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I Wannabe a Real Mountain Woman Jeannie Reed It is hard enough in this life to "find yourself," and, for me, this search has been a lifelong struggle. It seems I have always been rather certain who I am, but the answer to the question ofwhat I am has been difficult to ascertain. I learned from Daddy's riddle about my sister and me being twinsbut -not-twins (I'm two weeks older than she) that Ann and I were adopted. That knowledge became very useful as my search for myself intensified, for I knew that I could be a long-lost princess, a shoplifted child from a big city who had been dumped in an orphanage in rural Virginia, or even Harriet Nelson's only daughter who had been switched at birth with David or Ricky in a scam that never panned out. My longing to have a perfect family like the ones on television did not make accepting my life any easier. I dreamed of a home in the suburbs with neighbors who came over for tea and coffee. I wanted sidewalks on which to stroll to school. I wanted to see my momma dressed up with pearls around her neck, even if it wasn't Sunday, and I wished my chubby daddy would learn to like cardigan sweaters. It's not that we had an unhappy family, but, somehow, my postmaster daddy who was a pastor of one-room churches at the time and my momma who was a homemaker who grew and canned the fruits and vegetables we ate were a far cry from Ward and June. I grew to despise the stile we crossed to walk to school and, although we did live in a community, there weren't the sidewalks that even Mayberry had. It wasn't like we lived in an Appalachian coal camp, but I wanted to have more culture in my life. I aspired, even as a small person, to one day have that house in the suburbs and go to a multiroomed cathedral and have a husband who wore cardigan sweaters. My early teens fueled my angst with life. My grandparents and their parents and their grandparents had lived forever in Virginia's Carroll and aThe wanna-be-a-local issue is a hot one among the Cherokee and with the influx of 'Floridots' and others in communities near the Blue Ridge Parkway , Skyline Drive, and the Appalachian Trail," writesJeannie Reed, who lives and teaches school in Cherokee, North Carolina. 19 Grayson Counties. Although getting to spend a week each summer as an "only child" with Granddaddy and Granny satisfied my needs for personal attention, I used to hate it when they entertained me. It never failed that my week would fall during the Galax Fiddlers' Convention, and my grandparents would take me to it. I would scan the crowd of hillbillies and wonder if these people had ever heard of John, Paul, George, and Ringo. My connection with the Beatles was strengthened, however, by the fact that Granny had been a Harrison before she married Granddaddy, so, even though I had been adopted, I was legally her grandchild and, consequently, must be George's cousin. I read a lot as a child, and as I read, I dreamed of far-off places with cultural activities and streets. I created characters of myself being in exotic settlements, always trying to do good and be good. But as I read of the Kennedys tromping through the muddied trails of the Appalachian coal-mining areas, I was moved to think that perhaps after I went to college, I might find a city boy who would want to go and help these poor people, especially the children. I even thought I had found my role when I read Catherine Marshall's Christy. I connected in heart and spirit with this young city girl who went to help the mountain people of the Appalachians. I can even remember announcing to my granddaddy that I thought I might like to become a missionary just like Christy Huddleston and save mountain people from themselves. I recall his response, "Honey, I think it's people like us...

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