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WAS REMINDED this week of a trip took several years ago along a narrow two-lane highway in eastern Kentucky. Traveling these roads always reminds me of childhood trips my family took from Ohio back home to Caney Creek and the cradling safety of the tightly cloistered Appalachians where was born. On this trip, was going to visit Janet, a teacher in what remained of a once-booming coal town tucked into a hollow several miles--and two mountains--from a town large enough to support three motels, a Dollar Store, and a United Mine Workers union hall. My MapQuest directions allotted an hour for the 50-mile drive from the interstate to the school. But knew those miles would be longer and slower than the computer could estimate. It was autumn, and the old-growth forest that survives on those mountainsides had turned from the summer's lush green to every shade of orange, red, gold, and brown. was accustomed to winding roads, but knew that would have to keep a sharp eye on this one. The state road twists precariously close to the mountain's edge and back between narrow passages created by the dynamite blasts necessary to build roads through the massive boulders jutting from the mountainside. As started up the last mountain, it was raining, was behind a coal truck, and fog had reduced visibility to less than a car's length. When my nerves had frayed almost beyond rational thought and my knuckles seemed to have turned permanently white, the road began to level, at least momentarily, and the turnoff to Janet's town came into sight. After a mile, the road took a sharp twist and turned downward into a narrow valley, and the town came into view. The remnants of coal company houses perched along the hillside and the boarded-up buildings along the narrow flat strip of land that led to the creek made it easy to imagine the bustling coal town that existed during the boom days, a boom long past years before Janet was born. drove down Main Street to the school and parked my car in the lot across the street. The building was old, probably built during the Forties' coal boom. crossed the street and walked up the steps to the heavy double door. With each step felt the indentations worn into the bricks by the footsteps of generations of children who had entered the school through this doorway. Inside, found my way to the science classroom. A once state-of-the-art science demonstration table sat at center front. Before it were 36 desks and chairs. In this space, Janet taught science and social studies during the seven 50-minute class periods that make up the school day. Janet and her students had invited me to visit their Earth science class. With very few materials available, Janet had found ways to use the hills and valleys surrounding her school as a learning laboratory. The evidence of the students' work--collections of fossils, animal life, and plant specimens; hand-drawn maps of the region's watershed; research reports; and numerous other projects --lined the window ledges and classroom walls. Talking with these children was almost overwhelming. Their knowledge seemed encyclopedic, and their ability to explain the ways that what they were learning would help them meet Kentucky's rigid state standards was more than impressive. Like many children of cultural minorities, Appalachian children often accept the stereotypes that the larger culture assigns them. But not in this class. One child told me that he used to think that being from the mountains was pretty bad, but now, he said, I think it is cool. This is a good place. As left and headed back across the mountain, was amazed by what I'd seen in that little school. It was only after I'd driven several miles that thought about the role Janet had played during the day. Everything had been about the children--their story, their presentation, their learning. She had all but disappeared into the background. And during our discussions, she had heaped high praise on her students--they had done a great job, almost in spite of her bumblings. …
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