Blue Ridge Memories
When I think of the many times I've regaled my children, my sisters' children, and the children of anyone who would stand still long enough, with tales of the adventures of life in McCaysville, GA, it's a wonder I have any voice left at all. From 1974 to 1976, our family lived in this beautiful little town, nestled in the Blue Ridge mountains on the Georgia / Tennessee line. My Dad was the minister of music at First Baptist Church, McCaysville, and our family lived in the old parsonage right next door to the church. I remember it as a large house, built along the lines of a barn. But a flood of biblical proportion washed through the town in February of 1990 bringing the water level halfway up the first floor of the home. Subsequently, this large old home was torn down. At least I think it was large. But now I'm starting to wonder.
While taking a few days off from the road, my Dad and I, along with my daughter and grandson, made a spur of the moment trip up to McCaysville yesterday. “And behind the house,” I told reminded my daughter on the drive up, “there sat a large church parking lot where I used to ride my bike at high speed, all the way around the back of the building.” Warming up to the story-telling, I reached a crescendo with, “...and right around the far side of the building, I would take that bike up a hill of grass and go airborne with it!” But when we arrived in town I immediately detected the effects of the flood because evidently when the water receded it shrunk the parking lot. This was the only explanation I could offer my daughter, on short notice, for why the thing wasn't as large as I remembered it 35 years ago when I was riding my bike across its enormous expanse. “Just you wait,” I said, “till we get around the far side of the building and you see that ramp of grass I used to fly off of.” We looked around there and sure enough, the flood had done it in too, reducing that magnificent ramp to a puny clump of dirt that wouldn't even make for half of a respectable speed bump. I was undone, and my daughter gave me that knowing look she gets when her eyebrows nearly jump off her head because she suspects her leg has been pulled.
But there was another story I had told her, a story about the people of this region and how unfailingly friendly they are. That one proved to be true because, as luck would have it, the church office was open. Walking down the hall and into the office, Dad introduced himself as a, “blast from the past.” Puzzled looks greeted us until he told them who he was and when he had worked there, and the recognition was instantaneous. Two of the people there had been members of the church all those years ago, and they remembered us. Then, their happy surprise turned to shock as we introduced my daughter and grandson.
Walking into the sanctuary, it seemed like I had only left for a few days instead of 35 years. Looking to the choir loft, I can still see my parents now, Dad having a special choir rehearsal before a big cantata and Mom in the choir. My little sister had been instructed to stay where Mom could see her from the choir loft. So naturally, she spent the duration of choir rehearsal crawling on her belly under the pews, all the way to back of the sanctuary where she would pop up like a jack-in-the-box and happy as a deacon with a full collection plate, while Mom craned her neck out like a giraffe trying to find her. This was years before Wack-A-Mole you understand, but the principle was the same. It was the strangest feeling yesterday, because I could see it all unfolding before me and yet,...and yet there I stood, on the verge of 50, with two additional generations in tow and decades of experiences under my belt.
This was the town where Julian Carnes and I climbed to the top of Tater Hill (which was bald back then) and slid all the way back down on our rear ends. It was where an English teacher first complimented my communicative ability and encouraged me to develop those skills further. It was where I met Larry Stewart and watched him learn the steel guitar, an instrument he now plays professionally, to the delight of hundreds of audiences each year. It was where I got my first kiss,...and second, and third, and a few more as I recall. It was where the local school sat atop a steep hill, and where we spent our recesses either throwing elaborate paper airplanes from one edge, or running and jumping off the other edge to see who could fall the furthest and not break anything. It was where my sister could outplay the boys in her class at football, and where I won a contest on the horizontal metal hand walk at the cost of tearing the skin off my palms. It was where my Mom first trusted me to go off on my own and walk clear across the state line to the A&P and pick up a few groceries. And wouldn't you know it, I had to point out to my daughter and grandson that the flood shrunk that street too, moving the A&P so close to the where the old house stood that now you could walk from one to the other in a monsoon and barely get damp.
Across the street from the church is a steep hill that Dad and I climbed once in the snow. We took our shotguns with us that day, but didn't see anything worth shooting. I remember one particularly steep section that was iced over. Dad used a small tree trunk to pull himself up, but I was still too short to make the attempt. He reached his shotgun down for me to grab onto and then he pulled me up. Looking back, I doubt that his shotgun was loaded, but that simple act of trust between us spoke volumes to me back then and I never forgot it. A lot of learning and growing took place during the two years we lived there. Yesterday, we drove up that steep hill, passed the old YMCA gym and all the way up to an old cemetery on top of the hill, overlooking the beautiful Copper Basin. For another instant, the years vanished and the scenery left us speechless.
