On Vacation

Hey y'all! We're in NC right now, high up in the Appalachian Mountains where the only radio waves that reach are from country music stations. If you want to know what it looks here, watch The Last of the Mohican's or Dirty Dancing. Both were filmed here. I'd add a link but I'm working on an air card here and it takes forever plus three minutes to change pages. Reminds me of the days of dial up or when you had to type in http//: before you went anywhere.

We're having a good time. The house we're staying in, a house that's been in Delta's family since the family rowed here from Scotland and England and mixed it up with the Cherokee's who were here first, is most assuredly haunted. There's been a series of unexplainable footsteps and the presence of a woman named June who pretends to have been a dream but who I know is real. And there's the cranky old great aunt who tortures me while I go to the bathroom. One of the ghosts told me the rest of my story while I was dozing in the upstairs room and now I can finish (ok, start) writing it. One day when it's a bestseller (in hardcover no less) and I'm negotiating over the movie rights I will publicly give thanks to the ghosts of the mountains.

My in laws are as colorful as a sky full of balloons. I come from a family only in theory and to marry into a family of this many - more than I can count on all my fingers and toes - is a trip. My one sister in law (she's a redneck. She'd insist that I tell you that. Really.) has a house that was struck by lightning seven times. And just last week her little doggie was struck down a nd killed by lightning too. There are times when the noise level alone sends me running for our little whitewashed room in the attic. You should hear the way they say my name. I'll teach you how to do it. First, stand up. Now take a deep breath in, open your mouth so wide that the person in front of you can see the punching bag in the back of your throat and now holler "Down" as loud as you can and mostly through your nose. Then cock your head and make a little sarcastic face and think about the myriad ways yankees disintegrate the fibers of American culture. But don't use big words when you think about it.

I love my in laws and I love coming down here. And I DEFINITELY don't think southerners are all named Bubba or need a diagram to tie their shoes. I admit, the first time I came here I kind of thought it. But all the years of Mason Dixon hopping have taught me why that is. It all boils down to the speed of speech. Our northern vowels are crisp, fresh, snapping lettuce, crunchy apple. Southern vowels are long, meandering, bottle of molasses, katydid song, mountain brook. To us, fast is the way to be. Slow speech mean slow mind. To them, fast speech means uptight, in a hurry, know it all.

Today we're off to Asheville. The check engine light in my car came on and we have to go see what the problem is. Then we're off to Chimney Rock or Cherokee or up to Grandfather Mountain. We've got an appointment to look at some property in Blowing Rock, the place that the fictional town called Mitford was based on. It's the only place other than Massachusetts that I could ever see myself living. It's about as close to perfect that a town could be.

Talk to ya'll later.