Think of it as a Sunday paper for Appalachia. Culture, history, food, and the kind of stories that don't make the evening news.

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They never told the girl what the dial was for.

She was maybe eighteen. Out of some East Tennessee high school with a diploma and not much else on the horizon. The textile mill paid pennies. The Army paid real money. So she rode a bus to a place that wasn't on any map, sat down on a wooden stool with no back, and watched a needle.

Keep the needle in the middle. That was the job. The whole job.

Don't ask what the machine did. Don't ask where the wire ran. Ask too many questions and you might notice, some Monday, that the girl two stools down wasn't at her stool anymore. Nobody said where she went. Nobody asked twice.

That was Oak Ridge.

And Oak Ridge was ours.

Most folks think the atomic bomb got built out west. Men in white coats in the New Mexico desert. Oppenheimer squinting at a mushroom cloud. That part's true enough. But the stuff that went inside the bomb, the uranium that made it a bomb and not a very expensive dud, that got cooked up in the hills of East Tennessee. Twenty miles west of Knoxville. On the Clinch River. In the ridge-and-valley country where my kind of people have always lived.

They took the land first.

Fall of 1942, the government drew a line around fifty-nine thousand acres and told everybody inside it to get out. About a thousand families. Little communities with names like Wheat and Scarboro, Robertsville and Elza. Farms that had been in the same hands for generations. The Army handed folks a small check and a short window and called it a deal. No arguing. There was a war on.

Some of those families had been run off once already. Moved a few years back for a TVA dam, or for the new national park up in the Smokies. Packed up, started over on fresh bottomland, got the crops in the ground.

Then the government came back and took that too.

What went up in their place didn't have a name you could say out loud. On paper it was the Clinton Engineer Works. Site X. The people who lived there called it the Secret City, and that about covered it. Planned for thirteen thousand souls. Inside of two years it held seventy-five thousand. Fifth-biggest city in Tennessee, and it wasn't printed on a single map. Guards at every gate. Badges on every chest. Letters home read by a stranger with a black marker before they ever cleared the fence.

Three hundred miles of road. Churches for seventeen denominations. A symphony orchestra. And not one person in a hundred knew what the town was actually for.

The scale of the thing still won't sit right in my head.

One of the plants, K-25, was for a while the largest building in the whole world under a single roof. Half a mile long, bent like a horseshoe. You could have lost a small town inside it. Another plant, Y-12, held better than a thousand machines called calutrons, humming day and night, pulling one kind of uranium out from another atom by atom.

All of it ran on power. Mountain power. Water off the TVA dams, coal out of the seams. At its peak, that secret little city nobody could find on a map was burning twenty percent more electricity than New York.

Chew on that. A place that officially didn't exist, eating more juice than New York City.

The girls ran the calutrons. Ten thousand of them, give or take, most straight out of high school, most from right around there. They sat those backless stools eight hours at a stretch, watching meters, easing dials, keeping needles centered. They were never told why.

The men who invented those machines, the Berkeley PhDs with the letters after their names, they'd fret over every twitch of the needle. Try to diagnose it. Overthink it. The mountain girls just held the needle where they were told and hollered for a supervisor when something broke. Turned out the girls ran the machines better than the geniuses did. Steadier hands. Less ego. They out-produced the men who built the things, and they didn't even know what the things were.

One of them, a woman named Gladys Owens, sat for the famous photograph of the calutron rows. She didn't find out what she'd been doing until fifty years later, standing on a public tour, looking up at a picture of her own young self.

Not all of it was proud.

The Black workers who came got the bottom of everything. One-room shacks they called hutments, split up by race and then split again by sex, so a married man and his wife couldn't share a roof in the same town they'd both come to serve. One recreation hall for the whole lot of them. Old movies twice a week while the white side of the fence got first-run pictures every night. A reporter from the Chicago Defender wrote it all down. Somebody should have.

Then one morning it was over.

August 6, 1945. A single bomb, fueled by uranium those girls had spun off their dials, fell on a Japanese city called Hiroshima. Tens of thousands gone in the time it takes to blink. The war ended not long after.

