Meander woke me early this morning. Because of Daylight Savings, I wasn’t sure how early until I looked at the clock downstairs and saw that it was 5:50am. We’re not exactly sleep to noon types here, but yeah, this was what we might call “ungodly.”  Thank goodness for coffee and apple cider donuts.

Waking in the still-dark always makes me want to read. I’m not sure why that is. The quiet, the stillness, the lack of desire to really “do” anything until I can see the plum trees at the bottom of the yard. So this morning, I took the local newspaper – Nelson County Life – and read about our local breweries and a Blue Heron Farm. I read a article about a father and son who make wooden flutes and whose waiting list is over a year long, even though they do not marketing at all.

These are the things that make me love life in the mountains. There is something about being more secluded, about the way that looming peaks turned blue with pre-dawn that sparks people’s craftsmanship.  Perhaps it’s a similar impulse to what urban dwellers find in the activity of the city.  But the hue, the tone, the shape of the creativity is different – I am built for mountain creativity.

Here, we are steeped in slowness, the glory of things made by hands not human, the way a bend in the road givea you vista and valley and leave you breathless every time.


I’m eager to read more of what is written from mountain places, specifically Appalachia, even more specifically the Blue Ridge, where I live.  But the truth is I don’t know many writers from these areas – that’s my ignorance because I am sure there are many. I do know Barbara Kingsolver, who I like to think of as my neighbor since she lives just over the ridges in the Valley.  But truthfully, she is the only writer who comes to mind.

So could you help? Please, recommend to me mountain writers.  I’d love to read any mountain writing, but if you know folks from around here, I’d love to know them, too.


Dawn comes slow here. Even now, the sun hasn’t really risen – it still has mountains to climb. Yet, soon, behind the farmhouse I will see the glint of gold on the trees now bare. A day beginning slow and steady.

What mountain writers do you know?