Written by In the mountains of Appalachia, the old people knew things about chimneys that most of the modern world has forgotten.
They knew that you did not whistle near the hearth after dark. That you never let the fire go out on certain nights of the year without speaking a word of protection over it first. That strange sounds in the chimney were not the wind – or not only the wind. That the smoke rising from a well-kept fire carried something upward with it, and that what came down the chimney could be something other than weather.
These were not superstitions in the dismissive sense of that word. They were an inherited body of knowledge, passed down through generations of mountain families, about the nature of the home’s most important threshold: the chimney. About what it connected. About what it let in, and what it was the job of the household to keep out.