Folkways Story Archives - West Virginia Public Broadcasting

Poison Ivy Cures Can Be Found In The Woods

For all the products on pharmacy shelves, people still use folk remedies for common ailments. Like the itchy rash that comes from poison ivy. Folkways Reporter Wendy Welch spoke with two health professionals about where folk cures and mainstream medicine overlap.

This story originally aired in the April 27, 2025 episode of Inside Appalachia.

There’s a new breed of herbalist and forager emerging in Appalachia. Health professionals are increasingly incorporating folk cures into medical treatments. Nowhere is that more evident than in dealing with poison ivy.

MaryBeth Babos and Marybeth Mitcham are both scientists who practice folk cures. Babos, a pharmacist, describes herself as a wannabe ethnobotanist. “I started learning about plants when I was in third grade from a library book, and I’ve been loving it ever since.”

MaryBeth Babos, PharmD (left) and Marybeth Mitcham, PhD, are friends, fellow foraged medicine makers and healthcare colleagues.

*Photo Credit: Wendy Welch/West Virginia Public Broadcasting*

Mitcham is also an herbal enthusiast and forager. “I work for George Mason University as an assistant professor at George Mason University and the director of the Master of Public Health Program. I’m an herbal enthusiast and I like to eat plants.”

While traveling together in the same public health circles, they discovered a mutual enthusiasm for making medicines at home. And they have a lot to say about home remedies for one of nature’s scourges: poison ivy.

Babos says when it comes to poison ivy, different people will have different experiences. “I’m blessed that I only get a mild itchy rash. I’ve had poison ivy more times than I could count, but for me, it’s just no worse than a mosquito bite.”

About 80% of people will develop an itchy series of blisters, but about 15% will have a reaction so severe, it resembles chemical burns. Babos says it’s all because of an oil in the plant that contains a chemical called urushiol.

“Urushiol contains free sulfhydryl groups that form covalent bonds with constituents of our skin, and it’s the urushiol bound to our skin that causes our CD 8T cells to react, causing what’s known as a delayed type hypersensitivity.”

In other words, urushiol on your skin will make you itch, so you need to get it off quickly. The fastest way is to wash with soap and water.

But if you’re in the woods, nowhere near soap and water, you can try a few local plants to counteract the urushiol: for instance, jewelweed. It often grows near poison ivy, and is easy to spot.

“Jewelweed is noticeable because it has bright green leaves and it has flowers that are bright orangey yellow,” says Mitcham.

And it is easy to use immediately, adds Babos. “You can squish up the plant – it has kind of a really juicy stalk – and put that juice on the spot that touched the poison ivy, and it may neutralize the urushiol so that you don’t get the rash.”

Another plant that’s been used for centuries is broadleaf plantain. It grows all over Appalachia and many gardeners think of it as a weed. Pluck a leaf, smash it up and rub it on.

Narrowleaf plantain is used the same way as broadleaf plantain to treat poison ivy: smash the plantain leaf and rub the released liquid on the rash to treat it, or the area where poison ivy made contact with skin to prevent a rash from forming.

*Photo Credit: Wendy Welch/West Virginia Public Broadcasting*

Plantain doesn’t die back in winter, which is good, because neither does poison ivy, says Babos. “You can get poison ivy rash in the winter, even in the dead of winter, from contacting the plant.”

Marybeth Mitcham points out poison ivy growing in late October in Haysi, Virginia. Poison ivy continues to be virulent through the winter.

*Photo Credit: Wendy Welch/West Virginia Public Broadcasting*

There is another plant-based option that works in cold weather. Truly desperate hikers can scrub the affected area with oak leaves or the inside of peeled oak bark or witch hazel bark – although it works better to make a potion from these ahead of time and carry it with you, Babos says. “You would boil, soak the acorns and water and get the liquid off. It’ll turn kind of brownish and it’s that liquid that contains the tannins.”

She recommends applying this as soon as you know you’ve touched poison ivy or using it as treatment after the rash appears. The liquid can be preventive or curative.

“If you already have the rash, the sap from the plant will help with the itch, because it’s mildly antihistaminic. It works like an antihistamine,” Babos says.

Don’t worry about breaking the blisters, she adds. “The blisters, if you blister from poison ivy, don’t contain urushiol. They will not make the rash spread.”

Unfortunately, if the oil is still on your skin, you could spread it by scratching.

For most people, Mitcham says, a salve will be the best treatment. She makes one with jewelweed.

“I want it to be very green, very vibrant, and I will gather the leaves, the stems and the flowers, so all [the] top parts of the plant. Then I will bring it home, and I will rinse it under cold, clear water to make sure that I get any buggy passengers off.”

She chops up the jewelweed, stuffs it in a pint jar and pours in a carrier oil.

“A carrier oil is something that’s going to extract the oils that you want from the jewelweed without causing it damage,” Mitcham says. She uses olive oil.

Mitcham seals the jar and simmers it for up to 24 hours in a crockpot. Then she strains out the jewelweed and adds beeswax.

“There you have it. Jewelweed salve 101,” MItcham says.

Native Americans used jewelweed to treat poison ivy, and that knowledge was passed on to early settlers. More recently, academic studies have been conducted supporting many plant-based folk cures. But not everything that’s circulated as a potential home remedy is a good idea, according to Mitcham and Babos. Like bleach.

“I would not personally put bleach on my skin. Not only would it burn, it’s very caustic, and it would cause more damage. It’s generally not a good idea to put bleach on your skin anyway,” Mitcham says.

