Lick Crick

That should be spelled Creek, but that’s not how it’s pronounced.

That’s where my Mother grew up. She was a teenager of the Great Depression. Her mother died when Mom was twelve in 1933.

When I was in my early twenties, her brother, my uncle died. We drove down (from DE-troit, how that’s pronounced down here in the South) for the funeral. Lick Crick is just outside of Southpoint, Ohio. Not a surprise, it is the southernmost point in Ohio, just North of the Ohio River across from Huntington, West Virginia.

When my Uncle died, we stayed at my “Aunt’s” house on Lick Crick. She was the neighbor lady that helped raise Mom.

When we got down there it was just before dark. I was driving and after a mistake or two, I made a left turn onto Lick Crick. We drove North for a mile or two up the holler, another Southern pronunciation. We pulled in to my Aunt’s driveway. Mom was born and raised just up the creek.

Back then you didn't stay at a motel, much less a hotel. You crowded into your relatives' places. The people at the house, and that came to the house, came with food. Food and food and food.

That night I was, not warned, but advised, about the religious practices of the family and friends thereabouts. Fire and brimstone. The advisement proved accurate the next day at the funeral.

After we got back to the house, we settled in. I slept in the screened in porch up front. It took awhile to get to sleep because there was pretty much a full moon and, you tell me how many stars there are.

About quarter before dawn, I heard my Aunt banging around in the kitchen. Shortly after, she yelled, "David, you get up now and do what you need to do. Then I need some help in here."

Not really knowing the person, and being polite, I got up and did what I had to do. But I didn't go into the kitchen.

Rather, I walked outside the porch and sat on the steps of the house, to this day, placed on one of the most beautiful places I've been on this earth.

Keep in mind, I was in a narrow valley, the holler, the sun was just over the top of the hill across the road and the pasture beyond it. A lot of mist and fog was moving in the, just getting going day.

Obligatory birds were making sounds.

The air felt, I'm not sure. I've not felt it since.

There was, more especially, the colors. Bright, but a bit dappled by the early morning air, mist and fog.

What I've kept with me is part of my roots. That narrow place is where my Mother started.

Happy Mother’s Day to all of you that are a mom, and to those of you that don’t qualify, the same wish to your Mom.