sometimes i dream
that i walk down the gravel lane,
past the moss covered granite...
the angel presiding over the tiny plot
of the little child
for whom i created a life in my childhood imaginings.
the one i talked to
and wove flowers for,
along the ground where she rested.
a reminder that the soil of my youth
had been tended by the toil and tears
of lives without longevity.
the dichotomy of my childhood bliss
forming a contrite heart.

i wake to a vapor of
unsettled nostalgia,
a distant sort of longing that rises and dissipates
almost as tangibly
as the groggy remains of sleep.

sometimes i dream
that every acre of land now has a house.
the farm that raised me no longer the sentinel
of the bottomland
and the field of daffodils
that a kindred of miss rumphius sowed,
maybe imagining pig-tailed girls carrying
bouquets so big,
their hands aching on the walk back
to scatter their harvest in jars and cups
along windowsills and farm tables.

i wake
and the panic flees with the weighty sleep.
the knowing
allows peace
to continue watering the kentucky soil
planted in the fields of my heart.

Pop-Pop...


when i need to go to town, i go out of my way to drive past your farm..... even though it is not 'on the way'. as i crest the hill, i look down into the valley, and see the yellow farmhouse sitting there with smoke coming out of the chimney, and i imagine you as a boy, running through the yard, playing in the creek.

since you died when i was young, this is my living diary of your life... being able to walk the hills where you walked..... this is how i am coming to know you.... this is how i cling to you.

i have pictures of you asleep on our couch, with me curled up on your chest. my parents always told me how proud you were of me and my sisters.... how much you adored us. i remember you taking me to Druthers when i would visit, for your morning coffee with all the other retirees. we both would order biscuits and gravy, our shared favorite.... and you would brag of all my accomplishments to your friends. i remember proudly sitting by your side, driving around town, in your blue pick-up truck.

sometimes i get out the cards i made for you while you were in the hospital, dying from a disease you should never have had. i don't remember making them, but my mom saved them. i hope my scribbly handwriting and rainbows cheered you a little... or was it a bittersweet offering, reminding you what you had to leave behind? i didn't get to go to your funeral.... my parents thought i was too young, and your neighbor babysat me. she tried to comfort me by giving me kool-aid, and candy.... and she answered all my 7 year old questions about where you were going as best she could.

now that i am in your homeland, i see your eyes everywhere i go.... they are my eyes, too.... the most distinct physical feature that i inherited from you. and i tell my memories of you to my son, as we drive past your homeplace.... and when we frolic in the creek by your brother's house. i tell him, "this is where your great-grandfather played.... this is the house he helped build with his own hands..... he would have adored you". and i watch the grin come over my son's face as he hears those words.... and i know you are still here with me because of it.

Roots..........
(The following is a re-post. With unpacking and trying to get all settled into our new home, I decided to re-visit a couple of entries about my roots. Now I am even closer to my family's homeplaces....a mere half an hour up the road. An area I never considered living in that fate has brought us to......)

Through fate and serendipity, my husband's job has landed us within an afternoon's drive of a county that has deep family roots for me. My great-grandfather settled here and raised his family in the deep hills of Appalachia. The above farm belonged to my Great Uncle Curtis and his wife Sarah. Sarah was raised in this farmhouse, which was originally a log home (the logs can still be seen inside). She and Uncle Curtis inherited the farm and lived out their lives here- Aunt Sarah never leaving her childhood home.


Aunt Sarah and Uncle Curtis were very resourceful, as the isolation of the mountains necessitated: growing most of their food, making their own clothes, and raising animals. Sarah taught school and Curtis was a carpenter. They never had children, but raised a local orphaned boy as their own. Sarah always had homemade bread and fresh-churned butter waiting for any visitors that stopped by, visitors that included some of her students- some of whom I have run into, living close by, and they have related what a treat it was to be invited into their teacher's home.

My Uncle Curtis died in a tragic accident when I was two- felling a tree on his property, something he had done hundreds of times before...so I never knew him. But Aunt Sarah continued to live there on the farm and teach, and we visited her numerous times growing up. I remember her wood cookstove that she would bake fresh bread in, her sparkling eyes that would light up when we came to visit, and playing in the creek running along side of the house. Memories cherished..... and now passed along in the retelling to my son, who gets to relive them vicariously through our afternoon drives to the land of his ancestors.....