What about another home treatment, rubbing alcohol?

“Rubbing alcohol topically might help to remove some of the oil, but I don’t know how good it would feel,” Mitcham says.

“Especially if you broke those blisters open, it might burn quite a bit,” Babos adds. She also vetoes another home therapy – butter.

“I worry about … anything occlusive on irritated skin, so butter might be an issue. I just can’t imagine that it would feel good,” she says.

“I’ve heard people using tea bags as a topical applicant,“ Mitcham says, “when it’s cool, of course, because hot tea on a blister is not a good idea.”

While Babos doesn’t believe there would be any harm from a tepid tea bag, she says cold can be much better – as in frozen.

“I do like the concept of jewelweed ice cubes,” she says. “That feels so good when you have that itchy rash.”

A jewelweed ice cube is literally fresh jewelweed frozen into ice cubes and applied directly to the skin. Cold can stop the itch temporarily while the rash heals. But some people try to kill the itch with very hot water, and Babos would like them to stop. “Generally not a good idea to put hot water on a blister.”

If you want to avoid getting a poison ivy rash all together, Mitcham has a piece of advice:

“Remember not to burn poison ivy, because the oils can be carried in the smoke and damage your lungs.”

Another word of caution: “You don’t want to pee in poison ivy,” says Babos. “Been there, done that. You get the rash in some awkward places.”

“And that’s when you’ll want steroids, not jewelweed,” Mitcham adds with a laugh.

In fact, Mitcham says her husband is one of the 15%, the severe reactors. He has to take steroids when he gets poison ivy; the gentler cures of the folk world take longer on those chemical burns. Mitcham also says it’s a good idea when it comes to taking herbal cures to talk to your health care professional, before you do anything, well, rash.

The jewelweed salve recipe Marybeth Mitcham used can be found here.

A song to help identify jewelweed in the wild can be found here.

——

This story is part of the Inside Appalachia Folkways Reporting Project, a partnership with West Virginia Public Broadcasting’s Inside Appalachia. Subscribe to the podcast to hear more stories of Appalachian folklife, arts and culture.

Traditional Music And Traditional Tattoos Live On At The Parlor Room

John Haywood of Whitesburg, Kentucky says he got his first guitar and his first tattoo when he was about 13 years old. These days, Haywood is the proprietor of Parlor Room Art and Tattoo in downtown Whitesburg. It’s a place where some people get inked up … and some play traditional music. It’s a place unlike any other, as Zack Harold reports.

This story originally aired in the March 16, 2025 episode of Inside Appalachia.

As a kid, John Haywood had two loves: art and music. When all his cousins were into sports, Haywood just wanted to draw and play guitar.

He eventually figured out a way to marry his two loves. After all, his favorite rock musicians were covered in tattoos.

“I started drawing tattoos on myself and on my friends with markers and fancy pens. It got to where people would ask me to draw a tattoo on them in school, with just a marker,” Haywood says. “We were so fascinated by it, when the opportunity came to get a real one, we jumped.”

“Real” is a relative term. It was a “real” tattoo in the sense that Haywood still has it. It was little less than real because he got it from a friend’s older brother, using purloined art supplies.

“He used a sewing needle and thread and India ink that I got from my middle school,” Haywood says. “Between the art department and the home ec department I was able to get everything I needed to do a tattoo.”

Haywood’s career as a thief was short-lived. His passion for art was not. He went on to study art at Morehead State University and later in grad school at the University of Louisville.

Once out of school, he was unsure what to do next. That’s when “Big Daddy” Trey Benham offered Haywood an apprenticeship at his tattoo shop in Fort Knox, Kentucky.

The Parlor Room owner and founder John Haywood in his art-covered tattoo shop.

*Photo Credit: Zack Harold/West Virginia Public Broadcasting*

But big city living grew tiresome after a while. Haywood moved back to Eastern Kentucky. He needed to make money, so he started looking for a job as a public school art teacher. Until he had a fateful encounter with another candidate.

“We were actually in line to do the drug test where you pee in a cup and all that,” Haywood remembers. “I was drawing up a design. And a guy said ‘Man, if you can draw and all that stuff, why are you doing all this with us? Having to pee in a cup, having to answer the board of education, hope you’re going to get hired? Why don’t you have your own shop?”

The question stuck with Haywood.

“Why don’t I have my own shop? I was apprenticed under a good tattoo artist who was apprenticed under a great tattoo artist, and there’s really something to that in tattooing,” he says.

So Haywood gave up on the school system. He found a former pharmacy in downtown Whitesburg, Kentucky and opened his own shop — The Parlor Room.

The Parlor Room sits in downtown Whitesburg, Kentucky.

*Photo Credit: Zack Harold/West Virginia Public Broadcasting*

That was 13 years ago. Haywood’s shop has since outgrown its original basement space and now occupies the whole first floor. The walls are covered with an overwhelming amount of art, even by tattoo shop standards.

“The lobby pretty much serves as an art gallery, just to vibe the place up,” he says. “Everybody tends to bring in a lot of the same-old same-old on the Internet. So we try to keep something to get their brains looking at some art or some traditional books and stuff like that.”

Some of the art is Haywood’s. The rest is done by his kids, his friends, his clients and the shop’s other artists. The Parlor Room now boasts five tattooers in all. Two of them are Haywood’s own apprentices.

