Days in Clay
July 28, 2025 | Written by Martha Mikkelson.
What I first see when I drive into Clay is the kudzu. How it crawls up from the banks of the river, smothering the trees and creeping into the town. There are places where people mow or spray to keep the emerald monster back, but even there it is only waiting to invade again, or to sprout and spread onto new ground.
Clay is one of those Appalachian towns that on a map runs for miles in a narrow, meandering line along one side of the river. Within sight of nearly every house and business is the Elk River. Sometimes the Elk appears green and serene. Most of the times I have seen it this summer, it is orange and swollen from sudden, heavy mountain downpours.
There are no stop lights anywhere in Clay County. The two grocery stores are Dollar General and Family Dollar. The three restaurants—Tudor’s Biscuit World, Gino’s Pizza, and Subway—are hunched together a few miles down Highway 16. Plenty of businesses are closed, and there appears evidence of the opioid epidemic in several of the same people I always see near the post office or at the park picnic shelter, where children cool off in the splash pad and climb on the bright red fire truck. There are health clinics, social services, the courthouse, a library, Hometown Floral, and the county swimming pool next to the high school. In June, banners hung from the street lights, picturing and naming each of the 2025 county high school graduates.
I am spending vacation days in Clay on account of my eighteen-year-old daughter, Ellen. After her first year of college, she came home for two days to unload her dorm room belongings and pack up for summer staff training with Appalachia Service Project (ASP) in Jonesville, VA. There are 20 centers that ASP is operating in central Appalachia this summer. Kyra, Ellen, Matt, and Bridget have been chosen to operate the Clay County center where they have set up headquarters in the middle school. So far, I have spent 7 days in Clay as my only chance to see Ellen. But even here, I have had only short visits with her. So I have set out to explore the town on my own.
My home has been the Tales of the Elk River Inn where the rooms are on the second floor and open onto wide porches, facing either Main Street or the Elk River. On weekdays, out-of-town miners stay in the front rooms. The lot is double parked with their big trucks, and I can hear them out on the front porch talking during the early evenings, and then again as they file out before dawn.
On the ground floor is a quilting fabric store and glassware shop where I spend hours over the course of my visits. I have not made time to sew since my children were born, so on my second visit I bring my sewing machine and contentedly complete a whole project in my room. It is a set of six batik green dragonfly placemats. I use cutting tools borrowed from the quilt shop and the long counter of the bathroom sink as a desk for my sewing machine.
On my first visit, the inn owner, Rene, has just bought a huge collection of salt and pepper shakers, so she has plenty of time to sit and talk as she cleans and prices each set. Over time, I also get to know Beverly, who runs the quilt shop while Rene works her full time job at the Department of Ag in Charleston, an hour’s commute away. I meet Dana and Brooke who clean the rooms while Dana’s three young daughters stream in and out, making themselves at home around the shop.
Ten-year-old Etta James tells me that she is named after her father’s favorite singer and then she goes on to tell me about her whole family. She helps me with my salt shaker shopping and says someday she wants to run the whole glassware shop and shows me how she would arrange everything. It is Etta who tells me exactly how to get to the best part of the Elk River Trail and to the path leading to the swimming hole with the rope swing—something I never would have found on my own.
Everyone I meet, even young Etta, almost immediately talks not so much about themselves but about their family and neighbors. I work hard to keep up with who is who in the stories, especially when we get to the mothers–in-law and stepbrothers. They fully expect me to remember but patiently re-explain if I get confused. It is beautiful how they welcome me in, and I can hear so clearly in their voices that their wealth is rooted in extensive family and community connections and deeply-weathered memories and lives carved into this mountain county. I find that many have an unshakeable and abiding faith as well.
When I ask Rene to recommend a church where they would welcome a stranger, she tells me about all the nearby churches. But probably the most welcoming church, she says, is a little one-room church. It’s a church without a regular minister, but a congregation that meets on Sunday morning anyway, for Bible study. Then Rene texts one of the members, Patty, to let her know I’ll be there and to expect me.
At 9:52 a.m. when I roll into the gravel lot of Clay Community Church, Patty is just getting out of her car. She and her mother Wanda are always in church together, but Wanda has been having severe back problems and, while almost nothing can keep her away, this back pain can.
We are the last to arrive, and about ten men and women are already seated in different pews. Patty introduces me simply saying, “Good morning everybody, this is Martha!” and most everyone stands up one by one to shake my hand and introduce themselves warmly. I feel instantly at home. Then they begin amongst themselves the usual ‘inquiring about family’ talk that happens in small churches everywhere just before the service begins. Often they turn to me to briefly interpret who and what they are talking about.
As I listen, I gaze about the sanctuary with its wooden plank walls painted light yellow and the painting of Jesus in the front behind the pulpit. I wonder whether in 1966, when I was born, the sanctuary might have looked just like it does today.
Then, with some unspoken cue, everyone leans back into their pews. A tall gentleman, Robert, walks to the back of the sanctuary. As he unhooks a rope from high up on the wall, I see that the rope is hanging through a small hole in the ceiling. With both hands, he pulls up and down, up and down, as we all listen to the deep, resonant ringing through the sanctuary and into the neighborhood and the mountains beyond. After the last echoes fade, a woman speaks up quietly and says, “I remember when Brother Williard would hold us kids up so we could ring that bell.” Some say, “He did that?” and others nod, also remembering.
A man goes up to the pulpit and asks if anyone has any concerns they want to bring. Everyone has concerns, all spoken for others, and their burdens do not seem light. I ask them to please pray for Ellen, her coworkers, and the families they are helping and to give them support and encouragement when they see them. The leader listens to all and then says, “Let us pray”. I don’t pray but instead listen as with bowed heads everyone unburdens their prayers aloud, together, in a collage of spoken prayers mingling and going up to God like smoke.
Patty calls out a hymn and starts singing an old one that I have never heard. Actually, as I thumb through the hymnbook, I am not sure I recognize any of them. But everyone else seems to know the words by heart. I find the page and sing along and it is beautiful. I try to think of how I can hold onto this moment—the indescribable sound of just our voices all raised up together singing.
Robert returns to the pulpit and the Bible study begins. “We are on the 12th chapter of Revelation, 37 verses.” We read the whole chapter out loud together and as always, I am amazed by the imagery of Revelation. Then we go back through it slowly in deep discussion and I am again amazed, this time by the symbolism that so many people point out and of the understanding of the chapter that they bring forth. And mostly, I hear the voice of God’s great abiding love and care for them in all circumstances, as people who have been carried through fire and troubled waters often mostly clearly see.
In June, Patty told me that the first time I visited, I was a guest. The second time, I was family. I did return again in July, and it made me feel so good when they exclaimed “Martha’s back!!” as I entered the sanctuary. In a world that is increasingly closing itself off to strangers, the people of Clay and this little church welcomed me in without hesitation.
At first I only saw the kudzu. Now I see Clay as an oasis. As we walked out of the church, I told them that even if Ellen doesn’t work there again next summer that I would return—that I will gladly drive four hours to return to Clay and their little church again!
