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the lure and lore of the porch
at the Appalachian Writers Workshop in Hindman, Kentucky

by Susan Lefler


The traditional front porch is alive and well at the Hindman Settlement School on the Forks of Troublesome Creek in Hindman, Kentucky. Director Mike Mullins has seen to that. And when writers gather for the Appalachian Writers Workshop each summer, the porches come alive. However, initiation into the lore of the porch (what a long-time workshop participant refers to as the “spirit of the porches”) takes a bit of investigation.

The first year, I roomed in the dorm which, as everyone knows, offers the advantage of such close quarters that you get to know your roommates extremely well. My bunkmate that first summer was poet and children’s author Sandy Dutton and we were both newcomers to the workshop. We could see immediately that the various porches served different functions, but it took a few days to decipher the subtle distinctions among them (or even to find them all).
We immediately discovered the expansive porch outside the dining hall with its picnic tables and rocking chairs. Imagine yourself coming from the kitchen, having helped to scrape and wash dishes and wipe tables, side by side with writers you’ve long admired. There in front of your very eyes, sits Lee Smith, her head thrown back laughing. She’s probably just told some irresistibly funny story like the one in Hal Crowther’s Cathedrals of Kudzu about Lee’s very Southern mother saying: “Honey, I’m so exhausted. I’ve had three men in the yard all day.” Nearby, Hal or Jonathan Greene may be holding forth with a group of students gathered around them.

We saw some smokers gathered on the smaller porch at the dining hall’s main entrance. There, conversation may turn to what went on in workshops or to discussion of a striking poem or story someone heard at an afternoon or evening reading [non-smokers also welcome].

But it was not until about halfway through the week that Sandy and I discovered the “porch at the top.” High on the hill, it leans out over the settlement school like an old aunt, always waiting to greet you no matter how seldom you visit. The porch on the mountain has a little edge to it, a unique perspective to offer. For one thing, by the time you’ve migrated from Betty Smith’s evening singing up to this porch, you know you’ve gotten some place. The hill is steep and Mike has once again made several speeches about the snakes just recently observed, and how they especially enjoy warm pavement at night. You arrive a bit breathless to find people reared back on straight chairs or sitting on porch railings. Silas House probably has his CD player going and there are several coolers lurking about. There is probably no funnier group of people on earth than a bunch of writers once they get really freed up. And since these people tell stories for a living, this is your chance to hear the best ones for free. Some poet like Dick Hague will be telling a wild tale (perhaps from their own past). Or Silas will tell the story of the fancy critic who insisted in a snooty review of Clay’s Quilt that its author could not possibly have visited Lily, Kentucky (the place Silas has lived his whole life). Or someone will relate an incident from their class time, some memorable opportunity for interaction and growth. Like the story of one blustery day when poet Cathy Smith Bowers was standing in front of her class with an open umbrella as she explained how the word was literally “little shadow.” At that moment, who should come dripping into the room but her distinguished co-teacher, poet George Ella Lyon dressed to the nines from head to foot in black garbage bags. It was a moment to remember. Metaphors will never be the same again. They are very much alive and very, very funny.

Another vital fact is that much of the best porch talk “at the top” happens in the dark. It reminds me of Ishmael and Queequeg and their “confidential disclosures between friends.” Some magic begins to happen, something to do with the crow’s nest feel, the lateness of evening, and the leveling of darkness. It is suddenly easier to talk back and forth about writing, about dreams and hopes.

Canadian poet Don McKay calls the porch “the ear of the house” and says that “its job is to induce ‘dwelling.’” “Dwelling” and “ear” describe perfectly what occurs on those Hindman porches. McKay also talks about the porch as a transition place between what goes on inside the building and what occurs in the outside world. The porch becomes a place to pause, to sort things out before entering the house or as you leave it. A porch somehow causes time to behave in a different way. In fact, when you are on a porch at Hindman, time often seems to stop.

A given at Hindman is that writers who come there want other writers to succeed, and the porches serve as perfect vehicles for constant rich encounters. The encouragement I have been given by fellow writers has many times kept me going, whether it is a shared confession (such as their favorite rejection letter) or a tip about not giving up. Poet Dory Hudspeth, for instance, told me last summer that one of her poems which had been rejected 80 times had just received in international award from the Atlanta Poetry Review. How could I possibly resist advice from a woman whose t-shirt says: “Some days it’s just not worth chewing through the restraints.”

The workshop has continued to draw strong faculty and to encourage young writers who go on to become known. But it is not only the fact that the faculty is skilled or famous that makes Hindman unique. Its unique strengths are also derived from the welcoming into the family that occurs year after year. Participants come who are experienced, published writers. But beginners also come, and there is a commonality among students and faculty. They eat together, walk back and forth to class together, and, of course, hang out on porches. Together they set up the dining hall for meals and clean up afterwards. It’s hard to put someone on a pedestal who’s scraping dirty dishes beside you while dressed in a plastic apron. Everyone is included in the singing and dancing and talking that goes on at night.

A recent innovation at Hindman which must not go unmentioned is Mike Mullins’ “Reading Room.” In an effort to accommodate the truly committed late night crowd, Mike erected a tent for the 2004 workshop near the banks of Troublesome Creek and named it The Reading Room. Within the tent, Mike placed tables and chairs to encourage quiet meditation. And yes, it looks just like a revival tent, and yes, large portions of Jim Wayne Miller’s Brier Sermon were proclaimed by editor George Brosi to great effect that summer. This is an example of a tradition known at Hindman as a “swarp or sworp,” defined as a party where it is okay to interrupt and ask that everybody listen to you read. However, as we learned late one night when a young writer declaimed an endless story that apparently was made up on the spot, you had better not go on too long or the audience will crawl, one by one, out from under the tent. It must be added that, although the tent was much visited, it is really not an adequate porch substitute. A tent is more destination than transition place, and loses some of the timelessness and spontaneity that distinguish a porch.

The energy set loose during the Hindman Workshop has a mystical quality. The schedule is such that you can attend more than one class during a day, and the conversation extends seamlessly from classroom to lecture hall, from dining room to porch. Year after year, I find that the messages I most need to hear for my work come at me from all directions. I come away with a clarity and a sense of direction that I carry with me until the next time. As Silas House writes in Parchment of Leaves, “It’s God moving through.”

Investigate porches on the internet and you will find an entry on The American Front Porch as a Cultural Object which includes a section on the “decline of the front porch.” But take heart, dear reader. The front porch remains a cherished icon at Hindman. Mutual support is the norm at the workshop and porches certainly play their part in it. Hindman’s porches offer spaces where a community of people who have come to think of themselves as family can gather to reminisce, to support each other, to celebrate the words that, as James Still said, “blossom in the throat”. All you have to do is take a brief time away from walking in the world and make the choice to cross over Troublesome and have a seat on the porch.