Lydia Jane Frantzich

My ancestors were Scandinavian fishers and farmers, Irish falconers, and English hill-dwellers. Immigrants who carved their way through Appalachia, marrying Cherokee women and surviving Shawnee raids. I come from folk belonging to the mountains and the tidewaters. I am happiest with my feet bare and dirty, exploring the landscape that captivates my soul.

When I was a child, my mother sang story songs to my siblings and I, weaving romances, comedies, adventures, and tragedies (mostly tragedies) in the air. She encouraged us to smell, touch, and taste the world around us. We made snow cream in the winter, nibbled watercress from freshwater streams in the spring, gathered huckleberries and persimmons in the summer, and collected chestnuts in the fall. She taught us to engage ourselves in the little world of insects, and to call after birds in the sky. She taught us to laugh and to cry with abandon, and to offer kindness wherever we can.

My father played soaring operas and classical masterpieces. He carried us across fallen trees and through patches of nettles and poison ivy that seemed as vast as oceans. He told us fables of morality and instilled a love of history, philosophy, and theology. He set acorns in his orbital sockets and walnuts over his teeth, chasing us through the house and across the river sands while we shrieked with glee. He was both our ogre and our fearless leader, teaching us to how to vanquish fears and seek truth.

My family played hide and seek in the fields and forests when darkness fell, had food and soggy napkin fights at the dining room table, and prayed at the end of every day. We were the well-read wild ones, the children of overcomers, the outdoor dreamers. Like all people, we had our faults and our failings, but mostly, we had love. I think, in the end, my art in all its forms is an attempt to share that love with the world.