Friends, I always consider myself attached to these mountains. My grandmother, and her mother, and her grandmother before her, lived in the foothills of the Blue Ridge, as far back as I can trace. I tried moving away once, and was successful for five years, but I finally realized that no mountains were like these, and I needed to be able to see them even if it meant a short drive.

Even now, coming down the road to my home, I can see them in the distance rising high. These are old mountains, and they have stories to tell and secrets to hold. And they sing with each season. Can the mountains be bred into one's system, one's soul? Surely, they can. One touch of the cool rock, and I am soothed. They must be bred into me, because I can't be too far away without a nagging pain to get back.