February of 2020; I was working in a nursing home as a janitor. I’d just moved down from New York in 2018 after isolating myself in a hostile for a month in Chelsea to write my book, Daughter of Sonic Anarchy. This was a voluntary lockdown; a way for me to concentrate on a book. A self isolation I’d never dream would be happening again in 2020 when Covid hit. I’d lived in the city for five years, and was ready to go back home to the quieter escape of Appalachia—but I was not ready to give up socializing.
It was cold that morning; I’d been informed of a sudden death in the facility, and was told by a head nurse, “you don’t have to clean it… but we’d like for you to..” No one had ever given me a choice to dismiss a work order. We didn’t wear face masks to clean, but I had my gloves. No one else was on the floor that day. I’d never heard the word Covid, but I’d hear it all too often on the television in just a few more days. I walked into the room. The body had been taken away that morning at around 5am. The covers were still disheveled. It was abnormally warm. I began to pull the blankets away from the bed.
About 15 minutes into the routine I began feeling a wave of dizziness—accompanied by a moment of sight loss. I missed my balance and fell to the floor.
After being told to go home, I drove along the main highway, confused about what had just happened. Over the next 24 hours I’d develop strange, flu like symptoms and carry a bad cold for the next three weeks. My mother and I spent the next month taking our home-made folk medicine. The garlic burned and the alkaloids staved off the infection. It took time, but fortunately, it wasn’t able to completely take over my body.
I’d quit my job after learning of the pandemic. Mama expressed her concern, and we decided to isolate ourselves on the 80 acres of wooded territory before the lockdown was even announced. I’d already set myself up to live off the land a year before; I had alternative sources of everything and didn’t need to go anywhere. We’d been raising chickens, we had tomatoes, and an entire garden of potatoes. My pantry in the old, abandoned farmhouse beside my cabin was already stocked up with canned and dried food. When the lockdown was announced, we were already living our safe existence.
I had nothing to complain about—I was grateful. Yet I was lonely. This was the world event that triggered my idea for the podcast, Natural and Wild with Christine Greyson. I’m a social person, and I like talking to people. Since I didn’t have a pirate radio setup, I figured my computer and a cheap microphone might keep me from getting too depressed while I was out there in the woods. I was right.
My first educational degree was in broadcasting and video production. Podcasting is easy in comparison. (I never could shake the southern accent, though.) Now, as I sat on the dilapidated porch watching crows pick away at the muscadines, all those college memories came back. If I couldn’t go out and socialize, I could at least podcast a story or two. I could talk about whatever I wanted. So I ordered a cheap, usb microphone from Amazon and started my first solo podcast from the upper level of the old house.
I told weekly stories that reflected the parallels between human nature and the wild order of the woodlands. It was my way of retaining some sanity in a world of chaos and fear. I shared it for free, knowing people were losing their finances and were stuck at home. It was meant to be an escape from worldly events, and it developed a small cult following.
You can still listen to the archived episodes on the main platforms where podcasts are hosted, and it’s still free. Here are a few links to the show:
