Sherry Chandler

Vivamus, mea Lesbia, atque amemus,
rumoresque senum sevioriorum
omnes unius aestimemus assis!
soles occidere et redire possunt;
nobis, cum semel occidit brevis lux,
nos est perpetua una dormienda.
da mi basia mille, deinde centum,
dein mille altera, dein secunda centum,
deinde usque altera mille, deinde centum;
dein, cum milia multa fecerimus,
conturbabimus, illa ne sciamus,
aut ne quis malus invidere possit
cum tantum sciat esse basiorum.

Let us live, Lesbia mine, and let’s love
and let’s assess all the murmurs of severe old men
to be as devalued as a single as!
Suns are potent, they fall and rise again;
when once our brief light falls from us
night is one whole, perpetual, ripe only for sleep.
give me a thousand kisses, and then a hundred,
then another thousand, a following hundred,
then yet another thousand, then–a hundred;
then when we’ve achieved multitudes of thousands,
we’ll shred our files, so even we could not know,
lest any might witch with their evil eye
by knowing the sum of our kisses.

Curious how certain phonemes betray their sempiternality. Deinde/dein/then ain’t no co-inky-dink. It becomes obvious kin with the “poetic” form dein. All are alleged to derive from the ur-form of the pronoun to in the Indo-European mother tongue, Whoever She may have been.

When Rome was a brash young pup and went about in short pants scrumping the Osco-Umbrians’ apples, the Etruscan’s treasures and any loose Sabine virgins the as was a whole pound of copper. With constant devaluation its value was finally fixed about 190 BCE at 1/2 oz–a “penny.”

Happy anniversary, Sherry. We won’t say how many, and so may we avert the evil eye.

Before I leave the subject of Hindman, I need to say that my trip there was made possible because I received professional development funding through the Kentucky Arts Council, a state agency in the Commerce Cabinet, supported by state tax dollars and federal funding from the National Endowment for the Arts, which believes that a great nation deserves great art.

My sidekick Georgia and I (and I promise that this is the end of that joke) have been having this ongoing discussion that almost verges over into argument, though we would never let it do that. The subject of this disagreement is whether a writer from the northern reaches of the Kentucky River, where it comes out of the Palisades and makes its end run from Frankfort to Carrollton, can be as Appalachian as a writer from the environs of its headwaters at Troublesome Creek.

Georgia says where else in this region do you turn if you are a writer about agrarian culture of a certain period? Mores and morals were not that different. Besides, the Appalachian writers are quick enough to claim Wendell Berry, who comes from the same stretch of the river we do, only even further west.

But I say it’s not a matter of choice. Though I may write about my roots in Kentucky farm country, whether by nature or nurture, there is some small difference in tone or attitude that keeps me from being Appalachian. To be Appalachian is a state of mind, perhaps, not a fact of geography. For proof I cite that I have never had the least hint of acceptance for my work by any publication of Appalachian literature. (In full disclosure, I must say that there are plenty of non-Appalachian magazines that have also never given me the least hint of acceptance for my work.)

When it comes to the Appalachian Writer’s Conference, however, the question is moot. Largely moot. Can moot be qualified?

Although the week was billed as “Bridge to the Past, although it was filled with reminiscences of James Still (who is buried on the campus of Hindman Settlement School where he spent his final days) and Jim Wayne Miller, although it referred itself toward Appalachia, the workshop was actually a gathering of some of the most lively intellects in a region that stretches over about six states and several generations, from Silas House to Lee Maynard I suppose you could say.

The presenters had impressive credentials and publications and were great teachers all, but much of what is valuable at any conference or workshop happens “on the floor,” which is to say among the general mix of conferees. Here, too, credentials were impressive. As Georgia said, practically everybody you talked to was just loaded down with degrees. Ron Houchin was taking workshops, as was Diane Gilliam Fisher (and her mother Hope Gilliam). Among the people I connected with, there was Sam L. Martin, an impressive poet from down around Salt Lick, Vince Tweddell, an aspiring young novelist from Louisville, Jan Watson of Lexington who just got a $50,000 advance on her first novel. I re-connected with Wanda Campbell of Columbia, who has such a wonderful voice, Brooks Carver of Illinois, Jimmy Carl Harris of Birmingham. Jonathan Greene of Gnomen Press dropped in, Charlie Hughes of Wind Publications, Bob Cunningham of Iris Publishing in Oak Ridge. (For a good description of what a week at the AWW is like, I recommend Jim Tomlinson’s journal on the subject from 2003, found here.)

A great place to network, friendly and laid back. Worth the price.

This will be my last post about the AWW. Quotidian concerns are beginning to break into my workshop state of mind. And besides, I just learned that my Oxford American Southern Music issue arrived while I was away. (One of those “Oh! By the way…” moments. Sheesh!) The magazine is published in the Ozarks now and the CD does have a cut by Ricky Skaggs, but by and large it is way too funky and urban to let me keep my spirit in the hills.