Maplewood Drive

Last night I dreamt I returned to the house on Maplewood Drive, where the old Oak tree spreads its branches over the front yard. In my memory the tree still keeps watch over the children playing in its dappling shade, even though it was uprooted in a terrible storm long ago, The vision of the sun on its golden leaves pierces my heart with gladness. It tells me my life was not lived in vain.

The concrete walkway which still divides the lawn, leads to the glassed-in porch rising above the bricked-in receptacle for flowers. After summer’s end the flowers will begin to die. The leaves will turn to gold and then brown as they fall, waiting for the rake to tease them into mounds for the children to laugh and leap into. Later, when the snow comes, when sunlight glitters on melting icicles hanging from gutters, the children will need new winter coats.

The house fit my vision of an older home, cheap, most likely in need of repair, but in a good location near a school; a used swing set would be found. The school lay just beyond three houses on our side of the street. An actual boon, as I often had to remind a child to watch for traffic before crossing the street.

When we bought the house its white paint was blistered by the sun, peeling randomly. Later, we painted it blue. Foreverafter, It would be called “the blue house” in a term of affection, even after it had been painted gray.

Maplewood was many things, to the children and to me. Also, in a different sense, to their father. You may later wonder why he’s left out of these passages—the reason being simple; his involvement with us was due to an act of generosity on his part, which, although bringing him gifts he hadn’t anticipated, derailed him from the life he’d sought.

When I told him of a time I’d felt downhearted but reminded myself of why I should be joyful, saying how it brought back my joy, driving the darkness away, he was shocked. “You manipulate yourself!” he exclaimed.

A brilliant man, he felt no need to monitor himself. Self-monitoring involves the ability to monitor and regulate emotions and behaviors in response to social environments and situations, being aware of your behavior and the impact it has on others.

Gratefully, I was able to cooperate with fate by modifying my lot so that today I rejoice in my memories of Maplewood Drive, knowing it was all worthwhile.  

Why Hillbilly Elegy Is A Bad Title

ABOUT HILLBILLY ELEGY: I refuse to read this book by JD Vance nor will I watch the movie. A “hillbilly” is “an unsophisticated country person, associated originally with the remote regions of the Appalachians.” I am one of them and I’m proud of it. I’m more self-educated than not, having come from a “hillbilly” family who believes reading books and “larning” things is so much fun it don’t leave any room for foolishness.

Where JD went wrong is he blames his terrible treatment while growing up on what he calls the “hillbilly culture” There ain’t no such thing. Bad people and bad treatment are everywhere, probably more so in the cities and towns than in the mountains. Why slander “hillbillies!” It’s a misuse of the word through blaming the lowest level of society on the mountain people.

His title and the book’s premise are both wrong.

I did watch his interview with Megyn Kelly and my heart went out to him. I could see he had withstood terrible hurts from his past. To be completely healed he may have to hold those who mistreated him accountable, cut them from his life. After all, there is no excuse for the mistreatment of children, not due to drugs nor anything else. Instead of him forgiving others at his own cost, the ones who injured him should be the ones made to suffer.

I made a previous post about JD Vance’s book before I watched the Megyn Kelly interview. Watching him respond to her many questions aroused my feelings for him. I wish him a true healing from what was obviously a horrible childhood.

A Little Bit of Nonsense

This is how the world ends, not all at once, just a little bit at a time.

 Why is J. D. Vance’s little bit of Jabberwocky making such a big splash? Twas brillig and the slithy toves –you know the rest–doesn’t everyone?

I’m appalled by this pandering to an opportunistic quasi-hillbilly who has indecently laid claim to the name. Maybe I shouldn’t be surprised since it’s simply more of the same: disrespect for a people who fought to independently carve out a life for themselves and their children in the wilderness through their own labor.

Although I left eastern Kentucky many years ago in order to find employment I continue to be proud of my heritage. My ancestors were pioneers in eastern Kentucky, several generations (including one great great grandfather who was about two years old) coming into what is now Letcher County in the Adams Wagon Train.

I’m proud because I know what we stood for in the beginning and still do. I took my heritage with me when I left, passing my values along to my own children. I taught them to take pride in our ancestors who built this country from scratch. There may be a few bad’uns somewhere in our lineage but if there are, then God Bless Them.

My Words

Do you hear it on the wind? Shhh? A whisper asking you to be quiet. So you can hear the voice of God? I believe He speaks to us always, through every thought, every feeling, every vision our eyes can see. When we learn to listen.

I have discovered that for most of my life I’ve been on a search for words; words to say just what I feel, just what I think or believe, what I mean. Yet words continue to elude me. Then recently I remembered a day when my son was four, before he entered kindergarten. He had repeated swear words he’d heard his father say. “Please,” I had pleaded with my husband “do not use those words in front of the children or they’ll repeat them.”

But I also told my son: “Those are Daddy’s words’ and you aren’t allowed to say them.” At first he listened to me but then he started kindergarten. One day when he came home from school he had learned new words, bathroom words! “Now those,” he said, “are MY words!” I was dumbfounded, hoping if I didn’t make a fuss he would outgrow the need to use them.

But it seems strange to me that all these years later I’m finally aware that the strongest need in my life, has always been to find the words with which to express my thoughts and feelings. Words to say just how I feel, to say how the sky appears to me just before a thunder-storm, as it fills with dark boiling clouds or calmly permits the Sun to shine through. For all my life I’ve been on a search for words.

I have a vision of Truth waiting for me on the peak of a mountain with many paths leading to it, aware my path is only one of many

HANGED MAN HOLLOW

My new book (with the correct title restored) is now on Kindle in the digital version. My daughter Teresa, who created the cover, is now creating one for the printed version, which will be available soon.💖

December 23, 2020: The print version of this novel is now available on Amazon.💝

This story is a labor of love begun long ago. For a while I called it “Calliput Mountain”. The story first came to me in an inspired writing about a young White girl who was kidnapped by a Cherokee Indian brave and bore his child on the ancestral mountain. The mountain was named for her after she died in childbirth at age fifteen. Her spirit waits for a seventh great granddaughter to come home, one named for her, whose soul also hears the song of the mountain. But the Callie who returns must recall what she once knew, but left behind, before she can remember the song.