There is much to worry about these days. The hot buttons and crisis points seem overwhelming at times. But occasionally, it helps to get away for a short time and recharge. It's not a bad thing to immerse oneself in formative places and be reminded again of what we seek to preserve. This is the kind of area, and these are the sort of people that you will only find in America, and as long as the spirit they embody is around, we still have a fighting chance. I hope to visit the area again soon. A few hours there is never enough.
- Comment (15)
- · Quote
- · UnfollowFollow (1)
Comments :
Nov '10
Re: Blue Ridge Memories
This would have made a great episode of View from the Cab.
May '10
Re: Blue Ridge Memories
I can identify, Dave.
Re: Blue Ridge Memories
I thought about it, but other than hearing us say, "Is that where the preacher lived?", or "turn left here," there wasn't much that wouldn't have required me to get consent to record people I haven't seen for 35 years, which would have been a tad awkward. There is an episode or two in the works though.
Jul '10
Re: Blue Ridge Memories
Dave, it's funny how the places of our youth shrink. I went back to my childhood home a few years ago, and I had that same feeling you describe at the realization that the yard I remember going on forever really wasn't that big now.
May '10
Re: Blue Ridge Memories
Dave Carter
There is much to worry about these days. The hot buttons and crisis points seem overwhelming at times. But occasionally, it helps to get away for a short time and recharge. It's not a bad thing to immerse oneself in formative places and be reminded again of what we seek to preserve. This is the kind of area, and these are the sort of people that you will only find in America, and as long as the spirit they embody is around, we still have a fighting chance.
Thanks, Dave.
Whenever my parents drove us around "Memory Lane" in Slidell, Louisiana, where we lived before I can remember, there was sadly no evidence of the alligator gars swimming in the ditches after a storm or crawdads popping up out of the back yard.
And I'm fairly sure that very same storm which flattened your old bike ramp did a number on the dirt mound my brother, cousin and I played "King of the Hill" on in Mobile. Who needs toys or video games when you've got a big mound of dirt?
Apr '11
Re: Blue Ridge Memories
Beautifully written, Dave. It reminds me of Ferrol Sams' and Rick Bragg's writing. There is something about the South... Also timely, as my husband and I contemplate a quick weekend getaway close by, in the Blue Ridge Ga area.
Re: Blue Ridge Memories
It's a beautiful place, no doubt about it. And thank you. I don't often get comments from Goddesses.
Jun '10
Re: Blue Ridge Memories
There's certainly no place like southern Appalachia, and no place prettier than the North Georgia border. Next time you're up here, Dave, you have to let me buy you a beer or a cup of coffee. Or I can pull out the mason jar. ;)
May '10
Re: Blue Ridge Memories
Such a gift for storytelling you have, Dave. You captured the sense of the region perfectly. I'd say you should publish a book of these lovely essays but you'd probably take a sabbatical to do that and Ricochet just wouldn't be the same without you.
We take our family vacation just a few hours east of McCayseville every summer near Brevard, NC. We're here right now. This year I've been especially struck by the openness of the folks who live here year round. The young people working in retail stores assume you are a good and honest person until you prove otherwise ("Go on and take that full buggy of groceries to your car before the rain starts, sir. Don't you worry, no alarms'll go off. I'll just finish ringing up the rest of your stuff for your wife while you're loading up the car.")
Life slows down up here. Foggy mornings, soft falling rain several afternoons a week, gentle rolling ancient mountains and miles and miles of paths through damp woods or grassy meadows, clambering up rocks to find waterfalls or expansive views near the Blue Ridge Parkway. There's no better place to renew one's faith in the beauty of our country and its people.
Matthew Gilley lives somewhere nearby, too, Casey. Maybe we could have a gathering up here some time this summer. Got any more breaks coming up, Dave? We'd love to meet you in person at a relaxed soouthern-style meetup (sorry, folks, but you don't have soirees in the southern Appalachian mountains...)
Edited on Jul 14, 2011 at 5:19amSep '10
Re: Blue Ridge Memories
Thanks for sharing this trip down Memory Lane, Dave! I'm from the South too, and it made me homesick. I always look forward to your posts.
Sep '10
Re: Blue Ridge Memories
Thanks for sharing this trip down Memory Lane, Dave! I'm from the South too, and it made me homesick. I always look forward to your posts.
Sep '10
Re: Blue Ridge Memories
Thanks for sharing this trip down Memory Lane, Dave! I'm from the South too, and it made me homesick. I always look forward to your posts.
Re: Blue Ridge Memories
A good old fashioned meet up or get together sounds great, The Other Diane. I'm curious, ...have you ever tried chicken fried soiree? Not bad if you filet them first.
Jun '10
Re: Blue Ridge Memories
"...have you ever tried chicken fried soiree? Not bad if you filet them first."
Is that like rooster eggs?
Edited on Jul 14, 2011 at 6:53pmJun '10
Re: Blue Ridge Memories
Time traveling can sometimes be good for the soul Dave. Opening a window into the past can shed a new light on the world around one.