Celebration in the Mountains

captures the timeless bond and simple joys of grandparents' lives in a serene mountain setting.

Today in the mountains
my grandmother turned ninety-eight.
Living in a cozy cabin, she’s got it good:
eight to five, flexible hours,
no harsh winters,
no cutting wood
for the old iron stove,
no landlord,
seventeen weeks vacation yearly,
paradise found.
The community here takes no nonsense.

Home before dusk,
traffic calm, skies clear,
nothing but open roads;
a perfect parking spot
by the picket fence,
ample time, once home,
to sit a moment, sip sweet tea,
watch the squirrels dart about
the oak and maple trees
she planted years ago,
to mark her arrival,
182 days after my grandfather,
to celebrate their seventy-first anniversary.
They thrive here in the mountains �"
mild seasons all year,
like Appalachia,
except for frost on special days & holidays.
My grandfather has his suit for the event
pressed and ready:
navy slacks, white dress shirt.

The party’s at Aunt Bea’s,
everyone there at each stage
of their lives, all at once.
Another time
they might have found it bizarre.
Not now.
They had little; they endured.
Now they’re content.
Money’s no concern.
No one falls ill.
The neighborhood’s secure.
Everyone is kind. At all times,
they act sensibly.
Warmth envelops them.
It’s that sort of place.

Spirits from the mist
bring platters of fried chicken
from Ma’s Kitchen in town;
biscuits
from Sally’s Diner on Main Street;
pecan pie from Miss Lydia’s;
aged cheddar, sharp and tangy;
apple cider from Grandpa’s orchard
that Uncle Pete bartered for in a nearby county;
wine from the first grape harvest.
My grandmother made the collard greens
and baked her famous
buttermilk pie,
with ninety-eight candles, all aglow.

“Ella looks radiant,” says my grandfather.
Says my grandmother, “Kiss me, John.”
Without pause, he leans in �"
short gray hair,
blue eyes, a gentle smile,
classic fifties dress,
halo shimmering like a morning fog.
My grandfather favors moccasins
and a plaid cap.
They’re in a golden age movie.
He glances at his watch.
“Tomorrow’s another bright day,” he says, and grins.

They start a square dance
and weave through the rooms,
up the stairs, into the loft, singing
“Cotton-Eyed Joe.”
Uncle Bob deals poker
at the large kitchen table.
All the food remains out,
but they decide to bake more:
cornbread, peach cobbler.
Elvis on the record player,
the children dancing along.

Aunt Clara begins the old folk songs.
Papa swirls Aunt Edna
in a waltz,
and, suddenly autumn, leaves start to fall.
Here they are, bidding farewell:
time to head back,
hugging, carrying babies,
cranking up the cars.
My grandfather helps his mother,
Martha Jean Robinson,
down the winding gravel path
to the porch.
He’s not seen her since he was ten �"
a long seventy years.
On his right arm,
his strongest arm,
is tattooed a soaring eagle,
stars around its wings,
above which spells Family.
He must’ve gotten it in the service.
How could I have never asked?
Billy stands knee-deep in leaves
and plays his old fiddle.