Watch this special Inside Appalachia Folkways story below:

“You can go online and find someone explaining everything you want to know about this,” Haywood says. “But what you don’t get from that is the importance of learning how to connect with clientele, seeing what they may be going through when they come through the doors.”

The Parlor Room has its own unique way of connecting with clients. Hang around on a slow day and somebody will inevitably pick up one of the many musical instruments laying around the shop. Before long, they’re joined by someone else, thumping on a bass or strumming a guitar. If he doesn’t have a tattoo machine in his hand, Haywood will be right in the middle of this impromptu jam session, picking away on his open back banjo.

Fellow tattooer Russ Griswold thumps on his upright bass and John Haywood plays the banjo as frequent client Brad Centers listens.

*Photo Credit: Zack Harold/West Virginia Public Broadcasting*

Those banjo stylings are the result of another important apprenticeship for Haywood. Around the time he was planning to move back from Louisville, he did an art show here in Whitesburg, selling some paintings.

“I was doing a lot of banjo-y paintings. Like, old timers playing the banjo. At some point I did an art show at Appalshop. George Gibson came by, saw the art show, bought a painting or two and left me with an album of his,” Haywood says.

Haywood had been aware of George Gibson for a while. They kept crossing paths at music festivals. He knew Gibson was both an accomplished banjo player and a historian of the instrument.

Gibson learned to play from his neighbors in Knott County, Kentucky, soaking up a regional traditional banjo style that had largely been forgotten as the instrument became more associated with commercial bluegrass music.

“He would learn a lot of stuff from people that didn’t even own instruments but could play a song or two,” Haywood says.

Gibson later moved to Philadelphia and then Florida, becoming a successful businessman. But his love of the banjo kept him coming back to Kentucky.

When he ran into Haywood at that art show, he saw something in the young artist. And offered him a deal. In exchange for one painting a year, Haywood could live in a house on Gibson’s Knott County property and study banjo with him.

“We never did too many lessons. A lesson would be him telling me these stories about people, or him encouraging me to read some kind of book. Or sometimes me sitting on the porch with him while he played,” Haywood says.

Through these informal lessons, Haywood began to absorb the banjo styles that Gibson had spent his life studying.

Haywood doesn’t just play his banjo between tattoos. He regularly plays gigs and festivals all over Kentucky and beyond. He appeared on Tyler Childers’ gospel album “Can I Take My Hounds to Heaven” and has recorded banjo albums of his own, including one taped right here at the Parlor Room.

While tattoos are usually associated with rock or hip hop music, Haywood sees a strong connection between his study of banjo and his study of tattooing.

“The practice of traditional tattooing is almost exactly like the practice of traditional music. There are designs that were done and executed in the past — say an eagle, done by someone like Sailor Jerry. As a traditional tattooer, when someone wants something like that, I go to that as a reference. I am executing a design that originated maybe over 100 years ago at this point,” Haywood says. “Those are the folk songs.”

A traditional pin up-style tattoo by Haywood on friend and client Brad Center’s forearm.

*Photo Credit: Zack Harold/West Virginia Public Broadcasting*

Whether we’re talking about tattoos or banjo, Haywood is careful who he shares these hard-won lessons with.

“It’s ‘see me now, hear me later,’” Haywood says.

He once had a “sketchy neighbor” who got a tattoo machine from the Internet. The man stopped Haywood in the middle of the road to ask him how the device worked.

“I told him every single thing about it. You’re supposed to keep that secret,” Haywood said. “I told him everything about it, standing in the middle of the road. And said ‘Well, I’ll see you later. I’ve got to go to work.’”

He drove away, leaving the neighbor more confused than when he started.

“There was so much knowledge, he’s not going to understand any of that unless he goes the path of actually trying to figure that out,” Haywood says.

It’s the same thing with the banjo. The stakes are quite a bit lower — nobody’s getting permanently scarred from a bad rendition of “Cluck Old Hen.” But Haywood can’t pass down any of the knowledge he has gleaned from years of study without a willing student.

“It’s not going to even matter. It’s probably going to waste our time unless you’re ready for it,” he says.

Artists like Haywood dedicate years of study to their craft — learning history and technique so they can bring all that knowledge to bear when they’re standing on a stage or jabbing ink into someone’s bicep.

Yet the whole point of all that practice, study and work is to create art of such depth that the uninitiated can appreciate it without a lifetime of study. We don’t need all that knowledge in our heads or our hands, because we can just feel that it’s good.

That’s certainly true with music. Whether you’ve heard the song before or not, whether you know its history or not, when it’s good — you feel it.

Haywood says it’s the same way with tattoos.

“It’s funny what tattooing does for folks. When you put something on someone and they walk out of here, you see them feeling better about something,” Haywood says. “It feels pretty good to know you can do that for someone.”

——

Annual Hot Dog Sale Revives Family Recipe And Fond Memories

For generations, Skeenies Hot Dogs in Sissonville, West Virginia, was known for serving some of the best slaw dogs around. The restaurant closed in 2018 — but still comes alive for the annual Skeenies Tribute Sale. Folkways reporter Zack Harold has this story.

This story originally aired in the March 9, 2025 episode of Inside Appalachia.

Donald White used to be a Skeenies Hot Dogs regular, swinging by in his wrecker on his way to rescue a stranded motorist.

“Everybody would get in my wrecker and they’d say, ‘You ate at Skeenies didn’t you?’” he says. “Because it’s got the smell that nobody else (does). The onions, they stay in your car.”

