The Mouth

I grew up in the east end of the largest county (by population) in Kentucky. As teenagers, my siblings and I were latchkey kids under the watch of my father, a single parent who worked long and unconventional hours as a mechanical engineer. For the most part, us kids did little to sabotage the independence bestowed upon us or we at least made sure we didn’t get caught doing anything that would jeopardize our freedom to exist without supervision in the after-school hours.

Occasionally, there would be a phone call, usually a complaint from the church across the street, where my brothers would ollie stair ledges, frequently falling and tumbling down the parking lot, screaming, “God, damn it! Fuuuuuck—mother FUCKER!” After work, my dad would stop at the Circle K down the street for his typical purchase of 2-3 packs of Marlboro Reds and the clerk, Terry, would usually take advantage of this opportunity to collect additional funds to account for whatever drinks or candy (and even once a carton of cigarettes) we had stolen that day.

But most of the phone calls and neighborhood complaints appeared directed towards my dad. Neighborhood “leadership” would complain about my dad using our backyard to target practice with his bow or the number of cars in front of the house. One time, there was a S.W.A.T. raid on our house over a handful of tiny marijuana plants that a neighbor saw growing in our yard. And of course, during hunting season, the complaints persisted as my dad would process deer that would hang from one of the dogwood trees in the backyard. My prom photos would be taken in the same spot.

It didn’t matter that my dad would often mow the lawn twice a day or every shrub, flower, and tree that beautifully adorned the perimeter of the house was planted with so much care and intention. Japanese Maple be damned, we were those people in that house. My dad would tell all of us, “As soon as you all are done with school, I am OUT of here. I am going out to the country!”

He followed through on his promise.

Across the last twenty years and change, I have been making photographs of my family within the Knobs and Bluegrass regions of Central Kentucky. The Mouth references the name of my family’s beef cattle farm, Aberdeen Acres, in Bagdad, KY. Aberdeen is a type of beef cattle but also the Celtic translation for “river mouth.”

Depictions of rural Kentucky frequently present a region where people are seemingly stuck or looking for an escape. When I started this project, my siblings were younger, and my family was spread across the suburban areas of Louisville. The images in this project reflect the inevitably changing backdrop that become visible when photographing family for over twenty years. The rural base where most of my family now reside is not a trap but a place of refuge. Aberdeen Acres, or as I call it, The Mouth, was acquired with the intention of staying in the family for multiple generations and is where my nieces and nephews were raised.

The Mouth is the central gathering place for my familial community and is where I often go to avoid the noise of everyday life. The land positions itself as the setting for the earliest memories of the youngest generation of my family. It is a privilege to continue to find solace in the visits that others may view as obligation. The images in this project serve to offer a viewpoint on family life as well as the influence of one’s relationship with the land on their collective sense of belonging.

All are welcome at the Mouth.