Home has always been my Tara. Just as Scarlett O’Hara found refuge in hers, and Judy Garland’s Dorothy longed to return to Kansas while Diana Ross’ Dorothy yearned to return to Harlem in "The Wiz," my heart has always returned to Richmond County, to the red clay, the church pews, the raceway dust, and the people who shaped me. I carry our mother’s tenderness, our father’s steadiness, and our community’s expectations with grace, and home is where those gifts were first placed in me.
Home is Waymon Chapel, Nebo Church and Pemberton’s Temple, where old church mothers slipped peppermint candy into your hand to make sure you behaved through Sunday service, their quiet wisdom teaching you reverence long before you understood the Word of God.
Home is waking up on Sunday morning to the smell of grits with gravy, homemade biscuits with that light buttery taste only a mother could knead, bacon for the children, spicy sausage for the adults, and pancakes when weekend guests filled the house. Our mother’s Sunday breakfasts were famous. She made them hearty because we were going to church.
Home is Mama seasoning the chicken on Saturday night and letting it marinate so the flavors could settle deep. She never fried it until after church because Daddy believed in fresh, hot fried chicken straight from the pan to his plate. By the time we changed out of our Sunday clothes, dinner was ready, turnip and mustard greens with ham hocks, candied sweet potatoes, and hot fried drumsticks for the children, thighs for Daddy, and chicken breasts for the visitors. Daddy always swiped a hot biscuit before dinner, thinking Mama didn’t see him. She always did.
Home is the dinner table where we prayed before anyone lifted a fork, knife or spoon. It is where six sisters and one brother learned to listen when adults were speaking, where no television blared, and no cellphone interrupted the moment. It is where we learned Christian values, the meaning of an honest day’s work, and how to be good stewards of what the Lord blessed us with.
Home is riding with Mama to visit the sick and shut in, carrying fruit, nuts, or her famous pan of cornbread, cabbage and sweet potatoes. As the youngest, I often rode along, not knowing then that those visits were shaping my compassion and preparing me for a life advocating for children who had no voice.
Home is Friday night football with the Richmond Raiders, undefeated for years. It is driving into the rock‑filled driveway, parking under the carport, taking piano lessons because young women were expected to be well versed in Scripture, poetry and music. It is “yes ma’am,” “no sir,” “please,” “thank you,” and “may I.”
Home is walking or riding the bus to school with friends, respecting teachers because they knew your parents, and understanding that every adult in the community played a role in raising every child.
And home is also the journey because, as a military family, we learned to bloom wherever we were planted. From Maine to South Dakota, from Japan back to Richmond County, home traveled with us like a dandelion carried on the wind. Yet Richmond County remains the place where my heart rests.
Home is safety. Home is warmth. Home is love. And no matter where life may take me and my family, Richmond County will always be the place that raised me, shaped me, and taught me what a hometown truly means.
Carricia Simpson is a Richmond County native now living at Fort Bragg.
