Heart In The Hills-Head In The Clouds

A Simple Christmas Tradition When I was a kid, I’d often receive a “treat bag” at church around Christmastime. Occasionally, I’d get one somewhere else too—maybe while visiting another church to watch their Christmas play, or at the Masonic Lodge’s Christmas dinner, which I’d sometimes attend with my grandfather and his brother. Inside the Bag These treats wouldn’t be considered spectacular by today’s standards. The bag itself was simply a brown paper lunch sack. It would contain a couple of pieces of fruit, a candy cane, a pack of gum, and maybe a couple of walnuts. Sometimes there’d be a piece of chocolate too. I enjoyed receiving these simple treats, but it was only recently that I learned they are deeply rooted in Appalachian tradition. The “Christmas Poke” The proper name for these “treat bags” is actually  Christmas Poke . Don’t mistake the use of “poke” here as the verb that means to jab someone with your finger. In this case, it is a noun—a Scottish term for a paper bag. Gi...

Every December of my childhood, there was one thing I looked forward to almost as much as Christmas morning itself: the Christmas play at Flemingtown Church. I loved it. Every bit of it. Most years, my role was pretty predictable. I was either a shepherd or a wise man—not because I was especially holy or particularly wise, but because I owned a robe! In a small country church, wardrobe logistics matter! If you had a robe, you were cast. And I had one—so there I stood, year after year, clutching either a staff or a box meant to represent gold, frankincense, or myrrh, trying to look reverent while scanning the congregation for my parents and grandparents. The play was directed by my great aunt, Rita South. While the script varied slightly from year to year, the structure was always the same. It began with the birth of Jesus and ended with the resurrection. Looking back now, that was incredibly powerful. It wasn’t just a Christmas story; it was the whole story . The manger made sense...

A Boy Who Loved the Woods—Just Not the Hunt Given the culture I grew up in, anyone would assume I’d be a devoted hunter. But truth be told, the bug never bit. Fishing, though—that was my world. I spent countless hours on the lake with my great-uncle, Jimmy South, catching bluegill and heading straight back to his house for a feast of fresh fish,  vegetables from his garden, and a hot pone of cornbread.  That was heaven. But in this edition of “Something I’ve Never Told Anyone,” I must confess: at sixteen, I decided to give hunting one honest try. The Thanksgiving Morning Experiment Armed with my dad’s Winchester single-shot 20-gauge, I headed into the sprawling woods behind our house. I was determined to bag a squirrel and prove I could be the kind of hunter my friends bragged about being. The woods were familiar—quiet, peaceful, full of memories—but absolutely devoid of squirrels that morning…until I turned back toward home. Half a mile from the edge of the woods sat my fami...

  Growing up in Clintwood, Virginia during the seventies and eighties felt like living inside a postcard. Everyone knew everyone, the church bells marked the rhythm of the week, and high school sports were the town’s heartbeat. My childhood was full of hayfields that doubled as ballfields, porches crowded with family, and a community that never let a kid go hungry or feel alone. But behind that picture-perfect backdrop, my brother and I watched our father and uncle slowly decline from neurological disease. As Dad’s health worsened, Mom cared for him around the clock while managing her own mother’s needs—and still found a way to give us a normal life. Dad passed away the day before my twenty-first birthday. Five weeks later, Mom was diagnosed with terminal ovarian cancer. She fought for a year before we lost her too. At twenty-two, I stepped into adulthood holding a college degree in one hand and the responsibility of settling my mother’s estate in the other. Grief, paperwork, an...

  Little Eyes Are Watching: A Personal Lesson A Championship Season and a Fifth-Grade Fan In 1979, the Clintwood High School football team claimed its seventh straight Lonesome Pine District Championship. It would be their last outright title until 1987, though they did share the crown with Appalachia in 1984. I was in fifth grade that fall, and I followed the Greenwave and its star players with the kind of devotion only a small-town kid can muster. As I’ve mentioned before, these hometown athletes were heroes to me—larger than life—and sports were the center of my world. An Early Arrival and an Unforgettable Moment I vividly remember something that happened prior to a game during that season. It was bright and sunny, so I originally wanted to say that it was a Saturday playoff game, but my brain is telling me that it was an early regular season game, when the sun was still setting later in the evening. Doesn't really matter! The lesson is the same.  My buddies and I sho...

  The Best Teacher I Know “Okay, here’s a free lesson for you…” When I began officiating college football, former ACC referee Jeff Flanagan took me under his wing and taught me more than anyone else ever has. He invested countless hours in my development, and I’ll never be able to repay him for that generosity. When Jeff teaches at a camp or clinic, young officials hang on his every word. He’s a pharmacist by trade, but would’ve made a phenomenal educator. His delivery is clear and engaging, and his Alabama drawl gives his words an easy sincerity. Jeff often uses film clips of officiating errors to teach lessons—sometimes of others, sometimes of himself. Before every clip, he says the same thing: “Okay, here’s a free lesson for you. I’m showing this for teaching purposes, not to be critical. I’ve provided plenty of free lessons for other officials, and they’ve given me a few too. It all evens out. We’re all here to learn." Those words apply far beyond officiating—they’...