And back in the hills, the girl on the stool finally learned what her needle had been for.

Some of them were glad. The boys were coming home. Some went quiet and stayed that way a long while. Both things can be true. Usually are.

They tore K-25 down a few years back. Hauled off the biggest building in the world like a played-out barn. The farms are long gone under the concrete. Wheat's just a name now.

But these mountains kept that secret while the whole world was listening. And a bus full of girls who were never told a thing helped change everything.

The first of August has never meant the end of summer to me.

To me, it means football camp.

Even now, all these years later, there'll be something about a hot afternoon. The air gets thick enough to chew, the cicadas start hollering, and all at once I'm sixteen years old again, riding a school bus toward McCreary County, Kentucky.

Our camp was at the old conservation camp. We slept under one big open shelter for a week. No air conditioning. No fans. Just rows of cots and enough teenage boys to make the place smell like wet socks and Ben-Gay.

We practiced football three times a day in the hot August sun, but we only got one shower, at the end of the day. Cold water only.

That was considered plenty.

By the second day, we'd sweated so much our uniforms could've stood up by themselves. Sweat bees followed us everywhere like they thought we'd planted ourselves just for them.

But the thing every Pineville High School football player remembers is that blamed blocking sled.

Coach Bill Adams loved that thing.

You'd line up beside it and start chugging your feet while doing what Coach called a butt roll. When he'd blow the whistle, you'd jump up, explode into the pad, knock it back, drop for another butt roll, roll to the next pad, jump up, hit it again, then another and another until you'd gone all the way down the sled.

Seven stations.

Middle of August.

Ninety-five degrees.

Humidity thick enough to swim through.

Son, if you finished without throwing up, you felt like you'd accomplished something.

It wasn't just the heat. We practiced on what was basically a hayfield. They'd mow it with a tractor before camp started and call it a football field.

Every time you got tackled, there was a good chance one of those sharp-cut stalks would rake your arms or legs. By the end of camp, everybody looked like they'd wrestled a bobcat.

Then there were Coach Adams’ conditioning drills.

If he'd gotten aggravated about something, he'd march us to one end of the field.

The drill was, run at full speed, drop and hit the ground when the whistle blew, then get up and run again at full speed.

We'd sprint as hard as we could.

Tweet!

Hit the ground.

Back up.

Run again.

Tweet!

Hit the ground.

Again.

And again.

And again.

You kept doing it until Coach decided he'd made his point. Sometimes I wasn't entirely sure what the point was.

Looking back, maybe neither was he.

Things have changed since then.

Today, football players have nutritionists, hydration schedules, cooling tents, sports drinks, heart-rate monitors and trainers who worry if somebody looks a little overheated.

Back then?

We got a couple of salt tablets.

Of course, every football camp had its traditions, and ours had one I'll never forget.

The trainers had a bottle of muscle liniment called Atomic Balm.

It earned the name.

Every year, the rookies would somehow end up getting a little rubbed where no man wanted muscle liniment rubbed. The burning started immediately.

Then some upperclassman, trying his best not to laugh, would say, "Go jump in the shower. Cold water will take the sting out."

That was the biggest lie ever told in McCreary County.

The water didn't help.

It made the fire feel like somebody had poured gasoline on it.

It was cruel.

It was juvenile.

It happened every year anyway.

Nobody complained much. You just waited until next year, when it was your turn to watch some poor freshman learn the lesson.

I'm not saying those were the good old days.

A lot of what we did would probably get a coach fired now, trigger a call from social services, or both.

But I am saying this.

Those camps taught us something besides football.

They taught us how much more we could do after we were convinced we couldn't do one more drill.

They taught us teammates mattered.

They taught us that everybody hurts, everybody gets knocked down, and everybody has to get back up when the whistle blows.

Every year, when August rolls around and the mornings start hinting that summer won't last forever, I don't think about vacations.

I think about that old conservation camp in McCreary County.

