“When you finally go back to your old home, you find it wasn’t the old home you missed, but your childhood.”- Sam Ewing
My childhood is something I’ll carry with me forever. Though my perspective on it has shifted over the years— and it surely will again— it will always hold a special place in my heart. There are two big pieces of my early years that I want to share with you: the places and the people.
There’s so much to unpack that I’ve decided to take my time with it, to write it out slowly, into two main pieces— and maybe even a drift into a few smaller stories along the way. Because this is my story. My truth. And it’s time I told it, not just for anyone who wants to listen, but also for me.
I will never forget where I came from— the place that built me, raised me, and shaped me into the person I am today. My story begins in an almost untouched corner of southeast Arkansas— what folks call the Mississippi Delta. It’s where the mighty river feeds the land, where the soil is rich and dark, where hunting season is sacred and faith runs deep. It’s also part of what they call the Bible Belt where people are found in the church pews on Sunday mornings and liquor stores are closed until the following Monday.
(And yes, it is definitely pronounced Ar-kan-saw, not Ar-kan-sas. The name comes from the French translation of a Native American word linked to the Qaupaw tribe. The history here runs deep, all the way back to the earliest days of the Arkansas Post, the first European settlement in the state and the site of a Civil War battle. It’s the kind of history that lingers in the dirt if you stop and listen long enough.)
I grew up in a tiny white house nestled the middle of nowhere. I can still see it when I close my eyes: endless fields of cotton stretching toward the tree line and then melting into the wide, open southern sky. Nights so quiet that stars seemed to breathe— unbothered by city lights unhurried by time.
The nearest towns were Gould and Dumas, each small enough that everyone waved at you when you passed by— and you waved back, even if you didn’t know them. Dewitt was across the bridge, barely hanging on to its name, with only remnants of a high school left. Rural. Quiet. The kind of place that feels suspended between yesterday and forever.
Both sides of my family have roots so deep in that Arkansas soil, it’s hard to tell where the land ended and our story began. My parents were born there, raised there — because it’s the kind of place you don’t really leave. My dad’s family owned acres of farmland; my mom’s family had a small slice of land by Silver Lake, tucked near the levee.
I was the first grandchild on my dad’s side and the youngest on mom’s. The new baby. The bridge between two families. Spoiled? Absolutely. Loved beyond measure? Without question.
But we’ll talk more on about my family later. Trust me, that’s a story all its own.
For now, I want to take you down that long levee road that connected my father’s family to my mother’s. The pavement fades into gravel there, and the land opens up wide, carrying the weight of generations—our name carved into every acre. My father’s side of the family had been farmers their whole lives. That land wasn’t just dirt and crops; it was legacy. It was the family farm.
Even as a little girl, I felt that pride. I was proud to belong— to know the land I played on was a part of me. I belonged to something bigger than myself. I knew the land wasn’t actually mine, not really– but somehow, it felt like it was.
So many memories live there still.
Like those late nights when my mother would drive me out to see my father during cotton harvest—he’d be tired and dusty, and I’d jump into the soft white piles of cotton in the baler, laughing as the fluff tangled in my dark curls. It was such a carefree time.
Or hunting season– and how it was a big deal in our family. From the time I was a baby, my mother carried me on her back to the deer stand or she’d let her hunting dogs babysit me in the floor of a duck blind. Later when I was old enough, those long weekends at hunting camp became some of my favorite memories—the smell of wood smoke, the sound of laughter, bacon sizzling in cast iron, biscuits and gravy after a cold morning in the woods. There was duck on the grill, deer tenderloin wrapped around jalapeños, and the struggle of putting on a pair of waiters or holding onto hand warmers so you could still manage to feel your fingers. It’s hard to forget those early mornings so cold you could see your breath as you waited for the first sound of wings.
I remember the silly things too— like going “armadillo kicking” late at night (mean, I know, but a memory all the same). Frog gigging for fresh frog legs. Napping after Thanksgiving lunch just to head back out to hunt by evening.
And I’ll never forget my first deer kill—the smear of blood on my cheeks, the proud smiles of my family. It felt like a rite of passage, a welcome into something ancient and shared. I can still picture my grandparents’ faces when I showed them the antlers— pure joy and pride. Well, my grandma never quite understood, but she shared in the excitement anyway.
There were afternoons spent climbing silos to look out over the fields, and muddy days pulling trucks free with the winch after heavy rain. Even now, in my mind, I can hear it all— the hum of tractors, the rumble of ATVs, the sharp crack of a rifle echoing through the fields during target practice.
I remember the dogs my mom trained, always trotting faithfully by my side. The afternoons making mud pies in my grandparents’ yard while sunflowers danced in the breeze. The fall days picking ten-gallon buckets of pecans with my grandpa in the fall beneath trees that had stood for generations in my great grandparent’s yard.
The camp, my grandparents and great grandparent’s home, the family farm— each one filled with stories that shaped the history of my family and ultimately, my childhood.
And if you follow that levee road long enough, back to where the gravel gives way to pavement again, you’ll find Silver Lake— my mother’s family land. A quiet little place shaded by cypress trees, with a fishing dock that always looked like it might collapse but never quite did.
That was my Maw Maw and Paw Paw’s house. The place where I was fed eggs, sausage links, and buttered toast every morning. Where I once got chased by a snake (and swore I’d never fish again), but I still followed Miss Harriet out to the lake anyway. I’d eat turkey and cheddar Lunchables in my Paw Paw’s recliner, while we watched black-and-white westerns or Jerry Springer. I was as content as could be.
I remember car rides to see the bunnies by the dam, little trips to Gould for gas or some fried chicken or Dumas for Sonic drinks or Big Banjo pizza, and visits to see my Maw Maw at her shift at the Days Inn motel where I’d play in the lobby for hours. People would greet me like they had known me my whole life, but I couldn’t ever put a name to their face.
All these places and moments are stitched into the fabric of who I am— reminders of a simpler time, a slower pace, and the deep, unshakable roots of the place I once called home.
They are the threads that still seem to hold me together when the world grows too loud or moves too quickly— pieces of something steady, something that once felt like everything.
A quiet reminder that this land— its fields, its lakes, its soil— shaped my childhood in ways I’m still learning to understand.
And no matter where life leads, it will forever be the land that raised me.
From Taylor, with love.