From the Mountains to the City

A Needed Change of Perspective

Have you ever needed to get away from the world? Hide for a week or two until you can get yourself back together? Once our house sold, my soul craved the fresh air of green mountains after living directly on the ocean for almost ten years. I needed out, and I needed it as fast as I could make it happen.

To the dismay of my spousal unit, we were packed and out of the house in four days. That included the mover misjudging the amount of furniture that filled two large trucks rather than one, doubling the time needed to move everything to a storage unit.

“How could you give up life on the beach?” It was a frequent question with no answer from me other than a smile.

“Are you moving somewhere close by?” No. I was running as far away as I could possibly get.

“What will happen to your Airbnbs?” I sold that business the year before, but we all know those people who don’t keep up.

Every part of life has a season, and beach season ended for me long ago. I knew mountains weren’t the answer either, but I needed an injection of trees, clean air, and ZERO people, especially young girls in thongs. After dozens of naked butts in thongs staring back at me on the weekends, I craved solitude. The entire summer was to be spent crisscrossing the U.S., but I knew I needed to sleep for a week before starting such an adventure.

For these first five days of the cross-country trip, I wanted nothing. No realtors, no contractors, no inspectors, no intrusions on my time that ramped up my anxiety. After a lifetime as a stressed-out real estate attorney with an addition to renovation and building, being on the opposite side of the table (with absolutely no control) took its toll.

I found my first mountain escape at Cherry Log, Georgia, where we enjoyed the hot tub every evening to watch the sunset from the deck. We were close to waterfalls, hiking, and spectacular mountain views away from the world, the only noise at the cabin, an infrequent car, or the chatter of the things in the woods.

Bliss.

The first night, the silence wound around me, covering me like a soft, anxiety-free blanket. I slept fourteen hours. During the day, when we weren’t roaming, the cabin was a great place to write and get myself together. With no house and all our furniture in storage, this was the most adrift I’d felt in over thirty years.

Happy? Yes. I was finally free. With no business to run and the kids in college, I had time to write the books I’d been fiddling with in my spare time. They needed to be unfiddled with and finished.

Nervous? Yes. The future was a blank slate. I’m a planner with plans for everything possible, starting with A and going to at least E or F.

But I needed to take this plunge. I needed to find myself again, even though I was uncertain who that might be.

Finding my roots

I’d come to this part of North Georgia for a reason. My father was from this area, and I wanted to explore the areas of Hiawassee, Georgia, and Copperhill, Tennessee. My few memories were of long car trips winding along the Ocoee River to visit my grandfather, trying not to be car-sick. I wanted to cancel out those memories with new ones.

But I couldn’t. The mental picture of the house couldn’t be matched with any home in the tiny town of Copperhill. Twisting up and down the hills, I finally gave up. I’d looked at maps of Appalachia out of curiosity, but until that day in Copperhill, the hill country aspects of that part of my heritage had never hit home.

We continued visiting Ellijay and Blue Ridge. These are tiny towns with the typical Southern town atmosphere and people. You don’t know that atmosphere? Then it’s time you took a trip and learned how many people in the South live. These towns are a tiny sample of what you can find all across the Southeastern United States. Remember the rules: we don’t talk about politics or religion here. It isn’t polite unless it’s family.

Want to read more about the southern U. S.? Try the Bitter Southerner. Want excellent stories about Appalachia? Read anything Silas House writes.

Shifting location to Clayton, Georgia, we stayed close to a friend, ready for more relaxation, but the house had no internet because of a storm several days prior.

We tried “roughing” it for two days but had to give up when driving to Clayton for online classes, and connecting to the world proved to be a serious chore. I was sad we had to leave—until the bear arrived. I never saw him (or her) but heard the shuffling through the undergrowth of the thick forest like a freight train, scaring the wits out of me. Was it a bear? Who knows. The sound could have been a wild boar, but my brain didn’t want that possibility either.

I fully intend to visit this host’s other property, The Ramelton Estate, a cocoa farm on the island of Dominica, but I’ll ask about the flora and fauna before I do.

We made time to go to Julep Farms in Dillard with our friend (thanks, JT), and we loved catching up and the food before heading south to Atlanta.

Just Leave It All In The Past

The best part of Atlanta by far is the Georgia Aquarium. I used to bring the children here to sit and watch the fish for hours, even though they don’t remember doing that because they were so small. I’m sure that’s how we all turned into water people—such happy memories.

Others, not so much. Driving in Atlanta has always been like participating in a NASCAR race, a part I’d forgotten. The city has changed in many respects and hasn’t changed in others (but that’s a long post and a rant I’m sure you’d rather not hear.) With the extra days available, I spent two days simply driving around, visiting places where I’d lived and worked, visiting restaurants I’d missed, showing my son the city he didn’t remember.

We needed to get on with the trip. I was ready to drive the familiar route to the ATL, turn in the rental car, and get on that plane. Too much of the past was pushing into our plans, and because of all the memories, I was turning into an angry old person rambling on about things neither he nor I cared about. Was this what I’d really turned into? My grandmother? God, I hope not. She was quite possibly the meanest woman in the South.

This trip had already given me much to think about, and we’d just started.