The Smoky Mountain air has a personality all its own. It smells different from the Northeast—earthier, perhaps, with a hint of fallen leaves and the promise of cooler weather. From where we’re staying, the mountains seem to settle into a quieter rhythm. The leaves are beginning to turn, the air has a welcome crispness, and the wind comes barreling up the winding mountain road, sending branches swaying and reminding us that nature has a way of doing whatever it pleases.
Yesterday was Bob’s 65th birthday, and a few of us decided that an ordinary birthday celebration simply wouldn’t do. We set out to create an enormous balloon arch, complete with a “Happy Birthday” banner. Three hours, countless balloons, a few accidental pops, and plenty of laughter later, we had something that resembled a festive masterpiece. There was no shortage of giggling, rearranging, and debating where each balloon belonged. When Bob walked through the door at 3:30, his expression said everything. He was genuinely surprised, and seeing how much he appreciated the effort made every popped balloon and tangled piece of ribbon worthwhile. Sometimes the best gifts aren’t the ones you buy. They’re the ones people give their time to create.
As the day wound down, we settled into the purple egg-pod chairs on the balcony outside our bedroom. The wind rocked us gently as Kris, my sister-in-law, and I drifted back to our childhood in Easthampton, Massachusetts. We talked about middle school, those awkward years when fitting in seemed like the most important thing in the world. Neither of us had an especially easy time. Kids could be unkind, and sometimes the reasons behind their behavior made little sense. We remembered the teasing, the feeling of being singled out, and the quiet determination it took to get through those years.
What struck me, though, was how some of that behavior doesn’t necessarily disappear with age. The playground changes, the vocabulary gets more sophisticated, and people trade school hallways for office corridors, but the exclusion, gossip, and need to make someone else feel small can remain remarkably familiar.
Years ago, I wrote a short story called “The Sandbox.” It began with a little girl sitting by herself in the corner of a neighborhood sandbox. A group of girls had decided she was different, and that was reason enough to make her their target. They made fun of her secondhand clothes, her gap-toothed smile, and her oversized glasses. Her family couldn’t afford much, so her clothes came from consignment shops, and her glasses were chosen because they were what her parents could manage. Her mother, however, had taught her something far more valuable than any designer label: how to sew.
In my story, that little girl grows up and eventually starts her own fashion line in New York City. The girls who once made fun of her have stayed in their hometown. One day, she returns for a visit and runs into them at the local mall. They admire her clothing and ask who designed it. Her answer is simple: “I did.”
And then she walks away.
I always liked that ending because she doesn’t need to settle a score, deliver a speech, or remind anyone of what happened. Her life speaks for itself. The girls who once made her feel small never get to define who she becomes.
I suppose that’s why the story has stayed with me. Adversity can leave a mark, but it doesn’t have to become our identity. We get to decide what we do with those experiences. We can carry forward the kindness we were taught, or repeat the behavior that once hurt us. I’m grateful my parents taught me to work hard, treat people with respect, and never measure someone’s worth by what they own, what they wear, or how well they fit into a crowd. Those lessons have stayed with me much longer than anything I learned in middle school.
Last night, the house was filled with the unmistakable comfort of homemade lasagna and warm garlic bread. There was also a homemade lemon-curd cake waiting for Bobby Z’s birthday celebration. Good food, family, laughter, and a little birthday fuss—sometimes that’s all a day needs.
Later, I was sitting near the fire pit when I heard something moving through the darkness. First, the unmistakable crack of branches. Then the crunch of leaves under what sounded like very large footsteps. I froze for a moment. There’s something about being surrounded by mountains at night, with very little light and an unknown creature making its way through the woods, that gets your imagination working overtime.
A few years ago, I hosted a library program about Bigfoot and learned that Sasquatch sightings are part of Smoky Mountain folklore. Naturally, my mind went there first. Realistically, it was probably a very large black bear, but I wasn’t particularly interested in investigating. Some mysteries are better left unsolved, especially when they might have claws!
Tonight, Jim and I are taking our turn in the kitchen. I’m thinking beef, chicken, and vegetable shish kabobs, along with a big salad loaded with fresh vegetables. But before the chopping, skewering, and cooking begin, I have another plan: a little time in my purple egg-pod chair with one of the many books I packed for this trip.
Until tomorrow!
