Remember

I set the empty coke bottle down on the table and it rumbles ominously, like a snare drum playing it’s final farewell. The hair stands up on my arms and a chill passes through me. The world is neither silent, nor calm on this April night in the mountains of North Carolina.

These mountains have held such terrible trials for those who came before. The American Revolution played itself out here in random acts by traitor and loyalists with few knowing who was who and the Cherokee here are the relatives of those who managed to escape and hide from the infamous trail of tears. Cold Mountain is visible from my yard and its stories speak of the travesties of the Civil War. The world wars, the Korean, Vietnam and the civil right upheavals of the sixties, all touched this seemingly remote area.

Yet the mountains appear serene and the clouds drift lazily over blood soaked land and clear bubbling brook, expressing no deference for either.

This uproar in our home is minor by comparison and no matter how it turns out will not even be a page in the history books of the future.

Perspective. Always I must look for the correct perspective.