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This is my first published piece. The feature article in the paper's 1st edition. |
Coming Home to the Cove Joel B. Walden Contributor The summers of my youth were spent in what my parent’s called “God’s Country.” That phrase means something entirely different to me today than it did back then. When I was young, I thought of it as “God’s Forsaken Country.” But now, as an adult, it’s exactly where I want to be. My family has lived in Highlands since the late 1800s and our roots grew deep in this peaceful place. We traveled to Horse Cove every summer from central Florida. As a child, utter dread would befall me as we approached “the Cove.” I thought it was the most boring place under the sun. One television station -- channel 4 out of Greenville/Spartanburg -- was all we could get at the house and most of the time it was either too snowy to watch. There were no decent radio stations and the town of Highlands seemed like it was on the other side of the universe. Alas, what was a kid to do? Most of the time we would sit and listen – mostly for cars approaching the house. At the sound of an approaching vehicle we would run to the living room window in heightened anxiety. More times than not, however, it was a car traveling down Walking Stick or Rich Gap roads. When a car did come, it meant a temporary relief from the boredom. The boredom of being stuck in this God forsaken place with no friends and no entertainment. A place with the darkest nights on Earth and a place with tree frogs as loud as an AC/DC concert. The highlights of the day were fish feeding time, watching the cows pass through the yard at four in the afternoon on their way to the barn from the pasture, and supper time. Of course there was always the brief excursions to Highlands or Franklin to buy groceries or visit family. Trips to Franklin to pick up a pig and listen to it squeal the entire way back to the Cove. A trip to Elberton, Ga., to pick up a dog -- Shep number three after Shep number two passed away. Waking up to the sound of my grandmother churning butter in the kitchen. Wondering when we were going to see the sun after days of drizzling fog. Listening to everyone tell stories of the “old days” as they sat around the supper table. Watching my mother become absolutely ecstatic at finding a jig saw puzzle piece she’d been looking for since before breakfast that morning. Boring, boring, boring! I can still remember the big rock that sat in the window of the gem shop “up town.” It was huge and had purple crystals inside of it. Someone had cut a big hole in the side of it so you could look inside the rock. As we passed by, we would stop and stare for what seemed like hours at the rock. Occasionally, mom and Aunt Sis would drop us off at the miniature golf place by Helen’s Barn. Now there was some relief to the boredom! But it never seemed to last long enough and before we knew it we were headed back down the mountain to the Cove. In the evenings, after supper, we would run around and catch lightning bugs or go worm hunting. Catching lightning bugs was fun for about an hour -- after that it became just another entry into the list of boring things to do. Now nightcrawler hunting was different. We got an old squirt bottle and filled it with a little dry mustard and some water and shook it up real good and then went looking for nightcrawler holes. When we found one, we squirted the mixture into the hole and out they’d come. My Uncle Cecil taught us that trick and we had a blast with that one. After I got a little older and got my driver’s license we would go here and there to sightsee. I giggled like a little girl when I drove underneath Bridal Veil Falls for the first time. I used to pull over to the side of the road on U.S. 64 and run across the road to look at the Devil’s Courthouse at the Whiteside Mountain pull off. I remember feeling every orifice of my body pucker up as I drove from Franklin to Highlands with nothing but a two-foot concrete barrier between the road and the Gorge. Scary stuff at 17 when the only hill you’d driven was an overpass on the Interstate. I remember visiting Dry Falls and the water being so loud I couldn’t even hear myself think. On weekends in the Cove we’d listen to the weekly obituaries on the radio. Now that was entertainment. Now, as I have grown older and slightly wiser, I would give my left arm to go back to that “boring place.” But I am afraid that place is gone now. When I go back to the Cove I hear the voices of my youth. I can see the footprints that we left there. I can smell the scent of fresh baked biscuits on the wood stove. I can hear the sound of the butter churner going “kathump, kathump, kathump.” But for the most part those sounds and smells are long gone. Ah, to be that “bored” again. But what remains is the foundation, God’s foundation. Now I know my parent’s were right when they called the Cove, “God’s Country.” As adults they appreciated the peace and tranquility that thrived there. They appreciated the stunning beauty of the majestic hills that surrounded us all summer long. Whatever the reason, the name fits, and I’m glad to be coming home to God’s country for good. |