"Downhome" means different places to different people. For me, it's the
rural mountain areas of Kentucky, Tennessee, Virginia and West Virginia.
During the '50s and '60s, many thousands of us left our homes in what
could be called "The Great Northern Migration." Jobs, so scarce in the
mountains, were plentiful up North. Booming industries, especially the
automotive industry, promised a better way of life than the declining coal
mines of Appalachia.
So we came to Ohio, Michigan, Indiana, Illinois and other parts of the
country. We worked, married and started families. Throughout the years,
we've developed deep, lasting friendships. We've become involved in church,
school and community affairs. We've enjoyed good times and weathered bad
times.
But through it all, we've kept our "downhome" memories.
Why do we talk about "downhome" as if we belong there? Because we do
belong there. It's our heritage. Our roots are firmly planted there, and in
our hearts and minds, we are still very much a part of the mountains and
hills and valleys of "home."
We go back as often as we can to see the folks, and to absorb the sights,
sounds and feelings of "home." Our spirits are refreshed and our souls are
strengthened. We never leave it behind. "Home" remains a part of us, no
matter where we go.
Although none of us would go back to the "good old days" of carrying
water from a spring, washing on a washboard, hoeing fields of corn and
walking miles to school each day, we like to talk about those days.
Certainly the work was hard. Life was hard. But there were many good
times. Simple, peaceful times of country churches and one-room schools,
berry pickings and cane poles; guitars, fiddles, and summer nights on front
porches. Happy, carefree times that have become cherished memories.
"Downhome" is the simple things that often bring us comfort and a feeling
of peace: a crystal-clear mountain stream; a freshly-plowed field; a lilac
bush by the front gate; a coal tipple; a country church on a hillside;
morning glories winding around a trellis of twine; Mama singing an old
gospel hymn; a cool, shady hollow; a mountain path; a creek to wade in.
And, still, it is much more. It's a country store with a potbellied
stove; a mountain ridge, apple blossoms and mountain laurel; a dirt road
winding toward the homeplace, tucked snugly in a mountain gap, or nestled in
a peaceful valley, or perched on top of a mountain. It's drawing a bucket of
water from the well; drinking spring water from a dipper; being lulled to
sleep by rain falling on a tin roof. It's Grandpa telling a story about when
he was a boy; Uncle Fred playing the banjo, claw-hammer style, and singing
"Pretty Polly"; Daddy singing "Little Liza Jane" while bouncing one of the
kids on his knee. It's sitting on the front porch on a summer night,
listening to a whippoorwill or a hoot owl, or finding the Big Dipper in the
sky. It's a cow bell, ringing softly in a distant pasture; birds singing and
frogs croaking; June bugs buzzing before they land on the screen door.
"Downhome" is a team of mules, working in the timber; coal mines, saw
mills, limestone quarries, caves, railroads and river locks; it's small
towns; friendly folks; all day meetin's with dinner on the ground; going to
the river for a baptizing; going to town; and going to the basketball game
at the high school.
"Downhome" is a way of life -- the way it was, the way it is, and the way
it will always remain -- at least, the way it will always be in our hearts
and memories.
