"When you lay on a summers day,
in a bright and sunny place,
don't look up into the skies,
instead look down and squint your eyes,
Squint them both so very tight
if you look with all your might,
you'll see a land of more than small,
and in this land are bugs, that's all".

        This little poem, with words changed for the seasons, is the introduction to every Bugg Book written by Stephen Cosgrove. I read them to Josh when he was a baby until he started school. Then I read them to Kevin and every child I could possibly read them to thereafter. Each Bugg Book is about a different Bugg with unique concerns, each with a positive way to solve those problems. For short, they are my very favorite children's books.
     "They will make great stories to tell", I thought. "they have all the qualities that make a live story" So I sent the author, Stephen Cosgrove, a message simply asking for permission to tell his stories. I never expected to hear from him. But, I did. About ten minutes after sending the e-mail I got a phone call.
     "It's Stephen for you, Gwenda", Sue said.
      Stphen? Stephen? I tried to get a picture of who Stephen might be so I would know what topic I would be talking about. Never in my wildest dreams did I expect Stephen Cosgrove to call me but he did!!!
      "This is like a rock star calling a teen-ager!" I said to him.
       He laughed.
       I told him my story about his books.
      "Yes, you do have permission to tell the Bugg Books. If you ever have a live performance recording or a voice recording, for that matter, I would like a snippet for my WEB site".
      That had to be one of the greatest phone calls ever. I'm reading Bugg Books every chance I get and remembering the great times I had reading them to my boys. Thank You Stephen Cosgrove.

      My very favorite author is Garry Barker. His "Head of the Holler" essays (stories) are written with words that make you a part of the story. My favorite book is Mitchell Tolle, American Artist.  Garry gave me a copy of the book when it was released.  Recently I made another request to Garry's daughter, Beth Fearin.  I asked if I could tell some of Garry's work as stories. She said Yes! I'm now reading Garry's work again. I wrote the following story about Garry several years ago. It tells about a rocky start between two people who became very good friends. Here's hoping you enjoy it.

GARRY BARKER
November 26, 1943 - July 12, 1011  

            Garry Barker is referred to as an Appalachian Author. Perhaps the title refers to a person whose roots grow deep in a region misunderstood by the rest of our country.  Perhaps it’s because Garry has spent a life time writing essays and books about his homeland. 

            I learned from Garry that even though you have the knowledge, you don’t have to use large words to write beautiful stories drenched with feeling.

            My friendship with Garry and love for his writing grew from an awkward situation that sent chaos throughout our tight knit community. Garry says “it set off an uproar that still echoes off some of the cliffs and hillsides”.

At a 1992 conference in Lexington, I picked up a copy of Appalachian Heritage, a magazine published by Berea College. That day I read Garry Barker’s writing for the first time. My heart ached as I read his vivid description of a local funeral. The lives of three young men, who refused city water because they had a good source, were snatched away when methane gas filled the wells they were cleaning.

Garry’s depiction of faded creased jeans and cowboy boots was perfect. He didn’t miss an ironed pleat or a faded wrinkle. He told how the women looked older than their years caused by too much hard work in the sun and birthing too many babies. Disgust spread through my body.     

I brought the article home for friends to read not realizing it would be distributed throughout our community, even to the heartbroken families of the three young men. 

The librarian pulled Garry’s books from the shelf. The newspaper was filled with disturbing tirades disclaiming Garry and demanding justice.  Garry wrote apologies to the newspaper, he called people and apologized. Nothing worked. 

The newly formed tourism council was in dire need of some positive press and encouragement.  I wondered if Garry could mend a broken community using the power of beautiful words. I had to ask for his help.“Please hold” she said.

 My heart was beating in my throat. My fingers were numb from squeezing the phone too hard and my head pounded from pressing the receiver tight against my ear. My mind was ablaze with what-ifs? What if he yells at me? What if he slams the phone down without talking? What if I stutter? Then I heard “Garry Barker”. For once in my life, I was speechless.  “Hello” he said as if there was no one there.

“Hello, this is Gwenda Adkins in Elliott County” tumbled out.

Silence.

“Will you to write some positive stories about Elliott County for the media.”

 “Are you sure it’s me you want” he asked with a skeptical laugh.

 Instead of a mean hateful voice, I heard country twang with long drawn out words. After our conversation and a promise that he wouldn’t be shot or hung or tarred and feathered and that I would escort him to the county line, he agreed to help.

            The long lanky body that climbed out of the tiny red car was garnished with a

 

weathered face and topped with a black floppy hat. My tensions disappeared.  

       I was Garry’s escort that day. He interviewed artists, crafters, musicians and community activists. Then I had the chance to ask my one burning question, “Why”? Garry explained. I understood.  Garry and I talked until well past midnight. When he left I knew we would be lifelong friends.

“There is no more beautiful drive in all of Appalachia than the dramatic plunge from a ridge top road into the pristine gorge that runs through the heart of Elliott County,” were the first words Garry wrote about his native land. Original essays with brilliant images covered every aspect of our people and natural beauty. Suddenly, Elliott County was featured in regional and national magazines. Then boldly in his Lexington Herald article Garry asked the governor “Is anybody listening”. Finally positive images of Elliott Kentucky graced the front page of the Lexington Herald. Soon grant proposals were funded and we were on a path of never looking back. Garry built a bridge that reconnected him with his family and our community.

          Perhaps age and experience casts a softer light on life’s stories. Garry’s article that created havoc is quiet factual. Although I still believe the topic was in poor taste, I now appreciate the words he wrote. Many times I wished that I had never seen it, but if I had not, I would never have met Garry.