The roads are winding and only sometimes paved.  Creeks and man made ponds dapple the landscape, visible between tall stands of oak and pine. Heaven on Earth.  Turkey vultures strut through barren fields.  Rocks are plentiful in the overturned soil.  Cattle call across the hills and hollows. Hauntingly beautiful and impossibly difficult terrain. It is not too difficult to see why my ancestors fought to keep the land and why they ultimately left…one by one.

I drive the backroads with my parents, listening to stories of prosperity and heartbreak. There isn’t much left of the old farmsteads, but the land endures.  The graves of great- great -grandparents, homesteaders who shaped the county, are near to each other.  Standing under the giant oaks and looking at the long line of ancestors who came before,  I am contemplative.  What do I really know about them? I wish I could ask of their hopes and dreams. I wish I could swap stories and hear their laughter.  I have some stubbornness, the love of a good story, a work ethic, and more than a little faith handed down through time. I would love to investigate.

The blue skies and bird song speak of happy times.  The houses and barns falling in on themselves speak of faded hopes.  I suppose all things have a cycle.  I imagine ancestors playing in the creek, fishing in the pond, riding horses up the dusty lane to the small store, and enjoying life.  I know the stories of loss.  The great uncle lost in the war, the great-great uncle that drowned, the alcoholism, the infants buried on the hill, the money buried in the yard after the banks failed, and the effects of a changing way of life on a small agrarian community.  All things change.  Families adapt. Strong families stay intact.  They continue to laugh, and work.  They tell stories and keep the faith.

The hills are empty of kin, but their legacy lives on.  The longing for family and the love of the land are deep in my soul.  Those roots are wind into my being and ground me. I look at the hills where generations before me roamed, and I feel at home.  The trees welcome me.  The field grasses wave in passing. If I am away too long, I feel the tug of it in my gut.  Standing here and smelling the pine, I want nothing more than to stop and reclaim some small part of what was lost.  I stand by the small community church that was built by willing hands, and I feel part of something larger than myself.  Here is a connection to a time that came before, a place that holds my heart, a people that shaped my essence. Roots.