I can still hear Coach Adams’ whistle.

I can still smell fresh-cut hay.

And somewhere in the back of my mind, I can still feel that blamed blocking sled waiting for one more butt roll.

Wayne Knuckles is a veteran of the newspaper industry and publisher of The Wayne Train. He began his career as a sports writer for his hometown weekly newspaper, The Pineville Sun.

September 27, 1903. Southern Railway's No. 97 comes off the tracks near Danville, Virginia, killing eleven. Engineer Joseph Broady was running behind schedule that day — lost time meant lost pay — and couldn't slow down enough coming into the curve. Died doing his job too well and too fast at the same time.

Within twenty years, somebody put it to music. By 1924, Vernon Dalhart's recording of it — paired with "The Prisoner's Song" — became country music's first million-selling record.

Now there's a podcast bringing it back around. The Appalachia Book Company — started as a book club in eastern Kentucky, now a full publishing outfit — turned the old ballad into a radio drama called "The Nightmare of the Old 97," recorded live at the Appalachian Center for the Arts in Pikeville. In it, Broady sits down in the afterlife with an unnamed singer and works through what it means to be remembered for the worst day of your life.

Other ballads in the series: "Lord Bateman." "The Farmer's Curst Wife." "Tom Dula" — murder balladry's most famous entry.

Playwright Ann Gillespie, who wrote the Broady piece, said it best: she's not sure if it's tragedy, or redemption, or irony. But after he's gone, Broady gets the one thing the ballad promises him. He gets remembered.

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"That clears up the old myth that tornadoes won't cross water," said the NWS meteorologist in Charleston, dry as a bone. "They most certainly will."

One of them tracked 24 miles, a mile wide, out of Ohio into Pleasants County and on into Doddridge. That's before you even get to the rain.

Parkersburg broke a record that stood since 1949. Clarksburg broke one from 1931. Elkins broke one from 1925. And those are just the official numbers — the observer near Buckhannon logged 7.6 inches in 24 hours, four of it in three hours flat. The official Buckhannon gauge itself came in at 5.85 inches, breaking a record that had held since 1950.

Didn't touch the state record, though. That one's from 1949, in Brushy Run — twelve inches. Still stands.

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This week I’m thinking about all the things I’m thankful for.

I’m sure if you stop and think about it, you’ve got a list of your own things you’re thankful for. Many on our list may be the same.

I’m thankful for:

1. Salvation, I’m not perfect, but I am a child of the King!

2. My husband Wayne, he is a blessing in my life.

3. My two sons, to me they are the best.

4. My granddaughter, she has my heart.

5. My great-granddaughter, she has brought much joy to our family.

6. My home, a place to rest and escape the outside world.

7. My vehicle, it gets me where I need to go.

8. My parents who raised me to be a somewhat decent person.

9. My brothers, all four of them.

10. My local church, Red Lick Baptist.

11. My pastor and his family, very dedicated.

12. Ministry, my late husband and I were in the ministry for many years.

13. Music and singing, since a child it has been a part of my life.

14. My phone, keeps me in touch with family and friends.

15. 5 Crown friends, monthly card players.

