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Note: My mother was in her eighty-fifth year when she died in 1975. She lived alone after my father died. I'd visit her in the long lonely evenings of autumn and winter and she would be sitting by her fireplace piecing quilt tops, working crossword puzzles, or reading. Three the Shepherd of the Hills. One winter evening I visited Mom and she was writing. "Oh, just a little story about my childhood." "Mom, what are you writing?" of her favorite books were Almetta of Goblin Run, Little Shepherd of Kingdom Come, and longings and came across an old copy of the N.E.A. magazine folded and tied with a blue calico string. Upon opening it, I discovered Mom's little story written in ink on sheets of notebook paper. This little vignette of her childhood reveals glimpses of the life of a child in Appalachia here in Eastern Kentucky during the closing years of the nineteenth century and opening years of the twentieth century. "Let me read it, please." "No, not now. Maybe someday." Mom didn't spend many more winters alone. After her death I was going through her be- _-Cynthia E. Mclntrye Kentucky, I was born. I was three
Appalachian Review – University of North Carolina Press
Published: Jan 8, 1990
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