All I could see of her face was forehead to chin, cheekbone to cheekbone. The Queen had her spa bath tonight and she was literally up to her ears in bubbles. The lavender-scented Epsom salt bubble bath, a cup of baking soda, and a towel over top of her as she soaks is what sets these baths apart from her typical ones.

And she loves them.

Stillness settles over her as she lay back, my arms underneath her to increase the sensation of buoyancy. Slowly I sway her—back…forth…back….forth—the rhythm seeming to command weightiness to her eyelids. My mind swooped back to the times I bathed her in the kitchen sink when she was a baby. All the way up to the age of 2 ½ she couldn’t support herself while sitting, so I’d cradle her with one arm while bathing her with the other. Amazing how dexterous we moms are with our babies. I’d wash her fine, curly hair with Johnson’s No More Tears, then hold up a mirror for her to see the white mass of bubbles piled on top of her head. Each time, I’d try to make it higher, higher, to see how tall it’d go before it would plop over. A yawn covers her face.

Back….forth….back….forth. The water cocoon and heavy towel brings tranquility. Daily, her muscles are worked 3 times as hard as anyone else’s in similar situations. A typical task is hard work for her. An expenditure of energy. Her bath time is therapy. The swaying continues as I quietly sing, “Hush little baby don’t say a word……Omma’s gonna buy you a mockingbird…” My left arm is under her at the small of her back, my right hand cradles the back of her head. “….and if that mockingbird won’t sing, Omma’s gonna buy you a diamond ring….”

Forty minutes have passed–I feel the water starting to cool. I situate her where her head is out of the water, and she’s covered from her neck to her toes. She remains quiet. I scoop up a palm full of bubbles and put them on her face to make a white beard and she asks for the mirror (yes, she has a non-specific one for bath time, which started with the kitchen sink baths.) She cracks up at the sight. Twenty-four years I’ve done this. Just as I begin thinking nothing has changed, I realize it has. I reach for the razor and uncover her left leg, shave it, then repeat the process with her right. My baby. And I am shaving her legs. She’s wearing a bubble beard, a plastic fish floats in the water, and I’m shaving her legs.

Some may see it as a confusing mish-mash of baby toys and grown up necessities. I see it as a blessed blend of all things I’ve been chosen to do. Keep her clean. Let her have fun. Help her relax. Be silly with her. Why wouldn’t I? Why shouldn’t I?

I walk her to her bedroom, the too-big feet on her puppy-printed pajamas flopping in front of her which gives her a gait like a cat walking in wet grass. Her honey-gold hair has been blown dry, and is “so shiny and ‘poofy’” as Adday proclaimed. (We 80’s peeps see that as a compliment, don’t we?) She grabs her Meer, I sit beside her and begin our bedtime prayers. I whisper her secrets in her ear (something else I’ve done since Aug. 3, 1992,) and am nearly overcome with nostalgia. Oh, how blessed I’ve been to do this for 24 years. 291 months to be precise. Bath time replete with bubbles, fish that squirt water, bubble beards and shampoo crowns. My baby. She is freshly bathed. Smells of lavender. And has smooth legs.

Blessed, indeed.

The Move

October 19, 1987 was the most traumatic day in my life up to that point. For 4 weeks after the event I was sick on my stomach, I was depressed, I had bouts of crying. No one could console me. No words brought comfort. Life as I knew it had ended and I felt I was doomed to a life of melancholic existence. What happened?

I moved away from West Virginia.

I vividly remember when I was told about the upcoming M-Day (moving day.) It was a hot July afternoon, I was at my friend Regina’s house (down from the old Finks Cafeteria for those of you familiar with the area,) and Mom called and said that Dad was taking a job in Virginia. I just knew she was joking, for my parents would never uproot me in my junior year of high school. After all, the world did revolve around my 16 year-old life. But alas, she was serious, and to be honest, I remember nothing else after putting the phone down.

I knew the move was a possibility as I’d heard my parents discussing it. I forewarned Dad that if he moved me from Princeton, I would start dating a guy named Spike who rode a Harley and I’d get a tattoo on my nether region. When the move was confirmed, I made a note to self: Look for Harley-riding guys named Spike (with a clause that I’d not told Dad about—he had to have finished school and was also a career man with great morals, ethics and values and loved his parents.)

The move came and went. I traded phone calls and letters with all my friends back home. I anticipated visits with eagerness, but I finally settled in to my new life, my new house, my new high school. I made friends easily and even found myself liking where I was. One thing was for sure, however…..West Virginia would always be my home.

Why West Virginia?

So what is it about the state of West Virginia? Is it the beautiful majestic mountains? No, Tennessee has mountains. North Carolina has mountains. Is it the fact it has 4 seasons in all their grandeur? No, where I live now has them, as do many other areas. Is it the pretty license plates, the unique accents, the tasty mountain cuisine where almost everything is flavored with bacon grease and the pinto bean is a food group? No on all accounts. What is it then? It’s the people.

The state of West Virginia is like one big homestead. Those who make fun of us West Virginians by saying we’re all kin are partially right. While we are not inbreeds (oh how ignorant some can be) we are all a family. All one has to do to experience the familial commonality is visit another state, run into someone from West Virginia while waiting in line at the Burger Chef, and mention that you, too, hail from the beloved state. Inevitably you’ll discover that your great-great Aunt Hazel used to babysit their cousin, who still proudly wears the title of Miss Rhododendron 1951. You’ll also be graced with the information that gout sometimes causes Miss Rhododendron “take to the bed” and she’s not been able to make her famous fried apple pies in quite some time because of it. It’s almost a guarantee that you’ll leave the burger joint with an address and phone number scribbled on a napkin stained with ketchup.

My love for West Virginia is what caused me to dress all my wedding attendants in WVU jerseys. And pay an ungodly amount for a WVU cake topper with the flowers the bride is holding painted Old Gold and Blue. And have “Take Me Home Country Roads” played as our recessional song. Just look at—and think about—these lyrics:

*Almost heaven, West Virginia
Blue Ridge mountains, Shenandoah river
Life is old there, older than the trees
Younger than the mountains, blowing like a breeze
Country roads, take me home
To the place, I belong
West Virginia, mountain momma
Take me home, country roads
All my memories, gather ’round her
Miners lady, stranger to blue water
Dark and dusty, painted on the sky
Misty taste of moonshine, teardrop in my eye
Country roads, take me home
To the place, I belong
West Virginia, mountain momma
Take me home, country roads
I hear her voice, in the mornin’ hour she calls me
The radio reminds me of my home far away
And drivin’ down the road I get a feeling
That I should have been home yesterday, yesterday
Country roads, take me home
To the place, I belong
West Virginia, mountain momma
Take me home, country roads

Is there a true West Virginian out there who can listen to this song without getting teary eyed? Without singing it at the top of one’s lungs? Impossible, I say!

I have wondered if my sentimentality is only because I no longer live there. Robbie, my husband who is also a “transplant”, has the same love for our state. We’re both in agreement that there are no people like West Virginia people.

How do you feel?

I’d love to hear from those who have never left West Virginia—do you feel this way? And those who were born there yet have moved away, do you miss it? Have you found this same loyalty to which I refer? Oh yes, and is there anyone….anyone who can sing along with Mr. Denver and not drop a tear?

I do feel I should have been home yesterday….yesterday….