Then, in March 2018, owner Andy Skeen died of a short illness at just 59 years old. He had no children, leaving his sister Karen as the only one left who knew the family recipe for Skeenies’ legendary chili and slaw.

About a month before her brother passed, Karen asked him about carrying on that legacy.

“He said, ‘No, let it go ahead and die with me,’” Karen says.

Long ago, Andy and Karen’s father — Andy Sr., the restaurant’s founder — sought to make Skeenies a nationwide brand. He eventually had the restaurant franchised in 13 states but found that the bigger the company got, the harder it was to control the quality of the product. So, he yanked the franchise licenses and vowed that only his direct descendants would ever operate Skeenies.

Karen’s brother took over the place when he got older. But at her family’s encouragement, she made a life outside the food business, becoming a successful court reporter.

And even though she would now be the last to carry on that legacy, her brother was adamant that running the restaurant would be too much for her.

“He said, ‘I don’t want you working in here like we did seven days a week, all these hours, worrying all the time with it,’” Karen says.

The Skeenies crewmembers construct their hot dogs on metal fingers that make it easier to slide the paper sleeves over top.

*Photo Credit: Zack Harold/West Virginia Public Broadcasting*

Seeing the restaurant close was hard on fans like Donald White. He would fantasize about pulling in and grabbing a couple of those onion-heavy hotdogs.

“I live right out the road there. I told the old lady all the time, ‘I’m going to stop and get a Skeenies hot dog,’” he says.

It was hard on Karen, too.

“It’s a part of me. It’s an integral part of me,” she says. “And I just felt sad to let it go.”

So she decided she just wouldn’t let it go.

Karen lives in Florida but still comes back to West Virginia each Thanksgiving to see her extended family. So, in the days leading up to Thanksgiving 2022, she made 40 gallons of chili. She chopped 100 pounds of cabbage to make slaw and ordered 2,000 wieners and buns.

On that Black Friday, Karen flicked on the neon “OPEN” sign. The line of customers didn’t end for 10 straight hours.

“We didn’t expect the crowds. We were out of everything the first day,” Karen says. “We were sitting there — what are we going to do? We have to get more hotdogs. We have to get more buns. We have to make more chili.”

She still had one more day of the sale to go. That night, she dispatched her cousins to buy ingredients from local grocery stores. Knowing she couldn’t sling hotdogs for another 10 hours all by herself, Karen also called in reinforcements.

Linda Troup worked for the restaurant for several years in the 2000s, and Karen knew she was one of the best employees they had.

“She messaged me and said, ‘Linda, can you come help?’” Troup says.

The next day, she was right there in the trenches with Karen. Since then, Troup has returned each Thanksgiving weekend to help Karen run the annual Skeenies Tribute Sale.

“This is the best two days for me. It really is,” she says. “I enjoy it. I mean my back is hurting but it’s worth it.”

Karen has recruited a few more helpers through the years, but it remains a skeleton crew. Despite that, they made 3,500 hot dogs during 2024’s two-day sale.

The flood of customers and small staff leads to long days and long lines. But nobody in the kitchen seems to mind.

“We’re all dead,” Karen told West Virginia Public Broadcasting while making hot dogs. “I asked my team about an hour ago, ‘Do you guys think I should do it again next year?’”

The answer was a resounding “yes.”

Karen Skeen keeps her family’s famous “indescribably different” hot dog recipe alive with an annual tribute sale.

*Photo Credit: Zack Harold/West Virginia Public Broadcasting*

They do it for the same reason Karen’s dad was such a stickler for quality. They want to make the customers happy. And despite the long wait, the customers are.

“They wait an hour and a half in the cold, in the snow, and they thank us,” Karen says.

Michael Hutchinson is used to waiting in front of Skeenies. This is where he used to catch the school bus.

“I was into drawing and I drew a race car. She had it taped right here for a lot of years. I put Skeenies on the quarter panel of it,” he says. “So I got free hot dogs every now and again when nobody was around.”

In 2024, Hutchinson brought his 15-year-old daughter Antoinette to have her own Skeenies dog.

“People think it’s a hot dog, it’s more than just a hot dog. You don’t see a line like this at Dairy Queen. It’s childhood coming back,” he says.

Despite the cold, patrons are willing to wait for a taste of Skeenies Hot Dogs.

*Photo Credit: Zack Harold/West Virginia Public Broadcasting*

That’s true for Karen, too.

“When I would come home to visit them, I would come to this restaurant before I went in the house. Because that’s where I would always find them,” she says. “And so when I have these sales, I feel like it’s where I still find them.”

With the sale over, Skeenies sits darkened for another year. There’s nowhere to buy the “indescribably different” slaw dogs advertised on the billboard above the little restaurant.

Karen hopes to bring the restaurant back to life in November. Until then, memories will have to suffice.

——

James Froemel Learns The Art Of Lying

James Froemel‘s journey into storytelling has taken a lifetime. Last year, he worked with author, Liars Competition champ and professional storyteller Bil Lepp to hone his craft. Folkways Reporter Margaret McLeod Leef spoke with Froemel.

This conversation originally aired in the Jan. 26, 2025 episode of Inside Appalachia.

