My Mother

My mother is from Paintsville, Kentucky, where family and community mean everything, and where the impoverished and quaint town convey charm through its glorious mountains, victorious local sports teams, and delightful seasonal festivals.

My mother is from a town where togetherness and who raised you is the utter backbone of everything taught.

My mother is from the same place her mother was raised, and her mother and her mother’s mother, which was likewise for her father, and later her younger brother where he raised his children.

My mother is from a lot of the same, yet desired routine; brisk fall Friday nights meant packed high school football games, where my young mother cheered on the Paintsville Tigers from the sidelines, as raucous filled stands erupted with city-wide support.

My mother is from fall weekends traveling to the big city of Lexington to watch the Wildcats perform on the football field after joining together with friends for a bourbon and laughter infused tailgate under a massive blue tent.

My mother is from long, glorious summer Saturdays spent water skiing at the local lake with her parents, cousins, and brother, gulping up the country sun.

My mother is from lifeguarding at the communal swimming pool as she hummed to Duran Duran coming through the aged loudspeakers, where she earned her evening Diet Coke and Little Caesar’s.

My mother is from aiding her father while he tended his rich garden until her face matched his soon to be harvested tomatoes.

My mother is from valuable moments of work ethic learned by observing her father as he completed various tasks without any complaints.

My mother is from Sunday designated church clothes, sitting attentively in the creaky pews of the Methodist church from 10-11:30 AM, basking in the glory of the hundred-year-old stained-glass windows.

My mother is from Sunday afternoons at Granny Short’s, where her father’s side of the family came together for a fattening and savory home cooked meal, that eased them into the new week.

My mother is from unbuttoning your pants to let your heavy belly full of country cooking hang.

My mother is from tumultuous snow sledding off the massive hillsides, evoking squeals and thrill and a subtle sense of danger.

My mother is from letting her beloved golden retriever, Honeycomb, out for an adventurous walk through the thick precipitation, knowing she would faithfully return home when she pleased.

My mother is from constantly checking on Aunt Opal, Grandma Melvin, and their frail relatives to ensure their warmth and condition during the winters.

My mom is from community, family, and tradition that make the town’s world go round, where nothing is deemed more vital.

My mother is from strategically unpaved streets that preserve the rust-colored cobblestone that once covered the entire town roads.

My mother is from the home of her entire lineage, living or buried.

My mother is from never going to the store or walking down the street without seeing a cousin or friend that was just like family; the grocery store even used to be owned by her grandfather.

My mother is from supporting her hometown in any way you could, and never leaving. 

My mother is from a place that never felt quite like home.

My mother is from innocence, unlike her other female cousins; she never cared about kissing boys like her cousin Leigh or her teammates on the cheer squad.

My mother is from pleasing her parents and working hard, differing from her little brother.

My mother is from cheerleading, but sports wasn’t everything to her like it was to the whole town.

My mother is from uncertainty in what to pursue in college but had registered for biology in hopes of medical school, knowing it would bring pride to her middle-class family and impoverished rural town.

My mother is from respected tradition, but didn’t see faith as simply sitting in a pew every Sunday.

My mother is from detachment and shock to her family, but never strayed far from her humble upbringing.

My mother is from a place where she left and never lived in again.

My mother became a successful pediatrician when she left Paintsville and maintained her priority of family and community, just in a different setting.

My mother became a resident in Winston Salem, North Carolina with my dad, then established her own roots in Georgetown, Kentucky.

My mother became an employee of the only pediatrician office in the county, where she worked tirelessly to ensure the health and safety of the community’s children and young adults.

My mother became a parent of two children with her husband, who always admired her grit and determination to work hard and also spend time raising her family.

My mother became a member of her own family, her own traditions, and her own values, all while keeping the ones that raised her close by.

My mother became a woman obtaining humility and a devotion to her own personal moral compass that I hope I can achieve one day.

My mother became a frequent visitor to Paintsville, and on occasion, her parents venture from their beloved home and stay with the family she made, who they instantly learned to love.

My mother became a daughter who constantly wanted to be assured her mom and dad were healthy and safe, as she did with her patients in the office.

My mother became her own person in her own place alongside her own people but spoke nothing of gratitude and admiration for Paintsville.

My mother became her father’s daughter and kept a lovely garden that provided crop exchanges with him every harvest.

My mother became a frequenter to Kentucky football games every season, where her family tailgate tripled in size, joined by new generations, as well as the same old crew. 

  My mother became daring and gracefully refined her own way.