The Cove

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.