Halfway to Tallulah Falls, my son spills his entire bottle of Gatorade into his lap. “Um, Mommmmmay?” He says in a tentative, keening voice, emphasis on the last syllable, the way he always does, adding a frantic edge to what is not really an emergency. “I spilled my drink.” I sigh, tilting back my own water bottle and taking an eager gulp. Thankfully I have leather seats, though we didn’t bring any spare pants and I have no idea how he’s going to hike down a mountain with his butt soaked through.
“We’ll figure it out,” I say to my husband, who is in the driver’s seat, and turn up the radio, melting into the sunlight-warmed car, listening to the equally sunny, warm voice of Chris Cornell. I’m happy, because I’ve just signed a contract with Regal House Publishing for my much-beloved-and-agonized-over manuscript, Monarchs Under the Sassafras Tree. I haven’t told anyone yet, save for the two people in this car with me, and my friend Alice. We are taking an impromptu drive to the mountains – one of my biggest sources of inspiration, and part of the novel’s locale – to celebrate. We’ve had coffee and breakfast already, and soaked pants or not, we’re going out into the air to watch the last remnants of autumn drift from the trees. The burgundy, green-yellow, and day-glow orange of the leaves cannot wait for us any longer.
The mountains are my happy place. Long before I ever knew I had ancestors who hailed from there, I relished my visits to Helen, to Hiawassee, to Tallulah Gorge, to Mt. Airy. There is a quality to the air, and it’s not just the clean, thin breath of the mountain, the fog that settles over the crisp leaves – it’s the spirit there, the life-force. You can taste it, you can feel it running over your skin, making it cool. The way the light falls on the red earth, the mottled gray-brown trees, the blue of the sky – like the most underrated colors in the Crayola box, they alight my senses and make me breathe in deep. If you listen, you can hear the whispers of the trees.
Up the mountain, we stop in the gift shop and buy the kid a pair of leggings and a piece of rock candy in his newest favorite color; cyan. On the way outside, he stops to study a taxidermied fox. We visit the museum exhibit, and I point out the boxcars, the butter churn, the crisp, thin white dresses with their square collars; all relics from a time gone by, with lessons to be gleaned. He nods, but isn’t really paying attention. What use does an eight year old have for sack dresses? He wants to get outside, into the air, to touch the stone and bark, to walk the paths, to hear the delicious crunch of the leaves beneath his feet, and I don’t blame him.
It is a bond we share, this love of the outdoors. Together we have traipsed through forests in Rutledge, swam in the lake beneath Mt. Airy, stood under Ana Ruby Falls, marveled at the ceremonial mounds in Sautee-Nacoochee, collected shells on the beach at Jekyll Island, touched statues in the square in Savannah, bent down to smell mountain herbs in Hiawassee, dipped our feet into the creek, counting turtles basking in the sunlight in Athens, and stood on the banks of the Oconee River in Nicholson, Georgia, fishing with my Papa.
When he was two he wandered off while I was putting his carseat in – I turned and he had vanished. Those ten minutes felt like hours, and when we found him, he was wandering out of the woods – the forests in Oconee County are heady and thick with skinny, gray-brown pine trees, tall and imposing, but full of a gentle kind of calm, as though benevolent ghosts might pass their days there in a cocoon of sweet silence – with our little beagle in tow, humming a little tune as his fat, toddler hands grazed each tree, oblivious and full of joy. He is a natural wanderer, my kid – and while it isn’t always ideal, and are sometimes stressful, these wanderings – I always understand them. I always understand him. In so many ways just like me, but in others so wholly different, so pure and clear-eyed and awake. I feel I know him better than I’ve ever known myself. He is a natural wanderer, fluent in the woods, a real-life tree hugger. He has always felt at home there in the silence of the woods, a place where he is heard and understood, nurtured and adored.
It is a gift I passed along to him, the one I’m most grateful for. Just like every other kid his age, he’s more interested in video games, Captain Underpants and YouTube videos than he is anything else, but he’ll stop everything if I say, “Want to go for a hike?”
I make it a point to walk behind him, present and ready should he have need of me, but content to watch his footfalls on the path, clumsy and childlike but full of innocent purpose. He blazes down trails, forgetting us, forgetting all. He has been begging for a compass for years but he doesn’t really want one – he has his own sense of purpose, his own rhythm that he dances to. I think when he’s an adult, he’ll really love Thoreau.
When he graduates high school, I plan to take him on a hike through the Appalachian Trail. I haven’t told him yet, but it’s a secret dream. It seems poignant, appropriate. I can picture him, sweaty blonde hair, cheeks flushed with red in the cool air, panting with exertion, a heavy backpack weighing down wide shoulders. Undoubtedly he’ll have spilled his Gatorade on his pants, or tripped and skinned a knee, but there will be joy.
For now, my husband and I follow his lead, his skinny legging-clad legs pumping double time down the small trail, as though we’re late for something important. As it turns out, we are – just as we arrive at the first viewing platform, the people gathered there drift away and we see that the noon day sun has just settled on the trickling water, glinting off the rocks, making them look like diamonds. It is what photographers call perfect light. The water pools, and the cool air hints at what it might feel like to dip your fingers in. We stand there, forgetting to take our photos, content instead to just stand and bear witness. People fall away, and it’s just us there, the rock solid and welcoming beneath our feet, the water below quietly trickling a Hello.