From reciting Emily Dickinson in sixth grade to becoming “the biggest liar in West Virginia,” James Froemel’s journey as a storyteller has been shaped by pivotal moments and mentors. After studying theater and taking a break to focus on family, Froemel discovered professional storytelling through the award-winning performances of Bil Lepp. This sparked a new creative path, leading Froemel to win the Vandalia Gathering’s Liars Competition with his first tale.

Now a seasoned storyteller himself, Froemel recently worked closely with Lepp to hone his craft. It’s not the only thing the two have in common. Last year, Froemel received an invitation to perform at the National Storytelling Festival in Jonesborough, Tennessee. It’s a milestone Lepp knows well — his own career took off after his first invitation to perform there in 2000. Now, 24 years later, Froemel is following in his mentor’s footsteps.

Froemel recently spoke with Folkways Reporter Margaret Leef about his evolution as a performer and his mentorship under Lepp.

This interview has been edited for length and clarity.

Leef: How did your love of performing start?

Froemel: In the sixth grade, we had to recite a poem for the class. I asked to recite Emily Dickinson’s “I’m Nobody. Who are you?” It was only eight lines. The teacher said I could do it, but she could clearly tell I was just trying not to memorize much. She said if I was only going to do an eight-line poem, I had to make it a really special eight lines. I got up and did a whole scene based on those eight lines, and I got a wonderful response from the teacher and the class, which kind of gave me the theater bug.

Leef: What caught your attention when you first saw Bil Lepp perform as a storyteller?

Froemel: It was probably the first time I heard of someone being a professional storyteller. I thought, what is this? So, I looked into what Bil was doing and watched some videos. It looked like a lot of fun.

Leef: How did that experience inspire you? What did you do after seeing Bil perform?

Froemel: In 2014, I wrote my first liar’s tale and went down to the Vandalia Gathering. I jumped up and told my five-minute tale, and at the end, I was announced as the biggest liar in West Virginia.

Leef: What is a liar’s tale? And what is the Liar’s Contest?

Froemel: The Liar’s Contest is a contest that happens every year at the Vandalia Gathering in Charleston, West Virginia. Anybody can come out and tell a tale. It’s really great in that folklife tradition of making art forms accessible. You just show up and sign your name on a piece of paper, and then they call you up, and you tell your tale.

Liar’s tales present something fantastic as though it were true. Most liar’s tales are told in the first person. Often, they’ll start with something really believable. A fun thing about it is that I always try to figure out where the lie begins when I listen to Bil’s tales. Some of my tales are close to true life, but everything is made up. People tell me they believe me until a particular point in the story. I tell them no, as soon as I opened my mouth, I was lying to you. None of that happened.

Leef: Can you tell me more about the first time you saw Bil perform?

Froemel: I first saw him live at the Liar’s Contest. Bil just had such a great way of engaging the audience. He told funny stories about West Virginia that dealt with culturally authentic quirks but in really positive ways. He was very comedic, and he was also such a great ambassador of the state. I really liked seeing that combination.

Leef: How did you end up meeting Bil?

Froemel: Our mentorship was through the West Virginia Folklife Apprenticeship Program. Bil and I would most often meet through Zoom. Bil lives in South Charleston, and I’m in Morgantown. Much of our conversations were about why we tell these stories. I figured out what my voice was within storytelling—why was I telling stories, and what did I want to achieve out of those stories?

Bil was a really great sounding board when it came to working with me on my stories. He would point out technical issues and areas that were confusing or needed further exploration. I would go back and rewrite and then tell the tale again, and he would give more feedback.

He was a great guy to bounce ideas off of. He’s also a great laugher. Bil doesn’t laugh for free. You have to earn your laughs with him. You know you’ve got something good when you can get him going.

Leef: You mentioned that Bil sometimes acknowledges West Virginians’ or Appalachians’ quirks but in a positive way. I wonder if you also challenge Appalachian stereotypes in your stories and, if so, how you do that?

Froemel: I talk a lot about small town life and accepting differences. In the story I worked on with Bil, we wrote about a sign maker who made beautiful signs but was terrible at spelling. Every sign is beautiful but misspelled. It was about this idea that everybody in a small town finds their place, and you don’t have to be perfect. You can still get a positive reaction or experience if your community supports you.

The character is a wonderful sign maker. It’s just that he doesn’t spell very well. That’s the running gag, and it presented a lot of jokes within that one story. But it also conveyed that everybody in the town is accepted, no matter how different they are, and everybody is excited about anything happening there.

Something I loved about small town life was the participation. If we want a community, we all have to pitch in and make it. We must get excited about the Fourth of July festival and the Main Street parade, where we’ll get the same bubble gum thrown at us for the millionth time. We have to engage in these things.

Leef: What does it mean to you to be a storyteller? And speaking of Appalachia, a second question would be, what does it mean to you to be a storyteller in Appalachia?

Froemel: It is a very minimalistic art form. Being a storyteller in Appalachia is exciting because it is an area where folk arts are genuinely appreciated. It’s an amazing experience to be in the room with people who are so talented. Within West Virginia is a small community of storytellers. I’ve never been more than two degrees away from them. We know each other, and that’s common in folk art. You can go up to the greatest artist in a folk genre, and they’ll take the time if you ask them.

They will show you the banjo or the fiddle, for example. They want to work with you and share their art. They take that folk aspect of it, knowing that their art can only be passed down if we give it to someone else. There aren’t formal training programs for things like claw hammer banjo. It’s just people teaching one another this thing, and that’s true of storytelling. It’s just us going out and showing one another how to do this and engaging with one another in that way.

