I was raised in the Patapsco River Valley southwest of Baltimore, Maryland. The area has played many roles over its lifetime, but its roots lie in the manufacturing industry, which dates back to pre-Revolutionary War America. My family came to the valley generations ago to pursue work in the various milling operations that dotted the landscape. Orange Grove, Thistle, Grays, Ellicotts, and Alberton make up a handful of the mills that should be considered the Industrial Revolution’s best kept secret. My ancestors left similar operations in Appalachian West Virginia, North Carolina, and all areas in between with the promise of good work and better living. My grandmother even remarks on an advertisement promising trees ripe with bananas, here in central Maryland. Entrenched in this working class culture, as with groups across the world, the human condition exists to assert reason for the unexplainable. Thus I grew up enriched with a prevalence of storytelling and folklore passed down from those before me. Walking on opposite sides of a pole splits two peoples’ souls, a chill symbolizes someone walking over your grave, and proper etiquette in the presence of a ghost involves asking, ‘What in the name of God do you want?’
I accepted these beliefs, along with many others, as normalities of any family but came to realize with age were unique to my presence within a working class, Appalachian culture. “Folk culture embodies in its traditional chain of transmission the visions and values of the folk themselves…What remains, after forgetting everything that is not truly memorable, is something primal, something very close to the basic poetic impulse of the human species. People neither remember nor forget without reason.” Thus, in From Yonder Wooded Hill, I grapple with what we choose to remember versus what chooses to remember us. The series is a combination of people, place, and belief, progressing both consciously and subconsciously forward through time. As Daphne Du Maurier states in Myself When Young: “Who can ever affirm, or deny that the houses which have sheltered us as children, or as adults, and our predecessors too, do not have embedded in their walls, one with the dust and cobwebs, one with the overlay of fresh wallpaper and paint, the imprint of what has been, the suffering, the joy? We are all ghosts of yesterday, and the phantom of tomorrow awaits us alike in shadow or light, dimly perceived at times, never entirely lost.” It is this notion of ‘never entirely lost’ that drives the progression of history as a rippling entity, instead of a linear track, eager to bob to the surface whenever we choose to pay attention.