Old Hills Hold Hope and Potential for New Chapters
The following post is part of a Seed Pod collaboration about libraries. Seed Pods are a SmallStack community project designed to help smaller publications lift each other up by publishing and cross-promoting around a common theme. We’re helping each other plant the seeds for growth!
I was traveling from the Midwest to the Southeastern United States a few weeks ago, when a series of events led me to an unexpected time of solitude.
I’d planned to visit some friends and family along the road-trip, but I didn’t make it past Nashville before I was notified that I’d been exposed to Covid two days prior. In a quick change of plans, I delayed or canceled my visits and re-routed myself to a rented cabin in the woods of Western North Carolina.
But rather than feeling inconvenienced, the change felt ordained. I was excited to find some time alone to work on my memoir. When a message popped in to remind me that there was no Wifi at the rental and that cell service could also be spotty… it seemed even more fitting.
The drive from Nashville, TN to Bryson City, NC was uniquely meaningful, and I wrote about it during my time at the cabin. The following is my reflections on this experience.
I grew up in Charlotte, North Carolina but my family spent several weekends per month in an inherited family cabin in Asheville. As such, we took regular outings to drive along the majestic Blue Ridge Parkway. My step-dad, who I called Daddy, took these opportunities to share his heartland with me, my brother, and my mother. He’d spent his childhood in the area and he loved these mountains. More than that, they were a part of him.
During the work week Daddy sported professional attire common to the 80’s and early 90’s. The “uniform” included off-white, short-sleeved, collared, button-up shirts, and standard brown loafers. His look usually included a few mechanical pencils tucked into his shirt pocket as well. He was an engineer for the power company in downtown Charlotte and in that get-up, he fit right in.
But on our Asheville weekends, Daddy dressed in flannel checkered shirts and dirty jeans. Sometimes he wore suspenders. When we were up in the hills of Western North Carolina I also noticed, even as a child, how his speech seemed to take on a syrupy slowness to match the southern mountain drawl the area is so well known for.
But in those days, I didn’t always love our trips along the Blue Ridge Parkway. I got carsick easily, and sitting in the back seat on those endlessly windy roads - it was unavoidable. Many lovely spring trips to see the rhododendrons in bloom were dotted by stops along the side of the road so that I could lean out of the car and throw up.
I hadn’t been on these curvy roads for many years, but on this trip from Nashville to Bryson City, I was alone. Though I still struggle with carsickness, even as an adult, I never get it when I’m the one behind the wheel.
It was like seeing everything with brand new eyes. I had fun with my all-wheel drive, following along the sexy curves of lakes and rivers that rested in the gentle valleys. I opened my windows and let the wind blow my curls wildly.
When it started to rain, the cool drops splashed my face and I accepted the invitation to open the windows even wider. I inhaled the wet air deeply, my mind offering tribute by playing full-color movie reels of memories that are apparently only accessible by way of that sweet, familiar scent of fresh rain.
I considered my time as an adult spent living in Colorado, Florida, Michigan, Texas, and my travels all over the world. As I drove in the rain it dawned on me that I’ve instinctively searched for that smell with every rainfall in every place I’ve ever lived or visited. How had I never realized that that scent was from here, from these mountains? I didn’t even realize that smell had a ‘place’, a home.
The sun was still shining, even as the sky darkened. Like a candle that refuses to be blown out, I could see the white bright glow around the edges of every cloud. I stayed the course on the winding road and the rain continued, but ebbed like ocean waves on the beach.
Drenching rain, then a light drizzle, then short bursts of full-on storm complete with thunder and lightning. Again and again the pattern continued as I drove, in a soft rhythm that felt natural and completely right.
The breeze cooled, not only from the rain, but also because of the increasing elevation. The lakes and rivers finally faded out of view, and were replaced by higher hills and a lush green canopy.
I hugged the left side of the lane, staying vigilant to the steep drop offs just to my right. The curves were sharp and constant and I kept two hands on the steering wheel. I wanted to take photos but I needed to stay focused, and besides, I was here. I was living in these moments.
I wouldn’t forget.
Eventually the leafy canopy over the road opened to the sky. I spotted a small gravel clearing on the side of the road and pulled over to stretch my legs and take in the views. The overlook reminded me of the places my parents would pull off when I felt nauseous as a child.
The air was cool and still and had a sacred quality to it. The clouds seemed to hover, god-like, over the hills. I stood quietly and took it all in.
My trance was broken by the grumble of a motorcycle. It pulled off the road further up, but in the same gravel area where I was parked. The driver had a dog, a quiet Australian Shepherd with blue eyes, strapped onto the backseat.
I smiled as I watched the burly man turn his back on a mountain view that could not be described as less than magnificent, and instead, he petted his dog. He asked her if she was having fun. He took her picture like a proud Papa.
And suddenly, my Daddy was there with me.
My Daddy was gentle like that, and like this man, he adored his dogs.