My son takes a mischievous look around, and seeing no people in his vicinity, gives us a sly grin and lies down right on the rock, spreading out his arms and legs, closing his eyes and tilting back his head to the sun. He is making a stone-angel.
I laugh, shake my head, and say, “You’re ridiculous.” It’s true, but its said with the utmost love and respect, because it is a kind of ridiculous I understand, and covet, and miss.
He grins, but doesn’t answer. There’s no needs for words here. They are all unspoken, written on the wind.
Lillah Lawson is the author of the upcoming work of historical fiction Monarchs Under the Sassafras Tree. When she isn’t writing, you can find her out traipsing through the forest, cycling, playing bass, or parked in a corner with her nose in a book. She currently resides in North Georgia, where she lives out in the country with her husband, son, her two sardonic cats and a goofy dog.
I have long been a devotee of the bean, and the search for the perfect brew, for that truly spectacular blend of arabica and artistry, has been an ongoing, life-long quest. Travels hither and thither across the globe have been defined and remembered by the superior cups of coffee savored in one locale or another. High on the list is Café De Pause in Marburg, Germany, a gorgeous nook of a place filled with stovetop espresso pots of various size and description. Kokako in Auckland, New Zealand, a sleekly appealing café with in-house roasting and organic beans, is another member of this club. Surprisingly, the Delta Club Crown Room at Amsterdam airport, where I downed five much-savored cappuccinos also merited a place in the ranks of my favorites.
So every time I enjoy a cup of Joe Van Gogh’s finest, I feel a thrill of pleasure that I, too, in the purchase of a bag of beans, am playing a small part in supporting such marvelous enterprises: sustainable farms where workers are family and the land is cherished, and a coffee company that has quietly built its success by elevating others. And they make a damned fine coffee to boot. What more could a discerning coffee devotee ask for? Now I just have to get Brian Maiers to move into my spare room with his Star Trek coffee-contraption in tow.
Artists who make things on the wheel are considered potters. Artists who make things with clay by hand ( via slabs, coils, pinching & sculpting) might be considered ceramic artists. I consider myself both as I love both processes equally. I began college in New York as a drawing and painting major. I happened to see some of the work coming out of the pottery studio and knew I had to take a class. Once in the ceramic studio, I was hooked. For the first two years we were only allowed to use hand-building techniques. Then we had one brief lesson on the potter’s wheel, and it was so much fun that’s where I stayed, for the most part, for my last two semesters. I graduated from State college of New York, Brockport.
When six-foot Curva Peligrosa rides her horse into Weed, Alberta, after a twenty-year trek up the Old North Trail from southern Mexico, she stops its residents in their tracks. A parrot perched on each shoulder, wearing a serape and flat-brimmed black hat, and smiling and flashing her glittering gold tooth, she is unlike anything they have ever seen before. Curva is ready to settle down, but are the inhabitants of Weed ready for her? With an insatiable appetite for life and love, Curva’s infectious energy galvanizes the townspeople. With the greenest of thumbs, she creates a tropical habitat in an arctic clime, and she possesses a wicked trigger finger, her rifle and six-guns never far away.
Lily Iona MacKenzie is the author of two novels, Fling and 
I arrived last night, and even though the show was just starting to get set up, I saw some lovely people and got a peek at some tantalizing journals, papers, and pens. Cary Yeager from Fountain Pen Day gave me an official FPD pin and bookmark (I’m already collecting swag!) and we had a nice chat about the generosity of the fountain pen community. And it’s true: I have never met a group so welcoming and willing to share knowledge (and ink and pens) with even the newest of newbies.
The store-front windows of Broadway Books make the shop light and airy, and its well-organized shelves draw customers on to explore the next book, the next topic, the next table. Over the shelves hang poster-sized covers of other volumes for which readers might want to search.
The birthday party on Saturday made it obvious what a community asset the store is. I met a trio of women who had been friends for forty years. Regular customers milled about, chatting, talking books with the owners and staff, having their photos taken at the picture booth set up for the day, and eating cake and drinking champagne. Despite the bustle of the celebration, I saw the staff continuously assisting customers by making recommendations and finding books. One of the owners (alas! I did not discover which one) asked everyone there to please go out and tell the story of their book store, and I am happy to comply with that request here.
I began my bookstore safari in Seattle, Washington, where I was visiting my particular friend Maren Donley. Before I arrived, I explained my quest to her, and she immediately recommended a visit to the Third Place Books. While there are three Third Places (I’m not sure how the math works on that, whether it requires simple addition or some kind of quantum exponential multiplication), Maren suggested we drop by the Lake Forest store. “I drive by it twice a week. I had never been in until I met my priest there for a meeting. Then I said, ‘Oh! I have really been missing out!'” she told me.
The selection of books, Mr. Sindelar told me, has a curatorial aspect. The staff have a lot of say in the choices, which are also guided by the interests of customers and the diverse ideas and opinions that represent the neighborhood. It seems that every aspect of Third Place is indeed geared toward fostering community and neighborhood. The Commons area not only has ample seating and a play area for small children, it has three restaurants as well: sustenance for both mind and body.
As we wended our way toward the registers at the front of the store, Maren pointed out the cards that annotated the books on the tables and shelves. The cards offered reviews by the staff, noted awards won by the book and author, and even let browsers know that a less expensive edition of the book in question was available on a different shelf in the store. I had seen cards similarly deployed in other stores, but never to such good effect. Walking through the store while looking at the books and reading the cards was like enjoying a stimulating conversation with friends or taking part in a silent book club discussion.
