Stone Mountain, N.C.
The old Hutchinson homestead, all redone for tourists,
Spreads out in front of Stone Mountain. This summer
Saturday finds John McCreary spinning tales to patient ears
“There were eight children in my mother’s generation, and
Eight in the generation before that. All made it to adulthood
Without a doctor.” His 40-year-old son, two brothers and
A grandson pull up in a Jaguar sedan, sweaty, after a round
Of golf. “Any Sunday wine around John?” one asks, and
They all get a chuckle, while I pull away, embarrassed.
We hike the rock, quite steep at times,
That has taken many lives. We duck
Rhododendron branches along a mossy-rock
Creek. We seek and find cool water where the
Orchards rot, unpicked. We watch hawks
Circle next to cliffs, away from modern times.
Twice a year the cart had been hitched to make
A trek to town. Each day was full of heavy chores
That pulled a living from the earth. That type of
Work has been replaced by geographic serendipity.
One cashed check made sure the hikers now have a chance
To see how mountain families once made their way.
Copyright, Doug Stuber, 2002. Unauthorized use and/or duplication of this material without express and written permission from this blog’s author and/or owner is strictly prohibited. Excerpts and links may be used, provided that full and clear credit is given, and with appropriate and specific direction to the original content.