It Takes a Village

A Blessed Beginning

There’s an African proverb that says, “It takes a village to raise a child.” I thank the Lord as often as possible for the village in which I was raised. No kid in America had a better upbringing than I did—not even Wally and Beaver.

Before the days of actual road names, I lived in “the first house on the left behind South’s Store.” My maternal grandmother lived in a single-wide trailer in our backyard, moving there when my papaw passed away just a couple of months before I turned six. She was a regular fixture in our home—so much so that she may as well have lived within its walls.

Family at Every Turn

If I stepped out my front door and turned right, within two minutes I’d arrive at the home of my paternal grandparents, Radford and Tona Mullins. My favorite uncle, John Bill, lived with them his entire life and was one of my best friends.

On the way there, I’d pass the home of my great aunt and uncle, Jimmy and Rita South. Uncle Jimmy took me fishing more times than I can count, and Aunt Rita played a major role in my moral development as my Sunday School teacher during my high school years.

I spent countless hours in Aunt Rita's little country store—playing pinball, charging snacks to my parents’ account, doing odd jobs, and even minding the counter while she took a lunch or bathroom break. During my teenage years, I made sure to wear long pants when she would leave me alone in the store. As soon as she was out of sight, I'd slip some money into the register and then tuck a pack of cigarettes down into my socks. As far as I know, she never figured that out.

Turning Left, Climbing Hills

If I turned left out of my house, I’d find myself at the home of another great aunt and uncle, Ballard and Rubye Mullins. Uncle Ballard was a character—anyone who knew him could attest to that. His life revolved around trapping foxes and trading guns. He was also the biggest baseball fan I ever knew and was apparently a great player in his youth. Aunt Rubye taught school for many years, retiring the year after having me as a first-grade student.

Out the back door, I could climb the hill and visit yet another set of great relatives—Kelse and Vona Mullins. Their son, Charles, had a basketball goal on their garage, giving my friends and me endless hours of fun. Aunt Vona was the best example of a Christian I’ve ever known, and she also served as my Sunday School teacher for a time when I was a just a little guy. Uncle Kelse was a hard-working, happy soul who was always whistling.

Down the Hill and Beyond

Continuing down the hill behind their home brought me to yet another great aunt and uncle, Glen and Dixie Artrip. Aunt Dixie was a longtime teacher and a brilliant woman. When I was in sixth grade, I was asked to give a school speech for Ronald Reagan’s 1980 presidential campaign. My father told me to visit Aunt Dixie for help—and she wrote a piece of political art more impressive than anything I’ve ever heard from a professional speechwriter.

Neighbors Who Felt Like Family

My village wasn’t made up of family alone. There were wonderful neighbors who filled in the spaces between—Rev. L. Myers and Rheta Mullins, Tom and Betty Monahan, Danny and Shelby Moore, Doug and Linda Stone, Otto and Jacqueline Taylor, Paul and Louise Moore, Emory and Helen Moore, Billie Gene and Myrtle Mullins, Avery and Jethral Mullins—and others whose names I may have forgotten but whose kindness I’ll never forget.

No matter whose house my friends and I ended up at, we were taken care of, fed, given advice, and corrected when necessary. I used to think everyone grew up this way, but I later learned how rare it was. I now realize how blessed I was—not just to have those people, but to have the land they owned to roam across. Acres and acres of hayfields, woods, and hills—free playgrounds for a blessed childhood.

Coming Home Again

After living in Wise for many years, I eventually moved back to the village. I stayed there another fifteen and a half years, watching the remaining villagers from my childhood either pass away or move on to (hopefully) greener pastures.

The houses were still there—but now owned by people I wasn’t related to. The land was still there too—but much of it belonged to folks I barely knew.

Change is something I’ve never done well with, but I’ve finally learned to live with its inevitability. Still, I’m grateful beyond measure for the memories of that incredible village that shaped my life.

Final Thoughts

If it truly takes a village to raise a child, then I’m proof of what a good village can do. Mine gave me roots, values, laughter, and love—and I carry its lessons with me wherever I go.


 

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