——

Black Beauty Shop On Charleston’s West Side Is A Place For Community, Creativity And Legacy

In Black communities, hair salons can be spaces where women feel united and accepted. Folkways Reporter Traci Phillips takes us to a hair salon in Charleston, West Virginia’s West Side.

This story originally aired in the Feb. 23, 2025 episode of Inside Appalachia.

When you walk into Nappy By Nature hair salon on the West Side of Charleston, West Virginia, you’re likely to hear lots of talk and laughter. The place is cozy and friendly, and it makes me feel nostalgic. This is where I got my prom hairdo.

Black hair salons, much like Black barber shops, have long been known as central hubs for the community. They’re a space where Black women can feel relaxed and accepted.

That’s the kind of place that Tina Beatty wanted to create when she opened Nappy By Nature with her friend, Kelly Smoot, in the 1990s. They had both gone to beauty school during their last years of high school, and then went to work in other people’s shops. But Beatty wanted to be her own boss.

“She was talking about starting her salon,” says Smoot. “She said, ‘We can do this. Do you want to come, would you come?’ And I was like, ‘Bet. Let’s do this.’”

They wanted a space where Black women would feel comfortable being themselves in their own hair, Beatty says, “wearing their crown proudly, not ashamed of how it makes them look or offend other people.”

There are many Black hair salons on Charleston’s West Side these days, but back when Beatty and Smoot started their business, there were hardly any. So they wanted a name for their salon that let Black women know it was a place for them. “I wanted something that would identify with our culture, that people would look at the name and know that it was a Black hair salon,” Beatty says.

Inspired by the hip hop group, Naughty by Nature, they decided on “Nappy By Nature.” “I mean, we are nappy by nature — that’s just the term of hair,” Smoot says. “A lot of people now say 4C or coarse, but it started out as our hair was nappy — so nappy by nature.”

Nappy is a word that’s long been used to describe Black people’s hair—often in a derogatory and offensive way. Under Eurocentric beauty standards, Black hair — with its kinks and coils — has been stigmatized, even within the Black community. For instance, in Spike Lee’s 1988 film School Daze, two groups of Black college students stage a musical battle, throwing shade about who’s got good hair and who’s got bad hair.

Some of those negative stereotypes are starting to change. For instance, the CROWN Act, a bill introduced in Congress in 2020 and in 2022, would ban discrimination based on hairstyles and textures. More than 20 states have already passed their own CROWN Act (although West Virginia is not among them).

But the stigma surrounding Black hair is still there. Smoot says Black hair salons are a place where Black women can feel confident with their natural selves. “There’s certain things that we can do and say that we need to do and say [that] we can’t say in some spaces or do in some spaces, because everybody is not going to understand where, as a Black woman, where we’re coming from.”

Historically, Black hair salons were also a vital source of education and information. They were spaces where Black women could learn about health, nutrition and other important issues. And Smoot says in some ways, they still are. “I want people to remember how I took the time with their hair, and tried to teach them not only about their hair, but about … sometimes what medication can do to their hair. Because a lot of people don’t know.”

Kelly Smoot in her own hair salon on Charleston’s West Side.

*Photo Credit: Traci Phillips/West Virginia Public Broadcasting*

While Smoot spent many years at Nappy By Nature, she now owns her own salon on the West Side. Meanwhile, Beatty keeps Nappy By Nature up and running with the help of her younger sister, Robin Bonner. “She’s been with me ever since she’s gotten out of beauty school,” Beatty says. “So, it just became almost like a family tradition.”

Beatty says even after all these years, she still loves what she does. “It’s just fun. Our hair texture is just fun to play with and to beautify it — to be able to take it and begin to work with it and style it and bring out the beauty of nappy by nature.”

A normal day at Nappy By Nature Salon with sisters styling hair with their daughters. From left to right: Tunisia Beatty, Rakyra Bonner, Tina Beatty and Robin Bonner.

*Photo Credit: Traci Phillips/West Virginia Public Broadcasting*

——

The Three Kitchens Of New Vrindaban

Folkways Reporter Zack Harold recently made a trip to the small town of New Vrindaban, in West Virginia’s Northern Panhandle. It’s a Hare Krishna community started in the late 60s. These days, the town is home to a few hundred permanent residents, but thousands of pilgrims visit each year. They come to worship in the temple — and to visit the opulent Palace of Gold. But those main attractions were a pretty small part of Zack’s trip. He ended up spending much of his time in the kitchen.

This story originally aired in the Feb. 16, 2025 episode of Inside Appalachia.

If you’re looking for food in New Vrindaban — the Hare Krishna community founded in West Virginia’s Northern Panhandle in the late 1960s — chances are your GPS will point you toward Govinda’s.

It’s a happening spot: an Indian-inspired vegetarian restaurant in the middle-of-nowhere West Virginia, just beside the community’s temple and a few miles from the opulent Palace of Gold.

But a trip to Govinda’s doesn’t offer a complete picture of the food traditions here in New Vrindaban. Food is central to the Hare Krishna faith, its traditions and worship. And Govinda’s is just one part of that.

“We do everything with food,” says Vasu Dev, who manages Govinda’s. “That’s why they call us the kitchen religion.”

To really learn about the food of New Vrindaban, you have to spend time in three different kitchens — each a little more sacred than the last.

