these high green hills

A book by that same title, a thought that goes through my mind when I’m driving around here. Tennessee is weird sometimes but so very, very pretty.
Sometimes when I see it anew, in it’s summertime glory, it takes my breath away in that same way the ocean does. Sometimes it reminds me of all those who’ve gone before me, here. This is where I’m from.

And while our new house hasn’t been in our family for generations like the other home, now lost, it has that feeling. That timeless, endless feeling of those who’ve loved it before I have. This city has grown up around it while it sat here in this spot and watched. Generations in and around it have changed this town and this area, slowly and painfully, but certainly.

I think often of my greats: my great-grandmother I knew only for 11 short and selfish years. (Would that we could know then what we know now about all we will want to know and have no source for, one day.) And my great-grandfather who died when my grandmother was only 13. Could she even know him in that way we do as we get older ourselves? Who he was is lost, mostly. What I do know, I treasure: his books, his music, his handwriting in a language I know nothing about. But her handmade quilts rest beside his books in my new living room. I don’t always love this my hometown, but it is where I am from.

A friend said a few days ago about an area I always find beautiful, “but it’s not as beautiful as here.”
East Tennessee, you capture our hearts with these high green hills.

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