I spent my summers with Mamaw (old Rube) an Papaw (Creed) in their little shift of a place just up the road a piece from my own house. It wasn't much. Papaw built it after he and mamaw got married at the start of the Depression, but Lord, was it a warm and homey place. Papaw worked in the mines till he retired and mamaw was a housewife who raised all the youngins and grandbabies, and she was the local Avon lady. Those two always had something going on, but yet always found the time to enjoy a front porch sitting with friends and family.
It was here, my summers with them, and the stories they told, that I learned of the beauty and simplicity that these ancient mountains hold. And in the stories to come, I hope that perhaps….just maybe, if you close your eyes and breathe in real deep, that you too can find yourself on an old front porch on a warm June evening with a cold glass of overly sweet tea in your hand listening to the resonating voice of Papaw Creed telling tales as lightning bugs rise from the meadow and Old Rube hums those old southern hymns.