In my mountains the sky is brilliant blue, the clouds puffy and white and the forests verdant green. Wildflowers grow in abundance along the roadside and the fields are alive with daisies and black-eyed susans. The hills are covered with wild blackberries, so fat and sweet they melt in your mouth and holly bushes dot the mountainside.

In my mountains the summer air is fresh and sweet and in the winter it is crisp, clean and cold. Spring storms are swift and sudden and Autumn comes slowly, softly.

You can still ride on the back of a pickup truck in my mountains, the roads are narrow and curving, through some of the most scenic places America has to offer. You can take a hike through forest covered mountains without worrying about whose land it is because they all know who you are and who your daddy is.

In my mountains you might not have cell phone service but it doesn’t really matter because if you’re in trouble someone will help you and they probably can take you home without asking directions.

In my mountains life slows down. We’re thirty years behind everyone else, they say. I think it’s a privilege. An almost-lost culture we get to experience.

We eat cornbread and beans in my mountains, served hot and fresh with homemade chow-chow, with apple stack cake for dessert. Sweet tea is more common then water.

In my mountains, we believe in Jesus. We go to church and to prayer meeting. We say “God bless you” and mean it. We still sing the old hymns and spirituals. We still believe the bible.

I love my mountains. I think there’s something spiritual about mountains. Jesus would go apart into lonely places to be closer to His Father. It’s easier to do that in the mountains. We believe in God because we see Him. Because He is here, with us


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