Baker Hill, Alabama - The West Heritage

My daddy was born and raised in Baker Hill, Alabama, a place I had visited two or three times as a child (usually for funerals).  Whenever we made that solemn journey, we stayed with my daddy's cousin, Emogene. I loved it there, because I was actually allowed to leave the house unsupervised with Emogene's daughter, who had about four or five years on me.  

I recall skipping up and down the winding roads--both paved and dirt--exploring dilapidated homes that bore the menacing "No Trespassing" sign.  We ran through the fields; we taunted the cows.  We climbed and dug and "stole" mementos from our adventures.  And I never got a spanking for it.  Oh, how I loved going to Alabama!

But now, most of daddy's generation has passed on, and it seems that very few of their children have remained in the area.  (The 2010 census shows a population of 269 in Baker Hill.) I felt an urgency to get there soon, so I drove from Bainbridge to see Aunt Emogene. 

Soon after I arrived, Aunt Emogene drove me to the Methodist cemetery.  The Wests were Methodists (Emogene never understood how my daddy became a Baptist), so all the Wests were buried in this cemetery for free; in fact, if I so choose, I can be buried there, too. 

My Great-Grandfather's Grave

My grandparents, great-grandparents, great-great grandparents--they are all there--along with all kinds of aunts and uncles and cousins.  Standing in the midst of it, feeling the impact of this graveyard filled with Wests at every turn really brought me home, reminding me how briefly we exist, and why we must always "get on with it."  

One by one, I snapped pictures of the tombstones, calling out the names to Emogene, who would straightaway tell me a story connecting the dead to my daddy.  Seemingly oblivious to the blistering sun, she spoke with the charming drawl of the Alabama South--presenting every anecdote in a "matter-of-fact, just happened yesterday," tone--from the delight of school plays to the horror of domestic murder. 

The interior of the school auditorium, where my daddy and Emogene performed plays together.
Emogene said that a restoration project brought it back to its original beauty.

As we ventured from cemetery to landmark, I learned of my daddy's childhood. No, he wasn't lying when he said he "walked miles in the snow, uphill both ways" to get to school.  The vast fields and hills of green are beautiful to behold, but traversing this land twice a day as a child seems brutal.  

I found out that my daddy could be a pretty ornery child; however, Emogene explained that it was expected and accepted.  You see, genetically, according to Emogene, we all have the same tendency to be a bit westy (pronounced wessy)--a predisposition for meanness.  Yay!  It's not my fault.  

My day with Emogene was fascinating.  I learned about hog farming, slaughtering, and making sausage; why one needs to always pack a gun (she asked me, "Are you carrying?"); how and why churches were formed in the area (not what you think); but mostly, I learned that my Aunt Emogene is a kind and loving, strong and determined woman--she does what she knows is right, and she takes no guff from anyone.  She makes me proud to be a part of the Baker Hill, Alabama West family.

Hell, maybe I'll let my sons bury my ashes there…or maybe I'm just tripping…

julie

Aunt Emogene treated me to a lovely dinner at River City Grill in downtown Eufaula, where she regaled me with tales of westiness.  

Oh, yeah...as soon as I crawled through the gate to the old school grounds, I heard the whoot-whoot of a police siren.  Rather than arrest me, he took me on a tour of the grounds.  (Damn! I still have never been arrested.)