I often spent the summers growing up on a dairy farm situated in the rolling hills of the southern Appalachians area known as the Cumberland Mountains of north-central Tennessee. My aunts and uncles and cousins, distant, near and those long deceased with roots to the area going back to 1820's formed a part of what I would become when I returned to these jade forests fifty-something years later.

I have often revisited the old cemeteries around, walking the rows of stones and souls to reconnect with a lost childhood memory and what my loving parents in their wisdom, taught me on those warm summer days:

To respect for whatever reason, the efforts of my ancestors to leave a footprint, be it a headstone, a crumbling old cabin, or a reminder of the sweetness of the scent of fresh-mown hay which still leaves an impression I wish never to forget.

I often spent the summers growing up on a dairy farm situated in the rolling hills of the southern Appalachians area known as the Cumberland Mountains of north-central Tennessee. My aunts and uncles and cousins, distant, near and those long deceased with roots to the area going back to 1820's formed a part of what I would become when I returned to these jade forests fifty-something years later.

I have often revisited the old cemeteries around, walking the rows of stones and souls to reconnect with a lost childhood memory and what my loving parents in their wisdom, taught me on those warm summer days:

To respect for whatever reason, the efforts of my ancestors to leave a footprint, be it a headstone, a crumbling old cabin, or a reminder of the sweetness of the scent of fresh-mown hay which still leaves an impression I wish never to forget.