16. Clothes, can a person have too many?

17. Shoes, no bare feet for me.

18. My washer & dryer, I remember the days without them.

19. My kitchen appliances, make life much easier.

20. Porch sitting, so peaceful.

21. Watching birds, they can put on a show.

22. My recliner, makes for wonderful day naps.

23. Fresh flowers and green trees.

24. First cup of coffee each morning.

25. Country car rides, just because, don’t have to have a reason.

26. Milkshakes, peanut butter is my favorite.

27. Friends, I am blessed to have many!

28. Retirement, I didn’t think I would ever make it, but here I am enjoying it!

29. Traveling, I love seeing new places and places I’ve been before.

30. My neighborhood, quiet and peaceful.

31. Necklaces, I have many, but one I wear more than them all.

32. Jewelry, I have lots, my wedding rings are my favorite.

33. Holidays, Easter, Thanksgiving, and Christmas are the best.

34. Crocheting, thanks to my mom for teaching me to crochet.

35. Sunshine & Rain, both are needful.

36. Teachers, because of good teachers, I know my ABC’s and can count.

37. Babies, precious little humans.

38. Health, aging is making a huge difference.

39. Fresh produce

40. Laughter

41. Pumpkin pie & cool whip

42. Zero-turn lawnmower

43. Fried green tomatoes

44. Game nights

45. Family get-togethers

46. Grape drinks

47. Clean house

48. Wrapping up in a warm blanket.

49. Water and electricity

50. Memories

Bible Verse of the Week

Enter into his gates with thanksgiving, and into his courts with praise: be thankful unto him, and bless his name.

Psalm 100: 4

Gospel singer Kay Himes Knuckles has been sharing her music ministry in Eastern and Central Kentucky for more than 40 years.

The Wayne Train visits all 423 Appalachian counties, one week at a time.

Some counties get born and settle into a name. Lamar couldn't manage it.

It started out as Jones County in 1867. Named for a man from over in Fayette. Lasted about nine months before the legislature killed it off entirely.

Then it came back in 1868 as Sanford. Named for a sitting state senator, because the men down in Montgomery back then had a habit of naming things after themselves.

Sanford held on till 1877. Then they scratched that out too and made it Lamar, after Lucius Quintus Cincinnatus Lamar. A Mississippi man. Not even from Alabama.

Three names in ten years. The county sits up in the far northwest corner, hard against the Mississippi line, and you get the feeling nobody could decide whose it was.

The county seat had the same trouble. First they called it Swayne, after a Union general who ran the Freedmen's Bureau. In the Deep South. During Reconstruction. That went about like you'd figure. By 1868 it was Vernon, and it's been Vernon ever since. Under two thousand people. It'll do.

Lamar's a dry county and has been a long time. The Tombigbee drains it. The first settlers came in on Andrew Jackson's old Military Road, most of them out of the Carolinas and Georgia, hunting dirt they could farm. Cotton and timber and mills, till the cotton wore out and the timber outfits bought up the land. Hard times came and mostly stayed. About fourteen thousand people live there now, a few hundred fewer than five years back. That's the arithmetic of a lot of these hills.

For a place that couldn't keep its own name straight, Lamar County put a remarkable number of names in the history books.

Start with the Bankheads. John Hollis Bankhead was born on a farm near old Moscow, now inside Sulligent, in 1842. Confederate captain, wounded three times, came home and went into politics and didn't come back out for thirty-three years. House, then Senate. He spent that whole career fighting for roads and rivers, back when a decent road was a genuine miracle. They named a highway after him. Runs from Washington clear to San Diego. His son William was born at Moscow too, and grew up to be Speaker of the U.S. House. Another son, John Junior, made the Senate. And William's daughter, you might've heard of her, was Tallulah Bankhead, who ran off to the stage and said things that'd still get you talked about at church. A family that put three generations in the record books, all of it starting on one Lamar County farm. Not bad for a county that began as an afterthought.

Then there's Jerry Brown, born over in Sulligent in 1942. Ninth-generation potter. His daddy was Horace Brown, but everybody called him Jug, which tells you most of what you need to know about the family line of work. They ground their clay with mules and burned their pots in a wood kiln, the old way. Jerry swore as a young man he'd never set foot in a pottery shop again, and went off and logged timber for twenty years. Then the logging dried up, and in 1982 he sat back down at the wheel. Turned out the country had gotten hungry for the real thing right about then. He threw churns and jugs and those grinning, ugly face jugs, and in 1992 the government handed him a National Heritage Fellowship. His pots sit in the Smithsonian now. He passed in 2016. His people are still turning clay.

