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The House on Hazel Mountain

The House on Hazel Mountain Michael Kiser Appalachian Heritage, Volume 18, Number 1, Winter 1990, pp. 16-17 (Article) Published by The University of North Carolina Press DOI: https://doi.org/10.1353/aph.1990.0000 For additional information about this article https://muse.jhu.edu/article/438255/summary Access provided at 19 Feb 2020 21:33 GMT from JHU Libraries «ja^The House ¿¿ff ***** as*9 .+'«W T* 0** Hazel Mountain ^V**, .»¦»¦ by Michael Kiser The house where my father was born there are the unmistakable signs of the stands empty and alone, as it has for passage of time. Paint peels from the some years, at the crest of Hazel Moun- white pillars in curled dry flakes and the tain. No one visits much anymore, chain that holds the porch swing has except for the few members of my fam- long since rusted. But whenever I pass ily who have, like me, moved away. I through the unlocked door, I can't help move through the empty rooms in si- but feel that everyone has just stepped lence, paying homage to a time lost, a out, that my grandmother will return at feeling that has escaped me. Outside, any minute with an apron full of apples 16 from the mountains in search of a better from the tree http://www.deepdyve.com/assets/images/DeepDyve-Logo-lg.png Appalachian Review University of North Carolina Press

The House on Hazel Mountain

Kiser, Michael.
Appalachian Review , Volume 18 (1) – Jan 8, 2014
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Publisher
University of North Carolina Press
Copyright
Copyright © Berea College
ISSN
2692-9244
eISSN
2692-9287

Abstract

Michael Kiser Appalachian Heritage, Volume 18, Number 1, Winter 1990, pp. 16-17 (Article) Published by The University of North Carolina Press DOI: https://doi.org/10.1353/aph.1990.0000 For additional information about this article https://muse.jhu.edu/article/438255/summary Access provided at 19 Feb 2020 21:33 GMT from JHU Libraries «ja^The House ¿¿ff ***** as*9 .+'«W T* 0** Hazel Mountain ^V**, .»¦»¦ by Michael Kiser The house where my father was born there are the unmistakable signs of the stands empty and alone, as it has for passage of time. Paint peels from the some years, at the crest of Hazel Moun- white pillars in curled dry flakes and the tain. No one visits much anymore, chain that holds the porch swing has except for the few members of my fam- long since rusted. But whenever I pass ily who have, like me, moved away. I through the unlocked door, I can't help move through the empty rooms in si- but feel that everyone has just stepped lence, paying homage to a time lost, a out, that my grandmother will return at feeling that has escaped me. Outside, any minute with an apron full of apples 16 from the mountains in search of a better from the tree

Journal

Appalachian Review – University of North Carolina Press

Published: Jan 8, 2014

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