Life in the mountains.

I have just left the western mountains of North Carolina, where I spent four days enjoying its beauty and soaking up the culture. I was staying with friends who are natives of the area. I love the simplistic lifestyle of the mountain people. I admire their pride and independence, which comes from day to day living in the mountains and their fierce respect for the generations that came before them.
I am amazed how some people still live off their land, my friend I know could live off her land. I laughingly accuse her of picking every berry off the mountain. I of course love being the recipient of the delicious jams she served in the mornings. The blueberry pies, muffins or coffeecakes she baked. I marveled at the canning she does, from the vegetables she grows. We enjoyed meals of fresh trout from their ponds and vegetables from the garden.
While I romanticize this life, I remind myself that poverty and hard times are still an issue. I remember that the generations before them experienced hardships I can never really appreciate. Yet those hardships make up the very fabric of their character today. Woven into that fabric you will still find fierce independence, loyalty to family, country, and God. To the mountain people, life is frankly just that simple.
Sitting in a rocker on my friend’s front porch, I am lulled into contentment from the motion of the rocker. The sounds of the birds, the crickets and the rustle of the wind all add to my contentment. I enjoy listening to my friend’s stories of her neighbors and family. She tells me, “Sam down the road has chickens and they lay nineteen eggs a day.” She shares with me the history of the people who have lived in this “holler” for many years. I wonder how can she recall all of this history, and then I remember where I am, in a place where few people leave. A place where one’s daddy, granddaddy and great granddaddy cleared the land. A place where history is handed down from generation to generation. Where their family tree is recorded in the bible that is still proudly displayed in the parlor.
There is history in her quilts, each neatly folded and displayed in a glass case. I love the stories of her quilts, “this one granny made” she tells me, “the cathedral quilt took me fifteen years to make.” We look at the very tiny stitches, no sewing machine used on these quilts. Gaye, her friend can put seven stitches on a needle, my friend can hold five, I marvel anyone can hold one stitch on a needle.
One of my favorite outings is to the General Store. A place where time appears to have stopped. Natives still gather at the store along with tourists. On weekends, local musicians gather on the back porch to play mountain music, banjoes and guitars strumming, fiddles humming, and toes tapping. An older man has taken a seat in front of the pot-bellied stove next to the well-worn checkerboard. He eagerly awaits the arrival of his friend to continue the game they have played in this same spot for years. Ahhh, life seems so simple here. I feel so blessed to be able have these experiences. I am grateful to the people of Appalachia for protecting their history, and for sharing with those of us who have forgotten ours. I vow as I leave to slow down my life, taking the time to enjoy those around me. Then I smile to myself, this will never happen, I would be standing alone as they all rushed by me. So I will leave this place buoyed by those wonderful, peaceful days on the mountain. Remembering to be thankful to God, for all the beauty He has provided and for the people who still remember to keep sacred that which He has provided…