Success is overrated.

If you're lucky enough to be from this area, the good life and all the success you

can stand- is right here where you started.

My life started on a farm six miles from Lafayette . I spent many a summer

afternoon sitting in the front porch swing looking at the jets way up in the

distance. I wondered where they were going and if someday I would be on board headed

to some exciting city. I wondered what was beyond the hills and hollers of little

Hillsdale.

After school, my dog Mitch would walk with me to the top of the highest hill on

the farm. There, under a big, storybook-like Mulberry tree on a giant, flat rock, I

could view the entire valley below in perfect silence. Hillsdale, Taylor Branch, the

tree I used to climb, I could see everything for miles!

The luscious smell of those surroundings worked on my soul like medicine. The

wildflowers, grasses, and trees emit a different fragrance each season. One whiff of

a certain flower today takes me right back to that spot.

From my lookout high above the world, I could think. Really think. I could cry and

no one would know. I could pray and only God could hear.

I could concentrate on the possibilities that were waiting just over the hill.

My childhood was a valuable time to ponder if nothing else. It seems I was aware,

even then, of what would become one of my most agonizing struggles: the decision to

leave this glorious existence; this peaceful, trouble-free Mecca to become a

responsible, wage earning grownup. The world could be a cruel place. Or so I had

heard.

Just how cruel? I mercifully had only a sample of cruelty in a small town. Ego

maniacs, control freaks, and power-hungry politicos are everywhere, yes, even in the

country. And that's just in the third grade.

But country folk like us are taught to deal with those personalities early in life.

I'm blessed with having grown up where the village really did raise the children.

My friends were dear and loyal. Their parents treated me as one of their own.

Teachers went way beyond their daily duty and gave of their own time because they

loved us and they loved seeing our progress. There were great role models here.

Annette Cothron comes to mind. She knew about women's liberation before it was in

fashion. She was the original Martha Stewart who could raise children, get her

masters degree, cook, keep house and grow perfect roses; all without breaking a

sweat.

There was my Sunday school teacher, “Miss Mabel” Gammons. She taught me about baby

Jesus with her elaborate Christmas plays. She helped me with stage fright. Even when

my crooked crepe paper wings shifted on my back she was one of the few people who

thought I made a “perfect” angel.

Who would want to leave this paradise to trail off into the unknown? Even then, I

wanted to stay in this age, in this time, and never leave.

Eventually, we all learn that if we don't leave the nest, time will just kick us

out.

Off we go on our adventure. Moving toward whatever dream it was that we conjured

up as we sat alone, on top of a hill somewhere.

Whatever curve ball life threw me in six big cities, I always knew I could face

it with confidence.   I have a crutch that no one sees: my hill on Taylor Branch

still waiting for me-60 miles from the airport, 6 miles from Lafayette .

It's not exactly returning to the nest, it's more like a fly-by.

I try to go to my hill in the afternoon-just as I always did. I take my thoughts

and my troubles and I climb in search of answers. There is so much symbolism now.

Everything is telling me a story I haven't heard before.

Old Mitch the dog has long since passed away, but sitting in his place is my

little Jack Russell. The closest thing to a child I'll ever have. A big sacrifice I

made for this business.

My legs don't remember the hill being this steep and it seems my secret getaway

has somehow moved toward the very top. That perfect perch is still there. The same

flat rock is now half-covered in soil and dried leaves, but overhead, the Mulberry

tree is as strong and beautiful as ever.

The view is unchanged-green, lush hills in the mist. Across the way, I see the tin

roof of the house I was raised in. It was built by my grandfather. My parents still

live there.

Below, near the creek, the remains of the house where my twin sisters were born.

The outside looks the same-there are only a few clues of age. On the inside, it's

a wreck. I can relate.

It's the house where my father brought his new bride to begin what has been a 65

year journey together. My mother told me how much fun she had decorating her first

home. Crisp, white, homemade curtains, hand-hooked rugs, a wood stove. It must have

been a little doll house.

The structure should have fallen down years ago, but I guess sentiment keeps it

standing. A scrapbook of where it all began.

The cows graze by the creek I still love to wade in. The huge boulder I used to

pretend was my private island is still there in the middle of the deepest water.

These images have not left my mind-not for a moment in all these years.

I smell the smells, and I experience the deafening silence. Every now and then, I

hear a dove or a mockingbird in the distance.

My own farm is on the Cumberland River -a home, a view, my animals. There is

comfort there, but somehow, it will never be as sacred to me as this familiar site

which has become my spiritual hospital.

I enjoy, I reflect, and I rejoice that my little place on this hill is so far away

from everything that would try to hurt me.

But, oddly, I no longer dread the unknown. The years have taught me to expect the

unexpected.

I wonder as I sit there what's in store for the rest of my journey. I wonder about

the people I have yet to meet and what kind of sacrifices I have yet to make.

I wonder if I can handle the challenges and opportunities still ahead on the path

I have chosen.

But most importantly, I wonder if I've grown enough to weather all the

disappointment that is sure to greet me in the years ahead.

I look out at the Macon County countryside which, thankfully, hasn't changed at

all.

It also reminds me, with gratitude, that I haven't changed as much as I could have.

And, I pray.

 

If you have an idea for a good feature story about Macon County and its people,

you may contact Terri at: TDMERRYMAN@aol.com or drop a note in the mail to: Terri

Merryman % Macon County Times, 200 Times Avenue, Lafayette, TN 37083.