Sunday Edition | Issue #10 | April 5, 2026

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🚂 WELCOME ABOARD
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This week on The Wayne Train:

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📡 DISPATCHES FROM THE DIGITAL HOLLER
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Fate has a sense of humor.

Two weeks ago, Kay and I flew out of Lexington to Fort Lauderdale, connecting through Atlanta, headed for the Florida Keys. As I shuffled past first class — the way us back-of-the-planers always do, equal parts jealous and pretending not to look — I spotted a guy that stopped me cold.

Looked an awful lot like former Kentucky football coach Mark Stoops.

I kept walking. Told myself it probably wasn't him. Kay thought the same thing from her seat. We could barely see up there through the curtain that separates the chosen from the rest of us, so we let it go.

Fort Lauderdale. Rental car shuttle. And there he is again.

Or a guy that looks exactly like him. Same build. Same face. Kay just asked him straight out, the way she does when I'm standing there overthinking it.

"Are you Coach Stoops?"

He nodded. Quiet. A little reserved. Yes, I am.

And suddenly I'm sitting three feet from the man I'd spent an entire football season absolutely lighting up through my television screen.

Now look. Kentucky football fans, we've suffered. Chronically. Generationally. But this past season was something else. I said things. Rough things. Questioned his judgment. Questioned his game plans. Said some stuff I probably wouldn't repeat in church or, apparently, in a rental car shuttle in South Florida.

And here he is. Right across the aisle. Now I can give him a good piece of my mind.

You know what I said?

"Hey Coach, how ya doing?"

That's it. That was my moment. My big swinging speech. A year's worth of opinions and frustrations and I went with the greeting you give your dentist.

He didn't seem particularly interested in small talk, and I don't blame him. The man had just finished a brutal season and probably just wanted to get a car and go somewhere quiet.

But here's what I wish I'd said — what I should have said, if I hadn't been tired and caught off guard and suddenly aware of my own tongue-tied ridiculousness:

Thanks, Coach. For everything. Best of luck in whatever comes next.

Because here's the truth. Mark Stoops is Kentucky's all-time winningest football coach. He had years where he made us genuinely proud, which is not something Kentucky football fans say lightly or often.

The end was hard. But the whole of it wasn't.

So Coach Stoops, if by some miracle you ever read a column written by a hillbilly who couldn't find his words on a shuttle bus —

Thanks for everything.

I meant to say it sooner.

Wayne Knuckles is a 40-plus year 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.

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📜 FEATURED STORY OF THE WEEK
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BEREA, Ky. — Before sunrise on Easter morning, before the coffee percolated and the ham went into the oven, a woman would slip out of the house alone and walk to the creek.

She carried a jar.

She moved in darkness, deliberately, because that was the rule. The water had to be drawn before sunlight touched it — collected from a pure, flowing spring in the hushed stillness of early morning. Brought home, it would be preserved for the year ahead. Used to anoint the sick. Sprinkled at doorways for protection. Saved for moments when ordinary medicine fell short and something older was needed.

The tradition was called drawing Easter water, and for generations it was practiced quietly throughout the Appalachian mountains — in Kentucky, West Virginia, Tennessee, Virginia, and the Carolinas. Today, most people have never heard of it.

READ THE ENTIRE STORY HERE

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🗞 APPALACHIA IN THE NEWS
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Nobody thinks of bees as livestock.

Cattle, sure. Sheep, maybe. But bees?

Turns out Virginia is crawling with them — about 4,000 native species across the country, plus the honeybees that beekeepers actually manage like a crop. And like any crop, they've got problems.

Pesticides are hammering the wild ones. Disease is gnawing at the managed ones. And somewhere in the middle, beekeepers are losing colonies while the rest of us argue about who's to blame.

Here's the thing nobody tells you: honeybee populations are actually at record highs right now.

Record highs. Go figure.

But before you exhale, understand that "more bees" and "healthy bees" are two different conversations entirely. Beekeepers will tell you that. Usually while looking tired.

WMRA’s AYSE PIRGE HAS THE STORY HERE

Before there was a Pillsbury bag or a packet of Fleischmann's, Appalachian women were already making bread rise.

No yeast. No shortcuts. Just science they didn't know was science.

Salt rising bread is one of those things that sounds simple until you try to make it. Then it humbles you. The process has three steps, takes the better part of a day, and involves microbial activity that researchers are still trying to fully explain.

Genevieve Bardwell has spent years explaining it anyway.

She's co-authored a book on the subject, visited bread museums — yes, those exist — and sat in the kitchens of elder Appalachian bakers who learned it from women who learned it from women who learned it before the Civil War.

On April 10, she's bringing all of that to Carnegie Hall in Lewisburg. The workshop runs from 9 to 11:30 a.m. You'll learn the method. You'll make the bread. You'll leave with a warm loaf and a sourdough starter.

Two hundred years of Appalachian kitchen wisdom.

Two and a half hours.

Sounds like a fair trade.

WEST VIRGINIA DAILY NEWS REPORTS

Fireworks are fine.

You watch them. You ooh. You aah. You go home smelling like sulfur and bug spray.

But America turns 250 this year, and maybe the occasion calls for something bigger than a parking lot and a folding chair.

North Carolina has been sitting on some of the most jaw-dropping real estate on the continent since long before anybody signed anything in Philadelphia. The most-visited national park in the country. One of the deepest gorges east of anywhere. A waterfall taller than anything between here and the Rockies.

