Appalachian towns are used to painted as “declining industrial hubs” or coated with similar sympathetic but depressing monikers. Fit for a politician’s Milquetoast ceremonial welcome speech at the local chamber of commerce, we can easily indulge the sympathy of a nation by reciting similar pleasantries. With a population of just 19,111 as of 2020, it’s a wonder anyone even cares.
And yet, as much as the boarded up windows and abandoned houses suggest that everyone has moved on to something better, I stay fascinated by places like McDowell County. Founded in 1858 and named for Virginia Governor James McDowell, the county became part of West Virginia in 1863 during the Civil War, when Union-affiliated counties seceded from Virginia. Its coal-rich land fueled America’s industrial rise, making McDowell the nation’s leading coal producer by 1950, with a population nearing 100,000. The industry shaped its identity, earning it the nickname “Free State of McDowell” for its independent spirit and, notably, for offering African Americans greater electoral power and freedom from segregation than elsewhere in the state. The county proudly hosted the nation’s first World War I memorial for Black veterans in Kimball, a testament to its diverse heritage.
Among its notable sons is Homer Hickam, whose memoir Rocket Boys (adapted into the film October Sky) captured his childhood dream of building rockets amidst the coal mines. Steve Harvey, the television personality, is another individual born in the county. For every celebrity, there are thousands who are making their name by staying put in the place that is their home. Their roots are still there, and they are doing everything they can to keep them alive.
The decline of coal left the locals looking for what was next. By 1960, the mining workforce had plummeted from 16,000 to 7,000, and the population has since dwindled to less than a fifth of its peak. Today, McDowell is one of America’s poorest counties, grappling with high rates of poverty, drug abuse, and a life expectancy well below the national average. The landscape bears scars of mountaintop removal mining, and towns like Welch, once bustling, now stand quiet, with vacant buildings lining streets that echo a prouder past.
As you drive through the statistics and depression, you see what place means. The people don’t stay because they have to. It would be easier to leave. There’s a pull because it’s who they are. It’s the story of small towns across the country, but Appalachians have an inflexible attraction to their kin. You don’t lose your roots because you may not know who you are if you do. It’s not a romanticism born of victimhood, but a callous indifference to what they see. What you see is forgettable. What you get is irreplaceable.
High Toned Hillbilly 