Mark S. Collins

I am Appalachian!

I am the Cherokee, the Wataugans, the Scots Irish, the South African and so many more that are as much a part of me as the Mountains themselves. I can be traced back to Spanish Kings and German Queens, but the Appalachians is where I was born. In the dark Coal mines as small boys carried out the Coal their fathers have dug out of the mountains, the father can only look on because it was necessary to survive, always keeping the pain inside so he can keep going. Because knowing that his son, grandson and many generations forward would have a better life than his, this is what keeps him alive. My family and friends who were ripped away from me by the soldiers, to be taken to a strange place they call Oklahoma; I lost them all on the trail of tears. I wore Blue and my Brother wore Gray damn that war. Potbelly stoves, the cinders left behind and the smell of burning coal. The wetness of the fog as I breathe in the Mountain air in the early morning. Squirrel and Ginseng Hunting high up on the Mountain Ridge, on a rainy day I can smell the wet fur of the deer as they approach and wild turkey cannot hear me walking on the wet leaves. Hunting is not my sport; it is a way of life and a way to feed my family.