Autumn on Burntshirt Mountain

Autumn is in full bloom here and the leaves have gone from a gentle float to a steady rain of oaks, locusts, dogwoods and red maples in my front yard; that crackle and crunch with each footstep I make. Thanks to the prevailing mountain winds, Few leaves are left at the tops of the trees. the last to bud are the first to fall. first to the first as they are the first to change colors and shed their deep crimson, yellow, burnt orange and cinnamon colored leaves in preparation for the coming winter. Everything is cyclic up here-or rather I notice the cycles here more so than any other place I’ve ever lived. Nothing ever really changes much here-events simply repeat themselves over and over again from year to year. Daffodils bloom only to die and make way for the azaleas followed by the mountain laurel.

It’s November and the fall mornings are brisk and necessitate me wearing a thermal jacket and scarf when I take my dog Holly for her morning walk. Even Holly is sporting a red knitted sweater. It’s spooky quiet up here-especially in the early morning. Sometimes the silence is interrupted by a sound I can’t distinguish-something wild, unknown and unseen. I know there are bears, coyotes and deer up here. But which ones are crying out? After a year of being here I’m still not used to hearing the calls of the wildlife nor can I distinguish the voices of the animals. The sounds of silence surround me at this particular moment. Just as I’m becoming comfortable with the lack of noise, I’m slightly startled by the unexpected moo from Miz Clara’s cows grazing in her pasture in the holler below our house.

Clara Ingram is a true mountain woman. She’s a person of few words, straight forward and direct and quite remarkable, I’m told. She’s from another generation-one that tends to persist longer among mountain folk than in most other places. She’s legendary in these parts for her self-sufficiency-and her walks up and down the mountain. I’ve seen her silently following the curvature of the winding roads in the shadows miles from her house with no visible mode of transportation other than her own two feet-walking home as we return with our jeep loaded down with packages from our shopping trip in town. She never shows any sign of acknowledgement of my presence. She simply walks. Her deceptively fragile looking body is remarkably strong and supple for her age. She was born and raised on the mountain and has lived here all of her life and I’m told she knows every inch of this place. With about 300 acres of land to her name, she’s what is referred to on this mountain as being “land rich.” I’ve never spoken more than “good morning” to her although she attends our church. She just quietly goes about making her contributions to her community by taking on the responsibility of caretaker for the church building without fanfare or outward recognition. She's done it week after week for years. She has my respect. There is strength in her face and it sort of intimidates me. Of course she doesn’t know any of this-maybe I’ll get a chance to tell her one day.