Heirlooms and Ghosts: The Living Heart of Appalachia

All around my home, there are items handed down—pieces of milk glass rest behind the glass of the old China cabinet. A patchwork quilt lies folded at the foot of the bed. The spinning wheel sits quietly in the corner. Each one made by hands that have long since done their last work on this earth. All around me are echoes of the generations before me. Mamaw’s biscuit cutter still presses through dough, feeding her babies even now. My home is no different than the others tucked into these Appalachian hills. Every corner holds a ghost, a whisper of someone long gone. We cling to these simple things, still breathing in the scent that lingers, soft, stubborn, and familiar.

To someone winding their way through the back roads of these hills and hollers, it might feel as if time’s slowed down—or even stood still. Like here, the clock hands move differently. Old cars still line the drive. Clothes still hang on the line. Kids still drink from the hose in the summertime. The rest of the world may have moved on, and folks often say that because we haven’t “kept up,” we must’ve somehow lacked the education to manage it.

But the truth is, here in the mountains we call home, we simply find value in the things the rest of the world seems to have long forgotten. We never had gold to mine or wide-open fields to farm. No, we are mountain people—we live where the land must be toiled, where the soil is stubborn, and the roads are steep. Every place you need to go takes effort. Nothing comes easy or fast. So the ones who came before us learned not to measure their worth in jewels or bank notes. They measured it in resilience. In grit. In the quiet pride of a job done right.

So the things we own were treasured. Not because they were shiny or new, but because they lasted. That quilt across the foot of my bed is made from scraps—stitched around the inner layer of one my granny’s granny made. It’s been mended by five generations of hands, and when the time comes for me to pass it down, I’ll show my own where my stitches are. I’ll tell them the stories. I’ll point out the patch made from an old shirt I loved and explain how it closed a tear that ran clean through. And it’ll carry on. It’ll carry the memory of the spirits before us. But more than that, it will still comfort. It will still keep warm.

After the Great Depression and into the years of World War II, Appalachian families rarely bought anything new. Mending, preserving, and making do weren’t just frugal habits—they were lifelines. So the things that lasted, the things that held up through time and trouble, became more than just objects. They became quiet talismans of a life shaped by perseverance.

That mindset didn’t disappear—it got passed down like a recipe or a warning. Almost every person I know could say, “Daddy’s got a whole building full of things we might need someday.” And it’s true. Scattered across the hills are sheds and barns that stand like old tombstones, filled with rusty hinges, bent nails, scrap wood, and broken things just waiting for a second chance. Most folks would call it junk. But around here, we hold onto what might still have a use. That instinct—saving, repurposing, making do—is as deeply rooted as the biscuit cutter or the family Bible.

Being Appalachian is a little like being green before anyone had a word for it. We bring home what others throw away. We fix what’s broken. We make things work.

But the rest of the world doesn’t always see us the way we see ourselves. They say we have a fatalist mindset—like we’ve already given up because we know it’ll be hard. They think we romanticize poverty, as if clinging to tradition is some kind of refusal to progress. But it isn’t about giving up. It’s about holding on. About making sure something real lasts in a world that throws everything away.

Since the beginning of time, humankind has passed down knowledge, wisdom, and belongings through the generations, always with the hope that those who come after will use them, appreciate them, and remember. Remember where they come from. Because where a person comes from is just as important as where they’re going. The trajectory of a life will depend on both.

These memories are what shape culture. They frame our actions, outline our beliefs. Folk tales passed around front porches, ancient wisdom whispered in kitchens, handmade tools, songs, recipes, and art—all of it weaves into the human condition.

In her essay Folk Tradition and Industrialization in Appalachia, folklorist Jean Haskell Speer reminds us that folklore is far more than quaint superstition or decorative nostalgia. “Folklore is not a sign of the uncultured,” she writes. “Folk tradition is culture.” It’s how values, beliefs, and identity are passed down—not always through words, but through things made by hand, gestures repeated, and rituals of daily life. Speer argues that heirlooms like quilts, baskets, tools, and spinning wheels are forms of folk tradition—what scholars call “material culture”—and they tell stories often more powerfully than any date or document. In Appalachia, especially, where traditions were often preserved outside of formal institutions, these objects became our archives—vessels of memory, love, survival, and change. 

In a world that moves fast and forgets easily, remembering has become a radical act. Holding onto the old ways, the handmade things, the voices that came before—it isn’t weakness. It’s legacy. It’s choosing to believe that what came before still matters, that stories stitched into quilts and carved into wood still shape the people we’re becoming.

So take a moment. Walk through your home. Pick up that old picture frame. Bury your face in the afghan that’s frayed at the edges. Inhale the quiet scent of the past. Pull out the cast iron skillet and fry chicken, not because it’s trendy, but because the flavor was pressed in by the hands of those who fed generations before you. Feel their presence. The weight of all those who came before. Their spirit lingers here, close enough to touch. Say their names, and maybe, just maybe, they’ll answer.

Because in this place, in these hills, the hand that forged the steel or embroidered the tablecloth might still be guiding you. Still whispering beside you. Still living with you. That’s what it means to be Appalachian: to love with a depth that spans generations, to honor what’s still here, and to carry the past not as a burden, but as a blessing. We remember. We endure. And we do it without remorse, without shame.

 Citation

Speer, Jean Haskell. “Folk Tradition and Industrialization in Appalachia.” The Transformation of Life and Labor in Appalachia, edited by Ronald L. Lewis, vol. 2, Journal of the Appalachian Studies Association, Appalachian Consortium Press, 1990, pp. 11–18. Distributed by University of North Carolina Press. Open Access via Appalachian State University,