Our hearts shredded as the ties were pulled away from the place and people we loved.
We lived in the valley, the southeast region of the Volunteer State, which sits on top of Georgia. It was a place where mountains clothed the city, like curtains on a wall, where the Tennessee River rushed through the dam and divided the land, and where the dense cores of atoms produced electrical energy. It was a place where sharp curves through rolling hills designed two-lane roads, where daffodils clustered on the sides of the road like bees on honey, and where streetlights, sidewalks, and six-foot wooden fences were things of the past. It was a place where our split-level house, nestled low in the trees, looked up to the neighbor across the street, where voices of school children at play whistled through the woods from behind, and where wildlife satisfied their hunger on the grass from our yard.
I loved Chattanooga for the place itself, but more, for the life and friendships it gave me. It was a time as a Christian when Bible teaching satiated my hungry soul, when wise counsel healed the broken places in my heart, and when older women invested in teaching me, the younger. It was a time when my mothering skills benefited the children of others, when church jobs requiring organization reached out to me, and when choir music echoed through my car and home. It was a time when I, the older, invested in high school girls as the younger, when ladies’ Bible study and traditional worship defined Sunday morning gatherings, and when the church sound and lights obeyed the commands of my husband.
My summers in Tennessee were a time when high school camp ventured into the mountains, when girls graced my home for a slumber party that gave little sleep, and when swimming on Wednesdays meant a conversation full of wisdom from a mentor mom. My favorite season was autumn when the hardwoods flamed like colors from a fire, when the smell of roasting marshmallows lingered in my clothes, and when fleeces, football, and friends filled Friday nights. Our home was a place where a pineapple on the door would’ve been appropriate, where we consumed soups and creoles with anyone who gathered, where viewing the latest prime time became a regular occurrence, and where laughter filled the quiet places that lingered.
It was also a time when our pastor moved away for a calling beyond the valley, when the church struggled for direction like a toddler trying to stand on her feet, and when my husband’s job at the church became a casualty of low finances. The job loss began the end of our time in Tennessee. We held on for six months looking, hoping, and praying. It was a time when heartbreak displayed itself in anger, when tears flowed like an afternoon shower, and when heartache met resolve as we crossed the state line heading west.
©2024 LaDora LaRegina
This was a writing assignment for a flash nonfiction piece about a location.