracks ran along a narrow wainscoting right above the river, hauling coal to power plants (167-68). She continues to ponder what she finds among these bones, both ancient geological and literal: And how, I wondered, could this place feel more wild than the West when it had been so much more used, so much more lived in by European people? When it felt millennia tireder than land out West? Then I realized it was not wilder it felt. It was more primal. . . . Once again, I had no words to name what I knew (168). Another signal story in the volume is Sab, the literal balm or salve Appalachians use to daub onto fly bites but also the salve that the land provides for Appalachians. Sab is a lovely story about quiet listening and patient empathy that comes through suffering. The story is about two cousins, one the narrator and the other Sull who left the mountains and returns from a life away, elsewhere, having come home to reconnect with the land, and let the trees rub off your dirt. The narrator says: But still the land sings and not just a singing, but louder, stronger, I tell you, every month it gets easier to hear. Becauselistenwhen everything is losing, everything is lightening, the distance between us thins and sheds. This is what loss gives. In these delicate, sharp, and beautiful, these brilliant unraveling days (262). The land, the mountains, the forest trees are to an Appalachian the hearts core; they are the sab that soothes. Other stories in the collection focus on the people and character of this complex landscape, a terrain that both smothers and blocks the light even as it offers light. However, the first and last stories are central to the collection. Both are a tour de force in point of view, with Pancake completely absorbed into the two characters through whom we see the narratives unfolda young nominally engaged college student of In such Light and a three-year-old little boy caught in the drug-haze of his troubled father in Me and My Daddy Listen to Bob Marley. The latter is a sad story of a child caught in the despair of adults lost to opioids and methamphetamine addiction that has profoundly affected the region. Mish, or Matthew as he is named though unable to pronounce his name, is at the mercy of his recalcitrant father who keeps him on Saturdays and Sundaysjobless, meth-bound, and captive of his own incompetence, this father says he loves his son, but Mishs life is bleak. The reader follows Mish and his father throughout the evening as Dad drops into a drug party, ignores the boy, and then threatens him if he tells! We see the evening with Daddy through the eyes of a little boy who cant speak well but the reader understands at the end of the tale that one day Mish will tell his story, as must we all. His only solace at this point in his sad young life are his superhero action figures, Spiderman and Hulk, his men whom he needs always with him . . . and the music of Bob Marleysmall fare and small solace for such a small person. At the end of the tale, Mish (Matthew) rises from the bed of his father, struggling to pronounce his namehis life inconsequential, inarticulate, barely even acknowledged: Mish drops down one step. He tries again. Ma. Foo. One more step, and he tries it quick, all run together, a little spit flying, Ma-foo. He blows out his breath, knocks his head gently against the wall, and descends another step. And this time he doesnt even try. He just opens his mouth. Matthew. . . . Matthew. Matthew, once for each cold stair, until he steps into the room where all his men wait. (288-89) Thus, a little boy finds a glimmer of light, while an epiphany is revealed in the novella In Such Lightboth tales not without hope. Janie, the protagonist in In Such Light, is a nominally engaged college student spending her summer vacation with grandparents in 1983her grandparents among the very few people in the world who loved her. Janie knows as well that her grandparents were the only ones who saw her not as she was, but as she could be, yet she could not stop being as she was (24). Yet Janie is someone without a centerfresh from a case of mono and a semi-wasted life at college, teetering on the edge of expulsion. Janie applies for a job as popcorn girl at the once opulent but fading Alexander Henry Movie Theater, an old concert hall languishing in shabbiness and decay, as is Janie herself and her friends. Janie spends most of her time hanging and drinking with her mentally disabled Uncle Billy, as well as her biker neighbor Nathan, son of teacher parents who have finally found him a regular job as a bank teller that he hates. Nathan spends most of his time tinkering with his motorcyclehis claim to fame riding around with county with girlfriend Melissa seated behind him, living an illusory easy rider life, so he thinks. When Nathan and Melissa break up, Janie takes her place on back of his motorcyclethough clearly this is a relationship going nowhere, spinning its wheels through the fog of marijuana, movies, and dearth of ambition. Throughout the story Pancake plays with light images and shades of light and the idea of enlightenment, with light and mirrors reflecting the fearful and sad lives of these young people without vision other than illusion. Nathan and Janie have nothing in common but hollow sex, boring days, and a relationship without any real connection or meaning, though Janie convinces herself that riding on the back of Nathans cycle suffices for a relationship: She loved that on the bike, she didnt have to talk, didnt even have to look at or be looked at by him. Them just hurtling forward, her straddling his hips, the bulk of his jacket against her cheek, the smell of his clean neck, his back to her always. Her riding not just the bike, but his back (17). It is also clear that Nathans tough biker faade is a ruse, which his soft bankers hands (22) belie. Another thing he cannot reconcile is his old girlfriend Melissas moving on. As for Janie, the only person she really feels comfortable talking with is Uncle Billy, who lives