The Restaurant Kitchen

The cooks at Govinda’s are deep into prep for the lunch rush. Cooks are swarming around, stirring pots and chopping vegetables. There is a small TV in the corner playing Indian ragas. But other than that, the kitchen is quiet.

There is no joking, no bellyaching, no idle chit chat at all. The kitchen staff is trying to keep their minds on God.

“Whatever consciousness you have when you’re preparing something, that’s going to be translated into the food,” Dev says. “If you’re cooking in a happy state, in a God-conscious state, people who are eating that are going to get the benefit.”

Dev comes from a big Italian Catholic family in Buenos Aires, Argentina, so the kitchens he grew up in were anything but quiet. He noticed Hare Krishna cooks did things a little differently after he joined the International Society of Krishna Consciousness in college. And it wasn’t just about the volume level.

“I remember the cooks (I grew up with), while they’re cooking, they’re tasting. ‘OK, let me taste this salt. Let me see how spicy it is.’ But we don’t do that,” Dev says.

You’ll never see a cook in Govinda’s kitchen tasting a sauce or even wafting the smell of a dish.

“We offer to God, to Krishna, and then we taste it,” Dev says. “When we’re preparing something, we’re preparing with a consciousness that we’re offering this to God.”

Before human tongue tastes any of the food prepared here, one of the cooks will present samples of each dish before a small altar that is set up on top of one of the kitchen’s coolers. The cook will then chant a mantra and ring a bell. They wait a few minutes, and then everyone else can enjoy the food as well.

“By doing that you get the blessings,” Dev says. “And when you eat that, your body is not only getting nutrients your body needs, but the spiritual benefit as well.”

A cook prepares lunch in Govinda’s, an Indian-inspired vegetarian restaurant in New Vrindaban, West Virginia.

*Photo Credit: Zack Harold/West Virginia Public Broadcasting*

Govinda’s serves up a lot of this spiritually-infused food, providing lunch and dinner to the dozens of pilgrims who visit each week. Much of the menu is Indian-inspired and — in keeping with Hare Krishna dietary restrictions — Govinda’s only serves vegetarian food. It’s a lot of healthy grains and legumes like rice and lentils, and lots and lots of fresh fruits and vegetables.

The International Society for Krishna Consciousness runs the largest vegetarian food distribution program in the world. It was born from an experience Bhaktivedanta Prabhupada, the movement’s founder, had when he was trying to get a temple built in Mayapur, India.

Prabhupada and his followers cooked rice for the people there, serving it on leaves. After they were done, they threw those leaves into a pile.

“He saw some kid looking into the trash for some food. And he said ‘That’s no good. Any person who lives around 10 miles of the temple should be fed by us,’” Dev says. “So out of that, a program called ‘Food for Life’ was born. Now it’s all around the world.”

That’s why seven days a week, 365 days a year, New Vrindaban provides a free breakfast and lunch to anyone who wants a seat at the table — whether you’re a resident, a pilgrim, or just someone in need of a meal.

But that food does not come from Govinda’s restaurant kitchen. To see where these meals are prepared, you’ve got to head next door to the temple.

The Devotee Kitchen

When Saci Suta gets up in the morning — usually around 4:00 a.m. — he showers to make himself ritually clean, then heads down to the temple to pray.

“We chant, then we keep ourselves pure, then we come to the kitchen,” Suta says.

Suta runs New Vrindaban’s devotee kitchen. Each day, he consults with the temple president to see how many pilgrims stayed the night in the community’s lodge. Add to that any new cars that might be in the parking lot, and any full-time residents who might come down to the temple to eat.

On the day I visited, Suta was preparing breakfast for 120 people and lunch for 150. Luckily, he has a good bit of help. Just before daybreak, a parade of volunteers file into the devotee kitchen. They slip on some hairnets and with a little instruction, they set to work.

Devotees wash potatoes, chop pineapples, quarter oranges and dice jalapeños for curries, salads and quinoa. The kitchen gets some vegetables delivered from a local grower and uses some store-bought ingredients. But Suta also uses lots of vegetables grown on the property: milk from the community’s cows and dairy products, like ghee and yogurt, made from that milk.

The devotee kitchen is full of volunteers, but talking remains at a minimum as cooks try to keep their minds on God.

*Photo Credit: Zack Harold/West Virginia Public Broadcasting*

The volunteer cooks remain quiet while they work, just like the cooks in the restaurant kitchen. They have come from all over — Pennsylvania, Connecticut, Michigan and Toronto, Canada — driving for hours and hours just to spend a few days here in the mountains.

Suta said that’s common. Devotees come to New Vrindaban from everywhere. People who can’t make it to the holy places in India are able to come here and receive the same spiritual benefit.

“That’s why everybody comes here,” Suta says.

It’s no wonder, then, that these pilgrims are more than happy to roll up their sleeves and help out in the kitchen.

When the food is done, Suta plates a sample of each dish into a small aluminum bowl. Those bowls go onto a 12 inch aluminum platter, which is placed before some fresh flowers, and images of Krishna and his consort, Radha and Prabhupada. Then, with the ringing of a bell and the chanting of a mantra, Suta offers the food to Krishna.

Saci Suta offers food to Krishna in the devotee kitchen.

*Photo Credit: Zack Harold/West Virginia Public Broadcasting*

Suta and his rotating kitchen crew go through this routine 730 times a year. But there are some jobs here volunteers can’t do — aren’t allowed to do.

Just down the hall from the devotee kitchen, behind a closed but unassuming door, is another kitchen.

