How to say "Appalachia"

It remains perhaps the most bonafide way by which I can immediately discern whether one is a true native of these hills or not; how someone prounounces the word “Appalachia".

And if you don’t know what I’m talking about, then you likely ain’t from these here parts.

While hiking our local hills a few years back, my son and I purposely wandered off into a somewhat secluded local Appalachian holler (no, I did not misspell that last word).

As we sauntered up the holler, we were first met by a veritable slew of “No Trespassing” signs. I surmise that these signs probably held about the same amount of print as had been read in books during the previous month by the entirety of the local resident population. (See there … we even poke fun at ourselves, we Appalachian folk do.)

As my son and I walked on (yes, it was a public road) we soon came upon a sign nailed to a telephone pole that read “Beware of Mean Dog.” It was nailed right alongside about half a dozen other “No Trespassing” signs. And they were all nailed facing us, in the direction we were headed.

Public road or not, we had a decision to make.

We faced three choices:

1. Walk six miles back the way we came in.

2. Continue straight on up the narrow mountain road and risk getting chewed on by a dog.

3. Creep across a wobbly, recently washed-out bridge … meander through the woods a bit … then return to the road a little further up.

We chose number three.

Along our way we proceeded to meet a few of the local residents.

The first soul we came upon was working on a rototiller in his garden by the road. We sized him up as we strode by. He seemed to size us up even more quickly. He gave us one glance, then silently offered us the ever-so-subtle-but-socially-powerful “friendly backward tilt of the head” (a sign of universal acknowledgement and acceptance among us local Appalachain folk).

I should also note here that, whether or not they have college diplomas hanging on their walls, the people of Appalachia are every bit as smart as any Harvard graduate.

(If you doubt me … try asking a Harvard graduate to grow their own food, repair their own car, wire their own electricity, and scour the woods for plants and herbs to cure whatever ails them.)

The next soul we set eyes on offered us a ride on up the holler. Appalachian folk are known far and wide for friendliness, even to “outsiders” (long as we don’t think you are “lookin’ down” on us).

My son and I politely declined the kind offer of aid (which is something you’ve got to be careful about around real Appalachian folk, for declining an offer of help can be taken as an “I’m better than you” type slight).

So my son and I offered the honest excuse that we had “already set our minds to just foller the creek on up the holler.”

Honesty is appreciated everywhere, but perhaps nowhere more than in Appalachia. These folk don’t take well to bein’ “taken” or “lied to”.

At one point, we passed two elementary school-aged boys wrestling on a cliff above the road. Yes, I need to type the last part of that last sentence again; “two boys were wrestling on a cliff above the road”.

One boy yelled down, “Where y’all goin’?”

I yelled back up, “To find us a big ol’ bear to wrestle!”

With that one statement, the boys surmised full well that we were “one of them”. We had plainly acknowledged our exuberant acceptance of their rowdy lifestyle, all while throwing in a humorous reference regarding a favorite local critter.

We Appalachian natives love humor. Especially the kind you “gotta think on lightin’ fast” to get. We mountain folk maintain a quick-witted culture … contrary to what outsiders may have heard tell about us.

The final soul we came across in this particular holler happened to be mowing a lawn. She appeared quite surprised to see us moseying along the road, so she promptly ceased her mowing to walk over and jaw with us a bit.

My son and I bragged plum to the hilltops to this good lady regarding her lawn.

No, not a fake brag. Appalachian people can smell fake quicker than you can wink an eye.

It really was as nicely kept as any country club lawn I’ve ever gazed upon … and perhaps even more proudly and tenderly tended.

The last home in the holler displayed in plain sight for God and everybody to see a life-sized replica of a self-carved Bigfoot grinning buck naked on their front lawn. I had to take a good long gander to differentiate the shaggy primate from some of the locals who stood nearby. (Dang it! There I go again … poking fun at my own people.)

And as long as it’s ourselves we’re pokin’ fun at, we actually kinda like and respect it. It’s kind of an unwritten brand of friendship.

We just don’t much like “outsiders” pokin’ fun at us.

Because they get it wrong.

Every. Single. Time.

Much like they do when they try to say the name of this beautifully wild region of authentically true and independent people.

So … just for the record … if you want to feel right at home with us, don’t mispronounce our homeland.

Don’t say “Appa-LAY-shuh.”

Say … “Appa-LATCH-uh”.