And Dan Penn. Born in Lamar County in 1941, Vernon claimed him young. His family was the church-singing kind, front-porch band and all, and Dan caught it early. Couldn't make the football team, so he made records instead. By his teens he'd already sold a song to Conway Twitty. Then he went up to Muscle Shoals and over to Memphis and wrote the kind of songs that outlive everybody. "Do Right Woman" for Aretha. "The Dark End of the Street" for James Carr. "Cry Like a Baby." "I'm Your Puppet." Some of the finest soul music this country ever made, written by a white boy out of a dry county in west Alabama. He never made much noise about himself. He died this past June, eighty-four years old, still cutting records. Somewhere tonight there's a jukebox playing one of his songs, and whoever's feeding it quarters has no idea a Lamar County man wrote it.

If you make the trip, and you time it right, eat at TJ's Steak and Fish in Vernon. Out on Highway 17. They only open Thursday, Friday, and Saturday evenings, which is the small-town way of telling you the good stuff's worth waiting on. Steak, fish, the plate a working county eats on a Friday night. Get there early.

Three names, one cross-country highway, a Speaker of the House, a potter, and a man who wrote for Aretha Franklin. All of it out of a corner of Alabama most folks couldn't find on a map.

Come see your neighbors.

Get the lawn chair out. Not for this week, exactly. For next.

The Perseids are back. They run from the middle of July into late August, and they build the whole time. This week they're just clearing their throat. A handful an hour if you're patient and away from the porch light. Look northeast after midnight, closer to dawn if you can stand it.

The real show is August 12 and 13. And 2026 is a good one — the peak lands on a new moon. No moon means a black sky. A black sky means you catch the faint ones too, not just the show-offs. Some years the moon washes the whole thing out. Not this year.

The moon's already getting out of the way. It was full on July 29. By Wednesday the 5th it's down to half, coming up around midnight. By the weekend it's a thin sliver that doesn't rise till the small hours. So the early dark comes back just in time.

Think of it like sparks off a grinding wheel. Somebody up there leaning into the metal, and every so often one flicks loose and streaks off before it dies.

After supper, look west. That bright one that isn't a star is Venus, hanging low, sliding a little closer to the star Spica every night.

Before sunrise, look south. The steady gold one is Saturn — best thing in the morning sky right now. Reddish Mars sits low in the east. The thinning moon slips past Saturn from Sunday through Wednesday morning.

Blackberries are on. You know that already. Your hands know it. Anybody with a fencerow and a bucket knows it.

The one worth learning this week is elderberry.

It grows all over Central Appalachia. Creek banks, ditches, the wet edge of a field, any disturbed ground nobody's mowed. Eight, ten feet tall. Back in May and June it wore those flat white lacy flower heads. Those flowers are berries now, and this week the clusters are just starting to darken. Deep purple. Near black. They don't all ripen at once, so you'll be at it a few weeks.

Here's the part you don't skip.

You cook them. Every time. Raw elderberries will make you sick — the berries, and worse, the stems and the leaves and the wood. They carry a compound that turns to cyanide, and raw it'll put you on your knees with your stomach in a knot. Heat kills it. Simmer them a good thirty minutes and they're fine, and they cook down into a syrup worth all the trouble.

Strip the berries off the stems before they go in the pot. Freeze the clusters a few hours first and they drop off easier. Pick only the deep-black ripe ones. No green, no red. And leave red elderberry alone altogether — different plant, bad news.

Not making this up. Back in 1983 out in California, eleven people ran raw berries through a strainer, stems and all, mixed it with juice, and drank it. Every one of them got sick. One landed in the hospital. They lived. But that's a rough way to learn to boil your fruit.

Leave some on the bush. The birds found it first.

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The new Census numbers came out this spring. One of them stuck with me.

Of the thirty coalfield counties in eastern Kentucky, twenty-nine now bury more than they birth. More people dying every year than getting born. Only one county came out on the right side of it. Whitley. And just barely — by sixteen.

Sixteen more born than buried. In a whole year. In a whole county.

It used to be the young ones leaving that thinned us out. That's not it anymore. The ones who stayed got old, and there aren't enough behind them to hold the line.

You can drive these roads and not see it. A porch is still a porch. But the county's a little emptier than it was last August. It'll be emptier still next August.

Sixteen.

That's the whole margin.

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