The mountain forest stretches out and descends around us in every direction.  Stealthy trees creep out of white fog, skeletal black wood nymphs shivering in the cold.

Yarn Shop!

We rolled into Black Mountain, North Carolina under grey skies yesterday afternoon; a quaint little town nestled in the seven sister’s mountain range at the edge of the Appalachians.  A yarn shop lured me in and I spent a half an hour choosing a multicolored locally spun and died yarn for a pair of socks for my sister-in-law, Michelle.  The children struck up a conversation with the impromptu knitting group and posed for a picture with their hand knit socks.  We wandered the quaint main street for an hour, popping in and out of shops:  Wood Song, home to an array of handmade mountain dulcimers and a fascinating woman who knew everything there was to know about them.  The wine shop, where we purchased a bottle of local white riesling, and the shop next door, home to ethereal woman with clear blue eyes who explained the playing of cast crystal bowls to realign the chakras of the body.  “Mom, is this new age?” Hannah asked quietly, out of the corner of her mouth as I perused the book shelf.  “Yep.  But learn all you can,” I replied.  “Ahh,” she mused, “I thought so.”

Ez playing a quartz bowl

We found Aunt Patti stationed at the back door of Charles D. Owen high school, dressed in a big fur coat and brown felt hat with a wide, upturned brim and scarf like ear flaps tied under her chin.  At five foot nothin’, she cut an imposing figure, herding youngsters towards busses in an orderly fashion.  She did her signature bounce and clap between hugs as we greeted each other for the first time in almost five years. I’ve missed her.  The children fought for the single open seat in Aunt Patti’s jeep for the hour’s ride up the mountain.  I won, coveting the only quiet hour I’m likely to get with my Dad’s younger sister.

Aunt Benita called three times between leaving the high school and our arrival at the tip top of Wolf Laurel, on Timber Knoll.  The roads are so steep that with the impending ice storm Benita met us with her truck and ferried us, and our boat load of gear, up the last few miles.  Even more exciting than the doting aunts, for the children, are their pets:  seven Newfoundland dogs, as big as black bears when fully grown; four of which are three month old puppies.  The living room quickly became a giggling, barking, moving pile of boys and black fur which is unlikely to let up for the duration of our visit.

The fieldstone fireplace is burning this morning and the world outside is coated in a thin layer of ice over snow.  It is looking likely that we’ll be snowed in for an extra day by the weather, and no one is complaining.  Tony is making his signature “Daddy pancakes.”  Aunt Patti is refereeing the puppy-boy sport.  I’m enjoying the rare treat of basking in the great love of two of my favorite people in the world.  Aunt Patti and Aunt Benita have ever been my patient teachers, encouragers and givers of huge hugs.  It makes me happy to see my children wrapped in another layer of the legacy that is their branch of our family.  It will be a day filled with fireside teas, wooly bear puppies and Boone, the biggest male Newf who sees Tony as his personal chew toy.  We have lots of miles yet to go, but this morning, there’s no where else I’d rather be.