Mountain Roots and City Moves

I grew up on top of South Pittsburg mountain, in a home that was once the old schoolhouse. In fact, our road, Patton School Road, was named after it, turning off the main winding path up the mountain. Life back then just seemed simpler.

My mind still flickers with memories of bottle rocket wars and Roman candle target practice. It was a true Gen X “trial by fire,” a type of childhood adventure almost unheard of today—and likely why warning labels are found nearly everywhere now! Our family history was a fascinating blend of handmade fishing lures, dachshunds, and yes, even moonshine. We were a tight-knit family: Granny, Uncle Sammy, Aunt Donna, Mom, Dad, my brother, and I. We relied on each other as our own small community to support, grow, and survive the best way we knew how. My Uncle Carl and cousins lived nearby too, though they were a bit older than me.

My dad was a laborer by trade, working hard at one of the factories in Chattanooga, TN. He was a great example of a hard worker to everyone who knew him. I always remember him bringing a treat home from work at the end of the week, whether it was a sugary delight or some novelty he’d found. His thoughtfulness made the anticipation of his arrival that much greater. It wasn’t until much later in life that I truly understood the sacrifices and burdens my dad must have carried during those years.

Then came 1984. He was laid off from his job, forcing us to pull up our country roots and embark on a new chapter in Atlanta. We moved into a small Winnebago—two adults, two children, and our dachshund, Sweet Pea, all squeezed into that tiny space for what felt like the coldest winter on record. I remember my 10th birthday quite vividly: receiving a bingo game and a store-bought cake. I dared not complain, because even then, I understood the immense challenges we were facing.