There are a lot of small towns in Appalachia.  Most of the region consists of these small towns, nothing more than map dots, connected by twisty two lane roads.  Towns that popped up to support a big vein of coal, where company men run the show, and you don't smart off to anyone, because everybody is related to somebody who is Somebody.  These are towns where the nearest cop is at least 15 minutes away, downhill, on US 119, behind a desk in a state police satellite office.  I drive through these towns.  I live in one of these towns.  I buy groceries in another one of these towns.  "The hills have eyes" isn't just a spooky movie title here.

People who are new to the area, like I was, and to some degree still am, stand out.  Little Japanese city cars amidst a county road lined with pickup trucks, John Deeres, and side by sides, people notice that.  And they stare at you.  And they know that I know that they know that consequences are at almost a half an hour away.  Shirtless 12 year old boys, mothers in pajama bottoms and t-shirts that say "Queen of the Double-Wide", bearded fathers with oxygen tanks from decades of working a coal mine, army veterans in fatigues carrying 1911s, all looking to chase you out of "their" town.  Spooking outsiders is a thrill that never fades for them.

Those moments invoke genuine fear.  You're not a coal miner.  You're not a hunter.  You never served.  You're not one of us.  Then, one day, without noticing, you're joining them in the staring.  You're on "stop on the road next to his truck to talk" terms with Joe.  Randall cuts your grass when it gets too high for your little mower.  You helped JR with his computer.  Phil throws a Milkbone over the fence when you walk by with your dog.  You helped Patrick unload mulch on a hot June Sunday afternoon.  You buy eggs and pet the goats when you walk past Autumn's place.  Then, you're no longer a stranger, or an outsider, you're the family that bought the old Adams place, the folks with the big dogs, shrill whistles, cushy jobs, loud guns, and firm handshakes.

This is how a community forms, and even grows.  It forms when people accept other people, when a call for help is answered, and a favor is returned.  I don't look like them, or sound like them, or go to church with them, but I am known, and a mutual respect is had.  So now, the shoe is on the other foot.  Someone else is getting stared at.  Someone else is the guy with out-of-state tags and their head on a swivel when they stop for gas.  And we know that they know that we know, we can do anything we want to anyone we want.  And we've got plenty of time to all get our stories straight.

"Y'ain't from around here, are ya?"