Summertime pilgrimages back “home” to the mountains of Eastern Kentucky were
sweet to a young boy raised in the suburbs of Ohio.  After an excruciating drive,
I was always rewarded with Mama Benton’s strawberries as soon as we arrived.
My Great Aunt and Uncle would roll their eyes and groan because the berries
were swollen, purple and still partially frozen, but to me they were a special treat,
topped with crusty spoonfuls of sugar.
Mama Benton (my Great-Grandmother) was proud of her strawberry patch
the way a hen was proud of her chicks.

Later, Aunt Flora, the best cook in the South, would concoct a most extraordinary supper,
made with fresh garden vegetables and fruits.  I loved the warm, yeasty monkey bread that
melted in your mouth and the heavenly broccoli and cheese.
Don’t forget those desserts – chocolate pie with skyscraper meringue, giant tollhouse cookies,
rich apple butter stack cake and velvety chocolate fudge with black walnuts shelled by Uncle Ronald.
A boy had to keep his strength up.
There were creeks to stomp, minnows to trap, hills to climb, barns
to explore, hummingbirds to catch and lightning bugs to jar.

On a good evening, Mama Benton’s small black and white TV could almost pull in a station from Lexington.
Better yet, everyone would gather by hissing lumps of cannel coal in the fireplace to tell stories until bedtime.
A requisite bedtime snack (possibly leftover strawberry delight) always hastened sleep and provoked
dreams of adventure amongst the endless rows of vegetables and tobacco plants.
You knew it was your lucky day indeed when Uncle Ronald would let you drive the tractor!

It was at the foot of this mountain where the seeds of my Appalachian heritage were germinated,
so many years ago, in a much simpler time.