I grew up in the South, a small town called Cadiz (you can take your pick on pronunciation: kuh-diz or kay-deez).
Small to where I lived a mile away from school and was able to ride my bike (or walk).
Small to where we had “Take Your Tractor to School Day” and yes, this was the only time you’ll see traffic.
Small to where I could go anywhere, (really, anywhere) and see someone I knew.
Everywhere you looked there are Baptist churches, people wearing camouflage and… pigs. Ceramic pigs.
Cadiz has this annual festival called “The Ham Fest.” Featured there are tons of food, carnival rides, the largest homemade biscuit (which I’ve never seen), and of course judging competitions on baked goods, homemade crafts, livestock, tobacco, you name it.
It was a good life, the southern lifestyle.
One of my fondest memories as a child was being able to go in the backyard, laying on the ground gazing at the sky. While at the same time listening to my favourite yellow cassette tape in my blue cassette player, while my dad burned leaves. I watched them float up to the sky and observing the ember, outlining the leaves.
My mind would wander, thinking about what dinosaurs went through when the meteor struck or creating cartoons in my head about the music I was listening to.
This same backyard at one point would acquire a barn, a fence, and a new resident.
In middle school I had a beautiful red quarter-horse named Casey. I would get up very early before school, (around five-ish) and would do the farm chores. In the winter, I’d take a bucket with hot water to melt what was frozen and refill the hay. When it was warm, I’d brush her, walk her, and mainly just hang out with her. Sometimes I would race her; we would start at one end of the fence and meet at the barn, (she would always let me win).
However when high school came around, it became more difficult to juggle extracurriculars and spend a good majority of your time with a horse. I couldn’t take care of her, and spend the time giving her all the attention I didn’t have.
Sadly, I ended up giving her to someone who I thought would give her all the attention she needed, while I continued my studies in music.
That barn became empty.
Until, one day…
I moved.
Yes, folks I moved to the Northern Kentucky/Cincinnati area for the first time in the fall of 2015. This little bird had flown the coop, and the farm was a little more lonely than usual.
My sister (tobacco farm) decided to cheer up my dad by getting him one goat. This tickled his fancy, and overtime our little empty-nested farm grew again (more than just veggies and fruits). Now with eight goats, four chickens and a non-consistent amount of cats, (currently seven, I think) it was once again, busy.
This little farm of ours had so much peace and quiet to admire. My parents and I would frequently go on the back porch with a cup of coffee, sit together, talked and watched the sun rise (we’re early birds).
It wasn’t until I moved back to the city how much more I appreciate it all. The silence, the farm, the orchard, coffee with the folks and the sun. I even appreciated bluegrass and the mannerisms of the South more. I miss working in the orchard and the satisfaction of working on the tobacco farm, even though that was hard work. And if you know me, you know that’s a big deal.
Now living in Cincinnati, I regularly listen to bluegrass and folk to feel more at home. I think about buying a rocking chair (or just a small chair) for my small terrace at my apartment complex. And I think about how I’m now, finally proud of where I come from.
To quote the great Alan Jackson, “Where I Come From, is Corn Bread and Chicken.” And that’s exactly what it is.
So what about you?
Were you like me? Did you grow up wishing you were from somewhere else? And then after leaving, missed and appreciated it more?
Let me know, I’d love to hear from y’all.
(and yes, I’ve acquired a slight accent since I’ve moved)
Living Noteworthy 