One image sprouts in my mind when I think of the word “home”. Angel’s Rest Mountain. Standing proud and tall, it stretches up into the heavens, and it’s the focal point of my small town. And it’s my mountain. And my dad’s. My mom’s. My brothers’. My cousins’. In fact, if you ask most folks from home, I believe they’ll lay claim to it.

I grew up in the shadow of that mountain. A place where time simply creeps along. Our culture is unique, as is our people. Our beloved mountains isolate our little town from the outside world. Insulate us.  We’re self-sufficient. We work hard and life is simple, but good. But the outside world has started sneaking in, and now modern day has found our hills.

Nowadays, we fancy ourselves just as connected as the rest of the world, with our noses stuck in our phones, computers, and streaming services. Time moves faster than it used to. And with the outside world steamrolling in, I often wonder if we’re losing our essence. Forgetting who we are, and where we come from. Our individual and collective stories.

Not long ago, on one of my many visits to my parents’ house, we found ourselves congregated around their table doing what we do best. Talking.

There’s an art to good conversation, and I’m well on my way to mastering it as an apprentice of my well-versed parents.  Our topics are endless and layered with depth. Some are trivial, others philosophical and timeless. Nary a conversation comes up that doesn’t artfully meld the present with the past in a shrouded tapestry of tales.

This particular conversation turned to my great aunt Margaret.

There’s a praying rock in the woods on the mountain. An ancient slab that’s been there for centuries. It rests humbly and assumingly. My dad pointed it out to me years ago, when I was just a girl, on one of our horse riding adventures.

The top is smooth and flat, and if you climb up and lie flat on your back, the tangled view of overhanging foliage, leaves and blue sky amidst the song of the forest is a sliver of heaven.  I know this, because after discovering it, I’d ride my horse up the ridge, gallop through the woods, and stop at the praying rock while I let him rest. I was drawn to this magical place and intrigued by it. In my family, it’s known simply as Margaret’s Rock.

Margaret passed when I was very young. When she lived, every Sunday before she moved away from the mountain, she would wander into the woods to her praying rock. She found peace in the woods. She was deeply spiritual, full of life, and loved her family. A good person. And where I’m from, that’s what matters most. Not money, possessions,  or your station in life.  

My mother recalled that Margaret was larger than life. She’d come home to visit, and my Great Grandma Ratcliffe would hold large family dinners, a common occurrence, with a house full of food and people. When Margaret and the other ladies would clean up afterwards, the walls would echo with laughter and singing coming from the kitchen.  I can’t help but feel a twinge of sadness when I hear these stories of the past.  A sense of longing.  My family is close. Maybe closer than most. But busy lives pull us in such haphazard directions; our gatherings seem scarcer and scarcer.

Such was the case on my mother’s birthday this year.  When I went up to visit, I’d missed both of my brothers, and my parents were home alone.  I picked up my niece Hannah to join in our small party, and we decided to cook a birthday dinner.  After grocery shopping we commenced to cooking. The culinary arts are neither of our fortes, but we were resolved to make a delicious meal.  When we sat down to eat, Mom asks, “What were you girls laughing at in there?”  

“When?” I asked, surprised.

“The whole time you were in the kitchen.”

“Beats me,” I replied.

After dinner Hannah looks at me. “Do you want to go on the mountain?”

“Sure,” I reply.

And as Hannah and I wandered through the woods, exploring things new and old, I thought to myself, “Maybe things haven’t changed so much after all.”