Biographie de Summer Hill
I'm the tenth generation from the Blue Ridge Mountains. And to understand my passion to write, you need to know my history. My mother moved with her sister to the Atlanta area to help her with her four boys as her sister worked in the cotton mill. Mother was only 11 as she met my father and married at 12. I was the second child born and every other weekend we travel right back to the mountains. "We couldn't stay away for its in our blood." And every summer all the grandchildren helped grandma and grandpa for months.
My childhood and teenage years were about family, and at night, everyone came to eat, pick and sing. Everyone, knew who made moonshine in the family, but they called themselves lumberjacks, transporting trees down the river. "We all knew the rules."Mountain children never fooled anyone for we entertained ourselves. Having a little fun, locking the neighbor down in the hollow in his outhouse, finding a rat in the well-water bucket or taking grandma's mason jar that she filled with milk, right out of the creek.
"Cold and good!"We climbed trees higher then the sky. We even climbed a plum tree with branches that hanged over the hog pen. Yes, we fell right into the hog pen. Oh, yeah, grandma knew we would try to reach for her plums. "Never a dull day!"I began telling stories at an early age. Listening around the corners for gossip or truth, adding romance or mystery. My family said, I was a little strange, but mountain people have different ways and the stories grew.
"Truth or lies?"Romance was everywhere, barns, fields, even in the outhouse. Yes, love was deep and forever for passion always tells a story. And a visit to the ocean opened my range for I seen love everywhere-"My heart is to write as real to life fiction stories of romance passion." A romance is not always happy. Life and passion comes with sadness, laughter, surprises, failed relationships, and a true romance for life.
You will need soft tissue near by or a cup of hot tea to stay awake for you will enjoy the next surprise with laughter. I often think of my great-great uncle as the story was told. He sat by his wife of 85 years until she passed. He never stop crying as he walked far up a mountain and sat down in the place, she and him enjoyed. He looked out at the mountains as he took his rifle and shot himself, only to find him years later.
"Their passion lived on through me and no...
