Baby Mountain

Growing up surrounded by different personalities has made me realize how much my mother has affected my life, and those around. I may not be sure why these diverse personalities in my family led me to understand my mother better. But one theory I can try to use; is that I am able to connect the insightful guidance she has instilled into each of my siblings, even though our personalities pass through all extremes: the daddies’ girl, the neurotic do gooder, and the hell raising local twin sports stars. Because of this nurturing ability and others, I can see her better than I can see myself. I can see the many ways she has helped people throughout her life. The society she grew up in has benefited from her kindness since the day she was born. Volunteering in organizations such as; Red Cross, local hospitals, PTA, school programs (volunteer teaching, helping disabled children). Beyond the accolades she is simply my mother, and a point from which I can always reflect.

She grew up in the rolling green hills of the historic Delaware Brandywine Valley. A place where all four seasons spend their respected months before passing on its climactic duty to the next.

Filling her childhood days playing with her best friend and Sister Jamie, who was only a few years younger. On more than one occasion they would conjure up different adventures offered by their surroundings.

After moving from their first house, located close to an interstate, and into the “Meadows”, the two would become adventurous. The "Meadows" was a more inviting habitat for a group of children.

She was close to them all, but mainly, her Sister Jamie.

While exploring their unfamiliar surroundings the two came across a mountain, or just a really big hill. In their imaginative eyes was to be coined and recognized as Baby Mountain. A hill that would guide them to see the woods below and a small incessant creek flowing halfway around the bottom before disappearing into a thorn bush. A mountain that would teach her mind how to recognize the beauty of visualizing new perspectives. A retreat for when the days stress wore out on her, or life interjected more harshly then expected. She could lie at the hilltop and fill her journal with and about the day’s offerings, a place she would explore the realm of love with her first childhood crush, or confide in after JFKs death. Even though she would not fully be able to explain the death of a National Icon, she understood her mother was upset and that was enough. She could explore.

A home away from home. She would later recall, “The Baby Mountain hill had the burden of listening, unexpectedly and without much of a choice. But after all, it was only a hill.” This was a special place, it would nurture her young mind the way she has fostered many individuals, including myself.

It’s hard to tell how much she had grown and matured during her decade long run with the piece of earth, but I’m sure this hill had trouble grasping some of the most significant childhood babbling during the mid 20th century. However, as the 'hill' had listened to her, she listens to me. As the 'hill' served as a reflection point through trying or triumphant times; I reflect likewise, through her.