My Birthplace

"One summer while visiting my grandfather, my uncle took me to a small village to visit my birthplace. I found it to be a large, old-fashioned frame house, setting back as short distance from the road, and presenting a very forlorn, neglected appearance.

"Standing guard over the entrance were two giant locust trees, nodding and whispering together of the ghosts of the past. A stone walk led up to a small portico that was overrun with vines, while on the other side, under the front windows, were remnants of forgotten flower beds. The front yard, it could hardly be called a lawn, was grown over with crab grass and field daisies, and one side had even developed a blackberry patch.

"As I stood in the quiet summer afternoon listening to the gentle murmur of the trees, and gazing upon the scene before me, all the memories of the stories my mother had told me of the past, came crowding back upon me. Walking around to the other side, I found a gigantic sycamore tree, under which my mother had spent many a joyful hour. Continuing my walk, I stopped under the locust trees, and gazing out upon the hills beyond, tried to listen to what the old family sentinels had to tell me, and as I listened, my shoulders grew straighter, and my head higher, and I was glad - proud that I had been born - a Kentuckian." /s/ Oma Winfrey, Louisville, Ky."