Remembering Renea Winchester (bio) This year marks the seventy-fifth anniversary of the Great Smoky Mountains National Park. May all who have family buried there return to their heritage and remember, and may others seeking to learn more about the families who lost their homes experience the majesty and wonder of the land many called home. The road narrows and turns to grass. I inhale deeply and fight back tears. I am home. Several generations of family members have loaded into the back of pickup trucks then parted a sea of tourists to visit a place we hold sacred. While others flock to the Great Smoky Mountains National Park to play, we travel to a place few will ever see. We travel in part out of duty and respect. We travel to honor our heritage, and remember. Before we reach this sacred ground, Dad must maneuver through visitors who believe they are alone in the wilderness. Children trample endangered species of flora and fauna. Tree limbs are broken for walking sticks. They maneuver cumbersome remnants from worn out tires and expel water through soggy shoes with a squish. They walk, through no fault of their own, unaware of the history these grand mountains possess. Not too long ago, the creek was the lifeblood of the community. White water rapids transported enormous hand-cut logs to town where Carolina Wood Turning Company converted them into lumber. The crystal clear water also held tiny nuggets of gold few ever found. The creek provided families with fish and offered a cool drink. But today, in our hurried world, we don't seem to need the creek for food or water. Her purpose now is recreation. My feet dangle from the edge of the tailgate. "Hi ya'll," I wave then quickly add, "how ya'll doin'?" My overdrawn greeting evokes an eye roll. "How did these trucks get in here?" Someone says as we pass. The caravan of trucks presses higher and soon reaches the place where tubing is prohibited. Dad takes the left fork, and I give a final wave as we leave civilization. The sound of water tickling rocks can be heard above the rumbling of rusty tailpipes. I close my eyes, inhale deeply, and lift my face toward the heavens. [End Page 65] Beside me, my aunt says, "No place in the world smells as good as this." The fragrance, a mixture of vanishing memories, honeysuckle, and decaying leaves, tugs at my heart, squeezing out painful remembrances with each beat. As a child, I piled in the back of an older, rustier pickup truck. In those days you could ride on the main highway in the back of a truck without getting a ticket. My heart longs for those times again; when I sang songs to the top of my lungs and stood on my tiptoes to pick leaves from low-hanging limbs. Today, I duck as we pass under the same trees and keep a watchful eye on children as they reach toward the heavens to capture leaves. This year the weather is beautiful, and bugs are few. Mountain laurel welcomes us with a grand display. White umbrella-like blooms litter the road. I smile and watch a breeze pluck a peppermint-colored bloom and spin it to the forest floor where it lands without a sound. Dad interrupts my sightseeing when he yells out the window, "Pick up your feet. There's a hog-waller up ahead." I scan the woods, hoping to see the hog that has been rolling around in the dingy mud puddle. For a moment, I feel five years old. I'm anxious to touch this place. I want to leap from the truck and splash about in the mud. Instead, I pick up my feet as the truck disturbs the puddle so my shoes won't be sucked off. My laughter mixes with the children's and echoes through the valley as the truck bounces from side to side. "Hang on back thair," Dad calls. The muddy water crashes back in place. Not a single shoe is lost. It's a good day. Overhead the hemlocks are loosing the battle with the Wooly...
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