A Corner
I’m from the Gulf Coast of Florida. Near the iconic Truman Show neighborhood, but not in it. On the outskirts, the bayside, where the locals live, fight it out for our share of the road during tourist season, and survive on 5 months of hoarded tips. There was no room for waste or overindulgence in my childhood – it is one thing to visit the world’s most beautiful beaches, vacation cash burning a hole in one’s pocket, and another thing entirely to simply witness.
When I was 8, we bought the house I grew up in, a humble, orange-bricked, Florida ranch – just down the street from my grandma. The house was dated and tight for a family of 5, what it lacked in space, it made up for with the backyard pool. The house was full of projects – that found themselves done and redone over the decades. I squint and can’t remember what came first – the cherry wallpaper with rectangle tiled countertops or the butter yellow kitchen walls with 12”x12” square white floor tiles? Did we convert the entry to an office before we walled in the sprawling covered back porch? Or did we close in the den, a former garage, to add another bedroom before all of that? Like the green and yellow kitchen sponges shriveling at the faucet, age squeezes and wrings the memories until they run shapeless and clear.
Selfishly, I do remember one project, (although the exact details – the why, the when, the reveal - are as discernible as sink suds) – a surprise, slide-in cabinet, made to resemble a built-in, full of drawers, shelves, and a liftable window seat that perched conveniently in front of my bedroom window. The design was practical – while my room didn’t feel small at 8, I understood later that a bed and much else would compete for space. This swiss army style piece offered organization and escape all in one – my dad could give me a dresser, bookshelf, and built-in chest without the drama of complicated assembly and bedroom tetris. The piece dwarfed 8-year-old me – I had to look up, crane my neck at this white, imposing structure – clean and ready for me to cram it full of dollar store knick-knacks, hot glued everything, sandy, chipped shells, books. And me.
It felt luxurious. A window seat, just my size. Surfaces ripe for taped threats.
“Do not open.”
“No boys allowed.”
“Private. For my eyes only.”
A corner, where the only thing visible to my parents or either one of my bookend brothers when walking by, was my toes, peeking out from the window seat, barely visible next to a drawer. Plans were schemed, dreams were dreamed, 8, 9, 10-year-old problems were solved.
I got older and my corner seemed to shrink. Bookend brothers needed their space. I found my way into another project – the garage converted to a den converted to a bedroom. I moved out, I moved away and around. I left the bayside where the locals live.
The corner piled up with my brothers’ belongings, my mom’s art, old photos and CD’s. It moved into a closet, repurposed itself into storage.
I never realized what that little space meant to me until so many years later. I fell in love with books, with reading, with the magic of falling into story after story – fiction and non-fiction. I forgot about everything around me – the things that felt hard, out of reach, inaccessible – and let some book illuminate what was possible. I’m not sure which came first – did my love of the nook provide fertile ground for falling in love with books? Or did an innate connection with the written word make the nook that much more special? Whatever it was, I have loved books for as long as I can remember. Whether chicken or egg, I’m not sure it matters today.
We see versions of these nooks across the world – small corners, alcoves, places that quietly invite you in. Intimate corners made for folding into. They don’t announce themselves. Like a speakeasy, they demand discovery. Sometimes they’re bookstores, sometimes cafés, wine bars, hybrids, or something harder to name. The format changes. The feeling doesn’t. Regardless of the medium, these places extend an invitation over and over.
Long before I knew the format, I knew I wanted to bottle the same feeling I got in that surprise corner; alive, curious, and light. After years of dreaming, scheming, and living a lot of life in between, Yer Mom’s is my middle-aged take on a nook I think we all need now.
Less digital, more dialogue.
Less stuffy, more relaxed.
Less serious, more levity.
Commerically, Yer Mom’s is a bookstore and wine café built intentionally as part of the indie bookstore revival — but it’s also a brand rooted in approachability and fun. Rebellion even. Not precious. Not intimidating. Not performative. A place where the shelves are curated on purpose, the food is simple and good, you can ask questions, and you don’t have to take yourself too seriously. I’m starting in Louisville because it’s home, and because it’s the kind of place I’ve been looking for locally. But I hope it doesn’t stop there. And I hope that no matter where someone lives or visits from, Yer Mom’s offers something that leaves them feeling just a little better than when they walked in.
We’ve got more info below, and I hope you’ll weigh in. In fact, I really need you to weigh in. The books I fold up into, that our team folds up with, may not be the books you fold up with – this is your corner too.
In the meantime, thanks for stopping by our digital door. We’re still working out our opening details, but I am grateful, eager, and excited to welcome you to my new corner. Stay tuned to our website and social for news about our grand opening and available merch – I promise, Yer Mom’s will be worth the wait!
-T-Leigh, Founder
Help Stock Yer Mom’s
We’re shaping our shelves and menus with intention — and your input matters more than you think. We care about getting this right — not perfectly, but thoughtfully.
Click on the boxes below to take the surveys. Takes ~2 minutes.
