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Childhood: For My Mother

Childhood: For My Mother Connie Jordan Green Appalachian Heritage, Volume 33, Number 2, Spring 2005, p. 72 (Article) Published by The University of North Carolina Press DOI: https://doi.org/10.1353/aph.2005.0081 For additional information about this article https://muse.jhu.edu/article/434642/summary Access provided at 19 Feb 2020 19:33 GMT from JHU Libraries Childhood: For My Mother I believe you had no childhood— houseful of sisters and brothers, absent father, then his presence numbed by alcohol, mother who did what she could, fed the town's workers, the miners who had no family. You were lost—young girl with shy eyes, with feelings no one noticed. I believe you would have liked books, would have chosen flowers, paintings, would have worn ribbons in your hair, lace collars, shirtwaist dresses crisp with starch. In my only photograph from your childhood you stand before the miner's cottage with older sister, younger sister, with brother who later will smile beneath his army cap, its tilt more jaunty than all your young years. The four of you see something beyond the camera, eyes dark as coal seams, mouths straight, lips tight, arms and legs too thin for American children. I believe you carried the weight of those early years, rocked it in your arms with your http://www.deepdyve.com/assets/images/DeepDyve-Logo-lg.png Appalachian Review University of North Carolina Press

Childhood: For My Mother

Green, Connie Jordan.
Appalachian Review , Volume 33 (2) – Jan 8, 2014
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Publisher
University of North Carolina Press
Copyright
Copyright © Berea College
ISSN
2692-9244
eISSN
2692-9287

Abstract

Connie Jordan Green Appalachian Heritage, Volume 33, Number 2, Spring 2005, p. 72 (Article) Published by The University of North Carolina Press DOI: https://doi.org/10.1353/aph.2005.0081 For additional information about this article https://muse.jhu.edu/article/434642/summary Access provided at 19 Feb 2020 19:33 GMT from JHU Libraries Childhood: For My Mother I believe you had no childhood— houseful of sisters and brothers, absent father, then his presence numbed by alcohol, mother who did what she could, fed the town's workers, the miners who had no family. You were lost—young girl with shy eyes, with feelings no one noticed. I believe you would have liked books, would have chosen flowers, paintings, would have worn ribbons in your hair, lace collars, shirtwaist dresses crisp with starch. In my only photograph from your childhood you stand before the miner's cottage with older sister, younger sister, with brother who later will smile beneath his army cap, its tilt more jaunty than all your young years. The four of you see something beyond the camera, eyes dark as coal seams, mouths straight, lips tight, arms and legs too thin for American children. I believe you carried the weight of those early years, rocked it in your arms with your

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Appalachian Review – University of North Carolina Press

Published: Jan 8, 2014

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