The freedom I experienced as a child was intense. A towheaded, bib overall-wearing sovereign, I was allowed to roam my Eastern Kentucky Appalachian kingdom at will. Pine-covered mountains around our holler home in Bonnyman in Perry County were filled with wonder for me. It was a different time and place in the mid-1950s. The only things to fear were an occasional copperhead or rattlesnake.
When not climbing the mountain surrounding our home, my first stop was Aunt Ruby’s kitchen, where we drank lemonade and chatted. When their kids were home, teenaged cousins Brenda and Leona liked to style my blonde pigtails. Alfred and Earl, identical twins five years older than me, and Bootsey, four years my senior, never balked at their girl cousin who wanted to tag along as they waded the creek to catch crawdads or played in their secret clubhouse beneath the front porch. I was the only girl allowed there.
The next-door neighbor’s front room had been converted into a grocery store, where I inspected ongoing games of checkers by older gents seated beside the potbelly stove. After I assured the game was in progress, and if their children weren’t allowed to come out to play, I trekked next door, where daily, an elderly couple rocked on their front porch. They seemed to have anticipated my arrival, always offered a treat, and had much to chat about. I don’t believe they entertained much company, so they welcomed my visits.
My next stop was across a scarcely graveled one-lane road to Uncle Dan “The Candy Man” and beautiful Aunt Evelyn’s house for a game of peek-a-boo with their toddlers Danny Ray and Carolyn. Uncle Dan was at work.
Afterward, at the house beside Uncle Dan and Aunt Evelyn’s, I enjoyed helping Aunt Deola with whatever chore she was doing or joined her for a television show. We had to be quiet, though, because Uncle Earl, freshly home from Korea, slept days and worked nights.
Finally, I arrived at my destination, the farm after Earl’s along the road, my grandparents’ house. I called them Mom and Daddy Lida. They have remained the cornerstone of my existence. I learned so much from them it’s difficult to list it all. They taught me about religion, the Bible and how to think for myself. They taught me to be tough, be strong and work hard. And they taught me by example how to love unconditionally with all my heart, showing me how a lifetime passion for one person was not only possible but the best thing that could happen to someone. They also showed me it could not be taken for granted. They loved each other more than life itself until their lives ended when they were in their 90s.
I spent days sitting behind Mom’s massive cast-iron, coal-burning cookstove and churned butter in a wooden vessel. Some days, I sat on the rock wall behind their house in a strawberry patch, eating more berries than I saved for Mom to can. Other days, she tied her shirt-waist dress’ skirt between her legs. I crawled behind her through the garden learning to pull weeds and not vegetable plants. At harvest time, I helped build a fire in the yard, where she boiled water in a galvanized bathtub to can vegetables and fill her cellar shelves. When the water cooled, I was allowed to “swim” in it as long as I wanted.
In the spring, Daddy Lida borrowed a neighbor’s mule and carried a heavy plow up to his mountainside garden. I followed him back and forth as they plowed rows. Once the soil was silky thin, he walked along each one, poking holes for me to follow and deposit three seeds each before covering them gently.
While Daddy Lida milked his solitary cow, his barn became my jungle gym. I climbed rafters and walked across stall wall tops like balance beams or played in his corn bin. On other days, we rested on a front porch glider, each reading the Bible. I’m sure he got little reading done, as I continually asked him to explain one verse or another. It was a wonderful way to learn to read at the age of 4.
My grandparents had the patience of Job, never losing their tempers or acting disgruntled that their young granddaughter couldn’t get enough of their company. They simply accepted my presence as a given, kept me out of danger, taught me about whatever they were working on, and showed me more love than one person could absorb—enough to last a lifetime.
Daddy picked me up after working in the Blue Diamond Mine. His metal safety helmet had left his sandy blonde hair sweaty. The goggles he’d worn at work left clean skin around his eyes. Except for those two places and from his neck up, coal dust had mixed with sweat and coated his skin with a slick, shiny layer of black. His uniform clothing was dusty black, and his grin was warm and welcoming. My daddy was my hero.
Later in life, Mom reminded me that I sat at a window watching for him when he was due, and I recited, “Through my window I can see my daddy coming home to me.”
I never noticed the poverty, cared about hand-me-down clothing, or felt jealous of anyone. I didn’t care that we ate free cheese from the mine’s commissary. I was grateful for my warm coat in the winter and shoes to wear. Some of my friends were not so lucky and were forced to save theirs for school. At least I had a pair I was allowed to play in when it snowed. Other than that, I preferred to go barefoot, even though twice I stepped on nails that penetrated through my foot.
I felt rich, and I was in so many ways. In standards of the day and place, we must’ve been. We were the first house in our area to have electricity, and we had cold running spring water in the kitchen.
At Bonnyman Elementary School, the principal filled a bucket with drinking water. We students used a dipper to fill water glasses we brought from home. On cold mornings before class, we built a fire in the classroom’s coal-burning pot-belly stove, standing around it to warm our hands. A neighbor cooked lunch and brought it to our classrooms, where we ate off her plates at our desks. There were grades one through six. Our principal taught the sixth grade. Like our homes, the school had outhouses—no bathrooms, central heating or running water.
When Daddy was laid off work at the mines, my perfect world was rocked. My freedom was lost. We moved north to the city for Daddy to find steady work in a less dangerous job as warehouse manager for an art publishing company.
He was the bravest man I’ve known. It takes grit to relocate your family to an unknown area, knowing no one and without the support system of family around us, as we’d been used to. Daddy taught me to be brave, go after what I wanted in life, and that I could accomplish anything.
I was no longer allowed to roam freely. Town living held unfamiliar dangers that my parents feared. Restrictions and warnings became part of my life lessons.
Kids made fun of my accent and tried to be cruel. I refused to accept that and pushed past it by laughing with them and learning their ways so I could fit in. I made friends and found my niche among my schoolmates.
The Cleveland Mob ruled Northern Kentucky’s entertainment industry between 1920-1978, when the FBI shut down organized crime in the top five mob-run cities, including Newport. The area has since morphed into a legitimate, thriving, economically sound entertainment and dining destination city, unlike it was when I was a child.
I grew up with the children of gangsters and lived among those people. Like most of the working class, I was aware but not overly concerned. It was just how things were. I stayed out of trouble and didn’t give it much thought at the time.
I missed family—those who had taught me, loved me wholeheartedly, and made my life ideal in my eyes. My heart ached, especially for my grandparents. I missed my mountain kingdom, the blissful happiness I’d experienced, and the freedom and innocence I’d had as a youngster.
Even Appalachian Kentucky changed over the years. Modernization morphed mountains into heavily populated homes and businesses. Engineering advances made cutting massive chunks out of steep mountainsides possible to create level spaces for industry. Expressways made remote areas accessible. Deep-shaft mining was reduced as surface strip mining took over. Pine-covered peaks looked nothing like their natural state I remember. Chalet condos covered the mountainside where my grandparents’ farm had been, land I had loved so dearly.
Letter writing kept me connected to Mom, Daddy Lida and other family members back home. We vacationed in the summer with them. Daddy and my uncles slaughtered pigs that Daddy Lida had raised. Eventually, telephone access allowed us to talk frequently, but it would never be the same.
Our family adapted and adjusted to city life. As I aged, restrictions were lowered. I became a part of my new world and learned to love it. I thrived, but I never stopped missing what I will always remember as down home.
By Lynda Rees, Demossville (Pendleton County), LyndaReesAuthor.com