In that moment the distractions of the world seemed to flicker through my mind and I thought about all the reasons that I had almost missed this drive, and this escape into the hills of my youth. My Daddy died over a decade ago, and for what, oddly, seemed like the first time, I considered what he would think about the world if he were still here.
I reflected on the sounds, the volume, of today’s world. The constant clanging of my phone and other electronic noise that seems to have no end. All forms of media unceasingly clamoring for my attention. It wants my money, it wants to be my purpose, it wants my life. It wants all of me, and it won’t stop until it gets it, or until I have the courage to turn it off.
Daddy would hate this world. It would piss him off in the same way that stupid, selfish managers did. Or bad drivers, or poorly written books.
But, I reflected, no - this would be different. This world would crush him. He was not built for this.
My Daddy was built for these hills.
As my eyes wandered to the treetops on the most distant peaks - memories of carsick afternoons disappeared and I finally saw what my Daddy saw, what he loved, all those years ago.
The Appalachian mountains don’t have the breathtaking craggy cliffs of the Rockies, nor do they have the sophisticated grandeur of the Alps. These mountains represent something distinctly different. They hold space for spirit, depth, for life in a way I’ve never noticed anywhere else in the world.
It might be the ancient nature of these ridges, ground into smooth, rolling knolls by the millennium. Or it may be the love that the local people have for these hills, magnified over generations.
In that moment, I knew that just as these hills had once been a part of my Daddy, he was now a part of them. I stood silently as my past, present, and future rested at peace, together, on that mountaintop.
I reached my rented cabin with just enough light to get settled before the sun finished its descent behind the hills. The location was even better than I’d expected, and I knew that if I couldn’t write and work on my memoir in this magical place, then I must be completely hopeless.
I wasn’t worried though. I did write. In fact, it was there that I finished the skeleton of the manuscript, completing the narrative outline of all the events currently scoped for this memoir. I cried as I wrote the closing paragraphs, as I nearly always do when I recount that particular story.
Realistically, I’m less than halfway done with the project, yet - this part felt monumental. Memoir writing has turned out to be one of the most fruitful self reflection tools I’ve ever experienced. I hadn’t only reached the end of this part of my story… I’d, well… reached the end of this part of my story.
That is to say, in this process, I have walked with myself through these years. Again.
I’ve reached back, I’ve held my hand, and said, “Come friend, we can do this. It won’t be easy, but this time you won’t be alone. We will do it, together.”
And we have, we did. We walked from start to finish.
I wrote the final words from a hammock outside of the cabin. I closed my laptop and laid it on the ground next to me, then leaned back and looked up at the sky through the canopy of trees.
Since completing this part of the memoir, I have found myself pondering the concept of life chapters. I’ve been considering the significance of the beginnings and endings of chapters in our lives and how as each of our own personal chapters draws to a close we have opportunities to transform, reinvent, and transition to something new.
Or - we can stay the same.
I’ve also been thinking about how much I’m learning by writing my own stories. My analytical mind has caused me to consider questions like, “What is the point of art, the purpose of writing, of memoirs, anyways?”
I’ve found myself sitting with the feeling that, in a way, what are our lives - if not stories?
I’m submitting this article on the last day of
’s first Seedpod event. The Seedpod theme is Libraries. This topic seemed fitting, because surely a library is one of the most exquisite collections of accessible stories, that is, of lives, in the world.It is no coincidence that my Daddy - engineer, poet, astronomer, botanist, literature enthusiast, lifelong scholar, mountain man - also curated extensive home libraries throughout his life.
Launch Week at
runs September 23 - 29, 2024 and the Library team has been tireless in their efforts to prepare the eagerly awaited SmallStack Library as an integrated, organized directory to provide access to your stories… to our stories.When you browse through the hundreds of publications for the first time, please consider reaching out to a writer to thank them for sharing their stories and lives.
Us SmallStack-ers may not have thousands of followers, but when we share who we are by taking off our armor and daring to wear vulnerability instead - we are so encouraged by every single Like 💓, Comment, Share, and new Subscriber.
I deeply appreciate your on-going support, and look forward to Library-ing right along with you.
~ Rose
New to my publication, Read the Instructions? You can find a three-part memoir introduction and other intro content at this link: Start here!
You might also enjoy one of my earliest posts, Do It All, about leaving my full-time job and embarking on this whole memoir writing idea.
Unfamiliar with
? This service oriented publication geared towards highlighting authors with smaller readerships is the brainchild of . It is supported by and a crew of volunteers. I am firstly, a proud SmallStack-er, and secondly, a grateful volunteer on SmallStack’s Community team.
Want to see more posts from this Seed Pod or join in on the fun? Head over to our thread to learn more!
Maybe this is how a person lives forever. They affect your life and you pass it on: in your stories, in your outlook, in the things you love. Proudly signing myself, Nancy Perry Shinn. Our lives are infinitely richer in every way because of Daddy.
Those mountains are so gorgeous and peaceful. What a gift to grow up with them in your backyard.