About four hundred years ago, a family left Wales for a
newly founded Penn’s Colony. With a few older boys in tow, and one who made his
appearance when crossing the Atlantic (aptly named Seaborn), they made the
voyage successfully. Settling into the colony, the family became established in
their community. Time passed, generations branched out and moved southwest into
Kentucky. Deep into timbered hills, where shadows rest late in the morning and pull
along evening’s approach early, families were established. Gardens were
planted, homes were built and a few lone settlers became communities.
On a recent trip I was reminded
of the gift of roots. It took courage to leave a home in Wales and travel
across an ocean; to later say goodbye to the established colony and settle the
frontier of the Appalachian hills. Generations continued, learning to lean on
each other as they formed their own families, taking root and becoming communities.
I watched and listened as family surrounded me last week.
Each unique in their gifts, each very special. This beautiful hilled place will
be forever my family home, a holder of stories and songs that rise in the
memory like the morning mist. Each generation has the opportunity to be a
builder for the next, to give them another strong layer upon which to place
their own structure. I also am part of the branching out, and in so doing found
a new home.
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