The Hills of Home

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Except for a couple of years in my early teens, I’ve spent all of my days in the hills of Kentucky. My daddy couldn’t make enough money here so he moved us to northern Indiana, got a factory job and we lived ‘high on the hog,’ buying new furniture, a better car and all the little extras that we’d never known before. About once a month, mommy would pack us all up and daddy would drive the eight hours of interstate to visit family and friends back home. As time went on, it got harder and harder to leave behind the loved ones and the mountains to head back up north. Our family made some good friends and have many happy memories of the little town of Pierceton where we were warmly welcomed. My younger brother might not be alive today but for the doctor who diagnosed a cyst that had grown as his skull was coming together as an embryo. It was both inside and outside his skull, requiring major surgery. Not long before he passed away a few years ago, daddy asked me if I thought maybe God sent us there so David would get the medical care we didn’t even know he needed. I think it’s very likely He did. About this time of year in the spring of 1967, the redbud trees were in full bloom when we started up Slade mountain, headed to mamaw’s and papaw’s for the week-end. By the time Sunday rolled around, my parents had decided to move back home. Daddy found a job as a mechanic at a car dealership, loaded up everything we owned on a borrowed pick-up truck and never looked back! I went down the mountain last evening to get pizza for the kids. As I rounded the last curve, the view you see in my photo greeted me. I was reminded of how fortunate I am to call this place home.