March Madness ..........
"Oh, my Cats! My Kentucky Wildcats! I love them." - Ashley Judd

It's that time of year!! If you are born in Kentucky, you are born a UK basketball fan........ it's in your blood. I am no exception to the rule, and this is the one time of year that my eyes will be glued to the TV most nights of the week. Our night is Friday, against Villanova.....and we'll go from there......hopefully.

Kentucky basketball and its fanbase is the stuff of legend. Here are some excerpts from Wikipedia's definition of Kentucky basketball :

"UK has some of the most loyal fans in the country. The recent renovation to Rupp Arena has added the E-Rupp-tion Zone, a popular place for students during basketball games......
The University of Kentucky Men's basketball team is considered one of the elite NCAA basketball programs, having earned a total of seven NCAA titles. UK is also the winningest men's college basketball program in the nation. Through the completion of the 2006 NCAA basketball tournament on 04/03/06, the Wildcats have a total of 1926 wins (North Carolina is second with a total of 1883 wins, and Kansas is third with a total of 1873 wins). UK's Rupp Arena has attained legendary status as one of the most difficult venues in the country for opponents to play."

My husband dreads this time of year, as Kentucky hasn't done well in the NCAA tournament for a while. He's probably wondering if we will have a repeat of a night several years ago when Kentucky was playing in the Elite 8. By the time they get that far, you are vested and can see the Championship looming. Well, this game was doomed, and hubby saw it coming. With about 2 minutes left in the game, he excused himself and ran up the street. By the time he got back, my dear Cats had lost and I was in tears...... but my husband knew this would be the scene.... and arrived with flowers and my favorite ice cream in hand.

Yes, folks......... it's that time of year again!!!!!

(sidenote: no, you are not hearing things! that's the ben harper video playing from my previous "wordless wednesday" post. i don't know how to adjust it to where it doesn't come on automatically.)

The Last of a Generation.......
"In all of us there is a hunger, marrow-deep, to know our heritage - to know who we are and where we have come from." -Alex Haley

"You monkeys snuck right past me," she said as she walked up behind us to open the door to her apartment. She ambled up the sidewalk , cane in hand....in her thick coat and knit hat that her mother made. My sister and I had just arrived and didn't see her sitting in her car in the parking lot.

"I was waiting in my car, watching for you."

"For how long?", we asked.

"Since 9 o'clock", she said.

"NORMA!", I said, because I knew it was after 10. "Did you not think we could find our way? It's freezing outside!"

She just grinned at me and unlocked the door to let us all in from the cold.

Norma is my second cousin and lives in Hagerstown, MD. She's the last of my grandfather's generation. She's approaching 90 and is a treasure trove of memories and stories of growing up near my grandfather and her summers spent on his farm.

My sister and I met up in Hagerstown this past weekend for a two-fold purpose.....to see each other one last time before she flies back to her current home in London, and to visit with Norma and record her memories and stories for future generations. My grandfather died when I was pretty young...so her stories are my connection to him...a living diary of their intertwined lives.

Norma is all spunk and personality, as were most of the women on my dad's side of the family. She loves visits from "cousins" and basked in the attention and questions. As she recounted her past, she would often drift off, getting caught up in the memory...often a smile would appear during these moments..or a tear in the eye. She told us of the mischief that would happen on the farm....and of fighting with her sister over Emory Metzger, whom her sister ended up marrying. Her favorite phrase is "Cotton-pickin"...used over and over in regards to people and circumstances.

Norma and her younger sister, Jenny, never married. They lived together most of their life and provided foster care to infants until a home was found for them. We took Norma to her favorite diner for lunch and she pointed to a place in the restaurant where one of her foster babies found his "forever family"...a couple that saw him as they were having dinner and became enamored with him, eventually adopting him. We chauffeured her around town as she pointed out places that were near and dear to her...giving me driving directions such as "Stay on this road until you get somewhere else".....

At the end of a wonderful day spent together, we hugged and kissed, and her parting words were, "I love you, monkeys!" A day to be cherished.... and stories to be passed down to the next generation so that the "living" history of our family will be preserved and told for years to come....

