Hillbilly Soaps

In talking about reviews yesterday, as I was looking through them and responding to new ones, I ran back across one from a fella who I’m assuming was trying to offend me. He didn’t offend me when he called my soap “Hillbilly Soaps”.

That’s what I am; I’m not ashamed of it. I live right in the heart of Appalachia; I can be on the Appalachian Trail within minutes. My people come from the Appalachian Mountains of Western North Carolina. It’s beautiful here. I wouldn’t trade living in these mountains for anything. It’s home. And I am proud of it.

The mountains here are vast, rugged, and lush. You can get lost in them or you can lose yourself in them. The creeks and rivers run ice-cold and are full of crawdads and specked trout. Old split rail fences stretch like fingers locking together like the tight-knit communities back in the valleys, hollars, and hidden coves. It’s a place where children run free, looking for the best wooden rifle they can find, building forts, and making mudpies for supper. It’s where the banjo sings and the fiddle dances. It’s full of people who believe in God and Guns, and if you’re an outsider, you better approach cautiously. These mountains hold secrets and rich history. It’s the place where tall oak trees wave in the wind and katydids sing you to sleep.

These mountains are my home, this is my America, and I am proud to be a hillbilly in it. Whatever your America is, be proud of that. I can tell you being a part of my America is far greater than anything that fella is a part of.

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