another sort of delusion or fog. The drugs mask their pain, and Janie has some understanding that the drugs, the alcohol, had never really dissolved barriers, never brought her closer to others. They just generated an insulation whose padded distance made her feel safe enough to make believe intimacy (55). As the summer wanes and Janie begins to see a Nathan more fearful and lost than rebellious biker, and as she plans to break off their relationship that never was, she has the opportunity to tour the faded Alexander Henry Theater where she works, following fellow worker Ronnie and two sorority girls through the dimly lit underbelly of the old theater. As downtown Remingtons afternoon wanes, the group follows Ronnies flashlight through the winding maze of the theater. Through the natural light and into the artificial light of the abandoned dressing rooms where actors dressed for their parts (68), they enter finally into the basement, which Ronnie says saves the best for last. Janie doesnt want to leave this room and separates herself from the others whose voices finally recede through the distant maze of rooms leaving her alone to confront herself. It is at this point that she sees the mirror, different from all the others: This mirror looked back. It framed Janies red-smocked torso, cut her off at her neck. Abruptly, Janie stooped . . . scanned the mirrors whole surface. And finally the fear flared, but Janie didnt turn away. The mirror held just her. And to see ones face in such glass, in such light (70). The glimpse provides both her epiphany and perhaps . . . her hope. In her most recent interview this spring with Jeffrey Williams, Pancake talked about how grateful she feels to have returned to West Virginia, to teach these students whom I adore. It far exceeds anything I expected (108). She has also said recently that she wants her writing to be more hope-filled. Yet, the autocultural quality of her work presents challenges for a writer such as she. It is hard not to reflect negatively on the state of affairs in the wake of the post pandemic and post political traumas of the past several years. In many ways, Pancake finds Appalachia to be a microcosm for the globe, certainly for the country; and her own family she sees as a microcosm as well, reflecting the myriad challenges facing families today. She told James West a few years ago that she has been obsessed with this place she has witnessed all her life, a place she loves that is now being destroyed. She told West that while Appalachia has always been called backwards, . . . in the last couple of decades, the rest of the country has caught upthat is, caught up with the devastation to our natural environment, as well as the demise of our political environment and social and civic discourse. In her discussion with West, Pancake posed this question: How do we live well while natural places and beings are being annihilated at an unprecedented rate? In the past several years, she has expanded this question to encompass our own mental well-being in a world where things fall part. Contrary to the norm with most writers who usually begin with the autobiographical and become more universal over time, Ann Pancake, in these latter days, has said she will turn in her next book to the autobiographical in order to find within her own family and life an emblem for us all. These latter days for Ann Pancake, as she turns her full attention away from teaching to writing, find her home in rural West Virginia, where she lives with her partner Caitlin Sullivan. This new book she is writing will be well worth the wait. Works Cited Gipe, Robert. Me and My Daddy Listen to Bob Marley. Review in Appalachian Journal (Fall 2015, Winter 2016): 129-132. __________. Straddling Two Worlds: An Interview with Ann Pancake. Appalachian Journal (winter/spring, 2011): 170-73. Houser, Heather. Knowledge Work and the Commons in Barbara Kingsolvers and Ann Pancakes Appalachia. Modern Fiction Studies 63 (Spring 2017): 95-115. Ledford, Katherine E. Stories of Place: Appalachian Literature as Locus of Environmental and Social Justice. Critical Insights (2017): 20-33. Pancake, Ann. Creative Responses to Worlds Unraveling: The Artist in the 21st Century. The Georgia Review. 67 (Fall 2013): 404-414. ____________. Given Ground. Hanover: Middlebury College Press, 2000. ____________. Me and My Daddy Listen to Bob Marley: Novellas and Stories. Berkeley: Counter Point Press, 2015. ____________. Our Own Kind. Willow Springs 71 (2013).  HYPERLINK "https://inside.ewu.edu/willowspringsmagazine/willow-springs-2013/" https://inside.ewu.edu/willowspringsmagazine/willow-springs-2013/ ____________. Strange as this Weather Has Been. Berkeley: Counter Point Press, 2007. ____________. Tough. Walk Till the Dogs Get Mean: Meditations on the Forbidden from Contemporary Appalachia. Eds. Adrian Blevins and Karen Salyer McElmurray. Athens: Ohio University Press, 2015. Staniscia, Stefania. The Vanishing Landscape of the Southern West Virginia Coalfields. Landscape Journal 41 (Nov 2022): 19-37. Villamarin-Freire, Sara. Discursive Constructions of Waste and Slow Violence in Ann Pancakes Strange as this Weather Has Been. Revisto de Estudies Norteamericanos 26 (2022). Wanat, Matt. Dislocation, Dismemberment, Dystopia: From Cyberpunk to the Fiction of Wendell Berry and Ann Pancake. Journal of the Midwest MLA 48 (Spring 2015): 147-70. West, E. James. Interview. Southern Spaces. 20 May 2017. Williams, Jeffrey J. Politics, the Environment, and the Novel: An Interview with Ann Pancake. Studies in the Novel 55 (Spring 2023): 93-108.      PAGE \* MERGEFORMAT 1 "V    D H _ e ƽscTTEh[hXaCJOJQJaJh[hx? CJOJQJaJh[hy 6CJOJQJaJh[hJ6CJOJQJaJh[hG/CJOJQJaJh< |CJOJQJaJh[hy CJOJQJaJh[ht05CJOJQJaJht05OJQJht0ht05OJQJht0hx? 5CJ OJQJaJ ht05CJ OJQJaJ ht0ht05CJ OJQJaJ ;a ((N146:ACRKPPX`i jodhgd`E$dh^a$gd`E$dh`a$gd`E $dha$gd`E$a$gdb$  4 = > A B H Y q r t u v 񸩸|֋mma||Rh[hSCJOJQJaJhe" CJOJQJaJh[hJCJOJQJaJh[hdn=CJOJQJaJh[hXaCJOJQJaJh[h.CJOJQJaJh[hx? 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