Oct 13, 2019
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A huge part of being a witch and of being an Appalachian in general for me is venerating my ancestors, and living up to their examples.
This is my great-grandmother, we called her Maw Chick. Never taller than 4'6", born in 1910, died at 98 when I was in my early 20s. Raised 14 children, mostly alone after Poppy died. She and her eldest daughter, my Mama Jury, combined forces and fed their families (Mama Jury’s kids and younger siblings) on a big garden, by bartering for and raising meat (they ate a lot of head cheese), and with the $10 a week wage Mama Jury sometimes earned in town, "clarkin'" or baby-sitting or house-cleaning. Maw Chick raised Mama Jury’s kids when she got TB and had to stay in a sanatorium in Ashland, Ky for 14 months. They were powerful, independent women, a mother-daughter team of badass.
She was always working. Often, when the time for having her babies came, she’d be in the garden. Mama Jury said if she put her hoe or tools in the shed, it would be a long birth and she didn’t expect to be back to work that day. If she laid it on the ground, it would be easy and she’d be back to work before the sun set.
Mamaw wasn’t home, so I roamed around, quietly enjoying this lovely place. There is always something new blooming every time I go. I missed her, but felt so at home just being there. It was refreshing, to escape. I’m rooted here. It isn’t always where you reside that is “home”.