Home Away from Home 10/18/2020

By: Jennifer Richardson Holt

I am writing this at one of my favorite places on the planet. I only call this one of my favorites because there are other places that I have yet to visit that MIGHT rival it but then again it may still reign victorious even after my traveling dreams are fulfilled.  I am finishing a trip in the Great Smoky Mountains.  I know, I know.  What a typical southerner, vacationing in the Smokies. The only other way my vacation could have possibly been more typical was to say I was vacationing on the Florida Gulf Coast.  Either of the two locales are pretty synonymous with a southern vacation.  For most of us it’s either or when you ask your favorite getaway spot.  I suppose we are simply fond enough of our southern setting that we don’t particularly want to leave it we just like to maybe spice it up a bit with some lovely views, tasty restaurants and good places to buy souvenirs. It appears that most of us have chosen a side, mountains or beach.  In a past blog I’ve stated my preference for the former. Today I want to elaborate on my choice. The following is my explanation of why I feel the way I do. Hopefully, those who feel differently will not hold a grudge against me for my choice.  Hopefully. Please don’t.

I can say that most likely, the basis for my feelings are come by honestly.  I think they were founded in me on a genetic level by my mother. She grew up in the foothills of North Alabama and clearly hills have gotten into her DNA because it was passed on to me.  With that being her childhood home, I can understand some foundational fondness, but it is THESE mountains, here in the landscape where the states of Tennessee and North Carolina meet that are the draw for her.  Perhaps because here the altitudes are higher maybe to her it is her home but amplified.  But as for me, I have always lived my life in the relatively flat parts of Alabama. Sure, we have maybe a rolling hill or two but nothing at too much of a climb so there really isn’t another way to resolve the feelings I have for the mountains.  Therefore, I argue that this affection is in my genes from her upbringing.

In some inexplicable way, these mountains feel like home to me.  They have never been home.  I have never lived here for any period of my life, but there is something about this place. When the fragrance of this mountain air fills my lungs its like breathing in the scent of a thousand warm memories.  It is like it is the oxygen that has always or at least should have always filled my being.  I know that sounds overly dramatic.  Maybe it is just me being unnecessarily wordy.  I know that is a crime of which I am frequently guilty, and I am completely willing to admit that. But there is some indescribable pull to this place. I have come countless times over the course of my life so there is an obvious familiarity that makes sense to me but there is something deeper here.  This place incites a yearning in me, the likes of which only homesickness serves aptly enough to define.

I long for every element of this place.  For instance, the people here, those that are really from here and not just some of the throngs of pilgrims that flock here, feel like people I have always known.  I know this is the south and therefore being hospitable is the default setting for most people.  This sensation feels different to me though.  It can be as minimal as a kind word from a waitress.  Actually, it can be even more minimal than that because there are people from these hills that I have never met and simply know of that for some reason make me feel comfortable, as if they were a long lost neighbor seen after many years though I don’t know them, as the saying goes, from Adam’s housecat.  For me this is beyond friendly pleasantry.  It seems deep down that since this place feels like home, these feel like my people.  Not that I don’t love my actual home, but it just seems that I have more than one.

I have not really explained myself well.  I haven’t really given you very much by way of meaningful reasoning about my sentiments.  I could easily describe the magnificence of hearing elk calls echo through the Cataloochee Valley.  I could talk about the splendor of seeing one of those hulking beasts walk undisturbed across an open field framed by color spattered peaks.  I could go on and on about the beauty of the falling confetti of golden poplar leaves in dappled sunlight that make an average two-lane road a magical experience. There are the ever present immaculately clear rivers and streams that make unexpected waterfalls appear around corners or the way the ax marks on the logs of a historic cabin tell the story of ambition and hope.  These are all wonderful aspects to this place that I could talk about at length.  We all know that when I love something, I can lend to it a more than generous amount of words. But three dictionaries’ worth of words may not serve to prove anything.  The best I can tell you to plead my case is this:  These mountains feel like home to me and it is as simple and as powerful as that.