(photos courtesy of my sis' )

"The Church In The Wildwood"..........
Words & Music: Dr. William S. Pitts, 1857
(words tweaked by bmm...)

"There's a church in the valley by the wildwood
No lovelier spot in the dale
No place is so dear to my childhood
As the little white church in the vale

How sweet on a clear Sabbath morning
To listen to the clear ringing bells
Its tones so sweetly are calling
Oh come to the church in the vale

There, close by the church in the valley
Lies one that I loved so well
He sleeps, sweetly sleeps, 'neath the willow
Disturb not his rest in the vale

There, close by the side of that loved one
'Neath the tree where the wild flowers bloom
When farewell hymns shall be chanted
I shall rest by his side in the tomb

(Oh, come, come, come, come)
Come to the church by the wildwood
Oh, come to the church in the vale
No spot is so dear to my childhood
As the little white church in the vale "










- The photos are of the church Aunt Sarah and Uncle Curtis (see prev. post) attended. It lies on a hill across from their farm...Sarah's childhood church. And they are both buried in the churchyard, under a grove of trees. Sarah lying just feet from her childhood home.....

Roots..........

Through fate and serendipity, my husband's job has landed us within an afternoon's drive of a county that has deep family roots for me. My great-grandfather settled here and raised his family in the deep hills of Appalachia. The above farm belonged to my Great Uncle Curtis and his wife Sarah. Sarah was raised in this farmhouse, which was originally a log home (the logs can still be seen inside). She and Uncle Curtis inherited the farm and lived out their lives here- Aunt Sarah never leaving her childhood home.

Aunt Sarah and Uncle Curtis were very resourceful, as the isolation of the mountains necessitated: growing most of their food, making their own clothes, and raising animals. Sarah taught school and Curtis was a carpenter. They never had children, but raised a local orphaned boy as their own. Sarah always had homemade bread and fresh-churned butter waiting for any visitors that stopped by, visitors that included some of her students- some of whom I have run into, living close by, and they have related what a treat it was to be invited into their teacher's home.

My Uncle Curtis died in a tragic accident when I was two- felling a tree on his property, something he had done hundreds of times before...so I never knew him. But Aunt Sarah continued to live there on the farm and teach and we visited her numerous times growing up. I remember her wood cookstove that she would bake fresh bread in, her sparkling eyes that would light up when we came to visit, and playing in the creek running along side of the house. Memories cherished..... and now passed along in the retelling to my son, who gets to relive them vicariously through our afternoon drives to the land of his ancestor's.....

WHERE I'M FROM

I am from hand-made Easter dresses, from Ranger Rick, Heartland Granola, and Cabbage Patch Kids.

I am from the oldest house in Calloway County, whippoorwill and bobwhite calls in the evening, haunted woods and cemeteries, and forests filled with unicorns and wood nymphs.

I am from yellow seas of daffodils on the hillside, butterfly weed along the dirt road home, and daylilies blooming behind the old building.

I am from homemade gift-giving, bargain shopping, porch settin', and pickin' and grinnin', from stubborn Scotch, Irish, and Germans, from Loughs and Mullens, from Evelyn Jenny, and Mary Gene.

I am from music-filled houses, craftsmen, and lively conversations.

From "Jesus loves me, this I know" and "Music is the language of the soul".

I am from conservative Southern Baptists, potlucks on the grounds, "Just As I Am", alter calls, and kind-hearted sunday school teachers.

I'm from the land between the lakes, the green rolling hills of West Virginia, the Blue Ridge mountains, and the foothills of Tennessee, from homemade English muffins, apple butter, biscuits and gravy, and Baba's spaghetti.

From a World War II veteran and a spunky, but genteel Southern lady, from a motherless boy raised by his siblings and who went "sparkin" with Gracie, the neighboring farmgirl.

I am from weavers of magic tales, from bundling up under handmade afghans in front of warm fires, from vegetable gardens and feeding the cows, from long summer days filled with play, from an old, white farmhouse and a childhood filled with innocence and love. May every child be so blessed!

(This poem was inspired from a poem by George Ella Lyons and the template has made the rounds for others to do. It is a great way to reflect on what makes you who you are. The link is here:http://www.swva.net/fred1st/wif.htm. I'd love to hear your "Where I'm From" poems! -bluemountainmama)