The Mountain Cabin

We drove along the narrow roads which still caused me concern. The residents on the mountain were familiar with the drive and its curves and jutting rocks. The fear of falling or running off the road kept me from seeing the beauty of things around me. I noticed as I became older that trees were beautiful in the fall; The yellows, oranges, golds and greens. Down as far as one could see, when looking over the cliffs, stood nature in her finest array.

Although I was born in the hills of Tennessee, we had moved to what is called the bikini state when I was a tender age. Daddy and Mama would travel back and forth to visit their mothers at least once a year. It's funny how as a child everything isn't black or white. It can be whatever we think we see. It can be what we are told or what we are happy with.

My brother and I enjoyed going to the little cabin on the hillside. A rather stately woman with demands to make on everyone was introduced to us as our great grandmother. She was less than pleasant in looks and mannerisms. I remember thinking her bark was every bit as dangerous as her bite.

We ran through the fields of tall grass exploring every animal that caught our attention. We sat high on the tractor as though we were the most important girl and boy in all those parts. We found pieces and parts of what became our special treasures.

The most intriquing part of our day was drawing water from the well. It looked ominous inside. As far down as we could see, the lower portion was jet black. We would drop the bucket down for water by turning the handle until it landed in the water with a loud echo. We were facinated. You could bring it up or drop it down quickly for a really big splash. We later learned, the hard way, that you were not to throw rocks in the well water to hear tinkling sounds. Oh no, that was not the thing to do.