Normally only the most committed devotees are allowed inside. But they made an exception for me, so I could see the kitchen where God’s food is prepared.

The Deity Kitchen

The cooks in New Vrindaban’s restaurant and devotee kitchens try to use the best ingredients in their cooking. But here in the deity kitchen, everything is held to a higher standard.

“Except for olive oil and lemon juice, you won’t find anything canned or preserved in here,” says Anurhada Imseng, New Vrindaban’s communications director. “Everything is made fresh.”

It’s not just the ingredients: the pots, pans and utensils used in the deity kitchen are used here and nowhere else. They don’t even share a dishwasher with items from the other kitchens.

Instead of the stainless steel dishes used in the restaurant and devotee kitchens, here Krishna dines from pure silver dishes. Everything is set aside for God, including the chef.

Rohini Kumar is from Peru. He’s known as a “twice-initiated” devotee. He’s taken additional vows to the faith, and as such has a special mantra that he chants three times a day. That allows him to prepare food for Krishna in this sanctified kitchen space.

“The idea is to meditate on Krishna. Everything you’re doing is dedicated to Krishna. I’m very happy cooking for the deity,” Kumar says.

Each day when he arrives, he sees what fresh vegetables are available. He lets his ingredients tell him what to cook.

Once everything is ready, he transfers the food to the silver serving dishes. All plated up, they look like an appetizer platter someone ordered for their lunch. And now it’s ready for the table.

Rohini Kumar prepares food in New Vrindaban’s deity kitchen.

*Photo Credit: Zack Harold/West Virginia Public Broadcasting*

A Hare Krishna temple service is a multi-sensory experience. You hear the sound of conch shells, drumming, cymbals, chanting and singing. The smell of incense fills your nose. The shrine itself is visually overwhelming, with intricate wood and metalwork, stained glass and paintings.

It’s in this setting that devotees make a series of offerings. They change the clothes on the images of Krishna and Radha, removing their pajamas and putting on their day clothes. They wake up the deities with good morning prayers and small pieces of milk candy made in the deity kitchen. They offer fresh flowers and the elements of earth, wind, fire and water.

Finally, they offer the food Kumar has prepared. Devotees leave the plates before the statues of the deities for a short while so Krishna and Radha can enjoy them. Then a devotee takes the food back into the kitchen area where it is transferred out of the holy dishes and into less sanctified food containers. Then it can be eaten by anyone.

“It becomes really, intensively sanctified food,” Imseng says. “Everyone gets to eat it. Whoever gets there first gets to eat it.”

Food prepared for Krishna in the deity kitchen, served on pure silver dishes.

*Photo Credit: Zack Harold/West Virginia Public Broadcasting*

A Secret Fourth Kitchen?

The day before I arrived in New Vrindaban, Imseng texted me with a few requests.

She asked that I keep myself ritually pure by showering when I woke up and putting on clean clothes. She also asked that I refrain from eating anything. Coffee was okay, thankfully.

On the day of my visit, I reported for hours before breakfast was served. I watched cooks prepare mounds of beautiful, fragrant food — and tried not to enjoy the sight or smell, out of respect for my hosts. Despite my efforts, I found it increasingly difficult to be conscious of anything but my hunger.

You can imagine my relief when Imseng approached me with a paper plate, heaped with food.

From the devotee kitchen there was a vegetable curry, some quinoa and Suta’s special buckwheat banana bread. From the deity kitchen, was an extra-sanctified potato pancake, some of those milk candies offered to Krishna as a morning snack and paneer cheese.

On nice days, the community dines outdoors on picnic tables in front of the temple. There’s also a dining hall inside the temple. It was pretty empty on the day I visited, so that’s where I ate, since I was recording my meal for the radio.

I dug in with vigor. I’m not sure I could taste the spiritual aspect of the food, but it was evident these dishes were prepared with quality ingredients and a lot of care and attention.

Once my plate was clean, my hunger satiated and my attention renewed, I noticed someone else in the dining hall. It was Raghavacharya Das, his wife Mansi and their two children. The family moved here just three months ago. They came from Silicon Valley, where she was a research scientist at Stanford and he worked at a financial technology startup. Now they are full time devotees.

As I was explaining the premise of this story, Raghavacharya shocked me.

“There is a fourth kitchen you have not heard of,” he told me. “If you take that food, it’s a totally different level of purity.”

I asked if he could show me this secret kitchen. But he said I didn’t quite understand what he meant. This fourth kitchen doesn’t stay in one place.

“It’s not a kitchen you can go and see,” Raghavacharya said. “It’s devotees who are cooking for senior disciples who are really old and not able to cook for themselves. Different devotees do it on a rotating basis in their homes. That food is prepared just with love. There is no other motivation.

Mansi said these meals are prepared exclusively with vegetables grown in the community’s sanctified soil.

“We don’t just get any vegetables from supermarkets. [We cook] simple squashes and beans, just cooked in ghee. Ghee and love,” she says.

As Mansi explained how this secret fourth kitchen works, I thought it sounded a lot like Kumar’s work in the deity kitchen.

They’re cooking simple, filling meals with wholesome, healthy ingredients — and doing that behind the scenes, without any recognition or praise.

This fourth-kitchen food, cooked in “ghee and love,” isn’t prepared for God. It isn’t cooked within the walls of a temple. But it is prepared for the most vulnerable people in their community.

The way I see it, you won’t find food much more sacred than that.

——