In 1968 (yes I'm old) my husband, two sons, and I moved from Chattanooga, Tennessee, to a little town on the edge of Appalachia. We lived there for 10 years. During those years I came to love the mountains, the people, and the life. The memories of those years visit me often - so many memories of another life.
I remember the smell of a dewy morning, the hush of falling snow, the way rain would rivet down the windows and freeze in trails, the fresh dampness of a summer fog, the smell of rain in the evergreen woods, the beauty of frozen fog in the morning sun, the feeling of anxiety during a winter thunder storm when there was ball lightening. (I remember the "Blizzard of '78" too.)
I remember the pride of a well planted spring garden, the pride in sharing the bounty with others, the fall harvest, and the gatherings to share in preserving the winter’s food.
I remember the making of apple butter, molasses, and syrup in the fall. Families would come together to share the day long labor and enjoy being together.
I remember families going to church on Sunday morning. The children sat with their parents and listened to the message with reverence and respect.
I remember the simple beauty of the mountains, the love and respect the people had for each other.
I remember the Saturday night family gatherings when everyone brought their musical instrument. There was music, singing, dancing, food, and plenty to drink – spring water and stronger stuff, too.
I remember a place of peace and contentment.