We first moved here around this time, might have been this very week, more than 30 years ago. Many of the things which so amazed us then are now routine parts of our lives: the nightly drone of the cicadas and katydid; the graceful flight of the hawks and buzzards as they ride the thermal waves ever higher; the coolness of the shade as respite from the sun; the seemingly endless shades with which green can define the forest, and the chill of the night by where the frost line stops as it works its way up the slope.
We know the calls of the tanager and bluebird now, the lonesome call of the whippoorwill on a moonlit night, the bark of the fox, and have never forgotten the shrill cry of a bobcat our first night in the house.
The hills are all familiar to me now, I’ve hiked every one, explored the valleys, recognize where the fog gathers as the creek runs through the lowest points. I know the trees, the succession of plants, the flowers of spring, then summer and fall. The neighbors are familiar whether friend or foe, and I know just as well the bends and dips of the road, where it rises and where it falls away.
I’ve learned the history of the place, can recall the names of many who lived here in their own time, trace the lines of the plow, tell the story of the battle, and where to find traces of the Indians who once roamed the land without ever claiming to own it.
For all I’ve seen, and learned, and everywhere I’ve been I’ve just never gotten over the marvel of the place, our own little tranquility base in the Tennessee hills.
And I greet each day, and enter each night, with thanks in my heart to the One for leading us here.
