Roots.

March 13, 2019. 

Again. 

Two posts in one day. I guess you can say things are getting pretty serious. 

I was hanging out in my Jeep like perfectly normal people do at 6:30am, and I couldn’t help but reflect back on a conversation I had a few days ago with Logan, the girl I reunited with back in Colorado. I mentioned this in my first blog post and didn’t elaborate too much on it. 

Logan and I come from the same area of Eastern Kentucky. It’s the place where if you say “Appalaysha”, we will throw an apple ‘atcha. Talent runs deep and hard work ethic even deeper. It was a big deal for us to meet back up, 7 years later, in Colorado, because where we are from, not many people get the chance to leave. Sure there are those who venture out of the hills we call home, but the amount is way fewer than those who choose to stay and build a life there. I admire those people; they are family, friends, and people who will be there when our tired, wandering selves journey back. I truly do love home. I left for opportunities, adventures, and to learn more about the world outside our little area, but part of my heart will forever rest on Hickory Drive. 

The topic of our childhoods was brought up. Both of us agreed that we are so incredibly lucky to have been raised the way we were. I would not trade being a kid in Louisa, Kentucky for anything. When they say it takes a village to raise a child, they must have been referring to home, because that village made me who I am. 

I know that today, the majority of youth is typically transfixed by the small screen held in our hand. Most time is spent watching videos or playing games, or watching videos of people playing games which I will admit to being super confused by. What’s the fun in that? I remember getting in to fist fights or intense “no, you’re stupid” arguments just by having to wait my turn for almost anything when I was younger, so the fact that kids are watching others play games and talk about it blows my mind. I guess where we lost our imagination, we picked up patience somewhere along the road. But, times are so different now and it makes me appreciate the way I grew up in a way words can’t even express. 

I thought back, particularly, to the days of spending the night at my grandmothers house in Chapman, Kentucky. To get to Chapman, you must cross a bridge that would make the toughest of the tough cringe to cross. We call it Wallbridge and I have no idea why. After doing some digging on the oh so reliable Wikipedia, I learned that Chapman was named after its original pioneer, David Chapman of Montgomery, West Virginia. Useless information but cool to know I guess. To most, Chapman would seem like a scene out of Wrong Turn or worse, but to us kids, this “holler” was heaven. It was our own Narnia in a way. Up in the hills and woods we ran alongside the creek, catching tadpoles is styrofoam cups and crawdads we used to torment each other with. We explored every nook and cranny we could find, including ponds and lakes and our grandfathers barn. There were horses we would feed and at one time sheep and cows. In the winter months we would sled down the hill in hopes of not breaking our necks, but getting braver each time. I can’t describe to you the utter fear of running for your life as a guineafowl was chasing you with a posse of backup like a gang, ready for blood. I rode on top of the farm mutt, Taz, like he was my sturdy steed. We laughed, we told stories at night, we stuffed our (our grandmas) bras with wash clothes and pretended to be Dolly Parton while a movie about a parrot played in the background. I would give anything to go back there. I know compared to the upbringing of anyone around California, or anywhere other than Appalachia, our childhood wasn’t normal. But it was our normal, and I feel incredibly lucky for that. 

As I grew older and time in Chapman grew less and less, I still loved thinking back in appreciation of the times we had there. I may be on the other side of the country now, but I love to just travel back in my mind and somehow, put myself barefoot in the yard on a sunny summer day. Now and then when I visit home, I’ll turn on either Sundy Best and Tyler Childers, or throw it way back to Dolly, Tammy, Loretta and Patsy, roll my windows down, and cruise through the deep dark hills of Eastern Kentucky.