It was all here at the founding. It'll be here long after the bunting comes down.

Seven natural wonders. One milestone year.

Go see what this country actually looks like when nobody's built anything on it yet.

CONTINUE RIDING WITH THIS STORY HERE

Ethan Branscum was 6 years old when he decided Kentucky needed to do better.

He'd seen it on the news. Ohio had just made rescue animals the official state pet. Something about that stuck with him — the idea that a state could stand up and say, these animals matter.

Ethan already knew they did. He and his mom, Miche, were regulars at the Franklin County Humane Society, photographing dogs and cats nobody had claimed yet, posting the pictures online, hoping somebody would notice.

Somebody always needed to notice.

He's 13 now. He has two dogs — Hank and Dixie. Both former shelter animals. Of course they are.

In 2019, he wrote a letter to his state representative, Joe Graviss, making the case for Kentucky to follow Ohio's lead. He was 9. He didn't expect much.

"Honestly, we weren't expecting to get a reply back or for it to get introduced," Ethan said. "But he actually loved the idea."

House Bill 27 passed the House floor in 2020. Ninety to two.

Then it died in the Senate without a hearing.

COVID arrived that same week, which tells you something about how that legislative session ended.

Ethan kept going anyway.

SARAH LADD REPORTS FOR THE KENTUCKY LANTERN

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🗞 KAY’S CORNER
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Easter was a special day during my childhood, and still is to this day.

I always looked forward to getting a new Easter dress to wear to church, along with white gloves and black patent leather shoes.

My parents took me to Sunday School. I was so proud of my “Easter frock” as I heard  mommy call it many times, and to hear about Jesus being raised from the grave.

Easter is a time to remember the life, death, burial and resurrection of Jesus Christ, henceforth, Resurrection Sunday.

In 2005 my late husband and I had the privilege to visit the Holy Land in Israel. You talk about bringing the Bible to life, it certainly did.

Some of the places we visited were Tiberius, Jerusalem, Bethlehem, Mount of Olives, Pool of Bethesda, Sea of Galilee and many other places.

We did visit the Dead Sea.

I wanted so bad to get in the water, but I can’t swim and was afraid of drowning. But, the tour guide assured me that I would not drown, that I could not sink in the salt water.

I trusted her and took a dip in the Dead Sea. And of course I survived and truly enjoyed the experience. However; I could taste salt three days afterwards.

The highlight of our trip was visiting the Garden Tomb. The grounds of that sacred place were immaculate in beauty. We gathered with a group to have prayer, worship and communion. The peace that I felt at that time is still to this day indescribable.

We then entered into the tomb. I was reminded of the scripture below.

Easter is a great time to stop from our busy lives and reflect and thank God for all our blessings. I’m very thankful, my blessings are many!

Bible Verse of the Week: He is not here: for He is risen, as He said. Come, see the place where the Lord lay.

Matthew 28:6

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

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📜 KNOW YOUR NEIGHBORS
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Visit all 423 Appalachian counties, one week at a time. Counties are selected by random drawing, so you never know where you might end up!

Sit down. Pull up a chair. Because your neighbor to the south has a story, and it doesn't start with sweet tea and rocking chairs. It starts with German farmers following the Great Wagon Road down through Pennsylvania, winding their way into the Carolina foothills, looking at the ridge line and thinking: this looks like home.

Two distinct waves of settlers came into the Catawba Valley as early as the 1740s. The Scots-Irish and English came first, settling the lower ground. The German-speaking community — Swiss, Rhenish Palatines, Saxons, Mennonites, Lutherans — settled the higher ground, because it reminded them of the Rhine Valley back in France. These were not soft people. They were mountain-adjacent, hard-handed, church-on-Sunday folk. Sound familiar? Click the link below for the full story:

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📜 APPALACHIAN ALMANAC
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THE SKY ABOVE

Moon's in her waning phase this week.

Old-timers would tell you that's the time to plant your root crops. Potatoes. Carrots. Onions. The energy's pulling downward, they said. Into the earth. Into the bulb.

The Lyrid meteor shower is warming up overhead, running through mid-month. If you're up before dawn — and if you're Appalachian, there's a decent chance you are — look northeast. You might see a streak or two. No equipment required. Just your eyes and the dark.

THE GROUND BENEATH

The old rule was simple: don't plant your corn until the oak leaves are the size of a mouse's ear. No app. No soil thermometer. Just a man squinting at a tree.

Walk out your door this week and look at the oaks. They'll tell you where you stand.

CONTINUE READING THIS STORY BY CLICKING HERE

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📜 THE BACK PAGE
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Easter in the Appalachian Mountains represents far more than a single day of celebration—it embodies a rich tapestry of religious devotion, family tradition, and cultural heritage that has been passed down through generations.

For mountain folk, Easter, often called "Resurrection Day" in traditional communities, marks the most significant celebration of the Christian calendar, intertwining biblical observance with distinctive regional customs shaped by the practical realities and spiritual depth of Appalachian life.

The Easter traditions of Appalachia reflect a unique blend of European heritage, particularly Scots-Irish and Welsh influences, combined with the resourcefulness and communal values that defined mountain living. From sunrise services held on misty mountaintops to elaborate family dinners spread on tables under dogwood trees, these customs reveal a people deeply connected to their faith, their land, and their kinfolk.

READ THE ENTIRE STORY HERE

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