One night in July, standing in the Eastern Kentucky bottom where my uncle keeps his garden, I tell him I’m looking for someone in the mountains who has the old remedies. He stops working and crosses his sun-baked hands atop the handle of his garden hoe. “That’s going to take time,” he tells me, “There’s nothing about it that’s automatic.”  At my uncle’s urging, I start looking on the other side of the big mountain. There’s a man in a little coal town in Virginia who deals in roots and herbs — ginseng mostly, but also slippery elm bark, yellowroot, bloodroot, black cohosh, and so on. “If you can find him,” my uncle tells me, “and you can earn his trust, maybe he’ll introduce you to some people who can help you.”  I don’t have a name or address, so I ask around. I’m not sure why, but something about it feels illicit. Up front, no one really seems to know what I’m talking about. I get a lot of answers like “No, I don’t know anything about that, hawney” and “I wish I could help ye, baby, …