We turned on the AC last night on the mountain. If you follow me or know me, you realize I'm somewhat of a windows thrown open, sheer draperies stuck to the screen, anti-air conditioning purist. Since I'm not very political, I tend to protest dumb stuff, like air-conditioned air. I don't quite trust it. I just don't like being cooped up. I like to breathe real air, feel breezes, listen to birdsong. That's a large part of why I live where I do, where we somewhat pridefully recount that "we are 10 degrees cooler up here on the Mountain."
So, I'm trying to look at air-conditioning as a luxury, not a necessity. And not get too claustrophobic here. After all, I can go outside. And even here from my writing table, I can SEE the breezes blowing the big tulip poplar leaves outside the side yard window.
Back in the day, many big city folks had small cabins up here on the Creek. A few of the darling houses still line our road, picturesquely tucked among the abundantly blooming wild rhododendron. A couple of the houses have burned, leaving only stone steps leading up to old chimneys. Wild looking. Some of our neighbors still commute up on the weekend, escaping big city work weeks for mountain cabin life.
I love the stories that circulate around my creek. At one point some entrepreneur cemented in the creek and built a good sized swimming pool. I'm thinking that didn't last long. All water originates up here on the Bent Mountain/Floyd County line, and that sweet little boulder strewn trout stream can pretty readily morph to raging river strength after a heavy rain or two. Rumor has it that back in the 40's Big Band Orchestras would come up and play alongside the creek and some great parties would ensue. I kind of long for those days, pre-heat pump, when driving up Bent Mountain with anticipation of the Bottom Creek swimming hole was all the climate control you needed on a hot summer Saturday.
